Daiquiri Dock Murder (3 page)

“When did you last see Diego alive?”

“I thought he was alive last night when I saw him in the water at the Daiquiri Dock Marina. Then I realized, realized he was—dead. You’re calling it an accident, right?”

Ramsey avoided my question. “Didn’t you think it strange for anyone to be swimming at that time of night?”

“Yes, of course I did. I thought at first he might be trying to help someone who’d fallen from the catwalk while checking on the security of a boat. People do strange things during Fantasy Fest. Sometimes trespassers board and vandalize boats. But I saw no sign of that last night. I realized Diego was in trouble. I saw his hair snarled and tangled in the anchor line of
The Bail Bond
.”

“When was the last time you saw Diego alive before last night?”

I hesitated, wishing I didn’t have to answer, wanting to be sure of myself and my next words. The person who last saw a deceased person alive is usually of special interest to the authorities—especially if the victim’s death wasn’t accidental.

“I saw him at The Frangipani Room
the night before the Fantasy Fest parade. That would have been on Friday night. He joined Mother, Cherie, the Vextons, and me in listening to the combo and watching the people dance.”

“How long did he stay?”

“The Frangi closes at midnight. As I remember it, Diego stayed a while after closing to have a drink on the house. The Frangipani Room
is roofless—an open-air setting with torches flaring along its outer rim. Friday night Diego helped Brick Vexton extinguish the torches. According to Dad’s will, The Frangi
is my responsibility, but Mother always likes to oversee the closing of this special dance floor, to be sure it’s ready for the next night’s opening.” I refused to tell him that Mother disliked Dad’s leaving me in charge of The Frangi—or anything else. But the court was on Dad’s side. Lawyers refused to let Mother change Dad’s will.

“Thank you, Miss Blue,” Chief Ramsey said. “You are free to leave the hospital now.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You are free to go anywhere you please on the island, but if you decide to leave Key West, please get in touch with me or someone in my office first.”

“Are you investigating Diego’s death as an accident?”

“No. His hair might have been caught in the anchor line accidentally, but the concrete block weighted to his feet rules out an accidental death. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh.” Surprise left me speechless. I tried to erase the mental image of a concrete block weighting Diego’s feet.

“At this point in the police investigation, I’m ordering you to avoid discussing this case with reporters or with strangers.”

“Yes, Sir.” He hadn’t said I required his permission to leave the island, but that’s what his order about letting him know my plans meant. “Sir, am I a suspect? I called 9-1-1 because I needed help. Are you going to hang me without a trial or jury?”

“Nobody plans to hang you, Miss Blue, but everyone close to Diego Casterano may be a person of interest to the police.” Chief Ramsey left, making no further comment.

The minute I stepped from the hospital room into the hallway, Kane strode to my side. I knew he must have been listening and I wondered how much of that Q/A session he heard. He linked his arm through mine, pulling me close. After a long kiss, he took my hand and urged me toward the hospital door. Was my shakiness a result of the kiss or was it a delayed reaction to last night’s trauma, a delayed reaction to Diego’s death?

“Are you okay?” he asked when we stepped into the overcast day and headed toward his truck parked in a visitor’s slot.

“I’m okay. But where’s my car? Still at the dock? And how did I end up in the hospital? Who brought me here? The last thing I remember, I was choking, trying to tread water—in the sea—with Diego. I don’t remember my feet touching a concrete block.” I shuddered and eased closer to Kane. “And I realized Diego was dead. Who…”

“Officers from Emergency 9-1-1 rescued you—pulled both you and Diego from the sea. You were barely conscious, exhausted, and unable to say anything that made sense. They brought you here by ambulance. Took Diego’s body to the morgue. I heard the news on the radio and drove to the police station immediately. Since you’d given me a spare key to the Prius, Chief Ramsey trusted me to pick up your car at the marina and park it near my boat slip. He said the horn had blared for so long that the key’s emergency button had been damaged. Other than that the car’s okay. You can relax about that.”

“Thank you, Kane!” I squeezed his hand. “How can I ever thank you?”

Kane grinned at me and raised an eyebrow. “I can think of several exceptionally pleasant ways. Want to hear some of them?”

“Not if they require more from me than flowers, candy, or a good book.”

“I was afraid of that. But we’ll talk about it later, okay?” I changed the subject quickly. Kane wanted our relationship to progress to a deeper level, but I balked, unready for that change. At least not ready yet. I still needed to face my past, live with what I’d done, my mistakes. Live with my fear of being corrupt. Although I’d always looked forward to love, marriage, and family, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for any of those things. And if I changed my mind, I didn’t want Kane to think I came to him in gratitude instead of love. I wasn’t ready for Kane to know the details of my past. He was a fairly new resident in Key West, and by the time he moved here a few years ago, the gossip about me had died down—almost.

“Kane to Rafa. Kane to Rafa Blue. Please return to planet Earth and tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m working through the shock of hearing the police calling Diego’s death a homicide.”

Kane stared into space for a few moments before he spoke. “According to this morning’s
Citizen
, the cops first thought he died accidentally, but, when in addition to finding his hair tangled in an anchor line, they found his feet and ankles bound with duct tape and roped to a concrete block, reality changed their thinking. Accident? No way!”

“But why? Diego had enemies? Who?”

“You heard Chief Ramsey’s take on it. Back at the hospital, I couldn’t help overhearing him say that at this time, any close friend of Diego’s is a person of interest. Guess you’re not the only one. Be glad of that.”

“Has anyone called Mother and Cherie? This news will hit them hard—ruin their vacation. Glad they were off-island when it happened.”

“Brick said he called them, but the hotel manager told him they were on a week’s pack trip in the Rockies and couldn’t be reached for a few days. Guess cell phones don’t pick up signals in some parts of the high country.”

Kane opened the door to the pickup and helped me inside before he grabbed the newspaper from the dashboard and dropped it into my lap.

“Read all about it. They’ve managed to keep your name out of it—at least for now.”

“Not much to read,” I said after Kane pulled himself into the driver’s seat. I ran my finger down the couple inches of type the news editor allotted to the story. “A man dead, an important man in this community, and he rates only two inches of type.”

“I’m sure there’ll be more later, but for now, just the facts, Ma’am.” Kane snorted. “They always keep the bad news short and on the back pages. Mustn’t alarm the tourists. Mustn’t let them know blood has been spilled here in paradise. Where to, Rafa? Your hotel? Vexton mansion? I promised Threnody we’d stop by for a few minutes and bring her up to speed on what’s going on. Think you feel up to that now?”

“I guess so. I’d rather not talk to anyone, but I wouldn’t have had any clothes at the hospital if it hadn’t been for Threnody—and you. So, let’s stop at the Vexton’s, I guess. I feel disoriented. Wonder what happened to my wet jumpsuit.”

“The police might have it. Guess someone wrapped you in a blanket for the ride to the hospital. Maybe the police consider the clothes you were or weren’t wearing evidence.” Kane keyed the truck to life, backed from the parking lot, and drove from the Stock Island hospital toward Key West. When he snapped on the radio, the weather announcer still spouted news about the hurricane stalled off the coast of Cuba. It might turn. It might dissipate. Whatever. Key Westers try to take these hurricane threats in stride and they succeed most of the time. We locals secure our property as best we can and leave the island only when authorities order evacuation. I can remember a few times when both lanes of Highway One were open only to traffic moving toward Homestead and Miami. This morning we saw little sign of last night’s storm other than a few downed palm branches and green coconuts.

Kane slammed on the brakes when the van ahead of us bearing Wisconsin plates jerked to a stop and pulled toward the shoulder of the highway. Two kids jumped from it almost into our path…

“Dumb kids,” Kane growled. “Don’t they know they could get killed doing that?”

“Dumb parents, Kane. Tourists. It’s not the kids. Visitors don’t understand how dangerous the traffic on this highway is.”

The kids snatched up two coconuts, dashed back to their van and jumped in. “I suppose they’re gloating over having found a couple of free souvenirs to take home.” Kane shook his head and left more space between us and the van once we drove on.

A salt-scented trade wind blowing through the truck windows cooled my cheeks, and the roar of a jet drowned out traffic sounds as it zoomed in for a landing at the air station. The clouds began to lift, and before we reached Old Town, Kane took a round-about tour along South Roosevelt and Smather’s Beach.

Dressed in orange vests and denim pants, inmates from the road prison on Big Pine Key worked at clearing Fantasy Fest trash from the sand and the shoreline. They filled black plastic bags, then, still moving in slow motion, they flung the contents into city dumpsters, making way for the tractor that would rake and smooth the sand into readiness for today’s tourists.

Winding back east a few blocks, we turned on Palm Avenue and crossed the bridge spanning Garrison Bight. Before we reached Grinnell Street, I thought for a few moments that a car was following us—a rusty Ford.

“Kane?” I nodded toward the rear window. “We’ve got a tail.”

“Don’t think so.” The driver of the car tailgating us seized a chance to pass, waving a hearty greeting to Kane. “Ben Bahama. Used to anchor his boat near mine at the shrimp dock before big business crowded us out.”

“You and many others, Kane. But that’s in the past. Glad you know Ben Bahama. I hate being followed by a stranger.”

“Relax. Why would anyone be tailing us?”

“Why, indeed! Someone must have followed Diego yesterday.”

Kane turned into The Little Whitehouse gated driveway where a security guard on duty looked us over and then, recognizing me, waved us on through. Along this secluded street, old Conch mansions built decades ago ruled like royalty. Kane slowed at a sign saying
THE VEXTONS.
I loved living at a posh hotel a few blocks from here and took it for granted as my lot in life—most of the time. But in spite of our upscale neighborhood, the Vexton home gave me the creeps. I understood how and why an enterprising entrepreneur had talked the Vextons into allowing him to list their mansion on a visitor’s ghost walking tour.

Squelching a shiver, I said nothing as we drove forward, easing into the deep shade of two towering banyans. A strangler fig that had fastened itself to the trunk of the larger tree threatened its existence.

Brick and Threnody’s three-story home could have appeared in an antique, sepia-toned photo as an example of a Spanish Colonial design. Built of age-darkened limestone and native coral rock, it had weathered through the years, huddling under a wide roof supported by iron-flanged pillars on either end of the veranda. A ship’s bell, its dull brass unpolished, dangled from a weathered post at the foot of cracked concrete steps.

For a few moments I forced myself to enjoy the breeze that fluttered the banyan leaves until Kane stopped the truck. Almost immediately we saw Dolly Jass who called to us from where she stood pulling magazines from the yellow recycling box set near the street. My mood lightened. Only the hard of heart could look at Dolly without smiling. But Kane refused to smile.

Chapter 4

(
Still Sunday Morning
)

“Rafa!” Dolly called, walking toward us. “Are you okay? I heard the news. What a terrible scene you’ve been through. I feel so sorry for Diego. He and I were just getting to know each other well.”

“I’m fine, Dolly. Just dropped in to talk with Threnody, to thank her for sending me clothes at the hospital.”

“Sorry, but she’s out for the morning. I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

As usual Dolly’s silvery hair swirled around the shoulders of her long-sleeved blouse with its elaborate neck bow. I seldom saw her in anything but a poet’s blouse and black satin pants, skin-tight across the hips then flaring at the ankles.

“Some work outfit.” Kane chuckled as Dolly approached the truck, trying to keep a grip on her armload of magazines. “She’s probably hiding a severe case of tattoo regret under those long sleeves. People do that. Women. Even guys who’re tired of the macho scene.”

“At heart Dolly’s a poet, not a cleaning lady. I can’t help admiring anyone who works two jobs and still finds time to write poetry.”