Pier Pressure Read online

  I nodded toward the reflexology equipment I’d laid on the entryway table when I stepped into the house.

  “I travel by bicycle. After I’ve loaded my equipment into my bike basket, you’re welcome to follow me to my office. Or if that’s too slow for you, you can meet me there. Duval Street. My office’s next to my grandmother’s coffee shop. Celia Hernandez Sundries.”

  “I know the place,” he said. “I’ll meet you there. I’ve enjoyed your grandmother’s espresso for years. Can’t say that I’ve ever noticed your office, though.”

  I had many mixed feelings about having Detective Curry visit my office right now. I’d left it very early, before I’d had a chance to straighten it up, make it presentable for visitors, and I’ve never been noted for my housekeeping skills. I had no choice. He followed me out the door.

  Detective Curry helped me off the porch and down the steps with my reflexology gear, assisted me in loading it onto my bicycle, and then watched while I pedaled toward Duval Street. At least he didn’t seem to think I might try to escape via bicycle. Of course, he beat me to my office. When I arrived, he already sat perched on a high stool at Gram’s coffee bar sipping espresso.

  Unspoken questions leaped at me from Gram’s dark eyes, but she said nothing. I wondered if Curry had told her about Margaux, but I didn’t want to ask. Plenty of time to talk to Gram about Margaux later, and I preferred to do it privately.

  Since Detective Curry already knew Gram, they needed no introduction. He thanked her for her hospitality, set his coffee cup down, and we walked directly to my workplace. As I bent slightly to unlock the door, the ring on my necklace swung into his view.

  “An interesting ring,” Detective Curry commented. “It has the rosy glow of Cuban gold. Is it a family piece?”

  “Yes, my mother’s wedding band.” I didn’t go into the details about Mom’s death and I hated being asked about them, but I felt his questions coming.

  “Your mother lives in Key West, too?” he asked.

  I opened the door, pushed my bicycle inside, then propped it on its kickstand, before I answered his question. “No, sir. My mother’s dead. Her murderer’s doing life without chance of parole in a prison up north.”

  “Did this happen recently?”

  “I was fifteen when she died. One crazed druggie went on a binge and snuffed out one worthwhile life. Maybe you remember the case. It made big news headlines at the time.” I wished I hadn’t said so much. Didn’t want him to think I was playing for sympathy or feeling sorry for myself, but when conversation turns to my mother, my feelings run strong and deep.

  “Must have happened before I moved to the Keys,” he said. “I apologize for touching on sad memories.”

  “Sad memories, yes, but I like remembering those good days when Mom was alive. Long before my birth, Gram sent Mom as a baby from Havana to Miami on the Pedro Pan airlift.”

  “I’m not aware of that airlift.” He paused barely inside the doorway.

  “You may recall reading a bit about it. It took place around nineteen fifty-nine or nineteen sixty. The organizers both in Cuba and Miami kept it very hush-hush at the time, but now I see articles about it in the papers every so often. Beau Ashford wrote a column about it last month.”

  “No, I don’t remember that airlift. I lived abroad then—with the military. But I’m interested. Tell me a little about it.”

  Again, I suspected Detective Curry had ulterior motives for delving into more details concerning the Pedro Pan airlift, but I preferred that subject to the subject of my mother’s death or finding Margaux’s body. I wanted to keep him listening. I wanted to be the one talking—talking about anything except a dead body.

  My office held the mixed fragrances of peppermint, sage, lemon—some of the soaps and herbs I used in oils and lotions. I led Detective Curry to a chair beside my cluttered desk.

  “Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll he right with you.”

  I wheeled my bike back behind the partition that separated my office from my apartment. When I returned, Curry sat eyeing my desk, so I made a hurried pretense of straightening it, tossing a faded blossom from a crystal dish into my wastebasket, quickly replacing it with the blossom in my buttonhole. Then I shoved some unopened mail into my top drawer, slid a reflexology magazine to a desk corner. After that brief flurry of activity, I opened the privacy curtain for more light, but I placed a CLOSED sign in the window while sweat beaded under my bangs.

  “You’re closing right now?” Curry asked. “Don’t let my presence stop your daily business.”

  “I’m closing out of respect for Margaux Ashford,” I said. “I’ll call today’s clients in a few minutes.” Even as I settled into the swivel chair behind my teakwood desk and began talking, I still had the feeling that Detective Curry remained in charge.

  “You were telling me about the Pedro Pan airlift,” Curry said.

  “When Castro and his guerrillas ousted President Batista from Cuba, some Cuban citizens in Havana, along with Catholic charities in Miami, organized a secret airlift to whisk kids out of Cuba. Castro was closing schools and churches and confiscating privately-owned property. If the kids had no relatives in America, parents sent them to Catholic orphanages until they themselves could escape Cuba and reunite with them.

  “Mother spent a year in an orphanage before Gram’s family managed to reach Miami by rowboat and claim her. My grandparents rowed ninety miles between Havana and Key West through shark-infested waters. Since then, our family has called Key West home. Mom married, but I never knew my father. He died when I was a baby. Then years later, Mom died at the hand of a killer. That’s my story—all twenty-seven years of it.”

  I wished I had a longer story. The prospect of showing this detective around my office unnerved me. I suspected that in his mind he was accusing me of either murdering Margaux or of having some part in her suicide. You know the person finding the body is always of special interest to the police. His words replayed in my mind. Could he search my office without my permission? Didn’t such searching require a warrant of some kind? What if he saw the gun in my desk drawer? Would he take it? Could he pick up whatever he wanted without my permission just because I found Margaux’s body?

  Scary questions raced through my mind and I wanted to get this man out of my office and on his way to wherever detectives go once they’re through making body finders nervous. But I could see getting rid of him wasn’t going to be that easy. He settled more comfortably into his chair, eyeing my account book and my calendar that lay on my desk beside the computer.

  Did he really want an appointment? Or was he playing it cool—trying to put me at ease so I would reveal something incriminating?

  Four

  I HAD RECENTLY painted my office walls white and now the sun shining through the front picture window highlighted the whole room. Detective Curry studied the floor-to-ceiling shelves that held a few books, a stack of clean towels, colorful bottles, and jars of lotions. When his eye fell on my adjustable patient’s chair, he rose and studied it carefully.

  “This’s where your patient sits during treatment?”

  I joined him standing beside the chair. “Yes.” I pushed a lever on the velvet-covered recliner that brought the footrest up to waist height and lowered the headrest. “This chair will accommodate a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound person and it’s quite comfortable. It places the client’s feet at a height that makes it easy for me to do my work.”

  Curry ran his hand over the soft fabric of the chair before he turned away.

  “I place a pillow under the patient’s head in case he doesn’t enjoy having his feet higher than his head.”

  “I can see how a pillow might be needed.”

  With another glance around, Curry’s eye caught my temporary living quarters only partially hidden behind a folding partition. He walked to the back of the office.

  “You live in this office space, too?” His gaze took in my tiny living area, dining table, kitchen, bedroom
. I wondered if he’d check out the bathroom to be sure I wasn’t hiding more dead bodies.

  “I used to live here full time, but now I’m only in the apartment one month of the year.”

  His gaze formed a question, but I said nothing until he asked. “Why only one month of the year? This’s the address you gave me. Where do you live the other eleven months?”

  “I house-sit for a couple from North Dakota who rent a vacation place in an old established neighborhood on Georgia Street. They bought an ancient house they intend to modernize, but they only come down during March, so the modernizing is progressing very slowly. I sublet the house from them for the rest of the year. I’m pleased with the low rental price they offer, and they’re pleased to have someone occupying their place—keeping it looking lived-in. It’s a good deal for both of us. Rentals are hard to come by in Key West and I enjoy getting away from the busyness of Duval.”

  “I can understand that.”

  Detective Curry walked back toward the chair beside my desk, and I tried to distract him before he sat again. I still doubted he had come here purely for health reasons, so I gave him the hard sell—something I seldom do with potential customers whose business I value. “If you want to schedule a reflexology treatment today, I’ll check my calendar for openings.”

  “Please do. The doc is talking about rotor-cuff surgery?” He sighed. “I’d like to avoid that, if at all possible. What free times do you have? What’s your work schedule like?”

  Maybe he was for real after all. Or maybe he was, as Gram would say, catching two ’cuda on one bait shrimp—casing me out as a murder suspect and arranging for a treatment at the same time. The more hours he spent here getting treatments, the more opportunity he’d have to study my activities.

  “Usually, I see only four clients a day. Each treatment lasts an hour or a bit more for the first one, and it’s strenuous work.”

  “For your hands?”

  “Yes—for my hands.” I didn’t try to tell him about the drain on my body, on my soul, as energy flowed from my body into that of my patient. Few people understood that. “I like an hour’s rest between sessions.” I flipped over several pages of my appointment book. “When are you free? What hours are best for you?”

  “Do you offer evening appointments?”

  “No. My regular times are nine, eleven, one, and three and I take Wednesday afternoons off.”

  “When’s your next free time?”

  “How about next Saturday at three?”

  Detective Curry checked a pocket calendar. “That would work out fine for me.” He jotted the time and date onto his book, and I also gave him a business card with the time penciled on the back. Somehow I knew he’d remember his appointment. So would I.

  “I’ll see you then.” I moved toward the door, subtly trying to urge him to do likewise. But he had more questions.

  “Have you taken foot reflexology treatments that have helped you, Miss Moreno?”

  “Yes, of course. I found it hard to believe that foot manipulations could relieve back pain as well as prevent future stress. But it’s true. I won’t say reflexology healed me. It wasn’t a quick fix and the treatments didn’t work overnight.”

  “But they did make your back feel more comfortable?”

  “Yes. After a few weeks of treatments I could move about pain-free. I’ve felt fine now for several years. I wanted to pass this means of relief to others, so I earned my reflexology certificate and opened this office. Today people from all walks of life come to me to ease their aches, pains, and stress, and it pleases me to have found a way to help them and to earn enough to support myself, my boat, and my backcountry fishing habit.”

  “I’m looking forward to my appointment,” he said as at last he left my office.

  Once he drove out of sight, I drew the muslin drapery across the front window, reinforcing the CLOSED sign. For a moment I sighed and sat down at my desk. But when I closed my eyes, hoping for a few minutes of solitude, the image of Margaux’s body replayed on the screen of my mind along with the image of Jude walking down the street in that neighborhood where he didn’t belong. The morning’s happenings had left me drained of all energy, yet I almost welcomed talking to Gram when she tapped on my door.

  “What’s up, Keely?” Her earrings bobbed and her caftan swished as the sweet scent of cinnamon-flavored coffee wafted into the room with her. I closed the door quickly. “News announcer break into program.” Gram’s eyes grew wide. “He say Margaux Ashford dead. No more details. You know she dead? You find her? That be why detective here?”

  “Right.” I gave Gram all the details I had, knowing she wouldn’t be satisfied until I did. But I didn’t mention seeing Jude Cardell. Gram hated facing the fact that Jude still lived on planet earth, let alone right here in Key West. She thought he should have stayed in Miami where we had moved shortly after our marriage. I thought so, too, and I still shuddered at the thought of him. Jude’s former violence warned me that in spite of all the judge’s reassurances, the court’s restraining order might be no more valuable than the paper it was written on.

  Following our divorce, my counselor had pointed out that Jude’s personality matched that of an abuser. Jude had wined and dined me and rushed me into marriage. I was so in love, or thought I was in love, that I let him manipulate me into doing whatever he wanted. His wish became my order. Then, once we were married and although I didn’t want to leave Key West, he insisted on moving to Miami, saying there were more job opportunities for him in a big city.

  The counselor said his insistence on moving followed the abuser pattern—take the woman away from family and friends. That makes it much easier to control her. And control is the name of the abuser’s game. In Miami, the wining and dining stopped and Jude’s insane jealousy started. He accused me of having affairs with everyone from our next-door neighbor to the greengrocer at the Winn-Dixie. Although we could have used another income, Jude didn’t want me to find a job: too many men in the workforce for me to flirt with.

  “Police many time suspect person finding body.”

  Gram’s words snapped me from my unpleasant memories of Jude and back to my unpleasant memories of Margaux’s body and Detective Curry’s questions.

  “I know. You needn’t remind me. The police have already made it clear that they consider me a suspect. Of course, Detective Curry also mentioned the possibility of suicide.”

  “Rotten deal for you to find body, Keely. Margaux spell trouble right from get-go. Lots of people think that, too. Who you suppose did her in?”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Gram. I saw no signs of a forced entry into the house. The door stood unlocked. I knocked and it swung open. It wasn’t even tightly closed.”

  “Then a friend do it to her. If door be unlocked—means she let someone in. Someone she knew. Why would such snooty woman do suicide?” Gram lifted her nose into the air, mimicking her idea of snooty. “She think herself above death. She no do the community such a grand service as suicide.”

  “Gram! Back off. Beau loved her. Our literary community respected her. I considered her a good client.”

  “Caramba!” Gram voiced her pent-up feelings and left my office as quickly as she had arrived.

  I jumped, startled as my talking wall clock announced twelve o’clock. Bad news travels fast. Shandy Koffan hadn’t arrived for her nine o’clock. Surely she must have known my office would be closed. Had the news blurb told who found the body? I should have asked Gram that question. Out of courtesy, I called Consuela to cancel her one o’clock and she answered immediately. I held the receiver at a distance to protect my eardrums.

  “Of course I’ve heard about Margaux.” Consuela always spoke in mega-decibels although I had assured her many times that I wasn’t hard of hearing. I held the receiver even farther from my ear. “Please expect no tears from me, Keely Moreno. None at all. Not even one little tear. That woman meant nothing to me—nothing but humiliations and put-downs.”


  “I didn’t call you seeking tears, Consuela. I merely called to formally cancel your appointment for this afternoon. I’m just not up to giving treatments right now, and I’m closing my office today in respect for Margaux and the Ashford family. I’ll be able to give you a make-up time tomorrow, Monday, at eleven.”

  “I dislike Monday appointments. You know that. I’ve told you that many times.”

  “Okay, if Monday doesn’t suit you, we’ll probably have to wait until Thursday.”

  “Why? Why not on Tuesday? Or Wednesday?”

  “Because Margaux’s memorial service may be scheduled for Tuesday or Wednesday, and I’m usually closed on Wednesday afternoons. Under the circumstances, I’d appreciate it if you’d come on Monday.”

  “What if I have a raging migraine this afternoon?”

  “If that happens, you call me. I can give evening appointments, but only in an emergency. In the meantime, take care in what you say about Margaux. A closed mouth gathers no foot. Anything you say could be used against you if the police begin searching for a killer.”

  “I’m no killer. Surely the police can see that.”

  “What the police hear may be more important than what they see.”

  “The fact that Margaux’s dead, changes not my opinion of her. I prefer to say exactly what I feel. Do you object?”

  I sighed. “Say what you please, Consuela.”

  “The world would be a better place if everyone spoke honest feelings. Everyone knows Margaux and I had no great love for each other.”

  I held the receiver even farther from my ear. “Take care, Consuela, and do call me if you need me.” I hung up quickly, and I smiled, imagining her still talking to a dead phone line.

  Now I called Shandy and rescheduled her for tomorrow morning. After that I faced making the call I dreaded—the one to Jass. She planned to return from Miami in time for her three o’clock time slot because she couldn’t bear waiting around at the show headquarters until they announced the winners. Although I didn’t expect her to keep her appointment today, I had to call her.