Miguel, our chef, was lying on the white tile floor, with a large metal tray covering his stomach, broken crockery scattered everywhere.
As always when excited, he spoke Spanish.
“Chicas, me rompí la pierna.”
Pierna—leg. My eyes darted south of the tray and sure enough, Miguel’s khakis couldn’t hide the fact that his left leg was bent at an odd angle. He had indeed broken his leg.
Bridgy was hyperventilating into her cell phone, urging the 911 dispatcher to send help. I picked up the tray and was moving the broken dishes away from Miguel when I heard a strange voice from the counter behind us.
“I’d like to pay for this.” A wiry man held the current issue of TIME magazine up in the air while he dug in one pocket of his fisherman’s vest for some cash. I rushed to give him change, anxious to get back to Miguel. As I turned away he spoke again.
“In your parking lot, two ladies were getting into an ancient, beat-up Chevy. One looked a lot like a friend of my mother’s from years back. Do you know their names?”
I swiveled my head and took a hard look. Not much to see. Graying stubble on a narrow chin and gaunt cheeks. Under a faded green bucket hat, his aviator sunglasses revealed nothing but the reflection of my own brown eyes, puzzled by his question.
“I’m sorry, but as you can see . . .” I indicated Miguel, lying on the floor, clearly visible through the kitchen doorway.
He took the hint and left.
I looked around. The café was empty. Miss Augusta, Miss Delia and one or two other regulars, although neighborly enough, had packed up and gone home, deciding to stay out of our way while we tended to the mayhem in the kitchen. I walked to the front door and was flipping the sign from “open” to “closed” when a green and white Lee County Sheriff’s car pulled in.
Smokey Bear hat in hand, Ryan Mantoni waved as he was getting out of the driver’s seat. A native Floridian, born on Pine Island, he was always bragging that he’d been conceived while his parents were fishing on Lovers Key. His mother denies it, but that doesn’t stop him from spinning the tale.
Ryan pushed his hat down over his sun-streaked brown hair and said something to the new deputy climbing out of the passenger side of the cruiser. Even at this distance I suspected the deputy had washboard abs. He took off his sunglasses and seemed to inspect me intently. I felt myself flush even as my hand rose to twirl a lock of my always unruly auburn hair. Good Lord, with Miguel writhing in pain on the kitchen floor, please don’t let me get all flirty.
They walked toward me in military lockstep, and, judging by the way the short sleeves of his uniform shirt hugged his well-developed biceps, I became more convinced that my suspicion regarding his physique was spot-on. Even from half a parking lot away, I could see he would tower over my five feet seven inches. Not many men can make me feel petite.
I was hoping for a quick introduction, but Ryan asked, “What happened?”
I told them about Miguel’s fall.
“Sassy Cabot, meet Lieutenant Anthony. He’s a new boss in the district, learning the islands.”
The lieutenant’s smile lit up the parking lot no matter it was broad daylight. “Make it Frank. They really call you Sassy or is that Ryan being Ryan?”
I sighed. “My parents have a sense of humor. My given name is plain old Mary, but my middle name is—”
“Sassafras!” Ryan shouted gleefully, as he opened the café door.
“Hmm.” The lieutenant was still eyeing me. “Time will tell if you live up to your name.” And he followed Ryan into the café kitchen. I hurried after them, willing myself not to start the hair twirl thing again.