Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “I’d like to go home and change from this jumpsuit. We’ll have time, won’t we?”

  “Sure. It’ll take only a little over an hour or so to drive up to Key Colony Beach in light weekday traffic. You know the turnoff—right before you cross the bridge leaving Marathon.”

  He headed toward Georgia Street, and when he stopped in front of my house, I ran inside to change while he waited in the car. I seldom went out on a dinner date, so I had few choices in outfits. The blue pantsuit? Or the green silk shift? I chose the green silk, telling myself that it didn’t matter that it brought out the green in my eyes, but at the same time I wondered if Punt would notice.

  After a quick shower, I slipped on the shift, enjoying the way the soft fabric slithered over my skin. The humidity of the shower had put extra curl in my hair and I gave it a quick brushing before I applied fresh lipstick and slipped on my green sandals. In moments I joined Punt in the car.

  Punt gave a low whistle of approval when he saw me. “Very cool, Keely. You’ll turn lots of heads.”

  My face flushed. It’d been a long time since I’d heard a man’s whistle and compliment and I had to admit that I liked it. In a couple of blocks we were on Highway 1 headed northeast toward the middle Keys. I liked the feel of the wind in my hair, the sun warming my cheeks. Even the salt scent of the sea had an exhilarating tang I could almost taste.

  “I haven’t been up this way for a long time,” Punt said. “Dad’s always attending a fishing tournament or a boat show, or visiting some old timer who may have an interesting tale to tell. He drives up here now and then.”

  We passed Stock Island, Sugarloaf, Cudjoe. Quite a few cars headed toward Miami, but nothing like the bumper-to-bumper traffic headed into Key West. Punt turned off at a tiki bar, The Boondocks, and we sipped a Coke before we drove on. We left Ramrod Key and were heading into the Torch Keys when I saw the same gray car I’d noticed behind us before we stopped for a Coke. Again it hung three or four cars behind us. Sun glinting on its windshield deflected my view of the driver, but my throat tightened. I try not to be a wimp, but Jude taught me caution—among other things.

  “Punt.” I touched his arm and whispered his name as if someone else might be listening.

  Punt reached over, taking my hand. “What?”

  “There’s a car following us. Four cars behind. Gray.”

  Punt peered into the rearview mirror. “Be real, Keely. I see at least fifteen cars following us and several of them are gray. A driver takes a risk if he passes on this highway. Lots of drivers play it safe and follow the car ahead of them ’til they get where they’re going.”

  “That gray car’s deliberately following us. It tagged behind us before we stopped at Ramrod and now it’s behind us once more. It must have pulled off the highway somewhere and waited until we started out again.”

  “You think it might be Jude?”

  “I can’t tell, and I don’t know what kind of car he’s driving these days.”

  “Okay, we’ll check it out. When it comes to Jude, you’re smart to be seriously cautious.” Punt hung a quick right when we reached the boat ramp turnoff to Little Palm Island. Then, braking quickly, we sat watching, partially hidden by palm and mangrove trees. We both saw Jude’s bald head at the same time as the gray car sped on past us.

  “Now what?” Fear froze my throat and I could hardly speak. “Maybe we should turn back.”

  “You going to let that bastard scare us out? You’re through letting him control your life, Keely. Remember? He’s forbidden by law to come anywhere near you. We’ll follow him for a while—give him a dose of his own medicine.”

  Gravel flew and tires screeched as Punt found a break in the traffic and roared back onto the highway. He left four cars behind us as he passed them on the right. Horns honked either in protest or in warning. I hoped no cops were watching. Two passes on the left put us directly behind Jude.

  Punt honked his horn and rode Jude’s bumper until he turned off at Sea Center Marina on Big Pine Key.

  “I think we’re rid of him now, Keely. He knows we could report him, claiming harassment, and he knows the law’s on your side. Forget about him for now.”

  Easier said than done. My hands were icy cold in spite of the sunshine bearing down on us in the open convertible. I nodded and tried to relax against the leather seat cushion.

  Neither of us spoke as we passed Sunshine Key, the state park on Bahia Honda, and then Seven-Mile Bridge. Traffic moved more slowly through Marathon, and at last we turned onto the long causeway leading to Key Colony Beach. On our left a posh shop offered upscale clothing, another displayed upscale fishing tackle. Everything on Key Colony Beach fit into the upscale description.

  In a few moments we turned onto the island, driving until we reached Fisherman’s Cove Beach House.

  “Here’s the place where they held the tournament on Saturday,” Punt said, stopping in the parking lot. “Come on inside with me and we’ll see if we can find Dad’s friend.”

  The beach house offered a bar and restaurant overlooking the sea. Now, a little past four o’clock, customers were already dropping in for happy hour. Silver and gold lanterns hung from the palm-thatched roof and a boy in a white jumpsuit busied himself lighting torches mounted in huge clay pots at the edge of the deck railing. Three cocktail waitresses wearing black mesh hose and scarlet tutus placed gold-colored napkins on the tables, taking care not to damage the bird-of-paradise centerpieces.

  “May I seat you?” A hostess wearing an ankle-length silver lamé gown smiled as she stepped forward to greet us.

  “We’d like to talk with Mr. Sam Smothers,” Punt said. “Is he available?”

  “You’re looking at him right now.” A barrel-chested man wearing khaki shorts and shirt approached us from behind and we turned at the sound of his voice. Punt reached to shake the ham-like hand he offered.

  “I’m here on an errand for my father, Beau Ashford,” Punt said. “He spent Saturday and Sunday here working at the fishing tournament. He thinks he may accidentally have left his favorite yachting cap here. Would you have a way of checking on that for us?”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Sam Smothers said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He disappeared into what appeared to be an office and remained there for quite some time before he returned. I knew from his slight frown that he had bad news.

  “Sir,” Mr. Smothers said, “we have no record of your father having been here on Saturday. His name’s not on our tournament work list, and there’re no yachting caps in the lost and found box. Perhaps he worked a derby farther north—Plantation Key, maybe.”

  He looked at a space just above Punt’s head and I knew he recognized the Ashford name, the murder investigation headlines.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

  “No, but thank you for checking on this for us.” Punt nodded to Sam Smothers, took my arm, and headed toward our car. His face a mask of worry, Punt said nothing until we were settled in the car again.

  “Dad lied to us.” He spat the words like pills that left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. “Dad lied. Why?”

  Fourteen

  WE SAT IN the car for several minutes, silent, concerned. When a Ford sedan pulled in at the other end of the parking lot, I paid no attention to it until the driver got out. He didn’t seem to notice us, and after my first glimpse, I kept my back turned toward him.

  “Punt, don’t be obvious, but case the tall guy entering the bar.”

  “Don’t think I know him,” Punt said. “You recognize him?”

  “It’s Detective Curry. Plain clothes. Unmarked car. I guess he hasn’t been around to talk to you yet, right?”

  “Right. He hasn’t. But obviously he’s talked to Dad and Jass, and I’m guessing he’s here for the same reason we are. He’ll get the same information we did. So go figure.”

  Punt started the car and I heard gravel spew as he turned and headed back toward the causeway,
the highway.

  “What now?” I asked. “Should we go home and warn Beau?”

  Punt shook his head. “Let’s think this over before we do anything.” He drove slowly through Marathon, passing The Quay where people were gathering to have drinks and watch the sunset from the outdoor patio, passing Herbie’s where people sat in a screened-in porch at pine tables probably enjoying seafood or foot-long hotdogs. When we reached the stop light, he turned left and headed for Sombrero Beach.

  Swimmers and sunbathers were leaving the shore and we easily found a parking place near an entry gate. Gulls soared overhead, screeching like laughing children at play.

  “Let’s take a walk.” Punt slipped from beneath the wheel and came around to open my door and guide me toward the white sand beach. “Kick off your sandals.” He shed his Birkenstocks like unwanted skin, dangling them from the fingers of his left hand. “Maybe we can think better with a little sand between our toes.”

  I welcomed the feel of sand gritting against my feet as we strolled through the sea-scented air toward the water. Now and then we skirted temporarily abandoned beach towels and tubes of aloe lotion.

  “Why do you think Beau lied about the fishing tournament, Punt? Surely he knew he couldn’t get away with it.”

  “I’ve no idea. No idea at all, but since he wasn’t at the fishing tournament, we have to find out where he was. That’s the big question. We may not like the answer.”

  “You don’t think…you don’t think he had anything to do with Margaux’s death, do you? I just can’t believe a thing like that. I spent a lot of time at your house during my growing-up years. Beau’s honest as they come.” Punt didn’t reply and we walked on toward hard wet-packed sand and then into the water, letting the sea swirl first around our ankles then rise almost to our knees.

  “Had he and Margaux been having problems? Something wrong in their marriage?”

  “How would I know that? Dad and I haven’t been close for several years. He hated my drug problem. He hated my run-ins with the law. It’s only been recently that we’ve been able to talk to each other with any sort of compatibility.”

  “He never gave up on you.”

  “Yeah, he bailed me out of so many jams we both lost count. When Mom died, I thought someone had cut the family anchor line. We all drifted. Then Margaux arrived on the scene and the rest’s history. Jass handled Dad’s new marriage a whole lot better than I did.”

  “Were you openly hostile?”

  “No. I tried to keep my mouth shut about Margaux. Didn’t want people saying wimpy Punt missed his mama, resented his stepmom. I’ve no idea what went on in Dad’s mind or in his marriage. I can’t imagine he shot Margaux, but that’s looking like a possibility we’re going to have to investigate.”

  “I’m jumping to no conclusions.” I picked up a broken scallop shell and lobbed it into the waves. “Beau may have a perfectly good reason for being a no-show at the tournament. So he lied. Why? Maybe giving a phony alibi is one cut worse than having no alibi at all, but maybe when he lied, he had no idea how soon he’d be in deep need of proving his whereabouts on Saturday night.”

  “Who’ve you talked to so far?” Punt asked. “Who had no alibi?”

  “You and Jass are in the clear—witnesses and all that. Shandy said she went walking alone, but she has no proof. Consuela said she spent Saturday night dancing with two different partners. We’ll have a hard time checking that out. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Otto or Nikko, but if they keep their appointments, I’ll question them soon.”

  “There’s still Jude. He could be the one. Or a street person. I still say a street person could have entered the house and…”

  “But why? Nothing turned up missing. The police found no forced entry. Why would a street person have possessed my gun? Margaux answered the door and let someone inside the house, someone she knew; surely she wouldn’t have admitted a stranger off the street.”

  “She might have let Jude in, since he worked for Hubble & Hubble. He could have pretended to have some legal paper for her to sign.”

  “You’d like to see Jude charged, wouldn’t you, Punt?”

  “It sure wouldn’t break my heart.”

  “Well, that’s unfair. People aren’t guilty because you’d like it to happen that way. We’re going to have to talk to Beau. Either that, or figure out for ourselves why he failed to show at the tournament.”

  Punt sighed. “There’s nothing we can do right now. I think we need to get through the memorial service tomorrow before we say anything to Dad. Right now let’s see if we can enjoy the rest of the evening. I promised you dinner and as soon as we’ve watched the sunset, we’ll find a place to dine.”

  “Good idea. You’re right. There’s nothing else we can do until tomorrow.”

  The sun was a bright coin, slipping into a bank of clouds that turned scarlet, then pink, then to twilight gray. I smiled.

  “More people should realize the sun sets at places other than Key West’s Mallory Dock.”

  “Right,” Punt said, “but here at Sombrero you miss seeing the Key Lime Tart Lady, the Frenchman with his trained cats, the high-wire walker.”

  “I heard that the Key Lime Tart Lady moved to Ohio, but don’t forget the bagpiper. Few people can forget his haunting melodies. The tourists fill his open instrument case with dollars to keep him playing.”

  Punt laughed. “To each his own. I offered him a twenty one night if he’d pack up his pipes and go home.”

  “Punt! How could you!”

  “It was a joke—sort of. Then a guy beside me offered him another twenty and I thought the two twenties tempted him to pocket them and go. But he kept playing. Maybe there aren’t any pockets in those kilts.”

  We returned to the car, rinsing our sandy feet in the open air shower at the beach entrance. Punt steadied me as I slipped my damp feet into dry leather, pulling me a bit closer to him than necessary, I thought.

  We drove slowly back to the Torch Keys, turning right for a short distance and stopping at The Sandbar. The cool trade wind ruffled my hair as we climbed a dozen stairs to the restaurant perched on pilings and overlooking the bay. Darkness had fallen, and a full moon lit the water, glinting against the dock where other diners had moored their boats. The smell of fried shrimp made my mouth water.

  Luck smiled on us and we found a table by one of the huge open windows that afforded us a clear view of the scene below. The running lights on a sailboat looked like slow-moving stars. Moonlight etched a couple pausing to enjoy a kiss on the dock, but closer at hand a waitress arrived, presenting us with a wine list and asking for our drink order.

  I tensed, waiting to see how Punt would handle that.

  “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

  “I’d like club soda with a twist of lime, please.”

  “Make mine the same,” Punt told the waitress.

  “Do you miss the wine?” I asked after the waitress left.

  “Sometimes, but never a lot. It’s surprising what a person can get used to—when it’s necessary. Don’t let my being on the wagon stop you from enjoying a glass of wine. They used to have excellent Chardonnay here.”

  “Thanks, but maybe another time, Punt.”

  A few minutes later I enjoyed the fizz of sparkling water and lime on my tongue as we studied the dinner menus the waitress placed before us.

  “Punt, look. They serve alligator steak. Have you ever tried that? I thought alligators were endangered.”

  “I think that’s past.” Punt grinned at me. “So let’s order alligator and see what happens.”

  “What do you think’ll happen? Is there something about alligator steak I should know?”

  Before Punt could answer, the waitress returned, pencil and pad in hand. “What would you like this evening?”

  “We’ll try the alligator steak,” Punt said.

  She looked up, smiling. “I’m sorry, but we’re out of alligator tonight.”

  “Give us a b
it more time, please.” Punt waited until she walked away, then he grinned. “Restaurants are frequently out of alligator unless area security officers have recently had to dispose of some ’gator that dined on a pet-owner’s dog.”

  “You’re making that up, right? Tell me it’s something you read in a book.”

  Punt avoided my question and changed the subject. “Do you still like seafood as much as you used to?”

  I felt flattered he’d remembered. It’d been a long time since we’d enjoyed a meal together. “Yes, I still love seafood.”

  “Then how about ordering the seafood platter for two?” He pointed to the listing on the menu. “Shrimp, oysters, crab, lobster.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “See, this isn’t so bad after all.” Punt grinned at me.

  “What do you mean, not so bad after all?”

  “I’ve been asking you out now and then for years and you’ve always said no. Tonight, I feel like I’m gaining ground.”

  “We’ve had our problems, haven’t we? We got along great in high school—for a while.”

  “Then I played jerk and went for any drug I could get my hands on. That turned you off, and rightfully so, and the next thing I knew you married Jude Cardell. Mrs. Jude Cardell. What on earth did you see in that guy? Do I dare ask you that question?”

  I wished he hadn’t asked. Why spoil an evening by talking about Jude? My face flushed and I took a drink of fizz water to cool down. No point in letting Punt know he could upset me with his questions or that his mentioning Jude could flood me with the frightening memories I tried hard to hold in check.

  “Ask whatever you like. Hindsight’s better than foresight. All I can say now is Jude and all his phony sophistication dazzled me. He’s several years older than I, you know, and at the time I thought him a debonair man about town. The community respected him. I didn’t see his dark side until after we married. Before that, he wined me and dined me and brought me gifts for every occasion and many times for no occasion at all.” I forced myself to stop talking when I heard my words rattling on and on.