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

by Terrie Farley Moran

  “Started without me, I see.”

  I would have apologized, but my mouth was filled with cool and delicious, so I smiled while Bridgy offered him a lick of her cone. When Cady went inside to buy himself a treat, Bridgy asked if I was going to tell him about Bucket Hat.

  Before I could answer, he was back carrying a banana split with butter pecan ice cream and a mountain of toppings.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Remember the man who was threatening me in front of the café and you rescued me? Bucket Hat? Well, he didn’t kill Delia.”

  Cady sat between us and started scooping chocolate syrup over the whipped cream in his cup. He stopped with his overflowing spoon right in front of his mouth and said, “I never thought he did.”

  Then he put the spoon in his mouth. I swear the ice cream was an excuse not to say another word.

  Chapter Twenty-nine ||||||||||||||||||||

  The way Cady was eating his banana split ever so slowly reminded me how he’d played with his corn bread and honey butter while Bridgy and I waited not so patiently for information about Skully. Using food to create suspense. So irritating. He must have sensed I was having trouble controlling my desire to knock his banana split into his lap and call it a great big “oops,” because he put down the spoon and sat back in his chair.

  Involuntarily, I leaned forward.

  “Your guy Bucket Hat has invested loads of time and money into a venture that could reap him hundreds of millions of dollars long term, so why would he care about some little island?”

  “Not just any island. Privately owned land in the Everglades. Has to be worth a fortune.”

  “Not a fortune equal to a Spanish galleon loaded with treasure. There are fortunes and there are fortunes.” Cady went back to eating his ice cream.

  “Well then”—I was determined to have the last word—“we’ve eliminated one suspect.”

  Bridgy, who’d been concentrating on her ice cream cone and pretending she wasn’t listening to us, pushed her chair back.

  “More napkins. Anyone need anything from inside?”

  She hurried into the ice cream parlor without waiting for us to answer. She knew and I knew that Cady was about to lay down the law. Again.

  “You know I worked in Jacksonville before I came here. I hung out with a great bunch of reporters, stringers, editors, photographers, even a couple of television news anchors. We frequented a pub owned by a retired offset printer nicknamed Inky. We worked hard and played hard, and when a story was hot, chasing it was no-holds-barred.”

  I nibbled on my ice cream, waiting for the lecture part of this story.

  “Right after I moved down here, there was a grisly murder up there. The body of a middle-aged man was found in Jennings State Forest. His fingers and teeth were missing. Every reporter I knew wanted to break the story. To be honest, I was a little sorry I’d moved away.

  “County and state law enforcement worked in tandem, but progress was slow. The press was running out of headlines. How many ways can you say ‘the investigation continues’? Dilly Harris—”

  “Dilly?”

  “I know. He really lost at the name game. Parents named him Dilbert after a rich uncle and then the cartoon came out. He could only take so many jokes. His byline reads Bert but we all call him Dilly. Anyway, he picked up a hot tip and followed it on his own, hoping for a Pulitzer. Instead someone shot him in the leg when he stepped into the men’s room of a roadhouse off I-10. Four years later Dilly uses a cane and the murderer has yet to be caught.”

  He gave me a stare that was as hard-edged as Bucket Hat’s.

  “You have to stop playing with this. Murder isn’t a game.”

  Bridgy came back and tossed a few napkins in front of each of us.

  “Eat up, you two. Ice cream is melting.”

  I telegraphed a promise to Cady with my eyes, and he nodded in return. Satisfied that would keep him off my case for a while, I finished my ice cream before it turned to soup.

  We showed Cady all the touristy presents we bought for Miguel’s family. He offered to have a free subscription of the News delivered to Miguel’s house for a few months.

  “Must be tough being housebound all the time.”

  He picked up his phone but it was dead again. “I can’t believe my car charger died. I do most of my work on my phone.”

  “We do most of our work on our feet.” Normally I wouldn’t push to remind him that he had it easy compared to folks in other lines of work, but I wasn’t going to let that lecture go without retaliation.

  I gave him Miguel’s address and he borrowed Bridgy’s phone to call in the subscription. He was always doing kindnesses for other people, which made him really likable. What made him not so likable was when he tried to tell me what to do. That’s why I didn’t mention our next stop was Augusta’s house. What would we do if he wanted to join us?

  We sat in the plaza until Cady left for work. Then I told Bridgy I wanted to visit Augusta.

  “We know for sure that it wasn’t Bucket Hat who killed Delia. Augusta needs to know that. And Ophie is right. If anyone knows about Delia’s island, Augusta would be the one. I don’t know why I never thought to ask.”

  “Because she pushed you in the direction of the wreckers so that’s where you went. Not your fault. You were trying to help a friend.”

  I loved that I could count on Bridgy to tell me I was aiming for right, even when I went all wrong.

  When we pulled up, Augusta was on her front porch booming at Blondie Quinlin, who was standing on the sidewalk with a cloth grocery bag in her hand.

  “No need. No need for you to cook. I still know my way around the kitchen. If it’s Sunday dinner you want, I’ll roast a chicken.”

  Augusta rolled over Blondie’s objections and cut the conversation short. Her words started a thought percolating. I hoped I would remember to flesh it out at home.

  “Looks like I got company. Come in, girls, and tell me what you know.”

  We exchanged pleasantries with Blondie, who strolled along toward her own house. We climbed the porch steps and tried to give Augusta the tiniest of hugs, but she was more interested in rushing us inside for a talk.

  “Come on in and take a seat. You know where the kitchen is, help yourself. Plenty of snacks and cold drinks.”

  Augusta’s refrigerator was packed with casseroles and platters of hors d’oeuvres. Her kitchen counter was covered with assorted plates and bowls, sparkly clean and neatly labeled with the owner’s name. I’d have to remember to save Augusta the trouble of delivering the dishes to their rightful owners. Bridgy and I could take care of it easily.

  I scattered some strawberries and green grapes among a few pieces of flatbread covered with garlic cheese and put a handful of mixed nuts in the middle. Bridgy took glasses out of the cabinet and started pouring sweet tea.

  “Fine for me. Better check with Augusta. See what she wants.”

  Augusta requested ice water and lemon, which was a better idea than the Buffalo Trace I thought she might want.

  We settled around the coffee table. After all that ice cream, I really didn’t want to eat, but I did want to delay telling Augusta the bad news.

  I was reaching for a few nuts when Augusta said, “Plenty of time to eat after you tell me what you found out about them wreckers. Did they kill Delia?”

  I stopped in mid-reach and told her what we’d learned about Bucket Hat and his crew. I emphasized that Ophie, Bridgy and I had worked hard but the answers we were finding didn’t point to the wreckers.

  When I was done, I took a long time sipping sweet tea and waited for Augusta’s disappointment to rain down on me.

  Augusta leaned her head against the back of her recliner and closed her eyes. Bridgy and I sat stone still.

  When Augusta opened her eyes, she leaned forward.

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nbsp; “You gals have stood up for Delia and that’s a kindly thing. You found her locket, her kitty, and you proved to me that those wreckers weren’t her killers. Not much more you can ask of friends, but I’m inclined to want one more favor.”

  I had tears in my eyes. “Miss Augusta, you name it. We’ll do it.”

  “I need you to take a close look at Josiah and Edgar. Would they have killed their aunt for a bit of inheritance?”

  Bridgy looked frantic, and I signaled “calm yourself” with the palm of my hand. If what Skully told us was true, there was no inheritance for the nephews, but they didn’t know it. I decided this wasn’t the time to tell Augusta about Delia’s husband.

  “We’ll take a look. In fact, we’ll start tomorrow.”

  Bridgy picked up a flatbread and promptly dropped it cheese-side-down on the coffee table. By the time we cleaned the mess, she was less flustered.

  “What would help us to look into the nephews’ intent is to know for sure if Delia holds one or more deeds down in the Ten Thousand Islands. They might be valuable enough to lead someone to commit . . . a crime.”

  Augusta leaned her head back and closed her eyes again. She stayed that way for so long that I feared she’d fallen asleep. Finally she looked at us.

  “Sorry. I was remembering . . . the old days. Me and Delia were born in the Ten Thousand Islands. So was my mother and both of Delia’s parents. The family that connects us comes from all around Chevelier Bay. Delia’s mama was born down on Lostman’s River and she had family livin’ here and there all the way north to Rabbit Key. Them islands was a hard place to live. Between the skeeters and the gators, there was hardly room left for people. That’s how my mama used to tell it. Wasn’t far wrong.

  “But it was good farming land. A family could grow limes, sugar, anything needed a lot of water. Mostly, if you loved the animals, the birds and the fish, it was a happy place to grow up ’cept for the storms and floods. And the poverty.

  “The old ones always talked about how Florida had its own money crash a few years before the big one in 1929. Took its toll on families. Before he come to the islands to marry mama, my father’s family had three generations on the mainland around Punta Rassa working the cattle ranches. When times got hard, my older brothers went back there looking for any kind of work. Lots of folks moved to Miami, others as far north as Jacksonville.”

  Her face clouded at the memory of families scattering.

  “Some sold their property, some up and left. Then the government come, talking about making the Everglades a national park. World War Two was in the way for a while, but right after, the park come into being. Some folks took a bit of money for whatever land deeds they held.

  “But even before the war most families had moved inland. My family and Delia’s lasted longer. We left and settled around Everglades City in the early 1940s, along with some other aunts and uncles. We had deeds to the islands. Just didn’t live there no more.

  “About twenty years after the national park come to be, my brothers and I decided to sign the land over. I kept the deed to one island for a souvenir-like, never intended to live on it. That’s what I was telling those wreckers. Young folks, new to the coast, don’t know who owns what, is all I was saying.”

  A couple of birds were croaking back and forth outside the window. I looked at Bridgy, who knew birds nearly as well as she knew shells.

  “Egrets, I think.”

  Augusta agreed. “Couple of egret nests down by the bay. They gossip back and forth, not as loud as the hawks, so I don’t pay them any attention.

  “As to islands the Batson family owned, I don’t know what they did. Delia being a woman the men treated like a servant, I’m not sure her brothers would’ve even told her if they done anything at all. If she has papers, I guess they’d be in her house. One reason I wouldn’t give the nephews her keys. Didn’t want them noseying around.”

  We sat awhile longer, ate some fruit and then took our leave, promising to see what we could find out about the nephews.

  I was in the middle of making the U-turn to head home when Bridgy asked the bombshell question.

  “If, close as they were, Miss Augusta doesn’t know whether or not Delia still had any land in Ten Thousand Islands, can you tell me why Tighe Kostos is so sure that Delia owned an island large enough to build a resort?”

  I was tired, ready to call it a day.

  “To quote the legendary philosopher Scarlett O’Hara, ‘I’ll think about that tomorrow.’”

  Chapter Thirty ||||||||||||||||||||

  Judge Harcroft came in for breakfast slightly later than usual. I’d been steering folks away from Dashiell Hammett because I wanted the judge in a contented mood. He opened the Fort Myers Beach News and sipped his orange juice. I served his Hammett Ham ’n Eggs over hard, and then kept my eye on him.

  When he finished eating, I approached.

  “Excuse me, Judge, are you representing Josiah and Edgar Batson, or is that merely a rumor?”

  “Attorney-client privilege.”

  He rattled his broadsheet as if shooing me away. That pushed my buttons.

  “I have no interest in your privilege or in the Batsons’, for that matter. I want to speak with the resort guy you were talking to at the funeral reception for Miss Delia.”

  I struck a nerve. He dropped the newspaper and slid his index finger back and forth in the collar of his spotless white shirt.

  “That was terribly awkward. Still, my clients . . .”

  So much for attorney-client privilege.

  “I’d like to speak with him on an unrelated matter. Do you know where he’s staying?”

  I stood by the judge’s side, holding the refill coffeepot over his cup, but didn’t pour until he answered.

  “I believe he has accommodations at the Tower View. You should be able to leave a message for him there.”

  I said a polite thank you and poured his coffee. There was no reason to mention that I had Kostos’s business card with his cell number printed right on the front. I wasn’t planning to talk to him on the phone.

  As the time of day became more suited to brunch than breakfast, only three tables were occupied. I used the break to browse the shelves in the children’s section and found the book that came to mind when we were at Augusta’s house. I thumbed through a few pages. It was as perfect as I recalled.

  The man sitting at Alex Haley used his index finger to air-draw the universal sign for “check, please.” He paid his bill with a nice tip and wished me a great day. I topped off the coffee cups at both occupied tables. No one objected, so I figured they’d be there for a while.

  I pushed through the kitchen door. The “Ophie is in the house” cooking rubble was becoming so familiar that I barely noticed.

  Bridgy was pleading with Ophie to tell her which of the ingredients on the counter could be put away. Ophie ignored her and they both ignored me. When I didn’t place an order for a customer, they finally looked up from their chores.

  I flashed a triumphant grin and held the book high over my head.

  “I found it. It’s not yet Wednesday and I found it.”

  Ophie was rolling a ball of some kind of dough. Hands covered in flour, she rushed from the counter and made a grab for the book.

  “Watch the flour. I promise it’s a fabulous children’s book. Get cleaned up. You can read it and tell me what you think.”

  “At least let me see the cover.”

  I held the book in front of her face.

  “Chicken Sunday? How will that work for a Wednesday special?”

  Totally exasperated that I’d interrupted when she was trying to get Ophie to tidy up the clutter, Bridgy chimed in, “Aunt Ophie, you’re due for a break. Why don’t you wash up, sit in the dining room and read the book. I’ll bring you some berries and you can call us if someone needs help.”
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br />   She turned and glared at me like she was the Wicked Stepmother and I was Cinderella.

  “You can help me wash down the kitchen.”

  Not even a thank-you for trying to make her aunt happy by finding a book name for her chicken salad. Just “get to work.” Humph.

  While I toiled, I thought of how Bridgy made me crazy a few short days ago. The more I thought, the harder I scrubbed the stove top. Soon I was boiling inside as if all six jets were blazing. I marched to the counter and confronted Bridgy toe-to-toe.

  “So, what do you want to do with the books, donate them to the library or throw them away like so much trash?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “In the church hall Ophie talked about getting rid of the books to make more table space. Then when we visited Miguel, you wanted to ask him if he could handle cooking for a bigger crowd.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Joking? When you say ‘let’s get rid of your beloved books,’ that’s no joke.”

  “I know you were already outside the car, but didn’t you hear me laugh? I thought if we pretended we were considering a change and asked Miguel’s opinion, show how indispensable he is to us, it would cheer him up. As it turned out he was in such high spirits I forgot about the whole idea.”

  I stayed quiet, which threw her into a tizzy.

  “You really believe I’d consider getting rid of the books, the book club meetings, everything? They’re what make the Read ’Em and Eat unique, not just another restaurant at the beach. The books give our customers a connection to one another and to the café. You think I don’t know that?”

  “It was a joke? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t look so long-suffering. I hate when you do long-suffering. I promise there will always be books and book club meetings and clubbies hanging around. You think I’d want to miss the semi-monthly Rowena-Jocelyn battles?”

  That started me giggling. As soon as she was sure I wasn’t angry, Bridgy joined in, and I guess we were too loud, because Ophie stuck her head in the pass-through.