Well Read, Then Dead(62)
“Nothing like that. We closed for a funeral. You know Miss Delia? Comes in with Miss Augusta? Always sits at Emily Dickinson?”
“Sí. The quiet one, no? ¡Dios mío! A sweet lady. We used to talk about Miami. Tell me what happened. Does Miss Augusta have her cat?”
“Bow? You know Bow?” I was floored.
“My bungalow is one street behind Miss Delia’s house. I’m at the other end, closer to the bay. All the time Bow would turn up in my yard. Each day a different color ribbon around her neck. You know Miss Delia found her at the water’s edge in Bowditch Park, right? That is how she came to be called Bow. The ribbons were a sign.”
Bridgy and I looked at Miguel in astonishment, but he seemed not to notice and continued.
“Bow is a house cat, sort of, but she needs a lot of freedom. I got the feeling that I was only one of her stops. So, where is she? And what happened to Miss Delia?”
We told him what little we knew about Delia’s death and ended by saying that since no one turned Bow in to Animal Rescue, we were all on the hunt, including Ryan.
When Esther came back into the room and said she hoped we had a nice visit, we knew she was signaling that we should leave.
As soon as we got in the car, Bridgy said, “Cheering up Miguel depressed me, especially talking about Delia, and with Bow missing . . . There’s only one place to go. Times Square for ice cream.”
“You read my mind.”
Traffic heading back to the island moved at a slow crawl. But the day was cloudless, and as we crept along, the view of herons and egrets flying and diving for dinner in Estero Bay was relaxing. We were rewarded for our patience by an open parking spot right off the square.
As ex–New Yorkers we always got a kick out of Times Square, Fort Myers Beach style. Set right on the edge of the beach, it’s a delightful plaza of shops leading up to the long and elegant pier that juts far out into the Gulf of Mexico. The square is dotted with benches as well as tables and chairs. Plenty of room to sit and relax. The centerpiece of the plaza is a freestanding pedestal topped by a hefty square encasing round clock faces fronting in all four directions. The clock stands about fifteen feet high and can be seen from the street and the beach. Hence the name Times Square, but the area could have been named “the heart of downtown,” because that’s what it is.
We were walking past a man sitting at a round metal table who seemed to be talking to himself. Bridgy grabbed my arm and whispered, “It’s the resort guy. Should we say hello?”
As we came up behind him, we heard a harsh voice blast from the speaker of his iPhone sitting on the table.
“I don’t care if you have to marry the old cousin. You get me that island. You won’t have a job if you come back without the deed to that land.”
Bridgy and I exchanged glances. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to speak to Mr. Kostos, but before we could make our escape, he slid his chair back, ramming me in the leg. He muttered, “Sorry,” but barely looked up as he stood. His rudeness annoyed me, so I felt obligated to annoy him back.
“Mr. Kostos, how nice of you to attend Miss Delia’s funeral, although it would have been nicer if you waited until she was buried before trying to negotiate the purchase of part of her estate.”
He looked at me as though I was from Mars until he recognized Bridgy. He remembered his manners long enough to say, “Nice to see you again.” But he was clearly flustered, probably wondering how long we’d been there; how much we’d heard. He opted for impeccable civility.
“Please sit down. May I buy you an iced coffee? Ice cream, perhaps?” He looked around as if searching for a server in the midst of this self-serve plaza.