Read to Death (6 page)

Chapter Ten

“Come on, sweetie.” I grabbed a napkin to wipe her face. “It won't be that bad. I promise. You'll have Owen by your side every minute. He'll save you from the evil lieutenant.”

That coaxed a tiny smile. I decided to go for broke. “Hey, you're going to be surrounded by good-looking men: Owen Reston, Frank Anthony, Ryan Mantoni and who knows how many other handsome young deputies will be circling. Think what Ophie would do with that opportunity.”

Bridgy actually laughed. I had done my job.

I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Now go clean yourself up. I left a gray silk blouse on a hanger behind the door of the office. I brought it in to wear to the Rotary meeting a few days ago, but something came up and I didn't go. And I'm glad you have your black capris on. Better than denim shorts.”

Bridgy protested. “Sassy, this isn't a social occasion.”

“You're right. It isn't. But it is a
solemn
occasion, and that green tank top with ‘SUNSET CELEBRATION AT TIMES SQUARE' sprawled across the front isn't going to cut it. Now go spiff up while I cover the dining room.”

It was a good thing my hands weren't filled with dishes when Owen Reston walked into the café. I might have dropped them. I nearly didn't recognize the handsome businessman-type dressed in a light blue houndstooth suit with those tuxedo styled lapels, peaked, I think they're called. And the jacket pockets had no flaps, which gave him a very sleek line. By the time my eyes reached his face, he was taking off his aviator sunglasses. His green eyes were always attractive, even more so when he winked at me.

“I know. It's a long way from surfer dude shorts and muscle man tees, but this is my lawyer look. What do you think?” And he pirouetted as coolly as a prima ballerina. Instead of its usual wild and wavy self, I saw his hair was slicked back, probably gelled in place.

I planted my hands on my hips and rolled my shoulders in full Brooklyn swagger. “Ain't you sumthin'? Back in Brooklyn we'd call you a ‘Park Avenue lawyer.' Got that right.”

Then I switched to serious. “Is she in deep and definite trouble?”

Owen shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Don't worry. Frank Anthony is doing what he has to do, working every angle to solve his case. There's a killer out there. I figure Frank knows it isn't Bridgy. But we have to remember that she is a key witness.”

Right on cue, the kitchen door opened and Bridgy walked out with a far more sophisticated presence than she'd had a few minutes before. Owen's look of appreciation
was completely wasted on Bridgy, because she barely noticed him. I couldn't fathom why she wasn't blown away by how handsome he looked. Her nerves must be clouding her vision.

Bridgy had clipped her hair up in a high ponytail. A few blond tendrils escaped and framed her face. My gray silk blouse was perfectly tucked into the waist of her dark pants. I was surprised she was wearing a red leather belt with a silver seashell buckle, which gave the outfit a finished look. I suspect it came from somewhere in the bottom desk drawer where we kept lots of doodads that we brought in to work and never remembered to bring home. She'd ditched her work sneakers for a pair of black sandals. Good as Bridgy looked, my first thought was that we really were going to have to clean out the office.

The ladies sitting at Robert Frost signaled for their check. I dropped it on their table, and Bridgy automatically stepped behind the register. I glanced at the two other occupied tables. No one needed my attention. I needed to push Bridgy out of here. Otherwise she'd stall for the rest of the day. Miguel, Ophie and I could handle the café.

As soon as Bridgy finished at the register, I tried to move her along. “You may as well get it over with.”

She hesitated, then realized I was right and came around from behind the counter. Owen took her by the elbow and looked at me. “I promise I'll bring her back none the worse for wear.”

I prayed he was right.

I began refilling the salt and pepper shakers, getting ready for the lunch rush, when Ophie opened the door and spun into the room, her magenta skirt twirling around her knees.

“I canceled any and all appointments, so I can help out here 'til closing. What is the matter? Y'all should be smiling, 'cause I'm here to help. Instead you look like death.”

“Bridgy had to go to the sheriff's office for more questions.”

Ophie was stricken. Her face contorted with anxiety and more than a little anger. “And you let her go alone? What were you thinking?”

“Shush.” I bobbed my head toward the occupied tables. “Owen Reston went with her. He promised to take care of her.”

Ophie relaxed. “I feel better already. Handsome devil that Owen is, and Mark tells me he is a top-notch lawyer.”

Our conversation was cut short when customers began piling in. Within minutes the lunch rush was in full force.

For the next two hours I hustled back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room. I was still bouncy in my white quilted leather slip-on sneakers, but as usual, toward the end of the rush, my feet started to ache a bit. I began fantasizing about a barefoot walk along the water's edge around sunset. I watched Ophie spin around on her impossibly high sandals and wondered why her arches weren't screaming for relief.

I glanced at the clock. Bridgy had been gone for a long time. When the crowd slowed down, I checked my phone, hoping she'd sent me a text, but there was nothing. Ophie walked past with a platter of
Swiss Family Robinson
Cheeseburgers and two side salads. She whispered, “Any news?”

I shook my head.

Another half hour passed, the café emptied out and still no word. I was getting antsy. I was scrubbing the countertop
when it dawned on me that there was something I could do to help. Mugsy Danaher, Blondie Quinlin's nephew. I could visit him at the cab company and discover what he knew about Oscar, anything at all that might help us find a suspect other than Bridgy. I was pretty sure that all the old New Jersey stuff Oscar had talked about was useless information. Mugsy would have current information. But, would he share?

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a large to-go box.

“Miguel, what kind of pastries do we have left? Can I get a dozen of your best?”

“
Sí
, of course. Did the customer ask for anything particular, or do you want an assortment?”

“No customer. I'm going to make a condolence call, and I don't want to show up empty-handed.”

“Oscar's family is here in town?”

“Oh. I don't know.” I thought quickly and decided on a half-truth. “I'm going to bring the pastries to his coworkers at the cab company. Perhaps they can tell me where to send a sympathy card or if the family has a charity that will accept donations in Oscar's name. I think we should do something.”

Miguel nodded in agreement, but his brain had already moved on to packaging. Both he and Bridgy had a terrific sense of visual design when it came to food presentation. I was nowhere near their league. He put the to-go box next to a platter of Robert Frost Apple and Blueberry Tartlets. I watched him roll a dozen small doilies until they were nearly pouch shaped and carefully place a tartlet in each one. He layered them in the box, snapped it shut and pulled a small white bow from the bottom drawer of the work counter. He taped it to the top while pushing the box across
the counter to me. Miguel was all about economy of motion.

“Tell Oscar's work friends we are all sorry for their loss. And don't worry, Ophie and I will take care of any customers who straggle in just before closing.”

Ophie was straightening tables and chairs when I waved, told her I had an errand to run and flew out the door before she could barrage me with questions.

I'd parked my trusty Heap-a-Jeep as far away from where Oscar had parked the van yesterday as I could. Still, I stopped for a moment and looked at the spot. I said a silent prayer, then I got into the jeep and drove down island. A couple of miles later I made a left turn toward Estero Bay, and within a few yards I was inside the parking lot of the Gulf Coast Cab and Van Company.

A half dozen or so vehicles ranging from tiny four-seat sedans to oversized vans were parked neatly along the fence lined up in size places. Every one of them was sky blue with the company name and phone number prominently displayed.

A sign near the entrance said “Visitor Parking.” I parked the Heap-a-Jeep right next to the sign and headed self-assuredly to the door. It was only when I got inside that my confidence began to wane. What would I say?

A woman with carrot red 1970s bouffant hair was sitting at the front desk. She greeted me with a thousand-watt smile and a deep southern drawl. “I'm Darla. How y'all doing today? Hope you're gonna let us give y'all a ride.”

“Actually, I, er, I need to speak to Mr. Danaher. I'm a friend of his aunt.” I was hoping making the visit sound personal would stump her curiosity.

Darla waved me in the direction of a worn leatherette
bench, the same sky blue as the cars and vans. She beamed all thousand watts at me again. “Why, sure, y'all just have a seat. I'll find him soon enough.”

It wasn't long before a wiry man with a shaved head and one gold hoop stuck in the lobe of a misshapen ear came down the hall. His sky blue golf shirt had a monogram I couldn't read at this distance, but it stretched across biceps and shoulders that seemed much too large for his body.

“You must be Aunt Blondie's friend.” He gave me a hearty handshake and a view of the crossed anchor tattoo on his forearm. There were words in a circle, but I couldn't decipher them and didn't want to stare.

Mugsy noticed my glance. “Coast Guard back in the nineties. Great times. Went hand to hand with Hurricane Opal in '95. She nearly destroyed the Panhandle and did a job on Alabama, too. End of September, beginning of October. I can't quite recall. Anyway, Blondie says if I don't help you out, there will be no more Sunday dinners at her house for me, so what can I do you for?”

I was delighted Blondie had eased the way. I handed Mugsy the to-go box. “A book club I coordinate from the Read 'Em and Eat was Oscar's last trip. I want to express our condolences.”

Mugsy sniffed at the edges of the carton. “Smells sweet. I'll put these in the break room. The team will enjoy having a bite in Oscar's honor. You know, he's been a driver here a long time. Longer than the four years I've been dispatching. Oscar was friendly enough, gregarious even, but he could become feisty if he thought he was being hassled.”

“The ladies on the tour loved him. All those stories he told about his life before he came to Florida. He traveled around, but he seemed to love it here.”

“As an old Coast Guard guy, I appreciated how much Oscar loved the water. Did you know he worked on and off as a hand on a fishing charter?”

“Really? I had no idea. Which charter?” I was afraid Mugsy would think I was nosy, but he shook his head.

“I got no idea, but I can tell you Oscar got thrown off the boat for getting into a fight with another deckhand. I asked him once, friendly like, about the fight, but Oscar told me to mind my own business.”

Mugsy shrugged off the whole idea. “Oscar was really touchy when it came to his personal life. He wouldn't say how it started or how it ended. But really, could an old guy like Oscar get into much of a fight? Anyway, I got to go back to work. Thanks for these.” He shook the box of pastries toward me. “Darla can give you Oscar's family contacts if you want to send a card.”

Darla handed me a photocopied paper with all Oscar's information and cheerfully reminded me to come back any time I needed a ride. As soon as I was in the parking lot, I called Bridgy. I was dying to tell her that Oscar had a fight with a deckhand, who could definitely be a potential suspect, but her phone went directly to voice mail. Not a good sign. If she was still being interviewed . . . with or without Owen, I didn't want to think about what a bad sign that would be. I hopped in my jeep and headed back to the Read 'Em and Eat. Perhaps Ophie had news.

Chapter Eleven

I was surprised that Ophie hadn't locked the door at closing. I walked into the café, where she was sitting at Robert Frost with her elbows resting on the tabletop. Her chin was pressed so deeply into her palms that her ashen face crumpled, showing wrinkles I never knew existed. I'd never seen her so distressed.

“Ophie, what is it? Is it Bridgy?”

“It's not Bridgy. I can't talk about it. I'm glad you're back. I have to go home.”

As she headed out the door, I could hear Ophie's shoes scrape along the tile floor so differently from the usual peppy
click-click-click
of her spiked heels.

She left without another word.

I locked the door behind her and pushed into the kitchen to see if Miguel knew what was going on. I was shocked to see Bridgy at the sink, humming tunelessly
and swaying left to right, right to left, while she rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher. She looked so happy that I didn't even mind that she was washing dishes while still wearing my gray silk blouse.

Miguel was nowhere to be seen. What was going on here? Had I imagined everything that happened yesterday and today?

“Hey, songbird. I've been calling and calling, but you aren't answering your phone. For goodness' sake, what happened today?”

As soon as she turned to me I could see that the brooding, dismal Bridgy who went off with Owen a few hours earlier had completely disappeared. Her smile was wider than a four-lane highway, and her eyes sparkled the way they used to when we went into Manhattan to stare at the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. I had a fleeting memory of how we'd laugh because we could see the reflection of those thousands of lightbulbs in each other's eyes. Then we'd get frustrated when we looked in a little pocket mirror but couldn't see the tree lights reflected in our own eyes.

I blurted out the first thing that came into my mind. “The killer. They caught the killer.”

Bridgy did a double heel-to-toe rock and clapped her hands. “That's great news. Who was it? And why?”

I realized too late that whatever made Bridgy so upbeat, it wasn't the end of the investigation into Oscar's murder. I dreaded having to utter my next sentence. “I thought you were humming and swaying because the killer was caught and you were off the hook. What did happen at the sheriff's office?”

And that shot the sparkle right out of her eyes. Bridgy
walked to the freezer, stuck her head inside and came out with a tub of butter pecan ice cream. She set it on the counter and grabbed some chocolate sauce from the refrigerator.

She looked at me. “Well, get some spoons.” And she marched into the dining room.

We sat with the half-empty ice cream container between us. Bridgy dribbled chocolate sauce on top of the ice cream, and we dug in. After four or five minutes Bridgy set her spoon on the table. “Okay, do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

“Bad news.”

Bridgy sighed. “You
always
pick bad.”

“Naturally. I like to get it out of the way. So tell me. The bad news happened when you went to meet with Lieutenant Anthony, right?”

Bridgy's shoulders dropped. “It was awful. He hammered away with the same questions, over and over again. I felt like . . . like he was trying to trip me up. I will say Owen was wonderful. He kept jumping in by saying, ‘Asked and answered,' but the lieutenant had a dozen different ways to ask why I went out to the van, what I did when I found Oscar, and why I said, ‘He's dead. I'm sorry,' rather than ‘I'm sorry he's dead.' Really? Who pays attention to sentence structure at a time like that?”

I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I focused on praising Owen rather than dissecting Frank's questions. “It's a good thing Owen was with you. Afterward did he say anything about another lawyer?”

“You mean a criminal lawyer? Owen told me straight out it might come to that, but so far, he hasn't said it's necessary.” She dipped into the ice cream and came up with a drippy spoonful of butter pecan with chocolate syrup
puddled in the middle. “Oh, this is melting fast. Do you want more or should I put it away?”

“You stay right there. I'll take care of it.” I cleared the table, put the ice cream away and rinsed our spoons at the sink. When I came back with a spray bottle and cloth to wipe down the table, Bridgy was gazing out the window in the general direction of Oscar's last parking space. “Ophie was still here when I came in. She was really down in the dumps. I guess she's worried about you.”

“Not at all. She's upset about the good news. Don't look so puzzled. There is only one thing that could make me happy and Ophie crazy all at the same time.” Bridgy jumped out of her chair and started waltzing around the room singing something I didn't quite recognize. Then I realized it was one of the songs from the movie
Frozen
.

“What? Ophie is mad about
Frozen
? Is the community center putting on a show and she didn't get the part of Elsa?”

Bridgy giggled. “Don't be silly. Even she knows she's too old to play Elsa. Or Anna, for that matter.”

I was starting to wish I'd paid more attention to the movie. I knew there was a clue buried in Bridgy's rambling.

She gave me an exaggerated wink. “Get it? Elsa and Anna? Sisters. Ophelia and Emelia. Sisters!”

“Your mother? She's coming here? When?” I grabbed Bridgy's hands and swung her in a circle. “No wonder you're so happy.” Then I came to a dead stop. “Wait a minute. Why is Ophie so miserable?”

“For the same reason I am so happy. My mother will be here the day after tomorrow.”

I stopped spinning. “But they're sisters. What did I miss? Did they have a falling-out? When?”

“Only for the last thirty or so years.”

I was totally baffled. “We've spent holidays together, even long weekends. I never noticed any . . . problems. Are you sure?”

“Oh, they manage well enough for brief get-togethers like holidays and birthdays, but my mother is coming here tomorrow with an open-ended plane ticket. It's the potential time frame that has Ophie frazzled. Mom will tell her to act her age once too often, and then the bickering will begin. Think your average six-year-olds fighting over the last available swing on the play set.” Bridgy chuckled. “At least they're not boring. And they do love each other. It is just that Emelia thinks she knows what's best for Ophelia, while Ophelia thinks of Emelia as her little sister who should keep her two cents to herself. And you do have to wonder what Grandma was thinking with these Ophelia, Emelia names. Like rhyming was going to make them closer. My father once mused that he thought the name game might be part of the problem. I mean, they're not clones. They're not even twins.”

“Oh please. Remember Laura and Lauren Moderno? The twins who battled each other all through elementary school? The smartest thing their parents ever did was to send them to different high schools.” I patted Bridgy's hand. “I'm so glad that I have you for my bestie. Closest I'll ever have to a sister.” I grabbed my keys off the counter. “And in the name of sisters everywhere, let's take a ride up to visit Tony the Boatman. I'll drive.”

Bridgy tucked a blond curl behind her ear and lowered her eyelids. “I hate to be a spoilsport, but I am so wiped. I'm not sure I could handle a kayak paddle, even if we took out a two-seater and I only had to do half the work.”

“Well, if you are too tired to paddle around the bay, I guess we'll just have to limit ourselves to following up a lead on a genuine suspect in Oscar's murder.”

Bridgy's eyes flew wide open. “A suspect? You mean someone besides me is a suspect? Let me get my purse.”

Traffic on Estero Boulevard was lighter than usual, and within a few minutes I was sliding the Heap-a-Jeep into a prime spot in the parking lot at Bowditch Point Park.

When we got to Tony's boat dock, I was delighted that he was busy cleaning out bait buckets. I wanted to talk to him without customers milling around and listening in. Over time we'd become friends. Tony liked us because when we rented canoes or kayaks we returned them on time. We liked him because he knew everything that happened for miles around and wasn't above sharing information.

“Hey, ladies.” Tony took off his straw panama hat, waved it in our direction and plunked it back on his head. “Haven't seen you for a while. Want to spend an hour or so on the water? I just got a couple of new Wilderness kayaks with really comfy seats—great stability and excellent ventilation. Heat won't get you, that's for sure.” The red kerchief tied around his neck was soaked with perspiration, and his Hercule Poirot–style mustache was a bit grayer and more straggly than when we'd last visited.

“I wish we could, but, well, we had a little trouble in the café parking lot, and I was wondering if you could help us out.”

He looked from me to Bridgy and back again. “Is this about Oscar? Heard about that. What's this island coming to?”

We commiserated for a couple of minutes, and then Tony asked what help we needed.

Bridgy raised her hand like a third grader who wasn't quite sure of the answer but decided to take a stab at it. “I found Oscar. After he was killed, I'm the one who found him.”

Tony took off his hat again, wiped his brow with his forearm and stared at the sky. “That's a heavy burden for a young'un such as yourself.” He flexed his muscles and expanded his massive chest. “Big guy like me, no problem, but you . . . I am sorry for your trouble. How can I help?”

“Sheriff's deputies have interviewed Bridgy twice already. We think they should start looking someplace else.”

“Where did you have in mind? You think someone hated his driving that much?” Tony chuckled, but when we didn't respond to his joke, he moved right back to serious. “Well, if you're here, then you think Oscar might have had a problem concerning boats. Is it the
Fisherman's Dream
you're looking for?”

“We're not sure. We heard around town that Oscar crewed part-time on a fishing boat.”

“Yep. That'd be the
Dream
, all right. Oscar used to fill in when guys were out sick, on vacation, like that.”

I felt like we were finally on the right track. “‘Used to' is the key phrase. Rumor has it Oscar got into a fight with another deckhand. A real fight, with fists flying. We heard that fight cost Oscar his job.”

Tony cupped his chin with his thumb and forefinger, then ran his fingers across his stubble. “That could be. Oscar wasn't a fighter, but he didn't like to be pushed
around. Antoine Jackson is the man you need to speak to. He's the ship's captain. I hear he's a fair-minded boss, but, working for myself, I've come to the place where I don't think much of any boss, if you get my drift.”

Bridgy and I'd often talked about how the freedom to make our own decisions overrode the difficulties of running our own business. It was a comfort to hear that Tony felt the same way. I steered him back to the matter at hand.

“Where can we find Mr. Jackson?”

“Call him Mister and there will be a ruckus sure as I'm standing here. Call him Captain Jackson, you might twist him around your pretty little finger and find out what you want to know. He docks the
Fisherman's Dream
over on San Carlos Island, just south of the bridge. So I guess I really can't talk you into trying my new kayaks. You got somewhere else to be.”

I stretched up on my tiptoes and planted a kiss on his grizzled cheek. “We'll be back for that kayak ride soon enough. Right now it's time for us to cross the bridge and see what we can learn on the
Fisherman's Dream
.”