Well Read, Then Dead(8)

            Rowena reached over and poured another glass of sweet tea and began muttering, almost to herself, “Now if only Delia would part with some of the old bric-a-brac cluttering up her house, I could have a banner year; make a nice commission. Stubborn as a mule, she is. Why, she won’t even sell her island. Not like she ever spends any time there.”

            “Island?” I was mystified.

            “Down in Ten Thousand Islands. Did you think all that ‘we been here forever’ talk was blather? Delia’s and Augusta’s families came here, claimed and settled land forever ago. Long before the E.J. Watson brouhaha, and that happened right after the hurricane of 1910. Between Delia and Augusta, they probably own at least a hundred islands. Most not more than patches of mangroves. Maybe a shell mound or two. Anyway, some resort company took a fancy to one of Delia’s islands. She won’t even talk to them.” Rowena shook her head at the folly of Delia’s decision and reached for the last cookie.

            “Except for Chokoloskee, those islands are all in one state or national park or another,” Ryan countered. “No one can own them.”

            Rowena placed her palms on the table and pushed herself to standing. “That might be what you think. Might even be what the government thinks, but I guarantee that Augusta and Delia have papers that say different. And they aren’t the only ones. Say, maybe my new jewelry supplier has a deed or two tucked away in that scruffy bag he carries.”

            At long last we shut the door firmly behind Ryan and Rowena, who were still chattering about the islands and the Everglades. After we wiped down the tables and chairs, I ran the electric broom over the floor while Bridgy did the end-of-the-day kitchen checklist. Stove burners off? Check. Freezer door shut? Check.

            I put the broom away and was wiping a barely visible speck off the countertop when I decided to put on my happy face. We’d talked Rowena into consigning jewelry from Skully. Miguel’s cousin Rey would be at his bedside tomorrow morning. The worst was behind us.

            Bridgy was quick to erase my imaginary smile when she poked her head in the kitchen pass-through and said, “I guess I’ll call Aunt Ophie first thing in the morning.”





Chapter Three ||||||||||||||||||||


            Thunder rat-tat-tatted like gunfire. I opened one bleary eye. Not thunder. Bridgy banging on my bedroom door.

            “We have kitchen duty. The café opens at seven sharp. We’ve got to go. Put on the coffee. Fire up the grill.”

            I reached for my night table and smacked the button on my projection clock. Like the Bat Signal in Gotham City, a circle of light beamed on the ceiling, but instead of the shadow of the Caped Crusader my light circled three numbers. 4:45. In. The. Morning.

            I threw a pillow at the door. It bounced once and floated silently to the floor. I should’ve thrown the clock.

            “Come on, Sas. Get out of bed.”

            I grumbled, nothing intelligible, but Bridgy took any sign of life as acquiescence.

            “Glad you’re up. We going to ride our bikes or are you too tired, poor thing?”

            I buried my head in my one remaining pillow. I so wanted to close my eyes for another hour or two, but I accepted my fate and flung back the covers.

            “I’m up,” I announced to the door. “And I seriously wish we’d bought two tiny but very separate condos instead of sharing this palace you swore would be a growth investment. If I had my own place, you couldn’t come wakin’ me whenever you feel like it.”

            “But then you wouldn’t have that mind-blowing view. Look out the window. That’ll chipper you right up.” And I heard her trot away from my door, feeling pleased, I’m sure, that she’d got me to my feet.

            Okay, she was right about the view. From here on the fifth floor, my not-quite-floor-to-ceiling bedroom window faced north, showing off the whole of the Gulf of Mexico. Brooklyn girl that I am, I never quite got used to the Matlacha Preserve, with its foliage, green and dense from January through December. Dead ahead, the fishermen on Pine Island already had their lamps lit and were probably filling their thermoses about now. Across Pine Island Sound, other barrier islands—Sanibel, North Captiva, Cayo Costa—jutted into the Gulf with far less electric sparkle. Past those familiar islands, land masses were mere dots to the naked eye, but I knew they led a path straight to the Florida panhandle. I opened the window and stretched my arms high, bent to touch my toes, all the while taking deep breaths of that salty/sweet Gulf air.