Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “I saw Jude for a few minutes yesterday afternoon when I went out fishing west of the harbor.”

  “Had you planned the meeting?”

  “No. We met by accident.” I doubted that. I felt sure Jude had stalked me into my well-hidden cove, but I refused to tell Curry that. He would call my feelings speculation.

  “An unplanned meeting, right?”

  “Right.”

  Then Punt spoke up. “What happened to Jude? How did he die?”

  “Boating accident,” Curry snapped his reply, and his gaze probed into each of our faces in turn. Even Gram squirmed. Again, nobody spoke. At last Curry’s gaze rested on me.

  I could imagine Jude killing himself by revving his motor to top speed and accidentally ramming some submerged boat or underwater coral formation. I could also imagine him ramming another boat on purpose, using a super-clever maneuver that would avoid great bodily injury to himself or his boat. I said nothing, and Punt broke the silence.

  “What sort of an accident, Detective Curry? Jude defied all safety rules. All the locals know he raced his boat on the water like a crazy man, but what happened this time?”

  “Marine Patrol found him this morning. Slumped in his boat. Empty gas tank. He lay dead from a single head wound.”

  “A bullet wound?” Punt asked.

  “No. A wound from a blunt object. It appeared he’d left his anchor line tied to a stern cleat while running at high speed.”

  I forced myself to keep a blank face when I realized I’d accidentally caused Jude’s death. Accidentally? I’d wished to harm him, hadn’t I? But wishing couldn’t make that sort of an accident happen. I admitted that to myself, glad that all I could read on Gram’s face was surprise and shock.

  “The anchor line thing caused his death, his head wound?” Punt asked.

  “That’s the Marine Patrol’s opinion.” Detective Curry jingled some change in his pocket. “The police aren’t questioning the patrol officer’s word. Over many months, the police department’s had complaints about Jude’s reckless handling of his boat.”

  “As a kid in a powerboat safety class, I learned to tether the anchor line to a cleat only when I cast the anchor,” Punt said. “I learned to untie the line once I hauled the anchor back aboard, but I don’t remember the why behind the rule.”

  “The Marine Patrol officer said Jude must have been traveling at such a high speed that waves caught his tethered anchor line, yanking it and the anchor into the sea. They speculate the fifteen-pounder smacked the water surface so hard and in such a way that it ricocheted and struck Jude’s head. Instant death—that’s what the medical examiner said. The Marine Patrol officer guessed that without Jude at the wheel, the boat ran untended until the gasoline tank emptied.”

  Tears suddenly streamed down my cheeks and I made no move to stop them or to dry them. Tears of relief. My worries about Jude were over.

  “You still have feelings for Jude Cardell?” Detective Curry eyed my tears.

  I didn’t respond. Any words of sorrow would have been lies. Any words of glee might turn out to be incriminating. I kept my silence as I found a tissue and dried my eyes. Let Detective Curry think what he liked. Let him draw his own conclusions.

  “I dance the habanera on his grave,” Gram muttered.

  “Count me in as her partner.” Punt eased closer to me, slipping his arm around my waist and pulling me close.

  Detective Curry shrugged and turned toward the door. “I’ll leave you people alone with your thoughts for now, but I felt sure you’d be, perhaps, more than interested in the news about Jude.”

  What did he mean more than interested? Detective Curry might represent our police department, he might represent our tax dollars at work, but I didn’t trust him to have my best interest at heart. No way.

  Nobody said thank you to Curry. Nobody saw him to the door. I didn’t even worry about what he might be thinking.

  “Maybe we all need a cup of espresso,” Punt said after Detective Curry left.

  “Agreed.” I spoke just as the phone rang again and another patient cancelled. I sighed. At least my patients had the courtesy to call me rather than to let me sit waiting for them.

  I left the CLOSED sign in my office window, left the drapery drawn. I might as well close my office as long as the Ashford case dominated the news, or until the court vindicated me. I started to follow Gram and Punt to the coffee shop when I saw Mr. Moore hurrying along the sidewalk toward us.

  The word “round” bounced in my mind whenever I saw Mr. Moore. His moon-like smiley face blended into a pudgy neck and a beach ball figure, and his black walking shorts accented his pasty white skin in a way that shouted TOURIST.

  I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin as if by towering over him I could calm the jittery feeling in my stomach. What could I say if he blamed that fire on my negligence? At least he hadn’t brought his wife with him. Facing one person would be easier than facing two.

  “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, stepping into my office and seeing everyone preparing to leave.

  “You’re not interrupting a thing,” I fibbed. “You’ve already met my grandmother, and this is my friend Punt Ashford.” The men shook hands, and then I nodded to Gram and Punt. “I understand Mr. Moore needs to talk to me this morning. If you’ll excuse us, please?”

  “I’m inviting Keely to breakfast,” Mr. Moore said. “Forgive me for not including you all, but Keely and I need to talk about that fire. I have to turn in my rental car and catch a plane for Miami this afternoon. So with your permission…”

  “No problem,” Punt said. “Glad to have met you, sir.”

  I could tell from the way Gram stood wringing her hands she would have liked to have accompanied us to breakfast. I avoided her gaze. She has a way of getting what she wants, and I wanted my conversation with Mr. Moore to be a private one. My ribs and my jaw still felt battered from yesterday’s happenings, and in spite of my relief at hearing of Jude’s death, my mind felt battered, too. I guessed it would please Detective Curry to be able to blame Jude’s death on me. Perhaps he’d continue working on that angle. A person never knows what goes on in a detective’s mind.

  Now I had to face Mr. Moore and discuss the fire on Georgia Street.

  Twenty-Seven

  ON THIS EARLY Thursday morning few tourists were out and about. Mr. Moore led the way to his car parked close by and helped me inside before he walked to the driver’s side and struggled to fit his bulk beneath the wheel.

  “Where can we get a good breakfast?” he asked. “Your choice, but I like a hearty meal. No ladies’ tea room, please.”

  “I seldom have the privilege of eating breakfast anywhere except in my own kitchen, but The Wharf has a good reputation with both the locals and the tourists. Would you like to give it a try? In addition to good food, there’s a special opening display of lavender hibiscus plants scheduled for today.”

  “Love good food. Love hibiscus no matter what color. Point me to The Wharf, please.”

  “It’s a plan.” I gave him directions and we drove the short distance to the restaurant. The crowded parking lot warned us we might have to seek breakfast elsewhere, and the fragrance of bacon and pancakes greeted us even before we stepped into the bright interior. While light flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Hawk Channel, Mr. Moore admired the lavender hibiscus murals a local artist had painted especially for the opening display of Jass’s prize-winning plants.

  “A lovely spot,” he said, smiling.

  “Agreed.” We both admired the dwarf hibiscus plants set in decorator pots and placed on rattan pedestals around the walls of the dining area.

  A glance told me that patrons not only occupied all the tables with window views, but also most of the other tables as well. It surprised me to see Shandy thread her way through the diners as she approached us.

  “Good morning, Keely. I can have a window table for you if you’re willing to wait a few minutes.”r />
  “Let’s wait, shall we?” Mr. Moore asked. “Don’t get these sea views in North Dakota.”

  “Fine with me. Mr. Moore, I’d like you to meet Shandy Koffan, one of my reflexology patients and also Jass Ashford’s aide at her greenhouse. Shandy, this’s Mr. Moore—my former landlord on Georgia Street.” They nodded politely to each other. “I’m surprised to see you here this morning, Shandy. Shandy usually works a night shift,” I explained to Mr. Moore.

  “I’m pinch-hitting this morning. We’re expecting a big crowd today for the first local showing of Jass’s plants, so the manager hired a few extra helpers.”

  We waited only a few moments before Shandy led us to a table for two next to the window, seated us, and placed menus before us. Although the slightly tinted windows diminished the glare of sun against sea, some patrons still wore sunglasses. Others had asked their waitress to lower a scrim of see-through silk between them and the brightness.

  In the distance a gray tanker moved across the horizon, and only a bit closer to shore three shrimp boats lay at anchor, their outriggers giving them the look of giant insects silhouetted against the sky. Almost directly below us a windsurfer struggled to remount his board and pull its red sail from the water.

  “Would you care for coffee?” Shandy asked, carafe in hand.

  We both nodded, then Mr. Moore looked at me. “What would you like to order, Keely? Is there a breakfast specialty of the house?”

  “I hear everything’s special, but I’d like a toasted bagel to go with my coffee and papaya with lime, please.”

  Mr. Moore ordered orange juice, bacon, eggs, pancakes, and a double serving of French toast. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

  “Well, the fire inspector says no to arson,” Mr. Moore said, getting right to the subject of the fire.

  “That’s good news.” I added a bit more sugar to my coffee.

  “The wife and I were disappointed to lose the property, but we knew of the home’s poor condition when we bought it. That’s why we got it at such a good price.”

  Six hundred thousand didn’t seem like much of a bargain to me, but I didn’t comment. Tourists and locals frequently see property values from different viewpoints.

  “We hoped that by spending another hundred thou or so for remodeling, we could enjoy a comfortable vacation place that offered excellent resale possibilities should we ever decide to sell. The fire inspector said that Hurricane Georges had damaged the roof—that happened only a few years ago, right?”

  “Right, but Key West lucked out. The brunt of the storm hit Big Pine Key and Cudjoe. The eye swirled over Key West, and the worst of the winds usually hit to the north of the eye.”

  “Yes, I suppose Key West did feel lucky—if there is any luck besides bad luck where hurricanes are involved.”

  We talked for a few moments more before Shandy served our meals. Mr. Moore poured apricot syrup over his French toast and dug in, enjoying several large bites before he spoke again.

  “At any rate, the house’s former owner chose to sell the place rather than to repair the damage.”

  “Many property owners feel that way after a hurricane,” I said, “especially if they’ve suffered through several bad storms.”

  “I can understand that.” Mr. Moore started on his bacon and eggs while I sipped my coffee and tested the papaya. At last he continued. “The fire inspector said that during the passing years, water seeped through the roof every time it rained, dampening the electric wiring. I know nothing about that sort of thing, but his assessment sounds reasonable. He also said that during those years of neglect, the covering on the wires rotted and eventually bare wires made contact with each other, shorted out, and emitted sparks that started the blaze.”

  I wondered how the inspector could guarantee that as the answer. I felt almost sure Jude had started the fire, but maybe I liked to blame Jude for all the bad happenings in my life.

  “I’m sorry Punt and I drove to Key Colony that night, Mr. Moore. If I’d been home, I could have called the fire department and maybe they could have saved the house.”

  “You needn’t apologize. We didn’t expect you to keep a round-the-clock vigil. The wife and I are glad you were away, out of danger.”

  The wife. Mr. Moore irritated me, speaking as if his wife didn’t have a name of her own, as if she were merely one of his many possessions. I wondered if the wife called him the husband when she mentioned him to others. We stopped talking as Shandy refilled our coffee cups, and it surprised me when Mr. Moore stopped her and engaged her in conversation.

  “Is Key West your home, Miss?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You lived here a long time?”

  “For a few years.”

  “You like it, right?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  Shandy ducked her head in that shy mannerism she frequently used, and I could tell she wanted to avoid more chit-chat with this stranger. Mr. Moore failed to get her signal.

  “Where did you live before you discovered the Keys?” he asked.

  “Iowa, sir.”

  She didn’t elaborate on those two terse words, but again Mr. Moore didn’t take the hint.

  “Guess Iowa has some pretty cold winters, right?”

  “Right.”

  I saw the relief on Shandy’s face when a customer at another table signaled for her attention. I felt sorry for anyone so shy she couldn’t make a little small talk with customers who might leave generous tips. I also felt a growing irritation at Mr. Moore, who must have noticed Shandy’s reluctance to talk.

  “Excuse me, please,” Shandy said as she hurried to the beckoning customer.

  “Certainly.” Mr. Moore’s gaze followed her for a few moments, then he turned his attention back to me.

  “The insurance company’s offered a fair settlement for the house, so I’m trying to tie up the legal end of things here today—sign papers and all that.”

  “I’m so sorry all your wonderful plans turned out this way. Will you look for another property to buy?”

  “We’re not sure.” He sighed. “This’s been a blow to the wife. She’s always wanted a retirement home where it’s warm in the winter. Centerville, North Dakota doesn’t offer much along those lines.”

  “Can’t understand why people live in such cold places.” I smiled and gave a mock shudder.

  “Many times it’s because they were born there. That’s it in my case. Born and raised in Centerville—near Fargo. My family owned a small TV station and I inherited it.”

  “A TV station! Wow! That sounds exciting enough to make Centerville an attractive place to live in spite of the cold.”

  Mr. Moore worked on his pancakes a few moments before he replied. “I’ve made a good living with the station, but you know…”

  “What?” I prompted.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a private detective. Never made a big issue of it to my folks or to the wife. My dad would have been quick to ridicule the idea since I had a going business dropped right into my lap, and the wife would probably have agreed with him.”

  “I suppose so.” I added a squeeze of lime juice to my papaya. I’d dreaded this talk with Mr. Moore, but now I lightened up. Mr. Moore had erased my guilt feelings by sharing the fire inspector’s take on the blaze and the insurance company’s plan to pay off without argument or lawsuit. Now with Jude dead, I saw no point in mentioning the black sweatshirt.

  I felt more relaxed now, and I decided I liked sitting here enjoying a tasty breakfast and talking to Mr. Moore more than I’d like returning to my office to answer cancellation calls. Sooner or later I knew I had to face the fact that Jude’s death might narrow our list of murder suspects. On the other hand, just because Jude was dead didn’t eliminate him as a suspect. The sweet papaya helped me avoid thinking and wondering about who else might want to see me blamed for Margaux’s death. At least Mr. Moore hadn’t mentioned the Ashford murder.

  “I did do one thing to pand
er to my desire to be a detective.”

  Mr. Moore’s voice snapped me back to attention, and I asked the question he obviously expected. “What did you do?”

  Twenty-Eight

  MR. MOORE HESITATED a few moments before he spoke, almost as if he were reluctant to answer me. I wondered if I had accidentally touched on a sore spot or pried into subject matter he preferred to avoid. Yet his words had invited my question, and I prepared to listen to his answer, full of curiosity by now. He took a long look around the room and then glanced over his shoulder as if he were afraid someone might be trying to overhear our conversation. I let my gaze follow his, but I saw nobody that looked remotely interested in us or our talk.

  “Keely, I organized and now direct a local thirty-minute TV program called Centerville’s Most Wanted. You’re right if you’ve guessed the program’s patterned after John Walsh’s Saturday night program—America’s Most Wanted. I’ve even corresponded with Mr. Walsh, asked his advice on airing my material. Of course, I keep my show in a time slot that doesn’t conflict with his program.”

  I smiled, wondering if John Walsh would consider a local program in Centerville, North Dakota strong competition. I also smiled because I liked Mr. Moore’s idea, even liking the butterball of a man a bit better than I had a few minutes ago. He showed a lot of spunk and creative thinking. I admired that. He’d gone after what he wanted even when his family opposed his idea, and he’d managed to please them as well as himself. We had a few things in common.

  “You mean that Centerville, North Dakota has enough major crime to fill a half-hour show once a week?”

  He chuckled. “Well, my show featured a murder five years ago, and a kidnapping three years ago, but I have to admit that most of the crimes we highlight involve hit-and-runs, snatch and grabs, missing persons—who usually turn out to be voluntary runaways. I guess the crime my program highlights only seems major to the victims.”