Pier Pressure Read online

  “Right.” I couldn’t argue. My mind rebelled at the thought of handcuffs around my wrists. This was America. People had to be proven guilty before…or did people have to prove themselves innocent? Our legal system scares me more and more every time I think of it. That thought replayed through my mind again as I stared at the floor, waiting for whatever would come next.

  “Miss Moreno, may we dust your desk for fingerprints, especially the bottom drawer—fingerprints other than your own?”

  “Yes, of course. Please do.” I tried to imagine whose prints might be on that drawer other than my own. Any of my patients, I supposed, but certainly not Jude’s. He wouldn’t dare break into my office. Would he?

  Detective Winslow went to the car for the fingerprint kit. After she returned with it, they dusted all the drawers, fronts, sides, edges, insides. It took many minutes before they had the evidence they wanted.

  “We’ll take these prints back to headquarters and check them out there.”

  Detective Winslow packed up the fingerprinting gear and Curry spoke again. “That’ll be all for tonight, Miss Moreno. We’ll take you back to Georgia Street now if that’s where you want to go.”

  “It is.”

  At my house, Detective Curry walked me to the door, waited until I stepped inside, and then rejoined Detective Winslow in the car. I watched them a long time before they drove away. The clock hands pointed to eleven, and I returned to bed feeling sure I’d lie awake until morning. I wanted to call Gram, Nikko, Jass. But no. No point in sounding an alarm.

  Just when I began to relax and started to drift off, the phone rang. I bolted upright in bed then grabbed my cell phone. What now?

  “Jass here, Keely. Hate to call so late, but I had to tell you. My hibiscus blossom won first place in Miami. The contest chairman just called. I did it. I won!”

  The pride in her voice almost walked across the sound waves into my bedroom and I rejoiced with her. “Big congratulations, Jass! You’re a winner. You deserve the honor. Can you get the news in tomorrow’s Citizen?”

  “Can’t say about that, but people will know soon enough. Won’t keep you now, but I had to tell you the news.”

  “I’d really have been bummed out if you hadn’t called the minute you found out. Again congratulations!”

  I lay there visualizing Jass’s excitement, letting it blot out my worries about my gun and the police. Many minutes passed before I relaxed and felt myself drifting to sleep.

  I didn’t know how long I had slept before I opened my eyes and saw Jude standing beside my bed. Shorts. Tank top. Bald head. He reeked of booze and pot as he leaned closer to me. How had he managed to get in? I tried to scream, but no sound came. Punt had promised to patrol the area for a while. Had it been an empty promise? Where was Punt now? But no. That had been a long time ago.

  “How are you tonight, Kee Kee Keely?”

  Jude had always called me Kee Kee Keely when he wanted his way in bed or when he wanted to beat me black and blue. His oily voice made me pull the sheet closer around my neck and shoulders as if mere cotton could protect me from his savagery.

  “Get out!” I’d intended to shout, but the words came out a bare whisper.

  “Have you missed me, Kee Kee Keely? Missed me enough to invite me back into your bed? Don’t be afraid, Kee Kee Keely. I’ve come to give you a good time.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding, Jude. Get out of here. Get out right now.” My voice had returned and I heard myself shouting, raving. Jude laughed at me and jerked the sheet away, revealing my nakedness. Vulnerable. I lay there like a beached dolphin.

  “Come on,” Jude said. “Let’s play a few of our sweet games for old times’ sake.” Jude pulled a padded billy club from his waistband. “This has always been my favorite toy. It may leave a few bruises, but no open wounds that require docs and emergency rooms—and the bruises’ll be hidden.”

  “Damn you, Jude Cardell! I have a restraining order. I’ll report you to the law.” My phone lay nowhere near. I tried to prop myself on an elbow, reach for the pepper spray under my pillow, but Jude grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm.

  “Stop! Stop! Please stop!” I managed to wrest my arm away from him, leap to my feet, and run. I headed for the back door, but I knew I had no chance of escaping. I heard his feet pounding behind me. I ran into the guest bathroom, through the adjoining door into the guest bedroom. Jude’s steps pounded behind me. Closer. Closer. I wanted to give up. If I exhausted myself running from him, I’d have no strength left to fight him once he overtook me. And I knew he’d overtake me sooner or later. In one final effort, I headed for the back door, and then I sank to the floor crying. If I ran into the yard he could throw me into the pool. I huddled near the door, totally exhausted and unable to muster the strength to scream for help. I knew then that Jude would hurt me for one simple reason—because he could. Nobody could stop him—especially not me.

  The kicks and blows I expected didn’t come and I awakened in a cold sweat with tears still running down my cheeks. I lay prone on the kitchen floor for a few moments until I felt sure I’d been dreaming. It had been weeks since that same terrorizing nightmare had plagued me, but the shrink had said it might haunt me now and then for a lifetime. Dragging to my feet, I took another warm shower and once more I returned to bed. This time I slept soundly and peacefully until I heard crowing roosters trying to wake up the dawn. Cock fighting’s illegal in Key West, but roosters still crow.

  Monday morning. Seven o’clock. I had two hours until my appointment with Shandy Koffan at my office. Who had pinpointed Shandy as a murder suspect with motive and opportunity? Punt? Jass? Maybe me? I couldn’t remember, but I supposed Shandy could be the guilty one—the woman scorned. No. Wrong. The wife of the husband scorned. Circumstances around Margaux’s death and thoughts of yesterday’s happenings played through my mind like a VCR on fast forward as I tried to outline a workable plan for the day.

  Would the police tell the media that the murder weapon belonged to me? I had to tell Beau, didn’t I? And Jass. And Punt. And Gram and Nikko. How could this be happening to me? I felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web. All could do was wait and twist in the wind until the spider decided to eat me.

  Ten

  AT LAST I settled down enough to call Jass and Gram and tell them about being questioned at police headquarters, about my gun having been found in Margaux’s hand, and that the police were checking to see if it was the death weapon. They believed me when I said the gun had been stolen from my desk, but what could they say? At least they knew the situation and I knew Jass would pass the news to Beau and Punt. Gram might keep the matter secret for awhile, but eventually she’d pass it on to Nikko. How I wished I hadn’t ignored Nikko’s advice to keep the gun under lock and key if I refused to carry it on my person!

  I thought again about alibis. Would Detective Curry take my advice seriously and talk to Jude? I doubted that. Mentally, I scanned down our suspect list. I felt a need to get to work talking to suspects before the police called me in for more serious questioning that might require a lawyer and a response to the Miranda warning.

  Punt. Could I trust him? I had to know that before I could continue with our plan of checking alibis. If Punt’s alibi held up, maybe we could work together on investigating other alibis. Who’d check on Beau? Who besides the police? Even the police wouldn’t rattle Beau’s cage if Margaux’s death went down on the books as a suicide.

  Sloppy’s was only a few blocks from my office. That’s where Punt said he’d spent Saturday night and that’s where I decided to go first—even before I stopped by my office and said hello to Gram. I pedaled through the damp morning air to the bar where a likeness of Hemingway hung above the entryway. Don’t know what I expected to find so early in the morning. Sloppy’s wouldn’t open for several hours. I knew that, but I pounded on the closed door anyway.

  No response. I pounded again.

  “You got a problem, ma’am?” a motorcycle cop called to me fr
om the curbing. “That place’s closed. Maybe I can help. You leave something there last night?”

  I started to reply, to make up a tale about a forgotten purse or car keys, when the door creaked open. An old Cuban leaning on a broom scowled at me.

  “What you want?”

  He waved at the bike cop and the cop rode away.

  “You know Punt Ashford?” I asked.

  “Everybody know Punt Ashford.” He scowled and gave me a closer look. “What you want?”

  “I want to know if Punt came here on Saturday night, Sunday morning.” My shoulders sagged. How did I think a janitor could help me? Even if he came up with answers I wanted to hear, would anyone believe him? He didn’t look like he’d ever been anywhere near a courtroom—or a bathtub.

  “Why you want to know? You his woman?” He leered at me. “Punt Ashford be missing from your bed?”

  I thought of a lot of smart and not-so-smart answers, but I forced a civil tone as I replied. “It’s important to me and to his family to know if Punt patronized this bar on Saturday night.”

  The janitor held out his hand and grinned, sticking his tongue in the hole where two front teeth were missing. “What you pay?”

  I hadn’t expected this, but I dug deep into the pocket of my jumpsuit and came up with a ten and slapped it into his grimy hand. He shook his head, grinned, rubbed his thumb and two fingers together. I pulled out two ones and showed him the inside of my empty pocket. He scowled and pocketed the bills.

  “Punt not here on Saturday night.”

  “You sure?”

  “Lady, you doubt me, why you ask?”

  “Think carefully.”

  “Okay. He be here for a short while. I be sure.”

  “Okay, so you’re sure. What part of the night was he here?”

  “Early part. Around eight or nine.”

  “Not later?”

  “Lady, you doubt me, why you ask? He have coffee then he leave.”

  “You know a guitar man named Shim?”

  “Never heard of no Shim. Worked here a long time. Know most everyone, but no Shim.”

  “Thanks.”

  He closed the door and I rode on toward my shop twelve dollars poorer. So much for Punt’s alibi. He came to Sloppy’s early on Saturday night, but he left. And Shim? A strange name. Had Punt made it up? If he had made it up, why? What was he hiding?

  Punt’s lying disappointed me, left an ache in my gut, but what had I expected? Maybe he’d been out with some woman—a woman he didn’t want anyone to know about. Did he think I’d be interested in who he went out with? I wouldn’t care about his women friends or his alibi if I wasn’t almost sure to be in for serious questioning about Margaux’s death. The truth concerning Punt’s whereabouts last Saturday night could make a big difference in my life.

  I pedaled on to my shop and chained and locked my bike to a utility pole near the back door. Stepping inside, I opened the drapery at the front window and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Gram appeared at my door immediately, leaving three sleepy-eyed customers sipping espresso at her coffee bar.

  “Good morning, Keely.” Gram’s caftan swished as she entered my office and thrust the Citizen into my hand. “Take a read. Better to know what be said about you.”

  The editor usually hides the bad news on page nine or ten, but Margaux’s death made front page headlines above the fold. WIFE OF CIVIC LEADER FOUND DEAD. I scanned more specific details that filled the rest of two columns. Then I returned to the start and read each line carefully. My name leaped out as the finder of the body in the first two paragraphs, then the rest of the article gave a partial bio of Margaux’s life in Greece, Key West, and New York City. The article left the murder/suicide question unresolved. Nor did it mention the gun found in her hand being registered in my name.

  “Article bring you more business,” Gram said. “Tourists come to peek at you. Be good advertising.”

  “Gram! Get real! A woman lies dead, a woman important to this island. It’s no time to think of business and advertising. Whether or not people liked her, Margaux Ashford ranked as a community leader?”

  “She a bitch.” Gram shrugged. “Good riddance. One other person agree.”

  “Who?” I stepped toward her. Did she have information I wasn’t aware of?

  “The person who shoot her. That person agree with me.”

  I sighed as I scanned the article again. The police had mentioned the possibility of suicide although no suicide note had yet been found. Did the police think Margaux stole my gun and then shot herself with it? Fat chance. The paper also mentioned the possibility of homicide, saying the case was still under investigation. I snapped on my desk radio and tuned to the local station so I’d be sure to hear any further announcements concerning the Ashford death. As I cleared my throat, I beckoned Gram to come closer.

  “Gram, the Ashfords and I think someone murdered Margaux. We’re going to do some investigating on our own to see if we can find the killer in case the police try to say suicide.”

  “Why you care? Why you try investigate?” Gram scowled and shook her finger at me. “Stay out of this, Keely. Bad business. Distance yourself.”

  “I can’t stay out of it. Can’t you see I’m already in it? I need to find the killer in order to protect myself. Punt and Jass will be investigating, too, and I hope you’ll be willing to help us. You want the guilty person found and brought to justice, don’t you?”

  “Me help?” Gram gave a palms-up gesture. “Know nothing about this death. No way can help.”

  “Of course there’s a way. An important way. You can listen. You’re a sponge when it comes to listening.”

  “No like being called a sponge.”

  “Tap into the conversations of the people who drop into your shop for coffee. Listen to common street talk and tell us what people are saying about Margaux’s death.”

  “Me think some say good riddance.”

  “Some people might discuss where they were last Saturday night when the shooting happened or perhaps where their friends were. If you hear anything that sounds the least bit important, tell me. If I’m not around, call Jass or Punt. Promise me that.”

  “Okay. Promise.”

  “Jass, Punt, and I have a list of suspects.” I gave her the names, omitting Nikko and Jude. Gram would tend to protect Nikko because he’s our good friend, and knowing Jude might be involved would scare her to death. I didn’t want her to think I lived in danger from Jude—again.

  “Here come your first appointment. Bottle blonde.” Gram nodded toward the door and slipped outside without speaking to Shandy as Shandy entered my office.

  Shandy frequently comes to me for a reflexology treatment, saying the treatments relieve her headaches. I often remind her that foot reflexology sometimes relieves only the symptoms, rather than the cause.

  Gram’s right. Shandy bleaches her hair, but in Key West bleached hair isn’t worth a comment. It fits in with the patina of the island. It blends with the beach sand, and it goes well with the pink hibiscus blossom Shandy wears tucked behind her left ear. The hibiscus’s a holdover from her job where the manager orders all waitresses to wear pink blossoms to match The Wharf’s decor.

  “Good morning, Shandy. Great day, right?”

  Shandy ducked her head in that shy way she had, and she spoke in a whispery little-girl voice that drove me crazy. I guessed the barflies at The Wharf liked it. She told me once that every night she makes megabucks in tips.

  “Yeah,” she said at last. “The tourists think it’s a great day.” Shandy sat on the patron’s bench at the side of the lounge chair. “They’re out in full force even this early in the morning. I had to park clear over on Whitehead Street. Counted twenty parking slots all filled before I found an empty.”

  I smiled at Shandy’s compulsion for counting things. Once I watched her buy a bottle of aspirin, shake them into a dish, and count them to be sure there were a hundred as advertised. People who know her merely smile at her
strange quirk. I think she knows this. It may be what makes her so shy. She told me once that she realizes counting’s a strange habit, but she can’t help doing it. I’ve known her for months, but even around me she ducks her head and looks at the ground when she speaks. She reminds me of one of the miniature Key deer up on Big Pine, on the alert and ready to run for cover if danger threatens.

  “Lucky I had six quarters in my purse. I dropped them all into the meter. An hour and a half should give me enough time for a cappuccino when we’re through here.”

  Did she intend to avoid talking about Margaux’s death? I wondered if she knew the contents of Margaux’s will. Would Otto have told her of the bequests? Maybe he wouldn’t know the details himself until the lawyers read the will aloud to those who inherited. I suppressed a sigh. For all I knew Shandy might already be planning how to help Otto spend his new wealth.

  While Shandy removed her sandals, I walked to the back of my apartment and filled the portable footbath with warm water and lemon-scented soap. That footbath has saved me mega grief. Most people’d be shocked if they had to touch some of the feet I’ve seen—calloused, misshapen, and just plain smelly. But Shandy had great feet, small, dainty, and always well manicured. I wondered if she did the manicure herself. She knew my office routine and she relaxed and wiggled her toes as I snapped on the footbath. We both inhaled the citrus scent while the water swished gently around her feet.

  “Feels wonderful, Keely.”

  I had hoped Shandy would talk about Margaux’s death, but since she hadn’t, I decided to bring it up myself. Snapping the footbath off, I dried her feet with a fluffy towel and watched her pad to the lounger. When the chair mechanism lifted her feet to my working level, I gave her a pillow to raise her head so we could look at each other as we talked.

  Moistening my hands with lavender-scented lotion, I began gently massaging her left foot. I felt her relax, but when I concentrated pressure on her toes, she let out a small gasp.