Daiquiri Dock Murder (6 page)

I looked around the boat, trying to avoid imagining Diego losing his wife, trying not to imagine fifty people jammed aboard, all the time knowing shark-infested waters lay only a few feet below their toes.

“Didn’t they have laws in those days about overloading the boats?”

“I suppose the Coast Guard tried to maintain laws, but with so many boats at sea, officials faced an impossible job. They couldn’t monitor all of that vast number of boats and enforce safety regulations. But after a few trips, Captain Varnum must have become a wealthy man.”

“I wonder what happened to him—where he hangs out today.”

“Nobody seems to know—or care. The boatlift ended when President Carter realized Castro was sending murderers, thieves, and mentally deranged people as his gift to America. It’s a time lots of people like to forget. Probably several of today’s Key West citizens along with Diego arrived here on that boat lift.”

Murderers. Thieves. I refused to think of Diego as anything but a good guy and an honest citizen. “And many of today’s Cubans may have tried to enter Florida illegally, trusting the wet-foot-dry-foot law to help them—if they’re lucky enough to reach dry land.”

“Yeah,” Kane opened a package of chips and offered me some.

I enjoyed their salty crispiness, but I wanted to forget the long-ago boatlift and focus again on the here and now. “Kane, many of my columns touch on people and history, but let’s forget the past for a while. I’ll label Bucky Varnum a crook and a cheat, but I want to hear what you know about last night and Diego.”

“People forget history at their peril, Rafa. Didn’t mean to bore you.”

Chapter 6

“You weren’t boring me. You never bore me. The history of your shrimp boat fascinates me—especially since Diego was a part of it. But for Pete’s sake, please tell me what you’ve heard about Diego’s death. What’s the street talk?”

“Haven’t had much time to listen to street talk. Been busy getting your car and finding legal parking for it. Getting you out of the hospital.”

I smiled. “Sorry to have been such a bother.”

“No bother at all. Consider me at your beck and call—especially when you smile.”

“Come on, Kane. Give! Quit teasing and stop stalling. You must have heard some rumors.”

“Okay. But they’re just rumors. Some people are asking where Pablo’s hanging out.”

“Hmmm. Diego’s son.”

“Right. His son who’s frequently been heard arguing with Diego—over money. Pablo wanted more. Claimed he owed college debts and that Diego should help pay them. Pablo is Diego’s next of kin. And several people overheard him demanding money from good old dad.”

“I don’t know Pablo well—just from meeting him when he plays drums with the combo at The Frangi. Although I’ve heard he’s little more than a beach bum, giving Tarot card readings under a palm tree during the sunset celebration at Mallory Dock, I can’t imagine him as a killer. What else have you heard?”

“That there’s bad blood between Diego and Brick Vexton as well as hard feelings between Diego and Jessie, Brick’s son.”

“So for a busy guy, you’ve heard quite a few rumors. Glad Mother and Cherie were off island when the murder took place. Someone might have tried to work them into the gossip, too.”

“Gossip’s all it is. Keep that in mind. And don’t forget to include me among the suspects.”

“You?”

“Sure. I told you Diego and I disagreed big time. He was one of the commissioners who voted for closing Key West’s working waters. He wanted the shrimp boats out of Key West Bight.” Kane waved an arm, gesturing at the yachts and sailboats around us. “Diego voted for turning our former shrimp docks over to moneyed interests. He backed the developers who lined their pockets at the expense of the shrimpers, honest fishermen who struggled to eke out a living and who had no place else to go.”

“County officials held an election, Kane. I remember that. The majority of voters agreed with Diego and the rest of the commissioners or the new laws would never have passed.”

“Perhaps. But before the vote took place, I’m the one who blasted lengthy letters to the
Citizen
on the subject. My name’s out there as an avid protestor. At the time, most of the other shrimpers used good sense and kept quiet. Or at least they kept their names out of print.”

I didn’t know what to say next. I’d seen Kane’s letters to the editor, but arguments concerning island politics don’t hold my attention for long. In this vast ocean, I figured the shrimp boat fleet would have no trouble finding another place to dock their boats. I knew Diego had odd-jobbed around Key West for years until Brick opened his marina and gave him steady employment. Diego had a way with people. Everyone liked him. Brick backed Diego in his bid for a job as county commissioner, and when voters elected Diego, he thanked Brick by continuing to work as his chief dock master. They were friends as well as business partners.

“Guess I asked to hear your take on the local gossip, didn’t I? I never imagined political differences could fall so close to home.” I tried to relax and enjoy the chips and soda, but our conversation about Diego’s murder and county politics had ruined the beauty of the sea scene for me.

“Yeah, you asked all right. And I told you. At least those are this morning’s gossip tidbits along with my take on local politics.”

“Kane, I can’t imagine you or any other shrimper murdering Diego over the closing of Key West’s working waters. Surely any gossip about you will blow over and be forgotten once the police start investigating other angles.”

“I hope so. Police investigations draw little print, but the cops are tenacious when they think they’re onto a clue that points to a culprit. Many people may be sucked into the aftermath of Diego’s murder. He cut a wide swath in this community.”

Kane’s words chilled me. I’d heard enough—for now, at least. When I leaned over to drop my soda bottle into the trash can, the paper Dolly had stuck in my shirt pocket crackled. I pulled it out, again more than ready to change the subject, to think of something other than Diego’s murder and possible suspects.

“Look Kane!” I waved the paper in his direction. “Dolly’s given me a poem.”

“Big deal. Has she pinpointed the killer in iambic pentameter?”

“An original poem from the poet who wrote it
is
a big deal, Kane. Please don’t make a joke of it. Dolly considers herself a poet, a poet awaiting her big moment in print.”

“Big deal!”

“I think it’s a big deal, and in the near future I may choose Dolly as the subject of one of my columns. People need to know more about her, to be aware of her goals and her struggle. I enjoy using my column to help the underdog—talented people awaiting recognition. Look, this poem’s about a cat.”

“No surprise there.” Kane stared into the distance.

“Dolly loves cats. I see her feeding a black stray at the hotel almost every morning.”

“Surprised she didn’t make you pay a dime for the poem.”

I grinned. Dolly might or might not become known as the Poet Laureate of Key West, but she is known for leaving copies of her poems beside the cash registers in many Key West stores. A small sign beside the poems asks patrons to take a poem and deposit a dime in the Poet’s Jar nearby, the proceeds going to poet Dolly Jass.

“I’ve bought several of her ten-cent poems, Kane. I consider the gift of a poem from Dolly an important gift, generously given.

“Okay. Okay. Read it and forget it.”

“Aloud?”

“If you insist. But it won’t influence me to drop any dimes in her Poet’s Jar.”

I read the poem silently before I shared it with Kane.

“The title is ‘Sir Cat and the Spider Plant.’ I smiled. “It’s a bit of whimsy.”

“A lot like Dolly, right?”

“Perhaps. But it may lift your spirits, shift your thoughts from Diego and murder.”

I began reading.

When life gets so boring

That fits aren’t worth throwing

I slink to the porch

Where Spider Plant’s growing

It thrives in a clay pot

That hangs from a bracket

And one spider baby

Swings low. Watch me whack it.

It flies to its siblings

The whole plant’s aquiver

I smack it again and

Green leaves start to sliver.

Ma’am rushes to porch to

Protect Spider’s babies

And I’m in big trouble—

No ifs ands or maybes.

Ma’am stamps and she storms. She’s

A mover and shaker

But watch! I’ll start purring.

That’s my great peace maker.

After I read the poem and received no comment from Kane, I refolded it and started to tuck it back into my pocket. Then I saw 3 more lines Dolly had added like an afterthought toward the bottom of the page. They were untitled.

Wise cats wait ’till night

To stalk the land and prowl earth’s

Haunted hidden spots.

I read the lines twice and felt hairs rise on my forearms before I folded the sheet and tucked it into my pocket. I didn’t read those last lines to Kane, but I wondered if they carried an esoteric clue concerning Diego’s murder, or if she was experimenting, trying her hand at creating haiku. I stood and began pulling my deck chair back into the wheelhouse.

“Want a quick tour of the boat?” Kane asked.

What was going on here! “Sure you’ve got time?”

“You being sarcastic?”

“No. I didn’t mean to sound that way. You’ve seldom invited me aboard
The Buccaneer
,
and I’d love a tour. But I hoped you’d have more to tell me—more rumors about the murder.” Kane ignored those last words.

“There’s little to see on
The Buccaneer
that you haven’t already seen. I haven’t made many big changes during the past weeks. You’ve seen the big three, the main deck, the wheelhouse, the hull down below.”

“Where does your crew sleep?”

“In the bunks at the front of the wheelhouse.” Kane led me forward. “But first, here’s the galley. I did add a new camp stove last summer.” He pumped some water into a small sink and pointed to a Coleman stove.

“And now the bunks?”

Kane moved forward in the narrow wheelhouse and pointed to 2 bunks, a built-in chest of drawers, and 2 lockers for stowing gear.

“Not much space for personal things,” I said, laughing.

“Shrimpers don’t bring many personal things aboard.” Kane lifted the thin mattress on one bunk and propped it against the bulkhead, then stepped aside to give me a better view. “There’s a small compartment under each bunk. Go ahead. Open it up if you’re curious.”

A pine board with a blue rope handle at each end lay fitted into a rectangular indentation. I grabbed the handles and tugged on the board. It didn’t budge.

“Let me give you a hand. That board’s been there since I bought the boat. The compartment underneath doesn’t get much use. Never thought it important to work on the sticky lid.” It took two tugs before Kane pulled the board up, revealing a small space that held a catalog of nautical equipment, a couple of salt water fishing magazines, and a deck of playing cards.

I laughed. “Enough recreational equipment to keep any sailor happy.”

“Dampness makes the lid warp, but no matter. Shrimping crews don’t have much time for fun and games.”

“What do you do for sleep space if you have several crewmen aboard?”

“There’s another sleeping compartment that opens into the hull next to the ice bins.”

Kane didn’t offer a tour of the hull and I didn’t ask.

“You ready to go? You can stay here and rest awhile longer if you aren’t up to talking to people yet.”

“I’m ready.” I leaned against the wheelhouse doorway. “Guess I hoped to hear more talk about the murder.”

“I haven’t heard any more talk this morning, but a week or so ago, Brick told me about some problems between him and Diego.” Kane gave a short laugh. “Sounded like labor/management stuff. I never thought too much about it at the time.”

“What kind of problems? Surely none that might escalate into murder.”

Kane shrugged. “You never know what sort of argument might precipitate a murder. Diego had worked for Brick for years as chief dock master—an important job at any marina and ship’s chandlery. After Brick read my letters to the editor and realized Diego and I stood at odds, he told me some of his problems with Diego that had nothing to do with Diego’s job as chief dock master.”

“They had to do with the working waters dispute?”

“Brick thought their differences more serious than that. The commissioners have a lot of say about the functioning of the ROGO.”

“The county’s Rate of Growth Ordinance. I’ve heard Mother scream about that—about the difficulties she met when applying for a permit to build a new work shed or even to add a windbreak onto the hotel’s back entryway.
Laws forced her to wait for weeks for her name to reach the top of the ROGO list so she could buy a permit to add the dance floor in The Frangi.”

“Lots of people think the ROGO sucks. If someone tries to hide doing a little construction on his property without going through the ROGO, a jealous neighbor may report him in to authorities. And that usually results in the would-be builder facing a fine.”