Read to Death Page 4

  I stood and grabbed the back of my chair. “You’re right. Let’s bring a couple of chairs into the kitchen.”

  Miguel grabbed a chair under each arm and followed me through the swinging door. As always, the kitchen was immaculate. I marveled at Miguel’s ability to prepare such tasty food while keeping the kitchen in tip-top shape. I shuddered at the thought of how it had looked when Miguel had an accident a while back and Aunt Ophie filled in for him. Oh, the food was delicious, but the kitchen looked as though an F3 category tornado spun through every twenty minutes or so. Miguel opened the oven, and the aroma of apples and cinnamon filled the room. He placed the pies on cooling trays and turned off the oven.

  Ryan pushed the door open. “Lieutenant is looking for you two. Oh, do I smell fresh pie? Um-um.”

  Miguel knew Ryan was one of his biggest fans. “Perhaps when your work is done, there will be time for pie.”

  Ryan widened his eyes. “Sounds as good as the pie smells. Sassy, Lieutenant Anthony wants to talk to you first.”

  My interrogation was about to begin.

  Chapter Five

  Miguel took my arm, and we approached the lieutenant together.

  “We can put some chairs in the kitchen so you will have privacy for your interviews. Will you require anything else? A table? Perhaps some lemon water and cups?” Miguel was always a cordial host, no matter how trying the circumstances.

  “All good suggestions. Ryan will give you a hand.”

  Miguel picked up one end of the Robert Frost table, and Ryan grabbed the other. Frank Anthony and I followed them into the kitchen. Miguel filled a pitcher with ice, lemon slices and water. He set it on the counter next to a tray of glasses, then he excused himself, saying he would wait in the dining room.

  At least with Ryan in the room I felt like I had a friend nearby, but that was short-lived. The lieutenant asked Ryan who was on the door. Ryan answered, “Doyle.”

  Frank Anthony thought for a moment. “New, but competent. He should be able to handle this group. Leave him on the door and go to the Treasure Trove. Bring Bridgy and Miss Ophelia here.”

  As I watched Ryan leave, I could only imagine what Bridgy and Ophie would think when they saw the commotion in the parking lot. Then I realized that after seeing Oscar’s body, nothing was likely to shake Bridgy. Ophie was another matter entirely.

  Frank indicated that I should sit down. I countered by offering a glass of water, which he declined. I poured myself a glass and sat at the table. The lieutenant stood over me for what seemed like eons. Finally, he sat opposite me.

  I half expected some flippant remark about me attracting murder like honey draws flies, but he was direct and to the point.

  “Tell me exactly what happened. How you found the body.”

  When I said I wasn’t sure what he wanted to know, he said, “Start at the beginning.”

  Where was the beginning? I organized my thoughts and found a place I thought would work. I told him how Oscar teased us about Thomas Edison really being from New Jersey and entertained us with stories about Atlantic City on a slow ride home due to the car breakdown on McGregor. I even mentioned Angeline Drefke’s tale of marital woes. That caught Frank’s attention.

  “Let me be clear. This woman’s husband ruined their life by gambling in the same place Oscar used to work.”

  I sighed. “Well, in the same city where Oscar worked. Atlantic City. Oscar and Angeline each mentioned a few casinos. You’d have to ask her about that.”

  He made a note in that small black leather-bound pad he always carried. Come to think of it, Ryan had one, too. Must be standard-issue. Oh, he was asking another question.

  “What happened when you pulled into the parking lot? Who got out of the van first?”

  “Everyone sort of tumbled out. Someone suggested that the ladies store their things in their cars so as not to have to lug them into the café and out again.”

  “Who? Whose idea was that?”

  I thought for a few seconds. “Margo. No. It was Tammy. Oh, not really. She was responding to Sonja, who said . . . I remember exactly. Sonja said: ‘I’ll put my things in my car and meet you inside.’ Everyone thought she was brilliant, and they scattered around the parking lot and then, I guess they drifted in here.”

  “You guess?”

  “I was settling up with Oscar . . .” I could see everything clearly. Bridgy was carrying the remnants of our snacks to the café. The clubbies were laughing back and forth across the parking lot while they stowed their gear in car trunks and backseats. And Oscar and I were alone in the van. He was sitting in the driver’s seat, and I was standing on the bottom step counting out his payment and adding in a hefty tip. My stomach lurched. I may have been the last person to see him alive.

  Frank slid my glass of water right across Frost’s fruit poems that were laminated on the tabletop. It landed next to my hand. I took a long drink followed by a deep breath. The panic didn’t subside.

  “This may have been my fault . . .”

  “How’s that?”

  “I paid Oscar in cash. Right out there in the parking lot for all the world to see. For any thief to see. Did he have the money I gave him?”

  Frank scribbled on his pad. “We’ll find out.” And he began to ask me detailed questions about everything I’d told him right up to when I finished paying Oscar and went to the café. “When you got inside, who did you see? Were all the ladies present?”

  “There were some clubbies . . .” He raised an eyebrow of enquiry. “Book club members already seated in the book nook. I don’t remember who exactly. I went into the kitchen to get them a pitcher of lemonade. Bridgy, Ophie and Miguel were all in the kitchen. Ophie was deciding what to take home for dinner. That I do remember.”

  “And then,” Frank prompted.

  “I fixed the lemonade and brought it to the clubbies.”

  “Were all the ladies here?”

  “Yes. They were sitting and chatting. Waiting for me to start the formal meeting, I guess.”

  He changed direction. “If you were in here with your book club members, how is it you were outside next to the van when Ryan and I pulled up?”

  “Bridgy’s sunglasses.” I explained how Bridgy went looking for her glasses and Ophie heard her call for help. “So I ran out to see what happened.”

  He made me repeat at least three times what I saw and heard when I got to the van. It was like having a jackhammer rat-a-tat-tat inside my brain. After I repeated my story for the final time, we sat quietly for a few seconds. I was hanging on to my composure by a thread. My brain was tired, too tired to keep answering Frank’s questions.

  Suddenly, he seemed to relax and tilted his chair back, raising the front legs right off the floor. I took it to mean that my ordeal was over. The inquisition was done. Then he dropped forward. The chair legs banged on the floor, startling me from my fugue state. “Tell me again. What did Bridgy say?”

  “She said, ‘He’s dead. I’m so sorry.’ Oh.” For the first time I realized how he was hearing what Bridgy said. “No. No. She wasn’t saying she was sorry because she’d . . . done anything. She was sorry he was dead.”

  Frank persisted. “But she didn’t say, ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’ According to you, she said, ‘He’s dead. I’m so sorry.’ Correct?”

  I tapped my fingers on the tabletop and began tracing the picture of a carefree Robert Frost smiling at me from the cover of an ancient issue of Life magazine. There was no way around it. I hung my head. “Yes. That’s what Bridgy said.”

  Finally, the lieutenant thanked me for my time and stood up. Rather than dismissing me, he walked me into the dining room and pointed to the Emily Dickinson table. Ophie was sitting at Robert Louis Stevenson. Bridgy was leaning against the counter near the register, with Ryan by her side. I wondered if he was guarding her. When she wasn’t dabbing at her redde
ned eyes, Bridgy was shredding a tissue.

  Frank asked Bridgy to come into the kitchen and told Ryan to join them. Just before he went through the kitchen door, he told Doyle, who had moved from the doorway and was standing by the clubbies, to call for another deputy to come into the café.

  I sat quietly for a few moments, straining to hear whatever I could from the kitchen, but except for the occasional unintelligible rumble of Frank Anthony’s baritone, there was nothing to hear.

  I hadn’t noticed Miguel sitting in the book nook. He poured a glass of lemonade and set it in front of me. I smiled my thanks and looked at the kitchen door. “I’m worried about Bridgy.”

  He patted my hand. “Chica, I promise, all will be fine.”

  There was a knock on the door. I half rose from my seat, ready to answer it, or at least tell whoever that we were closed, but Deputy Doyle was Johnny-on-the-spot. He opened the door, and a female deputy about my age came in. She looked familiar. Then I remembered Bridgy and I met Deputy Wei, a soft-spoken Asian woman, when we first came to Fort Myers Beach. In fact, we met her the day we moved into our first apartment in the Beausoleil near the northern tip of the island. I was glad to see a familiar face. I couldn’t hear what the deputies said to each other, but he went back to stand near the clubbies, and she stood by the door.

  Clearly, we were under guard. It wasn’t a great feeling. I supposed the lieutenant sat me here, all alone, for a reason. Still, I was debating moving over to sit with Ophie when Ryan opened the kitchen door, looked at Wei and waved her into the kitchen.

  I took the opportunity to move over to Ophie. As I pulled out a chair, I looked at the deputy, but he remained motionless, his face immobile. Apparently, he hadn’t been told to keep us apart.

  “How was Bridgy? I mean before Ryan went to get you.”

  Ophie shook her head. “The poor lamb. She was trembling, not that I blame her. And she kept saying how sorry she was.”

  “Sorry Oscar was dead?” I had my fingers crossed.

  “No. Just sorry. Y’all have to admit this is a sorry mess we’re in.”

  “Bridgy’s in the sorriest mess. She keeps apologizing as if she had something to do with . . .”

  Ophie’s sharp intake of breath told me she got my point. “She has trouble swatting at flies. Bridgy’d never hurt a living thing.”

  “We know that. How do we convince the law?”

  The kitchen door opened. Deputy Wei had Bridgy by the arm and walked her into the alcove leading to the restrooms. Bridgy never glanced in our direction. The dazed look on her face told me all I needed to know.

  Ophie whispered, “That poor child needs our help.”

  Not our help, I thought. Bridgy needed a lawyer. And she needed one right away. How long could the deputies keep badgering her? Her interview with Frank was already much longer than mine had been. And since they’d given her an escort to the bathroom, Bridgy was likely to be under the deputy’s watchful eyes for a while yet to come.

  I pulled out my cell phone and hit speed dial. Cady Stanton, reporter for the Fort Myers Beach News, answered on the second ring. “Hey, Sassy, how was your tour of the Edison and Ford estates?”

  “Forget about that. Why aren’t you here? There’s been a murder and Bridgy is a suspect and where are you? We need help. Bridgy needs a lawyer. Shouldn’t you be covering this for the paper?”

  “I’m off today. I’m on the mainland hacking my way through the golf fund-raiser for Pastor John’s church. Thank goodness it’s a scramble. Golf’s not my best sport. But I don’t look so bad when we play best ball. If only they’d have a soccer fund-raiser. Now there I would shine.”

  I lost patience. “Cady, about Bridgy . . .”

  My tone brought him back to reality. “Who could suspect Bridgy of doing anything wrong? Murder? Don’t be silly.”

  “Frank Anthony.” I tossed the right name at him. Cady wasn’t a fan.

  “I’m playing with Owen Reston. Do you want me to ask him to come by and talk to Bridgy? You know he doesn’t really do criminal.”

  Owen was an Afghanistan war vet and an attorney who served as counsel to some of the veteran support groups on the island. He may not be well versed in criminal law, but I was desperate.

  “Bring him, if he’ll come. Someone has to stop the lieutenant. He’s badgering Bridgy and making her sick.” I knew I was poking Cady with the “Frank Anthony” stick, but I needed to get help quickly. I clicked off the phone and watched Deputy Wei guiding Bridgy out of the restroom alcove. They were heading toward the kitchen again. Bridgy was ashen and looked as weak legged as a newborn calf. I’d had enough.

  “Deputy Wei, Bridgy’s lawyer is on his way. He’s directed that there be no further questions until he arrives.”

  Wei looked confused for a moment and waved Doyle to stand by Bridgy while she went inside, I guess to confer with the lieutenant. In two seconds she was back with Frank at her heels.

  He stood over me, arms crossed, never a reassuring pose. “Who’s the lawyer?”

  “Owen. Owen Reston.”

  He nodded. “If Miss Mayfield needed an attorney, we would have advised her of such. Still, leave it to you to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  Miss Mayfield? Bridgy was in deeper trouble than I thought.

  Chapter Six

  I sat perfectly still, and when Frank realized I wasn’t going to respond, he executed a sharp left turn and walked over to Ophie. “Miss Ophelia, if you’d be so kind.” And he indicated the kitchen door. Ophie and I locked eyes as I silently wished her luck. She slumped off to the kitchen as if she were heading to the gallows. There was no bounce in her step, no click-click-click of her spike heels on the tile floor. But right before she walked through the kitchen doorway, she seemed to recover her gumption. With as bright a smile as she could muster, Ophie turned back and gave the entire room a wink and a wave.

  As soon as they disappeared into the kitchen, I walked over to Bridgy and put my arm around her. Deputy Wei stepped back to give us some fake privacy, but I knew she could hear anything we had to say.

  “How about a cup of tea?”

  Bridgy attempted a smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the kitchen’s kind of busy.”

  “I know. I already survived my interrogation.” I grimaced to let her know we were all together in this. “We have the electric kettle behind the counter. I can make you a cuppa in minutes.”

  During the breakfast rush we kept the electric kettle full and hot for the tea drinkers. Bridgy always insisted there was nothing worse than a restaurant where the staff instantly topped off coffee cups while the tea drinkers waited endlessly for a refill. And our tea-drinking customers agreed. We got a lot of compliments about tea refills.

  Bridgy brightened and rewarded me with a grin. “Sounds like exactly what I need.”

  I nodded, relieved at signs of a spark in her. I looked at our discreet guardian. “Deputy, would you like a cup?”

  She smiled her thanks but shook her head “no.” As I went behind the counter, I sneaked a look at the clubbies. They had stopped chattering among themselves. Margo seemed engrossed in whatever app she was fiddling with on her cell phone. Angeline Drefke was staring at the door as if at any moment Nancy from Creative Hair would come rushing in, with a comb in one hand and a blow-dryer in the other, her leopard-print hairdresser smock flying behind her. Augusta crossed her arms on the table and rested her head, eyes closed. Everyone else looked tired as well. I made a snap decision. Lee County Sheriff’s Department notwithstanding, I was taking back my café. I stepped over to the book nook. “Ladies, does anyone want a cup of tea?”

  There were a few yeses, more nos and some whining from Angeline Drefke about her hair appointment. I filled the kettle at the tiny counter sink and plugged it in. I set mugs on a tray and decided that everyone could use the caffeine boost from a nice E
nglish breakfast tea. I took milk and a lemon from the under-the-counter fridge. I sliced the lemon, put milk in a small pitcher and refilled a sweetener bowl with the usual white, yellow and pink packets. The kettle beeped to let me know the water was ready. I was pouring boiling water over the tea bag in each mug when I heard a knock at the door.

  Deputy Wei looked outside and began rapidly waving her hand back and forth. “No press. Absolutely no press.”

  I was so excited my hand shook the kettle and I nearly burned my arm. It must be Cady. Hopefully he had Owen with him. I set the kettle on its trivet and rushed to Deputy Wei. “That’s not the press.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “That’s Bridgy’s lawyer.”

  The deputy’s dark brown eyes flashed at me. “I’ve known Cady Stanton for years. When did he pass the Florida state bar exam?” She turned back to the door and resumed waving both hands. “Go away, Cady. No news scoops for you today.”

  “Tina, don’t be like that. I brought Bridgy’s lawyer.” Cady hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Owen, whose tousled blond hair rested on the collar of his bright red golf shirt.

  “Doesn’t look like much of a lawyer to me. Who is he? Your cameraman?”

  “Tina.” Cady started doing that hand-smoothing-his-hair motion that he always did when he was getting frustrated. “Seriously. This is Owen Reston . . .”

  I backed up Cady’s plea. “He’s telling the truth. Owen is Bridgy’s lawyer.” At least temporarily, I thought.

  Tina Wei’s eyes left “flashing” and moved directly to “thunder and lightning.” I’d swear the lightning bolts were shooting directly at me.

  She stood facing me and planted her hands on her hips exactly the way Bridgy does when she’s about to lose it with me. “You know you’re impeding this investigation, right?”

  I was not about to back down. “I did what I thought was best for my friend. She’s entitled to a lawyer.”

  “Suspects are entitled to a lawyer. Everyone here is being interviewed as witnesses. Once we determine that a person fits the profile of a suspect, we are legally obligated to tell the person she is a suspect and recommend she call a lawyer. That hasn’t happened here.” She crossed her arms as if she’d settled the issue once and for all.