I led the girl to the corner shelf where I had stashed the dystopian novels a few days before. Awwk! In my unending quest to make the books orderly and accessible, I must have moved them. Now that shelf was filled with various texts on learning to speak foreign languages. My head swiveled, eyes wide and searching.
The teen flipped her sunglasses atop her sun-streaked hair. “Don’t get all cray-cray. You look like you’re trying out for a remake of The Exorcist. If you don’t have the Atwood book, it’s no biggie.”
I kept searching but I couldn’t find the book, and I felt myself shredding like confetti right in front of the poor child.
I was astonished when she grabbed my shoulders. “Chillax. Take a breath. Now another. Slow. Your. Breathing.” I felt myself relax even as I was wondering—who is this kid?
Now sitting on Augusta’s steps, I thought about the enduring lifeline Holly, the girl I met that day, and her yoga instructor mom, Maggie, had tossed to Bridgy and me during our first year in Fort Myers Beach. I closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun and slowed my breathing.
By the time Bridgy pulled up in front of the house, I was calm enough to start thinking about Augusta’s final command. She wanted me to find the wreckers. And then what?
We’d barely walked through the door of the Read ’Em and Eat when Aunt Ophie began hovering, her hands fluttering around me like butterflies searching for a welcoming branch to sit on.
“Why, gracious me, you poor chile! How did you survive all these hours dealing with such an awful, awful tragedy? Come sit down over here. This eye-catching gentleman has been fraught with worry waiting for you.”
And she led me to the Alex Haley table, where Cady sat hunched over his laptop. He folded the top down, stood and pulled out a chair for me, asking precisely the right question as he did so.
“How is Augusta?”
I told them everything that happened at Augusta’s house. Hearing about my being set out on the front porch, so to speak, Ophie clicked her tongue and opined that law enforcement officers should be taught decent manners right at the start of their career and get refreshers from time to time. When I mentioned Jocelyn, Bridgy rolled her eyes and said, “For all the virtuous works he does, John’s passkey to heaven will actually be earned by living with that woman.”
After more questions and answers than I thought the situation required, my interrogators finally ran out of steam. Bridgy and Aunt Ophie began the usual close-down tasks, leaving me to sit, restfully and conversationless, with Cady. After a few golden moments of silence, he gently patted my hand and asked, “Are you okay?”
I nodded and then looked around to see how much privacy we had. Bridgy and Ophie were cleaning the kitchen. Still, I decided to whisper for fear that if they heard us talking they’d come back to the dining area afraid to miss any gossip.
I reassured Cady that I was fine and then shared my concerns about Augusta.
“She is set on bringing Delia’s killer to justice.”
Cady leaned in to pat my hand sympathetically.
“The thing is . . . she wants me to help her find the killer.”
Cady pulled his hand away as if mine had turned into a burning coal.
“Of all the scatterbrained ideas! You and Augusta trying to find a murderer! How would you even start?”
Even though I knew the question was rhetorical, I lowered my head ever so slightly until I’d arranged my features to look like a puppy pleading for one more treat. Then I raised my head and looked him straight in the eye.
He got my message and rejected it instantly.