Well Read, Then Dead(58)
As soon as she said it I knew she was right. Bridgy’s acute understanding of people’s faults and weaknesses never ceased to amaze me. Here I was thinking Rowena feared for her safety, but more likely, she was worried about her cash register. The tragedy of Delia’s death had me thinking drama, drama, drama.
Ophie came back from the dessert table with two paper plates each piled with homemade brownies. Cady and Holly were both reaching before Ophie sat down but leaned back in their chairs as soon as she cleared her throat.
“That’s better.” Ophie nodded her approval. “Excellent table manners all around. Now”—she pointed to the plate on the left—“these have walnuts. The others are plain.”
We all chose from one plate or the other, and I was smart enough to say, “These are all right, but something’s missing. Not quite as yummy as yours.”
Ophie beamed. “Why thank you, darlin’. Let me have a taste.” She nibbled, pronounced the brownie to be short on cocoa and then proceeded to polish it off. As she wiped a crumb from her lip, she glanced around the hall.
“This space isn’t much bigger than the Read ’Em and Eat. Yet it seems roomier. Hmmm. I bet if you got rid of those ugly old bookshelves, you would have a wide-open dining area just like this. More comfortable for the customers. Easier for the servers to move around. Yesterday I bumped my hip, not once but two different times, squeezing between tables.” And she smoothed her skirt from waist to thigh as if she had Miss America–sized hips, which hadn’t been true for decades.
“Are . . . ?” Before I could finish asking if Ophie was crazy, Bridgy clamped her hand on my wrist, signaling immediate silence.
“Aunt Ophie, that is quite a suggestion. Isn’t it, Sassy?” Everyone at the table, except apparently Ophie, knew that the bookshelves were the heart and soul of the café for me. With all eyes pointed in my direction, I managed to echo, “Quite a suggestion.”
Ophie nodded, satisfied that the matter was settled. I could only pray she wouldn’t arrange for carpenters to start tearing the café apart at sunrise.
Working harder to distract me, Bridgy announced that she and I were going to visit Miguel and asked Maggie if she would mind giving Ophie a ride home.
Oblivious to Bridgy’s motive to keep us apart until I calmed down, Ophie said, “Why, I wouldn’t mind visiting Miguel myself,” even as Maggie agreed to drive her back to the turret.
Bridgy signaled “no” by fluttering her hand a little too close to Ophie’s face, which might have started a well-mannered ladies lecture, but Ophie was distracted by Cady, who chose that exact moment to ask if Ophie would be willing to be interviewed for a public interest piece for the Sunday edition of the newspaper.
She was so busy nodding and batting her eyelashes that she barely noticed when Bridgy and I stood, mouthed a silent thank-you to Maggie and left the table.
We spent a few moments assuring Augusta that we would be available for any help she might need, and as we left her in the comfort of a circle of women from the church, she boomed, “Sassy, don’t forget your promise.”
I stopped dead still, turned and gave her a solid thumbs-up. She smiled and returned the salute. We were coconspirators until Delia’s killer was found.
Bridgy raised a questioning eyebrow, but I shushed her and nodded toward the heavy oak front door. She read that correctly as “I’ll tell you outside.”
The door to the parking lot opened. The sunshine was so blinding, I didn’t recognize the two men coming through the doorway.
Bridgy leaned in. “Now’s your chance. Tell them about Skully.” And she stepped farther back into the vestibule, determined to avoid a difficult conversation in the blazing sunshine. It was then that I recognized Ryan Mantoni and Frank Anthony, both still dressed in street clothes.