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

by Terrie Farley Moran

  “Shush, right now. New customers came in and we can hear you all over the dining room. Well-mannered ladies—”

  “We’re sorry.” I pulled my order pad from my pocket. “I’ll get right to it.”

  Bridgy leaned in for a tentative hug. “Are we okay?”

  “As Holly would say, we’re slammin’.” And I gave her a quick hug.

  I could have used roller skates to serve the lunch crowd. Bridgy put two pitchers of ice water and paper cups on the table outside for the customers sitting in the sunshine waiting to be seated. She came back inside wiping her brow.

  “We need an umbrella out there. Or better yet, an awning.”

  “Sure. Order some sailcloth. You sew. I’ll hang.” I chuckled, more because we both knew we’d weathered another friendship storm than because my words were amusing.

  When the café was down to a few post-meal coffee drinkers, I was feeling like a used floor mop and looking for an excuse to rest for a minute, when Ophie came out of the kitchen, holding Chicken Sunday in her freshly washed hands.

  “I don’t understand how you could name Wednesday’s special Chicken Sunday.”

  “We’ll call the salad ‘Chicken Sunday on Wednesday.’ We write the specials on the chalkboard, and for this one we’ll put two copies of the book on the ledge. When people ask about the specials, we’ll talk about the book, play up the grandma role.”

  “Sell salad and books as a package deal?”

  “Exactly!” I pretended I’d been planning that all along. “How about we take a dollar off the price of the book when bought with a salad? Think the grandmothers will go for it?”

  “Once they taste my chicken salad, all I can say is, you better order more books.” Ophie did that spin on spike heels thing she does and went back to the kitchen.

  Keeping an eye on the few remaining customers, I peeled an orange and leaned against the counter eating it section by section as I planned my next move. I was determined to discover whether or not Delia owned an island.

  If I called and scheduled a meeting with Tighe Kostos, he’d prepare some elaborate version of “none of your business” and that would be that. My best plan of attack would be to catch him off guard at his hotel. He’d never expect to see me in such an upmarket place as the Tower View, and I’d have a better shot at getting the truth out of him.

  I called Bridgy out of the kitchen and confided my plan. She offered to go with me and started biting her lower lip when I told her I wanted to go alone.

  “Is this because you’re still mad about the book misunderstanding?”

  “No, silly. I think Kostos will feel less threatened if he only has to talk to one person. Remember how defensive he was at Times Square?”

  “Oh yeah, he was that. Listen, check the tables and then meet me in the kitchen.”

  My plan was in motion. I did another round of “can I get you anything else?” and then ducked into the kitchen. Bridgy came out of the office, holding some black material and a pair of turquoise-studded sandals.

  “I knew we had clothes in that little alcove behind the computer. If you are going to stroll the Tower View, you have to look the part. Here’s a wrap skirt and shoes. Couldn’t find a top that would work, though.”

  As soon as she heard the word “clothes,” Ophie, Queen of Fashion, pushed away the pie plate she was lining with dough. She peeled off her plastic pie-lining gloves and asked where I was going. Bridgy got no further than “fancy hotel” and Ophie whipped off her apron, revealing a teal dress cinched by a wide silver belt. The buckle had an ornate Celtic design rimmed in black.

  She undid the clasp and tossed the belt to me. “The skirt and shoes will do. But that dreary white shirt you’re wearing . . . Go inside and put on the skirt and sandals.”

  When I came out looking, I thought, fairly chic in white tank top, black skirt, fancy belt and snappy sandals, Ophie sighed loud enough to be heard in Brooklyn.

  She circled me a time or two and then ordered me to take off my bra.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “No, honey chile, you wait a minute. The only reason on God’s green earth to wear a shirt that large is because you’re letting the girls run free. Take off the bra.

  “Where did I put my purse? A little war paint will cover far too many hours in the sun, at least at your age.”

  Bridgy fled, muttering she’d serve the remaining customers, leaving me to deal with Ophie entirely on my own.

  Much against my will I reached back, unclasped my hooks, dropped the straps down my arms and pulled the whole bra through the neck of my shirt like a magician working a glamorous trick.

  “That’s better. Now blouse the top at your waist and tighten the belt.”

  I stopped myself from covering my chest. It didn’t feel right to go braless in the café. Ophie opened her bottomless purse that weighed a thousand pounds and pulled out every type of makeup known to womankind. With a heavy hand she applied turquoise eye shadow to my eyelids and a warm-toned pink blush to my cheeks. She leaned back and nodded in approval.

  “These colors are gorgeous with your auburn hair.”

  I unconsciously folded my arms across my chest.

  “Stop that. Don’t wrinkle the shirt. She pulled a plastic bag out of her purse and untangled two long silver chains, the longer one thick with scattered black beads, the shorter one thin and delicate. “Here, put these around your neck. Oh Lordy, today is our lucky day.”

  She pulled a long silver barrette from the bag, took a chunk of my hair and clipped it high behind my left ear.

  “Now walk over there and come back to me like I’m seeing y’all for the first time.”

  As I did so, Ophie smiled. “I am truly an artist.” She patted my shoulder. “Of course you gave me a lovely canvas to work on.”

  Bridgy opened the kitchen door, took one look at me in my hastily fashioned outfit and went all giddy.

  “Tighe Kostos won’t know what hit him.”

  Chapter Thirty-one ||||||||||||||||||||

  I pulled the Heap-a-Jeep into the exquisitely landscaped parking lot of the Tower View Hotel. It wasn’t until I parked that I started to wonder if I’d gone through all this for no result. There were a thousand things Kostos could be doing, business things. Why would I expect him to be sitting poolside, waiting for me?

  The hotel patio surrounding the pool sits on the first floor and serves as an observation deck for the beach and the Gulf. I’d planned to hunch my shoulders to prevent my braless-ness from being obvious, but as I walked around the pool, there were so many bikini bodies, I started to feel overdressed.

  Most of the men lounging at poolside wore hats and sunglasses, many with zinc oxide–painted noses. So, while appearing casual, I had to peer as closely as I could to be sure I didn’t pass by Tighe Kostos without noticing.

  Lots of hustle-bustle in the lobby, including about a dozen people with “Pruitt Family Reunion” tee shirts arranging and rearranging themselves for group pictures. I was wondering why they were taking indoor pictures on such a fabulously sunny day when a lady I pegged to be Grandma Pruitt said, “Okay, now let’s take some by the pool.” She stepped out on the patio and the entire clan followed along.

  Although the two or three men reading newspapers in the lobby reminded me of Judge Harcroft, none of them resembled Tighe Kostos in the least. I hung out at the elevator bank for a few minutes but no luck. I was about to continue searching the hotel public spaces when two Florida business types—golf shirts and well-pressed khakis—came toward the elevators. One suggested they get a drink, and they walked off to the left.

  Remembering what I’d heard about his fondness for expensive scotch, I decided to look for Tighe Kostos in the bar.

  A floor-to-ceiling window framed a stunning seascape of the Gulf. I stood inside the doorway and looked around as though I was meeting someon
e. One of the businessmen I’d seen by the elevator bank gave me an appreciative glance as I walked through the bar. I smiled inwardly. Ophie had done quite the job dressing me.

  Sure enough, Kostos was sitting at the end of the bar looking like the view was the last thing on his mind. I took the seat next to him, and when I ordered a Top Shelf Long Island Iced Tea, the bartender asked if I wanted Cîroc vodka.

  “Unless you have Stoli Elit.”

  He cocked one eyebrow to signal “as if” and turned to the back bar to make my drink. As I had hoped, Tighe Kostos knew his expensive vodkas as well as expensive scotches. He made a quarter turn so he was facing me.

  “Hometown drink?”

  “No. I’m a Brooklyn girl.”

  “Close enough.”

  Not to me, but I let it slide. I thought he’d recognize me, but he didn’t. He kept glancing at his phone, which was lying on the bar, then at his watch and back and forth.

  I wouldn’t ask my questions if he was waiting for an “any minute now” phone call. I didn’t want him to have an excuse to break away from me before I got answers.

  He pushed the phone to one side, signaled the bartender and tapped his glass for a refill. Then he held his glass up in the air, looked at me and said, “Cheers.”

  The glass was halfway to his mouth when he put it down and looked at me closely.

  “Don’t I know you? That’s not a line. I think we met once before. At the golf club? The Costellos’ cocktail party?”

  I was surely working my outfit if he thought I moved in those circles. Well, I thought, here goes.

  “We met the other day in Times Square.”

  He drew a blank and then he knew. His expression transformed from comprehension to distaste.

  “No. You were one of those obnoxious women? Delia Batson’s friends?”

  “Yep. I’m Sassy Cabot.” I reached out to shake hands but he cringed.

  “You and that other one. Nothing but trouble.”

  This wasn’t going nearly as well as I had planned. I decided the direct approach was my only chance.

  “Please, Mr. Kostos. Answer one question and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

  He might hear from Deputy Mantoni and Lieutenant Anthony but, I could safely promise, not from me.

  He stood up, chugged the rest of his drink and reached for his phone. I touched his arm and looked up as soulfully as I could.

  “Please?”

  “Oh all right. What’s your question?”

  “What makes you so sure Delia Batson owned property in the Ten Thousand Islands?”

  He snorted, clearly surprised by my question. “That’s it?”

  He pulled a business card out of his pocket and tossed it on the bar.

  “You see that logo? World of Luxury Spa Resorts is the biggest company of its type on the planet. If our research department says that she owns property that we want, then . . . she owns it.” He slammed his hand on the bar with finality.

  I sat there, my eyes getting rounder, my eyebrows reaching for the sky, until he realized that such a vague answer wouldn’t make me go away.

  “Okay, look, there’s not much more I can tell you, but for what it’s worth . . . The company has folks who follow recreation and vacation trends among the financial top 10 percent. Right now environmental trips are growing by 200 to 300 percent a year. But most folks don’t want to sleep in a tent or make their own breakfast. Kind of an oxymoron.”

  He looked to see if I got it, which I did.

  “Anyway, the Everglades National Park is a stellar attraction, but there’s no five-star hotel catering to the tastes of those, ah, higher-income folks. So the researchers started going over the land records, plot by plot. They followed the history of every inch and found that a number of pieces of parkland are still, at least technically, in private hands.” He seemed to think he was finished explaining.

  “And Miss Delia’s land?”

  “Well, the researchers sent engineering teams down to look at the privately owned plots. Right off, they liked the Gulf access of the Ten Thousand Islands. I was surprised how many bits and pieces there were. Ultimately, they determined that the land that suited our purposes was owned by Miss Delia Batson, resident of Fort Myers Beach. The lawyers looked at it for a while and thought they could make a case for privatization. All I had to do was get Miss Batson to sell. She was a stubborn old bird. At least the nephews are turning out to be more practical.” He looked at his watch and turned toward the door. “Remember, I never want to see you again.”

  Yeah, like he was going to be on my Christmas card list any decade soon. Still, there is an island. And now it belongs to Skully.

  I hurried to get back to the café, and while I changed out of my glam outfit I told Bridgy and Ophie what Kostos explained to me about the way his company investigates the ownership of properties. It did tie in rather neatly with Augusta’s history of the Ten Thousand Islands.

  I was sweeping the dining room floor when the door opened and Holly came dancing in, swinging a bulky plastic bag in her hand. She stopped in front of me, did a graceful pirouette and stuck out a foot shod in a black leather pump.

  “Look at me. Kitten heels. I’ve been begging for months, but mom says”—and here she mimicked Maggie’s voice—“heels can damage your spinal alignment and your feet.” Back as herself she continued, “There’s going to be a teen dance at the church, and I can’t wear flip-flops or sneakers, so I said, ‘Mom, chillax, time for grown-up shoes for this girl.’ Mom tried for some wedge kind of heel, but when I saw these . . . hard-core, right?”

  I fussed over the height and the graceful curve of the heel. At an inch and a half or so, Holly could probably dance all night without doing much damage to her feet.

  Bridgy came out of the kitchen and, when she saw the new pumps, so perfect for a teenager, decreed Holly should have a chocolate float to celebrate. She went behind the counter, whipped one right up and set it in front of Holly, who was sitting at Emily Dickinson switching her elegant shoes for the old pair of Dockers slides that she was carrying in the bag.

  “Wear them around the house for an hour every day for a week before the dance; otherwise you could wind up like Sassy in our freshman year of high school, walking home along the streets of Brooklyn in an elegant emerald green satin dress and Laurence D’Ambrio’s sweaty socks.”

  Bridgy and I exchanged giggly looks at the memory. After the first few dances I was in such pain I kicked off my new spike heels and left them under my chair. Hours later I could barely get them on my feet, and when I finally did, I couldn’t stand, much less walk.

  “You wore some man’s socks? Did you start a trend back in the day? Like the mismatched socks we wear?” Holly was in awe of my daring fashion statement.

  “Laurence was a boy a grade ahead of us. He did offer his shoes, but they were so big, I kept tripping. The socks were a compromise.”

  “And Sassy gave him a sweet ole smooch as thanks.” Bridgy was having too much fun telling the story.

  Holly nearly choked on her float. “You kissed a boy for lending you his socks? The ones he wore all night? That’s beyond gross.”

  It was a side splitter all the way around. When we finally stopped laughing and wiping our eyes, I felt better than I had in days.

  Bridgy took Holly’s empty glass to the kitchen where she, hopefully with Ophie’s help, was finishing our closing ritual. I walked Holly to the door and locked it behind her. I’d just turned away when she banged on the glass, waving a piece of paper.

  “This was on the ship’s bell. Has your name on it.”

  I took the paper and stuffed it in my pocket so I could relock the door. Just as I flipped the lock, I heard a crash in the kitchen. Remembering Miguel, I ran in, but this time nothing was broken but a tray full of china. I raised my eyes to heaven in a silen
t prayer of thanks.

  Ophie was of the opinion this little “oopsy” was a sign that it was high time we replenished our stock of dishes and cups. “Brighten the place. No more white. Mixed china, lots of color. That’s the ticket. Where is the restaurant supply house you use?”

  “On the mainland.” I was too worn-out to even consider crossing the bridge this afternoon. Maybe another day.

  Even if Ophie didn’t pick up that I was dead tired, Bridgy did. She came up with a brilliant suggestion guaranteed to give me a few hours of peace.

  “Let’s lock up here, and Sassy, if you drop us at my car, you can hang in the turret while Ophie and I go beg for sample pieces at Royal Restaurant Supply. Who has a better sense of tableware design than my aunt Ophie, Queen of Eclectic Decor?”

  Well, that was true. I’d been to Ophie’s house. She had a magical way of taking accessories that should never be in the same house, never mind in the same room, and placing them together with majestic flair. The result was always stunning.

  While Ophie preened, Bridgy gave me a broad wink.

  When we got out of the Heap-a-Jeep, Ophie was holding the shopping bags that she carted back and forth with her each day. I shoved my keys in my pocket and offered to take them up to the turret. I had no idea what Ophie carried around, but she claimed she was a better cook with her bits and pieces nearby. I slung my purse over my shoulder, gathered Ophie’s bags and rode the elevator to the top floor.

  Standing in front of the apartment door I realized that my keys, which were usually in my hand, were buried. Purse? No. Pocket? There they were. When I pulled out the keys, they dragged along a folded piece of paper, which promptly fell on the floor. I opened the door, kicked the paper through the doorway and stepped inside. I hung my purse on the top hook of the umbrella stand and left Ophie’s baggage leaning beside it. Then I picked up the note while I still had the energy to bend.

  Chapter Thirty-two ||||||||||||||||||||

  The view from our patio was magnificent as it always was in late afternoon. The sun was not yet ready to set but was sending token streaks across the sky. I could see a couple of powerboats heading to dock on Sanibel. A flock of ospreys hoping for throwaways was circling the fishing boats already tied up at Pine Island.