Pier Pressure (5 page)

I jumped when my phone rang at the same instant I had picked it up to make my call. “Keely Moreno speaking.”

“Jass here, Keely.”

I expected to hear tears in her voice, but I heard none. Her tone sounded precise and matter-of-fact.

“Detective Curry just called on me, but now he's gone. Keely, we need to talk.”

“I was about to call you, Jass. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry you had to be the one to find her body. That must have been a terrible experience.”

“Yes.” I could think of nothing more to say.

“I could show up for my three o'clock appointment, but out of respect for Dad, I'd rather not be seen out and about today. Margaux's death has left me shaken. Could you come here? Not for a treatment, but just to talk.”

“Of course, Jass. I've been talking to the police, then to Gram. And Consuela. I'm really sorry about Margaux and…you have my heartfelt sympathy.” What else could I say? But Jass made it easy for me.

“Thanks, Keely. I accept your sympathy, but my concern right now goes out to Dad. He's not here. I don't know exactly where he is. Keely, no matter what I or others thought of Margaux, Dad loved her. I'd hate for him to hear of her death over radio or TV.”

“He hasn't returned from the fishing tournament?”

“No. It's not over until late this afternoon and it might take him a couple of hours to drive down from Key Colony Beach in the Sunday traffic. Punt's been trying to reach him on his cell phone, but so far—no answer. Maybe Dad doesn't have it turned on.”

“I'll come right over.”

“Use our secret back entrance, okay? Reporters are thick as fire ants in front of the house, but I haven't seen any out back.”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.” I hung up and started to push my bike off its kickstand, then I stopped. My uneasiness at Detective Curry's presence and questions had left perspiration stains on my jumpsuit, and my hair and my skin seemed to carry the stench of death. I took time to shower and shampoo and change into a fresh outfit before I let myself out the back door that led into the alley behind my office.

After a short ride through bumper-to-bumper traffic to South Street, I saw Ashford Mansion
almost immediately because its three stories plus the widow's walk rose high. It towered above the surrounding homes. With all its gingerbread trim and the wrap-around verandas on each floor, it reminded me of a white layered cake and I could imagine a miniature bride and groom standing on the widow's walk like the topping on a traditional wedding cake.

I wondered if the house ever reminded Jass of a wedding cake—or of the wedding she had to cancel when Scott Murdock died in Afghanistan. Enough of those sad thoughts! The land surrounding Ashford Mansion
had been in the family since the days when galleons plied the seas between the New World and Spain. Sea captains shipped supplies from Barcelona to the New World colonists and then carried gold and silver back to Barcelona from mines in Bogota. Right now I preferred to think about the past and try to forget the present. But no way.

No neighboring homes encroached on Ashford Mansion,
and a scarlet-blossomed hibiscus hedge surrounded the property. Jass had drowned her sorrow at losing her fiancé by burying herself in the study of horticulture at an eastern university. Over the years, she had manicured the family's private grounds until they formed a hidden garden secreted beneath palms and seagrape trees. Beds of scarlet poinsettias and golden allamanda plants shone like bright jewels near a greenhouse that held most of Jass's experimental hibiscus plants.

A few of her dwarf plants sat on the lawn outside the greenhouse. Her current and ongoing interest lay in propagating dwarf plants that would remain small and not revert to their natural large growth after only a year or so. She also did in-depth experiments with blossom color, but those plants were locked for safekeeping inside the greenhouse.

Consuela lived in an apartment one block from Ashford Mansion,
and each morning, while the first Mrs. Ashford lived, Consuela had arrived to make and serve breakfast for the family in the solarium. Once the breakfast hour ended, Consuela devoted the rest of the day to her writing. When Beau remarried, he and Margaux moved into the house on Grinnell, and Consuela had to find a new job.

Thinking of Consuela and her writing made me worry about her outspoken views and her feeling toward Margaux. I couldn't help but wonder if those feelings had gotten out of hand last night. Did Consuela know how to use a gun?

Five

I SAW JASS standing in the front doorway, dwarfed by the towering Ashford home. She stood diminished by the height of the wrap-round verandas, the widow's walk. As usual, she wore a green A-line skirt and a T-shirt. Plump, red-haired, and freckled, Jass had a smile that made total strangers feel at ease immediately. Locals called her Miss Hibiscus. Sometimes I teased her, saying she wore green to match her thumb. If a stalk had even a bit of life in it, Jass could make it grow and flourish.

I followed her request to use the rear entrance. Ashford Mansion
reminded me of happier times. Jass and her twin brother, Punt, had been my close friends all through high school, and Beau's generosity enabled me to take reflexology training. Beau had been my father figure following my mother's death. I've repaid my financial obligations, and my friendship with the Ashfords has grown throughout the years.

Riding on past the mansion, I turned right and then took a second quick right. Behind the house, I dismounted and walked my bike down a lane almost too narrow to be called an alley. An untamed growth of Brazilian pepper and thatch palm almost blocked the secret entry we'd used as kids. Branches caught in my hair and scratched my arms as I pushed my bike through that growth and then through a small break in the well-manicured hibiscus hedge. After propping my bike against a palm near the greenhouse, I brushed twigs and leaves from my hair and clothes before approaching the house.

Jass's VW convertible sat in the carport beside Punt's vintage Karmann Ghia. I looked up, half expecting to see Punt watching me from the catwalk surrounding his apartment. But he never appeared.

“Come in, Keely,” Jass called to me as she opened the kitchen door then paused at the back stairway leading to family quarters on the second floor. I gave her a warm hug.

“I'm sorry for your loss, Jass. Please tell me if there's any way I can help you.” I peered into the first-floor parlor, glad to see no visitors present.

“Let me ask you the same thing. I know you've been through a bad scene and I'm so glad you've come over. Let's go upstairs.”

Jass had turned the first-floor parlor and three bedrooms into commercial display rooms for her hibiscus business. In addition to her plants, she'd decorated the rooms in antiques salvaged from ill-fated sailing galleons. She loved to tell customers the story behind each antique, from the astrolabe the ancient mariners used to determine direction to the elegant china on the shelves behind her plants.

“Are we alone?” I asked. I wondered if she had invited Punt or Shandy to join us. Since Shandy helped Jass in the greenhouse, they'd spent a lot of time together this past weekend getting ready for the Miami show. Punt came and went as he chose, but right now I hoped to talk to Jass alone.

“Yes. We're alone—at least for the time being.” She led the way into the second-floor living room, a green setting that pointed up her coloring and her personality. My sandals sank into the soft carpeting that made a sea-colored background for the white wicker couch, coffee table, and armchairs. “Sit, Keely. Make yourself comfortable.”

I sat on the couch and Jass joined me. For a moment neither of us said anything. I tried to blot out the horror of the morning by concentrating on the fragrance of gardenia that permeated the room. Early for gardenias to be blooming. I looked around, trying to locate the plant, but Jass cut through my pretense.

“I'm scared, Keely.” She leaned toward me and began twisting a strand of hair that had slipped from her long ponytail. “We need to find out who murdered Margaux, and we need to find out quickly.”

“Hold on one minute.” I leaned back and studied her. “Who said murder? The police?”

“No. Not the police. And that worries me. Detective Jonathan Curry stopped by here briefly just a few minutes ago. So far he has given me little information.”

“He must have come straight here after he left my place. He asked me a million questions.”

“Maybe you shouldn't tell him too much. Maybe you need a lawyer.”

“He said I didn't. Said the questions were informal.”

“That's probably what they always tell a suspect.”

“A suspect? You think I'm a suspect?”

“Of course I don't think that, but the police may.”

“Did Curry say that?”

“No. Not at all, and I've heard nothing else from the police. I've only caught a few of their veiled releases to the media, but you know Key West. The powers that be at the police station as well as at city hall and at the newspapers try to keep bad news very hush-hush.”

“Yeah. Merchants don't want the tourists to think crime ever touches Key West. Spoils the paradise image.”

“Punt says he heard the police are suggesting suicide, but I know Margaux didn't take her own life. Punt agrees. You know that, too, don't you, Keely? Know that Margaux wasn't suicidal?”

“That'd be my guess, but nobody can say that for sure. You can't know what's inside another person's mind.”

“I think the police are calling her death a suicide, thinking that call will protect Dad—and maybe eliminate a tough murder investigation.”

“You don't think Beau had anything to do with Margaux's death, do you?” I stood and began pacing. “Jass, I simply can't imagine such a thing.”

“No, of course not, but when a killer murders a married woman, the husband's the first and sometimes the chief suspect.”

I thought about that for a moment before I nodded in agreement. “In this town, Margaux is—was an outsider. New Yorkers sometimes have a brisk attitude that rubs our laid-back locals the wrong way.”

“Dad's a Conch, born and raised right here on the rock. Key Westers look out for their own.”

I smiled. “Once Beau told me he hadn't been north of the Boca Chica Bridge for over a month. I think he was bragging.”

“He probably only crossed the bridge then because circumstances forced him to. Dad's a Conch, born and bred.”

“You think the police might shade the facts if it'd help Beau?” I hadn't thought of that possibility and hated thinking of it now.

“Dad's a community-minded philanthropist. Face it. The police might tend to latch onto the easy way out of a gritty situation. A call of suicide would not only protect a respected city benefactor, but it'd also eliminate the need for a costly and character-smearing investigation.”

“You're right. The police might be tempted to take the easy way out.”

“I don't want to see that happen. I'd hate to see Dad—or you—face a murder investigation, Keely. We have to find out who shot Margaux. Even if her death goes down as a suicide, the gossip will flourish forever.”

“Key West's usually a live-and-let-live sort of island.”

“Not always. Who would people blame for unhappiness great enough to cause a woman to take her own life?”

“Her husband, I suppose.”

“Right. Gossips would whisper about it for years. I can't let that happen to Dad.”

“I understand, and you're probably right about the gossips.” Jass brought the situation into sharp focus. My stomach muscles tensed and I scowled. I hadn't seriously thought of myself being investigated for murder because I found the body. Detective Curry had said his questions were informal ones, and I had believed him—sort of. Nor had I thought of Beau being investigated. This opened new territory of thinking for me. Who could I trust?

“Jass, if the police go after Beau, and if enough influential people don't want to see him take the rap, maybe I'll be their scapegoat.”

“Such things happen. We need to face that possibility. Sometimes juries accidentally convict innocent people of crimes they didn't commit.”

“I read several months ago about college journalism students up north doing in-depth DNA investigating as a class project. They discovered several convicts innocent—men convicted of capital crimes and waiting on death row, men who had rotted in prison for years. Our judicial system scares me.”

“We have to stop a suicide call, Keely, even if it means in-depth investigations of people we know and love. We have to act quickly. I've read that if the police make no arrest within forty-eight hours of a murder, the case can drag on for weeks, months, or even years. The villain may never be found.”

“I suppose you have a bright idea as to how we'll find Margaux's killer—if there is one.”

“We'll have to do some private detecting on our own.”

As I sat down, Jass walked to a white wicker desk, pulled out ballpoint and paper, then returned to sit next to me on the couch cushions. “Let's make a list of the people who had both motive and opportunity for shooting Margaux. Those are the people the police may overlook.”

At first I wanted to tell Jass she'd been reading too many detective novels, but deep down I suspected she might be right. Why should the police do a big deal investigation if it could be avoided with one word—suicide?

“You may have a workable idea, Jass. Do you remember a murder case a few years ago? I think the victim's name was Alexa Chitting.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“The police had been sure a street person had murdered her during a robbery. When the family hired a private detective to investigate, they were able to prove murder.”

“Help me make a list, Keely.”