“Aha!” Bridgy nearly knocked over her coffee cup. “I saw you being all flirty with Cady. You are one crafty investigator.”
“Crafty means more than quiltin’.”
We both turned to stare at Ophie, who shrugged. “I have no idea, but it’s what my mama used to say whenever she thought one of us kids was trying to pull a fast one. She was mostly right.”
And her glance drew our eyes to the clock on the microwave. We’d have to hurry to get to the church on time. I was happy that I got my idea out with no resistance. Once the funeral was over and our schedule was closer to normal, I was determined that Delia’s killer would be caught and punished.
Chapter Seventeen ||||||||||||||||||||
Ophie insisted we take Bridgy’s sporty little Escort ZX2 because she deemed the Heap-a-Jeep too “scruffy” for a funeral. She refused to drive her roomy Town Car because she didn’t know the roads. I mean, really, on an island less than eight miles long and not a mile wide at any given point, did she really think we’d automatically get lost because she was behind the wheel?
So there I was scrunched up in the backseat of Bridgy’s perky red two-door response to her divorce. So much for ironing my skirt and blouse; by the time I unfolded out of this seat, I’d look like I’d taken a nap fully dressed.
As we pulled into the church parking lot, I was delighted that a large turnout was in the making. Delia, who’d never hurt another living being, not four legged, two legged or winged, deserved a royal send-off, and from the size of the crowd heading to the church, she was going to get one.
We parked at the far end of the lot in the spaces reserved for those going to the cemetery.
Aunt Ophie got out of the car, read the “reserved for cemetery vehicles” sign and started to bluster. “Why didn’t y’all tell me we were going to the cemetery? In this car we look like a fire engine in the Fourth of July parade. You should have let me know. I would’ve driven.”
I was still struggling out of the backseat. I’d decided butt-first was the easiest way to go, so I was giving Ophie a perfect view of my thoughts on the matter. Bridgy, who was remarkably patient with her aunt, even on this stressful morning, said, “Aunt Ophie, darlin’, it would be too much for you to drive from here to the mainland and back, given the unfamiliar roads and all.”
By the time I was out of the car and upright, Ophie was nodding in agreement as though she hadn’t had her own words thrown back at her by her smiling niece.
I was smoothing the front of my skirt, trying to force the new wrinkles to lay flat, when Ophie saw Ryan crossing the parking lot. He was dressed in gray slacks and a white shirt with a blue and green striped tie, the one garment I would have sworn he didn’t own.
“There is that nice deputy. Oh, I wonder if his handsome friend is here.” And she began yoo-hooing Ryan, in a tone a bit louder than circumstances would dictate.
As Ryan headed our way, Ophie turned to me. “Should we tell him now? Tell him we’ll help in any way we can?”
“Not the time. Certainly not the place.” And I was happy to see her nod in agreement.
Ophie wasted no time in inquiring about Frank Anthony. “Where’s your friend, the one who so liked my buttermilk pie?”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Ophelia. He’s here. Lots of deputies here. You can’t be too sure who’ll show up at a murder victim’s funeral.”
Murder victim—that still sent chills down my spine. I left Bridgy and Ophie chatting with Ryan and started to scout around the parking lot looking for an unexpected face, one that usually hides under a bucket hat. But no luck. I waved across the parking lot to Fern and was pleased to see Holly and Maggie walking into the church with Lisette. I spotted Rowena crossing the street deep in conversation with Judge Harcroft. Talk about an odd couple. Still, I was happy that the book clubs were well represented.
Bridgy came out of nowhere and grabbed my arm, steering me inside. We took seats on the center aisle, opposite an open window with a large fan spinning at top speed. Even this time of year, a crowded church could get uncomfortably warm. I noticed Ophie clutched a lace-trimmed hankie, ready to mop and sop as needed.
The pews filled quickly. The organist began to play a soft, but unfamiliar, tune. Dressed in his cassock, Pastor John came out on the dais from a side room, with two young acolytes at his heels. He fussed with some papers on the pulpit while one of his helpers straightened the numeral seven that had fallen askew on the hymn board. Then Pastor moved to the center of the dais and faced the rear of the church. The organist started the prelude to the entrance hymn, and we all stood as Pastor John walked to the doorway to greet the family and welcome Miss Delia into the church for the last time.
When the processional came down the center aisle, I was again struck by how shrunken and timeworn Miss Augusta had become. She didn’t quite reach the shoulders of the two middle-aged men, one balding, the other with a paunch that completely hid his belt, who flanked her, and neither of them was any taller than average. I guessed they were Delia’s nephews, although I didn’t see a speck of family resemblance.
As I watched the family walk by, I noticed Frank Anthony sitting on the opposite side of the aisle a few rows farther back. He touched two fingers to his eyebrow and gave me a short salute and a broad wink. I was surprised that he and Ryan weren’t sitting together, but then I realized deputies were probably scattered all around the church, watching for any sign of a killer who, perhaps, couldn’t stay away.
Bridgy gave me an elbow to the ribs and when she had my attention, mouthed, Skully, and slid her eyes toward the outside aisle off to our left. Skully was sitting in the back row, keeping his distance from the other mourners. He seemed to have combed his hair for the occasion. He kept his eyes straight ahead as if determined to concentrate on the altar and not be distracted by folks jostling in various pews. After the service, I’d finally have the opportunity to ask if he’d seen any unusual activity around Delia’s house, if not on the night she died, then anytime.
Pastor gave a strong and lively sermon about all God’s gifts that surround us during our lifetime. He talked about the gifts of the sea, from the tiniest mollusk to dolphins and manatees. He told us about the gifts of the land, animals and flowers, bushes and trees. Then he reminded us Miss Delia was always respectful toward all God’s gifts. He moved on to those she cherished the most, her friends and her family. And by the time he was finished awakening our memories of her gentle approach to every living thing, there wasn’t a dry eye in the church.
Pastor introduced Josiah Batson, whom he described as Miss Delia’s oldest nephew, and asked him to speak a few words about his “beloved aunt.”
Josiah stood up, strode into the aisle and hoisted his potbelly before he struggled up the steps to the altar. He did a better job of climbing to the pulpit by grasping the ledge.
He cleared his throat, let his eyes wander around the church and, finally, spoke.
“My brother, Edgar, and I were tied by business to Everglades City, and you know how Aunt Delia was about traveling. Not something she liked to do. Still, as the oldest living member of our family, Edgar and I showed her the respect she deserved.”
He looked around as though daring anyone to challenge him. Satisfied that we hung on his every word, he continued.
“We never missed a holiday that we didn’t send thoughtful gifts and touching cards to our, er, beloved aunt.”
Ophie’s stage whisper was none too quiet. “It’s like he read a description of what he should be saying and is throwing in the words he recalls but doesn’t know quite where they fit. Thoughtful gifts, my aunt Fanny. If he has to call them thoughtful, he probably didn’t think much about them.”
Someone a row or two behind us shushed her, and we continued to listen to the insincere nephew.
“And didn’t we have fun. My, er, beloved aunt Delia was such a jokester. Man
y a Sunday night we’d be on the phone telling stories and chuckling ’til all hours. Couldn’t hardly keep her quiet.”
A rustling reverberated throughout the church as row after row of funeral-goers looked at each other and considered what he was saying. Is he talking about Miss Delia Batson?
Pastor John had the advantage of sitting facing the pews, and he recognized trouble when he saw it. He rushed over to the pulpit and tugged on Josiah’s sleeve, while booming loud enough for us all to hear, “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Batson, for that tender eulogy to your aunt Delia.”
As he led Josiah down the altar steps, Pastor signaled nephew number two to approach. The crowd was starting to settle down again. I’m sure we all hoped he knew his aunt better than Josiah did.
Pastor John clasped his hands and then spread his arms.
“You all know Miss Delia loved gospel music. Why, she often came to church on Wednesday nights to listen to the choir practice, and perhaps do a little toe tapping. Today her nephew Edgar will join our choir in singing ‘I’ll Fly Away,’ a longtime favorite of Miss Delia’s.”
The balding nephew stepped over to the choir and moved behind a waiting microphone stand. The organist played the introduction and then replayed it. Not a peep from the nephew. At the third try, as if it was the one he’d been waiting for, Edgar belted out, “Some glad morning . . .” and signaled the choir to join in for the chorus.
Augusta was right. He had a strong, beautiful voice, a “Danny Boy” kind of tenor. By the time he reached the second stanza, we were all clapping or waving our arms. At song’s end, the church was filled with people who would always remember Miss Delia’s service as a warm and joyful event.
Pastor John shook hands with Edgar and then announced that Miss Augusta Maddox had arranged for a buffet in the parish hall immediately following the graveside ceremony at the Riverview Memorial Park in Cape Coral.
“For those not escorting Miss Delia to the cemetery”—here he gave a slight frown, indicating disapproval of those thoughtless folks—“my wife, Jocelyn, and the gracious ladies of the Food Pantry Committee will serve lemonade and cookies until it is time for the buffet. Now, let us pray . . .”
As I bowed my head in prayer, I took a quick look to the back of the church. Skully was still in the last pew, his hands prayerfully folded. Now that the service was nearly over, I was anxious to get to the parking lot so I could talk to him before we left for the cemetery. I glanced over my other shoulder, and Frank Anthony was still in his seat, looking every bit as attentive as one of Pastor John’s acolytes. I decided it would be best if he didn’t see me talking to Skully.
The choir sang “Shall We Gather at the River?” and Miss Delia Batson, who’d spent her entire life among the rivers, creeks and bays fronting the Gulf of Mexico, left her favorite church for the final time.
Once the recessional passed by I realized the folly of sitting on the center aisle. Pews were emptying in order, front to back, and it would be a while before we could leave. I turned toward the other end of the pew, hoping we could use the side aisle, but the row was full and my pew-mates were facing me, waiting to go out the center.
I was trapped. I looked at the spot where Skully was sitting, but his seat was empty. I scanned the throng moving slowly through the vestibule and thought I caught a glimpse of him. Perhaps he wasn’t that far ahead.
Finally it was our turn. I moved into the aisle, but there was no way to push through the mourners without being extremely rude. I noticed that Frank Anthony was no longer in his seat. I wondered how he’d managed to beat the crowd. Flashed a badge? Probably not.
I pushed through the wide front doors and stood on the top of the church steps. I had an excellent view of the parking lot, but Skully was nowhere to be seen. Then I realized he didn’t have a car. I hurried toward the curb, hoping to catch him walking away.
Chapter Eighteen ||||||||||||||||||||
I took a quick look in all directions. No sign of Skully. I rubbed the back of my neck to relieve the knot of dejection that was rapidly tightening and walked back to the parking lot. Cars were already lining up behind the hearse for the trip to the cemetery. I thought Bridgy would be standing beside the Escort tapping her toe and pointing to the time on her imaginary wristwatch, but she and Ophie were talking to Rowena, Judge Harcroft and an animated man wearing a dark suit and tie. He was very touchy-feely, first patting Ophie’s arm and then putting a chummy hand on the judge’s shoulder. His outfit made me think he was one of the ushers, but his attitude shouted “used-car dealer.”
I circled the group until I was in Bridgy’s line of vision, then I waved to get her attention. But when she and Ophie started to walk toward me, the stranger grabbed Bridgy’s wrist and thrust a business card into her hand. He tried to give one to Ophie as well, but she shook her head and kept walking.
“Who’s your new friend?”
Bridgy handed me the business card and unlocked the car. “Looks like they’re ready to go.”
Sure enough, the hearse had pulled out of the parking lot and, with headlights on, the cortege was inching its way toward Estero Boulevard. We were the last car in a long line, so I was still trying to get comfortable in the tiny backseat when the hearse started up the incline of the San Carlos Bridge.
Finally settled in, I looked at the thick cream-colored card. The logo showed a half-filled champagne glass, with a rose lying across its base. The card read: TIGHE KOSTOS, Vice President for Acquisitions, World of Luxury Spa Resorts.
“Is this the company that wants to buy Delia’s island?”
“More likely the company that will buy Delia’s island. At least according to the big shot in the suit.”
“There they were, closing the deal, and Delia not even at the cemetery, much less in the ground.” Bridgy adjusted her rearview mirror so she could look me in the eye. “Wouldn’t surprise me if this Kostos guy would kill to get what he wants. You know how those corporate types are.”
“Eyes on the road.”
Didn’t matter we were only going 5 MPH, Bridgy’s driving always made me nervous. “He’s probably showing off big-city bravado to the hayseed locals. I’m sure the nephews barely had time to unpack their overnight bags, much less consider a land deal.”
“Well they had time to hire a lawyer,” she shot back in her “can you top this?” voice.
“Lawyer? They just arrived. Where would they find a—not Judge Harcroft? How on earth? Rowena, that conniving . . . She found out about the nephews and probably had the judge blocking traffic at the foot of the San Carlos Bridge until the nephews crossed onto the island. He was a traffic court judge, you know.”
I was only half kidding then, and only half kidding a few minutes later when I said, “Augusta will kill her for sure.”
“Sassy, please!” Ophie made one of her well-mannered ladies speeches ordering us not to talk about killing in the middle of the funeral of a murder victim. I suppose I should have known there was a protocol. I mumbled an apology, but my mind was already looking for a way to thwart Rowena and her cronies. Delia wanted the land to stay undeveloped, and as far as I was concerned, that should have settled that.
We drove awhile longer then crossed over the Caloosahatchee River and made an immediate turn into the Memorial Park. Delia’s plot was elevated high enough that I imagined she would enjoy watching the river flow ever westward into the Gulf.
After a brief graveside ceremony we mourners were back in our cars, left to find our way to the reception in the church hall.
We passed the turnoff for the Medical Center, and I felt a pang of guilt when I realized I hadn’t yet visited Miguel. Definitely on my to-do list, and sooner rather than later.
There was a nice-sized crowd gathered in the parish hall. Four long tables and more than a dozen card tables were scattered about the room. Several women I recognized but couldn’t name wore serviceable white b
ib aprons over their “church lady” dresses. Jocelyn signaled two of them who rounded up the others and they all marched into the kitchen.
The chatter around the room grew hushed as Miss Augusta came in through the main door looking frailer than when we stood at the graveside. Leaning on Pastor John’s arm, she took slow, shuffling steps. The day and the circumstances were taking a toll. The nephews, looking extremely uncomfortable in such a communal setting, walked along behind her.
Pastor led Augusta to a table at the front of the room and eased her into a chair. Jocelyn came running out of the kitchen and began fluttering around until I thought Augusta would reach up and swat her away. Finally Jocelyn scurried back to the kitchen and returned with a cup and saucer. I didn’t know what the beverage was, but I thought if it wasn’t Buffalo Trace, it wouldn’t do Augusta much good.
The crowd started to swarm in Augusta’s direction, and the chatter grew louder once again. Left to their own devices, the nephews stood in the center of the room, looking for all the world like they wished they had anywhere else to be.
Holly, seeming all grown-up in a dark skirt and light blue V-neck blouse, and her mom called us over to a table. Since there were only two empty seats and three of us, Holly jumped up and offered her seat to Ophie, gaining a well-mannered ladies nod of approval. I signaled Holly to sit and swung an empty chair from the next table.
Bubbly as always, Holly bounced in her seat. She looked around to see who was nearby, and then she whispered as though we were coconspirators about to pull off a bank heist, “This was my first funeral service. I’m really glad it was for Miss Delia. She was slammin’.”
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 12
