Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  “I thought she might want to go with us to see you off.”

  “This’s no pleasure voyage, Ms. Moreno. No ticker tape. No champagne.” Randy stood, picked up his duffel, and headed toward the taxi. He sat beside the driver. Punt and I shared the back seat. We said little on the ride to Land’s End Village and the shrimp boats.

  After Punt paid the driver, we walked along the planked dock. Several rusty-hulled boats trimmed in black bobbed in the water, lashed to dock cleats with lines encrusted with brine. Dark masts and riggings rose silhouetted against the sky like the devil’s jackstraws. Overhead, gulls screamed into the tradewind that fanned my cheeks, and closer at hand a pelican showered us with water as it splashed into the bay in pursuit of a pinfish. I tasted brine on my tongue, my lips, and tried to avoid thinking about what else might have been in those drops of water. A dead-fish smell on the dock filled my nose—even the back of my mouth. For a moment I held my breath. Then I exhaled slowly, trying to accustom myself to the odor.

  “There it is, Punt.” I pointed to a boat where three men were checking lines and nets. “Midnight Moon.” A glamorous name for such a clunker of a boat. I wondered what Randy might be thinking and if he’d be able to deal with the smells that wafted around us. But I guessed a prison cell didn’t smell like rose-scented eau de cologne.

  At that moment Captain Snerl saw us, waved, and motioned us aboard. Punt grabbed a dock piling for support then stepped over the gunwale and onto the gray deck. Turning, he offered a hand to me and then to Randy. The crew had raised the boat’s iron outriggers until they formed a black V against a blaze of sky.

  Punt introduced Randy to Captain Snerl and the two men shook hands.

  “Welcome aboard.” Snerl’s voice boomed into the afternoon. “We’ll cast off in a few minutes, but there’s plenty of time to introduce you to the boat, show you to your quarters. He led us toward the pilot house, then paused when I reached out to touch what looked like two blobs of rouge-colored fabric attached to the mesh of the trawl nets.

  “Those pink things are chaffing gear. They help protect the nets from wear while we drag them along the sea bottom.”

  “Your radio in good order?” Randy asked.

  I guessed the appearance of Midnight Moon along with his past experiences with Mel Fisher’s dive boats and the sea were making him wary.

  At Randy’s question, Snerl motioned overhead. “See that tallest mast pointing to the sun? Well, that’s the radio antenna. Never have had any problem keeping in contact with shore.”

  Captain Snerl led us into the pilothouse and lowered a chart rack hooked in place above a bunk bed. Unrolling the chart and securing it into place, he pointed to some numbers penciled in near the Gulf coast.

  “Those figures mark my choice of fishing waters for this trip.”

  When I eased closer for a better look, Snerl released the chart and it made a loud whooshing as it curled into a tube overhead. I jumped in surprise.

  “Why don’t they fold those things?” I asked, laughing at my own discomfort.

  “Maps are folded,” Snerl said. “Charts are rolled. Sometimes I need to measure distances on a chart. Folds in the paper could throw off my calculations.”

  I resolved to ask no more questions that would point up my ignorance of the shrimp boat scene.

  “What will my job be?” Randy asked.

  “You’ll have an assortment of duties.” Snerl led us into the galley. I tripped over the coaming, but Punt steadied me. “Randy, you’ll set the table for the four of us. You’ll bus the table after each meal.” He pointed to a pan on the stove. “I’ve got a pot of chowder simmering for tonight, so the clean-up’ll be easy.”

  We stepped back onto deck and Snerl continued. “You’ll help man the buoy once we’ve reached our fishing spot.” He pointed to a long chain attached to the bottom of a cane pole that had two battery lights and a white flag wired to its tip. The bottom of the pole passed through the center of three thick squares of Styrofoam. “You’ll help lower this equipment into the sea. The chain serves as an anchor, and the pole will float upright on the foam. I’ll steer the boat around that light in an ever-widening circle. The pole will be our focal point of reference as to our position—our location in the sea.”

  I wondered how far away the boat could travel and still allow the crew to see such a small light, but I’d bite my tongue before I’d inquire. I smiled when Punt asked the question for me.

  “That small light shows up from a great distance in the dark of night,” Snerl said. “So far I’ve never been lost at sea. We’ll have plenty of work for you, Randy. You’ll also help us discard the by-catch, help ice down the shrimp in the hold.” He looked directly at Randy. “You sure you want to go with us?”

  Randy hesitated only a moment before he replied. “I’m sure. I thank you for the opportunity.”

  Snerl showed Randy to a bunk in the bow, lifted the mattress and opened a storage area underneath. “You can stow your gear in there.”

  Randy dropped his duffel into the bin and replaced the mattress. Snerl led the way back to dockside. Grabbing a piling, Punt hoisted himself onto the dock and turned to offer me a hand.

  “Thanks for the boat tour,” Punt said. “I wish you all success on this trip.”

  “Thanks, Punt. I plan to dock right here on Friday around midday.”

  “We’ll be here to meet Randy.”

  Randy gave us a wave and walked to the other side of the boat and stood gazing into the distance. We found a splintery bench at dockside and sat to wait until the Midnight Moon put out to sea. I didn’t think Randy would change his mind and leave the boat, but I wanted to be certain that he’d be off-island for a few days. We watched and waited.

  “Punt, it’s wonderful of you to give Randy a chance.”

  “Tell me again how wonderful I am. I like the sound of your voice wrapped around those words. But in all fairness I have to admit that it’s Shrimp Snerl who’s taking all the chances by hiring Randy on for a few days.”

  “I think Randy really wants to work, and I hope he can tolerate shrimping. Sounds like heavy duty to me—working at night, sleeping by day. Wonder why those shrimp aren’t out and about in the daytime.”

  “You’ll have to ask a shrimp about that. How about some ice cream?”

  Punt got no argument from me. We walked to the Half Shell Raw Bar. It wasn’t such a scary place in the daytime with all the tourists crowding around. Punt bought two coconut sherbet cones to go and we resumed our vigil at the Midnight Moon.

  “Punt, I know you think we should present suspect names to the police first to get their attention, but I sort of agree with Randy. I think the police would be more interested in pursuing an investigation if Randy worked through Attorney Hubble and presented DNA samples first and then gave the police names of suspects to be investigated.”

  “You may be right,” Punt said. “Maybe there’s no absolutely right or wrong way to approach this investigation. Guess we might be wise to collect what DNA we can before Randy returns and insists on doing it for us—his way. That’s the scary part—his doing it for us and maybe getting so rough with someone that he earns himself another term behind bars.”

  “We have the suspects’ names—all divers. Maybe we could ask Attorney Hubble to present those names to the police. That should, at least, get the police thinking about an investigation.”

  “That’s one plan, but in the end we’ll need Randy to explain to the police in detail why one of those men had motive or opportunity to murder Dyanne Darby.”

  “And Punt, should we consider Beau a suspect? Randy wasn’t clear on that. Don’t know how he felt about your dad.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard to get a sample of DNA from Dad.”

  “It wouldn’t? With him abroad? How can you manage that?”

  “I’ve a key to his house—supposed to check the place every day to be sure no druggies have claimed it for an overnighter. That happens down here. Some unsavory characte
r sees a vacant house and that place becomes fair game for illegal activities.”

  “So you check his house every day. And…?”

  “For instance, there’s bound to be a hairbrush lying around—one he left behind. I’ll just snatch a few hairs, tuck them into an envelope, and there we’ll have a DNA sample. No hairbrush available? I might be able to take the mouthpiece from his scuba gear. The police have ways to get DNA from dried saliva.”

  “Okay. Sounds workable. Now what about the other four divers?”

  “Surely the Reverend Soto will be cooperative once we tell him our plan. I can’t believe he has anything to hide.”

  “I’d be embarrassed to approach him and ask for a DNA sample after all the effort he’s put into getting Randy freed. Such a request would be a slap in the face.”

  “Ask and it shall be given unto you. Seek and ye shall find. Aren’t those the reverend’s mottoes? Don’t think he’d fault you for taking advice from the Good Book.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Soto if you’ll get the hair sample from Beau’s brush. And that’s enough plans for starters.”

  The next time we looked up, we saw the Midnight Moon leaving the dock. Randy stood at the gunwale staring in our direction, but he didn’t return out waves.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Punt called another taxi, directing the driver to the Ashford mansion. When we arrived, we climbed the steps to Punt’s apartment and then relaxed while we enjoyed a Coke and our reprieve from the day’s activities.

  “Shall we go out to dinner tonight?” Punt asked. “How about Louie’s Back Yard or Rooftop Café?”

  “May I take a rain check, please? I’m exhausted and I need to get home and see how Gram’s doing. Saturday’s always a big day in her shop. Sometimes she overdoes, forgets about her weak heart.”

  Punt sighed. “Your wish is my command—I suppose. But I’ll have to admit that I’m ready for some rest, too. I’ll drive you home and maybe we can plan tomorrow’s activities on the way.”

  “Right. We need to get on with this investigation while Randy’s away.” We both stood and headed downstairs. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Since Reverend Soto’s on our list, maybe we should attend his church service and talk to him afterward.”

  Punt had been walking ahead of me, and now he stopped so abruptly I almost stepped on his heel.

  “Keely! Look!”

  I looked. Someone had slashed two tires on the convertible and the knife still protruded from the back tire. We ran to the other side of the car. Those tires there were flat, too. One had slipped from the rim and lay in the gravel.

  “This’s my fault. Someone’s after me and making you suffer on my account. Oh, Punt! What’ll you do?”

  Punt wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, his face deadly pale.

  “It’s not your fault. Don’t think in those terms. You’re being paranoid.” His voice throbbed with anger, and his next words snagged in his throat. “And what I’ll do is call a garage, have the tires repaired or replaced. Then I’ll find the s.o.b. that did this. Leaving the knife behind isn’t the mark of a genius.”

  “It’s that easy? Replacing the tires, I mean on a car that old?”

  “There are ways of getting it done. I may be using a rental for a while. There may be a few of those at the airport, but…”

  His voice trailed off as he began circling the car, looking for clues that might indicate the perpetrator of the vandalism. The mansion grounds had never been gated and locked. Years ago, Beau had planted a privacy fence of hibiscus that had kept trespassers at bay—until last night.

  “In all the years we’ve lived here, Dad’s never had this kind of trouble before. Maybe we’ll have to post a guard.”

  “When do you suppose it happened? Last night? I didn’t hear anybody around, but then, I was busy having a nightmare.”

  “Suppose Consuela had anything to do with it? She was mad as a bee in a bottle when she left here dripping wet and without her sandals. I probably shouldn’t have pulled her into the pool.”

  “I don’t think Consuela’s the type to slash tires. She’s often an enigma but…”

  “Yeah, right. She’s a mysterious bombshell. But slashing tires is pretty much a guy thing.” Punt gave a bitter laugh. “Ironic that we took a taxi to Stock Island, hoping to keep the car safe.” Once again Punt called Maxi-Taxi and drove me home. “Where’s your bike?”

  “Chained to a pole in the alley.”

  We both ran to look, thinking the bicycle might have been damaged or stolen, but it was where I left it. I held my breath to avoid inhaling the garbage odor that had taken up residence in the alley.

  “Let’s haul the bike inside, Keely. Then you’ll be sure to have it when needed.”

  We unlocked the bike and wheeled it into my apartment. I thanked Punt, and when he left me, I knew he was already on his cell phone calling Sears’ garage, hoping it hadn’t closed for the weekend. Gram was heading for my door, and I decided not to tell her about Punt’s car. No point in causing her needless worry.

  “What happened to Punt’s car?” Gram asked almost before we exchanged welcome hugs.

  “What makes you think something happened to it?”

  “He never arrive in taxi before. Tells me something malo.”

  So I told her the story, skipping the parts about Consuela in the pool and Jude in my nightmare. Although it was only late afternoon, Gram closed her shop and insisted I share a piccadillo dinner with her. Piccadillo… My favorite Cuban food.

  We climbed the narrow stairs to her apartment where I set the small table for two while she warmed the peccadillo, black beans, and yellow rice on the stove. I mixed a fresh onion and tomato salad and slathered garlic butter onto slices of Cuban bread, heating them under the broiler. We needed nothing else. My mouth watered long before I got a taste of the ground beef laced with sliced olives, raisins, and kippers. For years after Mom died, Gram and I shared meals like this one. Cuban soul food. It soothed both our hearts and our stomachs.

  Once we finished eating, we talked for a while, then I cleared the table and washed our dishes before I returned to my apartment. Too early to go to bed. Plenty of time to pick up the clutter of clothing that lay here and there if I wanted to do chores. I didn’t. Instead, I went to bed, falling asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

  The next morning the telephone awakened me and I reached for it, half asleep, half awake. Punt’s voice brought me to attention.

  “G’morning, Keely. May I pick you up in a little while and we’ll go to church?”

  “What about your car?”

  “I have a replacement.”

  “Punt! That’s great. I mean…”

  “Relax, Keely. You know I wouldn’t give up the Karmann Ghia for any new car. You’ll see me driving a Conch cruiser. Nobody’ll get much pleasure in vandalizing it. Can you be ready in an hour? The Reverend Soto does a ten-thirty service at a community church a few blocks off Flagler.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  What to wear! Sometimes I attended a small early-morning service at St. Paul’s, a few blocks from my shop. But I knew the Reverend Soto’s church service in a newer part of the island would be more formal. I reached to the back of my closet and pulled out the navy-blue skirt and white blouse. Forget that. It wouldn’t do this morning. I remembered ripping the skirt vent. Someday I’d mend it. But not today. Some other day. I hung it back in the closet behind my collection of jumpsuits.

  I reached for the green silk that Punt always liked, the one I wore to dinner when we went somewhere special. After laying it on my bed along with my green sandals and multi-colored purse, I paused to gulp some orange juice and eat a slice of toast before I dressed. I wasn’t a big breakfast eater, but no sense in getting toast crumbs or juice on my good clothes.

  I liked the swish, the smooth feel of the silk as it slithered onto my body. During the night my hair had coiled into ringlets. Tugs with the hairbrush smoothed it into looking as g
ood as it ever looked. Damp tradewinds work havoc on curly hair. But I managed to be ready and waiting when Punt arrived. Brakes squealed as he stopped at the curbing, and when I saw his car and stepped outside, I broke into giggles.

  “Where’d you ever find it, Punt? The Reverend Soto’s congregation may refuse to admit us if they see this car first.” Someone had painted the ancient Chevy an electric blue that almost, but not quite, hid spots where rust had eaten through the chassis. Daisy decals decorated the hood and roof. Someone had painted a huge fish, silver and purple, on the passenger side with the words KEEP WHALING stenciled in red above it.

  I walked around the car. The driver’s side carried the likeness of a loggerhead and the words THE SHELL GAME. The trunk bore the words CONCH CRUISER.

  “Where’d you ever find it?” I shook my head and slid onto the passenger seat when Punt opened the squeaking door for me, taking care that the rough seat didn’t snag my dress.

  “The guy at Rent-a-Wreck had it in his fleet. Didn’t take much talk to persuade him to rent it to me for a few days—or a few weeks, if it takes that long to replace the tires on the convertible.”

  “Let’s hope it takes only a few days. People will think you’ve lost your mind when they see you driving this.”

  “Naw. They won’t. People have accused me of a lot of things, but never of being a car snob.” When Punt closed the driver’s door it sounded like the lid falling off a rusty bait bucket. I didn’t mention the faint stench of cigarette smoke that clung to the car’s interior.

  A few tourists had gathered on the sidewalk to stare at the cruiser, and curiosity about the crowd drew Gram outside. I grinned and shook my head. She gave me a shrug and a palms-up gesture then waved us goodbye.

  “Punt, we can’t park this thing in front of anybody’s church. Maybe we can find a spot on a side street and walk a short distance.”

  Punt chuckled, amused at my embarrassment as much as at his own skewed pleasure in driving the weird car. We drove to Hagler and then on another block or so to the church. Punt humored me and found parking near a schoolhouse in the next block.