Read to Death Page 3

  Ophie was visibly impressed. “A croupier? Not a dealer? And you expertly wielded one of those long sticks? What are they called?”

  Oscar beamed. He had the rapt attention of everyone in the van, including me. “Stick works, although some folks call it a rake. We used it to ‘rake’ in the money. Dice and chips, too. You don’t strike me as a gambler, but you sure could be the fancy lady on a high roller’s arm.”

  Ophie flushed with pleasure. “Whenever we went on a cruise, my first husband, Mr. McLennon, enjoyed a turn around the casino floor, as you say, with me on his arm. We both liked the atmosphere, but he wasn’t what I’d call a gambler.”

  Angeline Drefke nearly shouted, “You have no idea how lucky you are, Ophie. I come from Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania, out past the Appalachians. Right by Allegheny National Forest.” She paused for a few seconds so we could each check the GPS she imagined was implanted in our brains. Then she continued. “We went to Atlantic City, and my first husband became a torment and stayed a torment ’til I finally tossed him right out the door with the clothes on his back and the change in his pocket.”

  She looked around with such fierce pride in her eyes, I almost blurted out, “Atta girl,” but thought better of it. Just as well. Angeline was far from finished.

  “That first trip he told me would be a vacation at the beach. He said maybe we’d take a peek at a casino. We left home early, took our time, stopped for lunch at Hershey and got to the hotel by dinnertime. Our last happy meal. That night we went to the casino at Resorts, and, to my horror, I quickly found out he loved the tables more than he ever loved me.

  “Next thing I knew we were going to Atlantic City every chance we had. It’s at least a six-hour drive, but he put the pedal to the metal. Not so much as a bathroom stop, much less a leisurely trip. He often had us there in under five and a half hours. Couldn’t care less about my safety or comfort.”

  Except for Oscar, who was focused on the traffic ahead, which had slowed down to a crawl, everyone in the van seemed to be holding her breath. I know I was.

  Angeline’s voice cracked. “Looking back I’m amazed he didn’t total the car and us with it.”

  Tammy reached over, rested her hand on Angeline’s shoulder and said, “Thank goodness that didn’t happen.” She hesitated, then asked, “Where was he getting the money to play?”

  Angeline reached up and patted Tammy’s hand. “When I asked about the money, he’d tell me that he won more than he lost, but . . . I knew that wasn’t true. When I started gathering papers to file for divorce, I found out he mortgaged our house to the hilt and borrowed against our retirement fund. That was the end.” Then she brightened. “Second husband is a dreamboat. Most of you have met him . . .”

  The instant response was a general “nice man” and “such a gentleman” buzzing throughout the van.

  Angeline finished in triumph. “And he has never so much as played bingo at church.”

  Sonja clapped Angeline on the back and shouted, “Good for you,” which started the rest of us cheering, mostly in relief that the story had a happy ending.

  As the noise died down, Oscar said, “I still say some of you gals look familiar. I’m inclined to think there are a few former chorus girls in this van. Who’s willing to show off her high kicks when we get back to the Read ’Em and Eat?”

  Amidst the general laughter, Ophie said, “I will, if you will.”

  Margo Wellington had her face pressed to the side window and was staring at the traffic in front of us. “I see the problem. A car broke down up the road. The tow truck is hitching it up right now. This snarl should clear in a jiffy.”

  Between Angeline’s story and Oscar’s jokes, I’d completely forgotten that we were creeping along at two miles an hour.

  Tammy said, “I love the beach in Atlantic City. I wonder if folks still ride bikes on the boardwalk in the early morning. Oscar, I never was a chorus girl.” She slapped her thigh. “Don’t quite have the legs for it.”

  Oscar said, “Are you sure about that? What with all the bike riding . . .”

  Tammy giggled. “I’m sure.” She turned to Margo. “What about you? Have you ever vacationed in Atlantic City?”

  “No. I told you. I only come to the United States to head south for the sunshine and balmy breezes.”

  “You should really try the Jersey Shore in the summer. Sassy and I went there all the time when we lived in Brooklyn.” As though she was the New Jersey Division of Travel and Tourism, Bridgy signaled for me to add my two cents.

  “The Shore is great fun. Seaside Heights is my favorite. They have an outstanding boardwalk, too.”

  “Okay, ladies, hold on to your hats, the boulevard is finally clear. We’re going to sail down the road and across the bridge.” Oscar hit the gas.

  In no time at all we pulled into the parking lot of the Read ’Em and Eat and tumbled out of the van.

  Sonja lifted both hands, one holding her ever-present alligator tote filled with visors, sunscreen, protein bars and water bottles. In her other hand she was holding several bags from the museum gift shop. “I know I overbought, but I couldn’t help myself. Twice I left the gift shop, and twice I turned right around and went back for one more thing. I’ll put my things in my car and meet you inside.”

  “Brilliant.” Tammy looked around. “I’m going to put my stuff in my trunk. Why drag it all inside when we’ll have to drag it out again?”

  While the clubbies scattered around the parking lot, Bridgy bundled up our supplies, left two iced tea jugs at my feet and headed into the café with Ophie. I settled up with Oscar, picked up the jugs and followed along straight to the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, carrying a fresh pitcher of lemonade, I came into the dining room and was pleased that the clubbies were organizing themselves for what I hoped would be a brief meeting. I grabbed a sleeve of paper cups from under the counter and set the lemonade and cups on the Dashiell Hammett table, next to the book club circle.

  Bridgy came out of the kitchen and started poking around by the register. I held the sleeve of cups over my head. “Don’t worry, I have them.”

  Bridgy shook her head. “No. I’m looking for my sunglasses. I don’t know what I did with them. First time I wore my brand-new Ray-Bans.”

  Was it only two weeks ago that I told her not to spend so much money on sunglasses? Who listens to me? Not Bridgy, that’s for sure. “Maybe you left them in the van.”

  She glanced through the plate glass window. “Right. And Oscar is still in the parking lot.” She flew out the door.

  I was serving lemonade to the clubbies when Ophie came out of the kitchen, carrying a small bag. She looked at me. “Hope y’all don’t mind, but I helped myself to a container of Old Man and the Sea chowder. With some greens and tomato, it will make a nice dinner. Enjoy your meeting.”

  Ophie gave a wide good-bye arm circle to the group, but when she opened the door, she stopped dead still. She stuck her head out the door, looked back at me and barked, “Sassy, get over here.”

  I nearly knocked over a chair and ran to the door, thinking, Please, don’t let her be having a heart attack.

  Ophie put her finger to her lips and whispered. “Listen. Is that . . . ?”

  “Help me. Please. Someone, help me.”

  It was Bridgy. I pushed past Ophie and ran out the door.

  Chapter Four

  The van. Bridgy said she was going to look in the van for her sunglasses, but I didn’t see her, or Oscar, for that matter. Then I heard her again. “Someone. Anyone. Please. I think he’s dead.”

  I ran to the van. Oscar was lying across the middle row of seats. Bridgy was kneeling at his side, her face soaked with tears. She looked at me and said, “He’s dead. I’m so sorry.”

  I patted my pockets but couldn’t find my phone. I heard Ophie coming behind me, her spiked heels tap-tapping on the
pavement. I yelled, “Call 911,” and when I heard her gasp, I reassured, “It’s not Bridgy. It’s Oscar.”

  It didn’t take more than a glance to see that Oscar was, indeed, dead. His jaw was slack and his eyes opened and unfocused. The pallor of his skin looked ghostly. Heart attack, I thought. Then I saw the pair of scissors protruding from his neck. Oh dear Lord.

  There was nothing I could do for Oscar, so I turned my attention to Bridgy. Her sunglasses were lying on the floor. I picked them up and held out my hand. “Come on. Ophie called for help. Let’s go inside and wait.”

  Bridgy started sobbing. “We can’t leave him alone.”

  I heard the wisdom in her words. There would be an inquiry. We certainly would be questioned.

  “Listen, you go to the café with Ophie, and I’ll wait here until the, uh, ambulance comes.” In truth I had no idea what Ophie said when she called or who would respond first, but I was hoping for an ambulance. I was positive an emergency medical technician should take a look at Bridgy, so I hoped one was on the way.

  I handed her out of the van into Ophie’s waiting arms. Of all the big ole bear hugs I’d seen Ophie give Bridgy through the years, this was the most heartfelt. Ophie stroked Bridgy’s hair and crooned, “It will all be fine, baby girl. You wait and see. Let’s get your face cleaned up and maybe a soothing cup of tea. I have some chamomile in the Treasure Trove. Let’s walk over.”

  I realized Ophie was right. The café, with the clubbies sitting in the book nook and waiting to begin a meeting, was the wrong place to bring Bridgy. I watched as Ophie loosened the hug, wrapped her arm solidly around Bridgy’s shoulders and began leading her off to the Treasure Trove.

  Bridgy looked back at me. “I don’t want to leave you alone with . . . Oscar.”

  As the sound of sirens came closer, I reassured her, “Don’t you worry. I’m going to stand outside the van. Hear those sirens? Help is on the way.”

  A white car with “SHERIFF LEE COUNTY” stenciled in green across the front and back doors pulled up beside the van. Deputy Ryan Mantoni jumped from the driver’s seat. He grabbed me by both arms and stared into my eyes. “Are you all right? Where’s Bridgy? Who’s hurt? When we heard the address . . .”

  Behind him, Lieutenant Frank Anthony was speaking into his shoulder radio. I didn’t know if I should wait to tell them both at once. Past experience had taught me that the lieutenant was a stickler for getting information exactly as he wanted it.

  “It’s Oscar Frieland, the van driver. He drove a group of us to the Edison and Ford Winter Estates. He’s in there.” I pointed to the van. “And he’s dead.”

  Ryan immediately moved toward the van until I continued. “He’s been murdered.”

  That stopped him. “How could you possibly . . . ? Never mind.” He climbed into the van and came right out again. He leaned past me. “Loo, we got a homicide.”

  Ryan and Frank locked eyes and did that telepathic thing they do. Ryan took me by the arm and began steering me to the front door of the Read ’Em and Eat. “Sassy, it’s going to be a long day. Why don’t we go inside for a glass of sweet tea and a piece of buttermilk pie?”

  We hadn’t quite reached the door when it opened and Miguel came out. He sensed trouble immediately. “¡Dios mío! What is wrong? Are you hurt? Where is Bridgy?”

  I was too frazzled to answer. Ryan said, “Oscar had an, er, accident. Sassy is fine.” Then he looked at me. “If she’s not with Miguel and she’s not with you, where is Bridgy?”

  I head-butted toward the Treasure Trove. “She’s with Ophie.” No point in getting into anything else for the moment. All I wanted was to sit down and have a drink. I thought wine would be nice. Fat chance.

  As we walked in, the chatter from the book corner ceased instantly. I wondered if I looked bad enough to stun the clubbies or if they picked up on how solicitous Ryan was being. Whichever, their curiosity was piqued. Ryan led me to the Emily Dickinson table and pulled out a chair. Grateful, I sat, or rather, buckled onto the chair. He leaned in and asked if he could get me anything. If it wasn’t for Oscar’s murder I would have thought the scene comical. Here was Ryan offering to serve me in my own café.

  Miguel told the clubbies there had been a slight mishap and they were free to conduct their meeting without me, or they could go home and we could reschedule. A couple of the members glanced my way, but when they saw no obvious signs of injury, the ladies started talking among themselves.

  Ryan, who had followed Miguel across the room, straightened to his tallest. “Excuse me . . . did you ladies all go on the trip to the Edison and Ford estates?”

  “It was a book club field trip. We always have one before the snowbirds go home. We were all there. Together. What’s your point? Did that Ivy person complain about us? I’d have to say we were better mannered than she was.” Augusta stood up and rested her hands on the rope belt that held up her ancient jeans, ready to take on Ivy in any argument.

  Ryan raised his hands defensively. “Miss Augusta, I don’t know anything about how your trip went, and I don’t know anyone named Ivy.”

  Augusta sat down and flashed a small but triumphant smile.

  Ryan continued. “There’s been a problem, so I am going to need you to stay here for a while.”

  “Problem? What sort of problem and how long? I have a hair appointment.” Angeline fluffed her salt-and-pepper curls. “I certainly don’t want to spend the rest of the week looking like this. Do you know how hard it is to reschedule an appointment with Nancy over at Creative Hair? She is always booked solid.”

  Ryan deflated slightly. Even watching him from behind I could see that the gentleman in him wanted to tell her she looked lovely, but the deputy wrestled for control and won. “Sorry, ma’am, but . . .”

  “We all have errands. I’m sure this won’t take too long.” Blondie Quinlin tried a peaceful approach.

  The door opened, and Frank Anthony walked in. Ryan took a giant step backward. “All these ladies were on the outing.”

  Glancing out the window, I saw several additional sheriffs’ cars and an ambulance in the parking lot. Oscar’s van was the epicenter of boundless activity. I raised my hand, because I was sure that if I spoke prematurely, Frank would accuse me of speaking out of turn, an accusation he’d made a time or two in the past. Of course still other times he blamed me for withholding information. Honestly, I couldn’t win with that man. To avoid even the appearance of conflict, I wanted to give him complete information as quickly as possible, even if I did look like a schoolgirl in need of a hall pass.

  He bobbed his head, which I presumed was permission to speak.

  “Bridgy and Ophie were also on the trip with us.”

  He crossed his arms, never a good sign. “Where are they now?” His voice sounded like I’d let Bonnie and Clyde escape after still another bank robbery.

  And I answered, completely forgetting that the clubbies had no idea what had happened. “At the Treasure Trove. You see, Bridgy found the body—”

  The entire book club jumped from their chairs. Everyone started speaking at once, with noisy versions of “Body?” “What?” “Who?” “That can’t be.” It was their unique adaptation of “Liar, liar pants on fire.” I wanted to throw a pitcher of lemonade on them. That would quench their curiosity.

  Frank Anthony ignored them for the moment and instructed me to put the “Closed” sign on the door and to lock it for good measure, then he crossed the room with a powerful stride until he was nose to nose with the clubbies. He held up one hand, silencing them instantly. It occurred to me that I could have used him at some of the more rambunctious book club meetings.

  “Ladies, there has been an incident in the parking lot. The driver of your tour van is being . . . cared for. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but it is imperative that you all remain here until my deputies have an opportunity to speak with you.”

&
nbsp; I was more than a little surprised he didn’t get the same back talk that Ryan was subjected to a few minutes earlier.

  There was a knock on the door. I stood, but Ryan waved me back into my chair and opened the door to a deputy I didn’t recognize. He stepped inside and spoke in hushed tones. “Tell the boss we’ve set up a perimeter. The medical examiner is on the scene, and the DOA will be transported to the county morgue as soon as the photographer is done.”

  It sounded like I was living in an episode of Major Crimes. If only Flynn and Provenza would come out of the kitchen squabbling while they chomped on purloined Cubano sandwiches. Then I’d know I’d hit the play button on the DVR and fallen asleep on the couch.

  Ryan nodded. “You better stay here for now. Control the door. Don’t let anyone in or out without the lieutenant’s say-so.”

  Miguel came out of the kitchen. “I straightened the kitchen. I have two apple pies in the oven. I can take them out in a few minutes. Then the kitchen will be ready.”

  “Ready?”

  He read my blank stare correctly. “Chica, Ryan and Lieutenant Anthony are going to want to talk to all of us . . .”

  “Us? You weren’t even on the trip.”

  “But I was here. Whatever went on, it happened right here after you got back from the museum. So they will want to talk to all of us. They will want privacy, and we have only the kitchen to offer. Unless you want them to use that cubbyhole you and Bridgy insist on calling an office.”

  I envisioned the oversized desk and chair cramped into the tiny room, maybe five square feet larger than the desk. Then I saw all the papers scattered on top of the desk and the ever-present array of tanks and shorts that Bridgy and I left hanging on wall hooks in case we needed a quick change after a kitchen mishap. And if I remembered correctly, there was something I kept forgetting to bring home tucked in the well of the desk—a denim laundry bag holding a few odds and ends of dirty clothes. Okay. I’d rather not have Lieutenant Judgmental conduct his interviews in the office.