Daiquiri Dock Murder (14 page)

Brick, wearing maroon Sportif slacks and a dark hand-print shirt that set off his gleaming head and dark beard, looked like a model from a seaman’s catalogue as he sipped an iced daiquiri. Threnody, her hair sprinkled with glitter and piled high, matched the ambience of the room. Jessie stood at the bar waiting for the evening to begin. Tonight he wore chinos, a tank top, and sandals—and a golden hibiscus tucked behind his left ear.

Kane, in his black jacket, white pants bouncer’s uniform, hurried toward me. Before I could tell everyone I’d seen Pablo, Dolly also rushed forward waving a sheet of paper. In the background, Mama G stood on the tiny bandstand, tapping her foot and looking grim and dour. I smiled, but only to myself. We depended on Mama G for many things, and we all humored her—sometimes. Tonight her signature look included her braided crown of black hair held in place with tortoise-shell hairpins and her scarlet caftan and black Birkenstock sandals. She was unused to being upstaged by Dolly, her cat, or her poems.

“Rafa! Guess what!” Dolly waved the sheet of paper toward me. “Made a quick stop at the mailbox on my way here. And look! I’ve had a poem accepted. This may be the big time for me.”

I corked my own news about seeing Pablo and listened to Dolly.

“Weeks ago I entered a contest. Thought I’d never hear from the judges. My poem’s been selected from those of thousands of poets who entered this contest.” Dolly paused to grab a breath. “Rafa! It’s going to be published! In a
book!
A hardbound book. My poem will be in libraries all over the country. I can hardly believe it—a book! It’s true. A book! Read the letter if you don’t believe me.”

“Book people not know you sell poems ten cents each,” Mama G said. “Dime may be more than they be worth.”

Again, Dolly fluttered an envelope and a sheet of paper toward me, ignoring Mama G’s put-down.

“Only five hundred poems have been selected for
POET LOVER’S PARADISE.
Only five hundred! It’s an honor to have a poem chosen. There’ll be a hundred dollar cash prize for the grand winner, and all five hundred authors have a chance to win one of ten additional cash prizes. Read the letter they’ve sent me, Rafa. Read it if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you, Dolly.” I scanned at the letter she thrust toward me and I knew almost immediately she’d been caught up in a cruel scam. The letter offered her publication of her poem
after
she’d agreed to buy a copy of the expensive book her poem would appear in. And, of course, extra copies could be purchased for friends and family at a slightly reduced cost. I couldn’t bear to break bad news to her at the peak of her excitement.

“I’d like to see your poem. You have a copy, right?”

“Right.” The long sleeve of her poet’s blouse caught in the pocket of her black satin pants as she tugged a sheet of folded paper out and held it toward me. “It’s about a cat.”

“We’d never have guessed.” Kane rolled his eyes.

Brick sighed and set his empty daiquiri glass on the counter by the cash register.

“I think it’s a cute poem,” Threnody said. “I’ve read it and, Dolly, I hope you win one of the cash prizes. I love poetry and I’ve always loved cats. I certainly plan to buy a copy of POET LOVER’S PARADISE, and maybe some extras to give to friends.”

Kane rolled his eyes again, but if Dolly noticed, she didn’t let on.

I took the sheet she offered and read the poem aloud.

CAREER CAT

When Madam’s Music Club meets here

I get up with the sun.

The cleaning person comes at eight.

I’m ready for some fun

I paw-print on her fresh-scrubbed floors

And when she screams, I leap

Onto the countertop and sniff

The tea cakes. See her weep?

At last she’s gone. I yawn and nap

In a velvet easy chair.

So watch your back, guests dressed in black

Or you’ll wear my gift of hair.

While Madam’s guests perform downstairs,

Upstairs, I frisk in furs.

Guests sing. They swing. Their loud applause

Masks my contented purrs.

To show that I appreciate

Their meeting at our house,

I stalk and pounce. I bring our guests

A trophy—fat gray mouse.

My Madam faints. Guests hurry off.

I hope they’ll come next year.

I’ve many months to plot new plans

To boost my cat career.

I grinned and handed the poem back to Dolly. “I like it a lot. I agree with the contest judges. It deserves to win a prize, but I’d check into this publishing company before I sent them any money.”

“Then you don’t really think it’s a top-notch poem?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “But there are so many scam artists these days, you can’t be too careful. When someone wants you to send money in order to be eligible to win a prize, watch out. That’s the hallmark of a scam.”

“It could be a scam, Dolly.” Brick gave her shoulder a pat then rested his arm there until Dolly moved away from his touch. “I’ve read about companies that make most of their profit from selling a book to authors, a book that includes an author’s story or poem. Most writers realize how hard it is to get original work from the computer to the published page and then into libraries and book stores. Scam artists take advantage of that.”

“It’s called vanity printing,” Kane said. “Think about it.”

Dolly took three steps toward Kane, sparks shooting from her eyes.

Chapter 16

(Sunday Night)

“Hey guys,” I said, seizing the opportunity to break into the conversation and change the subject, “I just saw Pablo.”

“Where?” Kane stepped from Dolly’s path. “Was he headed this way?”

Dolly saw this as her cue to retreat to the kitchen. Nobody said anything more about her prize-winning poem.

“I saw him go into Sloppy’s. He saw me, and I called to him, but he didn’t answer or wave a greeting. I couldn’t stop. No place to park. He ticked me off, acting as if he didn’t know me. But we can call him now. At Sloppy’s.”

“His dad dies, and he’s hanging out in a bar?” Kane shrugged. “I guess he can grieve in a bar as well as anyplace.”

“You going to call him, Rafa?” Jessie asked.

“Maybe we should back off—leave him alone,” Brick said. “Give him a chance to approach us in his own way. He could show up here tonight before we open. Let’s grant him some space.”

“Hola!” Mama G shouted before we could answer Brick. She’d been on the bandstand a few minutes ago, but now she approached us from the kitchen with a tray bearing a bowl of sandwich filling.

“Time to think about business. Frangipani Room business. Time to forget about wannabe poets and don’t wannabe drummers. Mama G needs your say-so on my sandwich fixings. My Tia Louisa in Havana created the recipes back home in our country, but Mama G bring them from Cuba to Key West many years ago.”

“We’ve heard your story before,” Kane said. “Lotsa times.”

“I’m sure your sandwiches will be fine, Mama G,” I said. “All our patrons always rave about them. And sometimes ask for your recipes.”

“Secret recipes,” Mama G insisted. “No give to strangers. Come now. Taste recipes I prepare for tonight.”

“They’ll be fine, Mama G,” I said.

“How you be sure without tasting?” Mama G offered crackers, the filling, and a small spreader. “Conch salad with ripe olives. Try. Taste. Then say fine—if you think it be fine.”

Kane turned and headed toward the bandstand, suddenly concerned about the well-being of Pablo’s drum set. Threnody stepped forward and spread some sandwich filling on a saltine.

“Wonderful, Mama G,” she said. “It’s a unique taste. I’m sure our guests here this evening will love it and ask for more.”

Brick tried the spread and nodded in agreement with his wife. When Dolly returned from the kitchen to taste the mixture, Mama G held the bowl out of her reach and scowled.

“Don’t need your opinion,” Mama G said. “You just stick to writing your poems.”

“And I didn’t need your put-down of my poem which professional editors accepted for publication,” Dolly said.

“Ladies!” I interrupted. “It’s almost time to open The Frangi to our patrons. Mama G, I’m sure everyone will love your sandwich fillings. Why don’t you blow your conch shell now to announce we’re ready and waiting for guests?”

“Si,” Mama G said, distracted from her argument with Dolly. “The wail of the conch shell, it appeal to the curious. They hear. From all over the hotel, they hear Mama G play the conch. It draw people here. It get our evening off to a grand start.”

“Some grand start we’ll have without our favorite drummer,” Kane grumbled. “Guess we really didn’t expect Pablo to show, did we? We’ve been depending on Dolly too much. Maybe we’d better hire her on a regular basis—show Pablo that he’s not indispensable.”

“I’ll call Dolly from the kitchen,” Brick said. “I’ll sweet talk her a bit to get her over the poetry thing.”

“I’m guessing she’ll be willing and eager to sit in on drums again tonight,” Kane said. “She’s probably looking forward to it. Dolly loves the limelight—almost as much as Mama G.”

“You’ll pinch hit for her in the kitchen?” I asked Brick.

“As usual,” Brick said. “Promised your mother.”

For once, Mama G didn’t grumble or protest. She picked up the conch shell from the top of the piano and began blowing. Her face grew stroke red from the effort, and, although she looked as if she might have a seizure or maybe a heart attack, she continued making conch shell music.

When Brick returned from the kitchen and his talk with Dolly, he gave us thumbs up. Tonight he claimed the chore, or the honor, depending on how you looked at it, of lighting the torches that ringed the balcony outside the dance floor. I loved the sight of the torches sending their flares into the late-evening darkness, the smell of the lighter fluid. The open-air Frangi was one of my favorite places in the hotel.

Guests began exiting the elevator and easing closer to the bar and the dance floor. I stepped forward to greet them, knowing the flaring torches and Mama G’s conch shell wailing intrigued them.

“What’s going on?” one lady asked. “I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

“Mama G’s playing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” I explained. “She produces her music by blowing across the cut-off end of a conch shell. It’s a talent she’s developed from childhood.”

“I don’t recognize the tune,” the lady said, after listening a few moments. “Don’t recognize it at all.”

I couldn’t recognize the melody, either, but I smiled. Mama G’s puffed cheeks threatened to flush from crimson to purple, but she kept on blowing. Soon people gathered at the bar or found seats at the edge of the dance floor, waiting for the combo music and the dancing to begin.

At last Mama G passed the shell to Brick with a dramatic bow. Brick then made a mini-ceremony of polishing the conch with a flowing silk scarf, holding it high in the torchlight before placing it on a silver salver atop the piano. Mama G gave Brick his moment in the sun before she swooped to the raised combo platform. Threnody followed her across the dance floor and stood near the piano. The two of them always opened and closed the evening with Threnody singing a soulful rendition of “Harbor Lights.”
Tonight she also sang two jazz numbers. I guessed the combo was prolonging the evening’s opening, waiting to see if Pablo might arrive.

I couldn’t help wondering why Pablo stopped at Sloppy’s tonight instead of coming straight to the hotel. And why had he avoided me? Did Ramsey and Lyon know he was back on-island? I hoped none of the tourists here tonight noticed the plain clothes detectives watching our dance floor from the sidelines while they kept The Frangi under surveillance. But I noticed. The officers were strangers to me, but once you’ve been in the hotel business a while you can spot a cop at a glance. Jessie noticed, too. He kept looking from the cops to Kane, perhaps hoping Kane would bounce them onto the street. I saw Mama G scowl at Jessie once when she had to wait for him to get the correct arrangement on his music stand.

She started to scowl at Dolly, too, pointing to the title of the tune they were about to play. Dolly ignored her, tilting her chin toward the stars and smiling. “I don’t use music,” she said to Mama G and also to a patron who stopped to compliment her. “I play from my heart and soul.”

Mama G let her get by with ignoring her, and I shrugged. Was a drummer’s sheet music all that important? I wondered. I’d glanced at Pablo’s music one night, and it looked like several lines of the same notes printed across the page with little variation. How could anyone read that and turn it into music!

Threnody and Dolly had arranged several dozen open-face sandwiches on hors d’oeuvre trays ahead of time. Brick knew how to serve them with a flourish, so I decided to go to the kitchen and try to call Pablo at Sloppy’s. I hadn’t expected him to come rushing right to the hotel the minute he saw me, but he could at least have let us know he was back on-island. The telephone hung very close to the door separating the kitchen from the dance floor, so I went to my suite to make my call in privacy.

Would the plainclothes guys follow me? I watched for them, but no. I was alone. Inside my suite, I relaxed on my bed and used my bedside phone. After punching in Sloppy’s number, the phone rang ten times before a gruff voice answered.