Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “How’s your work-in-progress coming along?” I let the water swirl for a few minutes before snapping off the switch. That’s a safe question in Key West where there’s a would-be writer or artist lurking behind every palm tree. “You’re still writing, aren’t you?”

  “Every day. Every day of the world, but I’m progressing slowly. Very slowly.” Removing his feet from the water, he dried them on the towel I provided, then took his place in the treatment chair.

  “What are you writing, Otto? Novel? Nonfiction?” I doubted he had a work-in-progress. I think he enjoyed hanging out with the writers that met on Saturday mornings at Kelly’s. “Or maybe you’re into poetry?”

  “You’ve guessed it. Poetry. Please don’t tell anyone. Not yet. I’m not quite ready to come out of the closet as a poet. Maybe never will be.”

  “Okay, Otto. It’s our secret. After my mother’s death, I wrote a bit of poetry, too, and I’ve never showed it to anyone. It was too dark and down—too private. Maybe that’s the way you feel about yours, too.”

  “That’s exactly the way I feel about it. Private. The police never found who shot your mother?”

  “Yes. They did. The guy’s doing time up north—a lifetime of time. Before they caught him, they questioned dozens of people, but everyone had an alibi of sorts.”

  “I suppose the police’ll be around, asking for my alibi for last Saturday night,” Otto said.

  Otto, too, was making it easy for me to learn some answers. “I’m surprised they haven’t already questioned you.”

  “Oh, they have, but I know they’ll return, asking for more answers.”

  I studied Otto carefully. “You mean they’ve asked you for an official statement?”

  “No. How about you? The one who finds the body…I thought…”

  “I’ve no alibi. I was home on Georgia Street alone. Do you remember where you were?”

  “Barely. At home, I think, but I was so zonked on drugs, I don’t remember for sure. Anyway, I woke up at home in my own bed on Sunday morning.”

  “That the story you’re going to stick to if the police query you again?”

  “Don’t know for sure. It might be better to tell them I was home alone. Don’t want them searching the house for drugs. I keep a little coke hidden from Shandy. She’d have a fit if she knew. Says she doesn’t want any truck with the police. Guess I can keep my stash hidden from the police, too. Any advice?”

  “No advice. None.” Otto scared me. Who knew what a druggie might do, a druggie who had good reason to be deeply angry at his former wife? I thought it interesting that Otto felt Shandy expressed more interest in whether the police might find drugs in the house than she did in his health. Maybe she used drugs, too. I cut his treatment a bit short and he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t comment or complain. Maybe he still felt hung over. A chill made the back of my neck tingle. I wondered if I’d just given a foot treatment to a killer.

  After Otto left, I put the CLOSED sign in my window, drew the drapery. I stepped over to Gram’s shop for an espresso to calm my nerves although Nikko always said that caffeine only made a person jumpy.

  “Gram, are you going to close shop for the service?”

  “Who say I go to service? I no say that.”

  “You were invited. Beau said so.”

  “Then I turn down invite. Margaux no good woman.”

  I saw no point in arguing with Gram once she had made her mind up to a thing. I returned to my shop without drinking an espresso. Although a noon whistle blew from a cruise ship, I didn’t feel hungry. In two hours I’d be at Margaux’s memorial service and I had no idea of how I should dress. I owned nothing black. Black clothes fit poorly into my lifestyle or into the paradise of Key West. I stood in front of my closet shoving hangers this way and that. My usual work garb wouldn’t do. No, a khaki jumpsuit wouldn’t be appropriate. Nor would the slinky green silk I wore last night with Punt. I could smell it. It still reeked of smoke.

  And in addition to the memorial service here in Key West, I had to remember the burial at sea. Beau had insisted that I be aboard the boat that would carry Margaux’s ashes to their final resting place. I’d never attended a burial at sea before. My mother’s body lay in the Key West cemetery. Would one boat hold everyone who attended the burial? I wished I’d been excluded from that bit of drama.

  Finally, I reached to the back of my closet and pulled out a plain navy blue skirt, straight and with a generous back slit I hoped would allow me to board a boat gracefully and without mishap. I found a white blouse, a white belt somewhat yellowed with age, and a pearl choker. I arranged the outfit on my bed and studied it. Yes, I supposed it would do, but it certainly wasn’t an outfit I looked forward to wearing. I felt as if I were going to a costume party disguised as a nice girl.

  Seventeen

  I’D STEPPED FROM the shower when the phone rang and Punt’s voice flowed over the line.

  “May I pick you up in twenty minutes?” he asked.

  “I’d really appreciate a ride.” I smiled at the thought of pedaling across town in a long skirt.

  “Nikko’s riding with us, too. The mortuary’s lending the family a car and placing some reserved parking signs in front of the house. Since we need to carpool to save parking space, I can pull the loaner into the carport and leave on-street slots for others.”

  “I suppose Gram told you she isn’t attending.”

  Punt laughed. “Yes, she mentioned that. I understand her feelings.”

  “How many people will be there?”

  “A couple dozen—immediate family, close friends, and Dad’s life-long business associates. Only a few will go out on the boat. Harley Hubble’s invited the heirs to meet at the Hubble & Hubble office following the burial. He’ll discuss the highlights of the will for those who’re concerned.”

  “Oh, my. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  “Agreed. See you in a few minutes. Wish it were under more pleasant circumstances, but maybe there’s an up-side to all this tragedy.”

  “An up-side?” I had a hard time imagining an up-side to Margaux’s death.

  “These varied circumstances have pulled us back together, Keely. I like that and I hope you do too.”

  “Oh, excuse me, Punt. There’s someone at my door.”

  “See ya.”

  Punt broke the connection and I felt guilty about lying, about cutting him off. Nobody waited at my door. I’d been at a loss for words. Circumstances certainly had pulled us back together, but I wasn’t all that sure that I liked it. I had to admit that I’d enjoyed yesterday’s afternoon and evening together, but that had been business—avoiding Jude on the highway, checking into Beau’s alibi, accepting the reality of the fire. Business.

  To be honest, I had to admit that Punt’s kisses had aroused a kind of warmth within me I’d almost forgotten. Pleasant sensations. Urgent sensations. But my soul still suffered unhealed bruises from my marriage. I wasn’t any place close to being ready for a new relationship. Maybe I’d never be ready. That thought loomed as a strong possibility.

  I pulled on my “nice girl” outfit and waited, feeling as unreal as a paper doll wearing an outfit cut from a Sears catalog. Nikko came down from his apartment with Moose at his side on a leash.

  “Nikko! You’re not taking Moose to a memorial service! I mean…” I leaned to pat Moose’s coarse hair and give him a scratch behind the ear. “I don’t think it’s the thing to do.”

  “How many memorial services you been to lately?” Nikko kept Moose at his heel.

  “None, of course, but…”

  “Not to worry. Moose’s my partner. Where I go, Moose goes. We’re a package deal.”

  Punt double-parked the loaner in the street, leaned over, and opened the passenger door for me while Nikko and Moose climbed into the back seat. As usual, car horns blared as we delayed the drivers behind us. Some, risking head-on collisions, managed to pass us, but others depended on their horns to express their sentime
nts.

  “Thought we were going to Grinnell Street.” Nikko leaned toward the front seat as Punt turned the car in the opposite direction.

  “Dad decided to hold the service in the garden at Ashford Mansion. He had originally planned on Grinnell Street, but there isn’t enough room.”

  Punt made no further explanation and it surprised me that Beau would hold a memorial service for his second wife at the home he and his first wife had shared for a quarter of a century. It was none of my business. The garden at Ashford Mansion offered more room, so I supposed that explained Beau’s choice.

  Punt drove into the carport when we reached the house and helped me from the car while Nikko and Moose exited from the rear. An attendant from the mortuary greeted us and showed us to our seats. Had he raised an eyebrow when he saw Moose? I wasn’t sure. But he said nothing about the dog.

  White lawn chairs had been arranged in a wide semicircle beneath the palms. To one side sat a round table draped with a white linen cloth that brushed the grass. Someone had set two white tapers in burnished brass holders on either side of Margaux’s gold-framed portrait. A dozen or so of the well-known books she had edited lay in front of the photograph. Everything looked stiff and proper as a gentle trade wind sighing through the palm fronds wafted the scent of candle wax toward me.

  On the other side of the circle of chairs stood an electric piano—a white one. White drop cords partially hidden in the grass snaked across the lawn to the house. I wondered where they’d found white drop cords. The only ones I’d ever seen were brown or orange. I pulled my thoughts from such mundane details when a pianist eased onto the bench and began softly playing hymns. “Amazing Grace.” “The Old Rugged Cross.” “In the Garden.” I hummed along when I heard “In the Garden.” It’d been one of my mother’s favorite hymns.

  We were the first guests to be seated and that pleased me. I’d rather watch others arrive than to have them watch me arrive, especially since I felt ill-at-ease wearing clothes I so seldom chose. Nikko took a chair next to me and Moose lay quietly beside him. Jass joined us, as usual wearing green—long flowing skirt and hibiscus-print shirt.

  When Consuela approached us, I hardly recognized her. The Cuban bombshell did own ordinary clothes. Gone were her Cher imitations, her jingly bracelets. She wore a gray silk pantsuit with matching sandals and no jewelry at all except for small button-type earrings in silver gray.

  Other guests began arriving so quickly I lost track of them until they settled in their seats. Otto and Shandy. Detective Curry. Detective Winslow? I didn’t see her anywhere. Curry’s presence surprised me. Maybe he’d invited himself. I gave an involuntary gasp and reached for Nikko’s hand when Jude strolled in and sat at the other end of the semicircle.

  “What’s he doing here?” I whispered.

  “Probably representing Hubble & Hubble.” Nikko squeezed my hand. “Not to worry. Ignore him. Make no eye contact.”

  Other people arrived claiming the rest of the chairs. Some of them I knew. Others I didn’t. Then a minister, Reverend Sotto, robed in white, took his place before us, reading scriptures from a white, gilt-edged Bible, then giving such an upbeat eulogy that I almost envied Margaux’s being dead. I tried to close my ears to this whole performance. That’s what it amounted to—a performance.

  During a prayer, I saw Nikko hold his hand close to Moose’s nose then give the dog a silent command. Moose rose and began pacing near the circled chairs. Guests who had closed their eyes in reverence didn’t notice Moose, but during the prayer, Otto leaped to his feet.

  “Get that dog out of here!” he shouted. He held his chair between himself and Moose like a circus lion tamer. Beau hurried to Otto’s side, took his arm and quieted him, helped him back into his chair as Moose walked on, paying no attention to Otto’s outburst.

  The minister continued his lengthy prayer as if nothing unusual had taken place. I wondered, if in seminary, theology students studied Short Prayer 101 their first semester, Mid-length Prayer 201 their second semester, and Long Prayer 301 before graduating into the real world of clergymen. If so, why did they so frequently choose to do the long scene?

  Before the prayer ended, Moose passed Otto’s chair, and then three chairs farther along, he paused and sat silently at Jude’s side. I held my breath until I saw Nikko’s unobtrusive hand signal that released Moose from his stance. The dog strolled back to Nikko and lay at his side, looking up until Nikko slipped him a doggie treat.

  After the prayer, the minister left his place before the small congregation, Beau thanked the guests for their expressions of sympathy, and the mortuary attendant dismissed everyone. And that ended the service.

  “What was the scene with Moose all about?” I whispered to Nikko. I thought I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from Nikko.

  “I let Moose sleep with that black sweatshirt last night,” Nikko said. Then he showed me a piece of black cloth he had secreted in his hand. “Moose didn’t have to track far to find the source of the scent.”

  “So I did see Jude at the fire scene.”

  “You were right, but remember, I warned you that such evidence can’t be admitted in court. He could have been there for several reasons. Maybe he was just trying to keep track of you, to be aware of your whereabouts.”

  “What about the restraining order?”

  Nikko nodded. “He was taking a chance by ignoring it.”

  That didn’t matter to me now, but it did matter that I knew Jude had probably started the fire. He’d done it to frighten me, of course. More important, he’d done it to try to make me look guilty, or at least to point up the fact that I was closely connected with two major disasters. I’ll see you dead. Jude’s long-ago threat still hid in my mind, haunting my thoughts.

  Beau had asked the people invited to the sea burial to remain behind—five of us. Beau, Punt, Jass, the minister, and me. Beau drove us bayside to Seaview Marina where he moored his boat. Margaux’s Dream. The name gleamed in gold and black on the yacht’s white stern.

  A dockmaster had readied the craft and I felt the narrow walkway branching off from the cement dock sway on its wooden pilings as we walked along. We waited on the walkway until Beau took his place behind the wheel and invited us aboard. The minister boarded first and then Jass. Punt helped me over the gunwale, and a slight ripping sound told me the slit in my skirt had increased in length.

  We sat on the cushioned seats around the gunwale while Beau maneuvered the yacht from its berth, easing it at no-wake speed from the marina and then into the harbor. Would I get seasick? Suddenly I worried. I’d never been seasick in backcountry shallows, but a ride in the open sea might be a different story.

  “How far are we going?” I whispered to Punt.

  “It’s twelve miles or so out to the reef.”

  He slipped me a Dramamine, but I knew it probably wouldn’t help at this point. Seasick pills have to be swallowed an hour or so prior to the time of need. I had no water to wash it down so I held the pill under my tongue, and after awhile it dissolved, emitting bitterness throughout my mouth.

  Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a great day for enjoying the sea. I guessed the winds at eight to ten, and few whitecaps frothed the gentle waves. Overhead the air filled with pelican-speak as five huge birds followed us until they saw we had no raw fish tidbits to offer.

  As we approached a sailboat carrying red sails, another with yellow sails, and three more with white sails, Beau adjusted our course to give them right-of-way. I realize sailboats have problems with tacking, with catching the wind, but sometimes they think having the right-of-way makes them kings of the seas. I saw Beau’s jaw muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth.

  We motored along without speaking until Beau found a spot over the reef that suited him and stopped the boat. Since dropping anchor on the reef in this marine sanctuary defies federal and state laws and damages the coral, Beau tethered his yacht to a buoy environmentalists have floated there for that purpose. Whe
n the yacht was secure, we stood at the gunwale. I saw a variety of formations—brain coral, sea fans, staghorn, and elkhorn coral. Colorful neon gobies and coral shrimp swam in and out of the coral formations, now and then running from a yellow shark or a barracuda.

  The minister stood at the bow, holding a round white box with a golden handle on top. Beau joined him at the bow as the minister read scripture. “For everything there is a season, a time to be born, a time to die.” We listened to many verses with heads bowed until he finished reading. At that time he placed the white box in Beau’s hands and motioned toward the water.

  Leaning low over the bow, Beau lowered the box into the sea and we all stood watching in silence. As the box sank into the waves, compartments on its side opened and rose petals floated to the water’s surface. Jass stepped forward and dropped an array of hibiscus blossoms beside the rose petals. After a few brief moments of contemplation, the minister ended the service with a short prayer.

  And it was over.

  Beau returned to the wheel and pointed the boat toward Key West. When we reached the marina, the stench of dead bait fish sullied the air. Cormorants high overhead drifted on updrafts, but the ever-present pelicans hovered close to our stern, hoping for a handout while Beau maneuvered the boat into its slip. Harley Hubble and Detective Curry sat waiting for us on a bench near the chandlery. They rose as Beau turned the boat’s care over to a dockmaster and we strolled along the walkway toward them. Both men wore business suits and ties, garb that set them apart from most of the locals and tourists who hang out at the marina.

  “What’s this all about?” I whispered to Punt, but before he could answer, Attorney Hubble spoke up, reminding me of Punt’s words earlier in the afternoon.

  “Detective Curry and I invite all of you to join the rest of Margaux Ashford’s beneficiaries at the Hubble & Hubble office to receive information concerning her will. The will won’t be read in its entirety due to its complexity and its length, but you’ll hear the specific details that pertain to each of you.”