Daiquiri Dock Murder Read online

  “No,” I lied, hoping he couldn’t see my head throbbing, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten. “I feel fine and I’d like to go home, please.”

  His smile broadened. “Under the circumstances, the nurse will bring some insurance papers for you to sign so you won’t have to stop at the main desk. Once the papers have been approved, you’ll be almost free to go.”

  Almost? I squelched the word from my vocabulary. “Thank you, doctor.” Under the circumstances? What did that mean? What circumstances? I began to slide from the bed before he left the room, closing the door behind himself. I took cautious steps toward a tiny closet, then stopped. Where were my clothes? Instinctively I pulled the hospital gown closer around my rear end. Who found me nude at the marina? How could I leave this hospital with no clothes? Jumpsuit? Slicker? Where were they? Before I could push the call button to summon the nurse, she entered the room.

  “Will you please read and sign these forms? We’ll need your insurance numbers, too.”

  My heart sank. More delay. “My insurance cards are in my billfold and I left my billfold in my jumpsuit. I’ve no idea where it is now. At the bottom of the sea, maybe.”

  Kane stepped into the room unannounced. “I have her billfold. I have fresh clothes for her.” At first the nurse seemed startled, perhaps by his height, his shaggy blonde hair, his black tank top and jeans. She took a step back as if expecting an attack, and Kane, seizing on her hesitation, hurried toward me. We exchanged a long kiss before Miss Efficiency intervened.

  “I unlocked your suite for Threnody. Figured she’d be better at deciding what you needed than I would. She packed this stuff for me to bring to you.” Before the nurse escorted him from the room, Kane thrust a plastic bag toward me. I sighed in relief when I saw fresh clothes and billfold, a makeup kit, and a hairbrush.

  I perched on the edge of the bed to sign the papers, provide the insurance numbers. When the nurse retreated, I applied a bit of lip gloss. After tugging the hairbrush through my shoulder-length hair, I considered having it styled again in a pixie cut. But now was no time to be worrying about hair. I barely finished pulling on my jeans and tee when the nurse tapped on the door again.

  “Chief Ramsey and Detective Lyon are waiting to talk with you, Miss Blue. An informal questioning, they say. May I show them in?”

  Informal? Hah! But at least she had asked my permission before she admitted them. I knew police officers geared their questions in ways they hoped would help them catch criminals. They could say anything they pleased, ask any questions they pleased. When spouting questions, they never swore on a Bible to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I pulled myself to my full five feet eleven inches. Sometimes my height gave me an advantage—perhaps even with police, if the charge in question amounted to no more than some minor offense. I stood beside the bed and waited.

  Short, fat, and bald, Chief Ramsey reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Detective Lyon met my eyes on a level, and his mane of tawny colored hair might have belonged to the king of beasts. I’d met both men last year when burglars hit The Blue Mermaid three times in one week. Surely these officers remembered me. But if they did, they didn’t let on.

  “Your name please?” Chief Ramsey asked.

  “Rafa Blue.” I hoped they’d recognize my name as author of Rafa’s Repartee, the biographical column I wrote for the Citizen. In addition to calling favorable attention to some of Key West’s talented underdogs, I wanted to make a name for myself as a writer. But no. These officers didn’t remember me. At least not today. If Chief Ramsey recognized my name, he didn’t let on.

  “Address?”

  “The Blue Mermaid Hotel on Whitehead. Penthouse Suite No. Three.”

  “Your family lives there, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they in residence at this time?”

  “No.”

  “Where are they?”

  “My mother and sister are vacationing in Colorado.”

  “Do you have an address and phone number where they can be reached?”

  “The Hand Hotel, Fairplay, Colorado. I don’t have their phone number with me. It’s on a pad in my suite at The Blue Mermaid.”

  “Do you plan to make the hotel your permanent residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “How long is permanent?” What did this man expect to find out from me?

  “I’ve heard a rumor that you’re planning a new venture. Are you willing to share that with me?”

  “No.” It is okay to say no to the police, isn’t it?

  “Your new venture, Ma’am? A novel, perhaps?”

  “No comment.” So he did recognize my name as a writer. Since graduating from Vassar, I had a burning desire to write a novel. I planned to use my newspaper experiences as the basis for a book. In fact I’d already made an outline for a novel. I hoped to begin on chapter one soon, but I couldn’t see that as an important bit of knowledge necessary to the police.

  I wondered who tipped Ramsey off about my planning a new venture. I couldn’t remember talking about it to anyone except Kane, or maybe Threnody, one of my few close friends. Ramsey would probably laugh out loud if he knew Kane had given me a three-hundred page book with blank pages along with his instructions to fill those pages with a New York Times best seller.

  I intended to say no more to Ramsey about my future career plans, and I wished he’d change the subject. Why tell either of these men I was sick of living in my sister’s shadow? If my book venture bombed, no one would be the wiser—if I kept my mouth shut about it now. Surely my writing career had no bearing on Diego’s death.

  I wondered. Had either Ramsey or Lion ever embarked on a venture that failed?

  “Did you know Diego Casterano?” Chief Ramsey asked.

  Chapter 3

  Ramsey’s last question startled me into silence. But I felt more than ready to change the subject.

  “Yes, I knew Diego.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Yes, Diego and I were friends.”

  “How close was your friendship?” Chief Ramsey cleared his throat and looked me in the eye—not easy with his head 5 or 6 inches below mine. Detective Lyon stared out the window.

  I resented the chief’s insinuation. “I knew Diego as a family friend. My mother, my sister, and I—all three of us admired and respected Diego as did my father when he was living.”

  “When the ambulance crew rescued you, your manner of garb indicated that you and Diego may have experienced a relationship closer than that of the rest of your family.”

  For a moment I said nothing, not wanting to protest too much or too little. “Diego and I were nothing more than good friends. I admired him because I’m for the underdogs in society—talented people who have worked hard to be noticed, or perhaps who still have that work ahead of them. A Cuban refugee, Diego came to Key West with empty pockets. He worked up to a position as chief dock master at Brick Vexton’s marina. He won the regard of Keys’ citizens who elected him to a position on the board of Monroe County Commissioners. I’m proud to claim Diego as a close family friend. I looked forward to writing about him as the subject of one of my columns in the near future.”

  I knew I’d said too much, yet I didn’t know what I’d withdraw, had I been given the chance.

  “That was the total extent of your relationship? A family friend? An interesting subject for your newspaper column?”

  “Right. I’m a history buff, and Diego’s story reaches beyond his life and into Cuban history. His son, Pablo, sometimes plays drums or string bass in the combo that performs in The Frangipani Room at The Blue Mermaid. Our family always enjoyed having Diego drop around after work to watch the action, to enjoy a sandwich and a drink, and to listen to the music.”

  “When did you last see Diego alive?”

  “I thought he was alive last night when I saw him in the water at the Daiquiri Dock Marina. Then I realized,
realized he was—dead. You’re calling it an accident, right?”

  Ramsey avoided my question. “Didn’t you think it strange for anyone to be swimming at that time of night?”

  “Yes, of course I did. I thought at first he might be trying to help someone who’d fallen from the catwalk while checking on the security of a boat. People do strange things during Fantasy Fest. Sometimes trespassers board and vandalize boats. But I saw no sign of that last night. I realized Diego was in trouble. I saw his hair snarled and tangled in the anchor line of The Bail Bond.”

  “When was the last time you saw Diego alive before last night?”

  I hesitated, wishing I didn’t have to answer, wanting to be sure of myself and my next words. The person who last saw a deceased person alive is usually of special interest to the authorities—especially if the victim’s death wasn’t accidental.

  “I saw him at The Frangipani Room the night before the Fantasy Fest parade. That would have been on Friday night. He joined Mother, Cherie, the Vextons, and me in listening to the combo and watching the people dance.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “The Frangi closes at midnight. As I remember it, Diego stayed a while after closing to have a drink on the house. The Frangipani Room is roofless—an open-air setting with torches flaring along its outer rim. Friday night Diego helped Brick Vexton extinguish the torches. According to Dad’s will, The Frangi is my responsibility, but Mother always likes to oversee the closing of this special dance floor, to be sure it’s ready for the next night’s opening.” I refused to tell him that Mother disliked Dad’s leaving me in charge of The Frangi—or anything else. But the court was on Dad’s side. Lawyers refused to let Mother change Dad’s will.

  “Thank you, Miss Blue,” Chief Ramsey said. “You are free to leave the hospital now.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You are free to go anywhere you please on the island, but if you decide to leave Key West, please get in touch with me or someone in my office first.”

  “Are you investigating Diego’s death as an accident?”

  “No. His hair might have been caught in the anchor line accidentally, but the concrete block weighted to his feet rules out an accidental death. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh.” Surprise left me speechless. I tried to erase the mental image of a concrete block weighting Diego’s feet.

  “At this point in the police investigation, I’m ordering you to avoid discussing this case with reporters or with strangers.”

  “Yes, Sir.” He hadn’t said I required his permission to leave the island, but that’s what his order about letting him know my plans meant. “Sir, am I a suspect? I called 9-1-1 because I needed help. Are you going to hang me without a trial or jury?”

  “Nobody plans to hang you, Miss Blue, but everyone close to Diego Casterano may be a person of interest to the police.” Chief Ramsey left, making no further comment.

  The minute I stepped from the hospital room into the hallway, Kane strode to my side. I knew he must have been listening and I wondered how much of that Q/A session he heard. He linked his arm through mine, pulling me close. After a long kiss, he took my hand and urged me toward the hospital door. Was my shakiness a result of the kiss or was it a delayed reaction to last night’s trauma, a delayed reaction to Diego’s death?

  “Are you okay?” he asked when we stepped into the overcast day and headed toward his truck parked in a visitor’s slot.

  “I’m okay. But where’s my car? Still at the dock? And how did I end up in the hospital? Who brought me here? The last thing I remember, I was choking, trying to tread water—in the sea—with Diego. I don’t remember my feet touching a concrete block.” I shuddered and eased closer to Kane. “And I realized Diego was dead. Who…”

  “Officers from Emergency 9-1-1 rescued you—pulled both you and Diego from the sea. You were barely conscious, exhausted, and unable to say anything that made sense. They brought you here by ambulance. Took Diego’s body to the morgue. I heard the news on the radio and drove to the police station immediately. Since you’d given me a spare key to the Prius, Chief Ramsey trusted me to pick up your car at the marina and park it near my boat slip. He said the horn had blared for so long that the key’s emergency button had been damaged. Other than that the car’s okay. You can relax about that.”

  “Thank you, Kane!” I squeezed his hand. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Kane grinned at me and raised an eyebrow. “I can think of several exceptionally pleasant ways. Want to hear some of them?”

  “Not if they require more from me than flowers, candy, or a good book.”

  “I was afraid of that. But we’ll talk about it later, okay?” I changed the subject quickly. Kane wanted our relationship to progress to a deeper level, but I balked, unready for that change. At least not ready yet. I still needed to face my past, live with what I’d done, my mistakes. Live with my fear of being corrupt. Although I’d always looked forward to love, marriage, and family, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for any of those things. And if I changed my mind, I didn’t want Kane to think I came to him in gratitude instead of love. I wasn’t ready for Kane to know the details of my past. He was a fairly new resident in Key West, and by the time he moved here a few years ago, the gossip about me had died down—almost.

  “Kane to Rafa. Kane to Rafa Blue. Please return to planet Earth and tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m working through the shock of hearing the police calling Diego’s death a homicide.”

  Kane stared into space for a few moments before he spoke. “According to this morning’s Citizen, the cops first thought he died accidentally, but, when in addition to finding his hair tangled in an anchor line, they found his feet and ankles bound with duct tape and roped to a concrete block, reality changed their thinking. Accident? No way!”

  “But why? Diego had enemies? Who?”

  “You heard Chief Ramsey’s take on it. Back at the hospital, I couldn’t help overhearing him say that at this time, any close friend of Diego’s is a person of interest. Guess you’re not the only one. Be glad of that.”

  “Has anyone called Mother and Cherie? This news will hit them hard—ruin their vacation. Glad they were off-island when it happened.”

  “Brick said he called them, but the hotel manager told him they were on a week’s pack trip in the Rockies and couldn’t be reached for a few days. Guess cell phones don’t pick up signals in some parts of the high country.”

  Kane opened the door to the pickup and helped me inside before he grabbed the newspaper from the dashboard and dropped it into my lap.

  “Read all about it. They’ve managed to keep your name out of it—at least for now.”

  “Not much to read,” I said after Kane pulled himself into the driver’s seat. I ran my finger down the couple inches of type the news editor allotted to the story. “A man dead, an important man in this community, and he rates only two inches of type.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be more later, but for now, just the facts, Ma’am.” Kane snorted. “They always keep the bad news short and on the back pages. Mustn’t alarm the tourists. Mustn’t let them know blood has been spilled here in paradise. Where to, Rafa? Your hotel? Vexton mansion? I promised Threnody we’d stop by for a few minutes and bring her up to speed on what’s going on. Think you feel up to that now?”

  “I guess so. I’d rather not talk to anyone, but I wouldn’t have had any clothes at the hospital if it hadn’t been for Threnody—and you. So, let’s stop at the Vexton’s, I guess. I feel disoriented. Wonder what happened to my wet jumpsuit.”

  “The police might have it. Guess someone wrapped you in a blanket for the ride to the hospital. Maybe the police consider the clothes you were or weren’t wearing evidence.” Kane keyed the truck to life, backed from the parking lot, and drove from the Stock Island hospital toward Key West. When he snapped on the radio, the weather announcer still spouted news about the hurricane stalled off the coa
st of Cuba. It might turn. It might dissipate. Whatever. Key Westers try to take these hurricane threats in stride and they succeed most of the time. We locals secure our property as best we can and leave the island only when authorities order evacuation. I can remember a few times when both lanes of Highway One were open only to traffic moving toward Homestead and Miami. This morning we saw little sign of last night’s storm other than a few downed palm branches and green coconuts.

  Kane slammed on the brakes when the van ahead of us bearing Wisconsin plates jerked to a stop and pulled toward the shoulder of the highway. Two kids jumped from it almost into our path…

  “Dumb kids,” Kane growled. “Don’t they know they could get killed doing that?”

  “Dumb parents, Kane. Tourists. It’s not the kids. Visitors don’t understand how dangerous the traffic on this highway is.”

  The kids snatched up two coconuts, dashed back to their van and jumped in. “I suppose they’re gloating over having found a couple of free souvenirs to take home.” Kane shook his head and left more space between us and the van once we drove on.

  A salt-scented trade wind blowing through the truck windows cooled my cheeks, and the roar of a jet drowned out traffic sounds as it zoomed in for a landing at the air station. The clouds began to lift, and before we reached Old Town, Kane took a round-about tour along South Roosevelt and Smather’s Beach.

  Dressed in orange vests and denim pants, inmates from the road prison on Big Pine Key worked at clearing Fantasy Fest trash from the sand and the shoreline. They filled black plastic bags, then, still moving in slow motion, they flung the contents into city dumpsters, making way for the tractor that would rake and smooth the sand into readiness for today’s tourists.

  Winding back east a few blocks, we turned on Palm Avenue and crossed the bridge spanning Garrison Bight. Before we reached Grinnell Street, I thought for a few moments that a car was following us—a rusty Ford.

  “Kane?” I nodded toward the rear window. “We’ve got a tail.”