Cold Case Killer

by Dorothy Francis

  Consuela sat waiting, perched on a bar stool in Gram’s shop and sipping a latte.

  “Finish your drink,” I called to her before I entered my office. “I need to make one short phone call.”

  Hurrying inside, I checked my phone for messages. None. Punt seldom ignored my calls. I punched in his number again. No answer. Drat. Had he seen Randy on TV? I willed myself to be calm. I couldn’t give Consuela a reflexology treatment if my hands were shaking. I didn’t know what scared me the most—the person who wrote the warning note, the one who made the telephone threat, or Randy Jackson himself. Identifying with Randy didn’t make my fear of him disappear.

  Consuela, now wearing a lime-green sarong with a matching shoulder purse, made her usual whirlwind entry into my office. Sitting down uninvited, she kicked off her spike heels and plunged her feet into the footbath before I’d had time to add the frangipani scent to the fresh water. Consuela always insisted on frangipani, maybe because I’d told her it was one of the most expensive fragrances I offered.

  “I suppose you watched the program, Keely.”

  “What program?” I pretended ignorance. It graveled me that Consuela knew so much about my business, my activities.

  “You know good and well what program.” She deliberately splashed water onto the floor. “The TV program Randy Jackson just starred on in New York. I watched it, too. People treat Randy rotten.”

  Starred? I had to admit Randy had upstaged Reverend Soto. “Yes, the public’s been very unkind to him. I didn’t realize…”

  “I have a late date with Randy tonight. He’s going to tell me all about his trip, his first-class plane cabin, the big-time hotel—the whole thing. When my writing makes me famous I’ll know about those important things from personal experience. I’ll have opportunities to experience them for myself.”

  “I’m sure you will, Consuela. Where are you and Randy going for your date tonight?” I wondered how a guy like Randy could afford any place Consuela would consider appropriate for a famous writer-in-waiting.

  “Randy’s got no money. I know that. But his charm makes up for that. We’ll relax at my place. I’ve made conch chowder and a Key lime pie—his favorite foods.”

  Consuela left the footbath and walked to the treatment chair without bothering to slip into the slippers I’d provided. I sighed and said nothing about the puddles she left on the floor. When she lay back in the chair, I raised the footrest and I didn’t offer her a pillow. Didn’t want to talk to her if I could avoid it.

  “Need a pillow, Keely. Got plenty to say to you this morning. You rude to me earlier. Didn’t like that at all. We are long-time friends, yet you keep me waiting for my appointment. Don’t like that none, either.”

  “I apologize, Consuela, I’m sorry. I know I’m a few minutes late, and I’ll work with you a few minutes longer. This morning you interrupted Maxine’s treatment. That’s why I had to ask you to leave. It was Maxine’s first treatment, and she felt wary of being tipped back in the chair.”

  “Consuela accepts your apology.” She brushed her flowing hair aside and adjusted the pillow beneath her head. “I would like to help you find Dyanne Darby’s killer, Keely. We would be doing the world a service.”

  I didn’t doubt that Consuela would like to be in on any murder investigation. Her kind thrived on excitement—and male attention. Had it been possible she would have worn her boyfriends like charms on a bracelet.

  “Why do you think I’m trying to find Dyanne Darby’s killer? I’ve no plans to get involved in a mystery that happened when I was a child. No way.”

  I worked on Consuela’s big toe and felt the crystalline deposits break up. I knew she must have felt twinges of pressure, but she never flinched. She often complained of headaches and she believed my reflexology treatments kept them at bay.

  “I think you’ve decided to help Randy and his mother because you’re a kind person, Keely. You have a good heart and you like to help people—underdog people like the Jacksons. You deny this?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Okay, so I tell you the honest truth. I know you be the one who tries to help Randy because he hint that to me. He say a friend of his mother found one killer on this island and that she may help him. Now who could that be except you, Keely. Who?”

  EIGHT

  I didn’t give Consuela a yes or a no. Instead I released her left foot and began manipulations on her right foot.

  “Let me help you with your investigation, Keely. I know the people you need to talk to. Know some of them well.”

  Again, I made no response.

  “Well you can go on saying nothing, but I’m eager to admit that I’ve been trying my best to help Randy find the rotten person who let him sit in jail all those years.”

  “And just what have you been doing?” I hated breaking my clam act, but I’ve found it’s a good plan to know what esoteric activities Consuela has in mind.

  “I’ve been talking to people on the QT. Very quietly. Very subtly?” I squelched a smile at her oxymoron. Her attitude worried me. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “The divers. The old-time divers who worked for Mel Fisher back in the eighties. Some of those guys still live here. Some of them I know well. Very well, indeed.”

  “What do you think they can tell you that will help Randy Jackson? So Randy says they all worked together. They hung out together. But that doesn’t mean that one of them murdered Dyanne Darby. And if one of them did, he’ll certainly never tell you.”

  “See?” Consuela crowed. “I knew you were interested in that murder. Let me help you, Keely. You, me, Punt Ashford—we’ll be detective partners.”

  “Which divers have you been talking to? And what have you been saying to them?”

  “Some of the divers you may know. They’re older now. Not many of them dive for hire these days.”

  “That figures. Punt’s dad, Beau, used to work for Mel Fisher, but he hasn’t done any serious diving for years.”

  “You met Gus Helmer a while back. You remember him, right?”

  “How could I forget?” Rough, tough Gus Helmer. Of course I remembered him. Didn’t she know Gus was one of my current clients?

  “Gus used to be special to me, but he married now. Some Miami woman.” Consuela grinned. “Now I only see him when wifey goes to visit her mother. But I talk to Gus about Dyanne Darby and Randy. He remembered them—and the murder.”

  I sighed and kept my thoughts to myself. Gus Helmer’s a shrimper who owns and operates the Pink Gold. He’s a bulldog of a man, not a big guy, but tough acting. At the time Punt and I first met him, he lived aboard a dry-docked boat near the shrimp docks. He doubled his fist a lot when he talked to Punt and Punt respected that. He shrugged a lot when he talked to me, explaining his romantic activities. His attitude won him little respect from me, but live and let live. Who was I to judge him?

  “So you’ve talked to Gus. Who else?”

  “Slone Pierce. Slone and I go back a long ways. Today he operates his own salvage business. He travels anywhere in the Keys where there’s work. He also married now and his wife, Nicole, say I can only talk to him if she’s present. That cramps my style a whole lot, but I did talk with the both of them about Randy. Don’t think Slone knows anything about the Dyanne Darby murder.”

  I hoped Consuela was right. I massaged her left arch and then her left heel. Slone Pierce reminded me of a trained seal, sleek, heavy set, handsome. Don’t blame Slone’s wife for not wanting him to talk to Consuela.

  “But I want to talk to you about Ace Grovello.”

  “Your new boyfriend, right? And a diver, right?”

  “I tried to tell you about him this morning—you know, the guy who may sign up for your treatments and earn me a freebie. Well, Ace used to dive for Fisher. Made some good finds, too—a gold doubloon, for instance. Mel let him keep it. Ace had it mounted and now he wears it on a chain for everyone to see. If I’m good to him, he lets me wear it for a day or two, but it’
s important to him and I always have to give it back.”

  “Consuela! You’re a common slut!” The words slipped out before I remembered that wise businesswomen don’t use crude names when speaking to a customer. I blame my life with Jude Cardell for my in-depth knowledge of a vocabulary I seldom use.

  “How dare you talk to me like that!” Consuela started to leave the treatment chair, but I forced a smile and gently pushed her back down.

  “I’m sorry, Consuela. Tell me more about Ace. What does he do now?”

  Consuela stayed in the chair and pouted for a few moments before she replied.

  “I’m no slut, Keely Moreno. A slut sleeps with any guy she meets on the street. I only sleep with the ones I love. And because I’m no slut, I can accept your apology. Ace runs a bed-and-breakfast on Whitehead Street. The Sand Dollar. Sometimes he invites me to stay all night there in the off season. Very neat place. Always full in season.”

  “Who else, Consuela? Who else have you talked to?”

  “Reverend Soto. He worked for Fisher, but he helped spring Randy from prison. I doubt that he the one who murdered Dyanne Darby. Unless he did it and now tries to throw suspicion from him by doing good works. People do stuff like that sometimes.

  “And then there’s Punt’s dad. Beau worked for Fisher, too. But he’s such a Mr. Big nowadays in Key West I can’t suspect him. I housecleaned for years for Beau and his first wife. I don’t think Beau would murder anyone.”

  I finished Consuela’s treatment, massaged her feet with scented oil—frangipani, of course, and then helped her from the chair. She padded barefoot to her shoes and slipped into them.

  “Keely, since I’ve done all this early-on investigation and told you all about it, how about letting me help you find Dyanne’s killer? It might give me something to write about. Writers need ideas. And helping you would win me brownie points with Randy. Right now he’s my favorite boyfriend.”

  “I am not going to get involved in this murder case. Don’t you see what you may have done by questioning those divers? You may have alerted the murderer to the fact that Maxine wants help in looking into the Darby murder and that all the divers are under suspicion.”

  “Do you really think so?” For once Consuela looked crestfallen.

  “Yes, I really think so. Your antics make me furious and they make no sense. Why do you feel that one of the divers’s guilty? It could have been anyone. The culprit may live far from Key West. Over twenty years have passed.”

  Consuela stared into the distance as if that idea had never crossed her mind. Then she snapped her fingers and glared at me.

  “Keely Moreno, you have no imagination. A good detective needs imagination. It is easy for me to believe that one of Randy’s dive buddies was jealous of Randy. Hated him for dating Dyanne Darby. That jealous person may have gone into a rage. He could have killed Dyanne in order to keep Randy from having her. Sometimes jealous lovers behave that way. Don’t you agree that this could have happened?”

  “No. I don’t agree.”

  Consuela flounced from my office without paying. But I knew she’d be back and pay up the next time she had a migraine.

  One more client and I’d be free for the afternoon, but the morning’s warnings made me wary. With both Maxine and Consuela talking up the possibility that I might be looking into the Darby murder, they’d put someone on guard. I wondered who.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go fishing alone. Before I decided to stay home, a marriage counselor’s voice replayed in my mind. Fear is a response. Courage is a decision.

  Living in fear was no longer an option. I had started to lay out some clothes for my afternoon on the water when my phone rang. I didn’t answer and my mouth went dry. If the call was a client, he would try again later. Wouldn’t he? I waited.

  The phone rang again. I hated that it took so much courage for me to answer my telephone. Rats! I picked up the receiver.

  NINE

  “Keely!” Punt’s voice flowed across the line. “Sorry I didn’t catch your call a few minutes ago. What’s up? Gonna ask me to go fishing with you this afternoon?”

  “Oh, Punt. I need to talk to you. Did you tune in to Randy Jackson’s TV appearance this morning?”

  “Caught part of it. First half, maybe. Then a client arrived and I missed the rest of the show. I remember reading about Randy Jackson quite a while back. Exonerated on a murder-one rap, right? But how come you’re suddenly so interested in him?”

  “It’s a long story.” I stopped talking, trying to organize my thoughts so Punt wouldn’t guess I’d been scared to answer my phone. “Keely? You still there? Keely?”

  “I’m still here. But…”

  “The long story. Let’s hear it, please. I can tell when something’s giving you the nervous fantods. How’s this Jackson person important to you? From what I saw of him on-screen, he didn’t look like your type.”

  “My type of what?” I tried for a light touch. “Seriously, Punt, I need advice. I like to stick up for the underdog, but Randy Jackson looks and sounds like such a lowlife I feel confused.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the warnings. Not yet.

  “And Jackson’s your current underdog? You’re asking your favorite PI for help?”

  “Perhaps. At least I’m trying to talk Randy Jackson and his mother into making an appointment with you. They need a private investigator’s help, but they can’t pay. I thought maybe you could at least listen to Randy’s story—pro bono.”

  “Pro bono work’s never my favorite kind of employment. But you can tell me about it while we’re out on the water. Deal?”

  “I’d planned to go fishing, but some unsettling things have come up since early this morning.” I caught my breath. “But…I’m still going fishing. I decided that for sure before you called and I was hunting my jeans and boat shoes when my phone rang.”

  “Courage is a decision, right? That motto that can get you in big trouble if you take it too seriously. I can’t guess what’s bugging you today, but why don’t I pick you up around one o’clock and we’ll head for the back country together—in my boat. Let’s enjoy the afternoon before we start worrying about Randy Jackson and his problems.”

  “What about your office, your clients? With your partner busy in Tallahassee, you could miss an important client if you close your office.”

  “This afternoon you’ll be my important client and I won’t tell Nikko. Pro bono. No retainer required or expected. See you at one.”

  Punt cut our connection before I could protest. But I wouldn’t have protested. We’d shared an on-again off-again romance since high school days—on, when he’d been a good student and the football hero; off, when he’d been a school dropout and a druggie. And off during my four-year marriage to Jude Cardell. Following my courage-is-a-decision divorce, Punt and I became close again. He was drug free by then, but still a beach bum. We fell in love and he proposed marriage, but my emotional scars along with my terrifying nightmares made me wary of all men. For weeks, those scars wouldn’t let me share his bed for even one night, let alone for a lifetime of nights.

  I stretched out in my apartment to rest for a few minutes before my next appointment—Gus Helmer. Reflexology treatments wear me down both physically and mentally. I almost dozed until I heard Gus knock on my back door. Jumping up, I hurried to admit him, wishing Consuela hadn’t talked to him about the Darby murder. I couldn’t help wondering if Gus had been the person spouting threats and warnings.

  Gus always entered through my back door, parking his rattletrap car in the alley where it might be towed away at any moment. But somehow that never happened. Guess Gus thought it ruined his tough-guy image to be seen at my front door reporting for reflexology treatments. As usual, the faint aroma of shrimp wafted around him. I willed my hands and my voice into steadiness.

  “Morning, Keely. Great day outside.”

  “Right, Gus.” He followed me to the footbath and I closed the drapery across my office window, reassuring hi
m that nobody would see him inside. Nor could anyone see me. Today I wanted to be visible, visible to anyone who might come to my aid if I needed help. But I left the curtain closed.

  Gus wore his sandy hair hanging straight in chin-length wisps that matched his freckles. His tank top revealed a multitude of tattoos. Snakes. Hearts. Spacecraft. You name it and Gus could point it out somewhere on his arms and chest. I didn’t name it. Sometimes I wondered if his tattoos covered his whole torso, but I wasn’t about to ask.

  “Shoulder’s been a-paining me this week. Need a fix there.” He kicked off a pair of black flip-flops and waited while I ran fresh water into the foot-sized tub. After I started the whirlpool, he plunged his feet into it and I let him enjoy the motion of the water for a few moments before I directed him to the treatment chair.

  “What kind of lotion do you prefer, Gus?”

  “Lime. That sounds good for today.”

  Gus’s weight made my chair creak and groan, and although he had huge feet, they were easy to manipulate. I picked up his right foot first.

  “You been doing extra exercise of some kind that started the shoulder pain?”

  “Just the usual. Lowering nets. Managing the dragging. Winching the catch up.”

  “When did the pain start?”

  “February the second. I marked it down in my log book. Like to keep track of things of importance. Shoulder pain’s important to a shrimper.”

  To my surprise, Gus fell asleep only a few minutes into his treatment and I felt more at ease. A sleeping patient was unlikely to rise up and murder me on the spot. I had to awaken Gus when I finished his treatment and he apologized for dropping off.

  “Been working for ten nights in a row. Brought the Pink Gold in early this morning. Now I got to get back to the dock and help the crew unload. Good catch. I’m not complaining. Good catch. I marked it down in the log.”

  As soon as Gus paid me and left, I relaxed and locked my office, skinned from my khaki jumpsuit, and pulled on jeans, T-shirt, and boat shoes. I jammed my cell phone into my pocket, but when I started to hurry to Gram’s shop to tell her my afternoon schedule, my phone rang again. My throat tightened, but I had to answer. I half expected another threat, but instead a deep resonant voice said my name.