Pier Pressure (8 page)

In the tropics and near-tropics people sometimes say they've seen the flash of a green light at sunset—right at the instant the sun slips over the horizon and into the sea. Nobody has assigned meaning to this light, and personally, I've never noticed it, nor have I spent a lot of time looking. Gram claims to have seen the oddity twice as a girl in Havana.

Jass insists that both she and her mother saw the green flash from a cruise ship in the Bahamas. So, in the whimsical notion that her mother may be watching from above, Jass included one green bulb in the lights outlining the widow's walk. Every now and then someone writes a human interest article about the green flash and the lights on Ashford Mansion.

Right now none of the lights helped me find my bicycle. I felt sure I'd left it leaning against a palm tree right inside the hibiscus hedge at the back of the property, but I couldn't find it. What had possessed me to make me forget to lock it? Squinting at the ground, I walked the whole length of the hedge. Then I moved a few feet closer to the house and walked the same distance again. No bicycle. My fault for failing to chain it to the palm tree, but I didn't think anyone had seen me push through the thicket into this private backyard. Damn! I needed that bike.

I hated my choices at this point. I could walk on home. Neither my shop nor my apartment were beyond walking distance. On an island only two miles wide, almost everything lies within walking distance. Yes, I could hoof it. I hated to intrude on the Ashfords right now by asking for a ride.

A few minutes later, I told myself my need for my bike tomorrow morning made my decision to call Jass realistic. To my own need, I added the fact that Gram sometimes had errands for me that required wheels. Deep down, however, I knew the events of the day had rattled me, shaken me more than I cared to admit. I hated the idea of walking alone on Key West tonight. Pulling out my cell phone, I keyed in Jass's private number.

“Keely?” Of course Jass sounded surprised to be hearing from me again so soon.

“My bike's disappeared. Ask Punt if I can still take him up on his offer of a ride.”

“You sure you looked carefully? We seldom have trespassers.”

“I'll take another look, but…”

“Never mind, Keely. Punt's on his way down. He'll take a look around and then drive you home if the two of you can't find your bike.”

“Thanks a bunch, Jass. Hate to bother you.”

“No bother at all.”

By the time I shoved the cell phone back into my pocket, Punt stepped outside. I won't say he hurried. Punt seldom hurries, but he did act concerned. Together we paced across the backyard as I had done before, and then we retraced our steps and covered the same territory again.

“Strange,” Punt said. “Better call the police and report the bike missing. No way you can collect any insurance unless you've reported the theft.”

“Think I'll wait and report it tomorrow. Don't want any more talk with the police. I've had the full course for today and I'm sure you have, too.”

“Yeah,” Punt agreed. “Tomorrow's soon enough. I don't mind driving you home. Glad to escape the planning session upstairs, and there's nothing anyone can do right now to relieve Dad's grief. Anyway, he'd rather listen to Jass than to me.”

“Planning session?” I ignored the veiled allusion to the rift between Punt and his dad.

“Yeah. Dad and Jass are already planning Margaux's memorial, deciding who to include in such a private service. I wanted to tell them to include me out, but I suppose that's wishful thinking.”

I hoped the invitation list wouldn't include my name either, yet I knew it would. It wasn't that I disliked Margaux or disliked celebrating her life, but I hated funerals and memorial services—especially those for victims of violence such as Margaux…and my mother. I didn't share my feelings with Punt, nor did he share his with me. We both slid into his Karmann Ghia and when he turned the corner into the early evening traffic, I touched his arm and pointed.

“There, Punt! Look! Right there on the sidewalk dead ahead of us! Well…he's behind us now. We've passed him. Slow down. That kid's riding my bicycle.”

Punt braked the car. “You sure? Bikes tend to look a lot alike. Especially after dark.”

“I'm sure. Those baskets are my trademark. You don't see many bikes with green baskets that glow in the dark mounted on each side of the rear wheel.”

Punt pulled the convertible into a vacant driveway, opened his door, and yelled at the blond-haired kid on the bike who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve. Even though the night had grown chilly, the kid was barefoot and he wore only a tank top and cut-offs.

“Hey, Buddy,” Punt called out, and I joined him on the sidewalk as we jogged toward the boy. “Where'd you get that bike?”

For a moment the boy looked as if he might drop the bike and run, but after a second or two, he turned and pushed the bike toward us.

Punt said no more. Towering above the kid, he stared down at him with a gaze cold enough to freeze ice.

“Gee, mister. I didn't steal the bike. A guy on the street gave it to me. Really. That's pure truth. I'm no thief.”

“What guy?” Punt and I both looked up and down the street, seeing nobody in sight in either direction. The boy's lower lip trembled as he followed our gaze and shrugged. “A big guy came riding up to me on the bike and said, ‘Hey kid, you want a neat bike?'”

“We're supposed to believe a story like that?” Punt asked. “Tell us the truth and give the bike back. That's all we want. The bike back.”

“But that's exactly how it came down.” The boy glared at us and stamped a bare foot against the concrete. “I'm late getting home from Mallory and I knew Mom would skin me alive. So I had speeded up from walking to jogging when this big guy appeared from nowhere, gliding along sort of slow-like on this here bike.”

The boy hesitated and I prompted him. “Then what happened?”

“He offered me the bike. He shoved it at me and disappeared, jogging off toward Highway 1. He didn't even hang around to see if I wanted it. But I guess he knew I would. Who'd turn down a free bike?”

“What'd he look like?” I stepped closer to the bike and gave it the once-over, seeing no damage. “Can you describe him?”

“Beer belly.” The kid grinned. “Big guy. And tall. Wore jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. If he hadn't been so nice to me, I'd have been scared of him, that's for sure.”

“Probably a thousand people on Key West tonight would fit that description,” Punt said. “Give us the bike and get on home. Don't borrow any more bikes—at least not tonight.”

The boy thrust the bike at Punt and turned to leave. We watched him take a few steps, then he stopped and turned back toward us.

“One thing about the guy looked different,” he called. “He seemed young, young as my dad maybe, but bald. When his hood fell back and he walked under a street light, the beam sort of bounced off his head. Maybe he has cancer or something. A kid in my class has cancer and the doctors shaved his head. Maybe…”

“Run on, kid,” Punt said. “We believe you.” Then he turned to me. “Jude! I told you you couldn't trust a restraining order.”

“I believe you, Punt. It's only a worthless piece of paper.”

I didn't tell Punt that I'd seen Jude walking on Grinnell Street that morning and that Gram had seen him walking past my shop. Had Jude been following me all day? My scalp tingled at the thought of him following me, furtively watching me turn into Jass's backyard, waiting until dark to skulk off with my bicycle. For all I knew, Jude might still be lurking nearby, waiting to catch me walking home alone in the dark.

“Sometime I'd like to know how Jude Cardell talked you into marrying him. I know it's none of my business, but after high school you wouldn't give me the time of day, yet that bastard…”

I didn't remind Punt that after high school he came on as a druggie, in and out of jail and making headlines in the newspaper's daily
Crime Report
on a regular basis.

“Well, now what?” Punt looked at the bulky bike and we both knew it wouldn't fit into the Karmann Ghia. We walked back towards our driveway parking place.

“I can ride it home, Punt.”

“No way will I let you even consider riding it home with Jude in the neighborhood.” Punt thought for a moment. “Tell you what. You drive the car going slowly, and I'll pedal along behind you.”

“No way. That won't do. I don't ride at night—no lights, too dangerous.”

Once we reached the car, Punt backed from the driveway and onto the street. He got out, helped me into the driver's seat, and handed me the keys. “Let's go. I'll hang on and you can pull me. Your house or your office?”

I sighed in resignation. “My house. Georgia Street, and be careful.” I wished I were spending the night at my office. At least Gram and Nikko were nearby on Duval, and several other merchants lived in apartments above their shops. However I had promised Mr. and Mrs. Moore to look after their home. Georgia Street lay in a safe part of town, but up-north snowbirds owned many of the houses—people who only came to the Keys when cold chased them from the northland.

When I stopped the car in front of my place, Punt took my hand in his and squeezed it so tightly I felt my ring cut into my finger.

“I'm walking you to the door, chaining your bike to the porch rail, and seeing you inside, Keely. Then I'll circle this block for awhile. Anything strange happens, you give me a buzz.” He jotted his cell phone number on a scrap of paper he pulled from his glove compartment.

“Thanks for your help and your concern, Punt. I appreciate.”

At the door, he waited until I unlocked it and snapped on the porch light as well as an inside lamp.

“Take care, Keely.” He paused for a moment, then turned and walked back to his car.

Eight

I ENTERED THE house with the eerie feeling that someone lurked inside waiting for me. Hiding. Waiting. Ready to pounce. My heart thumped like a steel drum and I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my jumpsuit. The drapery at the front picture window hung open and I started to close it. No point in letting anyone outside peer in at me. On second thought, I dropped the pull cord and left the drapery alone. If Punt circled the block as promised, he'd be able to see inside, see if anyone or anything threatened me.

At the time I agreed to house-sit for the Moore family, I'd liked the place—the backyard pool, the floor plan, the Florida decor. A shotgun house, Gram called it. A person could shoot a bullet down the central hallway, hitting nothing but the back entryway. The bedrooms, the living-dining room, and the kitchen all opened off that central hallway. Mrs. Moore had left the scarred pine floors bare and had covered the worst spots with throw rugs.

Since she and her husband planned to remodel the place, they had bought a minimum of furniture. The sea-blue cushions she'd flung here and there for accent color contrasted nicely with the varying shades of tropical foliage growing in old clay pots. Each room of the home looked like a page from
House Beautiful
—the
before
page. Mrs. Moore tried to explain and to show me pictures of how she imagined the
after
page would look following the remodeling. I didn't envy her all that work, or if she planned to hire help, I didn't envy her that chore either. Key West has plenty of willing handymen—unless the sun's shining and it's a good fishing day.

Tonight my fear of Jude Cardell erased any beauty the old house might have had from my mind. Walking slowly to the first bedroom on my left, I snapped on the light before I entered and took a careful look around. Then, stepping inside the room, I peered into the closet, under the bed. Nothing. I felt like an old maid taking needless precautions to avoid some nonexistent intruder, but I couldn't help myself. I picked up and carried a knife from the kitchen as I checked out the second bedroom and then the rooms that opened on the right side of the central hallway. Nothing unusual. I slipped the knife back into a utility drawer. I breathed easier as I drew the drapery across the front window, feeling sure Punt had gone home by now.

I sat in a spot where I could see both the back door and the front door as I called Gram. I doubted she'd put her ear plugs in for the night. She'd be thinking about me, worrying about me. She answered on the first ring.

I told her about the kid and the bike, but I never mentioned Jude. Some things Gram handles poorly, and Jude's one of them. Even though I tried to make light of the bicycle's near-theft, Gram heard the strain in my voice.

“Why you no sleep at my place tonight, Keely? You be safe here. Cops keep Duval safe.”

“I'm fine right here, Gram.” I didn't tell her about the murder suspect list Jass, Punt, and I had drawn up, knowing that, too, would worry her. “Beau arrived home from the fishing tournament and talked with us for awhile. Of course he was almost down and out with grief. He really looked terrible.”

“Dumb to grieve over that phony biddy,” Gram snapped.

“His wife, Gram. His wife. He loved her.”

“Tell me again, you be okay.”

“I'm okay and I'll see you bright and early in the morning as usual.” I breathed easier after I ended our conversation. Usually Gram showed a live-and-let-live attitude toward people, but never toward Margaux.

How long had it been since I'd eaten? I could hardly remember. I smiled, thinking of Jass's irritation whenever I said I forgot to eat. Jass claimed she'd never forgotten a meal in her life, and she probably hadn't. This day seemed to have lasted a month. Breakfast. A few dishes in the sink reminded me of toast, orange juice, and Cheerios.

I'd grabbed a Heath bar from my desk drawer after Detective Curry left my office, and Jass had offered snacks at her house. My stomach growled. Although I'd rather have dropped right into bed, I forced myself to scramble a couple of eggs, shred lettuce for a salad.