Well Read, Then Dead(110)

            I so loved my swingy new hair that I turned the splurge into a spree and decided on a mani-pedi in neon raspberry, complete with white daisies on random fingers and toes.

            Bridgy and Ophie put their heads together and decided that I shouldn’t get up early and open with them on the morning of my first day back, so they arranged for Cady to pick me up and drive me to the café during the lull between late breakfast and early lunch. They weren’t taking “no” for an answer.

            I was gussied up and ready to go when Cady pulled into the building driveway. He actually whistled, which flustered me a tad.

            “You look wonderful. You’re glowing.” Then he blew it. “You should get hit in the head more often. Er, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” His cheeks turned redder than my hair.

            I shrugged it off. “For a reporter you really don’t have a way with words. New hair.” I waggled my fingers in his face. “And new nails.”

            “Okay, nice,” was all he could manage, probably afraid to move further into foot in mouth territory. He threw the gear shift and off we went.

            I’d been away from the Read ’Em and Eat for less than two weeks, but when we pulled up in front I felt at peace the way folks do when returning from an extra-long vacation. I was finally home.

            Cady opened the door and, gentleman that he always was, stepped aside so I could walk in first.

            I took one step inside and was floored by voices yelling, “Welcome back!”

            Bridgy wrapped her arms around me, gave a tight squeeze and whispered, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again.”

            “Like what?” I feigned ignorance.

            “Like solving a murder, you dope. Come say hello.”

            Tears welled up. I tried to brush them away but they kept coming. Then Bridgy started crying, too. Ophie thrust paper napkins in our hands and flipped the sign on the front door from “open” to “closed.”

            I was thrilled to see Miguel, crutches leaning on the back of his chair, sitting next to Miss Augusta. I wondered if they were talking about Bow.

            Pastor John and Jocelyn rushed forward, each pushing a bouquet of wildflowers at me. Resisting the temptation to annoy Jocelyn by reaching for John’s first, I stepped back.

            “Why, these are such lovely flowers. Ophie, could you please?” Then I leaned toward the Kendalls, whispering, “Still wobbly, you know.”

            Pastor offered me his arm and led me to Emily Dickinson. When we reached the table Miss Augusta stood.

            “Sassy, I can’t thank you enough for tracking down Delia’s killer. I was wrong about the wreckers, but you kept your promise. Not everyone does.”

            I started to cry again and enveloped her in a gentle hug. She squeezed me back.

            “Sit down, right there in Delia’s seat. Lots of folks want to thank you all proper-like.”

            And for the next twenty minutes I felt like the Queen of Fort Myers Beach granting audiences to her loyal subjects. More than a dozen of our regular customers and nearly every member of the café book clubs came by to say how glad they were to see me, how happy they were that I was all right. I blushed when Connie and Iris, the two newbies from the Potluck Book Club, presented me with a golden-wrapped box of chocolates. Iris remembered aloud that when they first came to book club they were uneasy about the murder—Miss Augusta flinched at the word—but it turns out they’d met a heroine.

            According to Maggie, Holly wanted to skip school and join us, but since she missed a day for Delia’s funeral, Maggie put her foot down.