“Don’t worry, sweetie, neither have I. Now let’s go show the moms how fabulous the sunset is from the far end of the pier. It will be a colorful end to a fabulous evening.”
* * *
The moms insisted on coming to the café with us the next morning. Bridgy and I were dreading the interruptions and confusion, but having them around was surprisingly easy. They took turns walking among the tables, offering refills of coffee and tea. At one point Emelia introduced herself to two regulars sitting at Robert Frost, and when they asked if she was related to Ophie, Emelia stood up straight and answered with gusto, “I sure am. She’s my favorite sister. Of course, she’s my only sister.” And she laughed, delighted that she could finally joke about her sister.
I had a moment of panic when I went into the kitchen and found Sage hovering around Miguel’s workstation. Then I realized Miguel was laughing and chatting while he rolled dough for piecrusts. Sage was looking through the photo album Miguel kept on a shelf in the office. The album was filled with dozens of pictures of Bow, his black Maine Coon, who, true to her name, wore a different-colored neck bow every day.
“She is adorable. Her personality shines right through. It’s like she’s standing in front of us.”
“Sí, she is quite a character. I have some newer pictures on my phone. I will show them to you when we have time.” Miguel looked at me. “Sassy, your mother has offered to bake some healthy treats for my sweet Bow. Isn’t that so generous?” I lavished praise on Sage as I began hurrying her out of the kitchen. “Time to go. Today is your visit to the herb garden, remember?”
I invited Emelia but she said she would rather stay and help Bridgy. Fine with me as long as I was able to get Sage out of Miguel’s kitchen.
When I pulled the Heap-a-Jeep into the church parking lot, Tom Smallwood and Pastor John were repositioning a high-backed bench.
Sage was enthralled. “What are those lovely fan-shaped bushes?”
Sage might be in her earth phase, but I was the one who could name a saw palmetto. When she heard the name, Sage turned gleeful. “An excellent source of support for men’s health.”
“Shush. This isn’t the herb garden. This is the church lawn. You can talk herbs with Hector when you meet him. Don’t bother Pastor John with your . . . your voodoo.”
As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I knew I was in trouble.
“Mary Sassafras Cabot. Voodoo represents spiritual folkways. Herbs are tangible. They grow in the earth and sustain other life-forms. I’m shocked you don’t know the difference.”
I was saved from answering by Pastor John, who walked across the grass to meet us. I introduced him to my mother, and he was kind enough to tell her what a joy it was to know Bridgy and me. He talked about how we added pleasure and enjoyment to the community with what he called our “story-themed” café. “I only wish my wife, Jocelyn, was here to meet you. She always says that Sassy’s book clubs are a wonderful source of what Jocelyn likes to call ‘cerebral exercise.’”
I was thanking my lucky stars that Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen. I was sure she’d have a much different speech to make about the book clubs now that she was on her language tear.
“Little Miss, is this your mama?”
I reached out an arm to the weathered man in overalls. “Sage, this is my friend Tom Smallwood.”
He stuck out a hand. “Honored to meet you, ma’am. Please, call me Skully. Just about everyone around these parts does.”
Sage warmed to Skully instantly. “Your aura is amazing. Greens, blues and yellows all swirling around one another. You’re self-sufficient but rely on nature. It looks like . . . perhaps the sea?”
If I could have dropped right through a hole in the ground and been covered with daisies, that would have been fine with me. I never knew when Sage would recite one of her aura interpretations, but surely even she should know that the church lawn was not the best place to go into her psychic energy routine.
I was totally surprised when Pastor John laughed and slapped Skully on the back. “She certainly has your number.” He turned to Sage. “Self-sufficient doesn’t even begin to describe Tom. He’s an indispensable part of the barrier island community. He can fix anything whether need be for himself or for others. Without his help, my church would be tumbling down. As to the sea, he travels by canoe from island to island.”
Sage looked exceptionally pleased with herself while I breathed a sigh of relief that we had avoided calamity. I moved the conversation along.
“We better get going. I need to be back at the café before the lunch crowd.” I hustled Sage and Skully into the Heap-a-Jeep.
Sage pulled out her finest manners. “I can’t thank you enough for arranging for me to visit a real herb farm. Florida weather has such a grand ability to grow so many crops.”
“My pal Hector’s been planting and experimenting ’round these parts since he was a lad. He’ll be happy to have a visitor who takes an interest in his work. Sage, Hector will want to know how you got that name.”
I nearly drove off the road when Sage answered, “And I’d like to know why you told me to call you Skully. Is it Skully or is it Tom?”
I hadn’t heard it often, but I recognized his good-natured laugh. There was nothing artificial about Tom Smallwood. “Baptized Thomas, mostly called Tom until a few years back I found a human skull over on Mound Island. Looked to be ancient. I carried it in my duffel for a few months while I decided what to do about it. Talked to Sassy’s friend Ryan. You know, the deputy? Anyway, he said there was a rightful place for it, and some professor agreed. Now it sits in a museum up at the state capital, and there is a little sign saying I discovered it. Since then most folks call me Skully, and I’m right proud of the name.”
By the time I dropped them off, Sage and Skully were chatting and laughing like old friends, and I could see a fun afternoon ahead.
I waved good-bye. “Call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”
When I pulled into the parking lot, a couple of people were standing by the bench outside the Read ’Em and Eat. That usually meant there were no tables available inside. Of course Emelia was there to help Bridgy, but how much help could she really be?
I raced toward the café with the words, “Thank you for waiting, I’m sure we’ll have a table for you soon,” on the tip of my tongue. As I got closer, I recognized Maggie Latimer talking to a man who looked vaguely familiar.
When she saw me, Maggie hurried forward and grabbed me by both arms. “They found Tammy Rushing. She’s under arrest somewhere up north.”
Chapter Thirty
I came to a full stop, one foot resting on the curb, and Maggie was shaking me so vehemently that my falling on the ground was not outside the realm of possibility. She was super excited.
“Say something.” Then she remembered her manners. “You remember Jake Gilman.” The older man dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt gave me a brief nod.
Maggie finally released my arms. “Ryan Mantoni showed up at Jake’s house this morning with a picture of Tammy that had been sent along by some sheriff in South Carolina. Jake identified her.”
Poor Jake. He was usually so blustery, and now his cheeks colored at every mention of his name. I got the feeling he’d rather not be the center of attention even in our tiny group of three.
“We came to tell you and Bridgy the news, but with her mother inside, we asked for you. Bridgy said you’d be right back. We thought it best to wait out here.”
I was still reeling. “Tammy seemed so nice. So normal. I can’t imagine her killing anyone.”
Maggie patted my arm. “I know. Think about the movies on the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries channel. The killer is never the person you would think. It’s always some nice, unimportant character with a really weird motive. You’ll tell Bridgy, won’t you? I have a class to teach. C’mon, Jake, I’ll drop you at ho
me.”
They took a few steps across the parking lot, and then Jake turned back to me. “I’m really sorry that my rental caused you all this trouble. Tell your friend. Apologies.”
No wonder he was so awkward. In his mind, if he hadn’t rented to Tammy, Oscar would still be alive and Bridgy wouldn’t have been under suspicion. Poor Jake.
There was a small crowd of customers in the café, but Bridgy and Emelia didn’t seem harried, so I was right on time. I signaled Bridgy to meet me in the kitchen, but Emelia grabbed my attention first. She was bubbling with excitement and half pushed me behind the counter.
“I’ve been dying to show you what I bought. Bridgy loves it.”
Next to our electric teakettle I saw a shiny new gadget, about two feet high. Emelia picked up a tall stainless steel cup and pushed it over the spindle on the machine. The whir of the malted mixer brought back childhood memories of going to the local ice cream parlor on Saturday afternoons.
“I couldn’t believe that you had this great restaurant but no malteds on the menu, so right before I left home I emailed Miguel and he ordered the malted milk machine and a case of malted milk powder. It arrived in this morning’s delivery from the restaurant supply house.” She stopped the machine, poured the thick, creamy chocolate malt into a tall glass and handed it to me. “Drink up. I even have a name for the drinks. Are you ready?”
Desperate as I was to talk to Bridgy about Tammy’s arrest, I couldn’t stomp on Emelia’s sheer joy. And the malted did look delicious. I took a sip.
“Maltese Falcon. Get it? MALT-ese. And you have the Dashiell Hammett table right over there. He wrote the book.” Emelia stopped, waiting for applause, and I gave it, loudly. She flushed with pleasure.
Bridgy came over and put an arm around her mom. “Isn’t she the best? Why didn’t we think of . . .” Her face grew serious. “Excuse me.”
Owen Reston was in the open doorway waving Bridgy outside.
I hoped he had good news. “Tammy Rushing was arrested” kind of good news. I set my malted on the countertop and went from table to table to ask if our customers needed anything, all the while keeping my eye on the front door.
Two fishermen came in and ordered four breakfasts for takeout the next morning. I marked the order “paid” and put it on Miguel’s tracking board.
When Bridgy came into the kitchen, Miguel was at the stove and I was putting two grungy mustard jars in a soak pail to get them clean enough for the recycling bin.
“Before I talk to Mom, I want to tell the two of you. Tammy Rushing was arrested somewhere called Manning, South Carolina. She was pulled over for speeding, and there was a warrant out for her. So they arrested her.”
“A warrant? For killing Oscar? Then why are we still answering questions at every turn?”I was hoping to finally get the full story.
Bridgy gave me that famous look of hers, the one that said, “Wait for it.”
Fortunately, she didn’t make us wait long. “No. The warrant was issued in the state of Alabama.”
Then she stopped talking. I was used to her antics, and given what she’d been through, I was willing to let her play, but Miguel was having no part of it.
“Ay, chica. Tell us the whole story. We have lunches to serve.”
“Well, Tammy Rushing’s real name is Tammy Rushing Lynn. Did you know she’s a trust fund baby?”
I shook my head while Miguel motioned for her to speed up by rotating his hand in an ever-faster circle.
“It seems that she married Mr. Lynn, whoever he may be, and it didn’t work out. Well, I know a lot about that, don’t I? Anyway, Tammy got hit with a large settlement and has to pay heavy-duty alimony. It looks like she got tired of supporting him, so she skipped more than a year ago. She was happy enough to be here for the winter, but with the murder . . .”
“. . . she didn’t want anyone looking at her too closely.” I finished her sentence. “You got all this from Owen?”
“Yes, Frank Anthony called him. He wanted Owen, and by extension me, to know the straight scoop before it got all over the island that Tammy Rushing Lynn was arrested for Oscar’s murder. It’s alimony court for her and a ‘NUMBER ONE SUSPECT’ sign still hanging around my neck.”
The kitchen door opened, and a stressed Emelia stuck her head around the door. “Need a little help here, girls.”
The lunch rush was on.
Halfway through the most crowded hour, Bridgy and I pushed the Barbara Cartland and Dashiell Hammett tables together for a family group. The parents each held a toddler, one grandma carried an infant and the other three grandparents carried assorted toys or baby paraphernalia. I offered high chairs for the toddlers. At first the mom said “no,” but then she changed her mind. “We may as well try. They really are getting too big to sit on our laps at the table.”
As I went to get the chairs, I heard one of the grandfathers say sotto voce, “That’s what you been telling her, Ethel. She don’t listen.”
Apparently, he wasn’t as soft voiced as he thought he was, because the toddlers’ dad said, “Pop, we’ll raise our kids our way. Okay?”
I brought two toddler chairs along with some plain paper and crayons. I put one chair on each side of the parents and placed the paper and crayons in front of the mother.
I left them with menus and grabbed a pitcher of sweet tea to offer refills. Emelia was just ahead of me with coffee and decaf. It was nice to have an extra set of hands during the busy hours.
The toddlers were happily scribbling with their crayons when I went back to take the family’s order. Then the grandmother, whom I assumed was Ethel, said, “Take those crayons away. She’s drawing on the chair.”
Pandemonium. They were all talking at once. Accusations of bad parenting flew back and forth. Finally, the toddlers’ father stood up. “Mom, you have got to stop telling us how to raise our kids.”
I couldn’t help but notice that the grandmother who was rocking the sleeping baby had a bit of a smirk, as though she was pleased that the other grandma had started the brouhaha.
I took a step back from the table until they quieted down. Then I asked the mother, “Do you want anything for the children? I can put their orders in while the rest of you are deciding.”
Both sets of grandparents immediately began studying the menu. The mother asked for chicken fingers and applesauce for the toddlers. “And a small glass of milk for James. Janey is lactose intolerant, so we brought lactose-free milk for her. She’ll need a glass, if that’s okay.”
I gave her a wide smile and held it for a few extra seconds until I was sure the grandparents saw it. Then, louder than I needed to, I said, “Sure, that’s great. You’re a smart mom.”
When I placed the children’s order on the pass-through, I nearly bumped into Emelia, who was filling the teakettle. I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Bridgy and I are lucky to have you and Sage as moms.”
She smiled her thanks. I was feeling so lucky to have such great “mom support” at our time of crisis that I couldn’t wait to drive down island to pick up Sage and Skully.
The entire time they ordered and then ate their food, the family group continued to bicker, but it didn’t bother me at all. Their nonsense reminded me how great my own family is. Sage might move through her different “phases” and be obsessed with auras, or aurae, as she liked to call them, but she was always in my corner. Proof positive? She was here. Even when I didn’t ask, she knew I needed my mom. As soon as the café crowd dwindled, I took off to see my mom. I wasn’t going to wait for her to call.
Hector Clifford’s place was tucked in a corner of the island so far south that I was almost at Lovers Key when I started to think I might have missed the turnoff. Then I saw the neat hand-painted sign, green letters on a worn slab of wood, “FLOWERS and HERBS” hanging from a shepherd’s crook light pole.
I made a quick left. Too quic
k. Gravel scattered from under all four tires. I wished I’d paid more attention when I dropped them off. Then I remembered. I was in such a hurry to get back to the café, I made a U-turn and barely slowed down to drop them off. Is that any way to treat a mother who loves you? I promised myself that I would be the perfect daughter forever more, or at least for the next little while.
I parked the Heap-a-Jeep next to a dust-covered Silverado that had once been dark blue by the look of it but now had a black fender and a lot of rusted scrapes. I heard voices behind the house. I found Sage surrounded by plants, some in clay pots, some in rectangular baskets.
Hector Clifford, a thickset African American man, was explaining something about a plant Sage was holding. He leaned over to show her the leaves, and his wide-brimmed straw hat slid down on his forehead. When he straightened and pushed the hat to the back of his head, he noticed me.
“Be right with you.”
Skully came out of a shed carrying a pretty plant, green stems, bluish green leaves with a touch of mauve. “Hey, Little Miss. Hector, this is Sage’s daughter.”
Hector gave me a broad grin. “You the one named Sassafras?”
I laughed. “That would be me.”
“Shucks, Tom here’s got your plant. Momma wanted to surprise you but too late for that.”
Sage took the plant from Skully’s hand. “Oh my.” She slowly moved the plant from right to left and back again. “It is absolutely perfect. I have never seen a sassafras plant so lush. I can’t imagine how gorgeous it will be in full flower.”
“It’s a mite young, yet. Probably won’t bloom this season. This type will grow to shrub not to tree.” Hector turned to me. “Momma said you live in an apartment. Not much use for a tree, I suppose.”
“Oh, but a shrub could live forever on my patio. I have just the spot in mind.” I grabbed Sage and gave her a big ole bear hug, the kind I’d watched Bridgy give her mom and aunt for years. “I love you, Mom.”
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