Pier Pressure (28 page)

“Excuse me, please,” Shandy said as she hurried to the beckoning customer.

“Certainly.” Mr. Moore's gaze followed her for a few moments, then he turned his attention back to me.

“The insurance company's offered a fair settlement for the house, so I'm trying to tie up the legal end of things here today—sign papers and all that.”

“I'm so sorry all your wonderful plans turned out this way. Will you look for another property to buy?”

“We're not sure.” He sighed. “This's been a blow to the wife. She's always wanted a retirement home where it's warm in the winter. Centerville, North Dakota doesn't offer much along those lines.”

“Can't understand why people live in such cold places.” I smiled and gave a mock shudder.

“Many times it's because they were born there. That's it in my case. Born and raised in Centerville—near Fargo. My family owned a small TV station and I inherited it.”

“A TV station! Wow! That sounds exciting enough to make Centerville an attractive place to live in spite of the cold.”

Mr. Moore worked on his pancakes a few moments before he replied. “I've made a good living with the station, but you know…”

“What?” I prompted.

“I've always wanted to be a private detective. Never made a big issue of it to my folks or to the wife. My dad would have been quick to ridicule the idea since I had a going business dropped right into my lap, and the wife would probably have agreed with him.”

“I suppose so.” I added a squeeze of lime juice to my papaya. I'd dreaded this talk with Mr. Moore, but now I lightened up. Mr. Moore had erased my guilt feelings by sharing the fire inspector's take on the blaze and the insurance company's plan to pay off without argument or lawsuit. Now with Jude dead, I saw no point in mentioning the black sweatshirt.

I felt more relaxed now, and I decided I liked sitting here enjoying a tasty breakfast and talking to Mr. Moore more than I'd like returning to my office to answer cancellation calls. Sooner or later I knew I had to face the fact that Jude's death might narrow our list of murder suspects. On the other hand, just because Jude was dead didn't eliminate him as a suspect. The sweet papaya helped me avoid thinking and wondering about who else might want to see me blamed for Margaux's death. At least Mr. Moore hadn't mentioned the Ashford murder.

“I did do one thing to pander to my desire to be a detective.”

Mr. Moore's voice snapped me back to attention, and I asked the question he obviously expected. “What did you do?”

Twenty-Eight

MR. MOORE HESITATED a few moments before he spoke, almost as if he were reluctant to answer me. I wondered if I had accidentally touched on a sore spot or pried into subject matter he preferred to avoid. Yet his words had invited my question, and I prepared to listen to his answer, full of curiosity by now. He took a long look around the room and then glanced over his shoulder as if he were afraid someone might be trying to overhear our conversation. I let my gaze follow his, but I saw nobody that looked remotely interested in us or our talk.

“Keely, I organized and now direct a local thirty-minute TV program called
Centerville's Most Wanted.
You're right if you've guessed the program's patterned after John Walsh's Saturday night program—
America's Most Wanted.
I've even corresponded with Mr. Walsh, asked his advice on airing my material. Of course, I keep my show in a time slot that doesn't conflict with his program.”

I smiled, wondering if John Walsh would consider a local program in Centerville, North Dakota strong competition. I also smiled because I liked Mr. Moore's idea, even liking the butterball of a man a bit better than I had a few minutes ago. He showed a lot of spunk and creative thinking. I admired that. He'd gone after what he wanted even when his family opposed his idea, and he'd managed to please them as well as himself. We had a few things in common.

“You mean that Centerville, North Dakota has enough major crime to fill a half-hour show once a week?”

He chuckled. “Well, my show featured a murder five years ago, and a kidnapping three years ago, but I have to admit that most of the crimes we highlight involve hit-and-runs, snatch and grabs, missing persons—who usually turn out to be voluntary runaways. I guess the crime my program highlights only seems major to the victims.”

“That's usually the case, isn't it? People are most concerned about stuff that involves them personally.”

“Right, but the public likes my program. I host it myself and my friends tell me they enjoy that. Also, the police chief has released annual statistics that show crime in Centerville has dropped in the last few years. I find that rewarding in many respects.”

“I think that's great. It makes a person feel good to know his work makes a difference. I know how important that is to a person's mental well-being. I speak from experience.”

I'd thought my comment might end our conversation. I really had no deep interest in crime, major or minor, in Centerville, North Dakota. I'd finished my bagel and papaya and Mr. Moore had pretty much worked his way through his meal, but he cleared his throat and signaled Shandy, pointing to his coffee cup. This time when she arrived, he looked at her closely, but he didn't try for another conversation. Shandy refilled my cup too. When we thanked her, she went on about her business.

“How long have you known Shandy?” he asked.

“Several years. She's been my reflexology patient for about two years. She's a nice person, a quiet and shy person usually, but she created a bit of a stir on the island when she married Otto Koffan.”

“How so?” Mr. Moore leaned forward.

I don't usually engage in idle gossip, but Margaux's murder had pulled the Koffans to the front of my mind. Now that Jude lay dead, Shandy and Otto had moved up on the list of suspects that Punt and I wanted to investigate. Maybe I should re-check Consuela's alibi. Or maybe Nikko's. But no. I couldn't believe Nikko killed Margaux. I didn't realize I'd let my mind wander until Mr. Moore spoke again.

“I sense a reluctance to reply.” He smiled, but I knew he wanted to hear about Shandy and Otto.

I made it brief, skirting around Margaux's murder with as few words as possible. “When Beau Ashford lost his first wife to cancer, and began dating Margaux Koffan, she divorced her husband, Otto. He quickly rebounded into Shandy's arms and they married. At first, after Margaux's murder there were only whispers, but the gossip grew. People talk. Even people in Key West who usually take things in stride.”

I thought Mr. Moore would ask more about Margaux's murder.

His next words surprised me and spared me from having to talk more about Margaux…

“What was Shandy's name before she married Otto?”

“Let's see…Shandy Mertz. Yes, Mertz, that's it. Why are you so interested in Shandy? I think she's done well as our waitress. Our service this morning's certainly been excellent.” I hoped he wasn't going to report Shandy to the manager for some infraction I hadn't noticed.

Mr. Moore reached for his billfold and pulled out a blurred photo of a woman and slid it across the table to me. “Have you ever seen this woman before? Look carefully, now. This's important to me.”

I studied the picture. “No, I don't believe I've ever seen this person. I don't recognize her. Should I?”

Now Mr. Moore's gaze bored into mine. “She reminds me a bit of our waitress, Shandy.”

I studied the picture more carefully. Then I pushed it back toward him and shook my head. “I can't see it. Can't see any resemblance at all. The woman in the picture has long dark hair and blue eyes. As you can see, Shandy Koffan has short blonde hair and brown eyes. This woman's almost fat. Her cheeks are well filled out. Shandy's slim and her face's almost a perfect oval—thin.”

“People can diet. Hair can be bleached. Hair can be cut. Eye color can be changed with contact lenses. Do you notice any similarity at all?”

Again I pulled the picture toward me and scrutinized the woman's features. “I'm sorry, Mr. Moore, but I see no similarity at all. None.” I wanted to suggest that he was letting his detective urge get the better of him, but I corked that comment.

“Look right here.” He placed his thumbnail on a tiny heart-shaped scar near the woman's right eye. “I consider this a very unusual scar, and Shandy has a scar similar to it.”

“I've never noticed such a scar on Shandy's face, and I see her frequently in my office. Are you sure?”

He started to signal Shandy for more coffee, but we both looked all around the dining area and couldn't see her.

“Maybe she's taking a break,” he said. “Do you have time to wait 'til she returns?”

“Of course.” I turned the conversation to Jass's plants, her blue ribbon. No point in telling him more about Margaux's murder or of my being a suspect. I guessed that Key West crime seldom made headlines in Centerville, North Dakota.

The breakfast hour was drawing to a close and nobody stood in line waiting for our table, so we asked another waitress to refill our cups and we waited.

When Shandy returned to the area, Mr. Moore saw her first and quickly beckoned her to our table.

“Our check, please, Shandy.”

We both studied her face carefully as she pulled out her pad and pencil and tallied our bill. I saw no sign of a heart-shaped scar. Mr. Moore said nothing as he left her a generous tip on the table and went to the cash register to pay the bill. Once we were back in his car, he shook his head and sighed.

“I must have been mistaken. Must have been the early morning lighting in the room. I thought I saw a scar when we she first showed us to a table, but I admit there's no sign of a scar now. Of course she could have repaired her makeup while she took a break, could have hidden it under some of that goop on her face.”

I smiled, but he had aroused my curiosity. “Is that woman in your picture one of Centerville's most wanted?”

“Right. She most certainly is. We think her name's Sal Mitchell and she's wanted for a capital crime now forgotten by most people—forgotten except by the ones directly involved, directly affected.”

“What'd she do?”

“She drove the getaway car for bank robbers when they hit a branch bank in Fargo. The outside surveillance camera caught the woman on film and I had her likeness blown up so I could study it better. I intend to bring that woman to justice sooner or later. She might help us solve that crime. A bank customer lost his life that day—my father.”

“Oh. I'm so sorry to hear that.” Suddenly I felt a common bond with Mr. Moore. We'd both lost a parent to a gunman. Now I could understand his deep need to detect crime, to run an anti-crime show on his TV station. “Did the police catch any of the robbers?”

“One died on the spot—shot dead by the police. One escaped in the getaway car. Police found the abandoned vehicle later, but the robber and the car's driver are still at large and in hiding. They may have left the country. I know all too well the case's cold, but it's still very much open to investigation.”

“If I see any clues, I'll call you up north, but I doubt if Shandy Koffan is the woman you're looking for.”

“You remember that promise. Call collect. It would give me great satisfaction to help the police solve this case. I've a feeling they've really shoved it onto a back burner.”

Mr. Moore returned me to my office and double-parked long enough for me to get out. Car horns blared, but he paid no attention.

“Thank you for our visit, Keely.” He leaned over to call to me through the open window.

“And I thank you for a lovely breakfast.” I waved goodbye and he drove off toward the airport, leaving me to think more deeply about Shandy Koffan.

Twenty-Nine

WHEN I LEFT Mr. Moore's car, Punt beckoned to me from where he sat sipping espresso at Gram's coffee bar. I joined him although my slightly queasy stomach and my shaking hands told me I'd already had more than enough coffee. Gram stood pouring steaming water into the cappuccino machine and I knew she had an ear carefully tuned to our conversation.

“How'd it go?” Punt asked. “Did he want your head on a platter?”

I pulled myself onto a high stool beside Punt's. “No head. No platter. The insurance people have promised payment, and he's satisfied that once the loose ends are tied up, he'll receive adequate compensation.”

“He buy another place?” Gram asked. “Another fixer-upper? Market sky high. Fixer-upper help hard to find.”

“So what else's new?” I grinned at Gram. “Key West real estate's always sky high. You snagged the only bargain on this island over thirty years ago.”

“Fixer-uppers hard to find, and fixer-upper helpers only work no-fishing days,” Gram said.

“Right, Celia.” Punt grinned and nodded. “Given a bright sun, a smooth sea, and calm winds, red-blooded locals float their boats and bait their hooks.” Then Punt looked back at me. “Did Mr. Moore tell you his plans?” Punt's simple question belied the curiosity only partly hidden in his eyes.

“No. He and ‘the wife' need to think about the situation at greater length. He didn't blame me for the fire and it relieved him to know I'd escaped injury. He's really an interesting person in spite of his sometimes chauvinistic attitude.”

Punt smiled. “He didn't seem like your type to me, Keely. You holding back something we should know?”

“Nothing big, but I found it interesting that he produces a half-hour TV show in North Dakota—
Centerville's Most Wanted
.”

“I suppose they have crime there, too.” Punt slid from his bar stool. “Have time for a short ride, Keely? Got something to show you.”

“Sure. Where's this something?” I wanted to share Mr. Moore's interest in Shandy with Punt, but not in front of Gram, who'd disliked Shandy from the get-go.