Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  “Miss Moreno?”

  “Yes?” My voice came out high-pitched but firm.

  “Ace Grovello here.”

  “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “We haven’t met in person, but our friend Consuela is insisting that I try your services as a foot reflexologist. She guarantees you can cure my upper back problems. Do you have any openings?” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps an opening as soon as tomorrow?”

  “Thank you for calling, Mr. Grovello.” I managed to lower my voice to its usual pitch. “Consuelo always plays the role of eternal optimist. I never guarantee my treatments as sure cures for anything. She knows that. But I’m willing to meet you and to talk with you about how reflexology treatments might be able to help you.”

  “Fine, Miss Moreno. Would you have any free time tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow morning my first time slot’s open. If you’d stop around nine o’clock, I’ll talk to you about your specific problems.”

  “Nine o’clock it is. I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you. I’ll look forward to meeting you—to helping you.”

  Ace Grovello. I tried to forget that he was one of the former divers Consuela had talked to about Randy. His name had a pleasant ring to it and I rolled it around in my mind as I hurried to Gram’s shop. Gram had taught me long ago that it’s never safe to go boating without telling someone where you’re going and when you expect to return. She obliged by being my safety net, but I usually returned about the time I said I would.

  “Have fun, Keely,” Gram said once I’d told her my plans. “I know you be safe when you be with Punt. You be smart to marry that man. Handsome. Rich. Employed.”

  Three customers sitting at her coffee bar grinned and I felt heat rise from my neck to my forehead. “Come on, Gram. No matchmaking today. We’re going out to catch bonefish—maybe a permit. Be back before dark.”

  Punt arrived, double parking his vintage Karmann Ghia in front of Gram’s shop while I grabbed a sweatshirt, stuck the CLOSED sign in my window and pulled the drapery more securely across the glass. Gram’s customers pretended they weren’t scrutinizing Punt, but I knew they were eyeing his rangy build, his thick auburn hair caught in a ponytail at his nape, his mirrored sunglasses.

  His yellow convertible barely had room for 2 passengers, but we both loved its low-slung frame and its black leather bucket seats, loved to see people gawk at this rebuilt relic of the 70s as we drove through Old Town. Had anyone asked, Punt would have been flattered to stop and tell them all about his rebuilding the VW right in his carport at Ashford Mansion. Today nobody asked.

  “Yo, mama,” a teenager called and whistled. “Travelin’ our route?”

  “Way to go, man,” his buddy shouted, giving us thumbs up. I looked at Punt and we both pretended not to notice our audience.

  Punt didn’t press me for answers to the questions I knew must be flying through his mind. Good. Maybe I needed to calm down and think things through. We drove slowly to Seaview Marina, parked in a visitor’s slot, then entered the marina office.

  The building reminded me of an above-ground cavern. Voices and motor noises echoed as they bounced off the ceiling high overhead where boats of all kinds and sizes peeked from storage slots. My mouth watered and I could almost taste the aroma of the hotdogs sizzling in a countertop broiler. They masked the ever-present and less enticing odor of diesel fuel and sweeping compound.

  “Yahoo!” I threw my head back, shouted into the cavern, and waited for the echo. The guy at the sales counter jumped, startled. Two guys working on their motors dropped their wrenches. A third man looked at me and gave a low whistle. I guessed that all of them had always wanted to shout a yahoo inside this place but had never had the spunk.

  “Keely.” Punt grinned. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Just want to be sure that people notice our presence here this afternoon.”

  Punt led the way quickly to our lockers where we selected our tackle for the day. “Something’s really bugging you, right? Not like you to be a noisemaker.”

  I didn’t answer. Punt shrugged.

  “Spinning rods or fly rods?” he asked. “Your choice.”

  “Spinning, okay?” I liked to use a fly rod when I was alone in my own boat, but with two people aboard, spinning rods were easier to manage—fewer back lashes, tangled lines, and taut tempers.

  I refilled a thermos with fresh water from a spigot and bought us two boiled conch sandwiches and a couple of sodas from the vending machine while Punt purchased a package of frozen squid and half a dozen live shrimp from the bait boy.

  “Great day for fishing,” I said when we left the building. My boat shoes thunked against the planked dock, then I felt the gentle sway of the floating catwalk runway leading to the slip where Punt tethered the Sea Deuced.

  He stepped over the gunwale and into his skiff before he turned to offer me a hand. The fiberglass boat floated like a sleek mermaid. Punt took pride in his role as captain. He polished the brass fittings and teakwood trim and kept the twin outboards in top-notch order. Before viewing the Sea Deuced, I’d never ever seen a fishing skiff with a carpeted floor. Punt also had recently added a silent electric motor to the boat’s bow and installed an elevated poling platform above the motors aft.

  “Where shall we go?” Punt secured our rods in the caddy beside the console before he dipped a bucket of sea water into the bait well and added the shrimp. I unwrapped the package of squid and set it on the bow to thaw. “The Tortugas?” he asked. “I know some keys out that way, secret places, safe spots with sandy coves.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I liked the word safe. Sandy beaches are hard to find in the Keys because the coral reef offshore slows the waves before they smash into the shore-line rocks and grind them into sand. I sat on the passenger seat while Punt eased the boat from its slip and held to a no-wake speed until we reached open sea. Once he revved the motor and put the boat on plane, sunshine glinted on the V-shaped wedge of water ahead of the bow. Sea water frothed on my arms, and I tasted salt on my lips. For the moment I forgot my fears. I always felt safe with Punt. I smiled. I could think of no place on earth I’d rather be and no one I’d rather be with.

  The motor roar made talking impossible until we reached Punt’s chosen cove.

  I’d fished this spot before, but since he thought it a secret place, I didn’t tell him. He switched off the big motor and raised it from the water before he eased to the bow and plugged in the battery-operated electric motor. I walked aft and cast the anchor, watching the orange mushroom-shaped weight sink into the gray turtle grass three or four feet below us. The electric motor made hardly any noise. Later, it would allow us to ease into another cove without alerting any fish that might be nearby.

  We began rigging our rods. Punt baited with a shrimp, but I pried a piece of squid from the frozen block and threaded it onto my hook. I made a couple of practice casts, standing at the side of the console.

  “Why not stand on the bow, Keely? You can see ’em coming better from up there. I’ll stand back here on the poling platform.”

  We stood in our respective spots and at the ready, but no fish finned through the crystal clear water. After a half hour of watching and waiting, I sighed.

  “Want to hear about Randy Jackson now or later?” I could tell I was more eager to talk than Punt was to listen and that surprised me. Maybe he knew more about Randy Jackson than he’d let on.

  “Let’s give the fish a few more chances. I know you’re all keyed up about something, but time on the water has a way of relaxing a person—of making molehills out of mountains.”

  I sighed, knowing my mountain would remain a mountain.

  “We can always talk, Keely, but fishing’s a sometimey thing. I’ll ease us to another spot—a lucky spot.” He pulled the anchor.

  I stepped from the bow while Punt used the foot pedal on the electric motor to point us in a different direction and into a different cove. And again we cast anchor th
en waited under the cloudless sky. Punt spotted the permit first.

  “To your left, Keely. Ten o’clock. Put that squid in front of his nose.”

  I saw the fish swimming toward me over a bed of turtle grass. Drawing my arm back, I made the cast, but the permit darted like a torpedo to our far right out of range.

  “Drat!”

  “Hey. Watch this.” Punt dropped his shrimp right in front of a small ’cuda that had been stalking the permit. His rod tip bent toward the water and the sea frothed as the ’cuda took the bait and jumped. Silvery gray. It splashed back into the sea and Punt fought to keep the rod tip up. The ’cuda jumped again then headed toward the horizon. Punt played the fish, raising the rod tip, reeling in line. During all that activity, my attention had wandered from my rod, and I got a strike that almost jerked my tackle from my hand. The sudden action surprised me so I struggled to keep from falling overboard. Punt looked over his shoulder to see what was going on, and in that instant his ’cuda broke free and disappeared.

  “Didn’t want that one anyway. Next one’ll be bigger—and hungrier.”

  “Sour grapes, Punt. You can’t fool me. You goofed.” I’d regained my balance and I began fighting the fish on my line.

  “It’s a bone, Keely. And a big one. Go easy. It’s a brag-about catch if I ever saw one. Let’s see you bring it to the boat.”

  TEN

  For an instant I saw the silvery body flashing through the water and I let it run for a few yards before I raised the rod tip and reeled in line. The fish and I played that strenuous game for the next half hour. My arms ached and my breath snagged in frenzied gasps by the time I brought the fish to the boat—both of us exhausted.

  “Good one, Keely. Bet it’ll go eight or nine pounds. Maybe more.” Punt jumped from the poling platform and came to the boat side, grabbing a landing net on his way.

  “I want to release it.” I admired the silvery body, the black eye staring at me. Then the fish gave one more surprise lunge in an unsuccessful effort to escape. “I don’t intend to keep it, Punt. Bones are no good for eating.”

  Punt leaned over the side and scooped the fish into the landing net. “Okay. You don’t need to keep it, but before you release it, I want to snap a picture. Proof, you know. Proof to show any doubters who might give us an argument when we get back to the marina. Hold the net a minute, okay?”

  I took the net he thrust into my hands, feeling the full weight of the fish. Punt scrambled to open the storage bin under the passenger seat and pulled out a camera and a steel tape.

  “I’ll hold the net, Keely, while you step onto the bow again. The tape’s weighted. It’ll stand upright while you hold the fish near it. Let the tail touch the bow and be sure the nose is on the level with a number on the tape. When you’re ready I’ll snap the pic and we’ll have our proof.”

  Inserting my fingers into a gill slit, I managed to lift the fish into position next to the tape and Punt clicked the shutter. He clicked it twice to be sure he had a good shot.

  “Done! Now let’s lower it into the water.” We eased the bone back into the net and then submerged it in the sea. “It’s just lip-hooked, so it’ll be an easy release. Let me get my pliers.”

  I lifted the net to boatside again while Punt removed the hook with one deft movement. Moving quickly, I submerged the net and lowered it from under my catch, but the fish didn’t move. For several moments it lay motionless as a bathtub toy.

  “I hope it’s still alive.” I prodded the fish’s tail with the net, eager to see some movement. Then I leaned over the side, grabbed its tail, and pulled the fish back and forth to get water flowing through its gills.

  “It’s alive.” Punt leaned over the side, too, and we both pulled the fish through the water. “It’s finding its bearings, getting ready for a long run.”

  Punt knew the drill. Suddenly, water splashed in our faces as the bonefish took refuge under the boat for a few seconds before streaking toward the open sea. Big fish with their beauty and speed always left me awestruck and I watched this one out of sight while Punt pulled the anchor.

  “Snack time. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!”

  Punt pointed the boat toward the beach where mangroves grew into the water, their brown roots arching like stiff ropes along the shoreline. Island builders. That’s what conservationists called the mangroves. The trees showered their seeds into the sea, and in due time new plants sprouted from the brine.

  Punt eased the boat a few feet from a cove before he cast anchor again. I grabbed our lunch and Punt pulled a blanket from a storage bin. Pausing, we both rolled up our jeans before we splashed into the water, stopping a few feet from shore to rinse fish slime from our hands. Once ashore, we smoothed the sand, spread the blanket, and plopped down to rest.

  “Some fish, Keely. I’m going to enter it under your name in the marina’s bonefish contest. That specimen could be the winner.”

  “Forgot all about that contest. What’s the prize?”

  “Lots of honor and glory around the marina and in the Citizen, of course, but also a slip for your skiff—rent-free for a year.”

  “Not bad.”

  I handed Punt a soda and a sandwich then unwrapped one for myself. Aah! Minced conch and dill pickle mixed with relish and mayo. Paradise. I gulped the first bite then slowed down and enjoyed the rest of the sandwich. And the sunshine. And the tradewind.

  “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

  Punt allowed me the cliché. “Few wintertime fishing days turn out to be so nice. It’s more usual to face high wind and rough seas.”

  “Conch sandwiches always taste better on the beach,” I said. “Wonder why.”

  “Everything’s a lot better on the beach.” Punt reached to pull me toward him and I didn’t resist. We lay in a loose embrace and I enjoyed the touch of his warm lips against mine. For a moment it was easy to shove thoughts of Randy Jackson, the warning note, the phone call from my mind. We kissed and we kissed again as we snuggled into an even closer and warmer embrace. I wanted it to last forever, and I knew Punt wanted it to evolve into something more intimate. But neither of those things happened. A raucous shout snapped us to attention. In a skiff about fifty yards offshore, a couple of men were training binoculars on us.

  “Damn!” Punt stood and shook his fist at them. I ducked behind a mangrove. “They’re just teenagers,” Punt called.

  I peeked. The intruders retreated a few yards, but not because Punt scared them. They were bent on teasing us and making pests of themselves. They took turns using the binoculars.

  “Forget them, Punt. It’s too nice a day to let kids spoil it.”

  Punt sat again. “But they scared you. I suppose you’d rather be thinking about Randy Jackson.”

  “Not rather. But I do need to talk to you about him and some other stuff. Wish you’d seen all of that TV show. The program was an effort to make people aware of the plight of exonerated ex-convicts.”

  “I got that much from the lead-in. Randy did a lot of jail time before the courts found him innocent, right?”

  I told Punt a few more of the program’s highlights. “But the show ending evolved into a climax that almost blew viewers away like kites in a gale. Randy, in madman mode, approached the camera until his face filled the screen. His expression could have scared anyone who saw it into thinking he might still belong behind bars. Reverend Soto, the program emcee, jerked Randy off camera, but too late. He’d already announced the one thing he wanted most—revenge.”

  “I’m guessing that’s how a lot of people might feel—a need for revenge—were they in Randy’s position. No job. No money. No anything.”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about. Besides revenge on society in general, Randy wants to see Dyanne Darby’s killer arrested, convicted, jailed. If that happens, he thinks employers would be willing to believe he’s innocent and offer some jobs.”

  “A good goal, I’d say.” Punt took another swallow of soda.
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br />   “Maybe a worthy goal if he could accomplish it without being a danger to society—to the person or persons he thinks may be guilty. Randy scares me. I think he’s the type of guy who may hit on his chosen target first and ask questions later—perhaps from another prison cell.”

  “Well…” Punt stared at a cormorant floating on an updraft far above us. “I realize Randy’s mother’s your cleaning lady, but why are you making Randy Jackson’s problem your problem?”

  “Because I empathize with him. Because I empathize with his mother. I know what it’s like to be down and out.”

  “So do I. We both know that.”

  “Maxine wants me to help them find the culprit in this cold-case murder. I told them I didn’t want to be involved, that I didn’t think I could help unless it might be to point them toward a good professional detective. You.”

  “I’m flattered you think I can help.”

  “Investigating’s your business—yours and Nikko’s. Will you talk to Randy and Maxine? Give them some advice? Pro bono?”

  “I suppose I could do that. Do you know who Randy suspects of killing Dyanne Darby? What’s his thinking? He’s had twenty years to mull it over.”

  “I haven’t talked to Randy in person. But Consuela’s clued me in to her eclectic thinking.”

  Punt groaned and gulped the rest of his soda. “What’s Consuela got to do with it? How’d she undulate into the picture?”

  “She’s presently dating Randy Jackson—among others, of course.”

  “Of course. I’m afraid to ask you who Consuela thinks may have murdered Dyanne Darby over twenty years ago—when Consuela couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven.”

  “Yeah, right. I know how you feel, Punt. Anything Consuela says should be taken with a grain of sand. Her opinions are usually worth about that much. But she sometimes does use a bit of logic. She thinks one of the divers who worked with Randy at the time of his girlfriend’s death might be responsible. That’s fairly straight thinking—for Consuela. She’s calling the motive jealousy, you know, if-I-can’t-have-her-nobody-can. She could be right, you know.”