Pier Pressure Read online

  Fate had thrown me into this situation up to my eyebrows and I had to deal with it. Reluctantly I eased my cell phone from my pocket. Somehow I stopped my fingers from trembling long enough to key in nine-one-one.

  “Police dispatcher,” a cool voice flowed across the wire as if from a great distance. “Who’s speaking, please?”

  “Keely Moreno here.” My throat felt stiff as a steel pipe, and my stress-frazzled voice threatened to fail. The line hummed as I cleared my throat. “I’m calling to report a—a body. A dead body. Please send help quickly.”

  “Where are you, Miss Moreno?” the dispatcher asked, her voice still unflustered and sea-water cool.

  “I’m at the Beau Ashford home on Grinnell Street. I’m not sure of the exact address. Shall I step outside and look at the house number?”

  “No, Miss Moreno. Our people know the Ashford house. Everyone knows it by sight. Please keep calm and stay where you are. Our rescue unit’s on its way and will arrive in a very few minutes. You may need to supply some details.”

  “Thank you.” I wanted to say something more that would keep our conversation alive and going. I wanted her to talk me through the agonizing moments until help arrived. She was my lifeline, but I could think of nothing more to say. I clicked the power switch, jammed the phone back into my pocket, and paced the room while I waited for the police, the ambulance, the fire truck. Would they arrive with sirens wailing? Maybe I should call Jass, Beau’s daughter and my close friend, and tell her what I’d found. Over the telephone? Would that be the kind thing to do? Forget that. Jass was probably still in Miami keeping tabs on her annual entry in the Hibiscus Show. She’d learn the news soon enough.

  I backed off from calling Jass’s twin, too. Who knew where or with whom Punt might be sleeping? Nor could I bear waiting another minute in the Ashford home. I forced myself to move calmly as I stepped onto the front porch, walked down the five steps, and into the yard. Why was I counting the steps so carefully? For once I understood people like Shandy Koffan who had a compulsive need to count things—everything. I walked through the yard, out the gate, and into the street. In spite of what the dispatcher had said, I planned to flag down the rescue unit, to make sure the driver didn’t accidentally pass by the Ashford house.

  I had only been standing at the curbing for a few moments when I caught a glimpse of Jude walking away from me on the other side of the street. What was he doing in this neighborhood? Jude lived on Key Haven, several miles from here, closer to Boca Chica than to Grinnell Street. Was he returning to the scene of the crime? I knew that was an unfair thought. Maybe I had discovered no crime other than suicide. Much as I hated to admit it, Jude had a right to walk anywhere he chose to walk—anywhere except near me. Right now his presence rattled me, and I ducked behind a palm tree, fearing he might turn and see me at any moment, but maybe I had been mistaken. Maybe the man wasn’t Jude at all. Finding Margaux’s body had rattled me. I peeked from behind the palm for another look.

  No. There was no mistaking Jude’s bulky form, his shiny bald head, and his pale skin. Pale skin’s hard to come by in Key West. Why had I ever fallen for Jude Cardell? I had my reasons at the time, but that question often haunted my worst nightmares as I remembered a broken jaw, bruised breasts, and frequent cigarette burns on many hidden and tender body spots that Jude knew would never meet the public eye.

  Jude was handsome in a way, with broad cheekbones, a Roman nose, and eyes the color of aquamarines. But since our divorce he’d shaved his head. I wondered what the dignified attorneys at Hubble & Hubble thought of that. But in Key West, anything goes. Jude reminded me of a giant toadstool, a fungus grown secretly and stealthily in some dank cave. A scary and unsavory fungus.

  I thought of the pistol in my office desk drawer. I hated guns. Nikko had bought it for me at the time of my divorce. Nikko’s the retired cop who lives in an apartment above my office, and Gram and I know him well. Although he accompanied me to the practice range and supervised my extensive target training, the gun still frightens me. I hate its coldness in my hand, the pungent odor of the spent bullets. I’ve never used it off the practice range, but somehow, I wished I had it with me now.

  Sirens wailing in the distance jerked my attention to the present long before the police car arrived. Wailing sirens are a frightening sound in Key West, although they are frequently an intrusion. Drivers know they’re supposed to pull over, stop, and give the emergency vehicle the right of way, but many times a narrow street offers no safe space to do that. Out on Highway 1, pulling over may splash a driver into the sea. On the narrow city streets, pulling over could cause an accident, but no traffic clogged Grinnell Street yet this morning.

  The police car arrived, carrying two uniformed officers. Then the ambulance pulled to the curb. Then the fire truck. After that another police car joined the fray, bringing men in suits and ties. Slamming car doors created a cacophony of sound. For a few moments, neighbors peeked from behind louvers and shades before they ventured into their yards to see the action coming down at the Ashfords’. One woman in a polka-dot housecoat and pink hair rollers made a pretense of sweeping her porch steps and front walk. A man leaned on his fence, openly ogling the scene.

  I jumped, startled, as a plainclothes detective approached me and flashed his ID. Detective Jonathan Curry. His compact frame loomed over me, intimidated me, but his steel gray eyes carried more power than his height. They bored like laser beams, burning into my brain, threatening to illumine any secrets I might try to hide. I fought a rising panic along with a deep sensation of aloneness. What if I couldn’t breathe? What if my words clogged in my throat? I straightened my back and raised my chin. Sometimes that gave me a feeling of needed height. Not this time.

  “You Keely Moreno?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Detective Curry pulled a dog-eared notepad and a ballpoint from his jacket pocket without taking his gaze from my face. “You’re the one who reported the body?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Inside the house, sir, but I saw it first through the porch window before I reached the door.”

  “You knocked on the door?” His ballpoint flew across the page.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nobody answered?”

  “Right. Nobody answered.” How could she answer when she’s dead? I wanted to scream at him, but I choked the words back along with the sarcastic thought.

  “Come with me, please,” Detective Curry ordered.

  Although I hated the idea of going back inside that house, I tagged after him up the five steps and through the open doorway. Several more police officers arrived and followed us, their footsteps sounding hollow against the wooden stairs.

  I recognized Joe Rankin, the barrel-chested cop who had befriended me after Mom’s death and who knew all about my problems with Jude. He’s now one of my patients and we nodded to each other.

  I also knew Dr. Wantize, the pudgy medical examiner, and Kurt Worthington, a stringbean of a man who worked as police photographer. In a matter of a few moments, the police officers outside got the go-ahead from someone to stretch yellow tape around the Ashford property. CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. I shuddered as I read the black letters from where I stood near the door. Did the tape mean the police suspected murder? Or was suicide a crime, too?

  Dr. Wantize examined Margaux’s body, doing the stethoscope thing to check for heartbeat, forcing her eyelids open with his thumb, and shining a bright light onto her sightless pupils. Detective Curry stepped between me and Margaux’s body, and for a few moments I couldn’t tell what the policemen were doing. I didn’t really want to know. When Curry stepped aside to talk with Joe Rankin, I saw another cop place paper bags around Margaux’s hands like mittens, securing them at her wrists. I could hardly bear to look, nor could I bear to look away as Dr. Wantize worked with thermometers, vials of liquid, and Handi-Wipes. At last, he shook his head and nodded toward Detective Curry.

  “
Been dead seven or eight hours, that’s my guess. That puts the time of death around ten to midnight last night. Hard to tell exactly, but I’m guessing that’s a close estimate.”

  Detective Curry nodded and scrawled an entry on his notepad. “Suicide? Murder? Your opinion?”

  “That’s your bailiwick, Jon. I’ll give you the pertinent facts. You make the call.”

  “With your help and advice,” Curry said. “Looks like this could be a tough one. No suicide note?”

  “Not in this area,” Wantize replied. “Don’t know about other rooms.”

  “My men’ll check the rest of the house.”

  Kurt Worthington’s flashbulb left dizzying circles before my eyes as he snapped many pics of the room and of Margaux’s body, before replacing his camera in its case and slinging the strap over his shoulder.

  “All through, Detective,” he said at last.

  The ambulance crew lumbered inside with a stretcher. Working quickly for such big men, they lifted Margaux’s body onto the narrow plank and I saw a gun fall to the floor, saw another cop pick it up and drop it into an evidence bag before they covered her with a blanket, and carried her to the ambulance. The growing crowd waiting outside the crime scene tape called muted questions to the crew, but received few answers.

  “No comment,” one officer called out.

  “Stand back, please,” another officer ordered. “Give the ambulance crew room.”

  “Where are they taking her?” I asked. “Hospital? Funeral home?” I looked away from the scene in the street.

  “Morgue?” Detective Curry’s voice sounded like a pair of scissors, clipping the word from a string of inner thoughts. Then he gave me his full attention once more. “Who found the body?” he asked.

  “I did, sir.” He’d asked me that before, but I didn’t remind him of that. Was he checking my memory? Did he think I might forget? Or change my story? I’d had enough interaction with the police during my marriage and divorce from Jude to know first-hand what he might be thinking.

  “Your full name, please.”

  “Keely Moreno.”

  He wrote it down as if hearing it for the first time. “Address?”

  “Duval Street.” When he insisted, I gave the exact address of my business.

  “Did you touch anything in the house?”

  “Yes, sir. I touched Margaux’s…hand. Her left hand.”

  He lowered his notepad. “Why did you do that?” His probing gaze bored into me. “Didn’t you realize you might be contaminating the crime scene?” His laser beam stare carried an accusation.

  “I found Margaux Ashford, my client, unresponsive, sir. I needed to see if she was still alive, to see if I, or perhaps doctors, could help her.”

  Detective Curry’s ballpoint scratched on his notepad, refusing to write. He jammed it back into his pocket and pulled out a fresh one. After testing it and finding it worthy, he continued his questions.

  “…anything you say may be used against you.” The words from mystery novels and TV movies replayed through my mind and again my teeth began to chatter, although the day had grown warmer.

  “Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning,” Detective Curry said. “What time did you discover the body and what were you doing here at this time of the day? You had legitimate business at seven A.M.?”

  “Are you going to read me my rights?” Again, the feeling of being utterly alone washed over me, threatening to drag me into some deep abyss I would rather avoid. If Detective Curry let me make one telephone call, I’d call Beau. No. Wrong. Beau was out of town. I’d call Nikko. A retired cop would know about a situation like this one. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You’re not under arrest, Miss Moreno. My gut feeling is that you happened to show up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Right now, I’m asking informal questions to help me figure out what happened here last night. You don’t have to answer on the spot, of course. If you’d feel more at ease, I’ll take you to police headquarters for formal questioning.”

  At ease! Hah! I didn’t have to answer his informal questions. Double Hah! But I knew if I refused to answer here and now I’d look guilty. Of murder? Of helping Margaux commit suicide? Some choice he offered me. Some fat choice I had. I tried to imagine what Nikko or Beau would tell me to do, but I sensed the detective’s growing impatience. And I began to talk.

  Three

  “I TOLD YOU that Margaux Ashford is—was my patient, my reflexology patient. We have—had a standing appointment for her foot reflexology treatment every Sunday morning at seven. I arrived a bit late this morning due to some delays at my office, but my watch said only a few minutes past seven when I arrived and knocked on her front door.”

  “Foot reflexology treatment?” Detective Curry lifted his ballpoint and waited. “She had a problem with her feet? Explain, please.”

  Did he write in shorthand? Did he plan to record every word I said? I began to talk faster, hoping to confuse him and hoping he’d have trouble keeping up.

  “I’m a certified foot reflexologist with an office on Duval Street.” I began my information dump, the explanation I gave to new patients or potential patients who showed interest in alternative approaches to healing. Only for prospective patients, I talked much more slowly and punctuated my words with frequent smiles. Now I kept a solemn face and used my memorized speech to stall for time, to give myself more moments to think. Could I speed-talk and think about something else at the same time? I hoped so, but as long as I talked about reflexology I wasn’t talking about Margaux’s death.

  “Reflexology’s an ancient form of pressure therapy. The Egyptians knew about it thousands of years ago. It involves applying focused pressure to certain known reflex points located in the foot. These points correspond to certain areas in the body. The therapy results in increased blood circulation to the affected body areas, relaxation in those areas, and a release of tensions. Reflexology has stopped pain for many people.”

  I half expected Detective Curry to laugh or to question my explanation that obviously covered territory brand new to him. Since he did neither, he rose a bit in my estimation.

  “So you came here on legitimate business,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you aware that the person finding a dead body is of special interest to the police?”

  “Yes.” I could think of nothing else to say. Did he intend to accuse me of murder? Of assisting a suicide? I began to feel trapped, suffocated by my own breath and voice. And my feeling of aloneness penetrated more deeply into my being. I added fear of the police and their questions to my fear of Jude Cardell.

  “How long had Mrs. Ashford been calling on your services?” Pen poised once more, Detective Curry gazed into my eyes.

  “For a couple of years—more or less. I have an accurate record of each of her visits on tape as well as on my office computer.” I didn’t tell him I had the tape recorder in my pocket. In his case, I considered it a don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation, but all my patients know I record our conversations during a work session. “If you’d like to see my records concerning Margaux Ashford, I’ll print them out for you.”

  “That may be necessary for the courtroom later, but not right now. I’ll take your word that you have her records.”

  The courtroom? Could he hear my mind shouting those words? Was he threatening me? I clamped my jaws together to keep my teeth from chattering as I pictured twelve jurors staring at me from a jury box while a black-robed judge banged a gavel for attention in the courtroom.

  “Your reflexology treatments must have given Mrs. Ashford relief, right?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why she booked the standing appointment.”

  “Do you ever treat patients with shoulder and back pain?” He dropped his pad and ballpoint back into his pocket.

  “Of course,” I replied. A trick question? I wondered. Why would he ask that?

  “Are you taking new patients? I mean, if you could fit me in,
I’d like to have you see what you can do for my shoulders. Doctors haven’t seemed to help me any. Foot reflexology’s a new healing concept to me, but I’m willing to try it. Is it painful?”

  “Very little pain involved.” It amused me that this big guy, this formidable detective, might be afraid of a little pain.

  “I like to play tennis and golf, but here lately…”

  I hesitated. Would a detective investigating a suicide or a murder spend time asking questions about my reflexology business? About making an appointment? Something about his quick questions and his seemingly quick acceptance of reflexology as an alternative treatment put me on guard.

  He came here to investigate a death, didn’t he? Did he really have shoulder and back problems, or did he just want to see my office, see if I had a legitimate business? My mind swirled with questions I couldn’t answer. Police detectives didn’t have to make appointments to investigate, did they? Nothing could stop this man from coming to my office at any time with a search warrant or with more questions. Or nothing would keep him from coming to my office to make an appointment. I decided to take him at his word—at least for the time being. He wanted a reflexology treatment and I seldom turn down the chance to work with a new and needy patient.

  “Yes, I can give you a time slot, but I’ll have to check my appointment calendar at the office.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’d like to go there with you now. My men will finish taking care of the crime scene and notifying the next of kin.”

  Now I felt almost sure that he wanted to check out my place of business. I considered telling him that Margaux had no next of kin except Beau, that she had been born in a Greek village where her family had all been killed by raiding Albanians many years ago. That she had escaped by playing dead until the raiders left. I kept quiet. Why should I be of help? Let this detective do his own detecting into Margaux’s past.

  “Do you care to ride along with me?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to go on ahead and let me follow you there?”