Daiquiri Dock Murder Read online

  “Don’t think so.” The driver of the car tailgating us seized a chance to pass, waving a hearty greeting to Kane. “Ben Bahama. Used to anchor his boat near mine at the shrimp dock before big business crowded us out.”

  “You and many others, Kane. But that’s in the past. Glad you know Ben Bahama. I hate being followed by a stranger.”

  “Relax. Why would anyone be tailing us?”

  “Why, indeed! Someone must have followed Diego yesterday.”

  Kane turned into The Little Whitehouse gated driveway where a security guard on duty looked us over and then, recognizing me, waved us on through. Along this secluded street, old Conch mansions built decades ago ruled like royalty. Kane slowed at a sign saying THE VEXTONS. I loved living at a posh hotel a few blocks from here and took it for granted as my lot in life—most of the time. But in spite of our upscale neighborhood, the Vexton home gave me the creeps. I understood how and why an enterprising entrepreneur had talked the Vextons into allowing him to list their mansion on a visitor’s ghost walking tour.

  Squelching a shiver, I said nothing as we drove forward, easing into the deep shade of two towering banyans. A strangler fig that had fastened itself to the trunk of the larger tree threatened its existence.

  Brick and Threnody’s three-story home could have appeared in an antique, sepia-toned photo as an example of a Spanish Colonial design. Built of age-darkened limestone and native coral rock, it had weathered through the years, huddling under a wide roof supported by iron-flanged pillars on either end of the veranda. A ship’s bell, its dull brass unpolished, dangled from a weathered post at the foot of cracked concrete steps.

  For a few moments I forced myself to enjoy the breeze that fluttered the banyan leaves until Kane stopped the truck. Almost immediately we saw Dolly Jass who called to us from where she stood pulling magazines from the yellow recycling box set near the street. My mood lightened. Only the hard of heart could look at Dolly without smiling. But Kane refused to smile.

  Chapter 4

  (Still Sunday Morning)

  “Rafa!” Dolly called, walking toward us. “Are you okay? I heard the news. What a terrible scene you’ve been through. I feel so sorry for Diego. He and I were just getting to know each other well.”

  “I’m fine, Dolly. Just dropped in to talk with Threnody, to thank her for sending me clothes at the hospital.”

  “Sorry, but she’s out for the morning. I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

  As usual Dolly’s silvery hair swirled around the shoulders of her long-sleeved blouse with its elaborate neck bow. I seldom saw her in anything but a poet’s blouse and black satin pants, skin-tight across the hips then flaring at the ankles.

  “Some work outfit.” Kane chuckled as Dolly approached the truck, trying to keep a grip on her armload of magazines. “She’s probably hiding a severe case of tattoo regret under those long sleeves. People do that. Women. Even guys who’re tired of the macho scene.”

  “At heart Dolly’s a poet, not a cleaning lady. I can’t help admiring anyone who works two jobs and still finds time to write poetry.”

  “Lots of service people having moved to the warmth of paradise work two jobs, maybe three—especially if they’ve formed the unfortunate habit of eating. Lucky for her Brick gave her a job and the maid’s room at his mansion. Good thing he vouched for her work and her honesty with your mother and Cheri.”

  “A plus for Dolly, and also an extra plus thing for our hotel. We need her help.”

  “I’ll admit she’s an asset as kitchen help at The Frangi. Thanks to Brick, she’s lucky to have two good jobs.” Kane grinned. “Hey! You suppose Brick and Dolly have something going?”

  “Kane! Women have a rep for being the gossips of the world, not men.”

  “Well, even though Dolly’s an old lady…”

  “Hold it right there, buddy.” I grinned at him. “I’m guessing Dolly’s ten years away from collecting social security.”

  “Humph. No matter her age, she flirts with anything wearing pants, and all the locals know Brick has an eye for the ladies. Threnody better watch her back.”

  “What’s going on with the magazines, Dolly,” I called to her as she reached the truck and two magazines slipped from her grip, flopping to the ground.

  “Need a hand?” Kane called, opening his door, offering to help her.

  Dolly smiled at me before she batted her eyelashes at Kane. “I can manage okay, but thanks, Kane.” She laid the magazines on the ground, tugged a piece of paper from her pants pocket and tucked it into the pocket on my shirt.

  “Threnody asked me to get rid of the mags, but when Brick saw them in the recycle box, he slipped me an extra five and asked me to bring them back inside and stack them in his den.” Then she lowered her voice as if someone might be listening. “He’s a packrat, you know, a sweet guy, but a packrat. Has a problem letting go of stuff, magazines, old clothes…anything. But it’s nothing to me. He pays me to do what I’m told.” She grinned. “May write a poem about a packrat some day.”

  With a quick wave, Dolly picked up the magazines, turned and headed toward the mansion while Kane followed the circle driveway back to the street and pointed us toward the hotel. I guessed Dolly had tucked a poem into my pocket, but I didn’t read it right then. No point in giving Kane a chance to laugh at her.

  Compared to the Vexton mansion, The Blue Mermaid looked like King Neptune’s palace—five stories tall, a lattice-and vine-covered portico, and hundreds of overhead windows that caught the sunlight and reflected back silvery blue images. Out front, a bigger-than-life sculpture of a mermaid guarded the entryway. Kane followed the bricked driveway that led to our family’s private entrance at the back of the hotel. Mother always hated having his battered work truck out front where potential patrons could see it and perhaps decide to book rooms someplace else. We went inside and took the service elevator to the penthouse.

  “I locked the door to your suite this morning after Threnody packed your clothes for you.”

  The elevator door closed behind us, and we stepped into the hallway where Wyland, famous marine life artist of the day, had painted sea-creature murals on the inner walls—whales, manta rays, and mermaids relaxing in a bed of sea fans and conch shells.

  “Glad you locked the place, Kane. Wouldn’t dream of going out and leaving my suite open. Got my key ring?”

  Kane pulled my keys from his pocket and unlocked the door for me. I stepped inside my suite, then hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I walked on, unwilling for Kane to see my nervousness. I refused to admit to fear. A searching look around told me that nobody had been inside the suite except Kane and me—and Threnody. But if someone had murdered Diego, I might be next on the killer’s list. To hide my uneasiness, I strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a carafe of iced tea.

  “How about a drink, Kane? I’m dying of thirst and that hospital water tasted like pure formaldehyde.”

  “You swig down lots of formaldehyde?” Kane stepped close and blew his warm breath into my ear. I laughed, kissed him lightly on the cheek, then eased to the cupboard to get glasses.

  “No formaldehyde when there’s something better at hand.” I poured us tumblers of tea and added some ice cubes before I remembered the special treat Kane made for us yesterday noon.

  “Kane! Your crème brûlée! We have two ramekins left from yesterday. Shall we eat them now?”

  “Glad you remembered!”

  Kane carried the ramekins and I carried the tea to the snack bar. Before we sat down to enjoy the treat, Kane kicked off his shoes, walked across the living room to open the sliding doors that opened onto a half-balcony overlooking the hotel pool. Mother and Cheri’s suites opened onto full balconies and I tried not to resent that although, in my mind, it stood as another example of my underdog status in the family. I followed Kane onto the balcony, gazing into the distance where our view included Key West harbor, and beyond that, the Gulf of M
exico.

  Kane draped his arm around my shoulder and sighed. “Don’t know how you ever get any writing done with a view like this tempting you to relax and enjoy.”

  “When I’m tempted to goof off too long, my conscience hears my computer and steel files calling from my office.” I nodded toward the next room. “The Citizen does give me deadlines, you know. Right now, I have a couple of columns written ahead of schedule.”

  “Good thing. It’ll give you some extra time to deal with the police investigation. And I’m guessing there’ll be one starting in the very near future—like today.”

  We returned to the snack bar to enjoy the crème brûlée.

  “Kane, there’s nothing nicer than a man who likes to cook. This custard is delicious—sweet, creamy, and crunchy on top. Excellent. Feel free to use my kitchen any time you choose.”

  “And your bed?”

  I grinned at him. “We’ll see about that.”

  Kane finished his custard and walked toward a hallway wall for a close look at an award I received last year.

  “FIRST PRIZE. GRAND SLAM. What’s that all about, Rafa. Never noticed it before. Didn’t know you played bridge.”

  “No bridge. That’s an award from Florida Keys Sportsmen, Inc. Thought I told you about winning it in their contest last summer. I caught a bonefish, a permit, and a tarpon all on the same day. I don’t usually display my fishing trophies, but that one’s special.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed. Really, I am. When I go fishing, I can cast a plug or a fly for hours without catching anything. Nada. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks, Kane. Glad you noticed the award.”

  Turning, Kane stepped closer to the balcony and peered at the ocean. “I can see three sailboats and a catamaran close by. No shrimp boats, of course, now that they’ve been eased out. And in the distance two freighters are taking their chances with the would-be hurricane.”

  “I love this suite, Kane. Even though it means putting up with Mother and Cherie’s company now and then, they don’t drop in unless I invite them. Good thing we have separate quarters.” I stood. “Care for something else to eat? A cookie? Some junk food?”

  “Another time, thanks.” Kane slipped back into his shoes, picked up his tea and finished it in one gulp. “Let’s get out of here, Rafa.”

  “You must feel as uneasy as I do.”

  “I can’t help thinking about Diego.”

  “Me, either.” I pulled my hand from his, rinsed our tea glasses and ramekins, set them in the dishwasher. “Ever since we left the hospital I’ve felt someone watching us, following us. Spying on us. It’s going to take a while for me to get over the shock of finding Diego—dead, of learning that the police consider me a person of interest—a suspect.” I walked around the room, closing the windows and the sliding balcony door.

  “Why are you doing that? Your suite will feel like a potter’s kiln when you get back.”

  “No matter. I’ll turn on the AC if I’m too warm. Even if I’m up high I dislike leaving the suite with the windows open. Last night I dashed away in a big hurry to check on the Bail Bond—didn’t take time to close them.” Now, after I’d secured the windows, I lowered the mini blinds across them, and then followed Kane to the door. As we started to leave, the phone rang.

  “Hello,” I used a clipped voice, hoping to tell the caller I was in a hurry.

  No response.

  “Rafa Blue speaking. Hello.”

  I stood holding a dead line. Irritated, I dropped the phone back into its cradle, followed Kane into the hallway, and flipped the dead bolt in place before we walked to the elevator.

  “Guess someone had the wrong number,” I said. I kept my voice light, unwilling for Kane to guess I considered the call something more sinister than a wrong number.

  “Where to?” Kane asked when we reached his truck. “Want to see if Threnody’s returned home?”

  “Later, please. Guess I’m unwilling to face people—and their questions, even Threnody’s. Let’s go somewhere outdoors, yet someplace where we’ll have privacy, some place where you can tell me what you’ve heard about Diego’s death. What’s the street talk? What’s the gossip?”

  “How about going to my boat? The Harbor Walk can be a private place—of sorts—once you reach the last catwalk at the end of the long row of catwalks. We can board The Buccaneer. We’ll be alone there—except for a few hundred tourists and a few dozen boat owners who dock their boats in those upscale slips. I miss the shrimp boats, Rafa. Still makes me downright mad the way the commissioners closed them out of their working waters.”

  “But you’ll have to admit the city has turned the area into a beautiful place. I’ll take you up on your suggestion. Let’s go there now. It’ll be good to see my car again. Hope the cops haven’t ordered it towed away from some no parking zone.”

  “No tow-away danger. Spoke to some friends. I left it in a legit parking slot. Pays to have friends in the right places. Thought you might rather have the car near the Harbor Walk instead of at the hotel—in case the police come searching for it—or you.”

  “That’s a possibility?”

  “Could be. You never know. It pays to be on guard.”

  Kane drove slowly along the bumps and narrowness of Elizabeth Street to the area once claimed by shrimpers for their shrimp docks. “I haven’t worked here all that long, but the old-timers say that before Henry Singleton died and his heirs sold the Key West Bight to the city, they could walk from Elizabeth Street to Grinell on the decks of the hundreds of shrimp boats anchored in the bight. But no more.”

  “Things change, Kane. Face it. The bight’s now Key West’s Historic Seaport District. I can empathize with the commercial shrimpers forced to move on and find new waters to work, and I’m glad you talked the city into letting you stay.”

  “It hasn’t been the same, Rafa, being the only shrimp boat captain in the area. Believe me. Not the same at all. Sure, I still make my living shrimping, but I had to agree to open The Buccaneer to tourists and school groups on Wednesdays as an historic attraction. Shoots my Wednesdays all to hell. First I have to clean the boat up to get ready for guests, then I have to clean up again after they leave. And the after-guests-leave cleanup is the worst.”

  “Hey, there’s the Prius.” I stopped Kane’s rant when I saw my car. Although Kane could remember little of the ‘old days,’ he hated seeing government swallow the freedom of the common worker. He parked his truck in a palm-shaded space reserved especially for him, and we walked back to my car. Opening the driver’s door, I slid under the wheel, turned to inspect the rear seats, opened the glove box.

  “Everything’s as I left it, Kane.” I smiled at him. “Thanks for taking care of it for me.”

  “That’s the sexiest thing you do, Rafa.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do a thing.”

  “Not a thing except smile at me. Your smile is one of my favorite things. It’s like the sun roof in a car—lights up the whole area, especially my heart.”

  “Thank you for being so sweet. It’s nice to know something about me pleases you.”

  “Your smile’s not the only thing. Want to hear more?”

  Now I felt self-conscious every time I smiled, but I smiled at him again. “Not now, okay? I might get a big head. Let’s go on to your boat, okay? I try to forget all the glitz and glamour around it. It’s still just my favorite shrimp boat.”

  “Glad to know that.”

  “As a child the shrimp docks fascinated me. There was the unique smell, of course, but after a few deep breaths, I got used to that. Gulls swooped and dived. Watchbird pelicans perched, statue silent as they guarded dock pilings and waited for handouts. White boats trimmed in black dotted the sea, their riggings pointing skyward like dark swords. We lost an interesting scene when the shrimp fleet left Key West.”

  “You’re good at painting word pictures.”

  Today, The Buccaneer lay moored beside the last of the sleek sailboats. I
could imagine their captains looking down their noses at a smelly shrimp boat. Kane’s boat floated many yards from the seawall and Kane strode toward it. I followed him onto the swaying catwalk, grabbing the security line on my right for support.

  When we reached his boat, Kane boarded in one quicksilver movement, then turned to give me a hand while I stepped over the gunwale onto the gray deck. I’ve never been a sailor at heart, and the roll of the boat even while secured in its slip made me feel unsettled and vulnerable. Shadows of running clouds plunging us from shade to light and back to shade again left me off balance and I looked at the horizon hoping for stability as I moved about.

  Kane had raised the iron outriggers until they formed a black V against the sky. The pink chafing gear designed to protect the trawl nets from wear as they dragged against the sea bottom looked like two blobs of rouge applied to wrinkled faces. I wished I knew more about the boat, but Kane always said it was a working boat, not a pleasure craft. He’d only invited me aboard for a tour one Wednesday last year—a very brief tour.

  “Want to sit in the wheel house?” He nodded toward the cabin.

  I wanted to see more of the boat, but today was no time to expect another guided tour.

  “How about sitting aft where we can catch a few rays and see the action around us. We can keep our voices low.”

  “Suits me.”

  I helped Kane pull two canvas chairs onto the deck, positioning them so we’d have an almost unobstructed view of the Gulf. The sea always makes me feel miniscule and unimportant, but it never seems to affect Kane that way. He stood for a moment looking at the horizon, completely at ease as captain of The Buccaneer. I thought and hoped he’d want to talk about Diego, but he surprised me.

  Chapter 5

  (Still Sunday Morning)

  “Rafa, I’m mad as hell at the commissioners for passing legislation that forced hard-working shrimpers from what they had claimed for years as their working waters.”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do about it now. The Citizen’s printed news of that controversy for months, no, for years. Politics. But it turned out to be good news for you. You have a great boat slip right here at the harbor walk, and I guess there’s no shortage of shrimp waiting for your nets.”