“Sassy, you’ve been a true friend and I’m sure going to call on you again, but me and Pastor have to make the tough arrangements with Fern and Mr. Beech down at the funeral parlor. I’m going to be busy, so I need you to take care of things for me.”
I squeezed her hand and nodded gently. I would do whatever she needed to help her get through these trying times. Of course I was still thinking more in terms of notifying folks and keeping the house neat and the kitchen well stocked during the wake and funeral. But Augusta continued to focus on finding the killer, or killers. Worse, she was sure she knew exactly who they were.
“Find me them wish-we-were-wrecker boys and the man that’s running them on these islands. They’re looking for treasure, no matter it’s not theirs to find or to keep. Delia knew a lot about the old days and where things are hid. I think them boys tried to find out from her and the talking moved to pushing and shoving.”
I gasped. If Jocelyn had left me unsure of what to say, Augusta left me downright speechless.
From the porch Pastor John called through the screen door, “I spoke to Fern. They are ready to see us, Miss Augusta.”
She put her hands on the table and pushed herself up with the exhaustive effort of a crew hoisting a beached whale back to the sea. She grabbed on to me so suddenly that I feared she’d lost her balance. I leaned in to steady her. Then she whispered in my ear.
“Find them wreckers.”
Chapter Seven ||||||||||||||||||||
I walked Augusta outside and handed her over to Pastor John, but not before I insisted she lock her front door. After they drove away I sank down on Augusta’s front steps for the second time in a few short hours. I pulled my cell out of my pocket to check the trolley schedule. Like magic, as soon as I touched the phone, it rang. Bridgy’s face popped on the screen. She must be having quite the day with me MIA and Miguel in the hospital. OMG, Miguel’s surgery. I tapped the line open and started talking.
“How’s Miguel? I forgot—”
“He’s doing better. I ran over to see him about an hour ago. He’s thrilled to have family members around and he’s loaded with pain meds, so he thinks he’s in Miami and no one wants to tell him he’s not. His cousin came down last night, his sister arrived this morning and an aunt is on her way from Orlando.”
Aunt! I thought of Ophie. “Speaking of aunts, how did—”
Bridgy cut me off, told me she was ready to pick me up and asked when I would be able to leave Augusta’s house.
My “now” was so forceful that I was both surprised and dismayed by my overwhelming relief that Pastor John had slipped into the job of “helper of the bereaved,” leaving me free to move back into my own life, even if only until tomorrow. I needed a stress break.
Back in my Brooklyn days, life was frantic, frenetic even.
Our first months in Florida were even more chaotic. Finding a place to live. Opening the Read ’Em and Eat. We had to decide which books our clients would be dying to read, not to mention developing a menu that would bring folks back time and again. I remember a day I was feeling like Dorothy tumbling through the tornado on her way to Oz, when a teenager wearing oversized sunglasses and an undersized tank top came in to ask if we had a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. We’d made a decision not to stock merely the usual “beach reads,” and I was excited that, apparently, the word was beginning to spread. Vacationers who can’t quite let go of their need to be productive often want to exercise their brains while their bodies recline in pillowed lounge chairs. Even with a “thinking person’s book” in hand, most readers often wound up nodding off to the sound of waves cresting no more than a few feet west of their blankets and umbrellas. As long as they felt they were doing something purposeful with their lounge time, they’d buy lots of books, heavy in both content and size.