Pier Pressure (17 page)

“Arson?” Nikko dried his feet on the towel I provided, then moved to my work chair. “I knew last night you were holding back things you wanted to say. So you suspect arson?”

I waited until I'd adjusted the chair for ease in working on his feet before I answered. “Arson, yes, and for several reasons. First, I can think of no reason why an occupied house would suddenly catch on fire. It's not as if the place had been standing vacant like an open invitation to intruders. Second, Punt and I found a black sweatshirt lying on the ground outside the backyard fence—a sweatshirt that didn't belong to me. And third…” I hesitated before saying more.

“And third?” Nikko flinched a bit as I applied pressure to his little toe.

“I think I saw Jude's bald head in the crowd of onlookers. I think he stood nearby watching the fire, the crowd, the hullabaloo.”

Nikko suddenly raised up in the chair and I had to ease him back down before I could continue my work. For a few moments he said nothing, then questions gushed forth. “Did Punt see Jude? Did you point out the sweatshirt to the police? Do you think Jude saw you?”

“Hey! Slow down. One question at a time.” I put pressure on his left heel in the area corresponding to the sciatic nerve and he winced as crystalline deposits broke away. “Your back pain been any better this week?”

“What back pain? You're changing the subject.”

“When I feel crystalline deposits in the heel area, I think in terms of back pain.”

“Maybe a little back pain. Not much.”

“Good, but maybe we should increase your treatments to every other week for a while. Would you like to try that?”

“Monthly. Bi-monthly. Whatever you say. You're avoiding my questions. Did Punt see Jude?”

“You think I imagined seeing Jude?”

“I didn't mean to imply that at all, Keely, but I know a fear of Jude always resides in the back of your mind. No one can blame you for that. Did Punt see Jude, too?”

“I don't think so. At least I didn't point him out to Punt, but maybe Punt saw him, too, and said nothing, disliking to upset me. It works both ways, you know.”

“What about the sweatshirt? You give it to the police?”

“No. I brought it home with me.”

Again, Nikko raised up, scowling this time. “You may have tampered with a crime scene—again. What possessed you to take the sweatshirt? If you suspect arson, you must know the sweatshirt could belong to the arsonist.”

“Right. That's exactly what I thought, and that's why I kept it. I thought the arsonist, if there is one, might realize he dropped it and return for it before the police discovered it. They were very busy and I doubt they would have listened to anything I had to say. All they wanted me to do was to keep moving, to keep out of their path. The way I see it, I have preserved evidence.”

“That's reasonable, I suppose, but you could have turned the sweatshirt over to the police.”

I knew Nikko was right. I could have given the sweatshirt to Detective Curry a few minutes ago, too, but I didn't.

“The cops scare me, Nikko. They might say the sweatshirt belongs to me without trying to find its true owner. I'm already high on their suspect list concerning Margaux's murder, but I have an airtight alibi for last night. At the time of the fire I was with Punt. Lots of people saw us on Key Colony Beach. Lots more saw us eating dinner at The Sand Bar.
Yet in spite of witnesses, I'm afraid the police might manage to use that sweatshirt to my disadvantage.”

“Do you have an alibi for the night Margaux died?”

“No. Do you?” I had hated the thought of asking Nikko for an alibi, but now he had opened the subject.

“Afraid not. I'd been working earlier in the evening. When the dining room closed at ten, I left the clean-up to the bus boys and came on home. No witnesses to that except Moose. So what? I don't expect the police to question me about Margaux's death. I had no motive.”

At the sound of his name, Moose lifted his head to look at us, then relaxed again and closed his eyes.

I hated to question Nikko about the rumor that he and Margaux were more than good friends. Maybe they had been lovers. Maybe they hadn't. It was none of my business, yet I had to warn Nikko of the gossip.

“Nikko, you may need an alibi.” He started to sit up, but I eased him back down.

“Why would I need an alibi? Be real, Keely.”

“Please hear me out. The local tongue-waggers are saying you and Margaux were lovers. Some are hinting you may have killed her as a way of dropping her for some other woman. Others are guessing she may have dropped you.”

“What are you saying? It's all b.s. You know that, don't you?”

“I don't believe any of it. I'm telling you because I don't want the rumors to hit you as a surprise. You need to be prepared if the police question you.”

Now Nikko jerked his foot from my grasp and sat up straight, straddling the middle of the contour chair.

“I'm making no judgment, Nikko. Your relationship with Margaux never concerned me.”

“I'll tell you about our relationship, and then I'll go straight to headquarters and tell the police, too. I have proof. The police will find more proof if they go through Margaux's papers and notebooks.”

I eased Nikko down onto the chair and began working on his foot again, and he began talking without my prompting.

“Margaux was Greek. You know that. Everybody in Key West knows that. She and I shared that common bond, but lovers? No. Margaux wanted me to publish my Greek recipes and she offered to edit the book manuscript. She says there's a demand for authentic recipes from other countries. So people may have seen us together frequently as we worked. Sometimes the work involved library research. Sometimes it involved my treating Margaux to an after hours dinner at The Wharf.”

Tension left my body and relief flowed in. “I believe you, Nikko. I think the police'll believe you, too, once you produce some rough drafts of the cookbook.”

“I'm not really worried about police questioning, but I am worried about you. You've got to trust someone. What do you intend to do with that sweatshirt?”

“At the time I took it, I had no idea. Maybe in the back of my mind, I knew all along. I want you to take it, Nikko. You and Moose have worked to catch arsonists and druggies. Just because you've retired doesn't mean Moose has forgotten his scenting skills. Will you take the sweatshirt and see what you and Moose can learn from it?”

“If I'm caught with that sweatshirt and the police find out where it came from, we both could be accused of tampering with evidence.”

“So don't get caught.”

“Keely, Moose has been trained for just one thing—to track human scent. Even if sniffing the sweatshirt enabled Moose to find its owner, it would prove nothing to the police. Such evidence can't be admitted in a court of law.”

“The evidence would prove something to me.”

“You think the sweatshirt might belong to Jude?”

“That's a possibility, but if dog-tracking evidence can't be used in court, how come the police can arrest druggies when a dog pinpoints them with hemp or coke?”

“Some dogs are trained to track specific drugs. If a dog identifies a culprit and the police find the evidence on him, that evidence is admissible in court.” Nikko left the treatment chair and began slipping on his sandals.

I went to my apartment and returned with the sweatshirt. “Please take this. Please see if you can find its owner. Do it for me. I need to know who came sneaking around my house. So what if your findings won't stand up in court? If Jude owned that sweatshirt, if he came near my house…I've got to know, Nikko.”

“That restraining order still in effect?”

“Yes. If he skulked around my house last night, he broke the law.”

“I'll see what I can do, Keely.” Nikko took the shirt and left my office, and as he went out the door, Punt arrived.

“You've got a free hour between patients, right?”

“Right.” I lifted the coffee pot and started to pour him a cup, but he shook his head.

“Let's make a quick trip to Georgia Street and look at the fire scene in the daylight.”

“That's something I never want to see again.”

“I think you should see it again. The police may have questions for you, and viewing the burn site may help you with answers.”

“Okay. If you insist.”

“Did you get a chance to quiz Nikko about his alibi for Saturday night?”

I smiled. “He made it easy for me. He asked me my alibi, and when I asked for his and mentioned the gossip circulating about him, he said he and Margaux were seen together because they had been working on a Greek cookbook. He has a rough draft of the manuscript as proof of a platonic relationship. He went home alone on the night of the murder.”

“Good work on that one, Keely. Maybe you should go into the private detective business.”

“Thanks a lot, but I'll leave that up to you and Nikko.”

We only had to walk three blocks to Punt's car and traffic was light on this Tuesday morning. When we reached my Georgia Street address, a couple of people stood on the sidewalk, staring at the blackened scene. They nodded in greeting and we returned their nods, saying nothing.

My stomach tightened like a clenched fist when I saw the total destruction of the house I'd called a home. Only a twisted mind could deliberately have caused such ruin. My eyes burned as I blinked back angry tears.

Blackened beams lay under the charred roof. We walked to the back of the house where the carcass of a stove and a refrigerator poked up through the other debris. The odor of smoke hung in the air and my throat began to sting. We walked on to the back of the lot and I looked around but I saw nothing unusual.

“I thought whoever dropped the sweatshirt might have dropped something else, too, but I don't see anything.”

“So let's leave.” Punt took my hand and we returned to the front of the house. I tried not to imagine the Moores' charred furniture and/or my destroyed clothing. Those things could be replaced. I tried not to imagine what might have happened had I been inside the house and asleep at the time the fire started. Would I have heard it? Heard the crackling flames in time to escape?

“Is anyone allowed to poke through the ashes?” I managed to keep my voice strong.

“Doesn't look as if anyone would care. They must not suspect arson or someone would have surrounded the area with yellow fire scene tape. Something you especially wanted to look for?”

Again, I mentally accused the police of taking the easy way out in order to avoid a full-blown investigation, but I didn't say that to Punt. Nor did I tell him about giving the sweatshirt to Nikko.

“If you lost some special piece of jewelry, I suppose we could sift through some of the ashes.”

“No. I think nothing would have survived that fire. Let's go now, Punt. I've seen enough of this and it's etched in my memory. I really need to get back to my office.”

“Okay. Guess there wasn't much here to view after all.”

As we stopped at Punt's convertible, I pointed at our shoes. “Got anything we can use to wipe away this soot? Don't want to mess up the inside of your car.”

Punt unlocked the trunk and pulled out an old towel. “Here, we can use this.”

He stooped to wipe off my sandals and then worked on his own. “Stuff doesn't want to come off, but I think I got the worst of it.”

We wiped the soles of our sandals on the grass again, then climbed into the car. In spite of our care, a few black smudges darkened the carpeting.

“Rats,” I said.

“Don't sweat it. I've some good carpet cleaner at home.”

We reached my office as Otto Koffan shuffled down the sidewalk and stopped, waiting at my door. The door stood slightly ajar and the sign on it said OPEN, but Otto stood waiting. A tall stoop-shouldered man, Otto looked as if he'd lost his last friend. I can't remember if he always looked that way or if it became more pronounced after Margaux dumped him. I doubted that my treatments were helping him, but he said they always made him feel more relaxed. I didn't argue.

Punt braked the car, blocking traffic, and I got out as motorists behind us honked and called obscene advice complete with hand gestures. Ignoring the comments and the gestures, I flung my office door wide and invited Otto inside.

“How are you today, Otto?”

“Was a lot better when I was younger.”

I think he intended his standard comment as a joke, so I smiled. Otto's been suffering from a clinical depression ever since Margaux and Beau married, and I never expected him to respond, “Just fine.” And he never did. His comments matched his clothing—drab brown shirt, drab brown walking shorts. I readied his foot bath and started the water swirling around his feet. The lemon-scented water lifted my spirits even if it didn't lift his. I wondered if a bit of Prozac or Zoloft in the water might help.

“How's your work-in-progress coming along?” I let the water swirl for a few minutes before snapping off the switch. That's a safe question in Key West where there's a would-be writer or artist lurking behind every palm tree. “You're still writing, aren't you?”

“Every day. Every day of the world, but I'm progressing slowly. Very slowly.” Removing his feet from the water, he dried them on the towel I provided, then took his place in the treatment chair.

“What are you writing, Otto? Novel? Nonfiction?” I doubted he had a work-in-progress. I think he enjoyed hanging out with the writers that met on Saturday mornings at Kelly's. “Or maybe you're into poetry?”

“You've guessed it. Poetry. Please don't tell anyone. Not yet. I'm not quite ready to come out of the closet as a poet. Maybe never will be.”

“Okay, Otto. It's our secret. After my mother's death, I wrote a bit of poetry, too, and I've never showed it to anyone. It was too dark and down—too private. Maybe that's the way you feel about yours, too.”