Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery)

by Terrie Farley Moran

  Frank Anthony’s smile was close to a smirk, and the crinkles around his eyes shimmered as if he’d read my mind and was a wee bit pleased with himself for being the source of my irritation. He brushed some flour off the sleeve of my baby blue tee shirt and said, “I can see you really do throw yourself into your work. You wear it well.” Then the smile disappeared and he was all business. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  The minuscule office in the back of the kitchen is the café’s only private space, but with Ophie reigning supreme from counter to stove and back again, the office was out of the question. I looked around the room and then suggested we go outside and sit on the benches our customers used when they had to wait a few minutes for a table. It was the only spot where we’d have a modicum of privacy. As I followed the lieutenant out the door, I heard Bridgy hiss, “Don’t forget the wreckers.”

  He signaled me to sit, and so I did, directly in the middle of one bench so that he would have to sit on the other.

  We sat without speaking long enough for me to start to feel squirmy, and finally he started talking, more gently than I would have expected.

  “Sassy, I know this is really difficult for you, as it is for all of Miss Batson’s friends, but the more information we can gather, the more likely we are to catch her killer.”

  Killer! A shudder went through me at the dreadful word. No living soul would have any reason to harm Miss Delia, much less murder her. I shook my head, then realized that the lieutenant might think I was disagreeing, so I said, “I’ll help in any way I can.” For Delia, I added silently.

  He had me start at the beginning. I told him that when Bridgy and I opened the Read ’Em and Eat, Miss Delia and Miss Augusta were semi-regulars for breakfast, and then one morning Augusta boomed, “Delia keeps reading in the Fort Myers Beach News that you hold book club meetings here.” I remember her head swiveled for thirty seconds or so, then she commented, “Don’t look like you have the room for it, but you sure got a lot of books.”

  I explained to Lieutenant Anthony that Augusta and Delia added the Books Before Breakfast Club to their schedule and occasionally sat in on one or two others, especially the Potluck Book Club.

  “Neither of them seemed to be interested in cooking, but they enjoyed the books and the talk. It may have helped that we usually serve snacks, sometimes made from recipes from the current book. And who doesn’t like a midafternoon snack?”

  Bit by bit Frank moved me forward in time, until we were up to the day before Delia was found on her living room floor.

  He was a patient and skillful interrogator. I found myself wondering if he was that methodical in everything he did. And, as always when a thought like that came into my mind, I found myself twirling my hair. I forced my hand back to my lap. Better to stay with the progression of time leading up to the murder rather than allow myself to be sidetracked by Frank’s determination to reach any and all of his goals.

  “You mentioned that there was a book club meeting that morning. Did anything out of the ordinary happen that you can recall?”

  I thought about mentioning the Anya Seton/Daphne du Maurier dustup between Jocelyn and Rowena but then decided that those two bickering would hardly be considered “out of the ordinary.” So I shook my head.

  “You have to realize anything that happened that morning was completely overshadowed when Miguel fell in the kitchen.”

  “Ah, the chef with the broken leg. How could I forget? After all, that’s when you and I first met.” And there it was again: the wide, smirky smile and the crinkly eyes. I didn’t miss that his tone of voice made it sound like this was the story he was saving to tell our grandkids. Was that a sneaky interrogation technique he used on female suspects?

  He leaned toward me, and clasping his hands, he rested his forearms on his knees. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. And then I remembered I did have something to say. Something guaranteed to throw him off his game—whatever the game was.

  “That was also the morning Augusta had words with two young wreckers who stopped in for breakfast. Delia was with her.”

  He straightened instantly, his whole demeanor changing back to no-nonsense official.

  “Why am I only hearing this now? Shouldn’t you have mentioned it yesterday? Tell me exactly what happened.” There was a tad of accusation in his voice, as though I was shirking my responsibility as a star witness.

  I recounted the conversation as accurately as I could remember it. Frank nodded, and I saw his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

  “Well, doesn’t sound like there was much to it. From what I’ve heard about Augusta Maddox, she’s likely to scrap with anyone over anything. Still, I’ll have the deputies be on the lookout for a couple of kids trying to scrounge up some four-hundred-year-old Spanish coins.”

  I shook my head. “No. No. They weren’t talking about walking metal detectors along the beach after hurricanes. They were talking about ships. Sunken treasure ships. That’s what got Augusta so wound up.”

  “You mean they want to salvage a Spanish galleon? Most of that action is on the east coast right now. Off north Florida, I think.” He shrugged. “Of course hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of treasure from the Atocha was salvaged back in the eighties somewhere between the Keys and the Dry Tortugas. But that was forever ago. Even the lawsuits are finished. Haven’t heard any rumors about another treasure hunt being planned. We usually hear; the hunt brings jobs and money. And the occasional bar fight.”

  He shrugged indifferently as if bar fights were the normal course of doing business, and I guess in his line of work that was true.

  “Well, anyone who wants to salvage treasure from ships sunk in Florida waters needs a license from the State. I’ll check with Tallahassee, see if anyone is looking at wrecks between Sarasota and Key West.”

  He saw the hesitation in my face and went ramrod straight again.

  “What?”

  “There was a man . . .” And I told him how strange it was that Bucket Hat insisted on questioning me about Augusta and Delia, even with Miguel writhing on the kitchen floor.

  “That is . . . out of place. Are you sure he could see Miguel? Knew there was a problem?”

  “There’s more.” When I finished telling him about my accidental brush last night with Bucket Hat and the wrecker boys all talking about treasure and old ladies who could soon be dead, Frank stood towering over me, with a cloudless sky as background.

  “Tell me again. As close as you can remember, repeat exactly what he said.”

  And I did. In my memory, the threat in Bucket Hat’s words was magnified by the fierce glare he sent my way when he caught me eavesdropping. I wouldn’t want to come face-to-face with him again.

  Frank took a few steps away from me and spoke quietly into his shoulder radio. Then he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. When he was done, he came and stood over me again. He leaned back, crossed his arms and stared directly in my eyes. We’d moved back to not speaking. Was this an interrogation technique? I wondered. Too bad. I’d told him everything I could think of; besides, I had so much work waiting for me in the café. I cleared my throat, gave as sweet a smile as I could muster and stood.

  “I guess we’re done here. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Sit. Down,” he ordered.

  Wondering what else we could possibly have to discuss, I decided to comply although I’d already told him everything I knew. I reached for my cell phone to check the time then realized I’d left it on the counter. I started to fidget. The lunch crowd would be gathering soon.

  Finally, he broke the silence, his voice dripping with accusation. “This conversation you overheard on the pier. That was last night?”

  I nodded. “I know it was after Delia . . . but I thought it might be important.”

  “Thought? Thought? You saw these men before I called, didn’t y
ou?”

  I was starting to see where this was going.

  “The problem is you didn’t think. If you weren’t so completely thoughtless and irresponsible, you would have told me this last night. You’ve cost this investigation valuable time.”

  Abruptly, he turned away, throwing a curt “we’ll need to speak again” over his shoulder.

  As I watched him stride to his car, I determined that from this point on, the only person I’d speak to from the sheriff’s office was Ryan. This new lieutenant had far too much ’tude for me.

  I was barely through the café door when Bridgy hurried toward me holding my phone in her outstretched hand. “You left your cell. It’s been ringing constantly.”

  “Who’s been calling?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

  As if, I thought. I took the phone from her hand and pressed the “Missed Calls” button.

  Chapter Ten ||||||||||||||||||||

  Two calls from Cady one minute apart. As was his habit, he called then re-called instantly, assuming I hadn’t reached the phone in time to catch his first call. Next, Pastor John. He probably needed help dealing with Miss Augusta. The fourth call was from a number I didn’t recognize, which my phone unhelpfully named “Wireless Caller.” Still, it was a 239 area code.

  I decided to return that call first. I suspected that both Cady and Pastor would undoubtedly require more of my time than Wireless Caller. I hit the “Call” button and in half a ring a woman screeched over the earsplitting sound of something like a lawn mower or edger.

  “Are you with my husband?”

  “Pardon me?” Oh Lord, don’t tell me. Smilin’ Eyes Frank Anthony has a jealous wife. Perfect, just perfect. I wonder if she calls all his witnesses.

  The whirling motor stopped and her voice dropped to more reasonable decibels.

  “Sorry. I grabbed the phone so quickly that I didn’t quite shut down the vacuum.”

  “Jocelyn?”

  “Sassy, who else would be calling you looking for her husband? Isn’t John there with you and Augusta?” She rattled on before I could answer, “Vince Crowley called about some committee meeting and John seems to have turned off his phone. Anyway, he’s not picking up. And I was hoping you could let him know that Vince needs an answer about . . . whatever it is. John will know.”

  “If I talk to him, I’ll certainly tell him.”

  “If you talk to him? Aren’t you with him?”

  “No. I’m at the café.”

  “You aren’t with John and Augusta?”

  How many ways could I say it?

  “No.”

  “Oh dear. Sassy, that will never do. I really don’t think John can handle Augusta all on his own. Where do you think they are? Why aren’t you with them?”

  Never mind that neither Augusta nor Pastor John asked me to spend any time with them this morning. I grabbed for a workable excuse.

  “I had a meeting scheduled with someone from the sheriff’s office to discuss the case.” Discuss the case! Who am I, Jessica Fletcher?

  “Was it that new sheriff, the one I saw with Ryan? He’s quite attractive. I bet all you single girls are swooning.”

  Swooning? Ha! Not exactly.

  “It may be the same one. He’s a lieutenant, not the sheriff, and he’s new to the island.”

  “All the same, if I wasn’t a happily married woman, I’d be hard-pressed not to go gaga over his looks.” Still, Jocelyn seemed mollified by my excuse. “I guess helping the investigation has to take precedence over helping John. When you’re done with the lieutenant, find John and Augusta before she drives him crazy.”

  I reluctantly agreed, hoping that if I returned Pastor’s call, it would count as trying to find him.

  “And one more thing, Sassy. Be sure to tell the hunky lieutenant that the crazy old man who found the skull has been lurking around Delia’s house at all hours of the night. Don’t mention my name, but I do think the investigating officers should be told. You’ll take care of it? And don’t abandon John.”

  With a click she was gone, and while I was grateful for that small favor, her assignments provoked me to no end. Oh well, I could at least take care of the one task that made sense. And I clicked my phone to return Pastor’s call.

  He answered before the second ring. Not quite as fast as his wife, but still not one to keep a caller waiting.

  “Sassy, thank goodness. You know Augusta can be a handful. I’m afraid she has moved into territory where I can no longer assist. This needs a woman’s touch. It’s the clothes.”

  “What clothes?”

  “The burial clothes for Delia. Fern showed us some lovely things that Mr. Beech is willing to include in the funeral costs for what I think is a reasonable price, but Augusta had a tantrum. Wants Delia buried in a blue silk dress she bought in Port Charlotte ages ago, and there is some sort of trinket. Oh, I don’t know. Can you come over here and talk to Augusta, find out exactly the things she wants and then talk your way into Delia’s house and get the burial clothes? Otherwise this funeral is never going to happen.”

  He sounded so exasperated that, without thinking it through, I agreed if only to decrease his stress level.

  “Oh, Sassy, thank you. I’ll tell Augusta. She’ll be so pleased.” I could hear the relief in his voice. Then to assuage whatever guilt he had about foisting this on me, he offered, “Don’t worry. You find the things Augusta wants and I’ll bring it all to Beech’s.”

  Right, as if bringing the clothes to the funeral parlor was the hard part.

  I put the phone down and sank into an empty chair at the Robert Frost table. Bridgy immediately appeared with my favorite midmorning pick-me-up, Greek yogurt and fresh berries.

  I smiled my thanks and then asked if she had a minute.

  “Sure, Ophie is doing her magic, messy may it be, in the kitchen, and we have a couple of minutes until the lunch crowd starts. What’s wrong? You look drained. Was that lieutenant mean to you?” She looked at the door, ready to give him a piece of her mind if he dared walk through it.

  “Frank Anthony was the easiest part of the past half hour. Surprisingly, Pastor John has me crazed.”

  As I explained the mission I had decided to accept, Bridgy rolled her eyes and hunched her shoulders.

  “How do you propose to stroll into Delia’s house, take whatever Augusta wants you to take and then waltz out again? You do know there is a sheriff’s car parked right outside the house with a deputy sitting at attention, don’t you?”

  Of course I knew, but that was my second worst problem.

  “Bridgy, we need to talk about Skully.”

  “Oh, stop. Not Rowena again! I’m starting to like your idea. Let’s sell his jewelry here. We could set up a display over there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bookshelves.

  “Not Rowena. Jocelyn.”

  “Ugh. Two sides of the same penny.”

  “After getting a lecture not twenty minutes ago from Frank Anthony about my ‘withholding information,’ Jocelyn called—”

  “Do y’all need more pastries than this for lunch?” Ophie pushed through the kitchen door carrying a tray piled high with muffins, fruit tartlets and scones. “I can whip up another batch of lemon poppy seed muffins quicker than you can say delicious.”

  Looking exactly like a traffic cop in a busy intersection, Bridgy held up one hand ordering Ophie to stop while waving me forward with the other, as if we were two SUVs about to collide.

  Ophie stopped instantly, pastry tray in midair. I grabbed the opportunity and my words tumbled out. “It’s Skully. On the phone Jocelyn reminded me that yesterday she told me that Skully’s been seen hanging around Delia’s house.”

  Bridgy looked at the pastries and beamed a grateful smile. After lavishing praise on Ophie for the fresh-baked aroma that was filling
the café, Bridgy asked her to check the freezer count for key lime pie, the number one dessert favorite with snowbirds and tourists. Fully expecting her will to be done, Bridgy turned her attention back to me.

  “Come on, Sas. Skully is a sweet guy, not a killer. Jocelyn is a gossipy troublemaker. Exactly like Rowena,” she added.

  “Oh, I agree. The trouble is she keeps insisting I tell the sheriff’s office. And, well, I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t? What were you talking about all this time you were outside with him?”

  “The wreckers. You told me I had to tell about the wreckers, so I did. And why is everyone telling me what to report? Can’t anyone else around here talk to the sheriff’s office?”

  Bridgy held her hands out defensively. “Don’t look at me. I only told you to pass along what you saw and what you heard. Jocelyn’s your problem.”

  My cell rang. I think Bridgy and I were both grateful for the interruption. Cady! In the chaos, I’d forgotten all about him.

  “Sorry. I’ve been mega busy.”

  He told me that the newspaper had received Delia’s obituary and offered to bring a copy by so I could take an advance peek before it went up in the online edition later today. We agreed he’d stop in after the lunch rush. By the time I had hung up, the café was half-full. I grabbed my order pad and got to work.

  Within fifteen minutes we had a full house.

  Bridgy was speedily bussing tables and I was serving key lime pie to some day-trippers from Cape Coral when Rowena Gustavsen rushed in and, as if there weren’t another soul in sight, called across the dining room, “Sassy, what smells so scrumptious? Is there something new on the menu? I’m in a hurry.”

  She leaned on the counter, and I signaled I’d be with her in a minute. Ophie came out of the kitchen, all honey and smiles.