Read to Death Page 8

  Miguel was nowhere to be seen. What was going on here? Had I imagined everything that happened yesterday and today?

  “Hey, songbird. I’ve been calling and calling, but you aren’t answering your phone. For goodness’ sake, what happened today?”

  As soon as she turned to me I could see that the brooding, dismal Bridgy who went off with Owen a few hours earlier had completely disappeared. Her smile was wider than a four-lane highway, and her eyes sparkled the way they used to when we went into Manhattan to stare at the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. I had a fleeting memory of how we’d laugh because we could see the reflection of those thousands of lightbulbs in each other’s eyes. Then we’d get frustrated when we looked in a little pocket mirror but couldn’t see the tree lights reflected in our own eyes.

  I blurted out the first thing that came into my mind. “The killer. They caught the killer.”

  Bridgy did a double heel-to-toe rock and clapped her hands. “That’s great news. Who was it? And why?”

  I realized too late that whatever made Bridgy so upbeat, it wasn’t the end of the investigation into Oscar’s murder. I dreaded having to utter my next sentence. “I thought you were humming and swaying because the killer was caught and you were off the hook. What did happen at the sheriff’s office?”

  And that shot the sparkle right out of her eyes. Bridgy walked to the freezer, stuck her head inside and came out with a tub of butter pecan ice cream. She set it on the counter and grabbed some chocolate sauce from the refrigerator.

  She looked at me. “Well, get some spoons.” And she marched into the dining room.

  We sat with the half-empty ice cream container between us. Bridgy dribbled chocolate sauce on top of the ice cream, and we dug in. After four or five minutes Bridgy set her spoon on the table. “Okay, do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

  “Bad news.”

  Bridgy sighed. “You always pick bad.”

  “Naturally. I like to get it out of the way. So tell me. The bad news happened when you went to meet with Lieutenant Anthony, right?”

  Bridgy’s shoulders dropped. “It was awful. He hammered away with the same questions, over and over again. I felt like . . . like he was trying to trip me up. I will say Owen was wonderful. He kept jumping in by saying, ‘Asked and answered,’ but the lieutenant had a dozen different ways to ask why I went out to the van, what I did when I found Oscar, and why I said, ‘He’s dead. I’m sorry,’ rather than ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’ Really? Who pays attention to sentence structure at a time like that?”

  I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I focused on praising Owen rather than dissecting Frank’s questions. “It’s a good thing Owen was with you. Afterward did he say anything about another lawyer?”

  “You mean a criminal lawyer? Owen told me straight out it might come to that, but so far, he hasn’t said it’s necessary.” She dipped into the ice cream and came up with a drippy spoonful of butter pecan with chocolate syrup puddled in the middle. “Oh, this is melting fast. Do you want more or should I put it away?”

  “You stay right there. I’ll take care of it.” I cleared the table, put the ice cream away and rinsed our spoons at the sink. When I came back with a spray bottle and cloth to wipe down the table, Bridgy was gazing out the window in the general direction of Oscar’s last parking space. “Ophie was still here when I came in. She was really down in the dumps. I guess she’s worried about you.”

  “Not at all. She’s upset about the good news. Don’t look so puzzled. There is only one thing that could make me happy and Ophie crazy all at the same time.” Bridgy jumped out of her chair and started waltzing around the room singing something I didn’t quite recognize. Then I realized it was one of the songs from the movie Frozen.

  “What? Ophie is mad about Frozen? Is the community center putting on a show and she didn’t get the part of Elsa?”

  Bridgy giggled. “Don’t be silly. Even she knows she’s too old to play Elsa. Or Anna, for that matter.”

  I was starting to wish I’d paid more attention to the movie. I knew there was a clue buried in Bridgy’s rambling.

  She gave me an exaggerated wink. “Get it? Elsa and Anna? Sisters. Ophelia and Emelia. Sisters!”

  “Your mother? She’s coming here? When?” I grabbed Bridgy’s hands and swung her in a circle. “No wonder you’re so happy.” Then I came to a dead stop. “Wait a minute. Why is Ophie so miserable?”

  “For the same reason I am so happy. My mother will be here the day after tomorrow.”

  I stopped spinning. “But they’re sisters. What did I miss? Did they have a falling-out? When?”

  “Only for the last thirty or so years.”

  I was totally baffled. “We’ve spent holidays together, even long weekends. I never noticed any . . . problems. Are you sure?”

  “Oh, they manage well enough for brief get-togethers like holidays and birthdays, but my mother is coming here tomorrow with an open-ended plane ticket. It’s the potential time frame that has Ophie frazzled. Mom will tell her to act her age once too often, and then the bickering will begin. Think your average six-year-olds fighting over the last available swing on the play set.” Bridgy chuckled. “At least they’re not boring. And they do love each other. It is just that Emelia thinks she knows what’s best for Ophelia, while Ophelia thinks of Emelia as her little sister who should keep her two cents to herself. And you do have to wonder what Grandma was thinking with these Ophelia, Emelia names. Like rhyming was going to make them closer. My father once mused that he thought the name game might be part of the problem. I mean, they’re not clones. They’re not even twins.”

  “Oh please. Remember Laura and Lauren Moderno? The twins who battled each other all through elementary school? The smartest thing their parents ever did was to send them to different high schools.” I patted Bridgy’s hand. “I’m so glad that I have you for my bestie. Closest I’ll ever have to a sister.” I grabbed my keys off the counter. “And in the name of sisters everywhere, let’s take a ride up to visit Tony the Boatman. I’ll drive.”

  Bridgy tucked a blond curl behind her ear and lowered her eyelids. “I hate to be a spoilsport, but I am so wiped. I’m not sure I could handle a kayak paddle, even if we took out a two-seater and I only had to do half the work.”

  “Well, if you are too tired to paddle around the bay, I guess we’ll just have to limit ourselves to following up a lead on a genuine suspect in Oscar’s murder.”

  Bridgy’s eyes flew wide open. “A suspect? You mean someone besides me is a suspect? Let me get my purse.”

  Traffic on Estero Boulevard was lighter than usual, and within a few minutes I was sliding the Heap-a-Jeep into a prime spot in the parking lot at Bowditch Point Park.

  When we got to Tony’s boat dock, I was delighted that he was busy cleaning out bait buckets. I wanted to talk to him without customers milling around and listening in. Over time we’d become friends. Tony liked us because when we rented canoes or kayaks we returned them on time. We liked him because he knew everything that happened for miles around and wasn’t above sharing information.

  “Hey, ladies.” Tony took off his straw panama hat, waved it in our direction and plunked it back on his head. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Want to spend an hour or so on the water? I just got a couple of new Wilderness kayaks with really comfy seats—great stability and excellent ventilation. Heat won’t get you, that’s for sure.” The red kerchief tied around his neck was soaked with perspiration, and his Hercule Poirot–style mustache was a bit grayer and more straggly than when we’d last visited.

  “I wish we could, but, well, we had a little trouble in the café parking lot, and I was wondering if you could help us out.”

  He looked from me to Bridgy and back again. “Is this about Oscar? Heard about that. What’s this island coming to?”

  We commiserated fo
r a couple of minutes, and then Tony asked what help we needed.

  Bridgy raised her hand like a third grader who wasn’t quite sure of the answer but decided to take a stab at it. “I found Oscar. After he was killed, I’m the one who found him.”

  Tony took off his hat again, wiped his brow with his forearm and stared at the sky. “That’s a heavy burden for a young’un such as yourself.” He flexed his muscles and expanded his massive chest. “Big guy like me, no problem, but you . . . I am sorry for your trouble. How can I help?”

  “Sheriff’s deputies have interviewed Bridgy twice already. We think they should start looking someplace else.”

  “Where did you have in mind? You think someone hated his driving that much?” Tony chuckled, but when we didn’t respond to his joke, he moved right back to serious. “Well, if you’re here, then you think Oscar might have had a problem concerning boats. Is it the Fisherman’s Dream you’re looking for?”

  “We’re not sure. We heard around town that Oscar crewed part-time on a fishing boat.”

  “Yep. That’d be the Dream, all right. Oscar used to fill in when guys were out sick, on vacation, like that.”

  I felt like we were finally on the right track. “‘Used to’ is the key phrase. Rumor has it Oscar got into a fight with another deckhand. A real fight, with fists flying. We heard that fight cost Oscar his job.”

  Tony cupped his chin with his thumb and forefinger, then ran his fingers across his stubble. “That could be. Oscar wasn’t a fighter, but he didn’t like to be pushed around. Antoine Jackson is the man you need to speak to. He’s the ship’s captain. I hear he’s a fair-minded boss, but, working for myself, I’ve come to the place where I don’t think much of any boss, if you get my drift.”

  Bridgy and I’d often talked about how the freedom to make our own decisions overrode the difficulties of running our own business. It was a comfort to hear that Tony felt the same way. I steered him back to the matter at hand.

  “Where can we find Mr. Jackson?”

  “Call him Mister and there will be a ruckus sure as I’m standing here. Call him Captain Jackson, you might twist him around your pretty little finger and find out what you want to know. He docks the Fisherman’s Dream over on San Carlos Island, just south of the bridge. So I guess I really can’t talk you into trying my new kayaks. You got somewhere else to be.”

  I stretched up on my tiptoes and planted a kiss on his grizzled cheek. “We’ll be back for that kayak ride soon enough. Right now it’s time for us to cross the bridge and see what we can learn on the Fisherman’s Dream.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The bridge was jam-packed with cars heading on and off the island. Traffic was at a crawl. I was glad we were going to San Carlos Island rather than continuing on to the mainland. I was nearing the turnoff when Bridgy distracted me.

  “What are we going to ask him?”

  “Ask who? Oh, you mean Captain Jackson?” I maneuvered the Heap-a-Jeep smartly to the right, and in a few seconds we were out of the traffic jam and on San Carlos Island.

  “Well, I guess we’ll ask him why he fired Oscar, and when he mentions the fight, we’ll ask about the other person in the fight.”

  “Sassy, you make it sound so easy. Two complete strangers walk up to a man and ask why he fired someone who was found murdered yesterday. Why would he talk to us? I mean, seriously, would you?”

  I was searching for a parking spot near the marina, so I was half ignoring Bridgy’s chatter until I heard her screech. “Stop. There it is.”

  She was pointing to a huge boat with “FISH___AN’S DREAM” stenciled across the stern in letters about three feet high. The “E,” the “R,” and the “M” in “FISHERMAN’S” were missing because the gangplank was lowered. Good news for us. The ship was in dock, and there was someone aboard.

  I parked rather crookedly in the first available space and jumped out of the jeep. Bridgy hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I told you. I don’t think this is a good idea. If you insist, I’ll go along, but this is your plan, so if it comes to naught . . .”

  I got it. My plan. Any problem would be my fault.

  “Look, we’re here now . . .”

  Bridgy got out of the jeep and led the way to the gangplank, but I knew once we got there the next move would be on me. And that is exactly where I was stymied. I had no next move planned.

  We stood on the dock looking up at the enormous white ship. It was several stories high, wider than our entire apartment and longer than most mini malls.

  “Well?” Bridgy was losing patience.

  “I’m short on decorum. It’s not like there’s a doorbell. Should we just barge in? We could stand here shouting ‘Permission to come aboard’ from now until doomsday, but unless someone is standing right at the edge of the stern, I can’t believe anyone up there”—I waved toward the upper decks—“will hear us.”

  We heard some banging and clanging just above our heads, and a man whose face was largely obscured by a pair of oversized round sunglasses and a faded denim bucket hat started down the gangplank. His tank top screamed “FISHERMAN’S DREAM” in big letters. He was carrying at least a dozen fishing rods along with a few tackle boxes, which knocked against the stern as he cleared the boat and headed down the gangplank.

  Standing where we were, we definitely blocked his way. Bridgy took a few steps, but I figured this might be the best way to start a conversation.

  “Ladies, you wanna move, please?” And he swung the fishing rods to his right since we were on his left.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize we were in your way. We’re looking for Captain Jackson. Is he on board?”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh. Once he hit dockside, he dropped the tackle boxes and spread the rods on the gangplank. He pulled a radio out of his pocket.

  “Lorgan to bridge. Lorgan to bridge. Over.”

  “Bridge here. Over.”

  “Hey, Scotty, is the captain around? He has some visitors.” Lorgan glanced up at the wide glass windows of the uppermost deck, and I did the same. I thought I saw a face take a brief glance and then disappear. The radio crackled.

  “Captain’s busy. Tell them if they want to book a trip to go to the website or give the office a call.”

  Lorgan started to put the radio back in his pocket. “You heard the man.”

  We sure did. I decided to give it one last try. “Actually, we need to speak to the captain on a personal matter of grave importance.”

  “Captain doesn’t do ‘personal matters’ on the boat.” And Lorgan moved to the middle of the gangplank, crossed his arms and stood stock-still.

  Mission failure.

  I mustered what dignity I could, thanked him for his time and started to walk back to the car. I give Bridgy credit; she waited until we were out of Lorgan’s earshot before she said, “Well, that certainly went well.”

  I chose not to answer.

  We got in the jeep, and I turned on the engine and the radio simultaneously. I gave a quick twist to the knob so the radio was louder than normal. Unfortunately, instead of a nice, happy song, the radio was broadcasting an unending commercial about the wonders of knee-replacement surgery.

  Bridgy leaned in and pushed another button on the console. I was afraid she’d turn the radio off and as soon as the silence became deafening she would fill it with a lot of chatter beginning with “I told you so,” but instead she found Miranda Lambert singing “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.”

  We listened until Miranda morphed into a commercial for a shoe sale at Bealls.

  Bridgy always loved that song. “She wrote it, she sang it, got married and then was gracious throughout her divorce. I guess Miranda channels her negative energy through her music. When my bonehead ex-husband blew up our marriage, only you and my mother kept me from beating him with a bat.”

 
I was happy Bridgy had dismissed the fiasco of my trying to speak to Captain Jackson, but I didn’t think focusing on a cheating ex was a healthy place for her to be right now.

  She went on. “With Oscar being . . . dead, I have to hope that you and my mother can keep me out of jail.”

  That topic was even worse. I needed to switch gears fast. Fortunately, the radio moved from commercials to Lady Antebellum singing “American Honey.” We sang along.

  “Childhood summers were the best, weren’t they?”

  I wasn’t quite sure if Bridgy was asking me or musing aloud, but I answered with an agreeable “uh-hm” in case she wanted to talk.

  “I’m glad my mother is coming. Sometimes a girl needs her mom. I think being a murder suspect is one of those times.”

  “Stop it now. You are not a suspect. You’re a very special witness.”

  “Oh sure. Just like on NCIS when Tony introduces himself as ‘Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.’” Bridgy snorted at me.

  I ignored the snort. “Listen, anytime is a great time to have your mom around. It will be like a mini vacation.”

  “I can see it now. Mom, me and Frank Anthony. We’ll have loads of fun. At least with Mom around I don’t need a lawyer. If she decides the lieutenant is being mean to me, she’ll harangue him into complete silence. Remember the time those boys took our schoolbags and threw them up on Old Lady Kramden’s fire escape and we were afraid to knock on her door and ask for them back? The moms not only got back our schoolbags, they went to see the fathers of each and every one of those boys. Say, why isn’t your mom coming?”

  I bit my tongue, deciding not to mention that I wasn’t the one in trouble with the sheriff’s office. “Dunno. How did you find out your mom was coming?”

  “You know Ophie made me call home yesterday. I didn’t want to worry Mom, so I made light of the whole situation.”