“Jass told me Jude’s ability to enchant ended once you married.”
“Right. It did. Jude insisted we move to Miami where I had no friends or relatives. Then he became jealous to the extreme. He tried to control everything I did. And I let him. I think now that’s why he did it—because he knew he could, because it made him feel big and important. If I even looked at another man, he accused me of having an affair behind his back.”
“That’s when the abuse started?”
“Yes. I suppose Jass told you about it. She tried to get me to leave Jude after my first broken jaw, but my stubbornness and my fear held me in place. Finally I had the courage to walk out and, although I’ve sometimes still been afraid, I’ve certainly never been sorry. I do regret the fear Jude left with me, a fear of being around men, a fear of even thinking about another relationship.”
“I hope you notice that I’ve done nothing to scare you to death today.”
“I’ve noticed, and I appreciate that, Punt. I’m going to have to bury my fears as we face the days ahead, the murder investigation.”
We stopped all serious talk when the seafood platter arrived, and we had playful arguments over who ate the biggest shrimp, the best piece of lobster. We laughed as we debated over whether the scallops were really scallops or just cookie-cutter pieces of breaded gray shark. But what did it matter when everything tasted so delicious? We took our time enjoying the meal and watching the moonlight play on the bay.
After we ate we climbed back down the stairs and walked around the building to a shallow lighted pool where we watched baby barracuda, sharks, and some rays swimming among coral rocks and a bit of floating seaweed. Sea water splashed into the pool through a length of copper tubing, keeping the enclosure fresh and clean. Two children dropped pieces of bread on the water’s surface, and we could almost see those meat eaters turning up their noses at such poor fare. When one of the groundskeepers tossed some chum into the pool, the water swirled as the creatures vied for it.
After watching the fish for awhile, we strolled onto the dock. The boards swayed beneath my feet and I clung to the rope railing strung between sturdy uprights.
“Let’s go see who’s docked here tonight.” I liked reading the names painted on the boat sterns. Punt took my hand to steady me. “Look. The High Sea from Big Pine Key. The Sea Witch from Little Torch Key. Janice from Sugarloaf Key.”
I leaned over to try to read another name, but Punt pulled me up and into his arms. The evening had grown cooler, and his body warmed me. In the next moment his lips pressed against mine in a sweet, lingering kiss that I returned—because I wanted to. I enjoyed the lime scent of his after-shave for several moments before I gently eased from his embrace, determined to keep our relationship platonic.
“Punt, be real.” My voice sounded throaty and shaky. “We’re probably putting on a moonlight show for all the diners with window seats.”
“Do you really care?” Punt released me, but kept one arm around my waist as we headed back toward the car.
I didn’t answer. I considered his question and I wasn’t at all sure of the best reply. The truth? Or something I made up in order to sound glib? Punt didn’t repeat the question. Maybe he was as afraid of the answer as I.
We rode back to Key West in a passive silence that belied our concern over Beau’s lack of an alibi, over what might happen to all of us the next day. A few cars passed us, but for the most part the drivers held to the speed limit. Shandy says there are a dozen speed limit changes between Key West and Big Pine Key—forty-five to fifty to fifty-five. I didn’t count them. I trusted Shandy when it came to counting things.
At first, North Roosevelt was relatively quiet for that time of night, then sirens wailed, demanding right-of way. Punt managed to pull the convertible to the curbing to let two fire trucks whiz by.
“Wonder what’s up?” I asked.
“Want to go see?”
Without waiting for my reply, Punt followed the sound of the sirens, and we gasped when both trucks turned onto Georgia Street. At first we couldn’t tell where they were going to stop, then all at once we saw they were slowing at my house.
We saw small flames licking from the two windows that opened onto the front porch. Then Punt drove on past the fire trucks and we saw more flames snaking out the side windows and charring the siding. Even brighter flames shot into the air near the back entrance, flaring higher than the roof.
“Stand back, folks! Give the firemen room!”
“More hose. Connect that hose!”
Firefighters shouted orders, pulled a hose from the truck, hooked it to the fire hydrant.
“My things! I’ve got to save my things!” I released my seatbelt and shouted as I opened the car door and fought to get out, straining against Punt’s grip on my arm and hating the way he pulled me back.
“It’s too late, Keely,” Punt yelled in my ear, but I continued to struggle.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Don’t risk your life.” Punt’s fingers were like a vise clamping me to the car. “The house’s going up like tinder. There’s not a chance in hell of saving anything.”
Physically, I stopped struggling, but my thoughts raced with the flames. “What do you suppose caused it?” I hoped Punt would say something like “faulty wiring” or “stove burner left on.” He said nothing. Nor did I. But my mind’s eye saw Jude Cardell carrying a match and a can of gasoline.
Fifteen
A POLICE CAR arrived, sirens wailing, warning lights flashing. It stopped in the middle of the street and a cop sprinted to our car.
“Move on! Move on! You’re blocking the right-of-way. Let the police cars through. No parking here! Move on.”
Punt pulled the car ahead slowly and we craned our necks, trying to see the extent of the fire. Were flames leaping higher, or was the blaze dying down? We couldn’t tell.
“Move on,” the cop ordered again. “Move on or I’ll ticket you.”
“Drive around the block, Punt. Please. I’ve got to get back to the house. I’m responsible for it. The Moores expect me to look after it.” I felt tears wetting my cheeks and my breath snagged in my throat.
“There’s nothing either of us can do to help. The firefighters know their business. The best thing we can do is to keep out of their way.”
Punt had to circle two blocks before he found a parking place. He took time to raise the top on the convertible, lock the doors, and although I could barely stand the delay, I waited for him. Nobody leaves an unlocked convertible on the street at night. A smog of smoke filled the air and my throat ached as I choked on it as well as on my tears.
“Fire! Fire!” Somebody behind us shouted, and footsteps pounded the sidewalk passing us by. “House afire! House afire!”
We joined the throng running down the street and heading for the blaze. When we reached Georgia Street, policemen holding restraining ropes and billy clubs struggled to hold the crowd at bay.
“Stand back! Stand back!” an officer shouted through a bullhorn.
Neighbors stood on their porches gawking. A pudgy man in a green plaid nightshirt stood barefoot on his front sidewalk, shouting orders to the firemen.
“Around back! Around back!” he shouted. “I heard an explosion.”
“Henry, shut up,” a woman yelled. Her baby-doll nightgown reached mid-thigh, revealing thin sparrow legs and bare feet thrust into a man’s loafers.
I heard gushing water splashing the front porch siding, smelled the pungent odor of smoke, oily, black. Punt tried to hold me back, but I pushed my way forward until I felt the heat from the blaze, tasted gritty ash on my tongue. Something inside the house exploded, and in the flare of the explosion, light glinted on a bald head. I grabbed Punt’s hand, but in the next moment the bald head disappeared and I said nothing. Lots of men had bald heads.
“Lady, if you don’t get back, we’ll have to restrain you in the patrol car.” The policeman pushed on my shoulders, forcing me back a few steps.
“But it’s my house,” I shouted. “I live here.” I shrank from his touch, darted behind him, and jogged toward the rear of the house just as the flaming roof over the back porch crashed. Support posts fell like jackstraws and sparks flew in all directions. Only when a bit of burning debris landed in my hair, did I realize I could do nothing to stop the fire. Punt knocked the debris to the ground and stamped on it. The smell of my singed hair sickened me.
“Are you okay?” Punt brushed his fingers through my hair to make sure there were no more live sparks.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Punt slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close, and I sagged against him, exhausted.
“Let’s get out of here, Keely. There’s nothing either of us can do. Maybe in the morning we can come back, sort through the rubble. You might be able to salvage a few things. Is there a back path we can leave by? No point in antagonizing those cops again if we don’t have to.”
“We can follow this chain-link fence to the alley behind the house. The fence surrounds the yard and the pool and there’s a back gate. Maybe the firemen could bring their hoses through it and reach the flames at the rear of the house.”
“You got the gate key with you?”
“No. I keep it inside on the key rack beside the kitchen door.”
“It doesn’t matter. The house’s a goner. Let’s follow the fence and then the alley. We need to get back to the car.”
Punt took my hand and I followed his lead, feeling an exhausting numbness I couldn’t describe. When he squeezed my hand, my ring cut into my finger.
“You’re hurting me!”
He dropped my hand. “Sorry, but look.” He pointed to the ground and I gasped.
A black sweatshirt lay in the dirt beside the locked gate. I picked it up.
“That yours?” Punt asked.
“No, but I’m taking it with me.”
“Maybe you should leave it here and let the police or the fire chief find it. There’s always some kind of an investigation into the cause of a fire. The sweatshirt might be a clue.”
“You think someone deliberately started the fire?”
“That’s always a possibility.”
“If I leave the shirt here, the owner may realize he left it and return for it. Or if the police or fire chief find it, they may pay no attention to it, believing it belongs to me.” I slung the shirt over my arm, thinking of that instant flash of light gleaming against a bald head. “I’ve read that people who deliberately start fires sometimes hang around the scene—even offer to help the firefighters.”
We walked past the gate and headed down a narrow alley toward the car.
“So you think someone deliberately started the fire?” Punt asked at last.
“As you said, that’s a possibility. Why would an empty house catch fire?”
“There could be many reasons. Faulty wiring comes to mind first. Or maybe an appliance left on accidentally.”
“I know I didn’t leave anything on. I seldom iron. This’s wash-and-wear country. I didn’t leave a stove burner on because we planned to go out for dinner, remember? I didn’t think to turn on a night light because we left for Key Colony Beach in bright sunshine.”
By the time we reached the car, the crowd had thinned. Punt skirted around a few stragglers who stood on the sidewalk discussing the blaze. When Punt drove down the street, turning toward Duval and my office, he squeezed my hand.
“I could stay the night if you’re afraid,” he offered.
“Thanks a lot, but no thanks, Punt. This has been some kind of a day! We still don’t know what Beau was doing the night of the murder, and now I suppose I’ll be questioned about this fire.”
“No doubt about that.”
“What will I tell Mr. and Mrs. Moore? I hope they don’t think me negligent. I feel so sorry for their loss. They had high hopes for that house.”
“Are you going to call them tonight?”
“No. There’s nothing they can do right now. No use waking them up in the middle of the night with bad news.”
“I suppose you’re right. You have enough clothes and things on Duval to see you until tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine. The Moores are due to arrive next week and I’d already started clearing some of my things from the house.”
“Think you’ll be able to keep your appointment with Nikko in the morning?”
“I hope so. And Otto’s, too. Once I’ve talked to those two, that’s about it for checking alibis.”
“Except for Jude. I can’t see any way that either of us can talk to Jude.”
“The police probably won’t think he had any motive.”
“Unless I point it out to them,” Punt said. “Enough for now.”
Punt parked in front of my office, pulled me toward him, and kissed me. I returned the kiss, surprised that it seemed like such a natural thing to do.
Punt hadn’t been gone two minutes before Gram tapped on my door. I supposed she’d seen Punt’s embrace, but I didn’t care. I felt too drained of all strength to care about anything, nor did I want to talk about my day or the fire. I only wanted to be alone with my thoughts so I could sort them out and maybe make some sort of sense of them. Or maybe I just wanted to go to bed and erase all my problems with sleep. I heard Moose’s claws clicking on the floor overhead, heard Nikko’s TV playing softly as I tossed the black sweatshirt onto the bed in my living quarters.
“What’s up, Keely?” Gram knocked again then pushed her way inside almost before I could open the door. Without her scarlet caftan, her hoop earrings, her headband, she looked like—a grandmother. I smiled, doubting that she wanted to project that image to the public. “Radio say house on Georgia Street afire.”
At that point, Nikko appeared behind Gram in the doorway with Moose at his heel.
“You all right, Keely?” he asked. “We’re guessing that the house was your rental. The announcer didn’t give the exact address, but the description—everything fit.”
I opened the door wider so Nikko and Moose could come in.
“Right. My house. Or rather Mr. and Mrs. Moore’s house. Punt and I just came from there. Nothing the firemen could do to save the place, but they did save neighboring homes. I’ll be living back here sooner than I planned.”
“What start fire?” Gram asked.
“Too soon to tell. The police were busy trying to keep everyone back and out of the way. Maybe tomorrow they’ll have some information.” I reached down to pat Moose, feeling his heavy hair, his thick leather collar. He licked my hand with his sandpaper tongue.
“You call me if police come with questions.” Gram shook a forefinger at me.
“I will. You’ll be first to know—as usual. Nikko, didn’t you and Moose investigate suspicious fires before you retired?”
“Many times,” Nikko said. “You think this was a suspicious fire?”
“Hah!” Gram said. “Any fire in Key West a suspicious fire. Street people break in. Druggies light up. Shoot up. Any fire suspicious.”
“What do you think, Keely?” Nikko asked. “Something special about this fire that makes you wonder about it?”
I wanted to tell Nikko about the sweatshirt, but not in front of Gram. No point in worrying her. Time enough to talk to Nikko tomorrow.
“No. Nothing special about this fire. I hate it that it happened at a house I feel responsible for.”
“You be tired now,” Gram said. “You get rest. Things look better in morning.”
“Right,” Nikko said. “Moose and I may drop by Georgia Street tomorrow to see what we can see. Or should I say sniff what we can sniff.”
Gram and I smiled at each other, I hugged her goodnight, and everyone left me alone. Everything about me smelled of smoke and soot. I hung my green silk up to be hand-washed later, then I showered and dropped into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. Scenes from the crazy day kept replaying through my mind. Too much had happened too fast. Why had Beau lied to ever
yone? I didn’t want him to be the one accused of Margaux’s murder. Nor did I want to find myself in that position. Big problems. And now this fire.
It seemed I had hardly hit the bed when my clock radio announced the new day. Tuesday. I yawned and stretched and wished I could sit this day out. Two patients to see and then the memorial service. My feet had barely touched the floor when the telephone rang.
“Foot reflexology. Keely Moreno speaking.”
“Keely! This’s Ruth Moore. We just heard the news from the police down there. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Moore. I’m so sorry about your house…all your plans for it. I haven’t had time to go over this morning to view the damage again, but…”
“We’re concerned and shocked,” she said, interrupting me, “but we’ve had time to calm down a bit. Insurance will cover the monetary loss, and we’re so relieved that you weren’t injured.”
“No, I’m fine. I’d gone out for the evening and I was away when the fire started. Thanks for your concern. Do you plan to come down?”
“Not today,” she said. “We’ll see about plane reservations.”
“Sometimes planes are booked full at this time of the year.”
“We’ll call our insurance carrier to take care of the details as soon as the offices open. Then we’ll hire workers to do the cleanup.” Now Mr. Moore’s voice flowed over their extension.
“We’ll try to come down soon, find a rental while we take care of rebuilding—or perhaps selling. This’s a real shock. It’s hard to know what to do or which way to go.”
“I can understand that. If there’s any way I can help you, please let me know. I’ve lived here all my life and I can put you in touch with salvage and clean-up people.”
“Thank you, Keely,” Mrs. Moore said. “I’m upset, of course, but I’m so, so relieved that you’re okay. I’ll let you go for now. We’ll probably be in touch later after we’ve had more time to think and to adjust our plans.”
“Thanks for calling, Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Again, let me tell you how sorry I feel about your loss.” I began to hate those words. Why were they springing to my lips so frequently?
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