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  Irene Lester leaned so far forward I thought she would tumble off her chair. “And did it help? The book, I mean. Do you live life to the fullest?”

  Lisette laughed. “I certainly try to, but I think the definition of ‘to the fullest’ is different for each of us. And yes, I definitely think the book helped. I still browse through it from time to time.”

  I made a mental note to order a couple of copies of A Short Guide for the bookshelves and an extra copy for myself. On days like today I could use some direction. I brought the conversation back to Still Life with Bread Crumbs. “And what about Rebecca Winter? Did she live life to the fullest?”

  Jocelyn sniffed. “Well, if you count playing footsie with a younger man, I suppose you could say she did.”

  Irene pushed back, a first for her. “Forget about the romance for a minute. Let’s talk about her professional life. That certainly moved forward.”

  And then conversation around me took off with a lot of back-and-forth among the clubbies. I could finally relax. I let my mind wander to the events of yesterday, wondering how much trouble would rain down on Bridgy before the murderer was caught.

  “Isn’t that right, Sassy?” I heard Jocelyn demand. I looked at her, and she was nodding her head for me to agree. Of course I had no idea what she was asking me, which turned out to be fine, because she went right on talking. “I mean, if Anna Quindlen was a journalist, isn’t it likely she stole other people’s lives and turned them into a story?”

  “I doubt . . .”

  I was cut off by Miss Augusta, who had far less patience with Jocelyn than any of us. “Stealing lives? Writers can’t do that. It’s like perjury, plagiarism, one of those things. Anyway, it’s wrong, plain and simple. I think she is a respectable writer who makes up good stories.”

  Blondie Quinlin added: “And I sure do like her last name. We are only a couple of letters apart from being sisters.”

  While everyone but Jocelyn laughed at Blondie’s joke, I made a few suggestions for next month’s book from a list of books that had recently arrived on our shelves. As soon as I mentioned Murder, She Wrote: Killer in the Kitchen by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain, one of the newer books in the ongoing series, I got a quick response.

  “That’s it.” Augusta slapped her knee. “I love Jessica Fletcher. Is it a Cabot Cove mystery? I watch the reruns on television all the time. The stories that take place in Cabot Cove are my favorite.”

  Irene chimed in. “That Doc Hazlitt. He’s an eccentric one, he is. Oh my yes. Let’s read it.”

  Heads nodded all around. I told them I had a few copies for sale and I would call Sally Caldera at the library and ask her to reserve any copies she might have.

  Jocelyn looked at her wristwatch. “Oh, it’s late. I must fly. Pastor John is hosting an ecumenical prayer service. How would it look if I didn’t attend?” And she hurried out the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

  Lisette and Irene opted to buy the Murder, She Wrote book before leaving. I got two copies down from the shelves and took a quick peek at the dining room. The crowd had thinned out. We even had one empty table. I prayed the “scene of the crime” nosy parkers were finished coming around. Their business wasn’t worth the stress. Hopefully the lunch rush would be normal customers trying to decide whether they wanted a Swiss Family Robinson Cheeseburger, an Old Man and the Sea Chowder or a My Secret Garden Salad.

  Miss Augusta and Blondie Quinlin often stayed for breakfast. I suggested they move over to the Barbara Cartland table since it was the only one available. Augusta was partial to the Emily Dickinson table, so I wondered if she was going to opt to wait for her favorite. But I guess the theme of the Anna Quindlen book caught her spirit, and she followed Blondie to Barbara Cartland. I heard her say, “This ain’t so bad.”

  I was straightening the book nook when Bridgy tapped me on the shoulder. “I need you in the kitchen.” I followed along, ready for the usual “We’re running low on this and are already out of that” conversation that we often had several times a day. But as soon as I got a good look at her face, I knew it was something more.

  Miguel was busy moving between the stove and the counter, plating a couple of orders of Green Eggs and Ham. We stayed by the door to be completely out of his way as he ran back and forth.

  “Listen, Ophie went back to the Treasure Trove to cancel her appointments for the day. She’ll be back soon and can help out until closing.”

  “I don’t think it’s really necessary. The endless trail of lookie-loos seems to have tapered off. We can handle it.”

  “That’s just it. It wasn’t necessary when she left but now there is no ‘we’ for the rest of the day. Owen called about ten minutes ago. Frank Anthony wants to speak to me again. This time he wants me to come to the sheriff’s office. Owen will be here in a few minutes.”

  And Bridgy burst into tears.

  Chapter Ten

  “Come on, sweetie.” I grabbed a napkin to wipe her face. “It won’t be that bad. I promise. You’ll have Owen by your side every minute. He’ll save you from the evil lieutenant.”

  That coaxed a tiny smile. I decided to go for broke. “Hey, you’re going to be surrounded by good-looking men: Owen Reston, Frank Anthony, Ryan Mantoni and who knows how many other handsome young deputies will be circling. Think what Ophie would do with that opportunity.”

  Bridgy actually laughed. I had done my job.

  I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Now go clean yourself up. I left a gray silk blouse on a hanger behind the door of the office. I brought it in to wear to the Rotary meeting a few days ago, but something came up and I didn’t go. And I’m glad you have your black capris on. Better than denim shorts.”

  Bridgy protested. “Sassy, this isn’t a social occasion.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t. But it is a solemn occasion, and that green tank top with ‘SUNSET CELEBRATION AT TIMES SQUARE’ sprawled across the front isn’t going to cut it. Now go spiff up while I cover the dining room.”

  It was a good thing my hands weren’t filled with dishes when Owen Reston walked into the café. I might have dropped them. I nearly didn’t recognize the handsome businessman-type dressed in a light blue houndstooth suit with those tuxedo styled lapels, peaked, I think they’re called. And the jacket pockets had no flaps, which gave him a very sleek line. By the time my eyes reached his face, he was taking off his aviator sunglasses. His green eyes were always attractive, even more so when he winked at me.

  “I know. It’s a long way from surfer dude shorts and muscle man tees, but this is my lawyer look. What do you think?” And he pirouetted as coolly as a prima ballerina. Instead of its usual wild and wavy self, I saw his hair was slicked back, probably gelled in place.

  I planted my hands on my hips and rolled my shoulders in full Brooklyn swagger. “Ain’t you sumthin’? Back in Brooklyn we’d call you a ‘Park Avenue lawyer.’ Got that right.”

  Then I switched to serious. “Is she in deep and definite trouble?”

  Owen shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Don’t worry. Frank Anthony is doing what he has to do, working every angle to solve his case. There’s a killer out there. I figure Frank knows it isn’t Bridgy. But we have to remember that she is a key witness.”

  Right on cue, the kitchen door opened and Bridgy walked out with a far more sophisticated presence than she’d had a few minutes before. Owen’s look of appreciation was completely wasted on Bridgy, because she barely noticed him. I couldn’t fathom why she wasn’t blown away by how handsome he looked. Her nerves must be clouding her vision.

  Bridgy had clipped her hair up in a high ponytail. A few blond tendrils escaped and framed her face. My gray silk blouse was perfectly tucked into the waist of her dark pants. I was surprised she was wearing a red leather belt with a silver seashell buckle, which gave the outfit a finished look. I suspect it came from somewhere in the bottom
desk drawer where we kept lots of doodads that we brought in to work and never remembered to bring home. She’d ditched her work sneakers for a pair of black sandals. Good as Bridgy looked, my first thought was that we really were going to have to clean out the office.

  The ladies sitting at Robert Frost signaled for their check. I dropped it on their table, and Bridgy automatically stepped behind the register. I glanced at the two other occupied tables. No one needed my attention. I needed to push Bridgy out of here. Otherwise she’d stall for the rest of the day. Miguel, Ophie and I could handle the café.

  As soon as Bridgy finished at the register, I tried to move her along. “You may as well get it over with.”

  She hesitated, then realized I was right and came around from behind the counter. Owen took her by the elbow and looked at me. “I promise I’ll bring her back none the worse for wear.”

  I prayed he was right.

  I began refilling the salt and pepper shakers, getting ready for the lunch rush, when Ophie opened the door and spun into the room, her magenta skirt twirling around her knees.

  “I canceled any and all appointments, so I can help out here ’til closing. What is the matter? Y’all should be smiling, ’cause I’m here to help. Instead you look like death.”

  “Bridgy had to go to the sheriff’s office for more questions.”

  Ophie was stricken. Her face contorted with anxiety and more than a little anger. “And you let her go alone? What were you thinking?”

  “Shush.” I bobbed my head toward the occupied tables. “Owen Reston went with her. He promised to take care of her.”

  Ophie relaxed. “I feel better already. Handsome devil that Owen is, and Mark tells me he is a top-notch lawyer.”

  Our conversation was cut short when customers began piling in. Within minutes the lunch rush was in full force.

  For the next two hours I hustled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. I was still bouncy in my white quilted leather slip-on sneakers, but as usual, toward the end of the rush, my feet started to ache a bit. I began fantasizing about a barefoot walk along the water’s edge around sunset. I watched Ophie spin around on her impossibly high sandals and wondered why her arches weren’t screaming for relief.

  I glanced at the clock. Bridgy had been gone for a long time. When the crowd slowed down, I checked my phone, hoping she’d sent me a text, but there was nothing. Ophie walked past with a platter of Swiss Family Robinson Cheeseburgers and two side salads. She whispered, “Any news?”

  I shook my head.

  Another half hour passed, the café emptied out and still no word. I was getting antsy. I was scrubbing the countertop when it dawned on me that there was something I could do to help. Mugsy Danaher, Blondie Quinlin’s nephew. I could visit him at the cab company and discover what he knew about Oscar, anything at all that might help us find a suspect other than Bridgy. I was pretty sure that all the old New Jersey stuff Oscar had talked about was useless information. Mugsy would have current information. But, would he share?

  I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a large to-go box.

  “Miguel, what kind of pastries do we have left? Can I get a dozen of your best?”

  “Sí, of course. Did the customer ask for anything particular, or do you want an assortment?”

  “No customer. I’m going to make a condolence call, and I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”

  “Oscar’s family is here in town?”

  “Oh. I don’t know.” I thought quickly and decided on a half-truth. “I’m going to bring the pastries to his coworkers at the cab company. Perhaps they can tell me where to send a sympathy card or if the family has a charity that will accept donations in Oscar’s name. I think we should do something.”

  Miguel nodded in agreement, but his brain had already moved on to packaging. Both he and Bridgy had a terrific sense of visual design when it came to food presentation. I was nowhere near their league. He put the to-go box next to a platter of Robert Frost Apple and Blueberry Tartlets. I watched him roll a dozen small doilies until they were nearly pouch shaped and carefully place a tartlet in each one. He layered them in the box, snapped it shut and pulled a small white bow from the bottom drawer of the work counter. He taped it to the top while pushing the box across the counter to me. Miguel was all about economy of motion.

  “Tell Oscar’s work friends we are all sorry for their loss. And don’t worry, Ophie and I will take care of any customers who straggle in just before closing.”

  Ophie was straightening tables and chairs when I waved, told her I had an errand to run and flew out the door before she could barrage me with questions.

  I’d parked my trusty Heap-a-Jeep as far away from where Oscar had parked the van yesterday as I could. Still, I stopped for a moment and looked at the spot. I said a silent prayer, then I got into the jeep and drove down island. A couple of miles later I made a left turn toward Estero Bay, and within a few yards I was inside the parking lot of the Gulf Coast Cab and Van Company.

  A half dozen or so vehicles ranging from tiny four-seat sedans to oversized vans were parked neatly along the fence lined up in size places. Every one of them was sky blue with the company name and phone number prominently displayed.

  A sign near the entrance said “Visitor Parking.” I parked the Heap-a-Jeep right next to the sign and headed self-assuredly to the door. It was only when I got inside that my confidence began to wane. What would I say?

  A woman with carrot red 1970s bouffant hair was sitting at the front desk. She greeted me with a thousand-watt smile and a deep southern drawl. “I’m Darla. How y’all doing today? Hope you’re gonna let us give y’all a ride.”

  “Actually, I, er, I need to speak to Mr. Danaher. I’m a friend of his aunt.” I was hoping making the visit sound personal would stump her curiosity.

  Darla waved me in the direction of a worn leatherette bench, the same sky blue as the cars and vans. She beamed all thousand watts at me again. “Why, sure, y’all just have a seat. I’ll find him soon enough.”

  It wasn’t long before a wiry man with a shaved head and one gold hoop stuck in the lobe of a misshapen ear came down the hall. His sky blue golf shirt had a monogram I couldn’t read at this distance, but it stretched across biceps and shoulders that seemed much too large for his body.

  “You must be Aunt Blondie’s friend.” He gave me a hearty handshake and a view of the crossed anchor tattoo on his forearm. There were words in a circle, but I couldn’t decipher them and didn’t want to stare.

  Mugsy noticed my glance. “Coast Guard back in the nineties. Great times. Went hand to hand with Hurricane Opal in ’95. She nearly destroyed the Panhandle and did a job on Alabama, too. End of September, beginning of October. I can’t quite recall. Anyway, Blondie says if I don’t help you out, there will be no more Sunday dinners at her house for me, so what can I do you for?”

  I was delighted Blondie had eased the way. I handed Mugsy the to-go box. “A book club I coordinate from the Read ’Em and Eat was Oscar’s last trip. I want to express our condolences.”

  Mugsy sniffed at the edges of the carton. “Smells sweet. I’ll put these in the break room. The team will enjoy having a bite in Oscar’s honor. You know, he’s been a driver here a long time. Longer than the four years I’ve been dispatching. Oscar was friendly enough, gregarious even, but he could become feisty if he thought he was being hassled.”

  “The ladies on the tour loved him. All those stories he told about his life before he came to Florida. He traveled around, but he seemed to love it here.”

  “As an old Coast Guard guy, I appreciated how much Oscar loved the water. Did you know he worked on and off as a hand on a fishing charter?”

  “Really? I had no idea. Which charter?” I was afraid Mugsy would think I was nosy, but he shook his head.

  “I got no idea, but I can tell you Oscar got thrown
off the boat for getting into a fight with another deckhand. I asked him once, friendly like, about the fight, but Oscar told me to mind my own business.”

  Mugsy shrugged off the whole idea. “Oscar was really touchy when it came to his personal life. He wouldn’t say how it started or how it ended. But really, could an old guy like Oscar get into much of a fight? Anyway, I got to go back to work. Thanks for these.” He shook the box of pastries toward me. “Darla can give you Oscar’s family contacts if you want to send a card.”

  Darla handed me a photocopied paper with all Oscar’s information and cheerfully reminded me to come back any time I needed a ride. As soon as I was in the parking lot, I called Bridgy. I was dying to tell her that Oscar had a fight with a deckhand, who could definitely be a potential suspect, but her phone went directly to voice mail. Not a good sign. If she was still being interviewed . . . with or without Owen, I didn’t want to think about what a bad sign that would be. I hopped in my jeep and headed back to the Read ’Em and Eat. Perhaps Ophie had news.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was surprised that Ophie hadn’t locked the door at closing. I walked into the café, where she was sitting at Robert Frost with her elbows resting on the tabletop. Her chin was pressed so deeply into her palms that her ashen face crumpled, showing wrinkles I never knew existed. I’d never seen her so distressed.

  “Ophie, what is it? Is it Bridgy?”

  “It’s not Bridgy. I can’t talk about it. I’m glad you’re back. I have to go home.”

  As she headed out the door, I could hear Ophie’s shoes scrape along the tile floor so differently from the usual peppy click-click-click of her spiked heels.

  She left without another word.

  I locked the door behind her and pushed into the kitchen to see if Miguel knew what was going on. I was shocked to see Bridgy at the sink, humming tunelessly and swaying left to right, right to left, while she rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher. She looked so happy that I didn’t even mind that she was washing dishes while still wearing my gray silk blouse.