“Sassy, Miss Delia is dead and Miss Augusta is missing.”
I actually laughed at his rude joke. “Sometimes that newspaper reporter’s humor of yours is a little too dark for me.” I pointed through the window. “Miss Augusta is sitting right there, talking to Bridgy’s aunt.”
Cady peered through the window, and a look of relief swept across his face just as the wind blew, and this time he did slide his hand over his hair to push it back in place.
“Don’t be coming around with your tall tales, Cady. I don’t like it.” I tucked a stray hair off his forehead, one he’d missed. I hoped my touch would soften my words.
Cady put his hands on my shoulders. “Sassy, you have to be strong. The sheriff notified the News about Delia’s death a few minutes ago and said they can’t find Augusta. I came here because I know how much you care about those two old ladies. Thank God Augusta is okay. But Delia is definitely dead.” He pulled me to his chest, and, as I noticed a time or two before, his shoulder was comforting, and not a bit scrawny. He kissed the top of my head and said, softly, “And now someone has to tell Augusta.”
Chapter Four ||||||||||||||||||||
I wiped my eyes on the hem of my apron and took a couple of deep breaths trying to compose myself. Cady was still talking about ways we could gently break the horrible news to Augusta, but I was grappling with the newly empty space in my heart and the agitation swirling in my stomach. I prayed I wouldn’t heave.
The four vacationers came outside, laughing and joking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And I supposed that to them, nothing had. As they lifted their bikes off the rack, the onetime sailor yelled to Cady, “You’re a lucky man, fella. Your girlfriend serves a great breakfast. We’ll be back; you can bet on it.”
They mounted their bikes and looped toward the boulevard in a crooked semicircle, waving as they glided down the driveway. I managed a halfhearted salute in return and whispered to Cady, “I guess it’s time.”
As we came through the door, Bridgy, who was clearing tables, raised an inquiring eyebrow and I head-nodded toward the kitchen.
Aunt Ophie was chattering away, and I was surprised that Miss Augusta seemed engaged in the conversation. At least she hadn’t fallen asleep or shouted at Ophie to stop rambling, both things she’d done more than once in mid-conversation. The judge’s newspaper rustled as he turned a page. A couple of honeymooners who had turned up for a late-ish breakfast every morning for the past three days were holding hands and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes at Barbara Cartland in the far corner. I was grateful for the quiet.
Cady and I followed Bridgy into the kitchen. I waited for her to scrape the dishes and deposit them in the soaking sink. One look at my face told her I had bad news, which may be why she braced her back against the sink, elbows tucked over the metal lip.
I started to tear up again so I choked out the words. “It’s Miss Delia. She’s dead.”
Bridgy slumped, leaning more heavily on the sink. “Her heart? A stroke?”
Cady shook his head. “Not sure yet. The mail carrier saw her lying on the floor through the screen door this morning when he delivered the mail. He called 911 and the EMTs declared her at the scene.”
He was speaking in newsman shorthand but we got the message. Miss Delia was dead before the emergency medical technicians arrived.
“Augusta?”
“We’re going to tell her now. Could you call your aunt in here, so we can speak to Augusta privately?”
Bridgy stuck her head out the kitchen pass-through, called Ophie and ducked back into the kitchen. “She’ll know something is wrong if she gets a good look at me.”