Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  At the foot of the steps, Beau pulled both Jass and Punt to him in a warm embrace, then followed them upstairs to the sitting room. Perhaps this tragedy would help Beau and Punt forget some of the problems that separated them.

  “Keely.” Beau didn’t seem astonished to see me in the sitting room, and when he stepped toward me, I clasped his hand in both of mine.

  It didn’t surprise me to feel him shaking. Or was I the one shaking? “I’m so sorry, Beau. You have my heartfelt sympathy?”

  “Dad, where have you been?” Jass asked.

  Beau hesitated a moment as if trying to get things straight in his mind. “I’ve been trying to get home,” he said at last. “Heavy Sunday afternoon traffic, as always. And since I didn’t know about…the emergency, I kept in my lane and resisted the urge to pass the line of traffic ahead of me. I encountered a long delay on Seven-Mile Bridge. Some guy’s Town Car had an alternator problem and when he got that patched up, he ran out of gas. Locals, too, not tourists.”

  “Let me make you some coffee,” Jass said. “You must be exhausted. We’ve tried and tried to reach you on your cell phone.”

  “I turned it off because the traffic claimed my full attention. A ringing phone distracts me. I can’t carry on a phone conversation and drive at the same time. I’m sorry I caused you to worry. Had I known…”

  Beau shook his head as he slumped onto the couch, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. “I didn’t hear the news about Margaux until a police car began following me with lights flashing and siren wailing. Somehow I found a place to pull off the highway and the patrolman gave me the news. I stopped by the house, then a detective asked me to go to the morgue to…identify the body.” Beau’s voice dropped to a bare whisper, but he lifted his head and faced us.

  “You’ve had a rough time, Dad,” Jass said, standing near the back stairway. “You too, Keely. Excuse me while I bring us some snacks.”

  “I really must be going.” I tried to ease toward the back stairway, but Beau beckoned me toward the couch, then seemed at a loss for words. In a strained silence, we heard Jass downstairs readying coffee mugs and silverware as she moved about in the kitchen, and soon the aroma of brewing coffee wafted to us.

  “Keely,” Beau said at last. “I’m so sorry you had to be the one to…to be first on the scene of the tragedy. The patrolman told me you handled the situation well—as well as a situation like that could be handled. I appreciate your quick thinking, your concern, your calling nine-one-one.”

  “I hear the police are saying Margaux’s death’s a suicide,” I said.

  “They haven’t decided for sure. I can’t imagine such a thing. The police searched the house and the detectives asked me to do another search while they watched. We found no suicide note, yet I felt the police were holding information from me.”

  “We think someone murdered Margaux,” Punt said. “What do you think about that, Dad?”

  “The police asked me to stay in town.” Beau shook his head. “As if I might catch a quick flight out of the country or something. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what the police are thinking.”

  “In case they’re thinking murder, Jass and Keely and I have been drawing up a list of suspects,” Punt said.

  At that moment, Jass came up the stairs carrying a tray with coffee mugs and cookies.

  “Help yourselves, everyone,” she invited, then she handed Beau a mug and a napkin.

  “Women always think food can make a bad situation better,” Punt said as he helped himself to a cookie.

  “Maybe it can,” Jass insisted.

  “I really must go,” I said. “You three need some time alone, and I need to get home.” I stood. “If I can be of help, let me know. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll get in touch tomorrow.”

  “Talk to people,” Punt said. “Let’s carry out the plan we discussed.”

  “What plan was that?” Beau wrapped his hands around the coffee mug as if to warm them.

  “Please excuse me.” I moved toward the stairs. “Jass and Punt can share our thoughts with you when you’ve rested and feel more like listening.”

  “Let me drive you home.” Punt swallowed his cookie and stood beside me.

  “Thanks, Punt, but no thanks. I rode my bike, remember? I’ll need it for transportation to work tomorrow morning.”

  Jass followed me downstairs, opened the back door, then snapped on a dim porch light. It surprised me that darkness had fallen.

  “Take care, Keely. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. You’ll be at your shop, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I closed for today, but I’ll open tomorrow as usual. I can’t talk to the suspects if I close the office.”

  “Do take special care, Keely.”

  “I will. You get back upstairs to your family. I’ll be fine.”

  Night’s like a black quilt that drops quickly over the Keys. There’s almost no twilight between sunset and dark. At about five in the afternoon, or sometimes even sooner, the tourists begin drifting toward Mallory Dock to view the sunset and to watch the buskers who perform their sunset-ritual acts. Before I opened my reflexology office, I used to make a living of sorts by selling key lime cookies and palm frond hats at the dock, but tonight that seemed ages ago.

  Now, even at this distance, the trade wind carried the eerie sound, the lonesome sound, of a bagpipe. I imagined the player dressed in plaid kilt and tam as he blew into his cumbersome instrument, summoning people to view the evening’s entertainment.

  Jass turned on the lights that outlined the widow’s walk on the roof. From this cattycorner angle in the yard I saw five lights gleaming from each of two sides on the high porch. Nine of them were white and one glowed a bright green. I wondered if Beau knew the green light shone in memory of Jass’s mother.

  In the tropics and near-tropics people sometimes say they’ve seen the flash of a green light at sunset—right at the instant the sun slips over the horizon and into the sea. Nobody has assigned meaning to this light, and personally, I’ve never noticed it, nor have I spent a lot of time looking. Gram claims to have seen the oddity twice as a girl in Havana.

  Jass insists that both she and her mother saw the green flash from a cruise ship in the Bahamas. So, in the whimsical notion that her mother may be watching from above, Jass included one green bulb in the lights outlining the widow’s walk. Every now and then someone writes a human interest article about the green flash and the lights on Ashford Mansion.

  Right now none of the lights helped me find my bicycle. I felt sure I’d left it leaning against a palm tree right inside the hibiscus hedge at the back of the property, but I couldn’t find it. What had possessed me to make me forget to lock it? Squinting at the ground, I walked the whole length of the hedge. Then I moved a few feet closer to the house and walked the same distance again. No bicycle. My fault for failing to chain it to the palm tree, but I didn’t think anyone had seen me push through the thicket into this private backyard. Damn! I needed that bike.

  I hated my choices at this point. I could walk on home. Neither my shop nor my apartment were beyond walking distance. On an island only two miles wide, almost everything lies within walking distance. Yes, I could hoof it. I hated to intrude on the Ashfords right now by asking for a ride.

  A few minutes later, I told myself my need for my bike tomorrow morning made my decision to call Jass realistic. To my own need, I added the fact that Gram sometimes had errands for me that required wheels. Deep down, however, I knew the events of the day had rattled me, shaken me more than I cared to admit. I hated the idea of walking alone on Key West tonight. Pulling out my cell phone, I keyed in Jass’s private number.

  “Keely?” Of course Jass sounded surprised to be hearing from me again so soon.

  “My bike’s disappeared. Ask Punt if I can still take him up on his offer of a ride.”

  “You sure you looked carefully? We seldom have trespassers.”

  “I’ll take anoth
er look, but…”

  “Never mind, Keely. Punt’s on his way down. He’ll take a look around and then drive you home if the two of you can’t find your bike.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Jass. Hate to bother you.”

  “No bother at all.”

  By the time I shoved the cell phone back into my pocket, Punt stepped outside. I won’t say he hurried. Punt seldom hurries, but he did act concerned. Together we paced across the backyard as I had done before, and then we retraced our steps and covered the same territory again.

  “Strange,” Punt said. “Better call the police and report the bike missing. No way you can collect any insurance unless you’ve reported the theft.”

  “Think I’ll wait and report it tomorrow. Don’t want any more talk with the police. I’ve had the full course for today and I’m sure you have, too.”

  “Yeah,” Punt agreed. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. I don’t mind driving you home. Glad to escape the planning session upstairs, and there’s nothing anyone can do right now to relieve Dad’s grief. Anyway, he’d rather listen to Jass than to me.”

  “Planning session?” I ignored the veiled allusion to the rift between Punt and his dad.

  “Yeah. Dad and Jass are already planning Margaux’s memorial, deciding who to include in such a private service. I wanted to tell them to include me out, but I suppose that’s wishful thinking.”

  I hoped the invitation list wouldn’t include my name either, yet I knew it would. It wasn’t that I disliked Margaux or disliked celebrating her life, but I hated funerals and memorial services—especially those for victims of violence such as Margaux…and my mother. I didn’t share my feelings with Punt, nor did he share his with me. We both slid into his Karmann Ghia and when he turned the corner into the early evening traffic, I touched his arm and pointed.

  “There, Punt! Look! Right there on the sidewalk dead ahead of us! Well…he’s behind us now. We’ve passed him. Slow down. That kid’s riding my bicycle.”

  Punt braked the car. “You sure? Bikes tend to look a lot alike. Especially after dark.”

  “I’m sure. Those baskets are my trademark. You don’t see many bikes with green baskets that glow in the dark mounted on each side of the rear wheel.”

  Punt pulled the convertible into a vacant driveway, opened his door, and yelled at the blond-haired kid on the bike who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve. Even though the night had grown chilly, the kid was barefoot and he wore only a tank top and cut-offs.

  “Hey, Buddy,” Punt called out, and I joined him on the sidewalk as we jogged toward the boy. “Where’d you get that bike?”

  For a moment the boy looked as if he might drop the bike and run, but after a second or two, he turned and pushed the bike toward us.

  Punt said no more. Towering above the kid, he stared down at him with a gaze cold enough to freeze ice.

  “Gee, mister. I didn’t steal the bike. A guy on the street gave it to me. Really. That’s pure truth. I’m no thief.”

  “What guy?” Punt and I both looked up and down the street, seeing nobody in sight in either direction. The boy’s lower lip trembled as he followed our gaze and shrugged. “A big guy came riding up to me on the bike and said, ‘Hey kid, you want a neat bike?’”

  “We’re supposed to believe a story like that?” Punt asked. “Tell us the truth and give the bike back. That’s all we want. The bike back.”

  “But that’s exactly how it came down.” The boy glared at us and stamped a bare foot against the concrete. “I’m late getting home from Mallory and I knew Mom would skin me alive. So I had speeded up from walking to jogging when this big guy appeared from nowhere, gliding along sort of slow-like on this here bike.”

  The boy hesitated and I prompted him. “Then what happened?”

  “He offered me the bike. He shoved it at me and disappeared, jogging off toward Highway 1. He didn’t even hang around to see if I wanted it. But I guess he knew I would. Who’d turn down a free bike?”

  “What’d he look like?” I stepped closer to the bike and gave it the once-over, seeing no damage. “Can you describe him?”

  “Beer belly.” The kid grinned. “Big guy. And tall. Wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. If he hadn’t been so nice to me, I’d have been scared of him, that’s for sure.”

  “Probably a thousand people on Key West tonight would fit that description,” Punt said. “Give us the bike and get on home. Don’t borrow any more bikes—at least not tonight.”

  The boy thrust the bike at Punt and turned to leave. We watched him take a few steps, then he stopped and turned back toward us.

  “One thing about the guy looked different,” he called. “He seemed young, young as my dad maybe, but bald. When his hood fell back and he walked under a street light, the beam sort of bounced off his head. Maybe he has cancer or something. A kid in my class has cancer and the doctors shaved his head. Maybe…”

  “Run on, kid,” Punt said. “We believe you.” Then he turned to me. “Jude! I told you you couldn’t trust a restraining order.”

  “I believe you, Punt. It’s only a worthless piece of paper.”

  I didn’t tell Punt that I’d seen Jude walking on Grinnell Street that morning and that Gram had seen him walking past my shop. Had Jude been following me all day? My scalp tingled at the thought of him following me, furtively watching me turn into Jass’s backyard, waiting until dark to skulk off with my bicycle. For all I knew, Jude might still be lurking nearby, waiting to catch me walking home alone in the dark.

  “Sometime I’d like to know how Jude Cardell talked you into marrying him. I know it’s none of my business, but after high school you wouldn’t give me the time of day, yet that bastard…”

  I didn’t remind Punt that after high school he came on as a druggie, in and out of jail and making headlines in the newspaper’s daily Crime Report on a regular basis.

  “Well, now what?” Punt looked at the bulky bike and we both knew it wouldn’t fit into the Karmann Ghia. We walked back towards our driveway parking place.

  “I can ride it home, Punt.”

  “No way will I let you even consider riding it home with Jude in the neighborhood.” Punt thought for a moment. “Tell you what. You drive the car going slowly, and I’ll pedal along behind you.”

  “No way. That won’t do. I don’t ride at night—no lights, too dangerous.”

  Once we reached the car, Punt backed from the driveway and onto the street. He got out, helped me into the driver’s seat, and handed me the keys. “Let’s go. I’ll hang on and you can pull me. Your house or your office?”

  I sighed in resignation. “My house. Georgia Street, and be careful.” I wished I were spending the night at my office. At least Gram and Nikko were nearby on Duval, and several other merchants lived in apartments above their shops. However I had promised Mr. and Mrs. Moore to look after their home. Georgia Street lay in a safe part of town, but up-north snowbirds owned many of the houses—people who only came to the Keys when cold chased them from the northland.

  When I stopped the car in front of my place, Punt took my hand in his and squeezed it so tightly I felt my ring cut into my finger.

  “I’m walking you to the door, chaining your bike to the porch rail, and seeing you inside, Keely. Then I’ll circle this block for awhile. Anything strange happens, you give me a buzz.” He jotted his cell phone number on a scrap of paper he pulled from his glove compartment.

  “Thanks for your help and your concern, Punt. I appreciate.”

  At the door, he waited until I unlocked it and snapped on the porch light as well as an inside lamp.

  “Take care, Keely.” He paused for a moment, then turned and walked back to his car.

  Eight

  I ENTERED THE house with the eerie feeling that someone lurked inside waiting for me. Hiding. Waiting. Ready to pounce. My heart thumped like a steel drum and I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my jumpsuit. The drapery at the front picture window hung open and I s
tarted to close it. No point in letting anyone outside peer in at me. On second thought, I dropped the pull cord and left the drapery alone. If Punt circled the block as promised, he’d be able to see inside, see if anyone or anything threatened me.

  At the time I agreed to house-sit for the Moore family, I’d liked the place—the backyard pool, the floor plan, the Florida decor. A shotgun house, Gram called it. A person could shoot a bullet down the central hallway, hitting nothing but the back entryway. The bedrooms, the living-dining room, and the kitchen all opened off that central hallway. Mrs. Moore had left the scarred pine floors bare and had covered the worst spots with throw rugs.

  Since she and her husband planned to remodel the place, they had bought a minimum of furniture. The sea-blue cushions she’d flung here and there for accent color contrasted nicely with the varying shades of tropical foliage growing in old clay pots. Each room of the home looked like a page from House Beautiful—the before page. Mrs. Moore tried to explain and to show me pictures of how she imagined the after page would look following the remodeling. I didn’t envy her all that work, or if she planned to hire help, I didn’t envy her that chore either. Key West has plenty of willing handymen—unless the sun’s shining and it’s a good fishing day.

  Tonight my fear of Jude Cardell erased any beauty the old house might have had from my mind. Walking slowly to the first bedroom on my left, I snapped on the light before I entered and took a careful look around. Then, stepping inside the room, I peered into the closet, under the bed. Nothing. I felt like an old maid taking needless precautions to avoid some nonexistent intruder, but I couldn’t help myself. I picked up and carried a knife from the kitchen as I checked out the second bedroom and then the rooms that opened on the right side of the central hallway. Nothing unusual. I slipped the knife back into a utility drawer. I breathed easier as I drew the drapery across the front window, feeling sure Punt had gone home by now.