Pier Pressure (19 page)

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a great day for enjoying the sea. I guessed the winds at eight to ten, and few whitecaps frothed the gentle waves. Overhead the air filled with pelican-speak as five huge birds followed us until they saw we had no raw fish tidbits to offer.

As we approached a sailboat carrying red sails, another with yellow sails, and three more with white sails, Beau adjusted our course to give them right-of-way. I realize sailboats have problems with tacking, with catching the wind, but sometimes they think having the right-of-way makes them kings of the seas. I saw Beau's jaw muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth.

We motored along without speaking until Beau found a spot over the reef that suited him and stopped the boat. Since dropping anchor on the reef in this marine sanctuary defies federal and state laws and damages the coral, Beau tethered his yacht to a buoy environmentalists have floated there for that purpose. When the yacht was secure, we stood at the gunwale. I saw a variety of formations—brain coral, sea fans, staghorn, and elkhorn coral. Colorful neon gobies and coral shrimp swam in and out of the coral formations, now and then running from a yellow shark or a barracuda.

The minister stood at the bow, holding a round white box with a golden handle on top. Beau joined him at the bow as the minister read scripture. “For everything there is a season, a time to be born, a time to die.” We listened to many verses with heads bowed until he finished reading. At that time he placed the white box in Beau's hands and motioned toward the water.

Leaning low over the bow, Beau lowered the box into the sea and we all stood watching in silence. As the box sank into the waves, compartments on its side opened and rose petals floated to the water's surface. Jass stepped forward and dropped an array of hibiscus blossoms beside the rose petals. After a few brief moments of contemplation, the minister ended the service with a short prayer.

And it was over.

Beau returned to the wheel and pointed the boat toward Key West. When we reached the marina, the stench of dead bait fish sullied the air. Cormorants high overhead drifted on updrafts, but the ever-present pelicans hovered close to our stern, hoping for a handout while Beau maneuvered the boat into its slip. Harley Hubble and Detective Curry sat waiting for us on a bench near the chandlery. They rose as Beau turned the boat's care over to a dockmaster and we strolled along the walkway toward them. Both men wore business suits and ties, garb that set them apart from most of the locals and tourists who hang out at the marina.

“What's this all about?” I whispered to Punt, but before he could answer, Attorney Hubble spoke up, reminding me of Punt's words earlier in the afternoon.

“Detective Curry and I invite all of you to join the rest of Margaux Ashford's beneficiaries at the Hubble & Hubble
office to receive information concerning her will. The will won't be read in its entirety due to its complexity and its length, but you'll hear the specific details that pertain to each of you.”

I wanted to escape.

“It's been a long day.” Beau stepped forward, shaking his head and placing his hand on Hubble's arm. “May we put this meeting off until another time—or is it a command performance?”

“The other beneficiaries are waiting at my office.” Hubble eased away from Beau's touch. “They've been waiting for some time. I strongly suggest you accompany us to join the others.”

“Fine,” Beau said. “I'll drive Reverend Sotto home, then Jass and I'll come to your office immediately. Punt, please bring Keely and Nikko and join us.”

And that's what we did. Punt drove to Simonton Street where the Hubble offices occupied a small home converted by the Hubble family for business use—a practice common in Key West where property values had skyrocketed in the past few years. Both the house and its roof glowed sky blue in the late afternoon sunshine, but once we passed through the doorway we stepped onto somber gray carpeting that matched the walls, an upholstered couch, and a multitude of steel file cabinets.

Nikko and Otto and Shandy Koffan sat beside Beau and Jass, who had managed to arrive ahead of us. Harley Hubble motioned Detective Curry, Punt, and me to the remaining chairs. Moose lay at Nikko's side. At the sight of the dog, Otto reached for Shandy's hand and she eased her chair toward him in a protective way. I wondered why Otto feared Moose so much. Did he think Moose might detect drugs on his person? Maybe Otto didn't know that Nikko and Moose had retired from locating missing people, not missing drugs.

“A few of you may be familiar with some of the bequests listed in Margaux Ashford's will, but this reading of the will's highlights should serve to underline your previous knowledge.” Harley Hubble cleared his throat and read in a sonorous voice. I watched Detective Curry as he studied each of us. I wondered what he expected to see. Did he think something in our expressions, our reactions, would pinpoint one of us as Margaux's killer?

The reading lasted only a few minutes and it relieved me to note that Harley Hubble hadn't required Jude's secretarial services. Punt and I drove Nikko home, Nikko who had been bequeathed only a book contract and a few thousand dollars, then Punt and I joined Jass at Ashford Mansion
to discuss other aspects of the will, although my mind already buzzed on overload. It relieved me to learn that Beau had returned to the Hubble office to sign some additional papers.

“You heard it,” Jass said, offering us seats on her couch and then joining us in an easy chair. “Margaux's will leaves Punt and me each one million dollars. In the eyes of the police that amount would give us strong motive for murder. The will also leaves Dad the bulk of her estate, which gives him an even stronger motive, but…”

“But now we know just how much Margaux's ex comes into the inheritance picture, too,” Punt said, interrupting. “And the plot thickens.” Jass brought us tumblers of iced tea. “Otto Koffan wanted more from Margaux than his elbow-patched sport coat and custody of their CD collection of jazz greats.”

I almost choked on my tea. “I can't believe she left her ex a chunk of her estate. No way would I have left Jude anything but bad wishes, even if I'd had an estate—which I hadn't.”

“You heard what Harley H. had to say,” Jass said. “Margaux was under court order to divvy with Otto. I'm guessing the divorce judge didn't like the way Margaux dumped Otto.”

“Probably jealous of Margaux's lifestyle here in the Keys,” Punt said.

“During the thirty years of their marriage, Otto had worked as Margaux's secretary and business manager,” Jass said. “Dad had already told us that and also that after Margaux's marriage to him, he took over her business matters.”

“I'm guessing that the judge ruled that because of Otto's being left in meager circumstances, Margaux had to take care of him financially,” Punt said.

“You mean Margaux had to pay alimony?” I asked. “I didn't hear that lawyer say anything about alimony, and if that's true, I don't see why Otto's inheritance would make him a suspect. Wouldn't he have wanted Margaux to live forever—to keep those alimony payments dropping into his mailbox along with his Social Security checks?”

“Dad told me that pride kept Otto from accepting alimony,” Jass said, “so the judge placed a stipulation on the divorce. You heard what Hubble said. If Margaux married, she had to provide Otto a home to live in while she remained alive, a home of equal value to her own. And she had to agree that upon her death, Otto would inherit ten million bucks.”

“Ten million big ones,” Punt said, laughing. “I'm putting Otto at the top of my suspect list.”

“That lawyer talked so fast I can't remember half of what he read,” I said. “I'm surprised that after Otto's inheritance, there still remained money for Beau.”

“For Beau,” Jass said. “And for you, too. Half a million for you. Don't forget that.”

“That I remember very clearly, but I don't understand why Margaux would leave me anything.”

“Because your reflexology treatments relieved her back pain,” Jass said. “That's what Hubble said. How could you have missed that?”

I sat speechless.

“Couldn't happen to a nicer person, Keely.”

I was still sitting there when Jass stood and excused herself to run an errand in her greenhouse.

“May I take you to dinner?” Punt asked.

“Not tonight, Punt.” I pulled my hand away. “We need to talk about…we need to discuss…”

“Discuss what?” Punt asked. “I'm ready to discuss a dinner menu.”

“We need to think carefully about working together now that we know the exact stipulations of Margaux's will. A killer's at large and there's a possibility that we may be able to identify that person before the police start in-depth questioning of suspects.”

“So far the police have lurked in the background—observing, checking on the gun.” Punt reached for my hand again. “I think the in-depth questioning may start tomorrow, now that the memorial service and the reading of the will are behind us.”

“I'd like to avoid that questioning, if possible.” I withdrew my hand from his a second time. “I agree that we need to work together, but I want to keep our togetherness on a platonic basis. Please understand that.”

He reached for my hand a third time and I didn't have the heart to withdraw it again.

“You liked that kiss last night as much as I did, Keely. Admit it. Be real.”

“I am being real. Yes, I enjoyed our kiss, but I'm not ready for a new relationship with any man right now. I may never be ready. I don't want to hurt you—to hurt either of us, but our lifestyles are too far apart, our values too different.” I was out of breath from talking so fast.

“Maybe you're right. Maybe not. We'll play it platonic—for a while at least. Bearing that in mind, may I take you to dinner tonight?”

“It's been a long day, Punt…maybe…”

“Maybe we could eat on the patio at Two Friends
and nose around a little more concerning Consuela's alibi. There's no time to waste.”

“You're right, of course, but this day has been almost beyond bearing.”

“You'll feel better—we'll both feel better after a good meal. May I call for you around seven?”

Eighteen

AS USUAL PUNT arrived promptly and we walked to Two Friends
through a soft moonlit night like the ones pictured on the Chamber of Commerce brochures. Punt held my hand but I drew it away. Platonic. I tried to etch that word in my mind. Walking felt good and I welcomed the sense of freedom and independence it gave me as I watched motorists vie for parking slots. The cruise ships had sailed from Mallory and many of the sunset-watching crowd had left the dock and taken refuge in restaurants and bars. Even Punt's attempt at bribing a waiter for a table on the Two Friends
patio failed. We perched on high stools at the bar beside an old man who looked like Father Time—if Father Time happened to be wearing jeans, a tank top, and a green straw hat decorated with fishing lures.

We both ordered shrimp steamed in beer and garden salads with special house dressing on the side. Luckily, Bernie worked the bar tonight, and Punt quickly turned the conversation to Consuela.

“I told you all I know about her,” Bernie said. “She's a noise-maker dressed like a sexy slut and I've convinced the boss I've earned a drink on the house whenever she leaves. Saturday night she wore a banana and a mango pinned in her hair.”

“You talking about that Carmen Miranda type in here last Saturday night?” Father Time asked.

I turned to him quickly. “Who's Carmen Miranda?”

He looked at me and grinned. “Oh to be young! You kids probably can't remember Carmen Miranda. Singer. Actress. Wore slinky dresses and hats that looked like fruit baskets. Folks laughed, but they liked her.”

“You saw someone in here Saturday night that looked like that?” Punt asked.

“Right,” Father Time said. “Why, her picture's right there on the wall behind the bandstand. Guess she's some famous babe. She's hanging there right beside President Clinton, George no-W. Bush, Marilyn Monroe.”

Punt and I both slipped off our bar stools to take a closer look at the pictures taped and thumbtacked to the wall. Father Time spoke true. A small glossy of Consuela and her dance partner vied for space with a larger glossy of Frank Sinatra. I hurried back to the bar.

“Bernie, who's the guy in the picture with Consuela?”

“Don't keep track of Consuela's men friends,” Bernie said. “Too many of them. I'd lose count.”

“May we borrow that picture?” I asked. “We'll bring it back. Promise.”

Bernie shrugged and shook his head. “Not my picture to lend.”

Again Punt produced a twenty and this time Bernie grinned, nodded, and reached for the bill. I stepped onto the bandstand, removed the picture, and took it to our seats where we studied it carefully.

“I don't know her partner, Punt, do you?”

“Never saw him before, but the shot's small and blurred. Let's take it to a copy shop at the mall. They can blow it up, enlarge it. Maybe I'll recognize the guy.”

We ate the rest of our meal in a hurry, picked up Punt's car at my office, and drove to the mall on North Roosevelt. The copy shop smelled of new paper, ink, and fluids I couldn't identify, and the clerk looked as if he had never hurried in his life.

A toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth and he combed his greasy hair with tobacco-stained fingers as he slouched forward to greet us. “How ya guys doin' tonight?”

“Fine,” Punt said. “We'd like to get an enlargement of this photo. Can you manage that while we wait?”

“Sure thing, pal. What kind of paper youse want?”

“The best kind for getting a clear shot of the guy in the pic,” Punt said.