Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “Hurt?” I asked.

  “Yes. What’re you doing?”

  “Breaking up those crystalline and calcium deposits so blood can circulate to the nerve endings in your sinuses and the pituitary gland. Those’re places where lots of headaches begin.” I felt her relax again as more crystals began to break up. While she lay relaxed I massaged the sides of her feet in a way that could relieve arm and shoulder problems, sciatic pain. Those areas, too, could cause headaches.

  “Have you seen the paper this morning?” I asked.

  “Hasn’t everyone?” She sighed then tensed again as I returned to work more forcefully on her toes. “Don’t expect me to be overwhelmed with grief, Keely. That woman left Otto a broken man with a shattered heart. She thought of nobody but herself and her svelte body, her fine clothes.”

  “I’m sure you’ve helped Otto’s heart to mend.” I massaged the inside of her foot, then applied a bit of pressure to her arch. She winced, but she didn’t draw away from my touch.

  “I’ve tried to help Otto, but the shrink has him on so many pills we can hardly keep track of them. Our kitchen table looks like a pharmacy. Pill bottles everywhere. Sheets of paper warning of so many side effects we have to use a magnifying glass to read all the small print. We hate the expense of it! Otto shells out big bucks for a bottle of pills, tries one, and when it gives him the runs, a sleepless night, or an upset stomach, he quits it. Won’t swallow another. We flush them down. Same as flushing money.”

  “Surely some of the pills help him,” I said.

  “When one pill starts working, another one stops. So then the doc changes both prescriptions and we start working again from square one. I’m totally sick of the whole scene.”

  “That must be discouraging. I hope my treatments are being of some help to him.”

  “He thinks they are. That’s the big thing—what he thinks. I worry about him, Keely. He won’t tell me where he was at the time of Margaux’s death. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  Eleven

  SHANDY’S WORDS about Otto’s secrecy snapped my mind to full attention and I probed for more information.

  “Maybe he’s on so much medication he can’t recall details. I can remember where I was, clearly enough. I’d stayed at home reading and watching TV. That doesn’t give me an alibi though, not in the eyes of the police. No corroborating witnesses.”

  “Guess you should have had someone in bed with you.” Shandy chuckled and I put a little extra pressure on her big toe.

  “No fair! No fair!” She laughed and pulled her foot from my grip.

  “You’ve got a big mouth,” I teased. “Where were you on Saturday night? I suppose you have a perfect alibi.”

  “I reported for work, as usual, but I got off at ten. I suppose I should have hurried home to look in on Otto, but I didn’t. Sometimes I get tired of asking him how he feels. I think it tends to make him concentrate on how bad he feels. He never remembers to ask me how I feel, but that’s not important. Usually I feel fine. Tired, but okay—unless my head aches. Anyway on Saturday the moon and stars lit the night like a fairyland, and I took a long walk on White Street, ending up on the pier.”

  “Walking alone, or with somebody?”

  “Alone. My alibi’s like yours—nobody there to corroborate it, and it’d have been nice to have had someone to walk with. I don’t expect to be called on to give an alibi. Do you?”

  “One never knows.” I avoided her direct question.

  “Well, I suppose you might need an alibi since you found the body. That must have been an excruciating experience.”

  “Not one of my faves.” I kept my voice light as I tried not to shudder.

  “If anyone asks me for an alibi, all I can tell them’s what I saw from the pier.”

  “You see something special? See our honorable mayor out skinny-dipping or skate boarding?”

  “Nothing that interesting, but I counted those lights I could see on the widow’s walk at Ashford Mansion. I counted them twice to make sure of the number. There’re ten, and one of them’s green. Did you know that? Seems very strange to me. Why’d there be just one green light? Maybe it’s Jass’s way of playing up her image as the lady in green—Miss Hibiscus.”

  “Guess I’ve never paid that much attention to the lights.” I’m seldom good at prevaricating. I hoped Shandy believed me, but what did it matter? Everyone knew about the widow’s walk lights. Writers had written them up in lots of tourist “must see” brochures. The widow’s walk and its lights were hard to miss.

  I gave my attention to Shandy’s right foot, where I found more crystalline deposits. It didn’t surprise me that she suffered from severe headaches, and it made me feel my work was worthwhile when she kept returning for more treatments, telling me she’d been headache-free for a week.

  When I finished this treatment, I wiped Shandy’s feet with a clean towel, then spent a few moments applying peppermint-scented lotion to her feet before I helped her from the lounger.

  “Thanks very much, Keely. One, two, three, four, five.” She counted five ten-dollar bills into my hand then walked the few steps to Gram’s place for a cappuccino.

  I’d learned nothing of importance. Shandy had no alibi for Saturday, and if Otto had one, he refused to reveal it to his wife. That information intrigued me. Strange, but people on strong medicines sometimes did weird things. On the other hand, maybe Otto was hiding something. Maybe both of them were hiding something.

  They both came to my office regularly. I suppose that at some time either of them could accidentally have seen my gun in the desk drawer. Either of them could have sent me to the back of my office or even to Gram’s shop on some make-believe errand, and taken the gun in my absence. I hated being suspicious of my customers. My session with Shandy left me feeling shaky and unsure of myself—and of her.

  For the next few minutes I did relaxing exercises with my hands. I’d developed a routine of squeezing a soft rubber ball to keep my fingers supple. Right now I needed more than that. I needed to feel my bare feet connect with earth, to feel myself drawing cosmic strength from the planet. Today, my schedule didn’t allow for that luxury.

  Coffee break time, but I seldom drank coffee until afternoon when I wanted a caffeine lift. I closed my eyes as I relaxed in a cushioned chair behind a privacy screen in my apartment, puzzling over my stolen bike, my horrible nightmare, Punt’s flimsy alibi, and most of all thinking about the theft of my gun. Who hated me enough to try to make me look like a murderer? Only Jude, I thought. Only Jude. I’ll see you dead.

  I sat lost in my thoughts until I suddenly heard a news announcer break into a music program. I leaped to my feet, hurried to my desk, and turned the volume up as I stood staring at the radio.

  “The police are now officially calling Margaux Ashford’s death a homicide. The medical examiner and a team of detectives have ascertained that the victim had no powder burns on her hands that would indicate she had fired the gun. The gunshot to her head, delivered by persons unknown, was the sole cause of her death. Detective Curry has asked the public for information concerning anyone or any suspicious activities they may have seen around or near the Ashford home last Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until I gasped for air. So far the announcer had mentioned nothing about the murder weapon belonging to me. Did they have a reason for withholding that information from the public? I hoped so. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to broadcast it.

  The announcer had barely stopped speaking when my telephone rang and I heard Jass on the wire.

  “You hear the news, Keely?”

  “I just heard.”

  “Homicide.” Jass spoke again before I could get a word in. “They said nothing about the gun having been registered to you. I think that’s very strange, but maybe there’s a reason. Maybe keeping it secret will help their investigation.”

  “Last night I asked if they were going to arrest m
e and they said not yet—whatever that may mean. I’m so sorry about this whole mess, Jass. So very sorry and so scared. What does Beau say? Have the police picked him up for questioning?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him nor talked to him this morning. I tried to call him, but he must have taken his phone off the hook. All I got were busy signals.”

  “Can’t blame him for that. Oh, lordy, Jass. Maybe his phone line’s been tapped. Maybe mine, too. We’re going to have to be careful what we say unless we’re one-on-one.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that, and I’m glad the police have made their decision. Of course, no good decision could be made. Either murder or suicide—both Dad and you are going to have to take a lot of publicity. We’ll help each other. I’ll let you go now, Keely. I wanted to be sure you knew the latest.”

  “Thanks, Jass. What do you suppose will happen next?”

  “The memorial service, for one thing. The mortuary had to make some intricate changes in their plans, but we’ve managed to schedule the service for tomorrow afternoon at three. That meets the requirements of the will. I’m still telephoning a list of people Dad wants to invite.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Thanks, but no. I think verbal invitations should come directly from the family.”

  “Or the mortuary. How about that?”

  “Dad says family and we’ll go along with his wishes. He’s helping, too. Thanks for being there, Keely.”

  Jass broke the connection as Consuela arrived for her appointment, necklaces and bangles jangling in a way that attracted attention to her outfit, which fit her like a coat of paint. Today she wore a yellow V-neck tank with a gold pelican pinned strategically to draw one’s eye to her cleavage. Her tight slitted skirt matched the tank. She wore yellow sandals, and she wore yellow ribbons in her dark hair. Clearly, today was Consuela’s yellow day.

  Jass says that Consuela keeps scrapbooks on Cher and her activities and tries to match Cher’s outlandish costumes and sultry voice. She may succeed with the clothes, but she’s a total failure with the voice. Consuela only sounds loud loud loud.

  “Consuela,” I began, “I’ve my federal tax forms almost ready, and it’d help me a great deal if I had your last name.”

  “I refuse to tell you. Consuela’s my only name.”

  “If the IRS checks me out in depth, I could end up facing an audit if I can’t supply a customer’s full name.” I didn’t know whether that was true or not, but I wanted Consuela’s name for my own records. What kind of a business has no record of a steady client’s complete name? I also asked her about it now to throw her a bit off guard. If she refused to answer that question, maybe she’d humor me by answering questions about her whereabouts at the time of Margaux’s death.

  “No use to ask my name, Keely. You know that by now. Famous people don’t need last names. Cher. Avi. Madonna. Can you imagine any of those famous people supplying last names? It would ruin their public image. It would ruin my public image, too, even though I have yet to achieve my full potential as a writer.”

  Consuela’s like a casino with lights dancing off her bright costumes and with brassy sound effects brought on by jangling jewelry. Even her voice is brassy. Many times the scent of jasmine or Chinese orchids precedes her entry into a room. Everyone knows when Consuela approaches. Now, she flopped onto the patron’s bench, kicked off sandals with spiked heels high enough to compromise her center of gravity and also high enough to cause every male on Duval to do a double-take.

  “Radio shout murder,” she said as she waited for her footbath. “Radio can scream murder and it make me no difference. I continue to write. I continue working on my book for wee children.”

  “How can you be so unfeeling? The Ashfords are in mourning. They’re planning a memorial service, a burial at sea. As a part-time employee, maybe there’s something you could do to help them.”

  “I go to their door. I ask to help. Jass say I help most by leaving. So I keep silent at my home. I write.”

  I suppressed a grin. I could believe Jass’s response. Jass felt sorry for Consuela so she hired her on a part-time basis. Sometimes Consuela prepares snacks for people stopping in to see Jass’s plants and she also helps Jass with cleaning. When she finishes her duties, she’s free for the day. The arrangement suits them both.

  “What’re you working on now? I’ve read your first children’s book and I thought kids would like both the storyline and the pictures.”

  “Margaux found the idea barely acceptable but she said yes, publishers welcomed tales written in English easy enough for Spanish-speaking readers. ESL readers, Margaux called them.”

  “English Second Language.”

  “Right. Margaux also say the book wouldn’t have been published but for her. She say she did careful editing that turn my garbled English into something understandable.”

  Many times Margaux lacked tact when dealing with Consuela.

  “Today, and for over a week now, I work on book in Spanish. No English second language; Spanish first language. There is market for such. Many Spanish-speak kids in American schools. They no understand English. They need Spanish words to comfort them while learn the English. I no need help to write Spanish.”

  “Maybe the Spanish speakers should concentrate more on learning English,” I said. “Maybe if they had no choice but to read in English, they would learn more quickly.”

  “Where were you the night Margaux died?”

  Consuela’s sudden change of subject caught me off guard. I was the one supposed to be doing the alibi checkups. Had she somehow heard about the gun’s registry?

  “I was home asleep.”

  “You need to, as they say, get a life. Dull business, this sleeping on a Saturday night. Saturday night music play. Wine flows.”

  “So where were you?”

  “I danced the night away at Two Friends.”

  “Who were you dancing with?”

  “Two partners. One before band intermission. Another one after. Smart cookies no tell.”

  “And smart cookies don’t crumble. Remember that if the police come to you with questions.”

  Consuela jerked her foot from my grasp as I put pressure on the bottom of her big toe. I retrieved her foot and continued working. Her alibi would be hard to check out. If Consuela had been present at Two Friends, everyone would have been aware of it, but she could have slipped away between partners at the band intermission. Maybe slipped away long enough to shoot Margaux Ashford.

  A little before noon, Consuela struggled from the contour chair without waiting for my consent. Had I hurt her? Did my mentioning the police upset her? Or was she angry because I wanted her last name? I tried to stop her, to talk to her, but she left in a huff. That happened frequently, but she always returned later to pay her bill.

  Twelve

  NO USE TRYING to stop Consuela! In her breakneck pace to leave my office, she almost bowled Punt over. For a moment I almost forgot my anger at Punt for lying to me about his alibi as I stepped outside to watch Consuela’s departure.

  “Whew!” Punt exclaimed, laughing. “I see Consuela’s up to form.” He looked at me through his mirrored shades, waiting for a reply or a reaction, and when I didn’t respond, he shrugged. “Just stopping by to see if you heard the news. The police called the house before they released the murder verdict to the media. Radio ran it first, but I suppose it’s made the TV stations by now.”

  “I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry. Either way, it’s dreadful news for your family.”

  “Perhaps for you, too. You’ll probably be questioned, again and again, you know.”

  “Yes, but I can handle that.” I tried to forget the grilling I went through at the time of my divorce. Sometimes the police have a hard time believing the innocent. “If I tell the truth, I won’t be blamed.”

  “We’ll all be there to back you up, Keely.”

  “Beau’s going to need our support, too. Rotten scenes may happen
all round us, Punt, but the most important things are the ones that happen in our minds. We can’t let gossip or accusations or insinuating questions get us down.”

  “You’re quite a philosopher,” Punt said. “Have the police told you to stay in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any more problems last night after I left you—I mean beside the detectives giving you their seriously personal attention?”

  I wasn’t about to tell Punt about my scare when the cat jumped onto the screen or about the nightmare that returned to terrorize me.

  At first he had distracted me with his talk about the murder, but now my anger about his lying about his alibi boiled through my body. How dare he! How did he have the nerve to face me, let alone ask me questions? Somehow I kept my voice calm as I glared into the mirrors that hid his eyes.

  “No problems last night, but plenty of them this morning.”

  “Consuela? What got into her?”

  “Consuela’s a minor problem. Punt, I hate it when people lie to me.”

  “Consuela lied to you? What about?”

  “Not Consuela. You, Punt. You lied to me and you know what about. Did you think I wouldn’t check on your alibi? Hah!”

  Punt backed off a few steps, pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, and looked me in the eye. If his astonished expression was a put-on, he must have taken acting lessons.

  “Keely, be real! I didn’t lie to you. Why would I do that?”

  “You tell me!” I led the way farther into my office, so passers-by wouldn’t hear us arguing. “I stopped by Sloppy’s first thing this morning on my way to work. The clean-up guy said he worked there Saturday night. He said you had been there but that you left around eight or nine o’clock. He had no recollection of seeing you there late in the evening or sitting in with any band. None. Nada.”

  “You must have been talking to Peg Leg. He’s the one lying to you, Keely, not me. He knows good and well he saw me there. We even talked a few minutes around midnight.”