Cold Case Killer Read online

  “You know I’m always glad to help you, Gram. What’s today’s problem?”

  “The usual. Cannot lift new bag of beans to countertop. Please to help me, then we sip a cappuccino.”

  “Sure thing. No problem.” Although Gram pretends to be unaware of it, her appearance attracts as many people to her shop as do the sundries she sells. She wears her hair in a high topknot spiked with two tortoiseshell hairpins. Her golden hoop earrings and sandals along with her scarlet caftan and head bandeau give her the look of an aging female pirate. I never say the word “aging” within her hearing. At seventy-two Gram feels age challenged. She keeps her birthdays top secret along with the fact that she has to wear earplugs at night so she can sleep in spite of the Duval Street clamor. Gram’s my favorite person and she knows I’d do anything for her.

  “You have full schedule today, Keely?”

  “Sure do. Three appointments this morning, and it’s Wednesday, you know.”

  “Your afternoon for fishing, yes?”

  “Right. Sometime I wish you’d close shop on Wednesday afternoon and boat into the back country with me. You love casting to the bonefish and ’cuda in the flats as much as I do.” Although the early morning temperature hung in the seventies, I felt nervous sweat dampening my jumpsuit and I could hardly keep my mind on our chit-chat as the death threat in my pocket intruded into my thinking.

  “No like to close shop for a whole afternoon. Folks even knock on my door during my siesta hour in spite of sign I hang in my window. People need my sundries.”

  We entered her shop and I breathed the fragrance of vanilla mingled with cinnamon. Behind the pine serving counter with its high stools, a steaming cappuccino machine dominated one corner of the room and an espresso machine the other. A hand-operated coffee grinder sat beside the gallon-size glass jars filled with coffee beans that lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. I grew up in this shop, living with Gram in an upstairs apartment after my mother’s death. In those days the scents of coffee lulled me to sleep at night like a silent lullaby.

  Hoisting the jute bag to the countertop, I opened the drawstring and helped Gram transfer part of the beans into a gallon jar. Once we finished the task, I set the bag in a storage closet, but I declined her offer of a cappuccino.

  “Got to get back to my shop, Gram. Maxine Jackson’s my first client today. This’ll be her first treatment and I need to be sure everything goes well. She’s edgy about the whole reflexology scene and I want her to feel at ease.”

  “Maxine Jackson, your cleaning lady?”

  “Right. Our cleaning lady.” I smooched a kiss onto Gram’s cheek and left her.

  Sometimes Gram hates to admit she no longer has the time or the strength to give her quarters a thorough cleaning. That’s where she and I differ. It doesn’t bother me a bit to have someone else take care of the dust-and-mop scene. I’ve never numbered housekeeping among my talents.

  Back inside my office, I placed the OPEN sign in my window. I was pulling the wicker screen that separates my living quarters from my business quarters into place when my telephone rang. I half expected to hear Maxine’s voice begging to cancel her appointment.

  “Foot Reflexology. Keely Moreno speaking.”

  For a moment I heard nothing on the other end of the line. That happened now and then. Maybe someone had dialed the wrong number. I started to hang up, then I heard heavy breathing. I thought I might be getting an obscene call when a muffled voice spoke. Man? Woman? The voice sounded so androgynous I couldn’t be sure. But it didn’t sound like Maxine.

  “Did you find my note, Keely Moreno? Read it again and take heed. Poke into the Dyanne Darby murder and you’re a dead woman.”

  TWO

  I managed to replace the receiver before it slipped from my fingers, and I felt my world closing in on me like a cast net closing on a school of pinfish. The feeling that an intruder lurked nearby rattled me. But how impossible! I’d yet to open my office for the business day. True, I’d unlocked the front door and stepped outdoors onto the sidewalk, but I’d been no more than twenty feet from my doorway even during the time I talked to Gram and helped her in her shop. The phone call could have come from next door, from across the island, from anywhere. I saw nobody nearby.

  With belated presence of mind, I grabbed the phone again and punched “0” on the keypad.

  “How may I help you?” the operator asked.

  “Can you trace a call for me—the call I received at this number only a few seconds ago?”

  “No, Ma’am. I’m not authorized to trace calls. That might be possible if you have a police order, if I have permission from an authority.”

  “Thank you.” I slammed the receiver down. I wasn’t about to instigate any action that involved the police. The next time I saw Punt I’d tell him about the call, show him the note—maybe. I’ve learned from experience that once a person tells another person secret information, she loses ownership of that information. Maybe for the time being I’d keep the threats to myself. Maybe. I felt too shaken to decide on that right now, but I was determined to calm myself and stop shaking. I couldn’t expect Maxine to relax for her treatment if I came on like a basket case. I clamped my teeth together and they stopped chattering. But my hands still trembled.

  I stood for several moments staring into the street. Nothing unusual there. Three teens drove past in a convertible, their boom box sending vibrations pulsing against my eardrums. A man and woman dressed in identical Hawaiian shirts and white slacks passed along the sidewalk and peered into my window, but the two men who were smiling at each other and holding hands as they walked along never looked my way. I knew people could see no farther inside my office than my desk and swivel chair. They couldn’t see the patron’s foam-padded bench, the small whirlpool footbath, or the adjustable chair that sat farther back in the patient-treatment area.

  Turning from the window, I appraised my office, making sure everything was in order. Behind the treatment chair, bolted to one wall hung shelves that held towels and pillows along with the lotions I used during treatments—lemon, orange, jasmine. I inhaled deeply, still trying to calm myself. The only smells I found as soothing as those in my office were those common to the backcountry flats, the scent of the tradewind, the salt water, and the living-fish aroma of the sea.

  Maxine showed for her first appointment early. No surprise there. People scheduled for first reflexology treatments seldom arrive on time. They either appear early in nervous anticipation, or they arrive late, reluctant to face a new experience.

  “Good morning, Maxine.” I put on a smile as I stepped forward to greet her, and once she stepped inside, I closed the door that opened onto the sidewalk.

  “Morning, Keely.”

  Maxine’s gold front tooth gleamed like a jewel when she smiled at me. Her body reminded me of a child’s playground ball—firm, round, and fast moving. Today she wore blue polka dot bloomers—knee length—with a white tee shirt along with Nikes and red-and-white-striped athletic sox. I doubt that she realized how picturesque she must appear to others. She eyed my treatment chair with doubt.

  “You sure this reflexology thing won’t hurt me none?”

  “That’s a promise. If you experience any twinges of pain, you let me know and I’ll stop the treatment.”

  “Then it might hurt? Right?”

  “You may experience a slight discomfort at times. Maybe. But no pain. Why don’t we get started? If you’ll sit down and remove your shoes and stockings, we’ll begin your treatment with a warm footbath.”

  Maxine backed from the padded bench and the footbath like a child trying to escape punishment. “Keely, ’splain me again about this here foot reflexology thing. Maybe better I should clean your place as always—for money instead of as a trade for treatments.”

  I sighed and smiled, and at last Maxine sat on the padded bench while I gave her my short information dump about the age-old practice of foot massage. She’d heard it in great detail before, but now sh
e sat leaning forward and listening intently—her way of stalling, I guessed.

  “Reflexology’s an ancient form of pressure therapy, Maxine. The Egyptians knew about it and used 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.” I pulled out a chart, again showing her the connections of foot parts to body parts, but she shook her head and handed the chart back to me as if it might burn her fingers.

  “Don’t want no truck with no charts.”

  I laid the chart aside. “The massage therapy promotes increased blood circulation to the affected body areas, relaxation in those areas, and a release of tensions. Reflexology has helped curtail pain for many sufferers. When doctors can’t relieve a patient’s pain many of those patients give foot reflexology a chance.”

  “And you’re one of them people?”

  “Yes. At one time I suffered from severe back pain. Pills helped, but the pain always returned. When doctors started talking to me about surgery, serious no-guarantees-promised surgery, I gave them the old cliché, ‘Don’t call me. I’ll call you.’ I backed off. Then I happened to read a magazine article about reflexology, and the information grabbed my attention. It didn’t take much persuasion to get me to try this alternative to surgery. I signed up for a series of treatments in Miami.”

  “And they helped? How’d you happen to hurt your back?”

  “Yes, the treatments helped.” I ignored her second question. No need for Maxine to know my ex had inflicted my back injuries as well as many others that had healed. It embarrassed me to admit I’d put up with Jude’s abuse for so long. I still had to find my way through admitting I’d been the wife of an abuser for years before I found the courage to face the danger of taking action on my own behalf.

  “Reflexology offered no quick fix, though, Maxine. I stuck with the Miami practitioner for weeks, only seeing gradual improvement. Guess that was my way of avoiding the surgery. But after a while I knew the treatments were worth the time it took to drive to Miami as well as the expense. Today I’m pain free. Foot reflexology gave me my life back again, and the experience inspired me to use reflexology to help others.”

  I assisted Maxine in removing her shoes and stockings and then I snapped on the small whirlpool footbath.

  “Hmmm.” Maxine said no more, but she sat smiling as she breathed in the lemon-scented water and felt it swirl around her feet. When she’s making up her mind about something, Maxine has a way of rolling her tongue up over her gold tooth and peering into the distance as if deep in thought. Finally she spoke. “So far, I like it, Keely. Like it a dadburned lot.”

  I didn’t point out that we hadn’t started the treatment yet, and I kept the mood light. “You’d be surprised at the sight of the feet that I’ve worked with, Maxine. Callused. Misshapen. And yes, just plain ugly and smelly. You have wonderful feet. They’re firm and sturdy and I can tell you care for them well and wear shoes that give them the proper support.”

  “Got to take good care of my feet. You might say my feet are my bread and butter. Once those dogs begin barking, I’m through for the day.”

  After a few minutes in the footbath, I dried Maxine’s feet on a soft towel, eased them into disposable slippers, and led her to the treatment chair that I lowered until her feet were in a position that allowed me to massage them.

  “Want a pillow?” I asked. When she nodded, I placed a pillow under her head so she could look at me and we could talk during her treatment.

  The moments I’d spent assisting Gram and preparing Maxine for her massage had helped take my mind off the threat in my pocket and the phone call. Now I wondered if Maxine had received such warnings, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. Not now. Not yet. I lacked the courage to share my feelings. Maybe I needed to talk to Punt first—in private. Maybe.

  Moistening my hands with mint-scented oil, I began massaging Maxine’s left foot. She relaxed almost immediately, but when I concentrated pressure on her toes, she pulled her foot from my grasp and rolled her eyes.

  “Hurt?” I asked.

  “No,” she lied. “No pain. Just a smidgen of pressure.”

  I eased the pressure and massaged her instep before I returned to working on her toes again.

  “’Splain what you’re doing, please.” She raised her head from the pillow to look at her foot, and I wondered if she might get up and leave before I’d had a chance to do her any good.

  “I’m breaking up tiny crystalline and calcium deposits in your toes, and that will help your blood circulate to the nerve endings in your sinuses and your pituitary gland. Those are the places where lots of headaches begin. You did tell me you suffered from headaches along with backaches, right?”

  Maxine nodded and lowered her head onto the pillow again. I felt her relax and wiggle her toes. I knew additional crystals were beginning to break up. Now that she was more at ease, I massaged the sides of her feet in a way that could relieve sciatic pain. For a moment, Maxine closed her eyes and I hoped she might drift into a light sleep, but no. She began talking.

  “Keely, we’re friends, right? We’re tighter than employer/employee, right?”

  “Right. We sure are.” I could guess what was coming next, but I saw no way to avoid it.

  “Please help me help my Randy. That’s all I’m asking. I’ve asked you before. Now I’m asking again. Just listen and give me some advice. I don’t know how to fancy talk with the police and I don’t want to say the wrong thing to them. Don’t want to privy them that I know they did a rotten job.”

  “Rotten job of what?”

  “A rotten job of finding Dyanne Darby’s true killer. My Randy didn’t murder that girl, but someone did, and me and Randy, we wants to know who.”

  THREE

  “The police should better find that killer,” Maxine continued. “Can you imagine my Randy’s pure pain of having to rot in prison for years for a crime he didn’t do?”

  “It’s beyond everyone’s imagination.” My stomach knotted whenever I thought of innocent people doing jail time. “People hate thinking about it, hate talking about it. That’s because they have no answers.”

  “My Randy, he wears a mask to hide his feelings, to help him cope. That mask almost makes him look normal, but I know what it hides. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Deep, deep depression. And hate. Randy hates the authorities. That hate’s a habit he’s taught himself every day for twenty years. The habit of hate. It’s a fearsome thing.”

  “Maybe he should try to blank out the past by stopping the hating, finding a job, and getting on with his life.”

  “Right now my Randy’s a lost ball in high weeds. His whole being’s been turned upside down. Find a job? You know the first thing bigwig bosses ask? They ask where he’s been the past twenty years. He answers. They sneer. Then they prod him about his job skills. That’s a laugh. In prison nobody helped the lifers to develop no job skills.”

  “Maybe he could return to school and train for some job that interests him.” I applied more lotion and continued the massage, unable to change the subject without appearing rude.

  “No money.” Maxine sighed deeply. “Of twenty or so Florida inmates wrongfully jailed, maybe two or three got any pay to make up for their lost work years, their lost dreams. Everyone thinks money’d help, but you can’t put no dollar value on human pain.”

  “I suppose not, but money would buy food for the table and new clothes. It’d pay medical and dental bills. It’d pay for gasoline and apartment rent.”

  “Some freed convicts did get some loot. They had more problems than before.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “People crawled out of the woodwork demanding handouts. Friends. Family. Crooks. You’d be surprised how much attention a body can get by flashing a little cash. And there’s another thing, Keely. The courts may say my Randy’s innocent, but even so, many people think: maybe he didn’t do it or maybe he did do it.
In their minds, they still question the court decision.”

  I felt guilty as Maxine pointed out thoughts that had played through my own thinking when I’d heard about Randy’s release. Since I said nothing, she continued.

  “My Randy needs to track down the person who murdered Dyanne Darby all those years ago. That’s the only thing that’ll convince the public that he’s really innocent, and that’s what I want to help him do. Police hate admitting they made a mistake. I don’t know where to start. Who’s going to listen to a cleaning lady?”

  “Maxine, you might start by remembering that many of the men and women on today’s police force are new to their jobs. Only a few old-timers may know or recall a murder that happened over twenty years ago.”

  “Right,” Maxine agreed. “That’s why I need a private person, maybe you, to help me dig into the long-ago. I got no money to hire no detective, but you—you’ve shown everyone you know how to talk to the police and make them listen.”

  I massaged Maxine’s feet, saying nothing. Last year during the uproar over Margaux Ashford’s murder, I’d had no magic charms that had worked on Detective Curry or on any of the police force. After I’d found Margaux’s body, I’d only done what I had to do to protect myself, my name, and my business. I’d listened to Detective Curry remind me over and over that the person finding a corpse was of special interest to the police. My learning the identity of Margaux’s killer came as the result of a long series of eliminations on my part and a lot of life-saving efforts on Punt’s part.

  “Randy…is…bitter.” Maxine’s voice reminded me of a pair of shears snipping the words from a string. “I can’t fault him for those feelings. Florida State Prison. My Randy, he spent years in a cement cell at Raiford while the real murderer walked Scot-free doing as he pleased. I went to visit Randy as often as I could afford the bus fare or gasoline for the car, but in the visitors’ room, a glass partition separated us, making talk hard. And a guard always stood in the room listening.”