Well Read, Then Dead(91)

            “Dilly?”

            “I know. He really lost at the name game. Parents named him Dilbert after a rich uncle and then the cartoon came out. He could only take so many jokes. His byline reads Bert but we all call him Dilly. Anyway, he picked up a hot tip and followed it on his own, hoping for a Pulitzer. Instead someone shot him in the leg when he stepped into the men’s room of a roadhouse off I-10. Four years later Dilly uses a cane and the murderer has yet to be caught.”

            He gave me a stare that was as hard-edged as Bucket Hat’s.

            “You have to stop playing with this. Murder isn’t a game.”

            Bridgy came back and tossed a few napkins in front of each of us.

            “Eat up, you two. Ice cream is melting.”

            I telegraphed a promise to Cady with my eyes, and he nodded in return. Satisfied that would keep him off my case for a while, I finished my ice cream before it turned to soup.

            We showed Cady all the touristy presents we bought for Miguel’s family. He offered to have a free subscription of the News delivered to Miguel’s house for a few months.

            “Must be tough being housebound all the time.”

            He picked up his phone but it was dead again. “I can’t believe my car charger died. I do most of my work on my phone.”

            “We do most of our work on our feet.” Normally I wouldn’t push to remind him that he had it easy compared to folks in other lines of work, but I wasn’t going to let that lecture go without retaliation.

            I gave him Miguel’s address and he borrowed Bridgy’s phone to call in the subscription. He was always doing kindnesses for other people, which made him really likable. What made him not so likable was when he tried to tell me what to do. That’s why I didn’t mention our next stop was Augusta’s house. What would we do if he wanted to join us?

            We sat in the plaza until Cady left for work. Then I told Bridgy I wanted to visit Augusta.

            “We know for sure that it wasn’t Bucket Hat who killed Delia. Augusta needs to know that. And Ophie is right. If anyone knows about Delia’s island, Augusta would be the one. I don’t know why I never thought to ask.”

            “Because she pushed you in the direction of the wreckers so that’s where you went. Not your fault. You were trying to help a friend.”

            I loved that I could count on Bridgy to tell me I was aiming for right, even when I went all wrong.

            When we pulled up, Augusta was on her front porch booming at Blondie Quinlin, who was standing on the sidewalk with a cloth grocery bag in her hand.

            “No need. No need for you to cook. I still know my way around the kitchen. If it’s Sunday dinner you want, I’ll roast a chicken.”

            Augusta rolled over Blondie’s objections and cut the conversation short. Her words started a thought percolating. I hoped I would remember to flesh it out at home.

            “Looks like I got company. Come in, girls, and tell me what you know.”

            We exchanged pleasantries with Blondie, who strolled along toward her own house. We climbed the porch steps and tried to give Augusta the tiniest of hugs, but she was more interested in rushing us inside for a talk.

            “Come on in and take a seat. You know where the kitchen is, help yourself. Plenty of snacks and cold drinks.”

            Augusta’s refrigerator was packed with casseroles and platters of hors d’oeuvres. Her kitchen counter was covered with assorted plates and bowls, sparkly clean and neatly labeled with the owner’s name. I’d have to remember to save Augusta the trouble of delivering the dishes to their rightful owners. Bridgy and I could take care of it easily.