Well Read, Then Dead(100)

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.

            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.