Well Read, Then Dead(24)
He had me there.
“How about elevenish? We usually have a lull between late breakfast and early lunch. But if we get busy . . .”
“I’ll see you at eleven.” And he hung up without as much as a good-bye.
I tossed my sandy clothes into the hamper, used a wet paper towel to wipe up the grains of sand scattered on the tiles of the bathroom floor and jumped into a hot, relaxing shower. In a few seconds I washed away Lieutenant Frank Anthony’s commanding attitude. Then I snuggled into my Winnie the Pooh pj’s, snatched up the latest issue of the University of Florida magazine, Subtropics, and settled on the patio with a fresh cup of lemongrass tea.
I was reading a soothing poem about horses and dogs when the peace and quiet was shattered by Bridgy and Ophie clattering into the apartment laden with suitcases, assorted totes and multiple plastic bags.
Ophie opened the slider and thrust a plastic bag at me.
“We brought you dinner. Mind you, I would have broiled the snapper rather than . . .” She stopped abruptly and I watched her face morph as though something had shocked her into silence. But of course silence was never Ophie’s strong suit. “What ARE you wearing? Come in here before someone sees you.”
Behind Ophie’s back, Bridgy stood in the center of the living room. She tilted her head and stuck out her tongue while making a hanging motion with one raised arm. We both knew I was done for.
When I didn’t hop up immediately, Ophie pointed her finger at me and shook her entire arm as her voice changed into strict schoolmarm, a tone I hadn’t heard since the last time she came to town.
“Well-mannered ladies do not appear outdoors in their nightwear. What on earth has gotten into you?”
It did me no good to point out that we were on the top floor of the highest building for miles around. I tried to soften her by joking, “That’s why we call this place the turret. It is high and private. No one can see us.”
Ophie wasn’t having it. “Every boat pilot in the Gulf from here to Sarasota need only train his spyglass up at the light and you and your nightwear are on full display.” With that she flicked the light switches, leaving the living room and the patio bathed in nothing but moonlight. “And what kind of nightwear is that? Well-mannered ladies wear feminine gowns, not children’s footie pajamas.”
I closed my magazine with a sigh and decided I was too tired to defend Winnie and Tigger as an adult clothing motif, so I obediently got up and walked into the living room, turning on the light as I headed to the couch. I would have flopped into a cozy corner but didn’t want another well-mannered ladies lecture on how to sit.
Of course Ophie followed behind me, the bag holding my dinner still in her hand.
“You have to eat. In times of sorrow we need to keep up our strength.”
Bridgy ran interference skillfully. Taking the package out of her aunt’s hands, she offered to heat up my fish and tactfully suggested Ophie get herself settled in the guest room, which was little more than a home office with a futon covered by a shocking pink quilt and a half dozen flowered pillows.
I followed Bridgy into the kitchen. While she tossed a salad and nuked my fish and veggies, I told her about the conversation I’d overheard on the pier.
She remembered the two young bicyclists, but of course in the midst of all the angst about Miguel, I never did tell her about the man with the bucket hat inquiring about Miss Augusta and Miss Delia.
I sat at the kitchen counter, and as she placed my dinner in front of me, Bridgy said, “Surely you don’t think . . .” and stopped dead as Ophie spun into the room wearing a bright yellow caftan with mangroves along the hem and sparkles scattered around the V-neck collar.