Pier Pressure (6 page)

When I could get my mind to focus, I thought about my own plight. In Margaux's case, a verdict of suicide would certainly make my life easier. If the police called Margaux's death murder, I'd be high on their suspect list. Once they finished investigating Beau, they'd start in on me.
The person who finds the body is always of special interest to the police.

“What do you say, Keely? Are you going to help me?”

“What does Punt think of all this?” I asked.

“Why not ask Punt in person?”

Punt had entered the room so quietly it startled me to see him there. His head almost touched the top of the arched doorway near the back stairway and his six-foot frame looked rangy but totally at ease. For once he wasn't wearing his mirrored sunglasses. I hated the sinister look they gave him. He wore his usual cutoffs and a blue tank top that matched his eyes. He'd pulled his long auburn hair into a neat ponytail much like Jass's and a leather thong held it in place. People call Punt the black sheep of the family. Maybe they're right, but I'm not into name-calling.

“Hi, Punt,” Jass called. “I think we need your help.”

In spite of all the gossipy talk against Punt, I still liked him and in a way I felt sorry for him, felt sorry for anyone who felt so unhappy he had to turn to drugs to solve his problems. Punt and I had dated a lot in high school. He reigned as the school's top jock football hero until he started doing drugs and got kicked off the team. That's when I'd dropped him, too. Reluctantly. Plenty of girls tried to save him from himself, but druggies seldom want to be saved. I had slightly more respect for him now than I had then, although he'd merely graduated from recovered druggie to local beach bum.

If Punt had ever worked a day in his life, he kept it a secret. Why should he work when he could draw on Dad's generosity and Mama's trust fund? I couldn't respect that. Punt watched the world through his mirrored shades, but his laid-back actions belied his love of speed—in cars, boats, and maybe women, too. I'd seen him tooling around town with several different barmaids who reminded me of Playboy bunnies seeking the warmth of the Keys—or Punt's bed. Punt was like a warning sign, cautioning everyone to keep their distance.

“Where've you been?” Jass asked him before he could ask what sort of help we needed.

“At Dad's on Grinnell. I wanted to see the death scene up close and personal. I hear the police are still talking suicide.”

“We can't let them do that, Punt.” Jass stood and paced. “You understand that, don't you? We can't let it happen.”

“How can we stop them? We can't dictate to the police. They might listen to you and Dad, but no way are they going to give me the time of day. I've seen them from the wrong side of the desk too many times.”

“We've gotta convince them that someone murdered Margaux. That's what Keely and I were talking about. Dad and Keely might be suspects, but we know they're innocent. Help us, please. We're making a list of likely suspects.” Jass sat again and picked up her pen and paper.

“Ha!” Punt flopped onto an easy chair across from the coffee table. “Margaux had few close friends in Key West. Your list could be a long one.”

“Okay. So we know few people beside Dad really liked her,” Jass said. “We'll need to narrow our list of suspects to those who had strong motive and adequate opportunity. That's pure logic.”

“You and I and Beau might be the first three to head the list,” Punt said. “Keely will make four.”

“Rats,” I blurted. “Just because I found her body? No fair. I liked Margaux. She may not have been my favorite person, but I had no reason to murder her.”

Punt exchanged a knowing look with Jass, kicked off his sandals, and propped his feet on the coffee table. “If Keely's going to work with us, we'd better tell her.”

“Count me in,” I said. “Tell me what?”

Six

“WE NEED TO discuss Margaux's will,” Jass said, “and you need to know its contents. The family hasn't read it in its complete form—too wordy and complicated. Harley Hubble drew it up for Margaux and she wanted the family as well as Otto Koffan to know of its existence, if not its complete contents. Her lawyer read her major bequests to us in her presence. He scheduled an in-depth reading of the will later.”

“Why did she need a will?” I asked. “Was she ill?”

“No,” Punt snorted. “She was
old.
Old people make wills.”

“Be real, Punt. Her age played no part in her need to draw up a will. Most smart people have wills—at least those do who want their assets to go to people they love and respect rather than to the government, who'll divvy them according to federal and state laws.”

“So she had a will,” I said. “Works for me. What did it say, in general, of course?”

“Margaux wanted to bond with us, with her newly acquired family,” Jass said. “I can understand that. The age difference between her and Dad. The gossip. She knew their marriage caused whispers and raised eyebrows.”

“Big time,” Punt said. “Really big time.”

“She worried that Punt and I couldn't, or wouldn't, tolerate so much negative attention, so to try to win us over, she bequeathed us each a small fortune.”

“Didn't hurt my feelings any,” Punt said.

“I'd heard Margaux rolled in dough even before she married Beau,” I said. “That true?”

“Right.” Punt grinned. “Family money. My very favorite kind. She managed to whisk it out of Greece and she settled in New York. She was one smart babe. I'm guessing her looks turned heads—the right heads. She made connections, made it big in commercial real estate as well as in the elite literary field.”

“We won't know the exact stipulations of the will until the formal reading with lawyers present,” Jass said. “We know who inherits, but not how much.”

“If we know who inherits, I guess we could make a list of suspects based on that information,” I said.

“Just remember you're in her will,” Punt said, “and it couldn't happen to a nicer person.” Punt smiled at me—a genuine smile, not one of his smirky grins that meant so little to anyone. I began to remember the neat kid I knew in high school.

Sometimes Punt and I accidentally found ourselves fishing on the same backcountry flats. As good sportsmen and good fishermen, we kept our distance from each other. Recently, I watched him boat his tackle during a run of bonefish while he released a pelican that had become entangled in monofilament line. Only a true sportsman would have taken the time to do that. A bonefish catch makes big-time bragging material for any fisherman.

“Maybe with Margaux's bequest you'll be able to close up shop, Keely,” Jass said, breaking into my thoughts.

“No way. I like my work, my office. Anyway, I'm not counting my javelinas before they're caught. That's an old saying of Gram's—comes straight from Havana.”

“Well,” Punt said, “no matter how you feel about Margaux's will, if the police cry murder, you'll be suspect along with the rest of us. We'll have to come up with some good alibis.”

“Like the truth,” Jass said.

“I can think of some suspects,” I said. “Shandy Koffan, for instance. If Otto inherits, Shandy'll get a trickle-down benefit, too. Maybe she's bitter at seeing Margaux living on easy street while she's still sporting spike heels and black mesh stockings and toting cocktails. As Otto's wife, she'd several reasons to be pleased at Margaux's death.”

“Could be,” Punt agreed.

“Maybe,” Jass said. “But Shandy's worked for me part-time in my greenhouse for months—even before her marriage to Otto. She loves plants almost as much as I do. I've never heard her badmouth Margaux.”

“And what about Nikko?” Punt asked as Jass added Shandy's name to our list.

“Nikko's in her will, too?” I asked.

“No,” Punt said, “but the studs around Smathers Beach say he's in her bed now and then.”

“Punt!” Jass scowled. “What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“What's an affair usually mean?” Punt asked. “Margaux enjoyed Nikko's Greek cooking? Wise up, sis. Nikko's built like a giant-size fireplug and that burly type appeals to lots of women.”

I'd never thought of Nikko as anything but my good friend and Gram's good friend, and Punt's description of him and his activities left me speechless.

“I don't see Margaux as Nikko's first extracurricular activity either,” Punt added. “Maybe he got tired of her. Maybe she demanded more than he could deliver. Or maybe she wanted out of the relationship and Nikko hated losing face—especially to an older woman. There're lots of reasons for a relationship to go on the rocks, but the rocks are usually in the bed.”

I couldn't imagine Nikko and Margaux involved in an affair, but I don't hang around Smathers listening to the beach-bum gossip.

“Murder seems a drastic way to end a relationship,” I said. “I admire Nikko. He helped me when I felt desperate and needed protection from Jude. He helps Gram. I hate having to consider him a murder suspect.”

“Maybe he'll have a foolproof alibi,” Punt said. “For my own sake, I hope he does.”

“Your own sake?” Jass asked. “What's your sudden interest in Nikko?”

Punt hesitated, then he shook his head and replied. “Guess I can't keep it a secret much longer—especially in view of Margaux's death. For several weeks Nikko and I have been formulating business plans, plans that have nothing to do with his private life. I know Dad would like to see me gainfully employed.” Punt hesitated again before he continued. “Well, I approached Nikko. He didn't approach me. It was my idea. He could have vetoed it, but he didn't. I suggested that the two of us form a private detective agency here in Key West.”

“Be real,” Jass said. “What do you know about being a private detective?”

“Not much—yet. But Nikko has a P.I. license valid in Florida and he's promised to teach me the ropes, to help me earn my own license. The general plan is for me to work for him as his assistant while I learn.”

“Sounds like pie in the sky to me,” Jass said.

“Give me a break, Sis. I'm beginning to realize I need some goals in life, but I don't think I could settle down to a desk job.”

“You used to paint,” Jass said. “Maybe you could take some lessons, paint some local scenes, and open an art gallery. Or maybe you could open a gallery and feature the works of other artists.”

“I'm not about to have an art attack,” Punt said with a sigh. “I find the idea of being a P.I. both appealing and exciting. I want to give it a try and I want the whole thing to be a surprise to Dad. The way today's scene is coming down, Nikko and I may have found our first case to solve. But we need time to find office space, to get a work plan going. If the idea doesn't fly, then Dad needs to know nothing about it.”

“I won't breathe a word,” Jass promised.

“I'd appreciate that.”

I didn't enter into their conversation that had threatened to escalate into a full-blown argument. “Let's get on with our list of suspects. I've already mentioned Shandy. And let's don't forget Consuela. Whenever Margaux's name comes up, Consuela shimmies her hips and shouts,
Someday I'm going to keel her
.”

“Everyone knows that's an idle threat,” Jass said. “Consuela's a loudmouth. People don't take her threats seriously.”

Punt shrugged. “Consuela may make idle threats, but any verbal threat against Margaux could merit police attention now that she's dead.”

“I've read Consuela's book,” Jass said, “the one that's been published. I thought it rather good and I think it was mean-spirited of Margaux to call it sentimental and inaccurate and to refuse to look at Consuela's new manuscript—her work in progress.”

“Even if Margaux considered the story sentimental and poorly researched, she could have helped Consuela revise it, make it better,” I said. “Consuela can be a pain, but most of us have learned to tolerate her.”

“She and Margaux butted heads every time they met,” Punt said.

“The sophisticated New Yorker meets the Cuban bombshell—and pow. Too bad they couldn't find a common meeting ground.”

“We all need foolproof alibis.” Jass stared into the distance as she changed the subject. “We know Dad attended the fishing tournament…”

“We know Dad
said
he planned to attend the weekend fishing tournament,” Punt said. “None of us actually saw him there.”

“You surely don't suspect Dad.” Jass stood and glared at Punt. “You'll be suspecting me next.”

“I'm going to suspect everyone until I know all the facts,” Punt said, “and don't forget the possibility that Margaux might have been done in by a street person.”

“A total stranger?” I asked. “You've got to be kidding. How can we check out every street person in Key West? Why would a street person have motive?”

“Maybe we're getting too deep into this suspect stuff,” Jass said.

“Yeah, right. Maybe we are,” I said. “Remember, we're not detectives. We've no authority. We can't go up to people and ask them where they were from ten until midnight last night.”

“I think we
can
do that,” Jass said. “Maybe we can't approach and question street people, but Keely, think about this. You talk to most of these suspects on a weekly basis as your regular customers. Surely working in a little conversation about Margaux's death would be easy enough. It'll be the subject
du jour
for weeks to come.”

“Maybe so.” I shook my head in doubt. “Her death will be the talk of the Keys…but…”

“Right,” Jass said. “You could begin a conversation by ‘remembering' where you were and the designated time. You could even talk a bit, reluctantly of course, about discovering Margaux's body. Then you could subtly ask your customer where he was and how he heard the news.”