Daiquiri Dock Murder (27 page)

Time enough for ‘thank yous’ and ‘so sorrys’ when we met at the hotel tonight. A discussion I had dreaded lay behind me. Moments I still dreaded lay ahead of me. If we wasted no time, Threnody and I could keep our plans to approach Snipe Gross. I keyed Threnody’s name on my speed dial.

“I’m back,” I said when she answered. “Are you ready to go? I can shower and be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m ready. I’ll call Snipe Gross again to be sure he’s home. If he isn’t, we’ll worry about that later. Have a good day on the water?”

“Tell you about it later. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

I showered and tugged on a clean pair of jeans and a tee, feeling my Keys-casual outfit would help ease our way into the meeting with Captain Gross. Moments later, Threnody stood waiting on her veranda and slid onto the passenger seat beside me. She wore chinos and a white shirt. Good choice.

“He answered his phone,” Threnody said. “I told him you were a writer seeking information on old boats, and he seemed willing, maybe even eager to talk with us. Told him we’d be there in an hour or so. I even found clippings of some of your old columns to take along for show and tell. Wanted to be able to prove that you are who I said you are.”

“Good thinking.” I eased through heavy traffic to the highway and then headed for Marathon. “Got his exact address?”

“Right here.” She waved a card. “He lives in a mobile home park—oceanside as we leave Seven Mile Bridge. Pelican Park. Should be easy to find.”

“What sort of questions are we going to ask?” I intended to keep our conversation focused on Snipe Gross rather than on my fishing trip with Kane. We needed to think carefully about what we planned to tell him, or to ask him. And also because I didn’t want to reveal all to Threnody concerning my threatening phone call. No point in alarming her. I’d be safe enough with her away from Key West this afternoon. Nor did I want to talk about my day with Kane. It’s usually better to let a boat captain tell his own version of going aground, his own take on a repair that didn’t quite work. Threnody didn’t push me for information. She and I had grown close during the past few weeks of working together at The Frangi, and especially during the days since Diego’s death. I felt guilty at keeping so many secrets from her. It didn’t occur to me that she might be keeping secrets from me, too.

Once we crossed the Boca Chica Bridge, the traffic thinned and we made good time—as good as any driver could make and keep within speed limits that changed every few miles, varying between 45 and 55 mph.

“How are we going to approach him about the blue line, Rafa? That might be tricky. Did you bring a piece of it with you?”

“It’s in my shoulder bag. I’ve practiced a casual speech about looking for matching line for some craft work I’ve started.”

“Good idea. Hope he goes for it.”

We passed Cudjo Key, Ramrod, Summerland. Then I slowed as we reached Big Pine.

“Something wrong?” Threnody asked.

“There’s a strict speed limit on Big Pine. It’s the home of the National Key Deer Refuge. Anyone hitting one of those miniature deer is in big trouble.” As if to mark my words, a brown creature no bigger than a Boxer or a Rottweiler dashed in front of our car. Tires squealed and seat belts tightened as I braked. The driver behind me blasted on his horn. The yearling ran across the highway unscathed then walked on, intent on deer business. We breathed again.

“Glad I don’t live on this Key,” Threnody said.

“It’s really a great island. My grandmother has lived here all her life. She recently moved from her stilt home on a woodsy avenue to a ground level house in Pine Channel Estates. Got tired of climbing twenty-one steps to her front door.”

“Doesn’t she worry about hurricane water flooding her home?”

“I suppose the concern is there, but she seldom mentions it. Impending hurricanes allow people plenty of time to evacuate to safer places.”

“Pine Channel Estates sounds very upscale.”

“It’s not all that upscale, and that’s not the reason she moved. She wanted to live on a clean canal that’s less than five minutes from good fishing waters. She’s getting older. She was lucky to find a ground-level house for sale.”

“Lucky until the next hurricane hits,” Threnody said. “She may end up wishing she’d stayed in her stilt house.”

“Guess she’s willing to take her chances. Like Snipe Gross. He’s in a mobile home park. Hurricanes aren’t kind to mobile homes.”

The only traffic light between Big Pine and Marathon flashed green as we approached, and we continued on past the state park, Duck Key and then onto Seven Mile Bridge. As a kid, I used to check our car’s odometer to make sure the bridge measured 7 miles long. It did. And after a few crossings, I stopped checking on it.

At the end of the bridge a cop sat in a patrol car at the side of the bridge, ready to nab anyone who failed to heed the sudden 35 mph speed limit. I heeded it, and we turned into the first mobile home park we came to—Pelican Park.

“Number 206.” Threnody read from her note card.

We drove along narrow lanes separating several rows of silver-colored mobile homes before we found 206. We had slowed to a near stop when an old man wearing navy slacks and a chambray work shirt stepped from his double-wide onto a small sheltered patio and motioned to us. His baldness shone in the waning sunlight until he picked up a navy yachting cap trimmed with gold braid from a table, and slapped it onto his head.

“Rafa Blue? Threnody Vexton?” He leaned toward our open car window, and when we nodded, he motioned us to a parking slot big enough for one car. Seconds later, he pulled a bicycle propped on a kickstand aside so we’d have a little more room, grinning at us as he did so.

“Welcome, ladies. I’ve been watching for you. Don’t have a lot of company these days. You’re an event.”

After shaking hands with our host, we followed his lead onto his patio, taking the plastic chairs he offered. To my surprise, the chairs, cushioned in a green and white awning striped fabric, felt comfortable.

“Thank you for your willingness to talk with us,” I said.

Threnody reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a small folder of clippings, thrusting them toward him.

“I’ve brought some of Rafa Blue’s published columns,” Threnody said.

“They’re samples of the type of the column I’d like to write about your old boat that my friend Kane Riley now uses in his shrimping business.”

Captain Gross scanned the clippings before he looked at me. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell us, Sir,” I said. “Human interest stuff with maybe a few dates thrown in here and there.”

“Bought the boat from Captain Bucky Varnum in 1980,” Captain Gross said. “The boat showed lots of wear. Varnum had used it as a water taxi in the Mariel Boat Lift. Took me a while to make repairs, but after I cleaned it up and gave it a little spit and polish, I used it for years. Worked out of Key West Bight alongside dozens of shrimpers. Made a good living, too. That’s when the Singleton family owned the shoreline around the bight. Of course, after old Henry passed on, those in charge of his estate sold the bight to Key West.”

Once we got Captain Gross talking, I wondered if we’d be able to get him stopped. Sometimes I took notes. Sometimes I just listened. His tales never bored me, but I knew we needed to be starting home soon, and so far I’d mentioned nothing about the blue rope. I pulled my snip of line from my shoulder bag and dangled it before him.

“This is off the subject, but have you ever seen this kind of line before?”

He peered at the line, then he carried it inside his home, returning a few moments later with a magnifying glass.

“Eyes aren’t what they once were,” He said. “Seems to me there was a coil of this type of line aboard that shrimper when I first considered buying it. But I don’t remember seeing it later. It’s just old nautical line. You want to put that information in your article?”

“You can never tell what readers may find interesting,” I said. “I’ve been looking for some cord this color for a craft project I’ve been considering. You have any of that line left?”

Gross shook his head. “Afraid not. Don’t remember seeing it on the boat again once I bought it. Want to see some pictures of that old craft?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Got some snapshots in an envelope inside. Let me get them for you. Before and after shots. Before I fixed it up. Then after the repair job.”

Before we could stop him, Captain Gross stepped into to his trailer. After several minutes he returned with the pictures. “Don’t know whether you could use these to illustrate your article, but if you can, you’re welcome to them.”

Threnody leaned close to me so we both could see the pictures. I traced the ship’s bell with my finger.

“What happened to the bell?” I asked. “It’s in the ‘before’ shot, but not in the ‘after’ shot.”

“Varnum wouldn’t part with the bell,” Capt. Gross said. “Sentimental, I suppose. If you’re interested in the pictures, take ’em with you. But send them back when you’re through with them. Someday I plan to organize them into a scrapbook. Someday. Someday when I get bored. Trouble is, I never get bored.”

We managed to draw the interview to a close. I tucked the blue line back into my shoulder bag and Threnody dropped the envelope of snapshots into her bag.

“We’ll get the pictures back to you in a day or two,” I promised. “And we thank you for your time and patience in talking to us. I’ll send you a copy of my column when the
Citizen
publishes it. It may be a few weeks. I work ahead of deadline.”

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing it,” Capt. Gross said. “Talking with you has been my privilege.”

I backed the Prius carefully from its tiny slot, and in moments we headed on our way to Key West.

“Threnody! That bell. Take a good look at the picture that shows that bell. I think we’re both thinking the same thing.”

“Right. It looks like the same bell that’s hanging on our front veranda.”

“But how could that be?”

“Well, you know how Brick likes old stuff. He could have picked up the bell at a flea market, an antique shop.”

Threnody pulled the snapshots from her bag and thumbed through them until she reached the one showing the bell. Finding a small flashlight in her bag, she focused its beam on the bell.

“What do you think, Threnody? Is it the same bell? A similar bell? Or what?” If we weren’t on Seven Mile, I’d pull over and take a look.

“I can’t be sure, Rafa. Old brass bells look a lot alike. The size could be different. The etchings around the bell’s rim could be different. I’ve never really studied that old bell at the mansion.”

“Let’s take a look when we get back.”

But when we got back and I drove Threnody to the mansion, Brick heard my car and came to the door. He stepped onto the veranda and dropped his cell phone into his shirt pocket before he waved a greeting. Threnody laid the envelope of snapshots onto the car seat, then she left me to greet Brick. Turning back toward me, she called over her shoulder.

“Thanks so much for the trip to Marathon, Rafa. Too bad we didn’t find anything at Anthony’s.”

“Better luck next time,” I called, giving Threnody a smile and Brick a casual wave.

Chapter 34

Brick irritated me with his checking-up on Threnody. I wondered why he didn’t trust her, why he kept such a close check on her comings and goings. Had she stepped out on him sometime in the past? I smiled to myself. Seemed to me it might be the other way around. I drove the short distance to the hotel quickly, eager to get Snipe Gross’s snapshots to a bright light and a magnifying glass. Yet, what would I be able to tell without the bell at hand? And what difference did it make if the bell in the snapshot was the same bell now in place at the Vexton mansion? Lots of people buy old bells to give their homes a Keesy look. Gram had one roped to the banister of the steps at her old stilt house.

Our trip to Marathon had been to find information on the blue nautical line. From that standpoint, the trip had been a fiasco. I hated knowing my search for similar blue line had failed. Kane might not say I told you so, but that’s what he’d be thinking. I also hated having to phone him because I knew I should tell him about the threatening call I received yesterday.

After returning to the hotel and parking my car in its usual slot, I locked it, dropped the key into my shoulder bag. I should have taken time to return my fishing rod to my hotel locker, but weariness caught up with me. I’d do it first thing tomorrow. I prized that rod and reel, but nobody would steal them tonight from my locked car. I was in no mood to do details that could wait until tomorrow. With luck, I’d have time to take a careful look at the snapshots and maybe get a few minutes of rest before The Frangi opened for the night.

I carried the snapshots to my desk then hurried to the refrig for a glass of guava juice before I searched for my magnifying glass. For once, I found it in my desk drawer right where it should be. I saw nothing unusual about the bell. Brass. Weathered by years of salt air. In the picture, it looked as if it might measure about 12 inches in diameter. It could have been the bell from any ship, from any decade. Nothing special marked it as an artifact from Bucky Varnum’s water taxi in the 1980s. I studied the etchings around the bell’s rim. Anchor. Pirate’s flag. Anchor. Pirate’s flag. The design repeated itself.