“Don’t think what?” Ophie looked at Bridgy, and when she didn’t get an instant response, she turned to me.
“Come on, honey chile, whatever game’s afoot, don’t have me be the last to know.” She sat opposite me and propped her elbows on the table, determined that all further conversation would include her.
Bridgy raised an eyebrow and I gave a slight nod, then I cut an oversized piece of baked snapper and shoved it in my mouth, signaling that the discussion could go on without me.
When Bridgy finished her brief rundown of the events involving the wreckers, Ophie clutched her chest as if in the throes of a massive coronary.
“The sheriff. You call right now, hear?”
Bridgy glanced back to me for guidance, but I kept stuffing fish in my mouth. I couldn’t decide whether Bucket Hat and his cadre of wreckers were all full of bluster or if they were dangerous. I decided to let Ophie and Bridgy battle it out. But there was no disagreement. In a split second they were staring at me, each with that single-minded gaze that runs in their family. It was as though they took a solemn vow, right then and there, to poke and prod me until I told them what little I knew about the treasure hunters.
They were somewhat placated when I told them I had an appointment with the sheriff’s department the next morning. I was relieved they let me crawl off to bed with my magazine, without having to pinky-swear that I would tell Frank Anthony about the wreckers.
* * *
The morning setup was easier with three pairs of hands instead of two. I spent my time in the dining area taking breakfast orders and refilling coffee cups. I was quite happy to leave the kitchen to Bridgy and Ophie, thus avoiding their constant reminders to “tell the sheriff’s office about the wreckers.” In the fresh morning sunlight, the memory of Bucket Hat and his hard stare seemed a lot less ominous than it had yesterday.
I always enjoy the breakfast rush, some folks back from a long walk or bike ride, others eager for a swim or a long session in a lounge chair on the sand.
I’d finished helping a snowbird grandma pick out a few books to send north to the grandkids when Rowena Gustavsen came through the front door, making an entrance that even Ophie would envy. Rowena’s usually bouffant lilac hair was sticking out wildly in all directions as if someone had taken a leaf blower to her head. She was struggling with a large suitcase in one hand and a cardboard box balancing precariously on the other. She dropped her keys and her ten-gallon purse on the floor with a clang and thump demanding, “Why are you standing there? Help me.”
Her command was directed toward me but was so loud and disruptive that several breakfasters jumped up to give her a hand.
I ran to the doorway, barely beating out an octogenarian who probably weighed less than the suitcase. He certainly weighed less than Rowena.
Bridgy came out of the kitchen, her hands covered in flour. “What in heaven’s name . . .”
When she saw the source of the noise, she tried to head back to the safety of the kitchen, but it was too late. Rowena caught her on the turn.
“Don’t run away. I need help. I’m locked out of the Sand and Shell and I have to go home for my keys. My car won’t start. Don at the service station says the tow truck is busy over by the Mound House. I have to open now. I can’t lug my merchandise back and forth on the trolley, and I can’t leave it in the car. Who knows what kind of people the winter season brings? Thieves? Vandals?”
It didn’t help that in a dining room filled with winter residents, her voice rose at least two octaves on those final words. There was only one solution. Get her out and get her out fast.
“Here, give me that.” I took the suitcase and began to slide it behind the counter. “You can leave your things here, nice and safe. I’ll drive you home to get the keys to your shop, and you’ll be open in a heartbeat.”