Pier Pressure (22 page)

I started mixing the potting soil, stirring it with the wooden spoon, dipping it into the prepared pots. I knew Jass had probably sanitized the pots and I smiled at the idea of sterile dirt.

“By the time you have some of the pots filled, I'll begin inserting the stems. When Shandy has enough stems cut, she'll begin preparing the water and then we'll both water the plants.”

“Preparing the water? The water at my house flows from the tap already prepared.”

“Sometimes would-be hibiscus plants are more particular than humans.”

Shandy had stopped cutting stems and now she held up a bag labeled MSG. “I mix two tablespoons of this to a quart of water, then I give each stem a drink.”

“I use MSG to cook with,” I said. “Didn't know it was a magic formula for hibiscus plants.”

“This's only one experiment,” Jass said. “I do lots of experimenting with different soil mixtures, different water mixtures. This's the one I happen to be using today.”

“You mean it may work or it may not work?”

“Right. I'm fairly sure that many of these stems will root and thrive. The things we're doing today are the things I did to create the blossom color that won Sunday in Miami. It took me three years to create that winning blossom.”

“Will you enter that show again next year?” I asked.

“Yes, but not with plants from any of these cuttings. In a year or two these types of plants will be old hat. I'll have to show something new next year and I can only hope that I'm ready.”

“You have some new ideas?”

“Sure. I always have new ideas. The trick is to have new ideas that work. That's the iffy part. I have experimental cuttings going most of the time.”

“With secret formulas, I suppose.”

“Right. Top secret. That's why I keep the greenhouse locked. Each season I try a few new soil and water mixtures and I keep written records of each experiment.” She glanced at a steel filing cabinet standing next to an old desk. “I tell nobody about my experiments. If two people know a secret, that's one person too many.”

“I didn't realize all this took so much organizing.”

“I love every minute of the work. I devote my life to it.”

Jass had a faraway expression when she said that and I wondered if we both were thinking of Scott Murdock who lost his life in Afghanistan. I doubted that loving hibiscus plants made up for not having Scott to love. I thought of the wedding dress she had made and never used, the wedding invitations never sent, and I changed the subject and my thoughts quickly.

“I see you're setting some plants on heating pads, Jass. Is the why of that a secret?”

“No. Some plants require bottom warmth in order to thrive. So I humor them with the heating pads.”

We worked in silence a long time before all the pots were filled with soil and once that was done, Jass thanked me for helping out and walked with me to the sink while I washed up.

“Shandy and I can finish now that the pots are ready. I'll let Punt know you're through.” She keyed in Punt's number on her cell phone.

“It's been interesting, Jass. I enjoyed the work. Call me again if you need help.”

Punt must have answered his phone on the first ring. He stood at the door waiting for me almost before I had time to finish washing Jass's magic formula from my fingers.

Twenty-One

PUNT HURRIED ME into his car and we left the greenhouse.

“Do you need to go home before we start out?” Punt asked. “I'm not suggesting. You look fine to me, but that greenhouse can make a person feel mighty hot and sticky.”

“I guess I'm okay, Punt. Since I usually take Wednesday afternoons off, I only had to make two quick calls to free up my day and I've done that and placed the CLOSED sign in my window. So what's the plan? I'd like to get back in time to go fishing—mid to late afternoon, maybe.”

“How can you think about fishing at a time like this?”

“Hours spent on the water help me relax. I think it's sorta like the way hours in the greenhouse ease Jass's mind. I wish her win in Miami had come at a better moment—a time when she could keep it uppermost in her thinking.”

“A win is a win. Don't think she isn't enjoying it.”

“I suppose you're right. So what are your plans for the morning?”

“Jass and I know Dad's car wasn't at home Saturday night, and we know he wasn't at Key Colony Beach. I'm guessing he might have gone to the marina. Let's check that out as a starting point. If he parked his car there, someone must have seen it.”

Punt headed toward Seaview Marina,
and after we claimed a visitor's parking slot, I turned up the collar on my jumpsuit against the cool trade wind. Dozens of boats bobbed in their moorings.
The Vitamin Sea,
my backcountry skiff, floated at the end of the first row. A cormorant perched on the stern, wings outstretched as if drying underarm deodorant. Then a gull circled over its head screaming seagull invective. I mentally thanked the gull as the cormorant took off, winging toward the Tortugas, but a pelican soon claimed its place. Even from this distance I could see white droppings decorating my boat seat. I sighed. Weekly cleanups were a given.

I followed Punt from the salt-scented air into the marina office where the faint odor of diesel fuel mingled with that of hemp line and motor oil. Hotdogs turning in a countertop broiler made my mouth water, but I resisted the temptation to buy one. Nearby, the cash register clanged, and voices echoed in the cavernous structure as I looked up at an array of boats, their bows poking from overhead storage units.

“Morning, Keely, Punt. How may I help you?” The counter clerk stuck a yellow pencil behind his right ear and grabbed a ringing telephone, punching buttons that directed the call to another office.

Punt waited until he had the man's attention. “Were you working here last Saturday, Ben?”

“Right. Got a problem?”

“Did you notice if Dad took his boat out that day?”

Ben jabbed his pencil behind his left ear and frowned thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, I did see him here mid-morning. Waited on him when he bought a Coke. Then he asked me to fix up a sack lunch for two.”

“So did he take his boat out, or did he leave with someone else?”

“You really checking up on him, right?” Ben backed off a step, cocked his head, and looked at Punt from beneath lowered lids. “Maybe I shouldn't blab about him—what with Margaux's death and all. Last thing I need is a summons to testify in court. Need no part of that scene.”

Punt shoved a twenty across the counter and waited.

Ben pocketed the twenty. “He and Slone Pierce went out in Pierce's dive boat.”

“What direction?”

“Never noticed.”

I wondered if another twenty might help Ben's memory, but Punt didn't try for that. Was Ben really afraid of having to appear in court, or was he playing hard to get?

“Seen Slone around today?” Punt asked.

Ben shook his head and nodded to the slips. “His boat's still here.”

“Thanks, Ben. See ya around.”

Punt nudged me toward the door and we headed back to his car where he pulled out a Bell South book, then keyed Pierce's number on his cell phone. I could only hear Punt's side of the conversation, but after he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he nodded.

“Pierce took Dad out Saturday morning, but he'll only talk about it at his house, one on one. Cell phones never guarantee privacy, so we're heading for Slone's place, okay?”

I nodded. “This guy must be onto something he doesn't want the whole world to know.”

We left the marina and drove to Flagler Avenue where we found plenty of parking places at the Pierce address in the newer part of Key West. A coral rock privacy fence enclosed a tiny yard and provided a backdrop for an abundance of blooming poinsettia plants. Slone had seen us coming and he stepped onto the front porch of his frame house, wearing red short shorts and the short-sleeved top to a black wet suit. He reminded me of a trained seal: heavyset, sleek, slow moving. The three of us knew each other slightly, and we exchanged greetings as Slone offered us seats on a rattan couch while he claimed the porch swing that squeaked on rusty chains. Nothing unusual about that. Even plastic tends to rust in the Keys.

“We're trying to check on Dad's activities last Saturday,” Punt said. “We hope you'll be able to share some information.”

“Helping the police out?” Slone's expression never changed, but I sensed a guarded look darken his eyes as his gaze went slightly to the left of Punt's head.

“We may help them if we can.” Punt smiled in a way that invited Slone's confidence. “We thought Dad was supposed to keep records at a black-fin shark tournament at Key Colony Beach last Saturday, but the tournament officials didn't have his name on their roster. Have any idea about why? Had he engaged you for the day?”

“It's a long story,” Slone said. “I'm guessing maybe Beau'd rather keep that story private.”

“He swear you to secrecy?” Punt asked.

“No. But…”

“I'll wait in the car if you want to talk to Punt alone,” I offered as I started to stand.

“No.” Punt took my hand before I could step from the porch. “Slone, I think the police may call on you soon with these same questions. It might help Keely and me a lot if we had the information first.”

“Don't want no mix-up with the police,” Slone said. “Don't want to get Beau in any sort of trouble. Don't want to tarnish my own reputation. I run a clean operation, a reputable business.”

“We're trying to keep Beau out of trouble, Slone. What was he doing on Saturday that you're being so secretive about? What's it got to do with your business reputation?”

Punt pulled another twenty from his pocket, but Slone shook his head and looked into the distance.

“Want no part of your bribe. If you want to know more about Saturday, ask Beau. I got no more information to offer you.” Slone stood, clearly giving us a signal to leave. His words chilled me, but Punt smiled and remained seated.

“I'm just guessing, Slone, but did Beau have an accident? A serious accident involving both of you?”

Slone gave a deep sigh. “Why else would we go to the hyperbaric unit?”

“Didn't know you went there until this minute. Lucky guess on my part. Come on, Slone. Give me a break.”

Slone walked to the porch steps, giving us only a follow-me-then-leave-my-property look. “Check with the hyperbaric unit. That's all I'm going to say to you now or in the future. The accident wasn't my fault. Never my fault at all. If Beau says different, then he's lying.”

I followed Punt to the car. “What's a hyperbaric unit?”

“A decompression chamber for bent divers.”

“Guys who've gone down too deep?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It's a decompression tank used to help divers who've tried to surface too quickly. Sometimes divers do that—either accidentally or purposely while they're showing off.”

“Beau's no show-off. We both know that.”

“Let's drive to Marathon—to the hospital. Dad may have a legitimate alibi after all. If he does, I want the police to know about it quickly.”

We were about to pull away from the curbing when Beau drove up beside us, squealed his tires, called to us through the open car windows. “Follow me,” he ordered. He took off before we could ask questions or refuse to follow.

We trailed him to the park across from Higg's Beach, left our cars in the small visitors' parking strip, and joined him at a picnic table. A group of kids shouted and laughed as they played tag around a swing set. Near a tennis court, an old man walked his dog, carrying a plastic bag for cleanup duty.

“What's going on, Dad? Are you okay?”

“I am now, but I guess Slone's already told you I wasn't so okay on Saturday afternoon.”

“Slone told us very little. You and Slone had a diving accident?”

Beau nodded. “I called Margaux to tell her I'd be away all night on Saturday and maybe most of Sunday. She knew the truth. She could do nothing at the hyperbaric unit to help me, so I urged her to stay away. She tried to protect me by making up the story about my working the fishing tournament—thought the white lie would help me save face and that it'd make no difference to anyone.”

“How does Slone come into the picture?” Punt asked.

“I'd promised Slone to help him with his dive boat on Saturday and that's where I went. We left the marina and headed for Hawk Channel in his boat about mid-morning.”

“I guess Margaux's lie explains why the tournament people said they didn't have your name on their work list,” Punt said.

“Hear me out, please.” Beau shook his head as he looked at the ground. Guilt? I couldn't tell, but I felt sorry for him, for his discomfort.

“Margaux always hated to see me go diving even though she knew diving was one of my lifelong passions and that I was an expert at it. Every year a few Keys scuba divers die in the sea, usually as a result of carelessness, or sometimes as a result of sudden illness. Margaux frequently let that knowledge cloud her thinking, and she had begged me to stay ashore last Saturday.”

“You went anyway?” Punt said.

“Yes, I went against Margaux's wishes, but when I got into trouble and called her, she wasn't the kind to say I told you so. She knew I'd be deeply embarrassed, so she tried to cover for me. She always had my best interest at heart.”

“Her little white lie turned out to be very important.” Punt sighed. “I don't understand all of this. Tell us about the accident.”

“Are you okay?” I broke in. “You looked really exhausted when you came home late Sunday afternoon. Of course, you were grief-stricken, but now I see more to the situation than that.”

“Exactly what happened, Dad?”