Pier Pressure (3 page)

“All through, Detective,” he said at last.

The ambulance crew lumbered inside with a stretcher. Working quickly for such big men, they lifted Margaux's body onto the narrow plank and I saw a gun fall to the floor, saw another cop pick it up and drop it into an evidence bag before they covered her with a blanket, and carried her to the ambulance. The growing crowd waiting outside the crime scene tape called muted questions to the crew, but received few answers.

“No comment,” one officer called out.

“Stand back, please,” another officer ordered. “Give the ambulance crew room.”

“Where are they taking her?” I asked. “Hospital? Funeral home?” I looked away from the scene in the street.

“Morgue?” Detective Curry's voice sounded like a pair of scissors, clipping the word from a string of inner thoughts. Then he gave me his full attention once more. “Who found the body?” he asked.

“I did, sir.” He'd asked me that before, but I didn't remind him of that. Was he checking my memory? Did he think I might forget? Or change my story? I'd had enough interaction with the police during my marriage and divorce from Jude to know first-hand what he might be thinking.

“Your full name, please.”

“Keely Moreno.”

He wrote it down as if hearing it for the first time. “Address?”

“Duval Street.” When he insisted, I gave the exact address of my business.

“Did you touch anything in the house?”

“Yes, sir. I touched Margaux's…hand. Her left hand.”

He lowered his notepad. “Why did you do that?” His probing gaze bored into me. “Didn't you realize you might be contaminating the crime scene?” His laser beam stare carried an accusation.

“I found Margaux Ashford, my client, unresponsive, sir. I needed to see if she was still alive, to see if I, or perhaps doctors, could help her.”

Detective Curry's ballpoint scratched on his notepad, refusing to write. He jammed it back into his pocket and pulled out a fresh one. After testing it and finding it worthy, he continued his questions.

“…anything you say may be used against you.”
The words from mystery novels and TV movies replayed through my mind and again my teeth began to chatter, although the day had grown warmer.

“Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning,” Detective Curry said. “What time did you discover the body and what were you doing here at this time of the day? You had legitimate business at seven A.M.?”

“Are you going to read me my rights?” Again, the feeling of being utterly alone washed over me, threatening to drag me into some deep abyss I would rather avoid. If Detective Curry let me make one telephone call, I'd call Beau. No. Wrong. Beau was out of town. I'd call Nikko. A retired cop would know about a situation like this one. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“You're not under arrest, Miss Moreno. My gut feeling is that you happened to show up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Right now, I'm asking informal questions to help me figure out what happened here last night. You don't have to answer on the spot, of course. If you'd feel more at ease, I'll take you to police headquarters for formal questioning.”

At ease! Hah! I didn't have to answer his informal questions. Double Hah! But I knew if I refused to answer here and now I'd look guilty. Of murder? Of helping Margaux commit suicide? Some choice he offered me. Some fat choice I had. I tried to imagine what Nikko or Beau would tell me to do, but I sensed the detective's growing impatience. And I began to talk.

Three

“I TOLD YOU that Margaux Ashford is—was my patient, my reflexology patient. We have—had a standing appointment for her foot reflexology treatment every Sunday morning at seven. I arrived a bit late this morning due to some delays at my office, but my watch said only a few minutes past seven when I arrived and knocked on her front door.”

“Foot reflexology treatment?” Detective Curry lifted his ballpoint and waited. “She had a problem with her feet? Explain, please.”

Did he write in shorthand? Did he plan to record every word I said? I began to talk faster, hoping to confuse him and hoping he'd have trouble keeping up.

“I'm a certified foot reflexologist with an office on Duval Street.” I began my information dump, the explanation I gave to new patients or potential patients who showed interest in alternative approaches to healing. Only for prospective patients, I talked much more slowly and punctuated my words with frequent smiles. Now I kept a solemn face and used my memorized speech to stall for time, to give myself more moments to think. Could I speed-talk and think about something else at the same time? I hoped so, but as long as I talked about reflexology I wasn't talking about Margaux's death.

“Reflexology's an ancient form of pressure therapy. The Egyptians knew about it thousands of years ago. It involves applying focused pressure to certain known reflex points located in the foot. These points correspond to certain areas in the body. The therapy results in increased blood circulation to the affected body areas, relaxation in those areas, and a release of tensions. Reflexology has stopped pain for many people.”

I half expected Detective Curry to laugh or to question my explanation that obviously covered territory brand new to him. Since he did neither, he rose a bit in my estimation.

“So you came here on legitimate business,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you aware that the person finding a dead body is of special interest to the police?”

“Yes.” I could think of nothing else to say. Did he intend to accuse me of murder? Of assisting a suicide? I began to feel trapped, suffocated by my own breath and voice. And my feeling of aloneness penetrated more deeply into my being. I added fear of the police and their questions to my fear of Jude Cardell.

“How long had Mrs. Ashford been calling on your services?” Pen poised once more, Detective Curry gazed into my eyes.

“For a couple of years—more or less. I have an accurate record of each of her visits on tape as well as on my office computer.” I didn't tell him I had the tape recorder in my pocket. In his case, I considered it a don't-ask-don't-tell situation, but all my patients know I record our conversations during a work session. “If you'd like to see my records concerning Margaux Ashford, I'll print them out for you.”

“That may be necessary for the courtroom later, but not right now. I'll take your word that you have her records.”

The courtroom? Could he hear my mind shouting those words? Was he threatening me? I clamped my jaws together to keep my teeth from chattering as I pictured twelve jurors staring at me from a jury box while a black-robed judge banged a gavel for attention in the courtroom.

“Your reflexology treatments must have given Mrs. Ashford relief, right?”

“Yes, of course. That's why she booked the standing appointment.”

“Do you ever treat patients with shoulder and back pain?” He dropped his pad and ballpoint back into his pocket.

“Of course,” I replied. A trick question? I wondered. Why would he ask that?

“Are you taking new patients? I mean, if you could fit me in, I'd like to have you see what you can do for my shoulders. Doctors haven't seemed to help me any. Foot reflexology's a new healing concept to me, but I'm willing to try it. Is it painful?”

“Very little pain involved.” It amused me that this big guy, this formidable detective, might be afraid of a little pain.

“I like to play tennis and golf, but here lately…”

I hesitated. Would a detective investigating a suicide or a murder spend time asking questions about my reflexology business? About making an appointment? Something about his quick questions and his seemingly quick acceptance of reflexology as an alternative treatment put me on guard.

He came here to investigate a death, didn't he? Did he really have shoulder and back problems, or did he just want to see my office, see if I had a legitimate business? My mind swirled with questions I couldn't answer. Police detectives didn't have to make appointments to investigate, did they? Nothing could stop this man from coming to my office at any time with a search warrant or with more questions. Or nothing would keep him from coming to my office to make an appointment. I decided to take him at his word—at least for the time being. He wanted a reflexology treatment and I seldom turn down the chance to work with a new and needy patient.

“Yes, I can give you a time slot, but I'll have to check my appointment calendar at the office.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'd like to go there with you now. My men will finish taking care of the crime scene and notifying the next of kin.”

Now I felt almost sure that he wanted to check out my place of business. I considered telling him that Margaux had no next of kin except Beau, that she had been born in a Greek village where her family had all been killed by raiding Albanians many years ago. That she had escaped by playing dead until the raiders left. I kept quiet. Why should I be of help? Let this detective do his own detecting into Margaux's past.

“Do you care to ride along with me?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to go on ahead and let me follow you there?”

I nodded toward the reflexology equipment I'd laid on the entryway table when I stepped into the house.

“I travel by bicycle. After I've loaded my equipment into my bike basket, you're welcome to follow me to my office. Or if that's too slow for you, you can meet me there. Duval Street. My office's next to my grandmother's coffee shop. Celia Hernandez Sundries.”

“I know the place,” he said. “I'll meet you there. I've enjoyed your grandmother's espresso for years. Can't say that I've ever noticed your office, though.”

I had many mixed feelings about having Detective Curry visit my office right now. I'd left it very early, before I'd had a chance to straighten it up, make it presentable for visitors, and I've never been noted for my housekeeping skills. I had no choice. He followed me out the door.

Detective Curry helped me off the porch and down the steps with my reflexology gear, assisted me in loading it onto my bicycle, and then watched while I pedaled toward Duval Street. At least he didn't seem to think I might try to escape via bicycle. Of course, he beat me to my office. When I arrived, he already sat perched on a high stool at Gram's coffee bar sipping espresso.

Unspoken questions leaped at me from Gram's dark eyes, but she said nothing. I wondered if Curry had told her about Margaux, but I didn't want to ask. Plenty of time to talk to Gram about Margaux later, and I preferred to do it privately.

Since Detective Curry already knew Gram, they needed no introduction. He thanked her for her hospitality, set his coffee cup down, and we walked directly to my workplace. As I bent slightly to unlock the door, the ring on my necklace swung into his view.

“An interesting ring,” Detective Curry commented. “It has the rosy glow of Cuban gold. Is it a family piece?”

“Yes, my mother's wedding band.” I didn't go into the details about Mom's death and I hated being asked about them, but I felt his questions coming.

“Your mother lives in Key West, too?” he asked.

I opened the door, pushed my bicycle inside, then propped it on its kickstand, before I answered his question. “No, sir. My mother's dead. Her murderer's doing life without chance of parole in a prison up north.”

“Did this happen recently?”

“I was fifteen when she died. One crazed druggie went on a binge and snuffed out one worthwhile life. Maybe you remember the case. It made big news headlines at the time.” I wished I hadn't said so much. Didn't want him to think I was playing for sympathy or feeling sorry for myself, but when conversation turns to my mother, my feelings run strong and deep.

“Must have happened before I moved to the Keys,” he said. “I apologize for touching on sad memories.”

“Sad memories, yes, but I like remembering those good days when Mom was alive. Long before my birth, Gram sent Mom as a baby from Havana to Miami on the Pedro Pan airlift.”

“I'm not aware of that airlift.” He paused barely inside the doorway.

“You may recall reading a bit about it. It took place around nineteen fifty-nine or nineteen sixty. The organizers both in Cuba and Miami kept it very hush-hush at the time, but now I see articles about it in the papers every so often. Beau Ashford wrote a column about it last month.”

“No, I don't remember that airlift. I lived abroad then—with the military. But I'm interested. Tell me a little about it.”

Again, I suspected Detective Curry had ulterior motives for delving into more details concerning the Pedro Pan airlift, but I preferred that subject to the subject of my mother's death or finding Margaux's body. I wanted to keep him listening. I wanted to be the one talking—talking about anything except a dead body.

My office held the mixed fragrances of peppermint, sage, lemon—some of the soaps and herbs I used in oils and lotions. I led Detective Curry to a chair beside my cluttered desk.

“Please make yourself comfortable. I'll he right with you.”

I wheeled my bike back behind the partition that separated my office from my apartment. When I returned, Curry sat eyeing my desk, so I made a hurried pretense of straightening it, tossing a faded blossom from a crystal dish into my wastebasket, quickly replacing it with the blossom in my buttonhole. Then I shoved some unopened mail into my top drawer, slid a reflexology magazine to a desk corner. After that brief flurry of activity, I opened the privacy curtain for more light, but I placed a CLOSED sign in the window while sweat beaded under my bangs.

“You're closing right now?” Curry asked. “Don't let my presence stop your daily business.”

“I'm closing out of respect for Margaux Ashford,” I said. “I'll call today's clients in a few minutes.” Even as I settled into the swivel chair behind my teakwood desk and began talking, I still had the feeling that Detective Curry remained in charge.