Caught Read-Handed (10 page)

As everyone was settling in their chairs, Maggie introduced her sister, Karen, to any clubbies she hadn't already met.

Lisette pulled small paper cups and a large spoon out of her bag. “Would anyone like some blueberries? I thought we could nibble while we talk.”

Only Sally didn't take a cup of berries. As the rest began munching, I asked a starter question. “What did you think of the concept of
Fictitious Dishes
and the layout?”

Augusta Maddox boomed her response. “When we talked about picking this 'un, I wasn't inclined but I went along with the group.” She stopped, looked at the other clubbies for a beat or two and then smiled. “Mighty glad I did. Top-notch idea, taking snippets about food from other books and then doing a fancy picture to show what the food might look like.”

Maggie nodded in agreement. “And the array of books!
When we first spoke about this book, it never occurred to me that the assortment would include children's books like
Bread and Jam for Frances
, and go all the way to classics like
On the Road
by Jack Kerouac and
One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel García Márquez.”

Lisette agreed. “The variety was stunning. I have to admit that I read this on my e-reader, and I was wondering if, later, I could borrow someone's book so that I could see the pictures. I'm sure they are larger, more detailed than on the e-reader.”

Blondie Quinlin handed hers over immediately. “Keep it for a while. With Augusta's copy right next door, I can holler over the fence if I want to look at something again. Speaking about rereading”— she looked at Sally—“I'll be coming down to the library in the next day or so to check out a copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. The scene we have here”—she pointed to the book she'd just given away—“is so touching. Sums up the whole story, the Finch family eating a breakfast including the chicken Tom Robinson's father sent as payment for services.” She sighed. “I need to read that book again.”

Karen noted that she had never read
East of Eden
but was intrigued enough by the piece in
Fictitious Dishes
to try it. “I was never a fan of John Steinbeck, but the description of the relationship between the Trasks . . . well, I might give the book a try.”

I could see how excited Sally was getting. Anything that encouraged people to read more books warmed her librarian soul.

Conversation flew around the group with ladies laughing and turning pages to take another look at a passage from a
particular novel and the accompanying picture. I couldn't help but think how much nicer book club meetings were when Jocelyn Kendall wasn't among us.

Thinking of Jocelyn reminded me of Pastor John, which led me directly to Alan Mersky. I glanced at the wall clock. As soon as this meeting was over, I needed to talk to Maggie about the lawsuit, then call George to see how his day was going and, oh, what were we going to do about Tanya Lipscome's funeral? I had a long afternoon ahead.

The conversation was moving along without me so I looked around for Bridgy, wondering if I might slip away for a few moments and find out what had upset her when she went to look for Elaine. A couple, mid-fifties, and their inquisitive grandson were sitting at Robert Frost. The grandfather was patiently reading “The Road Not Taken” from the laminated tabletop, and the child kept stopping him to ask questions like “Why was the wood yellow?” and “What is ‘undergrowth'?”

Honestly! They should have sat at Dr. Seuss. It gave me a good excuse to leave the book corner. Bridgy came out of the kitchen with a plate of black bean dip and crackers, and I was able to stop her before she reached the family. “Did you suggest Seuss?”

She sighed. “I did, but according to Grandpa, sonny boy is too advanced for such childish things.”

I gawked at them and pivoted back to Bridgy. “The boy can't be more than six or seven. How is that too old for Dr. Seuss?
I
still love to read Seuss.”

“You also wear Winnie the Pooh footie pajamas, and I bet they wouldn't let the kid have those, either.”

While I had her attention, I decided to ask. “Elaine? You looked, I don't know, disturbed.”

As she shook her head, her golden hair circled into a halo and then fell back into place. “Later. But I warn you, it's a long story.”

I slid back into my seat, wondering how long the story could really be. Bridgy was only outside for a few minutes. I was drawn back into the conversation when Sally asked how we enjoyed the footnote-ish sentences about each author, book and food that fell between the quote from the book and the picture of the food.

Lisette said she loved the section on Beverly Cleary's
Beezus and Ramona.
She had no idea that there were eight Ramona books spanning Ramona's age from four to ten. “More books to entertain the nieces and nephews.”

Completely switching topics, Lisette continued. “Am I the only one who didn't know that Patricia Highsmith referred to her Tom Ripley books as the ‘Ripliad'? How many Ripley books were there, anyway?”

We all knew
The Talented Mr. Ripley
. Then it got dicey. I seemed to remember a title where Ripley was under something. Out loud I tried “under trees” and “under rocks” but nothing sounded right.

Sally, ever prepared, did a quick search on her phone and read off all five titles. I was pleased that Highsmith wrote both
Ripley Under Ground
and
Ripley Under Water
. I felt like quite a smart book maven.

Maggie was still interested in why Highsmith called the collection of Ripley novels the “Ripliad.” “Do you think she started out thinking she'd write a trilogy and merged the word ‘triad' with Tom Ripley's last name, and then when the public clamored for more, well by then she'd already coined ‘Ripliad'?”

We were murmuring about the possibility when Bridgy came and leaned over my shoulder. “Excuse me, ladies, it sounds like you're having a grand time. I hate to interrupt but Miguel has made a delicacy based on one of the foods in the book and he sent me out to take orders for drinks.”

Augusta and Karen opted for water while the rest of us asked for sweet tea.

Blondie looked directly at me. “What did he make?”

I shrugged. “Miguel never said a word and I didn't see any signs of anything out of the ordinary when I was in the kitchen earlier.”

“Well, I'll be happy as long as it ain't that gruel from
Oliver Twist
.”

Maggie shuddered. “So true. Even the picture of the bowl of gruel was depressing.” Then she glanced toward the kitchen door and whispered, “Well, if Miguel chose to cook the gruel, we should all be polite about it.”

That set us into gales of laughter.

Bridgy served the water and sweet tea and Miguel, his
toque blanche
sitting on his head at a rakish angle, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of avocado halves stuffed with crab salad. Each avocado half was plated on a large lettuce leaf with sliced cucumbers and a sliver of orange, exactly as pictured in
Fictitious Dishes.

Sally clapped her hands in delight. “
The Bell Jar
. Oh Miguel, this is so wonderful. That was the one book that I was determined we would speak about and then we got swept away in other books, other issues and well, now you've reminded me.”

I got up and helped Bridgy serve while Miguel stepped to
the side and waited for the clubbies' responses after they tasted his surprise. I was pleased that he'd made enough so that Bridgy and I could each have one. I loved trying his “off menu” specialties, any one of which could easily become “on menu” stars.

I nibbled on the crab salad and it was tangy and delicious. Then I took a bit of smooth, cool avocado on my fork along with a dab of salad and oh, the melding of flavor was delightful.

The clubbies were silent for a bite or two and then Augusta Maddox spoke for all of us when, in her deep baritone, even louder than usual, she said, “This is the best danged crab concoction I ever ate. Only thing that could make it better would be a couple of fingers of corn likker.”

Everyone laughed. Augusta's fondness for Buffalo Trace was well known among her friends and acquaintances.

“Mmmm. Augusta is right. This crabmeat is outrageous. So fresh.” Maggie swooned in mock ecstasy. “Where did you get it?”

“Pine Island, of course. I had it delivered this morning.” Miguel tried to look modest but he was beaming at all the praise being heaped on his newest recipe.

His answer took me back. “How did you sneak it in?” I waggled a finger between Bridgy and me. “We were here all morning.”

Now it was Miguel's turn to laugh. “
Chica
, my morning starts much earlier than your morning. And the fishermen, they are early birds, too. I called in the order yesterday and it was delivered a few minutes past six
A.M
.”

One more example of why Miguel was such a treasure. He could and did handle anything to do with the kitchen. I
wondered if he and Bridgy had reached any agreement about which ice machine to buy. I'd check later.

There were no more diners in the café, only the book club members and they, along with Bridgy and Miguel, were having a rip-roaring good time talking about ingredients and passing open books around, having jocular arguments about which book had the most exotic-looking food, the most gorgeous picture and the most mind-grabbing story.

Blondie Quinlin was arguing strongly for
Gone with the Wind
, while Augusta Maddox was a big supporter of
Robinson Crusoe
, which she considered a “seafaring” book. Everyone jumped into the fray and another twenty minutes passed by.

Finally, Sally stood. “It's been grand, ladies. I am always glad to join any of the book club meetings, but duty beckons and I really must get back to work.”

There was a large chorus of “Thanks for coming” and “See you soon.”

“Library lady is right. Time to go. Things to do.” Augusta shoved her book back into the denim tote she carried, a sure sign that, for her at least, the meeting was over.

“Okay then, has anyone an idea of what we should read for our next meeting?”

Sally was halfway to the front door but stopped to see if anyone had suggestions.

Lisette turned her palms up to the group. “How could we possibly find a book that we'll all enjoy as much as this one?”

The clubbies looked at one another but no one had a suggestion.

Sally walked back to us. “I know I'm not a regular, but
if I may make a suggestion . . .” She fiddled with her iPhone and held up a picture of a bright red book cover titled with large yellow letters. “It's called
A Fork in the Road
and was published by Lonely Planet. Chefs and writers got together and each wrote a few pages about a fabulous foodie experience, often to do with travel. I think it would make a nice follow-up. Sassy?”

By then I was looking at the book on the screen of my cell phone. It was reasonably priced and not overly long. “Looks good to me. Ladies?”

Nods all around. Sally said the library had two copies, which she would put on hold for the club members as soon as she got back to the library. I said I'd order copies for the bookshelves later in the afternoon. Settled in a snap.

Each clubbie stopped to personally thank Miguel for his marvelous avocado stuffed with crab salad and then they left in twos and threes. When Maggie Latimer and her sister Karen stopped to say good-bye to Miguel, Maggie asked if we'd see the stuffed avocado on the menu soon. Miguel looked at me. I was quick to answer, “The kitchen is Miguel's domain with an assist from Bridgy. Whatever they do is fine with me.”

Bridgy responded immediately. “You can expect to see the avocado dish on the specials board once a week for the next month. Then we'll decide whether to make it a regular menu item during crab season.”

I touched Maggie's elbow. “Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk to you.”

Karen immediately stepped back. “If this is private . . .”

Maggie sent me a questioning look.

“The Lipscome lawsuit,” I said quietly.

Maggie took Karen by the arm and led her back to the book corner. “Come, little sister. Sassy and I have to talk, but it's nothing you can't hear.”

As we arranged ourselves in a small circle, I accepted that the fun had gone out of the day. For now, we would focus on the lawsuit filed by one of my good friends against a woman who was now a murder victim. Could that make Maggie a suspect, too?

“Honestly, I didn't want to sue,” Maggie began, “but there didn't seem to be anything left to do. Some of us tried to talk sense to Mrs. Lipscome but she was opposed to even the tiniest compromise. Still, her husband had little to say and we thought he might persuade her to come around. After all, he's a builder and, I would think, used to compromising on these land issues. Some of us thought the lawsuit would get his attention.”

Noticing that Karen was looking perplexed, Maggie gave her sister a brief summary of what led up to the lawsuit between the residents of Moon Shell Drive and the Lipscome family, and then turned back to me. “Cordelia Ramer, rabid environmentalist and flame-throwing gossip, is the one who got the neighbors all riled up.”

I interrupted. “I thought Otto Ertz was the ringleader.”

Maggie rubbed her hands together and folded them on
the table like a prim schoolmarm in an old western movie. “Otto is the muscle but Cordelia is the mouth. I sometimes think that if the block had another spokesperson, we might have reached an amicable solution long before now, but Cordelia is fixated on saving every mangrove tree, every sea grape bush and every bog white violet on the entire island. She is determined that there will be no construction on Moon Shell Drive, period. And now that poor Mrs. Lipscome is dead, it's likely Cordelia will get her way.”

Maggie's hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh, I didn't mean Cordelia would kill . . .”

“Of course not, but perhaps you should talk to Ryan about the neighborhood group.”

She gave a slight head bob. “I will. The deputies knocked on everyone's door. I wasn't home. They left a phone number but, well, I've been out and about. I taught double classes yesterday and Holly is in a play in school. Yesterday I had to pick her up after rehearsal. I assumed the deputies would come back. Maybe they have. I'm still not home.”

Maggie seemed so distressed that her sister started to rub her shoulders. I knew I'd led her to feel bad, so I quickly changed the subject straight to Tanya Trouble. “You know, I only saw Mrs. Lipscome once and, frankly, she wasn't at her best. What was she like as a neighbor?”

Maggie's eyes pleaded with me not to take her down that path.

“Maggie, the woman is dead. If there is anything that could help us figure out why, well, you really should let everyone know.”

Karen's head popped up when I said “help us figure out why,” and I realized I might not have used the best phrasing.

I tried again. “Perhaps talking about her will jog loose a memory that we can tell the deputies and it will lead them to solve her murder.”

I could see both sisters were happier with that line of reasoning. I waited a full minute and prodded gently. “So, Maggie, how would you describe Tanya Lipscome?”

“I really don't like to gossip but . . . well, to be honest, Tanya was brash and loud. She was flashy and, more than anything, she loved to throw her husband's money around. That's why she had a cigarette lighter that cost more than some of the condos on the island.”

“I know. I saw it. Talk about flashy. I wondered if it was real gold and diamonds or if she was playing—”

Maggie cut me off. “Oh, it was real enough. Remember Reba Whalen? She moved to Sarasota a few years back? Well, anyway, she was great friends with Tanya Lipscome. They went everywhere together. And when Barry bought Tanya the lighter, Reba went with her to get the appraisal for the insurance. I always thought Tanya really brought Reba along as a witness for the island chatterboxes. That lighter appraised for, are you ready? More than seventy thousand dollars.”

That knocked the wind right out of me. “Wow. I never dreamed . . . I thought by expensive, we were talking in the few-thousand-dollar range.”

Maggie laughed. “That
would
be expensive for us. Not for the Lipscomes. Barry is rolling in money and Tanya reveled in it. Although to tell the truth . . .”

Her hesitation made me nervous. I was hoping Maggie had a golden nugget of information that she didn't realize was important. She was just getting comfortable talking
when she stopped. Still, I didn't want to push for fear of damaging our friendship. And, of course, I didn't want her sister to think that I was a buttinski pumping Maggie for all the gossip I could get. That description did feel uncomfortably close to the truth. Still, I sat silently, hoping Maggie would fill the void. At long last she did.

“Well, I don't know how to say it so I'll say it right out. I think Barry was getting tired of her shenanigans.”

That piqued Karen's curiosity. “Why would you think that? How well do you know the husband? Did he say something? Do something?”

“A few months ago he started coming home very late in the evenings. And they would have fights. Not, you know, ‘you forgot to take out the garbage again' or ‘how could you buy another dress after I told you money was tight this month' kind of skirmishes. Raucous battles, voices getting higher and higher.” She heaved a great sigh. “Just when I'd decide to call 911, they'd go silent, as if they'd abruptly realized that they could probably be heard up and down the beach.”

“And the night Tanya died?”

“Not a peep. A normal quiet night. For a while we sat on the patio. All I heard was the murmured conversation of people out for a stroll, the sandpapery sound of someone scraping his barbeque, and of course, the croaking and squealing of the egrets as they finished their dinner and got ready for bed.

“Then Karen, Holly and I went into the kitchen and played Apples to Apples, so you know we were laughing long and loud. We were too noisy to hear anything but each other. But tell me about this veteran and how you know his family.”

“I'd seen Alan once at the library and he reminded me
of my old boss, so I gave George a call and sure enough they're brothers.” I shared a bit of what George told me about Alan's history and then mentioned that Pastor John and the veterans filled us in on Alan's present way of life.

Maggie was genuinely surprised. “How could I not know about Pastor John's veterans program? We attend services at his church. Even if we were parishioners elsewhere, John's church is only a couple of blocks from my house. You'd think I'd know.”

“Well, it's possible word didn't spread outside the veteran community.”

“Oh, but I could help. Yoga is being used in a number of places around the country to help combat PTSD. I've read about it in training manuals and magazines. I'll talk to Pastor John. Perhaps we could set up a program.” Her green eyes flashed joy at the prospect of assisting the veterans.

Karen added, “You could hold the class right in the church, since that is a place already familiar to the vets. They wouldn't even have to come to the studio.”

I agreed it was a fine idea and then pulled back to the topic that was of most concern to me at the moment. “Maggie, do you know much about Barry Lipscome's sons? Did they have anything to do with the neighbors?”

“Oh, you mean ‘spoiled' and ‘spoiled-er'? That's what Holly calls them. Can you believe the younger one began driving slowly past our house in that fancy convertible of his, and if Holly was outside, he'd ask her if she wanted to go for a ride? She's fifteen years old!”

I couldn't help but smile. Holly may be fifteen, but she is sharp as a whip and quite able to hold her own in adult conversation. I had to ask, “How did Holly respond?”

“You know Holly is the last person on earth to be intimidated. Afterward, she was elated. It's not often she gets a chance to tell off an adult. You had to see her dancing around the house singing that line from the Katy Perry song. Oh what is it? Something like ‘
I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar
.' She told me she ‘slagged him proper'—in teen talk that means she made fun of him. But you know, another girl, one less sure of herself, might have been persuaded to get in the car. Who knows what could have happened?”

I was shocked that a twentysomething-year-old-man would invite Holly to hop in his car. Showed his lack of character. Made me really want Maggie's impression of how the Lipscome sons got along with their stepmother.

I asked the question and Maggie answered. “Anyone will tell you neither of the sons could stand Tanya. They were barely civil when their father was around and downright rude when he wasn't.”

I was hoping for examples but Maggie's cell phone rang. She answered, hung up and turned to Karen. “Want to take a ride? Holly missed the school bus. Insert enormous sigh by overworked mother here.” She rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse and the sisters hurried out the door.

Bridgy was standing at the specials board, erasing today's tasty menu additions and writing tomorrow's. She looked around at the door as it closed behind Maggie and Karen and sang out, “Alone at last!” She sounded for all the world like an actress in a cloche hat and beaver-trimmed coat from a mid-1930s romantic comedy.

I went behind the counter and picked up the water pitcher, and in the vein of a tuxedoed lothario, waved the pitcher
toward Bridgy and asked in as deep a voice as I could muster, “Can I interest you in a drink, my fair maiden?”

We both laughed long and loud. I had to set the pitcher on the counter for fear I'd break it. Bridgy dropped her marker and it rolled across the floor.

I twirled an invisible mustache. “See, this is when we need those mustaches we wore at the Food Pantry fund-raising party last month. If I had one, I could have slapped it on my upper lip and twirled away. Really looked the part.” And we broke into peals of laughter again.

Acting goofy with a bestie is the greatest stress reliever known to womankind. And with all the chaos of the past couple of days, we needed to detox. I was wiping my eyes with a napkin and Bridgy was looking on the floor for the marker she'd dropped, when the front door opened. As soon as I heard the sound, I was annoyed with myself for not locking it when Maggie and Karen left, but when I turned, I was happy to see it was Mark Clamenta. He'd promised that the veterans would rally to help Alan and I hoped he had some good news.

When Mark saw that the café was empty he apologized for interrupting our break time. I got him a glass of sweet tea and beckoned him toward Robert Frost. He took a deep drink and set the glass on the table. “Ladies, I need a favor. I tried to get in to see Alan at the hospital but the regulations are ‘family only' for the first three days. Psych ward. Special rules. Could you put me in touch with his brother? I know he exchanged phone numbers with Pastor John, but, according to his wife, the pastor is out on parish business and I'd like to arrange to visit Alan with the family if I can. I am
at a loss to find a way to help, but maybe seeing Alan will trigger something.

I ripped a page from my order pad and scribbled George's phone number. I also wrote O'Mally's number in the hope that sooner or later she'd succeed in turning off George's phone so he could have a chance to rest. When I passed the paper to Mark, I said, “Bridgy and I have a plan that might be useful. Perhaps you'd like to help.”

He folded the paper and tucked it in his shirt pocket, and without even asking what we had in mind, gave me a thumbs-up. “I'm in.”