Daiquiri Dock Murder Read online

  The chief nodded. And looked away first. Score one for Brick.

  `”And you, Mrs. Vexton. When did you last see the victim alive?”

  Mentally, I cringed every time Ramsey said Diego’s name, but hearing him called ‘the victim’ was even worse. The word grated against my eardrums until my head threatened to start aching again. Threnody thought for several moments before she answered.

  “I saw him Friday night at The Blue Mermaid. Yesterday, Saturday, I spent the day at home until parade line-up time. Fiesta Fest officials scheduled me to sing a solo seated on the first float as the parade passed the judges reviewing stand in front of Sloppy Joe’s. I spent part of my day vocalizing, memorizing lyrics, and practicing for that event. Singing outdoors, even with a good mike, takes lots of early-on rehearsing, yet I have to take care not to tire my vocal cords and cause hoarseness. Singing while seated requires more breath control than singing while standing. So, after practicing, I spent more time adding the finishing touches on my Mrs. Neptune costume. I didn’t see Diego at any time Saturday.”

  The chief hadn’t interrupted Threnody’s prima donna account of her rehearsing. Was I jealous of Threnody and her talent? No. Threnody was a singer. I was a writer. We’d both worked hard for any recognition we’d won. Ramsey continued.

  “If you didn’t see the victim yesterday, please tell us again about the last time you did see him alive.”

  “I saw him Friday night, mingling with guests who came to enjoy dancing and refreshments in The Frangipani Room at The Blue Mermaid.”

  “Did he stay there all evening?”

  “I have no way of knowing that,” Threnody said. “I was only present a short time before I sang the sign-off number with the combo. After I finished singing, I helped Dolly Jass who sometimes tends bar or helps out in the kitchen. Rafa Blue is manager and acts as hostess in The Frangipani Room. While Cheri and her mother are away on vacation, Rafa asked Dolly to help out wherever she needed her and she asked Brick to mix drinks and tend the cash register. After Brick closed the bar for the night, he and I drove home.”

  Chief Ramsey next turned to Jessie Vexton. When did you last see Diego Casterano alive?”

  Jessie looked directly at Ramsey. “I’m not sure, Sir.”

  Even while seated on an uncomfortable chair in a dreary office, Jessie managed a slight shrug that revealed his cocky I’ll-do-as-I-please attitude.

  “I worked at the cash register at our chandlery most of the day on Saturday. I only saw Diego now and then as he performed his various dock master duties during that time. I closed and locked up before I left sometime around seven o’clock.”

  The replies to the chief’s queries were all of a similar nature until Ramsey’s gaze and attention focused on Dolly Jass.

  Dolly looked down as she patted the head of a black kitten that peeked over the edge of the straw tote on the floor beside her chair. If Ramsey or Lyon noticed the animal, they never let on. Nor did anyone else. I’d seen Dolly’s kitten many times around our hotel and it didn’t surprise me to see that she brought it with her.

  “Miss Jass, please give your full attention to my questions.”

  “Of course, Sir.” Dolly looked directly at Chief Ramsey, but she continued to pat the kitten’s head.

  I smiled to myself, wondering if the chief resented being upstaged by a kitten.

  “Miss Jass, when did you last see the victim alive?”

  Dolly looked around the room at each of us before again meeting Chief Ramsey’s direct gaze. She crossed her legs. She moved her tote bag to a spot on the floor near her left foot. I sensed her enjoying her moments in the limelight as everyone awaited her reply.

  Dolly reached down to give the kitten one more pat before she raised her eyes slowly and looked at Ramsey in the flirty way she reserved for most men. “I saw Diego late afternoon yesterday.” Her low sultry voice might have held the promise of a fun time to come, had she been speaking under different circumstances.

  “Saturday, right?”

  “Yes, Saturday. Yesterday. The afternoon before the Fiesta Fest parade.” Dolly lowered her gaze.

  “How late in the afternoon?” Ramsey asked. “Do you remember the exact time?”

  “Around five o’clock or perhaps a bit after five.”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  “At the Vexton’s Marina.”

  “Do you go there often at that time of the day?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “What were you doing there yesterday afternoon?”

  “I sat relaxing, sitting at an umbrella table a few yards away from the chandlery office and near the water. I took my time enjoying a cup of tea—hot tea, because a cloud bank covered the sun and an onshore breeze suddenly chilled me.”

  “Was going to the Vexton marina for late afternoon tea your usual habit?”

  “No. Not at all.” She fluttered her eyelashes, first at Brick and then at Ramsey before she continued. “I went to the marina yesterday afternoon to compose a poem—free verse—a poem about the sea. I need to surround myself with the subject I’m writing about in order to start my creative juices flowing. I also chose to go to the marina because I needed to get away from the parade noises and the rambunctious crowd taking over many of the streets in Old Town.”

  The chief nodded as if he understood, as if he, too, sometimes sought out quiet spots amid turmoil. “And were your creative juices flowing yesterday afternoon at the Vexton marina?”

  Was Ramsey making fun of Dolly’s response? Patronizing her? Either way, his question raised hackles in my mind. In most situations, I’m usually for the underdog. This morning Dolly displayed an innocent schoolgirl persona when answering Chief Ramsey’s questions. I wanted to help her stand up to this man, but I couldn’t. Not today. Not at this time. I kept silent.

  “No,” Dolly replied. “No creative juices flowed for me yesterday afternoon. Sometimes that’s how it goes, and I accept a writer’s block as part of a poet’s life. I merely nodded a greeting to Diego as he passed me on his way to welcome an arriving boat captain and help him claim his slip and hook up to an electric outlet. Soon after that I gave up creating a new poem and left the marina, biking to my room at the Vexton’s mansion with a blank notebook.”

  “Rafa Blue.”

  I jerked to attention, startled to hear my name when I expected the chief to have more questions for Dolly.

  “Rafa Blue.” Ramsey called my name again, pausing for a moment as he looked directly at me. “When did you last see the victim alive?”

  I tried to choose my words carefully. “I believed Diego was alive when I first saw his head bobbing in the water at the marina late last night around midnight.”

  “What were your first thoughts on seeing him there?”

  “At first, it startled me to see anyone in the water. It took me a few moments to recognize Diego in the choppy waves, to be sure it was he. It astonished me to realize he chose to swim after dark. Few people swim at night.”

  “Did you think he might be in trouble?”

  “Not at first. Diego grew up around the sea. My first thought was that he might be trying to help another person who could be in trouble.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I called to him, shouted to him. The roar of the water and the storm drowned out my words so I called several times.”

  “Did he respond to your call?”

  “No. He did not. By that time I knew something was wrong. He seemed to be floating and I thought perhaps he was saving his strength by doing the dead-man’s float instead of swimming or treading water. I knew he needed help.”

  “And you called 9-1-1, right?”

  “That’s correct. I’d left my cell phone in my car parked near the chandlery. It took me several minutes to reach the car and the phone as I fought my way slipping and sliding along the swaying catwalk.”

  “You never saw Diego anytime earlier in the day?”

  “No.”

  “I
understand you’re living at The Blue Mermaid here in Key West and writing a weekly column for the newspaper.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Why he was dwelling on information we’d discussed at the hospital?

  “Good luck to you, Rafa Blue.”

  Good luck? What was that supposed to mean? Good luck? With my writing career? Or good luck in avoiding being considered a murder suspect? I leaned back in my chair, but I couldn’t relax.

  Chapter 10

  (Still Sunday Afternoon)

  “Kane Riley?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “When did you last see the victim alive?”

  “I saw Diego Friday night at The Frangipani Room.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I work there sometimes when I’m not out on a shrimp run.”

  “What are your duties, Mr. Riley?”

  “I’m a plain clothes security guard—a bouncer—a peace keeper, if you will.”

  “The Frangipani Room’s in a rough-tough area of the hotel?”

  “No. Hardly ever, but after Mr. Blue died, leaving his wife and daughters in charge of the hotel, they felt it added protection, an air of safety to have a security person present in The Frangi.”

  “You were paid for this job?”

  “No. Rafa and I’ve been close friends for some time. It’s my pleasure to help out at The Frangi.”

  “And Diego was there, too, on Friday night?”

  “Yes. Diego Casterano sat at the refreshment bar eating a sandwich.”

  “Did you talk to him that night?”

  “No, Sir. He arrived shortly before Mama G—she’s the combo director and pianist—before she announced her special medley of golden oldie piano selections. That number usually lasts several minutes. It’s an ad-lib bit of entertainment she keeps going as long as the audience claps and whistles and demands more.”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “I’ve seen and heard Mama G perform her specialty on many occasions. Tell me about last Friday night.”

  “Nothing unusual about it. When Mama G ended her number, she announced a short intermission. I noticed then that Diego was no longer present.”

  “The two of you didn’t speak?”

  “No. I didn’t see Diego again until after your men removed his body from the water at the marina. Dead.”

  Chief Ramsey stopped the questioning and stood for a few moments as if deep in thought. Nobody spoke. We sat again listening to the thready breathing of the AC. Nobody actually relaxed, but when the chief spoke again, I sensed everyone pulling to a higher degree of alertness.

  “Does anyone know the whereabouts of Pablo Casterano this afternoon?”

  Nobody replied.

  “And Rafa, can you tell me if Pablo worked at The Frangipani Room last night?”

  “No, Sir. He did not. Pablo does work with the combo—sometimes. We’re glad to have him, and although he’s sometimes undependable, he’s a good drummer when he’s there—an excellent musician.”

  “And you don’t miss him when he doesn’t appear for work.”

  “Of course we miss him, but he owns the trap set. When he doesn’t show up, we go to plan B and call on Dolly Jass to sub for him.”

  “Using Pablo’s drums?”

  “That’s right.”

  “With Pablo’s permission?”

  “Don’t know anyone ever asked for his permission. The trap set is there. We need a player, so we call Dolly. She’s not a trained musician, but she can keep a steady beat.”

  “And Jessie Vexton plays string bass?”

  Kane started to speak, but Jessie interrupted him.

  “I play at playing the bass,” Jessie said. “I just perform often enough to keep my fingers calloused so they won’t blister. Years ago, I strummed guitar with a garage band while attending high school. I know the one, four, five chords well enough to get by on the bass for an evening at The Frangi.”

  “And you have your own instrument? Chief Ramsey asked. “That’s the one that looks like an oversize violin, right?”

  “Right.” Jessie didn’t smile at the chief’s description but his desultory shrug showed his opinion of it. “Mama G understands about musical instruments and so does Rafa. They let the musicians cover their instruments and keep them on the combo stand between gigs. The Frangi’s in an open-air setting, and the maintenance crew keeps a plastic roof and drop-down walls in place during daytime hours. The outdoor dampness wreaks havoc on drum heads, and it’s even harder on strings and wood, so we keep our instruments covered after The Frangi closes.”

  “And you get paid for playing?” Ramsey asked Jessie.

  “Yes.” The corner of Jessie’s mouth curled downward. “A pittance. I play mostly for the fun of playing.”

  I raised an eyebrow. That was the first time I knew Jessie considered his evening’s take a pittance. Mama G and Pablo always seemed eager enough to collect their paychecks. Neither of them had asked for a raise.

  Now Ramsey looked around, gathering all of us into his gaze. “Can anyone tell me where Pablo Casterano is at the moment? Detective Lyon?”

  “I was unable to locate Mr. Casterano, Sir. I could find nobody who had seen or heard from him this morning. All leads led nowhere.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “My understanding is that he’s a homeless person,” Lyon said. “Many times he sleeps on the beach, and many times he appears at Mallory Dock’s sunset celebration, offering tourists Tarot card readings.”

  Ramsey cleared his throat. “I wanted everyone connected, even remotely connected, with the victim to appear at this meeting. That certainly includes his son. Does anyone in this room know anything concerning the whereabouts of Pablo Casterano?”

  “I haven’t seen Pablo lately,” Jessie replied. “Sometimes he hangs out with friends either at Smathers or the state park beach—the one here on Key West.”

  “Once he disappeared for almost two years,” Kane said, a frown punctuating his words. “During that time nobody saw him or heard from him. Not even Diego.”

  “Pablo doesn’t surprise us when he doesn’t show up for work,” I said. “The surprise comes when he does show up.”

  “Where did he go for two years?” Ramsey asked.

  Jessie shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. After some of us asked the question once, Pablo made it clear he didn’t want to hear it again.”

  No one else spoke up and Ramsey looked again at Kane. “Mr. Riley, you’re a writer, are you not?”

  “No, Sir. I am not. I make my living here in Key West as a commercial shrimper—and I moonlight at The Blue Mermaid as a security person—no pay.”

  “But lately I’ve seen your name on several letters to the editor—in the Citizen and sometimes in The Keynoter. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes. I’ve written a few letters, but I certainly don’t consider a couple of published letters makes me a writer.”

  “Your letters showed your deep concern for commercial fishermen working in the Key West area.”

  It wasn’t a question and Kane made no response.

  “You feel strongly about Monroe County’s interest in what the commissioners refer to as our island’s working waters?”

  “I do.”

  The steely look in Kane’s eyes bespoke his interest in the subject more than his clipped words.

  “Perhaps your thoughts and Diego Casterano’s thoughts concerning the working waters differed.”

  “They did, Sir. They differed a great deal.”

  I wanted to signal Kane to hush. Surely he could see that to reveal a conflict of interest with Diego was unwise at this point. Why was Ramsey going out of his way to try to connect Kane to Diego’s murder?

  Chapter 11

  (Still Sunday Afternoon)

  Ramsey changed tactics and let his gaze touch on all of us again—one at a time. “Since Dolly Jass says she saw the victim alive late yesterday afternoon, I’m led to believe his murder took place sometime between five o’clock and m
idnight when Rafa Blue made her 9-1-1 call for assistance. This’s tentative. The Medical Examiner will announce the official time of death. This may not happen until tomorrow. But until we hear from him, I’m going to assume we have a seven or eight hour time frame in which the victim died. Do you agree?”

  Nobody responded to his query.

  “Does anyone disagree?” Ramsey asked. Again, no response. “Since nobody disagrees with this time frame, I’ll ask each of you to tell us where you were and what you were doing from five in the afternoon until midnight last night. Brick Vexton. What do you have to say?

  “Not much, Sir. I spent most of the day and the evening helping with the parade and I worked at many places, marking the route, erecting barriers across some of the major street intersections, posting signs—that sort of thing. That work took me nowhere near my marina.”

  “You have witnesses to corroborate your statement?”

  Brick blinked and hesitated. “Of course I saw a few friends and acquaintances now and then. But I doubt that I can find anyone who will vouch for my whereabouts for all of that time, actually most of the day. Threnody and I did meet friends who managed to get seating for four for a late supper at Red Fish, Blue Fish.”

  “Threnody Vexton. You said you were home practicing your vocal solo and working on your costume. Was there someone at your house who can vouch for your late afternoon and early evening hours? Dolly Jass has quarters at your home, does she not?”

  “She does. Dolly lives there. She works for us, but not on Saturdays. That’s her day off. Her room has a private entrance and I do not keep track of her comings and goings.”

  “And you saw nobody else during the day?”

  “No, Sir. Well, nobody outside the family. Brick stopped by for a sandwich around noon. He stayed only a few minutes. Nobody else called or checked on my whereabouts until I arrived at the parade’s starting point. Lots of people saw me on the parade float at that time.”

  “And after the parade? Where were you then?”

  “As Brick told you, he and I joined friends at a restaurant for a late supper. Bernice and Clayton Johnson. I’m sure they’d vouch for us for the few hours we spent together. As I remember it, service was slow due to the huge crowd, but even so we were home shortly after midnight.”