Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “So you surfaced too fast,” I said.

  “Yes, far too fast. Slone helped me into the boat, surprised to see me and surprised to see that a hose attached to my air tank had worked loose. Bad connection.”

  “Whose fault?” Punt asked.

  “Maybe both of us stand at fault. The tank belonged to me, so I accept responsibility for not maintaining it in perfect condition. The boat belonged to Slone, so as captain, his responsibility lay in checking the condition of his passenger’s dive equipment. We both fouled up.”

  “Thus the accident,” I said. “How did all that affect you? Heart attack? Lung problems? I’m sorry, Beau. I shouldn’t be prying. Maybe you dislike talking about the details.”

  Beau shook his head and continued his story. “I felt a profound fatigue—so tired I could barely move. I gasped for breath and dropped onto the bottom of the boat. Had extreme pain in my joints—all of them. It felt like someone was sticking pins and needles into my arms and legs.”

  “Slone rushed you to the hospital?” Punt asked. “How’d he do that? Call for a helicopter? Marine Patrol boat? Surely he didn’t waste time driving you to Fisherman’s in Marathon.”

  “None of the above. That hospital has the only civilian-operated hyperbaric unit in the Keys, right, but Slone drove me to Fleming Key. An Army Special Forces team has two hyperbaric chambers there. Underwater operations.”

  “Chambers available for public use?” Punt asked.

  “Not usually, but they’re available to anyone in case of an extreme emergency. Slone took me there. A diver can get in a real mess if he delays treatment. I lucked out. Slone carried a nasal mask and some pure oxygen aboard his boat and he administered that on the way. Probably saved my life. He phoned in our emergency, and they were expecting us when we arrived.”

  “What happened there?” I asked. “Obviously, they saved you.”

  “They put me in a chamber where the air is pressurized to create a specific underwater atmospheric pressure. Then, attendants depressurize the air gradually to simulate a safe rate of ascending to the surface. In my case, it took eight hours on Saturday—into late afternoon and night—then I rested under their watchful eyes, isolated until late Sunday morning when I had to go back into the unit for additional hours of decompression.”

  “Are you all okay now?” I asked.

  “I think so, but I’ll return for periodic checkups for a while.”

  Punt snorted. “When Jass and I were little, you and Mom always emphasized the importance of telling the truth. Margaux should have heard that advice.”

  “Hindsight,” Beau said. “I knew what she planned to do, what she planned to tell people. At the time all I could think of was hiding my embarrassment from the public. I didn’t want everyone in the state to know their favorite big-time treasure diver had been foolish enough to get the bends.”

  “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through, Dad, but at least you have an alibi for Saturday night. We were concerned about that, especially when Margaux’s story turned out to be a big lie.”

  “I regret the whole situation and that’s the pure truth. Maybe sometime in the future I’ll be brave enough to admit all and write up that rotten dive experience in one of my columns. It could save some young diver from a similar experience.”

  As we all stood, ready to leave the park, Beau linked his arm through Punt’s. “Son, those hours in the chamber gave me a lot of thinking time—thinking about what’s important in this life and what’s not. A lot of our differences come under the heading of ‘what’s not.’”

  “Truce, Dad. Truce.”

  It had been years since I’d heard Beau call Punt “son,” and when they smiled at each other, I knew they’d made a big step toward reconciliation.

  “Have the police questioned you yet?” Punt asked.

  “Yes. They picked me up at the house and then we drove to Police Headquarters. I’m sure they’ll check out my story just as you have. They may be visiting Fleming Key right now, and again, they ordered me not to leave Key West without their permission.”

  “They told me that, too,” I said. “It scares me to know there’s a killer still at large.”

  “Whoever shot Margaux won’t get away with it,” Beau said. “I trust the police, but I may hire a special detective, to do some private investigating. ‘Private’ is the key word. A special investigator might have access to facts that the police don’t have, and he might be able to keep some of our private life out of the newspapers. We’ve already made headlines in the Miami Herald.”

  “Where you going to find a private investigator?” Punt asked.

  I waited for Punt to mention the P.I. agency he and Nikko planned to open, but he said nothing about it.

  “Don’t know yet,” Beau said. “May have to go to Miami for that. Why don’t you two take a break from your private snooping? I’m concerned for you. There’s a killer at large, and if you put pressure on him, you could be the next victims. Let the police handle it. They’ll probably be calling on you again soon, Keely.”

  Twenty-Two

  AFTER BEAU LEFT us, I began to realize that he might be right about letting the police handle the case. We’d done a lot of running here and there trying to protect Beau when he hadn’t really needed that kind of help at all. We’d failed to discover his true alibi. We’d failed to save him from embarrassment over the dive accident.

  “Let’s go somewhere for lunch, Keely.” Punt took my arm and guided me back to his car.

  “Not today, thanks. Please drive me to my office. I really need to be alone for a while—need to give myself time to think.”

  “Think about a killer on the loose? I hate knowing you’ll be alone on the water—alone and afraid. You’ll be in less danger if you have someone with you.” Punt squeezed my hand as he helped me into the car. “I’d like to be that person. If you have to go out in your boat, let me go along.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Really, I do, but I need time alone to plan my words carefully, to be sure of what I’m going to say when the police call me in again for questioning. I’m sure they’ll call me. I also need to think back, to remember exactly what I’ve already told them. They’ll check on that, won’t they?”

  “Yes. I’m sure they will, but if you’ve told them the truth, it shouldn’t be hard to remember what you’ve said.”

  “Detective Curry took notes when he talked with me on Sunday morning, and he took notes again on Sunday night when he told me the gun in Margaux’s hand belonged to me. He asked endless questions about it. I have to remember exactly what I told him. If I change my story, even accidentally, I’ll be under even more careful scrutiny.”

  “I’m trying to help you. Why’re you giving me the brush-off? You said something about our lifestyles being too different. I’m not sure that’s true and I’m not sure exactly what you mean. We have lots of things in common—lots more now than we had years ago.”

  “I’m not giving you a brush-off. I’m trying to give myself some think time—some time alone. That has nothing to do with our lifestyles, either past or present.”

  “You still afraid I may revert to druggie life?”

  “No. You’ve been there, done that. I believe you’re on a better course.”

  Punt grinned at me as he managed to find a parking place in front of my office. “You still see me as a beach bum? You afraid I’ll never be able to support myself—or want to?”

  I smiled. “Give me a break, Punt. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “What about tonight? Dinner? You have to eat somewhere and it might as well be with me.”

  “Call me around seven and we’ll talk about it then, okay?”

  Punt sighed. “Okay.”

  I entered my office and closed the door quickly. I wanted no one to see me and maybe think I might be open for business. Gram followed me inside and Nikko and Moose followed her. I sighed. So much for entering on the Q.T.

  “So who’s minding your shop?” I asked
Gram as I inhaled mingled fragrances of peppermint and lemon that permeated my office.

  “Honor system. Left coffee pot on counter. Left coin box beside it.”

  “That might work with the locals.” I leaned to pet Moose. “I’m not so sure about the tourists.”

  “Where you been?” Gram asked.

  I told her about part of our morning, but not about Beau’s experience in the decompression chamber. She and Nikko could read about that in the newspaper. Or would Beau be able to pull some strings and keep it hush-hush?

  “You closed for the day?” Nikko asked.

  “Yes. Wednesday afternoon’s always been my time off. I’m going to take The Vitamin Sea to the backcountry and try for bonefish or permit.”

  “Want me to go along?” Nikko asked. “Don’t like to see you out on the water alone.”

  “I’ll be safe enough in my boat, and I know deep channels that lead to secret coves on the flats that even you haven’t fished. Besides, if someone’s trying to pin a murder rap on me, they’ll want me in good health. Nobody’s going to give me a bad time.”

  “Nikko tell me about funeral,” Gram said. “I hear Moose sit by Jude. What you make of that?”

  “That Jude had something to do with the fire, Gram. We can’t prove it in court, but we know. It helps us keep our guard up.”

  “What good to know—to know and do nada?”

  “We know for sure who our enemy is,” I said. “Right, Nikko?”

  “Right. We know your enemy hasn’t changed. It’s always been Jude. Take care, Keely.”

  “Maybe you and Moose should take care. I think Moose scared Otto half to death yesterday. Otto may not take that lightly.”

  “Maybe he had drugs on him.” Nikko shrugged. “Moose’s trained to track humans, not drugs.”

  “Otto didn’t know that. Don’t try to shrug off your own danger. Otto’s afraid of you and Moose, and people hate the ones they fear. Otto probably thinks you’re onto his secret. Detective Curry saw his reaction to Moose, and he’ll probably have a few questions to ask Otto about that scene.”

  “Glad I no go to memorial,” Gram said. “Don’t want police questions about secrets.”

  Nikko laughed. “Forget it, Celia. Your only secret is your age. Even the police couldn’t pry that from you.”

  “I no tell. Not even to police.”

  I kept a straight face. Gram’s secretive about her age. She and I are probably the only ones who know she’s seventy-two. Sometimes thugs prey on the elderly if they think they’re too weak to defend themselves, and Gram doesn’t intend for that to happen to her. She tries to put up a strong front. And she succeeds.

  “Out of here. Both of you.” I smiled when I shooed them toward the door, but I meant it. “I need some down time, and I need it now.”

  Reluctantly, they left, and I made myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a salad. Gram’s favorite recipe, I thought smiling. After eating, I changed into jeans, T-shirt, and boat shoes. Sweatshirt. Boat keys. Was that everything I needed? I slipped my cell phone into my sweatshirt pocket, tied the sweatshirt around my waist, and left my office.

  I pedaled slowly to the marina, enjoying the sun, the trade wind, and even the throngs of tourists. As I passed Mallory Square, I saw Punt and Nikko in Punt’s car, but they were in such deep conversation they didn’t notice me. Good. I didn’t want to talk to them right now, but I couldn’t help thinking they were discussing business matters. Maybe there was hope for them in a detective agency.

  At the marina, I chained my bike to a piling outside the office before I took my rod and reel from my storage locker inside the office, trying not to sniff the ever-present stench of diesel fuel. Walking along the dock, I headed for the bait bar where I bought a carton of frozen squid and half a dozen live shrimp.

  As I turned onto the narrow walkway that led to The Vitamin Sea, I passed Nikko’s skiff, Punt’s cabin cruiser. I hated to look, didn’t want anyone to notice my interest, but I peered behind me and to the far left. Jude’s black and silver speed boat bobbed in its slip. I looked ahead again quickly. I wasn’t afraid, but when I went out in the backcountry, I always liked to know that Jude’s boat bobbed in its slip. My sea-gray skiff blended with the water, and once I left the harbor behind me and headed west, I could easily disappear into hidden coves and mangrove thickets.

  Drat those pelicans. I stepped over the gunwale into my boat, grabbed a bucket, and lowered it into the sea. Before I began scrubbing, I opened the package of squid and set it in a sunny spot on the bow to thaw and then filled my bait tank with sea water and splashed the shrimp into it.

  White droppings covered the area around the motors and I spent several minutes applying the scrub brush before the fiberglass gleamed again. As I gave the stern a final rinse, I saw Shandy approaching on another walkway, her lips moving as she counted the boats between the dock and her skiff. She didn’t wave, but I started my motor and eased from my slip in case she might suggest we go out together. Such worries about invasion of privacy were probably groundless. Shandy seldom sought company. Maybe she hated to reveal her secret fishing holes as much as I hated revealing mine. Fishermen are like that.

  Taking care to leave no wake, I steered slowly toward a deep-water channel, and a few minutes later my bow cut a V-shaped wedge into the sea as I throttled the boat on plane, and headed west. Sea spray dampened my arms, and I tasted a salty mist on my lips. Hello Paradise.

  I waited until Key West harbor lay in the distance before I changed course, speeding into backcountry waters that I knew well. A few minutes later I slowed down, heading into a small bight surrounded on three sides by the sandy shores of an islet I had nicknamed Osprey Key—a mere flyspeck on area charts. This spot rated tops as one of my favorite fishing holes and I suppose other fishermen knew of it, too, but I’d never seen anyone else here.

  I cast anchor, watching line snake over the gunwale until the orange mushroom settled in the gray-green turtle grass. Securing the line to the stern cleat, I sat for a few moments enjoying the sunny day, the billowing clouds, the undulating sea. With the sun almost directly overhead, I could see into the water. A stingray glided beneath the boat. To the left a five-foot barracuda nosed slowly toward me, but when I moved, it saw me and darted toward the horizon.

  Sitting statue still, I listened and watched the surface for bonefish. Sometimes a school of bones raised clouds of mud as they nosed the bottom for food. Bonefish on a feeding frenzy could be noisy. I scanned the surface for tails fanning the air, but saw none, heard none. At last I reached into the bait well, caught a shrimp, and threaded it onto my hook. Yuck! I started to wipe my hands on my jeans, then I remembered to use the old towel hanging near the wheel. No point in wiping shrimp aroma on my jeans. Sometimes I wished for the good old days when Gram took me fishing, baited my hooks, gill-threaded my catch onto a stringer. Forget that, Keely. You’re a big girl now.

  I stepped lightly onto the bow with rod in hand. It helped to be able to look down into the water. Still. Still. Quiet. Quiet. Once a fish spotted unusual movement overhead it’d take off like an arrow. Adjusting my stance to the motion of the boat, I watched a white sandy spot on the sea bottom surrounded by turtle grass that lay about twenty feet ahead of me. A small nurse shark swam lazily across the area, but I didn’t cast. In no mood to fight a shark today.

  Then I saw it—a permit. My mind and body tensed. The fish’s silvery body flashed in the water and I made my cast. Missed target. Rotten aim. The shrimp still wiggled on my hook while I waited again. Where I saw one permit, I frequently saw others. My legs ached from standing still for so long, then another fish headed toward me. Good cast this time.

  Line shrieked from the reel as the fish took the bait. Permit? Bonefish? Shark? I wasn’t sure, but I played out line until the fish stopped running, then I forced the rod tip up and reeled in line until the fish took off again. We played that game for about fifteen minutes before I brought my catch to boatside. A ’cuda. Bar
racudas put up a good fight, but I’d hoped for bonefish—or permit.

  Now I had to deal with the critter. I’m not a meat-on-the-table fisherman and ’cuda aren’t good eating fish. I’m a strong believer in catch-and-release. No point in killing a fish you neither want nor need. I reached for the pliers on my console before I knelt at the gunwale and eased the fish up until I could reach its head. The hook was only slightly embedded in the ’cuda’s lower lip, and a quick twist with the pliers released it. For a moment it lay dazed near the surface. I leaned farther over the gunwale and grabbed its tail, pulling it back and forth to send water flowing through its gills. After a few moments it regained strength and pulled from my grip, heading for the horizon. I always wondered if a fish once caught would be dumb enough to bite on another lure—to let itself get caught again. Scientists may know the answer; they tag and release lots of fish.

  I reached for the half-frozen squid, cut off a piece, and prepared to bait up again when I heard another boat approaching. Strange. I’d never encountered others in this bight. I straightened up and stood on the bow so the interloper could see me easily and have the courtesy to leave. One person per fishing hole makes a crowd. This interloper didn’t leave and he showed no sign of intending to leave. Jumping from the bow, I eased back toward the console and grabbed the wheel for support.

  What was this idiot doing? The sun now slanting in from the west blinded me, but I saw his boat on a direct course toward me. As the distance between our crafts shortened, I made out the black and silver of Jude’s speedboat. Did he intend to wreck us both? My boat lay at his mercy. Maybe I could pull anchor, start the motor, escape. But no. Impossible. My skiff pitched so badly I struggled to keep my footing. No way could I grab the anchor line. Paralyzed with terror I braced myself for impact.

  Jude sped directly toward me, but at the last moment he jerked his wheel and turned. Our boats missed colliding by a few inches—less than a foot. I gasped for breath as I struggled to keep upright, then I breathed easier when I saw the stern of his speedboat as he headed away from me.