Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 4

  Ryan quickly covered his guffaw with a cough.

  “Either of you boys want a taste?”

  Cady and Ryan politely declined. Augusta told me to feel free to help myself, cautioning that I might want to add some water if I wasn’t used to “likker.”

  I easily found the half-full bottle with the pale gray label featuring a fiercely charging buffalo and brought it into the kitchen. The drinking glasses were in the third cabinet I tried. I took one, wrapped two fingers around the base and poured the amber liquid to about a finger and a half. More than enough.

  I was putting the bottle back in the breakfront when I heard a new but vaguely familiar male voice and wondered if I should have left the whiskey in the kitchen to serve to folks stopping by to console Augusta.

  I stepped into the parlor just as the vaguely familiar voice expressed sincere condolence to Miss Augusta.

  Lieutenant Frank Anthony.

  He was standing with his back to the doorway but turned at the sound of my step, gave me a curt nod and continued speaking.

  “The sheriff’s department is sorry to intrude at such a difficult time, but we have a few questions to ask you.”

  I slid past him and handed Augusta her glass of bourbon. She set the book she’d been holding on the coffee table and reached for the glass. Examining it with a critical eye, she said, “You must have a child’s hands if you think this is two fingers of corn likker. I might be needing a refill.”

  Cady jumped in. “I’ve always thought Sassy had elegant hands.”

  Frank Anthony shot Cady a look as if seeing him for the first time and not really liking what he saw. Then he said, “Miss Maddox, we’ll let you know all about Sassy’s hands as soon as we take her fingerprints.”

  Flustered, I automatically clasped my hands behind my back.

  Ryan started a hoot, remembered why we were here and cut himself off but couldn’t quite contain a wink and a grin.

  Miss Augusta sipped her bourbon, ignoring us all. Finally she picked up the black notebook and held it so we could all see the faded gilt letters on the front that spelled ADDRESSES.

  “I’m sorry but I got family and friends to telephone, arrangements to make. Questions’ll have to wait for another time.”

  The lieutenant and Ryan exchanged a nearly invisible glance, and from the look of it, Augusta was about to lose control of the discussion. I took a step closer to her chair, ready to help her cope.

  Frank gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Ryan cleared his throat. “Miss Augusta, it pains me to tell you that Miss Delia’s death was not an accident. She was killed by person or persons unknown. We are here as part of the official murder investigation team, and as such, we need to speak to you alone. And that needs to happen right now.”

  Augusta closed her eyes, and for a second I feared we might lose her there and then. When she opened her eyes, she drained her glass dry and asked, “You sure?”

  Ryan nodded.

  Augusta turned to me. “Sassy, I’m going to need that refill now. One finger’ll be plenty.”

  Chapter Five ||||||||||||||||||||

  I picked up her glass and left the room. When I brought it back, Frank was sitting in the seat I had previously occupied near Augusta and Ryan was standing at attention next to the doorway, as if ready to block the exit if she tried to escape. Cady was nowhere to be seen. I handed Augusta her one finger of bourbon then stood at her side, uncertain where I should sit, what I should do. Frank looked out the front window, just over his right shoulder.

  “Your reporter friend is on the lawn. No sense you keeping him waiting.”

  He was sending me packing. Nice. I hesitated, not willing to leave Augusta, who quickly resolved my quandary.

  “Sassy, could you stay around until we’re done here? I’m going to need a little help sorting things out.”

  I flashed a triumphant look at Frank Anthony.

  “Of course.”

  But when I moved to sit down, he went all official on me. “This interview is private. You have to leave. If you wish, we’ll let you know when we’re done.”

  I couldn’t resist telling Augusta that I’d be right outside and would come back in an instant if she needed me.

  As I walked past Ryan, he whispered, “Sorry,” which didn’t help my battered ego one bit.

  Cady was leaning on his car, cell phone glued to his ear. As I came closer, I could see that he was listening intently, his brow knitted in a furrow of concentration.

  He thanked whoever was on the other end and stuffed his phone into the tan leather case threaded on his belt.

  “It’s pretty bad.” He opened the passenger door of his car. “I’ll tell you what I can on the way back.”

  “I’m not going back. Augusta wants me to stay.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense. Okay, here is what we know so far. Someone knocked Delia to the floor, smothered her with some kind of fabric-y thing and ransacked pretty much her entire house. No one has a clue as to why, but the inquiry only just started.”

  My stomach pitched like a twelve-foot sailboat on a stormy sea and I felt my knees buckle. Kind, sweet Delia Batson was pummeled and suffocated. And for what? To steal the family silver? If there even was family silver. Cady caught me as I started to fold and guided me to the passenger seat of his car. He reached into an ice chest on the rear floor and offered me a bottle of coolish water. I accepted gratefully.

  I took a long drink then heaved a deep sigh. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Cady agreed. “I always wanted to be a newsman. Freedom of the press. Keep the world informed. But when the story hits this close to home . . .”

  He shook his head. There was nothing left to say.

  We shared the silence for a while and then he asked, “What about Augusta? She and Delia always seemed a pair of harmonizing opposites. Filling in each other’s gaps, as it were. How will Augusta manage?”

  Mourn the dead; help the living, I thought. Always a compelling challenge.

  “We’ll comfort her. All of her friends will get together and form a support group.”

  Cady shook his head. “You know how independent she is. Augusta would never take to having anyone interfere with the way she lives her life.”

  “Believe me, she’ll never know,” I boasted with more confidence than I felt. It wouldn’t be easy to fool Augusta, but I knew it would be necessary to keep her on track.

  Cady looked at his watch. “Listen, I hate to leave you alone out here . . .”

  “I know. You have to hit the keyboard. Get going. If anyone is going to write this story, I’m glad it’s you. Delia knew you liked her. She once whispered to Bridgy that she thought you had the ways of an old-fashioned gentleman. She meant it as quite the compliment.”

  Cady doffed an imaginary hat then furled and flourished it through the air with the deep bow of a seventeenth-century courtier.

  “Thank you, m’lady.”

  In spite of the horror of the day, he brought a smile to my lips. That was Cady’s special gift.

  “Not quite that old-fashioned. I think she was aiming a few centuries closer in time.”

  “I’ll stop by the Read ’Em and Eat after work. See you there?”

  I nodded. “By the time Ryan and his crony leave, Augusta will probably be tired and pushing me out the door to follow along behind them, but I think I should offer to stay with her, at least for a while. There’s so much to do.”

  Cady climbed into his car and drove off. He waved when he reached the corner and then disappeared around it, leaving me standing alone on Augusta’s lawn. I looked up and down the street, which migrated east toward the placid water of Estero Bay. Like most residential streets in Fort Myers Beach, the lawns were neat and the houses summery. The porches tended to have a pastel Adirondack chair or two, backrests fitted with oversized pillows d
ecorated with a seashell or palm tree motif. Typical cozy Florida, the colors were muted and sandy soft. As a Brooklyn girl, I still found it hard to believe that life could be so comfortably low-key. Leisurely and serene . . . until now.

  I took another sip of water, tightened the cap on the bottle and decided to sit on Augusta’s front steps. Her porch swing was right outside the living room window, but it wasn’t worth the comfort of a cushiony seat to risk taking guff from Frank Anthony, who’d surely accuse me of listening in where I wasn’t wanted. I’d sit on the creaky wooden steps until long after my butt fell asleep before I’d give him anything to say.

  I kept myself occupied by composing a to-do list and was on number three—help the choirmaster pick out appropriate hymns—when Augusta got tired of speaking softly.

  “I can’t waste no more time talking with you. There’s lots of work to be done, folks to call.”

  I could picture Augusta waving her address book in Lieutenant Anthony’s face.

  I heard the murmur of both men trying to soothe her into continuing to cooperate, but she wasn’t having it.

  I jumped to my feet when I heard her yell, “Sassy. Get Sassy in here. And you two can leave.”

  I suspected Frank Anthony wasn’t used to being dismissed. Personally, I thought it would do him good.

  I was still standing at the bottom of the stairs when Ryan opened the door and head-nodded me inside.

  I couldn’t quite suppress a triumphant grin. Ryan responded with a quick wink, and then we both resumed our somber faces and walked into the living room.

  Frank rose from his seat and placed a business card on the coffee table in front of Augusta, who was still hugging the address book for dear life. She turned her head away, clearly indicating that she was done with him, but he persisted.

  “We’ll need to continue this conversation when you are feeling up to it. Maybe later in the day.”

  “Ain’t talking no more without a friend by my side. Or do I need one of those television lawyers?”

  Ryan and I exchanged glances. The fleeting vision of Augusta negotiating with one of the countless expensively dressed attorneys who solicited business during the commercial breaks on daytime television boggled the mind.

  Frank Anthony stood a little straighter, like he was stiffening his spine, and then proceeded to put on the most bureaucratic show I’d ever seen. As if Augusta were an errant child, he explained every American’s right to counsel, the difference between a lawyer and a friend, and most insultingly, said he was sorry to inform her that until they narrowed the pool of suspects, it was wisest to interview all the friends and family members of the victim separately.

  Augusta inhaled until her face turned nearly purple.

  I heard Ryan mutter, “Uh-oh.”

  And then, just as quickly, she deflated and gave a slight nod. “I suppose we have to do what’s right for Delia, even if it’s a waste of your time. Delia wasn’t killed by any friend or family. I’m sure of that.”

  The two deputies said their good-byes to Augusta, ignored me and left. As I closed the screen door behind them, I heard Ryan say, “Well that wasn’t so bad.”

  I couldn’t hear the lieutenant’s response, but it was a safe bet that he wasn’t as sanguine as Ryan. Frank Anthony didn’t strike me as a man who was used to not getting his way.

  I stepped into the living room and Augusta was holding up her glass.

  “Sassy, I could use a glass of water. There’s a pitcher in the fridge.”

  I was relieved she wasn’t looking for more Buffalo Trace. I went to the kitchen, found two clean glasses and filled them with ice cubes and water. There was half a lemon in the vegetable drawer. I cut it and put a slice in each glass, then I took out a stem of grapes and a few strawberries, washed them, rolled them in a paper towel and arranged the fruit on a paper plate. I found a round blue tray with a pink flamingo painted in the center and carried our fruit and water, along with a few paper napkins, into the living room.

  Augusta looked tired but she brightened at the sight of the fruit, and for the first time she let go of the address book, placing it to the right of the tray.

  “Thanks for fixin’ us a nice snack. I am feeling a might peckish.”

  We sat in silence, eating fruit and sipping water. Suddenly an earsplitting kee yarr shattered the peace. I remembered when Bridgy and I first met Ryan. He’d come into the Read ’Em and Eat and was introducing himself as our local deputy on patrol when a kee yarr exploded in the parking lot. I thought someone was being attacked and screaming for help. I couldn’t understand why Ryan hadn’t run out the door to see what was going on, but he explained the piercing screech was nothing more than the cry of the red-shouldered hawks who nest all over the island in the coastal woodlands. Now when I hear the hawks cry, it’s a welcome sound of home.

  Augusta picked up a napkin and wiped her mouth with more grace than I’d noticed her use in the past, and sat back in her chair.

  She looked thoughtful. I wondered if she’d fully absorbed all that had happened or if it was now beginning to sink in.

  “I’m going to need a bit of help. With Delia gone so quick, there’s lots to do.”

  She noticed my eyes slue to the address book and took my meaning.

  “Nope. I can make the calls. Better that way. Delia’s nephews wouldn’t take kindly to getting a call from a stranger.”

  Nephews?

  “But I’m going to need you to take on the important chores. Things I can’t do because I’ll be tied up with the paperwork and the funeral and such.”

  I nodded, not at all sure what could be more important than seeing Miss Delia laid properly to rest surrounded by family and friends sadly saying good-bye. But whatever Augusta wanted, I’d make sure it was done. I had a vague idea that she’d need help with shopping, cooking and perhaps I could even lend a hand hostessing the post-funeral meal. Food wasn’t my area of expertise, but Bridgy would help. And Ophie.

  “Of course. Tell me what you need. I’m available for whatever you want me to do. Everyone is.”

  It was important that Augusta knew she wasn’t alone. Her friends and neighbors would do whatever we could to make this tragedy bearable. In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined what she wanted.

  “I need you and Bridgy and whoever else you think can help us to search the island and find them who killed Delia. Then we’ll show those rascals some of grampa’s island justice.

  “Now let me get to who needs calling.”

  Chapter Six ||||||||||||||||||||

  The next few hours were such a blur I barely had time to wonder what “grampa’s island justice” could possibly entail. Tarring and feathering crossed my mind, along with an old-fashioned wooden stockade.

  Augusta moved resolutely from one chore to another as if she were ticking off the items on a mental list of things to be done. I hovered around, responding to her modest requests. She asked me to look up some phone numbers and to check the kitchen for finger foods, make a shopping list, things of that sort. When she was occupied, I was free to wander off to do anything I thought would be helpful, like making a pitcher of sweet tea and giving the company dishes a rinse in case they hadn’t been used for a while. The china pattern reflected Augusta’s sharp personality. The stark white dinner plates were nearly round but had twelve straight edges that met at tiny points with a raised rose design. I flipped to the back of one plate. Rosenthal. Germany. Maria pattern. Somehow I expected even Augusta’s best tableware to be more contemporary and certainly less expensive. Bridgy would love these dishes.

  I kept one ear open, following Augusta’s phone conversations, so I could appear instantly if she got rattled. Apparently there were two nephews down in Everglades City, neither of whom seemed to respond with any great sorrow to the news of their Aunt Delia’s death. At least that was the impression from Augusta’s end of the
telephone calls. Still, Augusta bullied them until it was agreed that one would say the eulogy and the other would sing a hymn, which pleased Augusta to no end.

  “The young one sings in his church choir. I heard him a few times. Nice strong voice. Not feeble-voiced like Delia.”

  After speaking to family members, Augusta dialed the Michael J. Beech Funeral Home, colloquially called the “Rest in Beech” by longtime island residents. I was thankful Fern Lester answered the phone. Fern was a regular at several of our book clubs and knew Augusta well enough to give the help she needed without bumping up against Augusta’s crusty independent streak. They were chatting about floral arrangements garnished with seashells when I heard footsteps on the porch. Pastor John Kendall was balancing a covered glass casserole dish firmly against his chest and holding a bouquet of flowers. He was about to tap on the wooden frame of the door with an elbow when he saw me through the screen.

  “Jocelyn made a seven bean salad. Said it will last in the refrigerator for any number of days.” I took the casserole dish, and he thrust the flowers toward me.

  I shook my head, pointed to the living room doorway and whispered, “She’s talking to Fern. They’ve been on awhile. Should be wrapping up soon. Would you like to wait in the dining room? I made some sweet tea.”

  His head gave one quick bob up and down, which I took to be a yes, especially when he followed it with, “Hotter than usual for November.”

  When I brought in his glass of tea, he was still holding the flowers and Augusta was still on the phone. My thought was to have him present the flowers directly to her. Hopefully she’d admire them, and then I’d take them into the kitchen, find a vase and take my time arranging them, giving Augusta and Pastor John a chance to talk. Pastor looked uncomfortable holding the outsized bunch of white and yellow flowers that were nearly overwhelmed by a profusion of island greens. I took the bouquet and laid it sideways on the table, with the blossoms hanging over the edge.