Well Read, Then Dead(41)

            Frank gave a one-shouldered shrug. “She’s more likely to tell you than us. That’s one reason we thought Sassy should bring her the locket.”

            “One reason?”

            “Yes. The other is that the man in the picture could be our killer and we can’t waste time grappling with Miss Augusta Maddox for information. You make a practical go-between.”

            Go-between! I swear that man is not happy unless he is tweaking my nose. Still, I smiled sweetly and said I’d be happy to help.

            At that moment Ryan’s shoulder radio began to squawk. He walked to the doorway, had a short conversation and when he turned back, his face was all business. Frank was already on his feet and they hustled out the door.

            Bridgy looked at me. “Did you tell them about Bucket Hat and his threats?”

            I got defensive. “I meant to, I swear I did, but they were in and out so quickly, and this is quite a distraction.” I held the chain high in the air and the locket twirled slowly, the swamp lily dancing in the sun.

            Bridgy huffed. “Honestly, Sassy. You could be in real danger. We”—she made arm circles wide enough to encompass every person on the island—“could be in real danger. And, what happened, you didn’t think to tell the deputies, even though they were sitting right here eating our buttermilk pie?”

            “My buttermilk pie,” Ophie interjected.

            I knew better and stayed absolutely silent waiting for the storm clouds to pass. Bridgy’s temper was like a south Florida thunderstorm in August. Loud and threatening for about ten minutes, then the warmth of the sun burst through once again. In a few minutes it would be like there was no storm at all.

            But the “no storm at all” part still seemed far off as Bridgy planted her hands in the dreaded elbows out, fists on her hips position. She was about to go back at Ophie and then she hesitated. Perhaps she was thinking of all the meals she’d have to cook until Miguel recovered if Ophie wasn’t here. Bridgy dropped her hands and began clearing the pie plates. I reached for the coffee cups, and, hoping the storm had passed, I asked if she wanted to come with me to bring the locket to Augusta. Bridgy brightened immediately.

            “Oh, I’d love to hear what she has to say about the picture. Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

            We sent Ophie home on the trolley. Bridgy and I scrubbed and polished until every chore was done. Then we piled in the Heap-a-Jeep and drove a few blocks south to Miss Augusta’s house. Augusta’s Chevy was still in the driveway, probably exactly where I’d left it.

            We climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. No answer. Bridgy tried again, banging a little harder.

            A stout woman wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and carrying a garden trowel came around the hedge separating her house from Augusta’s. She took off one thick red gardening glove and offered to shake hands.

            “Afternoon. I’m Blondie Quinlin. I live over there.” She pointed to the weather-beaten house on the other side of the hedges. “If you’re looking for Augusta, she drove off with Pastor Kendall a while ago. Not back yet.”

            Bridgy and I exchanged looks, both thinking that Jocelyn must be irritated to no end.

            Blondie wasn’t done with us. “Lots of coming and going. I suppose it’s about Delia?”

            When we acknowledged it was, Blondie leaned in like she had a great secret to tell.

            “You know, I play Mexican Train Dominoes. We rotate houses. Twice a month we play on Delia’s block. I usually walk over. Exercise for the heart.” She tapped her chest. “Anyway, that old man in the canoe. The one with the skull. He hangs out around there in the evenings. Used to see him all the time. Someone should ask him if he knows what happened the night Delia was . . . done in.”