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 him 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.

“Miss Moreno?”

“Yes?” My voice came out high-pitched but firm.

“Ace Grovello here.”

“Yes. How may I help you?”

“We haven’t met in person, but our friend Consuela is insisting that I try your services as a foot reflexologist. She guarantees you can cure my upper back problems. Do you have any openings?” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps an opening as soon as tomorrow?”

“Thank you for calling, Mr. Grovello.” I managed to lower my voice to its usual pitch. “Consuelo always plays the role of eternal optimist. I never guarantee my treatments as sure cures for anything. She knows that. But I’m willing to meet you and to talk with you about how reflexology treatments might be able to help you.”

“Fine, Miss Moreno. Would you have any free time tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow morning my first time slot’s open. If you’d stop around nine o’clock, I’ll talk to you about your specific problems.”

“Nine o’clock it is. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. I’ll look forward to meeting you—to helping you.”

Ace Grovello. I tried to forget that he was one of the former divers Consuela had talked to about Randy. His name had a pleasant ring to it and I rolled it around in my mind as I hurried to Gram’s shop. Gram had taught me long ago that it’s never safe to go boating without telling someone where you’re going and when you expect to return. She obliged by being my safety net, but I usually returned about the time I said I would.

“Have fun, Keely,” Gram said once I’d told her my plans. “I know you be safe when you be with Punt. You be smart to marry that man. Handsome. Rich. Employed.”

Three customers sitting at her coffee bar grinned and I felt heat rise from my neck to my forehead. “Come on, Gram. No matchmaking today. We’re going out to catch bonefish—maybe a permit. Be back before dark.”

Punt arrived, double parking his vintage Karmann Ghia in front of Gram’s shop while I grabbed a sweatshirt, stuck the CLOSED sign in my window and pulled the drapery more securely across the glass. Gram’s customers pretended they weren’t scrutinizing Punt, but I knew they were eyeing his rangy build, his thick auburn hair caught in a ponytail at his nape, his mirrored sunglasses.

His yellow convertible barely had room for 2 passengers, but we both loved its low-slung frame and its black leather bucket seats, loved to see people gawk at this rebuilt relic of the 70s as we drove through Old Town. Had anyone asked, Punt would have been flattered to stop and tell them all about his rebuilding the VW right in his carport at Ashford Mansion. Today nobody asked.

“Yo, mama,” a teenager called and whistled. “Travelin’ our route?”

“Way to go, man,” his buddy shouted, giving us thumbs up. I looked at Punt and we both pretended not to notice our audience.

Punt didn’t press me for answers to the questions I knew must be flying through his mind. Good. Maybe I needed to calm down and think things through. We drove slowly to Seaview Marina, parked in a visitor’s slot, then entered the marina office.

The building reminded me of an above-ground cavern. Voices and motor noises echoed as they bounced off the ceiling high overhead where boats of all kinds and sizes peeked from storage slots. My mouth watered and I could almost taste the aroma of the hotdogs sizzling in a countertop broiler. They masked the ever-present and less enticing odor of diesel fuel and sweeping compound.

“Yahoo!” I threw my head back, shouted into the cavern, and waited for the echo. The guy at the sales counter jumped, startled. Two guys working on their motors dropped their wrenches. A third man looked at me and gave a low whistle. I guessed that all of them had always wanted to shout a yahoo inside this place but had never had the spunk.

“Keely.” Punt grinned. “You okay?”

“Sure. Just want to be sure that people notice our presence here this afternoon.”

Punt led the way quickly to our lockers where we selected our tackle for the day. “Something’s really bugging you, right? Not like you to be a noisemaker.”

I didn’t answer. Punt shrugged.

“Spinning rods or fly rods?” he asked. “Your choice.”

“Spinning, okay?” I liked to use a fly rod when I was alone in my own boat, but with two people aboard, spinning rods were easier to manage—fewer back lashes, tangled lines, and taut tempers.

I refilled a thermos with fresh water from a spigot and bought us two boiled conch sandwiches and a couple of sodas from the vending machine while Punt purchased a package of frozen squid and half a dozen live shrimp from the bait boy.

“Great day for fishing,” I said when we left the building. My boat shoes thunked against the planked dock, then I felt the gentle sway of the floating catwalk runway leading to the slip where Punt tethered the Sea Deuced.

He stepped over the gunwale and into his skiff before he turned to offer me a hand. The fiberglass boat floated like a sleek mermaid. Punt took pride in his role as captain. He polished the brass fittings and teakwood trim and kept the twin outboards in top-notch order. Before viewing the Sea Deuced, I’d never ever seen a fishing skiff with a carpeted floor. Punt also had recently added a silent electric motor to the boat’s bow and installed an elevated poling platform above the motors aft.

“Where shall we go?” Punt secured our rods in the caddy beside the console before he dipped a bucket of sea water into the bait well and added the shrimp. I unwrapped the package of squid and set it on the bow to thaw. “The Tortugas?” he asked. “I know some keys out that way, secret places, safe spots with sandy coves.”

“Sounds good to me.” I liked the word safe. Sandy beaches are hard to find in the Keys because the coral reef offshore slows the waves before they smash into the shore-line rocks and grind them into sand. I sat on the passenger seat while Punt eased the boat from its slip and held to a no-wake speed until we reached open sea. Once he revved the motor and put the boat on plane, sunshine glinted on the V-shaped wedge of water ahead of the bow. Sea water frothed on my arms, and I tasted salt on my lips. For the moment I forgot my fears. I always felt safe with Punt. I smiled. I could think of no place on earth I’d rather be and no one I’d rather be with.

The motor roar made talking impossible until we reached Punt’s chosen cove.

I’d fished this spot before, but since he thought it a secret place, I didn’t tell him. He switched off the big motor and raised it from the water before he eased to the bow and plugged in the battery-operated electric motor. I walked aft and cast the anchor, watching the orange mushroom-shaped weight sink into the gray turtle grass three or four feet below us. The electric motor made hardly any noise. Later, it would allow us to ease into another cove without alerting any fish that might be nearby.

We began rigging our rods. Punt baited with a shrimp, but I pried a piece of squid from the frozen block and threaded it onto my hook. I made a couple of practice casts, standing at the side of the console.

“Why not stand on the bow, Keely? You can see ’em coming better from up there. I’ll stand back here on the poling platform.”

We stood in our respective spots and at the ready, but no fish finned through the crystal clear water. After a half hour of watching and waiting, I sighed.

“Want to hear about Randy Jackson now or later?” I could tell I was more eager to talk than Punt was to listen and that surprised me. Maybe he knew more about Randy Jackson than he’d let on.

“Let’s give the fish a few more chances. I know you’re all keyed up about something, but time on the water has a way of relaxing a person—of making molehills out of mountains.”

I sighed, knowing my mountain would remain a mountain.

“We can always talk, Keely, but fishing’s a sometimey thing. I’ll ease us to another spot—a lucky spot.” He pulled the anchor.

I stepped from the bow while Punt used the foot pedal on the electric motor to point us in a different direction and into a different cove. And again we cast anchor then waited under the cloudless sky. Punt spotted the permit first.

“To your left, Keely. Ten o’clock. Put that squid in front of his nose.”

I saw the fish swimming toward me over a bed of turtle grass. Drawing my arm back, I made the cast, but the permit darted like a torpedo to our far right out of range.

“Drat!”

“Hey. Watch this.” Punt dropped his shrimp right in front of a small ’cuda that had been stalking the permit. His rod tip bent toward the water and the sea frothed as the ’cuda took the bait and jumped. Silvery gray. It splashed back into the sea and Punt fought to keep the rod tip up. The ’cuda jumped again then headed toward the horizon. Punt played the fish, raising the rod tip, reeling in line. During all that activity, my attention had wandered from my rod, and I got a strike that almost jerked my tackle from my hand. The sudden action surprised me so I struggled to keep from falling overboard. Punt looked over his shoulder to see what was going on, and in that instant his ’cuda broke free and disappeared.

“Didn’t want that one anyway. Next one’ll be bigger—and hungrier.”

“Sour grapes, Punt. You can’t fool me. You goofed.” I’d regained my balance and I began fighting the fish on my line.

“It’s a bone, Keely. And a big one. Go easy. It’s a brag-about catch if I ever saw one. Let’s see you bring it to the boat.”