Pier Pressure (10 page)

“No. No, I'm not sure. I can't guess how it came into your possession.” I lied. I could imagine how the gun got into Margaux's hand. Jude. Jude had to be at the bottom of this. I'd seen him on Grinnell Street. He'd threatened to see me dead. This was his way of carrying out that threat—to have me accused and convicted of Margaux's murder. When I spoke again, my voice came out a whisper. “Are…are you going to arrest me?”

“No, not yet. I told you that this'd be an informal questioning. It remains that. We appreciate your cooperating with the authorities. There may be a good explanation as to why your gun isn't here…as to why Margaux Ashford clutched it in her hand this morning. We'll do our best to find that reason. And we'll make certain that this is the gun that fired the bullet which penetrated Margaux Ashford's head.”

“I hope so, and I suggest you start your investigation by questioning Jude Cardell. I wonder where he was last night.”

“Your ex.” It was a statement, not a question so I didn't reply. “You think Jude broke into your office and took your gun, broke into the Ashford home, murdered Margaux Ashford?”

“I'm not sure what I believe.”

Detective Curry offered his chair to Detective Winslow, then he stood behind her as he began questioning me again. “When was the last time you saw Margaux Ashford alive?”

“A week ago on Sunday morning. She had a regular house call appointment.”

“When was the last time you saw the gun in your drawer, Keely?” Now he used my first name. A trap, an attempt to establish false friendship? I wondered what his response might be if I started calling him Jon. Men in authority sometimes use the first name trick to try to diminish a woman's sense of importance. I didn't call him Jon. I tried to answer his question.

“I can't remember when I saw the gun last. As I told you, I never use it. I dislike the thought of using it. I only keep it around because Nikko and Gram insist.”

“Who has access to that bottom drawer?” Curry asked.

“Me. I'm the only one.”

“You and anyone who comes to your office for treatments. Isn't that right?”

“I've never known anyone to go poking through my private desk.”

“But someone might if that someone needed a gun and knew one lay in your drawer. Isn't that right? All a person'd have to do would be to send you away on some errand that might seem perfectly legitimate. Or a phone call in your apartment might call you away. Or your grandmother might ask you to help her. Many things could entice you from your desk. Right?”

“Right.” I couldn't argue. My mind rebelled at the thought of handcuffs around my wrists. This was America. People had to be proven guilty before…or did people have to prove themselves innocent? Our legal system scares me more and more every time I think of it. That thought replayed through my mind again as I stared at the floor, waiting for whatever would come next.

“Miss Moreno, may we dust your desk for fingerprints, especially the bottom drawer—fingerprints other than your own?”

“Yes, of course. Please do.” I tried to imagine whose prints might be on that drawer other than my own. Any of my patients, I supposed, but certainly not Jude's. He wouldn't dare break into my office. Would he?

Detective Winslow went to the car for the fingerprint kit. After she returned with it, they dusted all the drawers, fronts, sides, edges, insides. It took many minutes before they had the evidence they wanted.

“We'll take these prints back to headquarters and check them out there.”

Detective Winslow packed up the fingerprinting gear and Curry spoke again. “That'll be all for tonight, Miss Moreno. We'll take you back to Georgia Street now if that's where you want to go.”

“It is.”

At my house, Detective Curry walked me to the door, waited until I stepped inside, and then rejoined Detective Winslow in the car. I watched them a long time before they drove away. The clock hands pointed to eleven, and I returned to bed feeling sure I'd lie awake until morning. I wanted to call Gram, Nikko, Jass. But no. No point in sounding an alarm.

Just when I began to relax and started to drift off, the phone rang. I bolted upright in bed then grabbed my cell phone. What now?

“Jass here, Keely. Hate to call so late, but I had to tell you. My hibiscus blossom won first place in Miami. The contest chairman just called. I did it. I won!”

The pride in her voice almost walked across the sound waves into my bedroom and I rejoiced with her. “Big congratulations, Jass! You're a winner. You deserve the honor. Can you get the news in tomorrow's
Citizen
?”

“Can't say about that, but people will know soon enough. Won't keep you now, but I had to tell you the news.”

“I'd really have been bummed out if you hadn't called the minute you found out. Again congratulations!”

I lay there visualizing Jass's excitement, letting it blot out my worries about my gun and the police. Many minutes passed before I relaxed and felt myself drifting to sleep.

I didn't know how long I had slept before I opened my eyes and saw Jude standing beside my bed. Shorts. Tank top. Bald head. He reeked of booze and pot as he leaned closer to me. How had he managed to get in? I tried to scream, but no sound came. Punt had promised to patrol the area for a while. Had it been an empty promise? Where was Punt now? But no. That had been a long time ago.

“How are you tonight, Kee Kee Keely?”

Jude had always called me Kee Kee Keely when he wanted his way in bed or when he wanted to beat me black and blue. His oily voice made me pull the sheet closer around my neck and shoulders as if mere cotton could protect me from his savagery.

“Get out!” I'd intended to shout, but the words came out a bare whisper.

“Have you missed me, Kee Kee Keely? Missed me enough to invite me back into your bed? Don't be afraid, Kee Kee Keely. I've come to give you a good time.”

“You've gotta be kidding, Jude. Get out of here. Get out right now.” My voice had returned and I heard myself shouting, raving. Jude laughed at me and jerked the sheet away, revealing my nakedness. Vulnerable. I lay there like a beached dolphin.

“Come on,” Jude said. “Let's play a few of our sweet games for old times' sake.” Jude pulled a padded billy club from his waistband. “This has always been my favorite toy. It may leave a few bruises, but no open wounds that require docs and emergency rooms—and the bruises'll be hidden.”

“Damn you, Jude Cardell! I have a restraining order. I'll report you to the law.” My phone lay nowhere near. I tried to prop myself on an elbow, reach for the pepper spray under my pillow, but Jude grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm.

“Stop! Stop! Please stop!” I managed to wrest my arm away from him, leap to my feet, and run. I headed for the back door, but I knew I had no chance of escaping. I heard his feet pounding behind me. I ran into the guest bathroom, through the adjoining door into the guest bedroom. Jude's steps pounded behind me. Closer. Closer. I wanted to give up. If I exhausted myself running from him, I'd have no strength left to fight him once he overtook me. And I knew he'd overtake me sooner or later. In one final effort, I headed for the back door, and then I sank to the floor crying. If I ran into the yard he could throw me into the pool. I huddled near the door, totally exhausted and unable to muster the strength to scream for help. I knew then that Jude would hurt me for one simple reason—because he could. Nobody could stop him—especially not me.

The kicks and blows I expected didn't come and I awakened in a cold sweat with tears still running down my cheeks. I lay prone on the kitchen floor for a few moments until I felt sure I'd been dreaming. It had been weeks since that same terrorizing nightmare had plagued me, but the shrink had said it might haunt me now and then for a lifetime. Dragging to my feet, I took another warm shower and once more I returned to bed. This time I slept soundly and peacefully until I heard crowing roosters trying to wake up the dawn. Cock fighting's illegal in Key West, but roosters still crow.

Monday morning. Seven o'clock. I had two hours until my appointment with Shandy Koffan at my office. Who had pinpointed Shandy as a murder suspect with motive and opportunity? Punt? Jass? Maybe me? I couldn't remember, but I supposed Shandy could be the guilty one—the woman scorned. No. Wrong. The wife of the husband scorned. Circumstances around Margaux's death and thoughts of yesterday's happenings played through my mind like a VCR on fast forward as I tried to outline a workable plan for the day.

Would the police tell the media that the murder weapon belonged to me? I had to tell Beau, didn't I? And Jass. And Punt. And Gram and Nikko. How could this be happening to me? I felt like a fly caught in a spider's web. All could do was wait and twist in the wind until the spider decided to eat me.

Ten

AT LAST I settled down enough to call Jass and Gram and tell them about being questioned at police headquarters, about my gun having been found in Margaux's hand, and that the police were checking to see if it was the death weapon. They believed me when I said the gun had been stolen from my desk, but what could they say? At least they knew the situation and I knew Jass would pass the news to Beau and Punt. Gram might keep the matter secret for awhile, but eventually she'd pass it on to Nikko. How I wished I hadn't ignored Nikko's advice to keep the gun under lock and key if I refused to carry it on my person!

I thought again about alibis. Would Detective Curry take my advice seriously and talk to Jude? I doubted that. Mentally, I scanned down our suspect list. I felt a need to get to work talking to suspects before the police called me in for more serious questioning that might require a lawyer and a response to the Miranda warning.

Punt. Could I trust him? I had to know that before I could continue with our plan of checking alibis. If Punt's alibi held up, maybe we could work together on investigating other alibis. Who'd check on Beau? Who besides the police? Even the police wouldn't rattle Beau's cage if Margaux's death went down on the books as a suicide.

Sloppy's
was only a few blocks from my office. That's where Punt said he'd spent Saturday night and that's where I decided to go first—even before I stopped by my office and said hello to Gram. I pedaled through the damp morning air to the bar where a likeness of Hemingway hung above the entryway. Don't know what I expected to find so early in the morning. Sloppy's
wouldn't open for several hours. I knew that, but I pounded on the closed door anyway.

No response. I pounded again.

“You got a problem, ma'am?” a motorcycle cop called to me from the curbing. “That place's closed. Maybe I can help. You leave something there last night?”

I started to reply, to make up a tale about a forgotten purse or car keys, when the door creaked open. An old Cuban leaning on a broom scowled at me.

“What you want?”

He waved at the bike cop and the cop rode away.

“You know Punt Ashford?” I asked.

“Everybody know Punt Ashford.” He scowled and gave me a closer look. “What you want?”

“I want to know if Punt came here on Saturday night, Sunday morning.” My shoulders sagged. How did I think a janitor could help me? Even if he came up with answers I wanted to hear, would anyone believe him? He didn't look like he'd ever been anywhere near a courtroom—or a bathtub.

“Why you want to know? You his woman?” He leered at me. “Punt Ashford be missing from your bed?”

I thought of a lot of smart and not-so-smart answers, but I forced a civil tone as I replied. “It's important to me and to his family to know if Punt patronized this bar on Saturday night.”

The janitor held out his hand and grinned, sticking his tongue in the hole where two front teeth were missing. “What you pay?”

I hadn't expected this, but I dug deep into the pocket of my jumpsuit and came up with a ten and slapped it into his grimy hand. He shook his head, grinned, rubbed his thumb and two fingers together. I pulled out two ones and showed him the inside of my empty pocket. He scowled and pocketed the bills.

“Punt not here on Saturday night.”

“You sure?”

“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask?”

“Think carefully.”

“Okay. He be here for a short while. I be sure.”

“Okay, so you're sure. What part of the night was he here?”

“Early part. Around eight or nine.”

“Not later?”

“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask? He have coffee then he leave.”

“You know a guitar man named Shim?”

“Never heard of no Shim. Worked here a long time. Know most everyone, but no Shim.”

“Thanks.”

He closed the door and I rode on toward my shop twelve dollars poorer. So much for Punt's alibi. He came to Sloppy's
early on Saturday night, but he left. And Shim? A strange name. Had Punt made it up? If he had made it up, why? What was he hiding?

Punt's lying disappointed me, left an ache in my gut, but what had I expected? Maybe he'd been out with some woman—a woman he didn't want anyone to know about. Did he think I'd be interested in who he went out with? I wouldn't care about his women friends or his alibi if I wasn't almost sure to be in for serious questioning about Margaux's death. The truth concerning Punt's whereabouts last Saturday night could make a big difference in my life.

I pedaled on to my shop and chained and locked my bike to a utility pole near the back door. Stepping inside, I opened the drapery at the front window and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Gram appeared at my door immediately, leaving three sleepy-eyed customers sipping espresso at her coffee bar.

“Good morning, Keely.” Gram's caftan swished as she entered my office and thrust the
Citizen
into my hand. “Take a read. Better to know what be said about you.”