Pier Pressure (12 page)

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until I gasped for air. So far the announcer had mentioned nothing about the murder weapon belonging to me. Did they have a reason for withholding that information from the public? I hoped so. I certainly wasn't going to be the one to broadcast it.

The announcer had barely stopped speaking when my telephone rang and I heard Jass on the wire.

“You hear the news, Keely?”

“I just heard.”

“Homicide.” Jass spoke again before I could get a word in. “They said nothing about the gun having been registered to you. I think that's very strange, but maybe there's a reason. Maybe keeping it secret will help their investigation.”

“Last night I asked if they were going to arrest me and they said not yet—whatever that may mean. I'm so sorry about this whole mess, Jass. So very sorry and so scared. What does Beau say? Have the police picked him up for questioning?”

“I don't know. I haven't seen him nor talked to him this morning. I tried to call him, but he must have taken his phone off the hook. All I got were busy signals.”

“Can't blame him for that. Oh, lordy, Jass. Maybe his phone line's been tapped. Maybe mine, too. We're going to have to be careful what we say unless we're one-on-one.”

“I suppose you're right about that, and I'm glad the police have made their decision. Of course, no good decision could be made. Either murder or suicide—both Dad and you are going to have to take a lot of publicity. We'll help each other. I'll let you go now, Keely. I wanted to be sure you knew the latest.”

“Thanks, Jass. What do you suppose will happen next?”

“The memorial service, for one thing. The mortuary had to make some intricate changes in their plans, but we've managed to schedule the service for tomorrow afternoon at three. That meets the requirements of the will. I'm still telephoning a list of people Dad wants to invite.”

“Can I help you?”

“Thanks, but no. I think verbal invitations should come directly from the family.”

“Or the mortuary. How about that?”

“Dad says family and we'll go along with his wishes. He's helping, too. Thanks for being there, Keely.”

Jass broke the connection as Consuela arrived for her appointment, necklaces and bangles jangling in a way that attracted attention to her outfit, which fit her like a coat of paint. Today she wore a yellow V-neck tank with a gold pelican pinned strategically to draw one's eye to her cleavage. Her tight slitted skirt matched the tank. She wore yellow sandals, and she wore yellow ribbons in her dark hair. Clearly, today was Consuela's yellow day.

Jass says that Consuela keeps scrapbooks on Cher and her activities and tries to match Cher's outlandish costumes and sultry voice. She may succeed with the clothes, but she's a total failure with the voice. Consuela only sounds loud loud loud.

“Consuela,” I began, “I've my federal tax forms almost ready, and it'd help me a great deal if I had your last name.”

“I refuse to tell you. Consuela's my only name.”

“If the IRS checks me out in depth, I could end up facing an audit if I can't supply a customer's full name.” I didn't know whether that was true or not, but I wanted Consuela's name for my own records. What kind of a business has no record of a steady client's complete name? I also asked her about it now to throw her a bit off guard. If she refused to answer that question, maybe she'd humor me by answering questions about her whereabouts at the time of Margaux's death.

“No use to ask my name, Keely. You know that by now. Famous people don't need last names. Cher. Avi. Madonna. Can you imagine any of those famous people supplying last names? It would ruin their public image. It would ruin my public image, too, even though I have yet to achieve my full potential as a writer.”

Consuela's like a casino with lights dancing off her bright costumes and with brassy sound effects brought on by jangling jewelry. Even her voice is brassy. Many times the scent of jasmine or Chinese orchids precedes her entry into a room. Everyone knows when Consuela approaches. Now, she flopped onto the patron's bench, kicked off sandals with spiked heels high enough to compromise her center of gravity and also high enough to cause every male on Duval to do a double-take.

“Radio shout murder,” she said as she waited for her footbath. “Radio can scream murder and it make me no difference. I continue to write. I continue working on my book for wee children.”

“How can you be so unfeeling? The Ashfords are in mourning. They're planning a memorial service, a burial at sea. As a part-time employee, maybe there's something you could do to help them.”

“I go to their door. I ask to help. Jass say I help most by leaving. So I keep silent at my home. I write.”

I suppressed a grin. I could believe Jass's response. Jass felt sorry for Consuela so she hired her on a part-time basis. Sometimes Consuela prepares snacks for people stopping in to see Jass's plants and she also helps Jass with cleaning. When she finishes her duties, she's free for the day. The arrangement suits them both.

“What're you working on now? I've read your first children's book and I thought kids would like both the storyline and the pictures.”

“Margaux found the idea barely acceptable but she said yes, publishers welcomed tales written in English easy enough for Spanish-speaking readers. ESL readers, Margaux called them.”

“English Second Language.”

“Right. Margaux also say the book wouldn't have been published but for her. She say she did careful editing that turn my garbled English into something understandable.”

Many times Margaux lacked tact when dealing with Consuela.

“Today, and for over a week now, I work on book in Spanish. No English second language; Spanish first language. There is market for such. Many Spanish-speak kids in American schools. They no understand English. They need Spanish words to comfort them while learn the English. I no need help to write Spanish.”

“Maybe the Spanish speakers should concentrate more on learning English,” I said. “Maybe if they had no choice but to read in English, they would learn more quickly.”

“Where were you the night Margaux died?”

Consuela's sudden change of subject caught me off guard. I was the one supposed to be doing the alibi checkups. Had she somehow heard about the gun's registry?

“I was home asleep.”

“You need to, as they say, get a life. Dull business, this sleeping on a Saturday night. Saturday night music play. Wine flows.”

“So where were you?”

“I danced the night away at Two Friends.”

“Who were you dancing with?”

“Two partners. One before band intermission. Another one after. Smart cookies no tell.”

“And smart cookies don't crumble. Remember that if the police come to you with questions.”

Consuela jerked her foot from my grasp as I put pressure on the bottom of her big toe. I retrieved her foot and continued working. Her alibi would be hard to check out. If Consuela had been present at Two Friends,
everyone would have been aware of it, but she could have slipped away between partners at the band intermission. Maybe slipped away long enough to shoot Margaux Ashford.

A little before noon, Consuela struggled from the contour chair without waiting for my consent. Had I hurt her? Did my mentioning the police upset her? Or was she angry because I wanted her last name? I tried to stop her, to talk to her, but she left in a huff. That happened frequently, but she always returned later to pay her bill.

Twelve

NO USE TRYING to stop Consuela! In her breakneck pace to leave my office, she almost bowled Punt over. For a moment I almost forgot my anger at Punt for lying to me about his alibi as I stepped outside to watch Consuela's departure.

“Whew!” Punt exclaimed, laughing. “I see Consuela's up to form.” He looked at me through his mirrored shades, waiting for a reply or a reaction, and when I didn't respond, he shrugged. “Just stopping by to see if you heard the news. The police called the house before they released the murder verdict to the media. Radio ran it first, but I suppose it's made the TV stations by now.”

“I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. Either way, it's dreadful news for your family.”

“Perhaps for you, too. You'll probably be questioned, again and again, you know.”

“Yes, but I can handle that.” I tried to forget the grilling I went through at the time of my divorce. Sometimes the police have a hard time believing the innocent. “If I tell the truth, I won't be blamed.”

“We'll all be there to back you up, Keely.”

“Beau's going to need our support, too. Rotten scenes may happen all round us, Punt, but the most important things are the ones that happen in our minds. We can't let gossip or accusations or insinuating questions get us down.”

“You're quite a philosopher,” Punt said. “Have the police told you to stay in town?”

“Yes.”

“Any more problems last night after I left you—I mean beside the detectives giving you their seriously personal attention?”

I wasn't about to tell Punt about my scare when the cat jumped onto the screen or about the nightmare that returned to terrorize me.

At first he had distracted me with his talk about the murder, but now my anger about his lying about his alibi boiled through my body. How dare he! How did he have the nerve to face me, let alone ask me questions? Somehow I kept my voice calm as I glared into the mirrors that hid his eyes.

“No problems last night, but plenty of them this morning.”

“Consuela? What got into her?”

“Consuela's a minor problem. Punt, I hate it when people lie to me.”

“Consuela lied to you? What about?”

“Not Consuela. You, Punt. You lied to me and you know what about. Did you think I wouldn't check on your alibi? Hah!”

Punt backed off a few steps, pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, and looked me in the eye. If his astonished expression was a put-on, he must have taken acting lessons.

“Keely, be real! I didn't lie to you. Why would I do that?”

“You tell me!” I led the way farther into my office, so passers-by wouldn't hear us arguing. “I stopped by Sloppy's
first thing this morning on my way to work. The clean-up guy said he worked there Saturday night. He said you had been there but that you left around eight or nine o'clock. He had no recollection of seeing you there late in the evening or sitting in with any band. None. Nada.”

“You must have been talking to Peg Leg. He's the one lying to you, Keely, not me. He knows good and well he saw me there. We even talked a few minutes around midnight.”

“Then why would he lie? It makes no sense. I tipped him, maybe not enough, but I gave him all the bills I had with me at the time. Even showed him my empty pockets.”

“He's a sly one and he knows how to work people for tips,” Punt said. “Also, he never thinks the tips are big enough. I think that's why he lied to you. Let's go to Sloppy's
and talk to him right now, make him 'fess up. Then I'll take you to lunch.”

“I want to hear the 'fess up part before I agree to lunch.”

I wanted to believe Punt. We walked the few blocks to the bar, dodging tourists who seemed to think they owned the sidewalk, sidestepping salespeople handing out brochures about this afternoon's twenty-five-dollar dive trip to the reef, tonight's moonlit dinner sail around the harbor. Sometimes I have to try very hard to remember that
-
if it weren't for the tourists, Key West would be like a dry watering hole. It scared me to think what might happen to this island's businesses if Americans once again had free access to Cuba's natural sand beaches.

Consuela and Sloppy's
had a lot in common. You could hear them both from a great distance.

A jukebox blasted a rock rendition of “Bus Rider,”
and tourists shouted at each other to make their words heard as they snarfed boiled shrimp steamed in beer and slurped margaritas. Punt led the way through a maze of customers, some standing in clusters, and some seated at tables. At the back of the room near the stage, a drummer, a guitarist, and a keyboard man warmed up their instruments, checking the sound system, probably seeing how many amps they could up the volume.

“Hey, Peg Leg,” Punt shouted and waved as he saw the janitor with broom and dustpan cleaning up shards of a Bud Lite bottle near the rear exit. The man limped toward us. I hadn't noticed the limp this morning, but then he'd stopped me at the door.

“What you want?”

Those seemed to be his favorite three words.

“Want you to tell this lady the truth about Saturday night. You know damn well I came in here, that I sat in with the band on their ten to midnight set. Why'd you lie to her?”

Peg Leg held out his hand palm up. Then he rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “You stiffed me.”

“You expect a tip for lifting my guitar case from the stage to the floor?”

“Right. I expect. You stiff me.” Peg Leg gave me a sly smile and I knew he'd lied to me to even the score with Punt. One bad turn deserves another.

Punt pulled out a twenty and dangled it low beside his left leg and out of Peg Leg's reach. “Okay you s.o.b., you tell this lady the truth, and be quick about it.”

With his lowered gaze never leaving the twenty, Peg Leg spoke up. “Punt Ashford be here last Saturday night. He play guitar with boys in band. Ten to midnight, then they break up. Leave.”

Punt raised the bill. Peg Leg grabbed it, pocketed it, limped away. “Now do you believe me?” Punt asked.

“I believe, and I apologize for doubting you. But Peg Leg says you left here. Where did you go? You said you and some guys jammed until three.”

“Went to Shim's place. He lives on Stock Island. A bunch of us jammed there until the wee hours—maybe even after three. But that was long past the med examiner's projected death time for Margaux. Let's forget it and have lunch.”