“See you soon for the wine and cheese. I don’t think we need you, but my grandfather insists.”
Liz didn’t answer, just turned and clopped off toward the exit.
After she delivered Kate’s coffee, she headed to Home Arts by the Sea. Both Minna and Francie were inside. Minna wore one of her geometric form-fitting spandex dresses that hugged every curve. Francie looked like a character from the movie Grease in a cotton candy–pink circle skirt with an applique of a young teen lying on her stomach, holding a turquoise slimline phone, the receiver coiled to her ear.
“Love your skirt,” Liz said to Francie.
Francie twirled. Her vintage style suited her. Even though Francie was in her forties, she didn’t care how everyone else dressed. Liz needed to take a page from Francie’s playbook when it came to her scar.
Minna and Francie were doing their own raffle. A few lucky winners would receive two free lessons from Francie for the needlework project of their choice in any of the categories offered: quilting, knitting, crocheting, needlepoint, cross-stitch, primitive rug hooking, or sewing. Minna was giving away free painting or mixed-media art lessons. Liz was tempted to fill out slips of paper with her own name and phone number and drop them into each box.
Liz’s next stop was Edward’s shop, Gold Coast by the Sea. Edward wasn’t there, but his son, Nick, was.
“Edward’s in the back storage room.” Liz always found it interesting that Nick called his father “Edward,” not “Dad.” Nick was tall and thick-necked, with massive shoulders. His tousled hair looked professionally highlighted. He wore an aqua polo shirt and plaid shorts that didn’t mesh with the huge snake tattoo that traveled from below his elbow and then disappeared under his shirtsleeve to the top of his bulging, weight-lifter biceps. Offsetting his attractive facial features were yellowed teeth, no doubt stained from cigarettes. He reeked of them. Brittany was close to Liz’s age, and Nick looked like he was in his early twenties. An odd pair.
Liz walked over to the front show case on her right. The top was smudged with fingerprints. She might be overstepping her bounds, but she said, “Maybe you get some Windex and clean off the show case? We open in a few minutes.”
She heard from behind her, “Don’t worry about my shop. I pay my rent on time and pay you for advertising. Though I doubt that tiny ad you placed will do any good. I don’t need decorating advice from you. I’ve been in the business for forty-eight years.” Then Edward turned to his son and said, “I thought I told you to clean the cases last night? Another night not at home. Maybe you don’t need free room and board, not to mention a job anymore?”
Nick said, “Okay, old man. Settle down. It takes two minutes to clean a case. You’re always bitchin’. How about all my help and the time I spent salvaging on Mermaids Bounty? I suppose that counts for nothin’.”
“Your ‘help’? You never took time out of your social schedule even to learn to dive.”
“I’m claustrophobic. Mom would have understood. Clean your own damn case. I’m outta here.” Nick whipped past Liz and went in the direction of the storeroom.
Liz was embarrassed to have witnessed the emotional exchange between father and son, and she quickly turned toward the shop’s entrance, bumping into something solid. David Worth.
“So sorry. My apologies,” he said.
Liz laughed. “My fault completely.”
David looked nervous. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He was probably on a timed errand for his demanding wife.
Edward came from behind his desk. “Can I help you with something? Ms. Holt was just leaving.”
David looked into the show case on the left. “Um, I’m looking for something for my wife. Apparently, I’m in the doghouse and I saw you listed in the brochure in our suite.”
Edward gave Liz the stink eye. She left the shop, worried that if she didn’t, he might physically push her out. She wondered who’d let David Worth into the emporium before the opening. No doubt, it was Aunt Amelia.
As she headed toward the emporium’s main doors, she heard David say to Edward, “It’s not gold enough. It has to be eighteen-karat gold-plated or above, no cutting corners.” His tone was forceful, and he sounded angry. Perhaps Regina was rubbing off on him. Gold Coast by the Sea had some nice pieces, but nothing compared to Regina’s father’s eighteenth-century jewelry from the San Carlos.
Upbeat music floated toward her from the string quartet. It was almost ten, time to open the doors. She heard Aunt Amelia accompanying the musicians with a few lines from the song “Send in the Clowns,” using her exaggerated Broadway voice, even though she’d never been on Broadway, only performing at the Pasadena Playhouse when she’d lived in California, and the Melbourne Beach Theatre. As she sang, Aunt Amelia added an extra dragged-out sound at the end of each line she belted out: “Isn’t it riiiich… Aren’t we a paaaiiir…”
Liz rushed up and steered Aunt Amelia away from the quartet. “Time to send in the crowds, not the clowns.”
“I originally wanted to sing Babs’s ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade,’ from Funny Girl, to ward off any bad weather, but they didn’t know how to play it.” She wore one of her colorful Hawaiian muumuus from the set of Hawaii Five-O. The wardrobe and set departments on many of her great-aunt’s “shows” had allowed her to take home a memento from each of her roles. What wasn’t plastered on the wall in Aunt Amelia’s screening room, could usually be found in the room-sized closet in her suite. Each item was catalogued and promised to Liz in her will. A girl couldn’t have too many plastic shrunken heads.
Liz looked out the emporium’s window and saw a few clouds rolling in from the ocean. She crossed her fingers. “Maybe the calypso band scheduled for the afternoon will know the song?”
“You’re right!”
Liz and Aunt Amelia opened the doors. Everyone was at their stations. A buoyant, upbeat crowd filled the emporium, exceeding their expectations. Liz and her great-aunt gave each other a fist bump. They’d done it.
* * * *
An hour later, Liz spied her father coming out of Kate’s shop, Books & Browsery by the Sea, with a vintage golf club bag in one hand and a book in the other. He held up the book, Go for Broke! by Arnold Palmer. “Your best friend wouldn’t let me leave without a book. She even gave the book a stern talking-to, saying, ‘You’d better teach him all your tricks. He needs a little help with his swing.’”
Kate and Fenton played together at Spessard Holland Golf Course in Melbourne Beach. Of course, there was no contest. Kate always whipped his butt, big-time.
“So, what do you think?” Liz opened her arms to encompass the emporium.
“You and Aunt Amelia should feel very proud of yourselves.”
“Thanks, Pops.”
“Speaking of Pops, I just ran into Ryan. He was asking about you, said you’d promised to help him cut the cheese. Then he laughed for about five minutes.”
“He’s too much. Why is he helping with your case? We’ve never needed anyone to help us before.”
“This one is out of my expertise, and Ryan has an excellent reputation as an arson investigator.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll play nice if Ryan will. I know he knows about Travis. I can tell.”
Minna touched Liz on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but Francie is at the table outside, and I need to use the restroom. Do you mind manning the cash register? It’s been crazy busy.”
“Of course.” Minna scurried away, and Liz said to her father, “You’d better go find Aunt Amelia. She might need to be told to sit down and rest.”
They walked together toward Home Arts by the Sea.
She asked, “Have you seen any protesters against the demolition of Castlemara?”
“Not protestors holding signs or boycotting the Indialantic, but a lot of them handing out petitions from Francie and the rest of the historical society. I promised to look i
nto it next week to see if I can help them.”
Liz gave his arm a squeeze. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my hero?”
He smiled down at her. “I think I’ve heard that a few times. Don’t build a person up too much, you might not like what happens when they fall.”
“Ha. That applies to anyone but you, Dad.”
Chapter 16
Liz showed up at Deli-casies by the Sea at eleven thirty. Thankfully, Pops was standing next to Ryan in front of the wine-and-cheese tasting table. Behind the barista counter was a huge stainless-steel coffee and espresso machine where one of Pops’s part-timers, Ashley, a senior at Melbourne Beach High School, worked the levers and nozzles like a pro, the top of her auburn hair lost in the fog of steamed milk and coffee vapor.
On the east side of the shop was a long, double-sided refrigerated case displaying a plethora of sliced meats, cold salads, cheeses, and a dozen types of olives. With each purchase of Pops’s legendary homemade hummus, customers had a choice of a container of fresh minced garlic, olive tapenade, or roasted red-and-yellow peppers to mix into their hummus. On TGIF Fridays, Pops stayed open until seven and offered a raw bar of fresh local clams and oysters, cooked lobster, and in-season crab, along with discount prices on craft beer and wine. Exotic vinegars, oils, jars of roasted peppers, and artichoke hearts filled a shelf against the wall. Scattered around the shop were wooden fruit crates turned on their sides, stacked with boxes of crackers, cheese straws, and imported cookies. Liz sniffed the intoxicating air. Betty was right. Living at the Indialantic was like living in your own ecosystem, everything at your fingertips.
Pops called out, “Liz! What do you think?”
She looked at Ryan and grudgingly gave him credit for putting out an amazing display on the marble-topped table that usually stood against the back wall as a condiment bar. She was tempted to taste each small square of cheese. The wine did nothing for her, except remind her of Travis; it was as if she now had an allergy to alcohol. “It looks amazing, Pops. Do you need me to taste anything to make sure it’s up to snuff?”
Ryan put his hands on his hips. “Thought you didn’t drink?”
“I don’t. I’m talking about the cheese.”
He gave her a questioning look, and she could tell that he’d softened his stance with her. What had changed?
Ryan handed her an apron printed with Deli-casies by the Sea, next to a drawing of a lobster, a wheel of cheese, and a bottle of wine. She put the apron on and said, “Okay, what do you need me to do?”
“Just look beautiful,” Ryan said.
Huh? What was his deal? Was that a compliment or a dis? A ploy to get her to collaborate with him on her father’s case, or did it have something to do with Pops being nearby? She didn’t have time to dissect the situation, though, because a line had formed in front of the table, snaking its way out the entrance to the shop.
Sometime around three, when Liz, Pops, and Ryan were still serving the crowds, they heard calypso music and the distinctive voice of Amelia Eden Holt, doing a hackneyed version of “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The upbeat tempo from the band stayed with Aunt Amelia’s enthusiastic rendition, then would morph into the music from the classic “Yellow Bird.” Remarkably, it seemed to work. Liz knew that when her great-aunt made up her mind, there was no dissuading her. Liz also knew that when you suggested something to her that was a little on the crazy side without thinking it through first, you were in big trouble. Nothing was impossible unto Amelia Holt, the little girl from Melbourne Beach, Florida, who made it big in Burbank.
When six thirty came, Liz was exhausted. Pops was in the back, resting. He’d been quite the trouper, but Liz was happy she could be there to help. Liz and Ryan had worked nonstop, with little time for chitchat.
Ryan asked Liz to help him return the marble table to the back wall. She went opposite him, and as she was about to lift her side, Fenton walked in.
“Lizzy, stop. Let me get that.”
Thinking about his heart, Liz said, “It looks pretty heavy, Dad. I can do it.”
“Nonsense.”
Kate passed in front of Deli-casies, carrying one of the collapsed folding tables from outside. “Kate! Can you help?” Liz shouted.
Kate leaned the folding table against the outside half wall, came inside, and helped them put the table back against the wall.
“Thanks. Now I’m going to bring back the bistro tables and chairs from the entranceway,” Ryan said.
“You guys go find Aunt Amelia, I’ll help Ryan,” Kate said to Liz and Fenton.
On Ryan’s way out, Liz saw him give her father a knowing nod. Suddenly it all came together: Her father must have talked to Ryan about what really went down the night of the scar. She doubted he’d revealed too much. Fenton Holt was known for his ability to keep a confidence; he’d staked his reputation on it. No doubt, he’d pointed Ryan in the right direction, and would let Ryan do his own research into Liz’s guilt or innocence.
The emporium lights dimmed, and Liz and her father went in search of the colorful butterfly called Aunt Amelia. Liz hoped she was resting her wings.
They found her with Betty and Pierre sitting at a table in Home Arts by the Sea. Liz and Fenton went inside and sat across from them. The consensus was that the Spring Fling by the Sea had been a rousing success.
A short time later, Kate and Ryan walked by, each carrying a chair in their hands. Ryan stopped at the half wall to the shop and said, “Everyone’s invited to Deli-casies to finish the cheese samples and open bottles of wine.” Liz noted the effect that this new-and-improved Ryan had on everyone, including herself.
Aunt Amelia spoke for the group. “Be right there, Ryan. I think you’re right, our hard work warrants a well-deserved respite.”
“Hear, hear,” Kate said, in a celebratory tone.
Aunt Amelia stood and they filed out of the shop, following Ryan and Kate to Deli-casies.
Ryan instructed everyone to have a seat in the café section. Pops was at the cash register closing out the day’s receipts. Aunt Amelia called out, “Good day, Pops?”
“A very good day. Thank you, Amelia, and thank you, Liz. We couldn’t have done it without you. Right, Ryan?”
“Yes, Grampa. It was a good day. Hang up your apron and come join us. We need to celebrate.”
Everyone chose a seat. Ryan turned the sound system up, then passed out small, clear-plastic plates and cups. Five minutes later, he came toward them with a huge tray of assorted cheese squares spiked with toothpicks, his biceps bulging in all their glory.
Liz grabbed the last wedge of Parmesan reggiano infused with flecks of black truffles that she’d been eyeing all day. She put it in her mouth and moaned in ecstasy.
Ryan returned to the kitchen and came back with an open bottle in each hand: rosé in his right, pinot noir in his left. He skipped Liz, but then returned with sparkling water, even adding a slice of lime to her glass before he poured. Then he pulled a chair up next to Pierre and his grandfather and introduced himself to Pierre, praising him for the fabulous baked goods he’d contributed to Deli-casies.
Pierre’s eyes were bright, and Liz wondered if maybe he should also forgo the wine and stick to the cheese. “You’re welcome, and this wine is a perfect pairing with the smoked Gouda,” he said, lifting his cup in the air. Pierre had once told Liz that he’d been raised on wine. His mother had even added it to his bottle as a baby to help him sleep—or more likely she’d added it so she could sleep. Liz doubted that story was true, but you never knew with the French.
Liz asked Pierre, “How is everything next door? All quiet on the Harrington-Worth front?”
“There was a little problem.”
“I bet Regina was involved,” Liz retorted.
Pierre swirled the wine in his cup, then took a sip, smiling approvingly at Pops. “Indirectly, Mrs. Worth was involved. Sometime in t
he afternoon, when Mr. Worth was going out on an errand, he found the windshield of his Bentley shattered from a rock that was tied with a note.”
Kate chimed in. “Let me guess, the note said something to the effect of ‘Leave Castlemara alone’?”
“I didn’t see the note,” Pierre said. “Iris was in the lobby when Mr. Worth stormed in. He told Iris that his wife wouldn’t be too happy when she heard about it. Then he instructed Iris to order a limo to take them to the ball. Later, when I brought up their dinner of seared sea scallops, truffle risotto, and haricots verts, Mrs. Worth screeched that they would be eating dinner at a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-plate affair catered by one of those young Top Chef TV stars. I wanted to throw the whole meal at her.”
Liz had been with Aunt Amelia when she’d told Pierre that the Worths would be eating at the ball. “Yum,” she said, looking toward her great-aunt, who nodded and looked toward Pierre with concern in her eyes. “All the more for moi, Grand-Pierre.”
Betty said, “Save some for me, too, chef.”
Liz guessed the stone throwing was by someone from the historical society. She didn’t agree with the method they’d used. Picketing in a calm and peaceful manner would be Liz’s choice. She knew violence begot violence,
The conversation changed course to the subject of the returning sea turtles, something every true islander felt resonance with. Ninety percent of sea turtles that have laid their eggs on America’s beaches have laid them in Florida.
Aunt Amelia shouted over the music, “We need a toast. Here goes. May those who love us, love us. And for those who don’t love us, may God turn their hearts. And if He doesn’t turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles so we’ll know them by their limping!”
Liz said, “Auntie!”
Aunt Amelia grinned. “It seemed to fit—an old drinking toast from my Irish mother’s side of the family.”
After Aunt Amelia’s toast, the discussion veered back to Regina and the fate of Castlemara. Soon, all the samples of cheese were eaten and the last drop of wine was poured. A few minutes after, Aunt Amelia cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted to Ryan, “Do you mind turning down the music a tad? I’m afraid my hearing’s not as good as it used to be, and I’m missing all the juicy conversation.”
Death by the Sea Page 10
