Sure enough, the hearse had pulled out of the parking lot and, with headlights on, the cortege was inching its way toward Estero Boulevard. We were the last car in a long line, so I was still trying to get comfortable in the tiny backseat when the hearse started up the incline of the San Carlos Bridge.
Finally settled in, I looked at the thick cream-colored card. The logo showed a half-filled champagne glass, with a rose lying across its base. The card read: TIGHE KOSTOS, Vice President for Acquisitions, World of Luxury Spa Resorts.
“Is this the company that wants to buy Delia’s island?”
“More likely the company that will buy Delia’s island. At least according to the big shot in the suit.”
“There they were, closing the deal, and Delia not even at the cemetery, much less in the ground.” Bridgy adjusted her rearview mirror so she could look me in the eye. “Wouldn’t surprise me if this Kostos guy would kill to get what he wants. You know how those corporate types are.”
“Eyes on the road.”
Didn’t matter we were only going 5 MPH, Bridgy’s driving always made me nervous. “He’s probably showing off big-city bravado to the hayseed locals. I’m sure the nephews barely had time to unpack their overnight bags, much less consider a land deal.”
“Well they had time to hire a lawyer,” she shot back in her “can you top this?” voice.
“Lawyer? They just arrived. Where would they find a—not Judge Harcroft? How on earth? Rowena, that conniving . . . She found out about the nephews and probably had the judge blocking traffic at the foot of the San Carlos Bridge until the nephews crossed onto the island. He was a traffic court judge, you know.”
I was only half kidding then, and only half kidding a few minutes later when I said, “Augusta will kill her for sure.”
“Sassy, please!” Ophie made one of her well-mannered ladies speeches ordering us not to talk about killing in the middle of the funeral of a murder victim. I suppose I should have known there was a protocol. I mumbled an apology, but my mind was already looking for a way to thwart Rowena and her cronies. Delia wanted the land to stay undeveloped, and as far as I was concerned, that should have settled that.
We drove awhile longer then crossed over the Caloosahatchee River and made an immediate turn into the Memorial Park. Delia’s plot was elevated high enough that I imagined she would enjoy watching the river flow ever westward into the Gulf.
After a brief graveside ceremony we mourners were back in our cars, left to find our way to the reception in the church hall.
We passed the turnoff for the Medical Center, and I felt a pang of guilt when I realized I hadn’t yet visited Miguel. Definitely on my to-do list, and sooner rather than later.
There was a nice-sized crowd gathered in the parish hall. Four long tables and more than a dozen card tables were scattered about the room. Several women I recognized but couldn’t name wore serviceable white bib aprons over their “church lady” dresses. Jocelyn signaled two of them who rounded up the others and they all marched into the kitchen.
The chatter around the room grew hushed as Miss Augusta came in through the main door looking frailer than when we stood at the graveside. Leaning on Pastor John’s arm, she took slow, shuffling steps. The day and the circumstances were taking a toll. The nephews, looking extremely uncomfortable in such a communal setting, walked along behind her.
Pastor led Augusta to a table at the front of the room and eased her into a chair. Jocelyn came running out of the kitchen and began fluttering around until I thought Augusta would reach up and swat her away. Finally Jocelyn scurried back to the kitchen and returned with a cup and saucer. I didn’t know what the beverage was, but I thought if it wasn’t Buffalo Trace, it wouldn’t do Augusta much good.