Cady came right along behind me.
“I have the obit. Do you want to take a look?”
I sat down and took the typewritten copy he offered. A few short sentences strung together in one paragraph summed up the life of Miss Delia Batson, fourth-generation Floridian, who was active in her church, the food pantry and the Animal Rescue League. She was survived by two nephews and her cousin and dearest friend, Augusta Maddox. Finally, it noted that donations in Delia’s name could be made to the Animal Rescue League or the food pantry.
I was thankful there was no mention of how she died. Let the sensationalism stay on the front page. She would want her obituary to be dignified. I passed the paper over to Bridgy and thanked Cady for bringing it.
“Has Augusta seen it?”
“Sure has. Mr. Beech at the funeral home has a habit of showing each obit to the survivors before he okays it to go to print. I can only imagine he must have really screwed up an obit once upon a time, because it’s a rule he never breaks.”
He checked his phone.
“I have to get back. See you later?”
“I don’t know. We have a book club and then, well, I haven’t been very hospitable to Ophie. I thought I’d spend the evening with her.” It was a big fat lie, but I knew I had plans for later; I just wasn’t sure what they were. Bucket Hat’s threats made me more determined to follow Augusta’s lead and try to find out what happened to Delia. I’d wasted too much time already.
Cady took my hand and kissed the top of my head. He advised me to take care of myself and to remember this was a difficult time for everyone. I was struck again by how comforting it felt to have him around. Then he ruined it all by whispering in my ear, “And, promise me, no sleuthing.”
I managed a feeble smile and a slight nod of my head. What he didn’t know would keep us from arguing.
Two snowbirds had picked up the book club list the first time they came by for breakfast and said they’d be back for the Potluck Club. Sure enough they were the first to arrive.
I greeted them, led the way to the book nook and introduced myself.
“I’m Connie and this is Iris. Come from a little town a few miles north of Ottawa. We spent a few winters on the east coast. Much as I love the ocean, friends recommended we try the Gulf. Our husbands will go anywhere they can play golf in January, so here we are.”
“Not happy about the murder, though.” Iris shook her graying locks and her shoulders quivered as though a chill wind went by. “Does that happen a lot around here?”
“No. Of course not. Never, actually.” I was relieved that the door opened and a couple of regulars bounded inside.
Maggie, dressed in her “I’m a yoga instructor” uniform of stretchy cropped pants and an oversized tee advertising her studio, Zencentric, was carrying a bouquet of greens tucked into a tall paper cup. “I brought some chervil, fresh from my garden. I thought we could talk about how nicely it goes with cheese in omelets and breakfast pastry.”
That was what I loved about the Potluck Club; each book led us to delve into all the possibilities of the kitchen.
And after the Books Before Breakfast fiasco, I was delighted that Lisette Ortiz had decided to try us again. While tucking her sunglasses carefully in their case, she introduced herself to the two newcomers, confiding, “This book was such a fun read. I can’t wait to talk about it.”
The four ladies began chitchatting, which gave me a few minutes to consider my discussion points and decide how to present them, although it didn’t look like this was going to be one of those rare meetings where I’d have to drag observations out of the participants.