Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 3

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  It had been a long time since Bridgy and I did the morning setup at the café, but we fell into the old rhythm, Bridgy as the chef, with me as scullery maid.

  Fortunately, the breakfast rush was steady but not heavy. Not until January would we have folks waiting in line for tables. Right before eight o’clock someone pulled the chain on the old bronze ship’s bell hanging beside our door. It clanged loud enough to wake half of Fort Myers Beach. At a table for four, the two ladies gave a yelp but one of the men laughed. “Don’t know a ship’s bell when you hear it? Reminds me of my days in the Navy.”

  The door flew open and Aunt Ophie breezed in, tottering on bright pink heels so high and stylishly strappy that I’m sure I’d know the brand if only I paid attention to such things.

  She patted my face with a white gloved hand. “Y’all must be so relieved to see me.” She swung a pink patent leather purse right at my stomach. It took a second for me to realize it was my job to take custody. Well-mannered ladies didn’t carry purses indoors. It had been a while, so I’d forgotten the “well-mannered ladies” conventions. Bet I’d be reminded of all of them within two, three hours, tops.

  “I would have been here sooner, but the Publix on San Carlos don’t open ’til seven. I didn’t ’spect y’all to have the ingredients for my buttermilk pie.” She looked around, pleased that she had the attention of the entire room. “No one makes it good as I can.” She winked at the retired sailor. “My dear departed and most sainted husband always said it tastes like kisses from heaven.”

  I was so busy wondering which husband, the one who departed for the great beyond, or the one who departed for Mobile with his manicurist, that I almost missed her hand fluttering in the direction of the door.

  “Sassy, my things are in the car. Bring in the supermarket bags first. Freshness, you know. And where—there she is!”

  Bridgy came out of the kitchen, plopped a couple of hot breakfasts on the counter and practically sang. “Did I hear my dazzling Aunt Ophie? How did you know? How did you know we need your help? Do you have a crystal ball? Tarot cards?”

  Ophie blushed and opened her arms wide. While they were doing the big ole bear hug thing, Bridgy pointed to the plates and mouthed, Christie. Pancakes for the lady.

  There’s a strong family resemblance in the way they order me around. I stashed the pink purse under the counter. While I was serving the food at the Christie table, I heard Ophie say, “Facebook, you darlin’ girl. I saw your status last night about Miguel’s broken leg. I knew you’d need me to come a’running. I packed up my things and left Pinetta not long after midnight. I-75 was empty. Only me and a string of long-distance truckers. Would have been here earlier, if that sorry excuse for a Publix had been open. And of course that bridge. One lane on, one lane off the island. Need a new bridge is all I’m saying.” She primped her oat-colored shoulder-length hair, confident that one word from her and the town council would widen the bridge in a week or two.

  When I struggled through the door lugging the bounty of Ophie’s shopping, she was seated at Emily Dickinson, sipping a glass of sweet tea. Taking no notice that my arms were filled with her grocery bags, she smiled. “Sassy, honey, could you get me a sprig o’ mint?”

  Without so much as a “hey,” a gray-haired man with bronze leathery skin wearing torn cutoffs and a rumpled camouflage tee shirt followed me in and placed his thermos on the counter. He dropped his duffel bag next to his feet. The duffel gave me the creeps. He’d carried that human skull around for months, and when he finally gave it up, I never understood why he didn’t trash the bag. I headed to the kitchen to unpack the groceries but gave him a cheery “Be right with you.” Skully shook his head and pointed to Bridgy coming through the door carrying mint sprigs on a dish.

  After I put away Aunt Ophie’s groceries (did she really think we needed twelve quarts of buttermilk?), I crossed back into the dining room and roamed from table to table with an orange-topped pot of decaf in one hand and a brown-topped pot of regular in the other. Standing at the counter, Skully and Bridgy were deep in conversation, while, from her seat at Emily Dickinson, Aunt Ophie was watching them intently. Hopefully, she was admiring her niece; Skully didn’t strike me as husband material if she was looking for number three.

  I was distracted when Judge Harcroft came in. Even though each and every morning he ate the Hammett Ham ’n Eggs over hard, I still had to wait, order pad in hand, while he pretended to decide. The day may come when he asks for the Agatha Christie Soft-Boiled Eggs over Catcher in the Rye Toast, but it won’t be in this century.

  The cook was still sitting with her aunt. I pulled the judge’s order off my pad and held it out to her.

  “Here you go.”

  “Duty calls. You sit here and rest, Aunt Ophie. I’ll be right back.”

  I followed her, wondering aloud about her conversation with Skully.

  “Poor guy. He wanted to tell me Rowena seemed a little distant when they spoke. I told him to go on over to the Emporium because we straightened it all out last night. He’s on his way to see her now. Here comes Miss Augusta. I wonder where Miss Delia is. I’d love to ask her about the island Rowena mentioned.”

  Augusta stopped short when she saw Aunt Ophie sitting at Emily Dickinson. I ran over to do a quick introduction before Augusta could start booming about “her table.”

  “Here you go, Miss Augusta. Have a seat. You remember Bridgy’s aunt Ophelia. She’s helping us while poor Miguel is recovering from his fall.”

  “Don’t look like much help, sitting around drinking sweet tea.” Augusta’s baritone filled the room. The regulars paid no attention, but the vacationers were startled and turned to glare at the great hulk who was shouting querulously. The disbelief on their faces when they realized all that noise came from diminutive Augusta was comical.

  “And where is Miss Delia, this morning?”

  Augusta shook her head. “Delia knows what’s expected. If we’re going out in the morning, we decide the time the night before. I drive because her eyes are good for nothing but the big-screen TV.” She emphasized with her arms spread wider than a fisherman lying about the one that got away. “We give up our bikes the year she turned seventy-three and I turned seventy-six. Knees gone. Anyway, I expect she stands on the porch. I pull up. She gets in the car. If she ain’t on the porch, I tap the horn. Count to fifty and pull away. Used to count to twenty but we move slower now. Guess she changed her mind.” She pointed to me. “You know how Delia is—flighty.”

  Aunt Ophie patted Augusta’s hand. “Honey chile, I understand. I have a friend like that back in Pinetta, that’s up in Madison County, you know. Few miles south of the Georgia border. Sassy, get my friend—Augusta, is it? Lovely name—get my friend Augusta a glass of sweet tea.”

  I’d never seen Augusta drink sweet tea, but when she didn’t demur, I went to the kitchen. I placed the glass in front of her, and Ophie offered the plate of mint. “Have a sprig. Adds a little zing to the tea.” On my way back to the kitchen I heard a rap on the window. I looked over and Cady Stanton was waving frantically for me to come outside. I shook my head and signaled him to come in, but he was insistent that I come out. Cady is way too gentle to insist on anything, so I wondered what could be so earth-shattering. Still, I signaled I’d be right there. I pushed the kitchen door, told Bridgy I’d be in the parking lot and hurried away without listening to her questions and objections.

  Cady was pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back, and his chin buried so deep in his chest that his hunched shoulders grazed the tips of his earlobes. A gust of wind tossed his sandy hair this way and that, but he didn’t reach up to slick his hair back in place, something he normally does a hundred times a day. He stopped in front of me. His face was so unnaturally pale that his freckles stood out like freshly painted dots on a Raggedy Andy doll. He threw his shoulders back and stretched to his full six fee
t. His thin frame looked a tad scrawny. Absently, I wondered why I suddenly thought him scrawny, and unbidden, the biceps of Ryan’s new lieutenant flitted through my mind.

  “Sassy, Miss Delia is dead and Miss Augusta is missing.”

  I actually laughed at his rude joke. “Sometimes that newspaper reporter’s humor of yours is a little too dark for me.” I pointed through the window. “Miss Augusta is sitting right there, talking to Bridgy’s aunt.”

  Cady peered through the window, and a look of relief swept across his face just as the wind blew, and this time he did slide his hand over his hair to push it back in place.

  “Don’t be coming around with your tall tales, Cady. I don’t like it.” I tucked a stray hair off his forehead, one he’d missed. I hoped my touch would soften my words.

  Cady put his hands on my shoulders. “Sassy, you have to be strong. The sheriff notified the News about Delia’s death a few minutes ago and said they can’t find Augusta. I came here because I know how much you care about those two old ladies. Thank God Augusta is okay. But Delia is definitely dead.” He pulled me to his chest, and, as I noticed a time or two before, his shoulder was comforting, and not a bit scrawny. He kissed the top of my head and said, softly, “And now someone has to tell Augusta.”

  Chapter Four ||||||||||||||||||||

  I wiped my eyes on the hem of my apron and took a couple of deep breaths trying to compose myself. Cady was still talking about ways we could gently break the horrible news to Augusta, but I was grappling with the newly empty space in my heart and the agitation swirling in my stomach. I prayed I wouldn’t heave.

  The four vacationers came outside, laughing and joking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And I supposed that to them, nothing had. As they lifted their bikes off the rack, the onetime sailor yelled to Cady, “You’re a lucky man, fella. Your girlfriend serves a great breakfast. We’ll be back; you can bet on it.”

  They mounted their bikes and looped toward the boulevard in a crooked semicircle, waving as they glided down the driveway. I managed a halfhearted salute in return and whispered to Cady, “I guess it’s time.”

  As we came through the door, Bridgy, who was clearing tables, raised an inquiring eyebrow and I head-nodded toward the kitchen.

  Aunt Ophie was chattering away, and I was surprised that Miss Augusta seemed engaged in the conversation. At least she hadn’t fallen asleep or shouted at Ophie to stop rambling, both things she’d done more than once in mid-conversation. The judge’s newspaper rustled as he turned a page. A couple of honeymooners who had turned up for a late-ish breakfast every morning for the past three days were holding hands and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes at Barbara Cartland in the far corner. I was grateful for the quiet.

  Cady and I followed Bridgy into the kitchen. I waited for her to scrape the dishes and deposit them in the soaking sink. One look at my face told her I had bad news, which may be why she braced her back against the sink, elbows tucked over the metal lip.

  I started to tear up again so I choked out the words. “It’s Miss Delia. She’s dead.”

  Bridgy slumped, leaning more heavily on the sink. “Her heart? A stroke?”

  Cady shook his head. “Not sure yet. The mail carrier saw her lying on the floor through the screen door this morning when he delivered the mail. He called 911 and the EMTs declared her at the scene.”

  He was speaking in newsman shorthand but we got the message. Miss Delia was dead before the emergency medical technicians arrived.

  “Augusta?”

  “We’re going to tell her now. Could you call your aunt in here, so we can speak to Augusta privately?”

  Bridgy stuck her head out the kitchen pass-through, called Ophie and ducked back into the kitchen. “She’ll know something is wrong if she gets a good look at me.”

  Ophie walked into the kitchen asking how soon we wanted buttermilk pie on the menu, but when she took a look at us she whispered, “Dear Lord.”

  Cady took my hand for the short, dreadful walk to the dining room so we could break the devastating news to an unsuspecting Augusta.

  As we sat down, Augusta boomed, “Nice enough, that Ophelia. Says she’s been here before, not that I remember her. Look at you two, like death warmed over. Must have something awful serious to say.”

  I reached out to pat her hand and she didn’t pull away.

  “Miss Augusta, you know how much we love you and Miss Delia.” I blinked back the tears that welled up, unbidden. “It is really hard for me to tell you but, well, there’s been an accident. It’s Miss Delia.”

  We watched her face change from puzzled to concerned. “Delia? Delia’s hurt? Please say she didn’t break her hip. At our age . . .”

  I squeezed her hand. “It’s more serious than that.”

  Always sharp as a crab’s claw, Augusta said the words I couldn’t. “Delia’s dead?”

  I nodded and started to cry. Cady spoke in a sweet, comforting tone. “We don’t have any details yet, but she was in her own home, which is where I think she’d want to be.”

  Augusta looked directly at him. “Did this happen before I stopped by her house this morning?”

  I could see guilt starting to mix with the sorrow in her face. I wanted to cut it short before it gripped her entirely.

  “We don’t have any details.”

  She nodded.

  Bridgy came out of the kitchen with a plate of muffins and silently set them in front of Augusta.

  “So you heard about Delia.” Augusta started to stand, wobbled and sat back in her seat.

  Bridgy leaned down, gave Augusta a kiss on her cheek and squeezed her shoulder. Then she asked the honeymooners if they needed anything else.

  The new husband tore his eyes away from his bride long enough to pay the check, and they walked out with arms entwined around each other’s waists.

  We sat wordlessly at Emily Dickinson until Augusta said, “Well, I guess I better get on home.”

  Cady took charge.

  “Sassy will drive your car, and I’ll follow along, if that’s all right.” He rose and stood next to Augusta’s chair and offered his arm.

  Augusta rested a tentative hand on his wrist and then gripped with determination. She stood and Cady began to slowly shepherd her to the ancient blue Chevy parked outside.

  I stayed a few steps behind and threw a question mark to Bridgy, who shooed me along with a flap of her hands, saying, “Aunt Ophie will help me here. Call if you need anything.”

  Augusta surrendered her car keys but not before saying, “You take it careful, Sassy. Car’s a bit delicate.”

  When we pulled out of the parking lot, Cady was still sitting in his car, chattering into his cell phone. I hoped he wouldn’t be too far behind us. Augusta was looking more and more tired, and I feared I’d need help getting her up the porch stairs and into the house.

  We drove a few blocks in silence. The shocks and struts had long given way, and the car bounced and rocked if it rolled over as much as a pebble. I could feel my fists tightening on the steering wheel, but I knew it wasn’t the car that had me agitated. When we turned onto Augusta’s block, I was surprised to see a sheriff’s car parked alongside her mailbox. Ryan Mantoni was leaning on the fender, and we watched him turn his head to speak into the two-way radio he wore on his shoulder. Then he walked toward us as I turned in to Augusta’s driveway. He gave me a quick nod, went to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Augusta, offering his hand in the process.

  I heard him say how sorry he was for her loss, and he kissed her gently on her cheek. For the first time, I saw a tear glisten in Augusta’s eyes.

  We climbed the four rickety stairs to the weather-beaten porch as if they were the final steps to the top of Mount Rainier. Ryan pulled open the old wooden screen door, and I handed Augusta’s key ring back to her.

 
She put the keys in her pocket and pushed the house door open. “Don’t ever lock it but at night. Nothing worth stealing. And keys get lost, you know.”

  She pointed left. “There’s the parlor. Have a seat.”

  Then she shuffled farther along the hallway to a scarred pigeonhole desk leaning against the back wall. I watched her rummage in a compartment and pull out a book.

  I’d only been in Augusta’s house a few times before, usually dropping off books for a club meeting. Once I came by to pick up donations for the flea market supporting the Christmas Toy Fund. This was the first time I had a chance to look around the outsized but sparsely furnished living room. A couple of rattan settees piled with flowered cushions, a lone recliner and a small box-shaped television all touched the edges of a beige sisal area rug. A coffee table of etched glass with a base made of driftwood sat atop the rug.

  “Sit down, sit down.” Augusta gestured to the settees and settled herself into the recliner. I was plumping a cushion to support my back when there was a soft knock on the screen door. Ryan offered to answer and came back with Cady carrying takeaway boxes.

  “Bridgy sent your lunch.” He raised the box in his left hand. “She wants you to keep your strength up. And the other box is cookies and pastries for your friends who stop by. Where’s the kitchen?”

  I jumped up and reached for the boxes. “I’ll take care of it. Miss Augusta, can I get you anything?”

  No response. Since we’d arrived at the house, Augusta seemed to have gotten even smaller. Once she’d sunk into her seat, she looked for all the world like a child sitting in a grown-up’s chair. I thought her skin was losing color, and I could see the energy had faded from her eyes.

  I touched Augusta’s shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like a drink. Water? Tea?”

  Augusta leaned her head forward as though it was reaching for a thought. “Look in the dining room breakfront. Ought to be a bottle of Buffalo Trace corn whiskey. I’ll take a couple of fingers.”