Daiquiri Dock Murder (5 page)

Kane had raised the iron outriggers until they formed a black V against the sky. The pink chafing gear designed to protect the trawl nets from wear as they dragged against the sea bottom looked like two blobs of rouge applied to wrinkled faces. I wished I knew more about the boat, but Kane always said it was a working boat, not a pleasure craft. He’d only invited me aboard for a tour one Wednesday last year—a very brief tour.

“Want to sit in the wheel house?” He nodded toward the cabin.

I wanted to see more of the boat, but today was no time to expect another guided tour.

“How about sitting aft where we can catch a few rays and see the action around us. We can keep our voices low.”

“Suits me.”

I helped Kane pull two canvas chairs onto the deck, positioning them so we’d have an almost unobstructed view of the Gulf. The sea always makes me feel miniscule and unimportant, but it never seems to affect Kane that way. He stood for a moment looking at the horizon, completely at ease as captain of
The Buccaneer.
I thought and hoped he’d want to talk about Diego, but he surprised me.

Chapter 5

(Still Sunday Morning)

“Rafa, I’m mad as hell at the commissioners for passing legislation that forced hard-working shrimpers from what they had claimed for years as their working waters.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do about it now. The
Citizen’s
printed news of that controversy for months, no, for years. Politics. But it turned out to be good news for you. You have a great boat slip right here at the harbor walk, and I guess there’s no shortage of shrimp waiting for your nets.”

“The
Citizen
may have dropped the subject of working waters as they relate to Key West shrimpers, but I checked recently, and
no
shrimp docks remain on Stock Island, either. Not only that, but the artisans on Shrimp Road worry that they’ll be forced from that area, too. Painters, wood workers, craftsmen—their quaint shops are on the last available land near working water space in the lower keys. When the land owners decide to sell, those businesses are doomed.”

“I read the commissioners’ thinking on the subject. Politics! They try to make the changes sound as if they’re benefiting Stock Island, but I doubt it. It’s all politics. The only good thing about proposed laws is that changes take a long time to happen in Monroe County.

“But eventually they do happen.” Kane pounded a fist into his palm. “They happen exactly as the majority of commissioners plan for them to happen.”

“You mean the Gang of Three? Diego was one of the commissioners.” I hoped mentioning Diego’s name would remind Kane of last night and get him off the topic of politics.

“Don’t know about any Gang of Three, Rafa. Don’t know the insider scoop on things going on at the courthouse, but folks who ignore stuff that happened years ago may need to wake up—me included. History has a way of repeating itself.”

“Like making the free-loading live-aboards along Houseboat Row move their boats to paying slips at Garrison Bight?” I asked.

“Right. If we don’t remember things that happened in the past, we condemn ourselves to repeat similar things. I read that somewhere, but it’s true.” Kane brought us sodas from a cooler in the wheel house. “Old timers tell me the live-aboards fought moving for over thirty years, but a few years ago, the change took place.”

“I think Diego lived on Houseboat Row when he first came to Key West.” My trying to get the conversation back to Diego failed.

“Diego told me that he left Houseboat Row willingly,” Kane said, “but some of the captains left their anchorages kicking and screaming, when new laws forced them out.”

I sipped my drink, enjoying the tingle on my tongue. “Everyone has to face change.”

“And House Boat Row no longer exists. It’s a thing of the past. Personally, that area didn’t bother me. I was one of many who thought it offered a picturesque attraction for tourists visiting the island for the first time.”

“Opinions differ.” I said. “And those who preferred E. coli-free water won out.”

“So maybe Houseboat Row posed a health hazard. Nobody doubts that those boaters sometimes dumped their waste directly into sea. But that wasn’t the case with boat captains at the shrimp docks.”

“You squeaky-clean guys kept your boats shining with spit and polish?” I took a deep breath and grinned at him. “Can’t imagine what caused the smells in that area.”

“A little shrimp fragrance never hurt anyone, Rafa. We shrimpers dumped waste in the sanitary stations the city provided for that purpose. The only reason the city fathers wanted to get rid of the shrimp docks with their ‘working waters’ ordinances was so they could attract wealthy yachters from Miami—even from Europe or Australia. In today’s world, the bottom line’s always money, and yacht captains have more of the long green than shrimp boat captains.”

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about the politics of it, Kane. I knew you put up a strong fight to keep
The Buccaneer
docked in Key West, but…

“You bet I felt strongly about it. Still feel strongly about it. I’ve seen pictures of that upscale yacht basin in Marathon. Old-timers tell me it used to be an area where shrimpers kept their boats and sold their catch to locals and tourists who stopped to chat with their favorite captain and buy shrimp fresh from the sea.”

“You’re right about that. Dad sometimes took a five-gallon bucket and paid old Captain Anders to fill it with fresh shrimp that Mother served to guests that night. Even Cherie had to help when we shelled and deveined those whoppers.”

“Then politics took its toll. Commissioners forced those captains to leave. I hated to see that happen here. Diego talked for and voted for clearing out the shrimpers. As a commissioner, he led a group of followers. He led, and his opinions and his vote counted with the other commissioners—counted big time. It’s one area of thinking where Diego and I disagreed.”

For a few moments Kane and I sat in the deck chairs sipping our sodas and enjoying an unrestricted view of the bay. Although the vastness of the sea made me feel smaller than a grain of sand, sometimes it gave me a sense of all’s-right-with-the-world. But not today. Kane’s effort to divert my attention failed. I couldn’t forget Diego’s body floating in the black water at the marina. Nor could I forget that in Chief Ramsey’s eye, I was a person of interest.

The impact of Diego’s death, the finality of all death left a sadness in my heart that I couldn’t eradicate. Kane broke into my morbid thoughts, but he still didn’t mention Diego. I tried to turn my ears off to his chatter. Impossible.

“Sometimes I wonder how old
The Buccaneer
is, Rafa. Old-timers say boats can remain seaworthy for years if their owners follow the rules in maintaining them. Got a buddy who claims he celebrated his cabin cruiser’s hundredth birthday last year.”

I wondered why Kane avoided talking about last night’s murder. Did he think avoiding the subject would spare my feelings—or his own? Surely he must know Diego was uppermost in my mind this morning.

“How old do you think
The Buccaneer
is?” I forced myself to go along with Kane’s trend of thought. Time enough later to think about Diego—maybe the rest of my life. A life behind bars? I forced myself to bury that thought. Surely the chief would find other people of interest.

“I bought
The Buccaneer
from a guy named Ace Bradford about five years ago. He moved back to Iowa. Said he missed early-onset flu season and December’s ice and snow storms.”

“Maybe he was kidding.”

“Yeah. I guessed he missed his girlfriend who he said waited for him in Des Moines. Ace told me he bought this boat from a guy named Red Chipper.”

“You ever met him?” I asked.

“Red still lives in the Key West area, I think. He used to drop around now and then to talk a bit. I changed the boat’s name from
Sea Swell
to
The Buccaneer.
Don’t think Red minded. More than likely he renamed it when he bought it.”

“Wonder where he got the boat. I mean, did he buy it from a boatyard new, or maybe buy it secondhand from a friend?” I took a deep drink of soda and let it trickle down my throat, still hoping to work our conversation around to Diego and last night.

“Said he bought it from Captain Snipe Gross and that Snipe bought it from a captain name of Bucky Varnum. That dates it back to 1980.”

“Almost thirty years ago. How’d you pinpoint that date?”

“That’s the year the Mariel Boatlift began—and ended. Lasted about six months. Bucky made big bucks off the boatlift—the Cubans. At that time, Castro let everyone leave Cuba who wanted to leave—and plenty of people wanted out of there, wanted to come to America. Diego was one of them. He came here on that boatlift—along with about 125,000 other people.”

Good. Now the conversation was touching on Diego. “Do you know what kind of a job Diego held in Cuba?”

“Worked with his family in the cane fields, I think. Guess they owned a big spread in the countryside somewhere near Havana. He never talks much about it. My guess is that they didn’t want him to leave.”

For a moment I thought I’d succeeded in directing our talk back to Diego. Wrong.

“Castro opened his prisons and gave free and legal passage to any criminal who could find space aboard a boat. Plenty of hardened criminals sailed to the Keys—the closest land to Mariel Bay.”

“Kane! Are you hinting that Diego had been a criminal in Cuba? Is that what you believe? I suppose that might be true, but…”

Kane ignored my question which made me even more curious about Diego’s family and his past. Someone had murdered him. Could it have been someone from his Cuban past? Now I listened with more interest.

“Rafa, we’re both too young to remember this, but I’ve always liked history and I’ve read about the boatlift. Never talked much to Diego about it. For a while, President Carter didn’t realize Castro had opened Cuba’s open jail cells. He welcomed the immigrants, and Florida offered the closest shore. I knew an old guy who hung around the Raw Bar. He told anyone who’d listen to him about his flight from a stinking Cuban jail.”

“He rated criminal status in Cuba, but he became a free man in Key West?”

“Right. You got the picture.”

“That must have been scary for the locals.”

“This guy didn’t impress me as a dangerous person, but he told the Cuban authorities he was a druggie. Castro’s officials wanted the druggies out of Cuba. They put them on any boat handy that headed away from Mariel Harbor.”

“Kane! Are you sure that’s true? After all, the guy admitted to being a druggie.”

“Who am I to doubt? Nobody, no country, wants to claim a hop-head. Anyway, that guy said he came over for free. Said he stood waiting on an almost-collapsed dock in Mariel Bay and then followed the guy ahead of him onto the boat. He had no big plans for his life in Cuba. Didn’t even think about a goal for living free in America.”

“Sounds like a great fellow. Surely Diego wasn’t anything like that. Diego seemed like a guy who knew where he was going.” Again I tried to direct the conversation back to Diego and keep it there. Again, I failed.

“Castro and Carter changed shrimp fishing in the Keys—for a while.”

“Kane, do you think someone from Diego’s distant past could have murdered him last night?”

“It’s something to think about. May not be a bad thing to point out to Chief Ramsey.”

“I’m certainly willing to think about it. Tell me more. I’m guessing shrimp boats became water taxis—something like the gondolas in Venice only a lot less glamorous.”

“Right. Shrimp boats and any other crafts that would float became taxis. But boat captains didn’t haul Cubans here for free. Old-timers on the island say Bucky Varnum grew rich overnight on the backs of Cubans. They resented him charging those who had money for passage, but leaving the poor behind. He made trip after trip to Mariel Bay and solicited passengers to Key West. Socked them $2000 each.”

“Where did Cubans find that kind of money?”

Kane shrugged. “Life savings, I suppose. Maybe relatives helped them, perhaps on promises of future aid from them once they found jobs in America. Maybe the Cuban government paid to get the druggies out. Anyway, thousands of Cubans found the money for passage to America.”

“And Diego must have been one of them. How many Cubans could Captain Varnum carry at one time?”

“Take a guess. Look around. This boat isn’t very big, but I’m guessing he could get fifty or more aboard if they didn’t demand too much comfort. Probably lots of them had to stand up the whole trip. Maybe some of them rode below deck in the hull. I’m sure the boat left Mariel Bay overloaded.”

“You know how long it took a boat to travel from Cuba to Key West?”

“It’d have depended on the weather, the condition of the boat—on lots of things, including the captain’s ability to handle a craft loaded overcapacity in all kinds of weather. Diego lost his wife at sea when a sudden squall caught them. Of course they were unprepared for such danger. Diego’s wife drowned. Only with luck on his side was he able to save Pablo, little more than a baby at the time.”