Read to Death (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

Everyone stopped. It was as though we were kids playing Red Light, Green Light and Owen yelled “Red light.” In fact, he hadn't uttered a sound.

Emelia rushed to Bridgy and gave her a kiss. I heard her ask Owen if she could go with them, and I was surprised she didn't argue when he shook his head. She walked them to the door, started back to us and then made a turn into the kitchen. I was grateful that Sage left the club meeting and followed her. I doubted Miguel was equipped to handle a frantic mother.

The clubbies, realizing that there were more serious things swirling around us than a disagreement about a book club selection, quieted down.

Angeline cleared her throat and said that she decided to read both books because she had the time. After reading
Julie and Julia
, she went on to read
My Life in France
.
“I enjoyed it so much that I bought a copy of
Mastering the Art of French Cooking,
written by Julia Child herself along with another woman. It's the cookbook that Julie used on her blog, and later in the book.”

That led to a conversation about how Julie made cooking seem so hard while Julia made it seem so easy. Blondie Quinlin opened her copy of
Julie and Julia
to a page she had bookmarked. “Right here Julie says that ‘“simple” is not exactly the same as “easy.”' Once you look at it that way . . .”

Emelia came out of the kitchen, her eyes red, and she was wringing a paper towel in her hand. She patted my shoulder and then sat quietly, half listening to the group banter. Sage was nowhere to be seen. I hoped she wasn't fiddling with Miguel's kitchen. She had a penchant for poking around in drawers and cupboards. Miguel kept everything so organized I feared Sage would get in his way.

Jocelyn, having been neutralized in the clash about proper language, was determined to be right about something. She insisted that we had no way of knowing how much of
My Life in France
was written by Julia Child since she collaborated with her great-nephew, Alex Prud'homme.

A lively discussion ensued. The tone was civil, everyone was pleasant and I started to relax. Then the front door opened. Emelia and I turned, hopeful that Bridgy was back, only to see Ophie twirl in on her usual high-heeled sandals, this pair turquoise with rhinestone trim. The color was only a shade or two darker than her surplice dress. Emelia stiffened immediately.

“So sorry I'm late, y'all. What are we up to?”

Hoping to move the conversation to safer ground, I rolled back to Blondie quoting that simple did not mean easy when it came to recipes.

“Of course it does. All you've got to do is follow along with any of Rachael Ray's
30 Minute Meals
recipes.” Ophie nodded as if that settled it.

“How can you say such a thing?” Emelia exploded. “Julia Child has presented cooks with brilliant recipes since Mama was a young bride. That Rachael Ray is a newcomer. I bet she uses slick tricks for quick fixes. I bet you never even read either of these books.” And she pointed to the two books in my lap.

“You don't know what you're talking about. I read the Meryl Streep movie book, the one with the young girl trying to cook. Amy Adams played her in the movie, and all I'm saying is that Rachael Ray would have made it much easier to fix those fancy meals.”

Not smart enough to see that the argument between the sisters had nothing to do with cooks or cookbooks, Angeline Drefke tried to intercede. “Well now, that might be a topic for us at a future meeting. Everyone could read a cookbook written by a different chef, and then we could all bring our opinions to the club for discussion.”

She waited. And waited.

When no one said a word, Angeline got the message. “Of course I'm going home to Pennsylvania soon. This is my last meeting. Still, you could think about what I said.”

I was hugely grateful to see Miguel come out of the kitchen carrying a large platter that had an appetizing tower of . . . I wasn't sure. Pancakes? When he set the
platter on Dashiell Hammett, I got a closer look. Crepes! I crossed my fingers in the hope that he didn't copy the spinach crepes that Julie made from Julia's recipe. I'd much rather a crepe dessert.

“Ladies, I present
Gâteau de Crêpes
. A cake made of pancakes. I read about the spinach, mushroom and Mornay sauce gâteau in the
Julie and Julia
book. I knew you would appreciate the concept, the design, but I took the liberty of adapting it to a dessert I used to make when I was pastry chef at the big resort at the south end of the island. I hope you will enjoy.”

He hoped we'd enjoy? Seriously? He had our undivided attention at “dessert.”

Miguel picked up a broad, flat knife from the platter and began cutting the gâteau into airy, elegant wedges. We could see about a dozen crepes were alternating with a white filling mixed with berries. He deftly set each wedge on a plate. I'm sure I would have managed to fumble the wedges until they broke into several pieces. Miguel had no such problem.

I passed the plates to the clubbies, who examined the wedges and pummeled Miguel with questions. How many crepes are in the stack? Ten. What kind of fruit is in the filling? Raspberries. What is the base of the filling? Vanilla cream.

Then Blondie Quinlin, who should have known better, set the usually unflappable Miguel off when she asked if he made each crepe by hand or ordered a set from a bakery?

“
¿Por qué preguntas?
Why do you ask? When have I ever brought in commercial desserts? Commercial anything, for that matter.”

“Hold on to your britches there, Miguel. I didn't mean nothing by it. Just wondered where I could get these tasty pancakes. If they're only available here, that'll do me just fine.” She took another bite of the gâteau and sighed with delight.

Somewhat mollified, Miguel bowed to the group and went back into the kitchen. Now I really wondered what Sage was up to. She wouldn't even leave the kitchen to join us for dessert.

I offered iced tea and lemonade but had no takers. We ate in silence partly because the cake was so delicious but mostly because no one wanted to set off another round between the Brice babes.

The book clubs were my responsibility, and I thought I could end this disaster on a high note as long as everyone was eating.

I dreaded the question, especially after Angeline's recommendation, but it was our customary ending to every meeting. “Does anyone have a suggestion for next month's book?”

More silence.

Finally, Maggie squirmed in her chair. She was a little hesitant. “There is a series of books I've heard about called
Best Food Writing
, well, fill in the year. A writer named Holly Hughes has been editing a book each year for more than a decade. She gathers articles from all over the world that have been written about food or food preparation, sometimes even about how food is grown. I thought one of the volumes would be interesting reading for us.”

“Long as Miguel can find a recipe that goes with the
book, I'm fine with it.” Augusta took a meaningful bite of her gateau
,
effectively breaking the glacier that was rapidly enveloping the book nook.

Grateful that Ophie hadn't mentioned Rachael Ray again, I quickly answered, “That sounds like a great series. I don't have any on hand. Let me check with Sally, and if the library stocks the series, I'll put the most recent year on hold for us and order a few copies for the bookshelves.”

Maggie stood. “That sounds great. Hate to eat and run, but I have a class in a few minutes.” She patted her stomach. “After that delicious dessert, I'm going to have to work harder, but tell Miguel it was so worth it.”

The clubbies started rounding up their books and packing their totes and fanny packs. Everyone wished Angeline a safe trip “back north.” I thought it was really sweet when Blondie and Augusta said they hoped to see her next year.

Jocelyn took a parting shot. “Sassy, I really think you are going to have to read the book club choices
before
the club reads them. Decent women really can't be subjected to such language.” She took a few steps toward the door and then stopped to turn and wave her index finger at me. “Someone has to be the moral guardian, and as book club moderator, that job falls on your shoulders.” And she was gone.

Ophie looked at me. “Lord love a rock, what all is she yammering about now?”

With only Ophie and Emelia left in the book nook, conversation of any kind wasn't the best idea. I opened
Julie and Julia
to page eight and pointed to the offending word written repeatedly, sometimes in all capital letters.

Ophie was horrified. “Well, that doesn't match my image of Julia Child.”

Emelia snapped, “That's because it isn't Julia Child talking, which you would realize if you bothered to read the book.”

I slid away from them and pushed open the kitchen door, looking for reinforcements. “Sage, battle stations.” One look at Miguel's face, and I knew that whatever had been going on, there was no harmony in the kitchen, either. Couldn't anybody around here act like an adult?

Sage followed me back to the Brice babes, where Emelia was shouting that Ophie was so busy taking shortcuts through life and then was always surprised when she didn't know the full story.

Sage stopped me dead with a quick yank on my arm and put a finger to my lips. We stood by the counter and let the battle rage.

Although there were no actual years attached to the accusations being hurled, the gist was something like, “You ate my Milky Way” and “It was my Patti Playpal” and “You lost my library copy of
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
” None of those words were actually used, but the singsong tone of a sibling argument was definitely there.

I whispered to Sage, “Shouldn't we do something?”

She shook her head. “They're running out of steam.”

And she was right. Words that had been tumbling out of their mouths a few seconds ago were slowing to a normal pace and volume. Finally, Ophie took a deep breath, did that spin on her super high heels that she always manages to do without breaking a leg and walked past us with a wink and a smile. “I'll see y'all later.” She opened the front door and gave herself the final word. “Too bad that's how you feel, Emelia, but done is done.”

Sage poured a glass of sweet tea, handed it to Emelia and,
leaving an empty chair between them, sat down. No way I was joining them. Best to leave Sage to comfort Emelia. I knew we were all on edge because Bridgy was being interrogated again. I fled for the peace and quiet of the kitchen.

Miguel was scrubbing the top of his work counter. “
Chica,
is it possible to keep your mother out of my kitchen,
por favor
?”

I knew better than to tell him whose kitchen this actually was. Who paid the rent for the kitchen along with the rest of the café. I knew exactly what he meant—maybe not exactly, but I knew Sage well enough to know that she would easily find a way to interfere with how Miguel ran the kitchen, all the while thinking she was being helpful.

“I'll do my best. What is it? Your aura is too fuzzy when you stand by the stove?” I hoped that a good-humored poke would help Miguel shake off his dusty mood. No such luck.

“I took two packages of rosemary out of the refrigerator and was snipping them into small sprigs to sit decoratively along with a leaf of red lettuce on the serving plates tomorrow for any sandwiches that may be ordered. The rosemary is very fresh and adds a nice aroma to the plate without changing the flavor of the food.”

I knew before he said another word. Sage is in her earth phase. “She saw the bags and said you should be growing your own herbs instead of buying them.”

“
Sí,
but an herb garden is not practical with my wonderful Bow. She might chew on the herbs and make herself so sick.
Ay, no
.”

“Don't worry, Miguel. I'll distract Sage,” I said with far more confidence than I felt. I heard voices in the dining room. I stuck my head in the pass-through. Bridgy was
back. Emelia and Sage were fluttering around her, alternating between telling her that she was all right and begging her to tell them how she felt.

“Well, at least I'm not in jail.” Bridgy sounded more surprised than happy.

Chapter Twenty-five

“Now that's something worth celebrating.” I startled all three of them. As they turned toward the sound of my voice, Sage and Emelia burst out laughing. Sage said that my talking head popping out of the pass-through looked like a cross between a bobblehead doll and a jack-in-the-box.

That started Bridgy laughing. “I guess we're so used to using the pass-through that way, I don't think of it the way you do, but it is pretty funny.”

It was such a relief to see her laugh. I came out of the kitchen clapping my hands. “I have a terrific idea. Sage, do you remember when Bridgy and I moved down here you said you were a big fan of the writer Randy Wayne White? You know his hero, Doc Ford, lives on Sanibel Island right next door, don't you?”

“Of course I do. I still read every Doc Ford book. Why, in
Bone Deep
I learned so much about history and geology.”

That might have been the start of Sage's earth phase. I was never sure what moved her from one immersion to another. I once asked my father what he thought was the reason, and he said, “Your mother loves life and wants to touch every part of it.” I was beginning to agree.

“We're going to eat at Doc Ford's.”

Sage thought I was teasing. “Sassy, Doc is a character in a book. He's not real.”

“But his restaurant is.”

“Restaurant? There is a restaurant?”

“Randy Wayne White owns at least three Doc Ford restaurants on the barrier islands. The closest is right on San Carlos Island overlooking Matanzas Harbor. I say we go there for dinner tonight. Who's with me for shrimp and grits?”

Miguel came out of the kitchen dressed in his civvies—bright green surfer shorts and a black tank top. “What's this I hear? Shrimp and grits? Great idea. We haven't had that on the menu for a long time. I'll have to make some calls and see what I can get from the shrimp boats.” He turned and headed to the door. “
Buenas noches
.”

“Miguel, wait. We're going to Doc Ford's for dinner. Why don't you join us?”

“Thank you so much for asking, but tonight I am having company. My neighbor Liam Gerrity and his Tess are going to come for dinner. Cynthia Mays will be joining us for dessert. It is time for our annual hurricane planning meetings to begin.” And as he usually did when he left before we did, Miguel gonged the ship's bell outside the door as his final farewell.

Emelia said, “What an energetic man. He cooks all day and goes home and has a dinner party!”

“Miguel loves to cook. Besides, Miguel, Mr. Gerrity and Dr. Mays are the steering committee for the part of the Hurricane Evacuation Committee that deals with pet safety.”

Emelia looked puzzled, so I explained. “Back in the day, pets were not allowed in public shelters during hurricane emergencies. Most people didn't want to leave their pets behind when the families evacuated. It could be a death sentence for the animal. At the least it would be a frightening experience for a pet to be all alone during a raging storm. So Miguel and Dr. Mays, our local veterinarian, have been working on the annual preparation for pet shelters and shelters for families with pets since, well, at least since Hurricane Charley, and that was more than ten years ago.”

I was returning the book nook chairs to their tables, and Emelia helped as we talked. “And they do this every year?”

“They do. After they update the mainland shelter locations where pets will be welcomed and readapt last year's plan accordingly, they revamp the list of pets living on the island. They do this scrupulously prior to hurricane season, all the while hoping it won't be needed.”

Bridgy checked the supplies behind the counter while I ran a damp mop over the floor. In a few minutes we were set to go.

Since we had both cars with us, Bridgy took her car, and her mom and I took Sage in the Heap-a-Jeep. I looked on it as my opportunity to suggest that she stay out of Miguel's way in the kitchen.

“Really, my sweet delphinium, I am only trying to help. You have all this glorious weather, brilliant days full of
sunshine with just enough rain. Everything is lush and green. Why wouldn't Miguel want to grow his own herbs? Besides, it was only a suggestion.”

Having grown up under the command of Sage's “suggestions,” I knew a sledgehammer when it hit me, and I'm sure Miguel did, too. I remembered Bridgy talking about finding things to occupy Emelia. It was definitely time to introduce some tourist attractions to the moms.

“Sage, Miguel has a life and an adorable Maine Coon cat named Bow. She runs freely around his yard . . .”

“I know where you are going, but there is no reason why he couldn't grow his herbs in pots and train the cat to stay away from them.”

Sage had never met Bow. Train Bow. Ha!

It was not quite the beginning of the dinner rush, so Bridgy and I were able to park side by side. Sage was out of the car before I'd unbuckled my seat belt. “This is glorious. All blue sky and sea air. And look, there's the Doc . . .” She pointed to a wooden multistoried building topped by a green sign proclaiming “DOC FORD'S RUM BAR & GRILLE.”

We were not yet at the entrance when the door opened and Margo Wellington walked out, hanging on to the arm of a nattily dressed man. Margo blanched at the sight of us and dropped the man's arm as though it was on fire. Made me wonder who the man was. She recovered quickly and introduced us to her husband. Nothing off base, then. Perhaps we startled her by turning up unexpectedly and “catching” her eating in a place that wasn't the Read 'Em and Eat. I chuckled to myself.

Bridgy introduced the moms. Sage impulsively grabbed Margo and wrapped her in a hug. “Honey, your aura is so dark. I guess the murder had a deep effect on your psyche.”

I think we were all shocked when Margo's husband looked at her quizzically. “What murder? Margo, were you involved?”

Margo grabbed his arm and planted a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I didn't want to worry you. Let me out of your sight for half a day and there's a murder nearby. You wouldn't let me go as far as the supermarket by myself if you knew.”

Without giving the poor man a chance to answer, Margo smiled broadly, said, “Nice to meet you,” to the moms and pulled her husband toward their car.

I said, “That's so odd. The whole town is buzzing about Oscar's murder, and Margo didn't bother to tell her husband. What's up with that?”

“You heard her; she didn't want her husband to know she'd been in harm's way. Nothing unusual about that.” Emelia looked at Bridgy. “You know there are lots of things I don't tell your father.”

Bridgy sighed. “Mom, hiding the fact that you are a witness in a murder investigation is not the same as ripping the tags off an expensive new dress and calling it ‘this old thing' when Daddy says how nice you look.”

“I agree,” Sage said. “There is so much more here. I was shocked by her aura. That woman is paralyzed with fear and worry. Emelia, do you think when the girls are at work tomorrow we could visit Margo, find out more about her?”

I was never so grateful to have a hostess interrupt a conversation to lead us to a table. Although it was becoming clear how I got my nosy gene.

As soon as we were seated, I knew it was well worth the few minutes we had to wait to sit outdoors on the harbor side. The terraced patio was built of heavy wood and
decorated with potted palms. Every seat had a terrific view of the harbor.

Bridgy and I stuck with water, but the moms each ordered a glass of wine. Emelia led us in a toast about love, loyalty and family. As we clinked our glasses, I couldn't help but wonder if her definition of family included her sister Ophie.

We shared an appetizer of Caribbean Jerk Tostados while we waited for our entrées. I took one bite of the jerk chicken and Cuban black beans mixed with salad and covered with cheese, and I was in heaven.

“Try this.” I pushed the serving plate to Sage, who was leaning back in her chair and taking in the view.

I followed her gaze. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Oh, it is. Magnificent, really. What are all those boats?”

“Those are fishing boats.”

Emelia piped up. “You mean like the charter boats my husband's firm rents for the annual company fishing trip?”

“Mom, these boats are the real deal. Look at the size of them. They're commercial fishing boats. Maybe the crusted grouper you're waiting for came in on one of those boats this morning. Fort Myers Beach is a major hub for commercial fishing. It's probably one of the largest fleets in the Gulf of Mexico. The old-timers will tell you that around here there was a time that shrimp was called ‘pink gold.'”

The server brought our meals. The food was plated artfully. I knew Miguel would approve. Except for the occasional “um-hum” or “so good,” we were too focused on our food to talk.

Emelia held a forkful of grouper in front of her. “Fresh fish caught in the Gulf of Mexico. I had no idea. Tell me more.”

Bridgy shook her head. “Don't have to. I can send you to the experts. There is a tour. The Fort Myers Beach Working Waterfront Tour. It starts right around here someplace. First there is a history lesson, and then the tour includes a visit to the docks and you'll learn everything there is to know about the commercial fishing industry.”

“I want to go. Sage?”

“Oh yes, of course. Sounds fascinating.”

I liked the sound of that. A guarantee that I could keep her out of Miguel's kitchen at least one day.

When we got back to the Turret, Sage opted for a shower and Emelia went off to catch up on her email. Bridgy and I stretched out on the patio.

Bridgy said, “That was a great dinner.”

I agreed and added, “And you are a genius telling the moms about the waterfront tour. That should keep Sage out of Miguel's hair for a while.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

I told her about the herb incident and was surprised when she laughed. “Your mother is something else. I wouldn't have the nerve . . .”

“She doesn't know any better.”

“Ah, but you do.”

“I know. I should have told her not to bother Miguel.”

“That's not what I meant. Didn't you say Skully is fixing something at Pastor John's?”

“Crossbeam in one of the outbuildings.”

“And who knows more about the outdoor life of this area?”

“No one. I get it. I get it. I bet he knows a place where he can show Sage all the natural Florida plants and herbs and whatever. And I bet Emelia would go along. If I can talk him into taking the moms around for a day . . .”

“We could pay him. Like a tour guide,” Bridgy offered, but I knew that Skully would never accept money. We'd have to think of another reward.

“That's two days that we can keep the moms out of our way. Should we try for three?”

Bridgy was moving further and further away from the thing I wanted her to tell me. “Before the moms pop out here, how did it go at the state attorney's? You didn't seem too upset.”

“I couldn't cry in front of the moms.”

As soon as my face crumpled, she punched me in the arm. “Just joking. This was so much better than being interviewed by Lieutenant Anthony.”

I could understand that. Getting a dental cavity filled was better than being interviewed by Frank Anthony. But I wanted to hear everything.

“Hurry up before one of the moms comes looking for us.”