Read to Death

by Terrie Farley Moran

  Bridgy saved the day again. “No. No trouble. I promise. It’s just that if Lolly knew Oscar well enough to get into a scuffle with him, then maybe he knows who else might’ve done the same. Someone meaner, vicious, even.”

  Bert crumpled again. “Okay, I know a place he might be. Ever been to the Dirty Pirate?”

  Bridgy and I exchanged looks. As restaurant owners, we’d at least heard of every food or drink establishment for miles around, but this was a new one for us. “Hm. Didn’t think so. It’s a rough-and-tumble joint. Don’t have many of those around here. Not that I care for it much myself. Only been there a couple or three times, but Lolly spends a fair amount of time there. I know Oscar’d been seen bending his elbow there now and again.”

  “Where . . . ?”

  “Oh no. It’s not a fitting place for ladies such as yourselves.”

  Bridgy said, “No prob. We can always run a Google search for it. How many Dirty Pirates can there be?”

  Bert looked to heaven. “Okay. I suppose even a place as skanky as the Pirate has a presence on the Web. Instead of you looking for it, why don’t we stop in for a quick drink?”

  Before he had a chance to change his mind, I pointed to the Heap-a-Jeep sitting alone in the next row. “That’s my car. We’ll follow you.”

  He gave the jeep a glance of approval. “Sounds good. We’ll take Main Street a few blocks and then turn back toward the water. Follow along. No way I’ll lose you.”

  Bert pulled into the driveway of a vacant boat shed and signaled me to pull in next to him. As we got out of the car, he said, “Like the jeep. Fits right in. Glad you don’t drive one of those bright-colored girlie cars.”

  Bridgy whispered to me. “I’m glad we left my shiny red Escort for the moms.”

  We followed Bert to a wooden building just across the way. Peeling white paint made the words “DIRTY PIRATE” barely legible above the door. The wide glass picture window was covered with grime. As we walked by I tried to peer in but couldn’t see anything but darkness.

  Bert opened the door. As he ushered us in, he said, “Now, don’t let the wharf rats give you the heebie-jeebies.”

  Bridgy let out an “eek” and jumped away from the door frame looking cautiously at the ground.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Not the four-legged kind. Bert means folks who hang out around the harbor.”

  Bridgy tried to recover her dignity, but when she crossed the threshold, she immediately slipped and nearly lost a sandal. “What the . . . ? Oh . . . sawdust.”

  As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw there were three or four empty tables with mismatched chairs scattered about the room. Bert walked directly to the center of the long bar. He stopped behind a bar stool that had stuffing hanging out of a ripped cushion and pushed it out of his way. He propped one foot on the wooden ledge that ran along the bottom of the bar. Then he plunked his elbow down on the scarred and scratched wooden bar top.

  “There we go lassies, foot up, elbow down. I’m ready for a cold one. How about you?”

  What kind of cold one? I was pretty sure he wasn’t ordering a cosmo. I raised my hand. “Designated driver here. I’ll have water, please.”

  The bartender, a burly man wearing a gray tank top and black diver shorts, stepped in front of us. “Hey, been a while, Bert. These the two pretty daughters you’re always bragging about?”

  “Nah, my girls are still away at school. These are my nieces, here for a visit. Say, I’ll have a pint. Give this lass a half pint, and the driver here”—he pointed to me—“will have water, in a bottle if you got it.”

  Bridgy and I exchanged looks and said not a word.

  I scanned the bar. To our left, an ancient man with a ZZ Top kind of beard was reading a newspaper painstakingly. His eyeglasses were perched on his nose, but every now and then he’d pick a second pair off the bar and hold it against the paper to magnify the print.

  To our right, two middle-aged men dressed in fishing gear were arguing about something to do with football. At first I thought they were premature. The football season wouldn’t start for months. Then I heard the name Joe Montana and realized that they were arguing about a game that probably took place before I was born. I was beginning to think that Lolly wasn’t among the small group of regulars.

  The bartender set our drinks in front of us and took Bert’s twenty off the bar. He came back and laid the change on the bar ledge. Bert took a long sip of golden beer. “Ah, perfect, Ernie. Just perfect. No one handles the spigot like you. Just enough head to make a perfect glass of beer.”

  Bridgy and I are hanging out with Bert and Ernie. How wild is that? When Oscar’s murderer is caught and we can laugh again, this will make for some great jokes.

  Bert raised his glass for a toast. We clinked glasses as he said, “To the Gulf of Mexico. Isn’t it grand?”

  We echoed, “Grand.”

  And Bert replied, “Drink up, ladies.”

  Ernie went to refill the ZZ Top man’s glass with some kind of whiskey served neat. When he was done, he began to absently rub a linen towel along the top of the bar. Bert watched him for a while and then asked, oh so casually, “Lolly been around?”

  Ernie shook his head. “Not for a few days. He heard there was work up north a little ways. He went off-island to see about it. Ain’t been back.”

  Bert took a long sip and praised the beer again. “Ah, that is good.” He waited a beat. “Shame about Oscar. Here’s to Oscar.”

  That got everyone’s attention. All glasses were promptly raised, followed by a loud amen from one of the football fans.

  Ernie came back and stood in front of Bert. He leaned across the bar. “Funny thing. He was in here night before it happened. Lolly, too. You knew how Oscar could get, kept talking loud as could be about the boxing lessons he was taking, just in case some youngster started up with him again. Next time he’d be ready. Lolly ignored him for as long as he could. Oscar being Oscar finally walked over to the corner where Lolly was sitting, right there”—Ernie pointed—“and he stood right behind Lolly and asked, ‘You got that, kid?’ Then, while the whole place fell out laughing, Oscar waved a big good night and told me he’d see me again soon. ’Course he didn’t know he wouldn’t.”

  One of the football fans called Ernie and held up his empty glass.

  Bert drained his beer and stood up straight. “Okay, ladies, time to go.”

  He left a nice tip for Ernie. In my line of work, we notice things like that.

  When we stepped outside, the sunlight was dazzling. I searched my purse and found my sunglasses.

  Bert shaded his eyes with a beefy hand. “We’ve done all we can do here. Sorry it was a wash.”

  Bridgy reached up on her tippy toes and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ve done no end of good here today.”

  Bert blushed. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to talk to Lolly.”

  Bridgy started. “About Lolly—”

  I cut her off. “It’s too bad we didn’t get a chance to talk with him, but I’m sure he’ll be back after his job hunt, at least to say good-bye to friends. Maybe we’ll have a chance to meet him then.”

  Bert looked uncertain but nodded in agreement. “Anyway, it’s been a pleasure, ladies.” He shook my hand. “I sure hope you come fishing with us again real soon. I haven’t had this much fun at work since, well, since the fight between Oscar and Lolly. That was a day, I can tell you.”

  “Who started the physical fighting, do you recall?”

  Bert grinned. “I can still see it. There’s Lolly, young enough to be Oscar’s son, and after one too many ‘I know I’ve seen you in Las Vegas’ rags from Oscar, Lolly throws a roundhouse that couldn’t have hit the port side of a forty-foot cabin cruiser, if you get my meaning. Then old Oscar gives Lolly a two-handed push that lands him plumb on his butt. Right there on the main deck in front of half t
he crew and a few early-bird customers. No choice at all for the captain. Had to toss ’em both.”

  Bert was delighted when we invited him to bring his family to the Read ’Em and Eat. He promised that as soon as college let out for the summer, he’d bring his wife and daughters.

  Always the kitchen maven, Bridgy handed him her card and said, “Give us a call before you come and tell us your favorite pie. I promise we’ll have it ready.”

  Bert’s eyes lit up. “Both my girls love lemon meringue. I, myself, am partial to good old American apple pie, with a touch of ice cream.”

  Bridgy said, “Done.”

  As soon as I pulled out of the boathouse driveway, Bridgy sighed. “Well, that was a waste of time. We’ll never find Lolly if he left Fort Myers Beach for a job elsewhere.”

  “You did get the main point of Ernie’s story, didn’t you?”

  “There was a point?”

  I looped the Heap-a-Jeep onto the San Carlos Bridge. “Lolly was in the Dirty Pirate the night before Oscar was killed, and he hasn’t been around since. I think it’s time to send Lieutenant Anthony looking for both Tammy Rushing and Lolly the Sailor.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I’d scarcely pressed the elevator button when I heard Sage call my name. Bridgy spotted her first and started to chuckle. I knew what the sound of that particular chuckle meant and immediately groaned. Sage was up to something.

  “Take a deep breath, maybe a deep yoga breath, and then look,” Bridgy advised.

  Sage called again. Louder this time.

  I inhaled and turned to see my mother walking across the Beausoleil lobby, both arms hugging dozens of palm fronds.

  What the heck?

  “My sweet daffodil, give me a hand, please. I don’t want to drop any of these divine gifts from Mother Nature.”

  I thought the long and tangled leaves looked more like plunder stolen from the compost heap, but I held my tongue and clumsily accepted the fronds she thrust at me.

  “Be careful. Don’t hurt them. They are still alive, barely off the tree.”

  Bridgy, still struggling to hide her laughter, stretched out her arms, and Sage obliged by filling them with greenery.

  A young couple, who, I think, lived on the third floor, declined to get into the elevator with us. I didn’t blame them. My arms were already itching.

  Sage cautioned all the way to the fifth floor, “Watch it. Be careful. Don’t squish.”

  It was the longest elevator ride of my life, which is saying something, considering I’ve ridden to the top of the Empire State Building a half dozen times.

  With all three of us trying to get out our door keys without “squishing” the palm fronds, the conversation went something like this: “I can’t quite reach . . .” “I know mine is in my side pocket.” “Be careful of the greens.” “If I could just see the inside of my purse . . .”

  Fortunately, Emelia heard the commotion and swung the front door wide open. She stepped back instantly, a look of dismay clouding her face. I’m sure she thought we’d visited the Little Shop of Horrors and were being devoured by palm trees.

  Emelia retreated out of the way, and Sage bounded into the kitchen. Bridgy looked at me. I would have shrugged if I could, but with my arms full it was easier to speak. “Let’s find out what she plans to do.”

  Sage motioned for us to put the fronds on the counter. I vetoed that instantly. She dismissed me with a look and said, “I suppose the table will do.” And dropped her pile as if to end the discussion.

  “Sage, not in the kitchen. Aren’t the greens better off on the patio? Fresh air. Sunshine.”

  “My darling lily, palm fronds weave without difficulty when they are green. If we put them outside and they dry, well, they could snap and break while we are working with them.”

  Clearly, Sage had a group project in mind. I tried another tack. “What spurred your sudden interest in palm fronds and, ah, weaving?”

  “It’s not sudden. Some time ago I saw a special on the public television station about natives on some Pacific island building huts out of palm leaves. So when the gardeners outside began to prune the trees, I went through the piles and pulled out all the green or mostly green leaves. Quite a job, I can tell you.”

  I escalated to firm. “Pick those up.” I head-butted toward the fronds on the table. “And bring them to the patio.”

  When I turned to walk across the foyer to the patio door, Emelia scuttled ahead and pulled it open. I dropped my bundle on the floor near the railing and took a good look at my arms, both covered in scratches. Bridgy followed my lead, and Sage came along behind her. Rarely one to acknowledge defeat, Sage said, “Buttercup, I’m so sorry. I didn’t plan ahead. I saw the opportunity to rescue these fronds. The gardeners were feeding the cuttings to a big machine that was slicing and dicing the leaves to death.” She shuddered.

  Oh pul-eeze.

  “If you want to leave the palm fronds on the patio, be my guest, but you cannot keep them in the apartment.”

  She opened her mouth to protest.

  I turned up the unyielding tone in my voice. “Sage. I mean it.”

  Sometimes I wondered who was the mother and who was the child.

  Reluctantly, Sage bent to put her leaves on the patio floor, and as she straightened up, she noticed the scratches and welts on my arms. “My dear goldenrod, what happened to you? Look at your arms.”

  “I got beat up by your palm fronds. Those pointy edges are hard. Look at Bridgy. She’s banged up, too.”

  Sage looked at her own arms, which were covered by the long, fitted sleeves of her hot pink yoga shirt. Other than a broken leaf tip stuck to her left sleeve, she appeared to have escaped unscathed. “Oh, my poor babies. I am so sorry. Why don’t you both hit the showers, and I’ll make us a light dinner.”

  Emelia, who’d been dead silent, said, “I thought we were going to Times Square.”

  Sage agreed. “Of course we are. Times Square for ice cream, but first a light supper. Our girls need a minute’s rest.”

  After a refreshing shower, I changed into denim shorts and a white peasant blouse. The welts on my arms had disappeared, and the scratches were tiny and painless. I found Bridgy on the patio towel-drying her hair.

  She glanced over my shoulder, and when she was satisfied that the moms were busy in the kitchen and couldn’t overhear us, she said, “We can’t stall any longer, Sassy. When are we going to tell the deputies about Lolly, oh, and Tammy? Are we sure she left town?”

  “Maggie is sure, and Tammy’s landlord, Jake Gilman, is sure, so yes, we are sure.”

  “Do you want me to call Ryan or . . . ?”

  I sighed. “I’ll call. I’m tired of getting accused of holding back information. Maybe if I dump this whole pile of ‘maybes’ in the deputies’ laps they’ll realize I don’t try to thwart them on purpose. Sometimes . . .”

  Bridgy laughed. “Sometimes it just happens, I know.”

  I was relieved when Ryan didn’t answer. I left a message and hung up fantasizing that perhaps we could have a peaceful night with the moms and not worry about murder and murderers until tomorrow.

  Emelia stuck her head through the patio door, and a delicious scent wafted over her shoulder and enveloped us. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Sage made rigatoni and spinach with a pungent garlic and olive oil sauce. She was happy to share the glory with Emelia. “You know those garlic cloves didn’t chop themselves.”

  Emelia sniffed her hands. “I love the smell of garlic but not on my fingers. Fortunately, I found a lemon in the produce drawer. A few minutes scrubbing with the lemon and I smell like a citrus garden.” She waved one hand across the table like Tinkerbell sprinkling fairy dust.

  By the time we pushed away from the table, I was sure I couldn’t eat another bite, and I wanted nothing more than to lounge on the patio w
ith a magazine. So I was slightly taken aback when Bridgy said, “Okay, I’ll get the kitchen cleaned up, and then who’s ready for ice cream?”

  I groaned internally but somehow prevented myself from groaning out loud. I pitched in by loading the dishwasher. I almost choked when Emelia said, “I’ll just go to my room to buff up a bit before we leave.”

  “Buff” was Ophie’s favorite word, which, loosely translated, meant “make myself presentable to go out in polite society,” or some such. The thought crossed my mind that the sisters might have more in common than they suspected.

  We decided to walk along the water’s edge to Times Square. The sun was still an hour or so away from setting. It hung over the horizon and blazed sparkling pathways across the Gulf right to our feet. Emelia had a bulky black camera hanging from a thick strap around her neck. She swiveled this way and that, looking for the perfect picture. She snapped three in quick succession of a group of royal terns poking their bright orange bills in the wet sand, looking for dinner.

  “Don’t startle them,” Sage whispered. “If you startle them, they’ll fly away.”

  “We’d rather look at them than make them leave,” I agreed.

  But, as always, Sage had a nature point to make. “Forcing birds to fly when it isn’t warranted by their own wants or needs makes them waste energy. They need that energy for survival. Suppose a predator came along and the birds couldn’t get proper liftoff because we scattered them with our boisterousness?”

  It was easier to say I got her point than to sing “Circle of Life” from The Lion King, a movie she’d taken me to see a half dozen times before it was released in video and she could buy her own personal copy.

  We were still a football field length away from the pier when Emelia made us stop so she could take a picture from every angle. Bridgy and Sage took the opportunity to examine the shoreline for seashells. Sage was delighted to find a perfect tulip shell in shades of brownish mauve. She opened her oversized tote decorated with small gray kittens tumbling around and took out a plastic bag and shook it open. She placed the shell inside gently and was about to put it in the bag when Bridgy asked to see it.