I sat in one chair and, without Ophie to treat me to a well-mannered ladies lecture, I slipped off my sneakers and snuggled my feet into the soft cushion of the neighboring chair. As soon as I unfolded the note, my feet dropped and my toes began searching for my sneakers. I had someplace to go.
I snatched my purse, and with my untied sneakers flopping, I headed for the elevator. I took out my cell and hit the speed dial for Cady.
No answer, so I left a message on his voice mail.
“Meet me at Miss Delia’s right away. I’m leaving . . .”
As soon as the elevator door closed I lost my connection. I tied my sneakers on the ride down, fully expecting that Cady would be calling back by the time I hit the lobby, but no such luck. I jumped in the Heap-a-Jeep and peeled off like a sailor with a twenty-four-hour leave and a hot date waiting. I put my phone on the passenger seat so I could grab it as soon as it rang, but Cady didn’t call back.
In a few minutes I turned onto Delia’s block, which looked naked without a deputy sitting in a Lee County car in front of Delia’s house. Life had started to go back to normal in such a short time.
I parked my car and slid the note out of my pocket, wanting to be sure I’d read it correctly.
INFORMATION ABOUT DELIA BATSON’S LAND IS IN HER SHED. MEET ME THERE AT 5:30 AND I’LL SHOW YOU.
The tenor of the note reminded me of those movie scenes where the heroine stumbles upon the entrance to a dark, mysterious cellar, or finds a cryptic message inviting her to meet someone in the cemetery at midnight. Bridgy and I would start chomping hard on our popcorn, squealing, “No! No! Don’t go.”
I chided myself for sheer silliness. It was dinnertime on a bright, sunny day, and rather than being lured to a cemetery, I was invited to a clandestine meeting in a gardening shed, the type sold in Sears and Ace Hardware. Not much danger there.
Still, I wished Bridgy and Ophie hadn’t headed off to the mainland, and I doubly wished Cady would answer his phone. I left a second message saying I was waiting for him at Delia’s, then sipped a bottle of warmish water that had been in my cup holder all day while I listened to a commercial for a new restaurant in Cape Coral that promised a fabulous karaoke night on Fridays. When the clock on my dash said five thirty, I turned off the radio and the car engine, deciding to wait for Cady and my mysterious note writer on Delia’s lawn.
The house looked cold and lonely, as though it had been empty for years instead of a few days. I remembered how forlorn the inside looked when Ryan and I came to find Delia’s burial clothes. I shook off the melancholy and walked along the side of the house to the rear patio, which was empty save two natural wood Adirondack chairs with a glass-topped table set in between. Toward the back fence was a nice-sized propane barbeque, which I didn’t expect. Delia didn’t strike me as an outdoor cook. Still, having grown up in the Ten Thousand Islands long before air-conditioning, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she knew how to cook on a spit over a fire built in a hole dug in the sand.
There was an old, rusted tan and brown shed crooked enough that it was practically leaning into the side of the ramshackle garage. I yoo-hooed, but no one yoo-hooed back. I toyed with the idea of taking a seat in one of the chairs and waiting but decided against it. I walked around to the front yard and looked up and down the short block. Both sides of the street were deserted, as were most residential streets this time of day. A while from now, folks would come out for their after-dinner strolls, but at present they were deciding whether or not to have that second pork chop or another slice of grilled snapper. I paced up and down the driveway, vacillating. Was the note a prank? Didn’t matter. As long as I was here, I decided to take a quick peek on the off chance there really was something interesting to see in Delia’s shed. If nothing jumped out at me, I’d call Cady again and invite him to meet me in Times Square for ice cream instead.
Decision made, I walked to the shed. An ancient padlock dangled across the side-by-side door handles but wasn’t locked. When I pulled it off I saw it was so rusted that it probably hadn’t been usable for years. I looped it through the handle attached to the jamb and opened the door.
The inside looked like every shed in Florida. A beach umbrella and sand chair leaned in one corner. A spare propane tank was tucked into another. Rakes, trowels and a broom hung from a Peg-Board, while spray bottles of mold remover, tins of fire ant poison and a bag of garden fertilizer sat on a shelf. The only possible source of information was a stack of newspapers on a moldy, lopsided wooden table. I stepped through the doorway. Whomp! I felt a ferocious smack to the back of my head. I dropped forward, landing on all fours. The door closed behind me. There was a vague scraping noise I couldn’t identify. For a few woozy seconds I thought a rough wind gusted in from the Gulf and slammed the flimsy door shut, knocking me down. But I knew that couldn’t be right.
I tried to get up but my legs were unsteady. Standing wouldn’t be an option for a minute or two. I rummaged through my purse and patted my pockets looking for my cell phone. I’d left it in the car. Stretched out on the floor, I must have looked like Gulliver invading Lilliput to the dusty green salamander who stopped to look me straight in the eye before he scurried behind the sand chair.
And then I heard the hiss and noticed the sharper-than-gasoline smell of propane. I pulled myself up, leaning heavily on the old wooden table, which creaked ominously as it rocked on uneven legs. I knew I should check the propane tank, but the door was a couple of feet closer. With one hand on the table I took a wobbly step and reached out to push the door open. It was stuck. I moved closer and, mustering up what little strength I had, pushed with both hands. The door was definitely blocked.
The propane smell was getting stronger, so shutting off the tank became my new priority. I shuffled to the tank and leaned close until I isolated the hissing sound. It was coming from the valve, which, no matter how hard I tried to turn it, was stuck. My lungs began to gasp for air. My head was pounding. Last thing I wanted to do was die in Delia Batson’s shed. My brain started to fog and I fleetingly wondered if Bridgy would bury me with Ophie’s buttermilk pie recipe.
If I couldn’t turn off the tank, I would have to get the door open. I threw my weight against it a couple of times. It moved enough for me to see the smallest sliver of daylight between the door and the jamb, but it wouldn’t open.
I pressed my face against the tiny gap and tried to breathe clean air from outside the shed. I imagined I could smell salt wafting inland from the Gulf. I called for help, all the while banging on the door. If any of Delia’s neighbors heard me, they must have thought I was someone’s television with the sound turned way up. No one came. No one so much as yelled for quiet. I was dog tired and not able to think clearly. Involuntarily I slid to the floor. Then I saw a window at the back of the shed, too high for me to reach. Its frame was touching the garage, but if I could break the glass, that would let some air in, or at least let some gas out. I struggled to stand up on my rubbery legs.
Finally I was standing. I leaned against the door and looked for something that would smash the glass in a window so high over my head. I wasn’t lucky enough to spot a toolbox. The thumping in my head was getting louder. The rake or the broom. Either should do it. I bobbed and weaved my way to the back of the shed, first holding on to the table and then grabbing the broom off the Peg-Board and using it, brush end down, as a walking stick. The few feet to the window seemed like miles. It was harder and harder to breathe.
I’d have to hold the broom in both hands and aim for the pane that seemed to have the most room between it and the garage wall, the bottom left.
I held the broom like a spear and bounced it against the glass. When I pushed, the window moved with the broomstick and bounced back. Vinyl. The windowpanes were vinyl.
I looked around for a screwdriver, gardening shears. I needed a sharp point. No luck. My breathing was shallower and my arms and legs were feeling heav
y. Cady. As soon as Cady heard my message, he would come. He’d get me out of here. I turned and in a determined fury stabbed the broom handle at the edge of the door right where the sliver of air and hope was, and shouted, “Cady. Come and find me.”
I kept banging until I slid to the floor for what my hazy mind thought might be the final time. I felt a gust of clean air and opened one eye. A man was silhouetted by the sun going down on the Gulf. Cady was here in time to rescue me.
“Oh my God, I smell gas. Lots of it. Let’s get out of here before there’s an explosion. C’mon, you have to help me. You have to stand up.”
The voice wasn’t Cady’s, but I didn’t care. The nice man grabbed my arms, pulled me to a sitting position and dragged me to my feet. As soon as we were out of the shed, my legs gave way and I started to crumple to the ground, but he wasn’t having it.
“No way, young lady. Keep standing. You have to walk. We have to get to the front of the house.”
He flung my arm over his shoulder, and although you couldn’t quite describe my shuffling as walking, I managed to move even if I didn’t quite keep up.
As soon as we got to the front lawn, the man let go of me and pulled out his cell phone. I dropped wearily to the grass and looked at my savior.
Tighe Kostos was talking into his cell. “There’s been an accident and there may be a gas explosion imminent. Send everyone. Address? Wait. I have it somewhere.” He began patting his pockets. I croaked out Miss Delia’s address and curled up in the fetal position ready for a nice long nap.
He punched off the phone and pulled me to a sitting position. “Damn, I told you I never wanted to see you again. Now stay awake. Help is coming.”
And it was true. I could hear the sirens, but I also heard an imperious, “What on earth is going on here?”
Rowena. Even in my stupor, I said a silent prayer. “Oh please Lord, not now.” But there she was.
“Sassy, what on earth? Mr. Kostos, I am so sorry that you had to be subjected to these . . . shenanigans. I don’t know what else to call it.”
She leaned over me ever so slightly, “You get up right now. You’re embarrassing yourself. No matter what you do, Mr. Kostos is going to complete his deal with the nephews and purchase Delia’s island. I’ll see to that.”
My throat hurt and my voice was hoarse. “Rowena, you can negotiate with the nephews until dolphins dance with manatees in the middle of Times Square. Skully is Delia’s heir. He was her husband.”
And, delighted with myself for bursting her bubble, I dropped back onto the grass and probably passed out, because I don’t remember anything more until, dressed in a hospital gown, I woke up in bed in the Medical Center. A handsome young doctor with a well-trimmed beard was asking my name repeatedly.
Chapter Thirty-three ||||||||||||||||||||
“Mary Sassafras Cabot,” I answered as proudly as a first grader announcing she could spell C-A-T.
“Sassafras?” He started to doubt that I was lucid.
“Parents. Flower power.”
Then he asked me to name the month and the year. Then I had to tell him what state we were in. I gave correct answers, but he continued with more questions. Finally, he asked where I lived.
When I answered “the turret,” it threw him until I realized he wanted an actual address. He seemed satisfied when I gave him one.
“Now Ms. Cabot—”
“Please—Sassy. Everyone calls me Sassy.” I turned my head maybe an inch and moaned. I reached back but the doctor seized my hand.
“We cleaned your wound, shaved your head and put on a sterile bandage. Please don’t touch.”
I barely heard the “don’t touch” part; I was focused on “shaved your head.”
“Shaved my head? Am I bald?” Even acknowledging that the recent past was still a bit foggy, the thought of having my head shaved caused more panic than I felt when I was locked in the shed with a gas leak.
The doctor said, “Bald, yes. But only in one spot. The entire area, including bandage, is only two inches by two inches.”
I blanched. “I have a giant hole in my hair?”
“A small hole. The hair from your crown will hide most of it.” He gave me a tight smile. “You know, the grass and dirt we cleaned out of your wound indicated you were hit by a gardening tool, probably a shovel. Instead of worrying about your hair, you should be grateful you don’t have a fractured skull.”
A voice from the doorway confirmed, “Definitely a shovel. We found it in the yard. The lab is examining it now, but it had traces of hair and blood, so we’re presuming it is the assault weapon.” Frank Anthony walked into the room, with Ryan Mantoni at his heels. Ryan gave me a quick wink and a thumbs-up, but the lieutenant was all business.
“Doctor, we don’t want to interrupt, but we’d like to interview the victim as soon as possible.”
Victim. He called me a victim. I was tired of all his labels. For a while he seemed to think I was a suspect, then I was a witness, now I’m a victim. What is it with this man? Can’t I just be Sassy?
The doctor skimmed the folder in his hand pensively. I presumed it was my medical record.
“Sure. I have to order some tests for Ms. Cabot. I’ll be at the nurses’ station for about five minutes, but when I come back, you’ll have to wrap up.”
He tucked his pen in the breast pocket of his lab coat and was halfway to the door when I demanded, “Tests? What tests?”
Without turning around the doctor said, “We’ll talk about that later.”
Ryan came close and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “Boy, Sassy, you scared the world. Cady is pacing back and forth in the lobby and stops every twenty seconds to ask when he can see you. Bridgy is crying and, well, you can only imagine Ophie. Drama queen doesn’t begin to describe it. They only let us come up because we’re, well, us.” And he pointed to his badge.
Frank Anthony shook his head and cast his eyes upward, the picture of impatience. “We only have a few minutes. Start at the top. What were you doing at Miss Batson’s house? Who hit you and how did you get locked in the shed?”
He took out a pen and his official black book, ready to capture my story. I was certain he’d become deranged if I told him that I went to Delia’s in response to an anonymous note taped to the ship’s bell, so I decided to start in a different place.
“I walked into the shed and, out of nowhere, something hit me from behind.”
I knew he’d eventually come back to why I was at Delia’s, but he let that go for the moment and moved on to who else might have been there. “And you didn’t see or hear anyone?”
“Not a soul. I was a little surprised that none of the neighbors heard me when I started yelling and banging on the shed door.”
Ryan said, “Our canvass indicated that no one was home in most of the houses on the block. Turns out there was a spaghetti dinner down by the bay a couple of blocks to the north. Half the neighborhood was there. Pasta and clam sauce.”
I had nothing more I wanted to say, but the lieutenant wasn’t letting me off that easy.
“So, tell me exactly why you were nosing around Miss Batson’s property.”
I gritted my teeth, but even that tiny motion increased my headache, so I decided it was easier to come clean. I didn’t have enough brain power left to tangle with him.
“I got an invitation,” I muttered, dreading the conversation to come.
“Someone invited you to Miss Batson’s house?”
I nodded ever so slightly.
“Who?”
“I’m not sure. Er, I don’t know.”
“Was it someone whose name you don’t know? Perhaps someone you recently met?”
I pulled the blanket close to my chin, thinking I could duck for cover when the explosion erupted, then I answered truthfully in a voice just above a whisper, “I have no idea wh
o invited me.”
Ryan grimaced and pretended to put his hands over his ears, knowing the tirade that would come. I shrank down into the mattress, waiting for the blast.
Instead of snapping at me, Frank closed his notebook. “If you can’t remember, you can’t remember. Head injuries are like that sometimes. We’ll check in with you later.”
I so wanted to let it go, but in all honesty, I couldn’t.
My voice dropped into complete whisper mode. “It’s not that I don’t remember. It’s that I don’t know. I never knew. Someone put a note on the ship’s bell . . .” I shrugged, and then winced because the shrug hurt my head.
Ryan’s face froze, panic-stricken. I could see he wanted to run straight out the door. He actually took one giant step backward, and then caught himself.
Lieutenant Anthony moved directly to apoplectic. He did not pass go. He did not collect two hundred dollars.
“You have elevated dangerously stupid to a whole new level. We have a murderer running loose and you—”
He was interrupted when the door banged wide open and a three-ring circus burst into the room. Aunt Ophie and Bridgy were carrying every toy and trinket the gift shop sold. Cady cradled a bouquet of brightly colored wildflowers in his arms.
Ophie thrust her treasure trove at the unsuspecting Frank Anthony, who, at the last second, understood her intent and opened his arms enough to avoid calamity as she literally threw assorted teddy bears and colorful monkeys at him.
“My darlin’ girl. My sweet chile. I’m so grateful you’re alive.” She lunged across the bed and grabbed me in a smothering hug, so she could whisper in my ear, “Y’all know we’re not supposed to be here but I told the charmin’ lady at the desk that I was your mama and begged her to let me bring my other children to see their poor baby sister. How she could think I was old enough to have grown children, I’ll never know. Bad eyes, I guess. But she let us up, bless her heart.”
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 22
