Augusta picked up a napkin and wiped her mouth with more grace than I’d noticed her use in the past, and sat back in her chair.
She looked thoughtful. I wondered if she’d fully absorbed all that had happened or if it was now beginning to sink in.
“I’m going to need a bit of help. With Delia gone so quick, there’s lots to do.”
She noticed my eyes slue to the address book and took my meaning.
“Nope. I can make the calls. Better that way. Delia’s nephews wouldn’t take kindly to getting a call from a stranger.”
Nephews?
“But I’m going to need you to take on the important chores. Things I can’t do because I’ll be tied up with the paperwork and the funeral and such.”
I nodded, not at all sure what could be more important than seeing Miss Delia laid properly to rest surrounded by family and friends sadly saying good-bye. But whatever Augusta wanted, I’d make sure it was done. I had a vague idea that she’d need help with shopping, cooking and perhaps I could even lend a hand hostessing the post-funeral meal. Food wasn’t my area of expertise, but Bridgy would help. And Ophie.
“Of course. Tell me what you need. I’m available for whatever you want me to do. Everyone is.”
It was important that Augusta knew she wasn’t alone. Her friends and neighbors would do whatever we could to make this tragedy bearable. In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined what she wanted.
“I need you and Bridgy and whoever else you think can help us to search the island and find them who killed Delia. Then we’ll show those rascals some of grampa’s island justice.
“Now let me get to who needs calling.”
Chapter Six ||||||||||||||||||||
The next few hours were such a blur I barely had time to wonder what “grampa’s island justice” could possibly entail. Tarring and feathering crossed my mind, along with an old-fashioned wooden stockade.
Augusta moved resolutely from one chore to another as if she were ticking off the items on a mental list of things to be done. I hovered around, responding to her modest requests. She asked me to look up some phone numbers and to check the kitchen for finger foods, make a shopping list, things of that sort. When she was occupied, I was free to wander off to do anything I thought would be helpful, like making a pitcher of sweet tea and giving the company dishes a rinse in case they hadn’t been used for a while. The china pattern reflected Augusta’s sharp personality. The stark white dinner plates were nearly round but had twelve straight edges that met at tiny points with a raised rose design. I flipped to the back of one plate. Rosenthal. Germany. Maria pattern. Somehow I expected even Augusta’s best tableware to be more contemporary and certainly less expensive. Bridgy would love these dishes.
I kept one ear open, following Augusta’s phone conversations, so I could appear instantly if she got rattled. Apparently there were two nephews down in Everglades City, neither of whom seemed to respond with any great sorrow to the news of their Aunt Delia’s death. At least that was the impression from Augusta’s end of the telephone calls. Still, Augusta bullied them until it was agreed that one would say the eulogy and the other would sing a hymn, which pleased Augusta to no end.
“The young one sings in his church choir. I heard him a few times. Nice strong voice. Not feeble-voiced like Delia.”
After speaking to family members, Augusta dialed the Michael J. Beech Funeral Home, colloquially called the “Rest in Beech” by longtime island residents. I was thankful Fern Lester answered the phone. Fern was a regular at several of our book clubs and knew Augusta well enough to give the help she needed without bumping up against Augusta’s crusty independent streak. They were chatting about floral arrangements garnished with seashells when I heard footsteps on the porch. Pastor John Kendall was balancing a covered glass casserole dish firmly against his chest and holding a bouquet of flowers. He was about to tap on the wooden frame of the door with an elbow when he saw me through the screen.