Daiquiri Dock Murder (9 page)

I wondered how difficult it would be to hold one’s expression in a neutral mode while looking at the last effects of a man you’d murdered the night before. Surely a brow would quirk or a jaw would clench.

Chapter 9

(Early Sunday Afternoon)

Ramsey pulled a cardboard box from under his desk, placed Diego’s effects in it, and shoved it back under the desk.

I shuddered as I thought about the grisly items in that box. Had I been the one found dead, what evidence would Ramsey have deemed important enough to save in my cardboard box? Forcing myself to pay attention, I shook that grim thought from my mind and tried to concentrate again on matters at hand. The blue line the killer tied to the concrete block stuck in my memory, but why? Maybe because it matched the shade of my favorite turquoise ring. Maybe because I saw a line of similar color on Kane’s boat only a few minutes ago. Kane said the compartment lid under the bunkhouse mattress was there when he bought the boat. Several years ago. Did Ramsey think he could drop the blame for Diego’s death at Kane’s bulkhead? Crazy idea. The chief had no way, no way at all, of knowing about the rustic furnishings in
The Buccaneer
’s
bunkhouse.

The chief began talking again. I tucked my thoughts about the blue line to the back of my mind—in a place where I’d remember to pull them out and give them more consideration later.

“Now I want each of you to tell us the last time you saw Diego Casterano alive. Brick Vexton? I’ll start with you since you worked closely with the victim.”

Brick met the chief’s steady gaze. I wondered who would exit from this eyeball-to-eyeball encounter first, Brick or Ramsey.

Brick cleared his throat, never allowing his gaze to waver. “I saw Diego arrive at work yesterday morning around seven o’clock. He checked in at the desk in the chandlery as was his custom every work day.”

“You didn’t see him at any time later in the day?”

“No. I left Jessie and my usual weekend employees in charge of the dock because I needed to tend to my volunteer duties on the Duval Street parade route.”

The chief nodded. And looked away first. Score one for Brick.

`”And you, Mrs. Vexton. When did you last see the victim alive?”

Mentally, I cringed every time Ramsey said Diego’s name, but hearing him called ‘the victim’ was even worse. The word grated against my eardrums until my head threatened to start aching again. Threnody thought for several moments before she answered.

“I saw him Friday night at The Blue Mermaid.
Yesterday, Saturday, I spent the day at home until parade line-up time. Fiesta Fest officials scheduled me to sing a solo seated on the first float as the parade passed the judges reviewing stand in front of Sloppy Joe’s. I spent part of my day vocalizing, memorizing lyrics, and practicing for that event. Singing outdoors, even with a good mike, takes lots of early-on rehearsing, yet I have to take care not to tire my vocal cords and cause hoarseness. Singing while seated requires more breath control than singing while standing. So, after practicing, I spent more time adding the finishing touches on my Mrs. Neptune costume. I didn’t see Diego at any time Saturday.”

The chief hadn’t interrupted Threnody’s prima donna account of her rehearsing. Was I jealous of Threnody and her talent? No. Threnody was a singer. I was a writer. We’d both worked hard for any recognition we’d won. Ramsey continued.

“If you didn’t see the victim yesterday, please tell us again about the last time you did see him alive.”

“I saw him Friday night, mingling with guests who came to enjoy dancing and refreshments in The Frangipani Room at The Blue Mermaid.”

“Did he stay there all evening?”

“I have no way of knowing that,” Threnody said. “I was only present a short time before I sang the sign-off number with the combo. After I finished singing, I helped Dolly Jass who sometimes tends bar or helps out in the kitchen. Rafa Blue is manager and acts as hostess in The Frangipani Room. While Cheri and her mother are away on vacation, Rafa asked Dolly to help out wherever she needed her and she asked Brick to mix drinks and tend the cash register. After Brick closed the bar for the night, he and I drove home.”

Chief Ramsey next turned to Jessie Vexton. When did you last see Diego Casterano alive?”

Jessie looked directly at Ramsey. “I’m not sure, Sir.”

Even while seated on an uncomfortable chair in a dreary office, Jessie managed a slight shrug that revealed his cocky I’ll-do-as-I-please attitude.

“I worked at the cash register at our chandlery most of the day on Saturday. I only saw Diego now and then as he performed his various dock master duties during that time. I closed and locked up before I left sometime around seven o’clock.”

The replies to the chief’s queries were all of a similar nature until Ramsey’s gaze and attention focused on Dolly Jass.

Dolly looked down as she patted the head of a black kitten that peeked over the edge of the straw tote on the floor beside her chair. If Ramsey or Lyon noticed the animal, they never let on. Nor did anyone else. I’d seen Dolly’s kitten many times around our hotel and it didn’t surprise me to see that she brought it with her.

“Miss Jass, please give your full attention to my questions.”

“Of course, Sir.” Dolly looked directly at Chief Ramsey, but she continued to pat the kitten’s head.

I smiled to myself, wondering if the chief resented being upstaged by a kitten.

“Miss Jass, when did you last see the victim alive?”

Dolly looked around the room at each of us before again meeting Chief Ramsey’s direct gaze. She crossed her legs. She moved her tote bag to a spot on the floor near her left foot. I sensed her enjoying her moments in the limelight as everyone awaited her reply.

Dolly reached down to give the kitten one more pat before she raised her eyes slowly and looked at Ramsey in the flirty way she reserved for most men. “I saw Diego late afternoon yesterday.” Her low sultry voice might have held the promise of a fun time to come, had she been speaking under different circumstances.

“Saturday, right?”

“Yes, Saturday. Yesterday. The afternoon before the Fiesta Fest parade.” Dolly lowered her gaze.

“How late in the afternoon?” Ramsey asked. “Do you remember the exact time?”

“Around five o’clock or perhaps a bit after five.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“At the Vexton’s Marina.”

“Do you go there often at that time of the day?”

“No, Sir.”

“What were you doing there yesterday afternoon?”

“I sat relaxing, sitting at an umbrella table a few yards away from the chandlery office and near the water. I took my time enjoying a cup of tea—hot tea, because a cloud bank covered the sun and an onshore breeze suddenly chilled me.”

“Was going to the Vexton marina for late afternoon tea your usual habit?”

“No. Not at all.” She fluttered her eyelashes, first at Brick and then at Ramsey before she continued. “I went to the marina yesterday afternoon to compose a poem—free verse—a poem about the sea. I need to surround myself with the subject I’m writing about in order to start my creative juices flowing. I also chose to go to the marina because I needed to get away from the parade noises and the rambunctious crowd taking over many of the streets in Old Town.”

The chief nodded as if he understood, as if he, too, sometimes sought out quiet spots amid turmoil. “And were your creative juices flowing yesterday afternoon at the Vexton marina?”

Was Ramsey making fun of Dolly’s response? Patronizing her? Either way, his question raised hackles in my mind. In most situations, I’m usually for the underdog. This morning Dolly displayed an innocent schoolgirl persona when answering Chief Ramsey’s questions. I wanted to help her stand up to this man, but I couldn’t. Not today. Not at this time. I kept silent.

“No,” Dolly replied. “No creative juices flowed for me yesterday afternoon. Sometimes that’s how it goes, and I accept a writer’s block as part of a poet’s life. I merely nodded a greeting to Diego as he passed me on his way to welcome an arriving boat captain and help him claim his slip and hook up to an electric outlet. Soon after that I gave up creating a new poem and left the marina, biking to my room at the Vexton’s mansion with a blank notebook.”

“Rafa Blue.”

I jerked to attention, startled to hear my name when I expected the chief to have more questions for Dolly.

“Rafa Blue.” Ramsey called my name again, pausing for a moment as he looked directly at me. “When did you last see the victim alive?”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “I believed Diego was alive when I first saw his head bobbing in the water at the marina late last night around midnight.”

“What were your first thoughts on seeing him there?”

“At first, it startled me to see anyone in the water. It took me a few moments to recognize Diego in the choppy waves, to be sure it was he. It astonished me to realize he chose to swim after dark. Few people swim at night.”

“Did you think he might be in trouble?”

“Not at first. Diego grew up around the sea. My first thought was that he might be trying to help another person who could be in trouble.”

“So what did you do?”

“I called to him, shouted to him. The roar of the water and the storm drowned out my words so I called several times.”

“Did he respond to your call?”

“No. He did not. By that time I knew something was wrong. He seemed to be floating and I thought perhaps he was saving his strength by doing the dead-man’s float instead of swimming or treading water. I knew he needed help.”

“And you called 9-1-1, right?”

“That’s correct. I’d left my cell phone in my car parked near the chandlery. It took me several minutes to reach the car and the phone as I fought my way slipping and sliding along the swaying catwalk.”

“You never saw Diego anytime earlier in the day?”

“No.”

“I understand you’re living at The Blue Mermaid
here in Key West and writing a weekly column for the newspaper.”

“Yes, Sir.” Why he was dwelling on information we’d discussed at the hospital?

“Good luck to you, Rafa Blue.”

Good luck? What was that supposed to mean? Good luck? With my writing career? Or good luck in avoiding being considered a murder suspect? I leaned back in my chair, but I couldn’t relax.

Chapter 10

(Still Sunday Afternoon)

“Kane Riley?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“When did you last see the victim alive?”

“I saw Diego Friday night at The Frangipani Room.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I work there sometimes when I’m not out on a shrimp run.”

“What are your duties, Mr. Riley?”

“I’m a plain clothes security guard—a bouncer—a peace keeper, if you will.”

“The Frangipani Room’s
in a rough-tough area of the hotel?”

“No. Hardly ever, but after Mr. Blue died, leaving his wife and daughters in charge of the hotel, they felt it added protection, an air of safety to have a security person present in The Frangi.”

“You were paid for this job?”

“No. Rafa and I’ve been close friends for some time. It’s my pleasure to help out at The Frangi.”

“And Diego was there, too, on Friday night?”

“Yes. Diego Casterano sat at the refreshment bar eating a sandwich.”

“Did you talk to him that night?”

“No, Sir. He arrived shortly before Mama G—she’s the combo director and pianist—before she announced her special medley of golden oldie piano selections. That number usually lasts several minutes. It’s an ad-lib bit of entertainment she keeps going as long as the audience claps and whistles and demands more.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “I’ve seen and heard Mama G perform her specialty on many occasions. Tell me about last Friday night.”

“Nothing unusual about it. When Mama G ended her number, she announced a short intermission. I noticed then that Diego was no longer present.”

“The two of you didn’t speak?”

“No. I didn’t see Diego again until after your men removed his body from the water at the marina. Dead.”

Chief Ramsey stopped the questioning and stood for a few moments as if deep in thought. Nobody spoke. We sat again listening to the thready breathing of the AC. Nobody actually relaxed, but when the chief spoke again, I sensed everyone pulling to a higher degree of alertness.

“Does anyone know the whereabouts of Pablo Casterano this afternoon?”

Nobody replied.

“And Rafa, can you tell me if Pablo worked at The Frangipani Room
last night?”

“No, Sir. He did not. Pablo does work with the combo—sometimes. We’re glad to have him, and although he’s sometimes undependable, he’s a good drummer when he’s there—an excellent musician.”

“And you don’t miss him when he doesn’t appear for work.”

“Of course we miss him, but he owns the trap set. When he doesn’t show up, we go to plan B and call on Dolly Jass to sub for him.”