Pier Pressure

by Dorothy Francis

  “That’s usually the case, isn’t it? People are most concerned about stuff that involves them personally.”

  “Right, but the public likes my program. I host it myself and my friends tell me they enjoy that. Also, the police chief has released annual statistics that show crime in Centerville has dropped in the last few years. I find that rewarding in many respects.”

  “I think that’s great. It makes a person feel good to know his work makes a difference. I know how important that is to a person’s mental well-being. I speak from experience.”

  I’d thought my comment might end our conversation. I really had no deep interest in crime, major or minor, in Centerville, North Dakota. I’d finished my bagel and papaya and Mr. Moore had pretty much worked his way through his meal, but he cleared his throat and signaled Shandy, pointing to his coffee cup. This time when she arrived, he looked at her closely, but he didn’t try for another conversation. Shandy refilled my cup too. When we thanked her, she went on about her business.

  “How long have you known Shandy?” he asked.

  “Several years. She’s been my reflexology patient for about two years. She’s a nice person, a quiet and shy person usually, but she created a bit of a stir on the island when she married Otto Koffan.”

  “How so?” Mr. Moore leaned forward.

  I don’t usually engage in idle gossip, but Margaux’s murder had pulled the Koffans to the front of my mind. Now that Jude lay dead, Shandy and Otto had moved up on the list of suspects that Punt and I wanted to investigate. Maybe I should re-check Consuela’s alibi. Or maybe Nikko’s. But no. I couldn’t believe Nikko killed Margaux. I didn’t realize I’d let my mind wander until Mr. Moore spoke again.

  “I sense a reluctance to reply.” He smiled, but I knew he wanted to hear about Shandy and Otto.

  I made it brief, skirting around Margaux’s murder with as few words as possible. “When Beau Ashford lost his first wife to cancer, and began dating Margaux Koffan, she divorced her husband, Otto. He quickly rebounded into Shandy’s arms and they married. At first, after Margaux’s murder there were only whispers, but the gossip grew. People talk. Even people in Key West who usually take things in stride.”

  I thought Mr. Moore would ask more about Margaux’s murder.

  His next words surprised me and spared me from having to talk more about Margaux…

  “What was Shandy’s name before she married Otto?”

  “Let’s see…Shandy Mertz. Yes, Mertz, that’s it. Why are you so interested in Shandy? I think she’s done well as our waitress. Our service this morning’s certainly been excellent.” I hoped he wasn’t going to report Shandy to the manager for some infraction I hadn’t noticed.

  Mr. Moore reached for his billfold and pulled out a blurred photo of a woman and slid it across the table to me. “Have you ever seen this woman before? Look carefully, now. This’s important to me.”

  I studied the picture. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this person. I don’t recognize her. Should I?”

  Now Mr. Moore’s gaze bored into mine. “She reminds me a bit of our waitress, Shandy.”

  I studied the picture more carefully. Then I pushed it back toward him and shook my head. “I can’t see it. Can’t see any resemblance at all. The woman in the picture has long dark hair and blue eyes. As you can see, Shandy Koffan has short blonde hair and brown eyes. This woman’s almost fat. Her cheeks are well filled out. Shandy’s slim and her face’s almost a perfect oval—thin.”

  “People can diet. Hair can be bleached. Hair can be cut. Eye color can be changed with contact lenses. Do you notice any similarity at all?”

  Again I pulled the picture toward me and scrutinized the woman’s features. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore, but I see no similarity at all. None.” I wanted to suggest that he was letting his detective urge get the better of him, but I corked that comment.

  “Look right here.” He placed his thumbnail on a tiny heart-shaped scar near the woman’s right eye. “I consider this a very unusual scar, and Shandy has a scar similar to it.”

  “I’ve never noticed such a scar on Shandy’s face, and I see her frequently in my office. Are you sure?”

  He started to signal Shandy for more coffee, but we both looked all around the dining area and couldn’t see her.

  “Maybe she’s taking a break,” he said. “Do you have time to wait ’til she returns?”

  “Of course.” I turned the conversation to Jass’s plants, her blue ribbon. No point in telling him more about Margaux’s murder or of my being a suspect. I guessed that Key West crime seldom made headlines in Centerville, North Dakota.

  The breakfast hour was drawing to a close and nobody stood in line waiting for our table, so we asked another waitress to refill our cups and we waited.

  When Shandy returned to the area, Mr. Moore saw her first and quickly beckoned her to our table.

  “Our check, please, Shandy.”

  We both studied her face carefully as she pulled out her pad and pencil and tallied our bill. I saw no sign of a heart-shaped scar. Mr. Moore said nothing as he left her a generous tip on the table and went to the cash register to pay the bill. Once we were back in his car, he shook his head and sighed.

  “I must have been mistaken. Must have been the early morning lighting in the room. I thought I saw a scar when we she first showed us to a table, but I admit there’s no sign of a scar now. Of course she could have repaired her makeup while she took a break, could have hidden it under some of that goop on her face.”

  I smiled, but he had aroused my curiosity. “Is that woman in your picture one of Centerville’s most wanted?”

  “Right. She most certainly is. We think her name’s Sal Mitchell and she’s wanted for a capital crime now forgotten by most people—forgotten except by the ones directly involved, directly affected.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She drove the getaway car for bank robbers when they hit a branch bank in Fargo. The outside surveillance camera caught the woman on film and I had her likeness blown up so I could study it better. I intend to bring that woman to justice sooner or later. She might help us solve that crime. A bank customer lost his life that day—my father.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that.” Suddenly I felt a common bond with Mr. Moore. We’d both lost a parent to a gunman. Now I could understand his deep need to detect crime, to run an anti-crime show on his TV station. “Did the police catch any of the robbers?”

  “One died on the spot—shot dead by the police. One escaped in the getaway car. Police found the abandoned vehicle later, but the robber and the car’s driver are still at large and in hiding. They may have left the country. I know all too well the case’s cold, but it’s still very much open to investigation.”

  “If I see any clues, I’ll call you up north, but I doubt if Shandy Koffan is the woman you’re looking for.”

  “You remember that promise. Call collect. It would give me great satisfaction to help the police solve this case. I’ve a feeling they’ve really shoved it onto a back burner.”

  Mr. Moore returned me to my office and double-parked long enough for me to get out. Car horns blared, but he paid no attention.

  “Thank you for our visit, Keely.” He leaned over to call to me through the open window.

  “And I thank you for a lovely breakfast.” I waved goodbye and he drove off toward the airport, leaving me to think more deeply about Shandy Koffan.

  Twenty-Nine

  WHEN I LEFT Mr. Moore’s car, Punt beckoned to me from where he sat sipping espresso at Gram’s coffee bar. I joined him although my slightly queasy stomach and my shaking hands told me I’d already had more than enough coffee. Gram stood pouring steaming water into the cappuccino machine and I knew she had an ear carefully tuned to our conversation.

  “How’d it go?” Punt asked. “Did he want your head on a platter?”

  I pulled myself onto a high stool beside Punt’s. “No head. No platter. The insurance people
have promised payment, and he’s satisfied that once the loose ends are tied up, he’ll receive adequate compensation.”

  “He buy another place?” Gram asked. “Another fixer-upper? Market sky high. Fixer-upper help hard to find.”

  “So what else’s new?” I grinned at Gram. “Key West real estate’s always sky high. You snagged the only bargain on this island over thirty years ago.”

  “Fixer-uppers hard to find, and fixer-upper helpers only work no-fishing days,” Gram said.

  “Right, Celia.” Punt grinned and nodded. “Given a bright sun, a smooth sea, and calm winds, red-blooded locals float their boats and bait their hooks.” Then Punt looked back at me. “Did Mr. Moore tell you his plans?” Punt’s simple question belied the curiosity only partly hidden in his eyes.

  “No. He and ‘the wife’ need to think about the situation at greater length. He didn’t blame me for the fire and it relieved him to know I’d escaped injury. He’s really an interesting person in spite of his sometimes chauvinistic attitude.”

  Punt smiled. “He didn’t seem like your type to me, Keely. You holding back something we should know?”

  “Nothing big, but I found it interesting that he produces a half-hour TV show in North Dakota—Centerville’s Most Wanted.”

  “I suppose they have crime there, too.” Punt slid from his bar stool. “Have time for a short ride, Keely? Got something to show you.”

  “Sure. Where’s this something?” I wanted to share Mr. Moore’s interest in Shandy with Punt, but not in front of Gram, who’d disliked Shandy from the get-go.

  “Car’s around back.” Punt led the way. “Let’s take it. Your office locked?”

  I nodded. “Tell me where we’re going. You’re being very mysterious.”

  As we slid into the Karmann Ghia, I smiled at my mental picture of Mr. Moore trying to fit himself into Punt’s convertible. Surely the man had to reserve large-size rentals. The people at Avis and Hertz probably loved to see him coming. I stopped smiling as Punt hesitated before starting the motor.

  “Okay, come clean. Did you talk to Mr. Moore about the sweatshirt?”

  “No. He felt satisfied the insurance people planned to treat him fairly and that fire inspectors had proved beyond a doubt the fire started in the attic from faulty wiring. After hearing his take on the situation, I agreed. No point in arguing with the fire inspectors or the insurance company.”

  “We know Jude had been there.”

  “Right, but think back, Punt. On the afternoon before the fire, Jude followed us onto Highway 1, ready to give us a bad time. You outsmarted him with your unexpected turn onto Big Pine.”

  “You’re saying he hated being outsmarted, right?”

  “Right. I think he returned to Georgia Street planning to scare the bejabbers out of me that night after I got home. I could almost read his mind. He may have discovered the fire much as we did—by surprise.”

  “You’re convinced the fire inspector called it right—faulty wiring?”

  “Yes, and so is Mr. Moore. Since Jude’s dead, I saw no point in mentioning him.”

  “You’re probably right.” Punt started the car and headed west, pausing at a corner when a Conch Train loaded with sunburned tourists rattled onto Whitehead Street. Its driver told his passengers that years ago Key West had offered one free hotel—the county jail. I turned off my ears, refusing to listen to his stale jokes, but the tourists laughed along with him.

  “Where you taking me?” Punt had turned onto a side street too narrow even for the Karmann Ghia if we met another car. He parked in a slot that seemed to be waiting for us, a slot too small for larger cars.

  “This’s my new place of business.” Punt pointed to an office with a front barely ten feet wide.

  “Fotopoulos & Ashford.” I read the bold lettering on the window. “You and Nikko are serious about the P.I. business?”

  “Of course we’re serious and we want to get started right away. Follow me and I’ll show you inside our office.” Punt opened the car door for me and I trailed after him into the narrow building, gasping in surprise when Nikko with Moose at his heel came strolling from a back room. The narrow office stretched twenty feet or so to a partition and the air smelled of turpentine and fresh paint.

  White walls. Vertical window blinds. Poured terrazzo floors common in Key West twenty or thirty years ago. The austere furnishings consisted of two roll-top desks with captains’ chairs, two straight chairs positioned in front of the desks, a four-drawer steel file, and a huge safe bolted to the floor next to the file.

  “Good morning,” Nikko said, grinning.

  “Good morning, Nikko. It looks as if congratulations are in order.”

  Nikko handed me a business card and pointed to a framed certificate hanging on the wall behind one desk. I read the card and walked closer to the certificate. “Nikko Fotopoulos, Private Investigator.” I checked the wall behind the other desk.

  “I told you I don’t have a license yet,” Punt said, “but I’ve applied for one and Nikko’s going to help me meet the requirements necessary to earning it.”

  “Fotopoulos & Ashford, Private Investigators.” I let the idea roll around in my mind. “It’s wonderful, guys. Really wonderful. How soon will you open for business?”

  “We’re open as we speak,” Punt said. “Have you come to us with a problem, ma’am? We’ll expect a retainer, of course.” Punt stepped toward me and put his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “This makes me a working man, Keely. A man with a job.”

  I gave Punt a kiss on the cheek before I eased from him and placed a similar kiss on Nikko’s cheek. “This’s really exciting. Beau said the other day that he might hire a private detective to investigate Margaux’s death. Does he know you two are open for business?”

  “No,” Punt said. “You and Jass are the first ones we’ve told.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “I think Celia suspects we’re up to something,” Nikko said.

  “Gram always suspects men are up to something. She’s uncanny that way. When’ll you give her the news?”

  “The Citizen will carry an official announcement tomorrow,” Punt said. “I’d like to tell Celia and a few others before they read it there.”

  “It’ll be announced on local TV and radio tomorrow, too,” Nikko said.

  “Have you resigned as chef at The Wharf?” I asked.

  “No way.” Nikko grinned. “I love to cook, and a guy hears a lot of talk working at a popular restaurant. We’ll need all the contacts we can get. Punt’ll keep his eyes and ears open over at Smathers.”

  I rolled my eyes at that comment, but I had to admit that Punt probably knew all the locals that hung out at the beach. Sometimes the locals picked up information about newcomers. “You do plan to spend some time in your office, I suppose.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Punt said. “Maybe not regular office hours, but at least one of us will be here most of the time.”

  “And Moose’ll be here all of the time,” Nikko added. “He’s going to be our silent partner.”

  “Moose has more seniority than I do—for right now at least.” Punt leaned to give Moose a scratch behind the ears. “Don’t know if I like playing second fiddle to a dog.”

  “Does Moose still remember all his tricks after being in retirement?” I asked.

  “No tricks,” Punt said. “Working commands. Yes, Moose remembers. We’ve been testing him with some potentially dangerous situations, and he’s come through for us every time.”

  “You’ve never seen Moose at work,” Nikko said. “Want a demonstration?”

  “I’m not sure.” I backed away from Moose. I’d never been afraid of him, but I’d always considered him a pet, never a working police dog. “I guess I really hate admitting he might attack someone.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Nikko said. “Moose won’t attack unless I give him the command. For the most part we’ll use him for tracking human scent. That’s the focus of his primary t
raining, but watch this. Punt and I were putting Moose through his paces yesterday. Punt, slip on that old sweatshirt, okay?”

  Punt stepped into the back room and returned wearing a heavy shirt over his tank top.

  “Now here’s the scene,” Nikko said. “I’ve nabbed a bad guy and I’m about to cuff him.”

  Punt stood near the window, both hands behind his back. Nikko pretended to start placing handcuffs on his wrists when suddenly Punt turned and began attacking Nikko with his fist.

  “Moose!” Nikko called.

  I jumped back as Moose sprang at Punt, grabbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt and brought him to the floor. Swift. Final. The attack ended.

  Punt lay quietly in Moose’s grip, and Moose held him in place without biting until Nikko’s next command released him. Once Punt stood, Nikko gave Moose a doggie treat from his pocket.

  “Wow!” I could hardly catch my breath, the attack had seemed so realistic. “How long did it take you to train him to do that?”

  “Oh, six months or so. A housewife up north who loves working with dogs gave Moose his basic training. Many dogs flunk out before they get to actual police training, but Moose hung in there.”

  Nikko tried to act nonchalant, but I saw pride and confidence in the way both he and Moose all but strutted around the office following their performance. I examined Punt’s arm. It showed only a couple of red marks and no broken skin. The sweatshirt had taken the brunt of the attack.

  “Maybe Punt needs a dog, too,” I said.

  “No.” Nikko shook his head. “Dogs so highly trained have big egos. Two big egos seldom tolerate each other. Moose will be our only silent partner. Want to see another bad guy situation?”

  “No thanks. Not today.” I backed away from the dog.

  “Well, don’t be afraid of Moose. He’s the same dog you’ve known all along. He’s a wonderful house pet in addition to being trained in tracking and attacking. From now on this office will be Moose’s home.”