TEN

For an instant I saw the silvery body flashing through the water and I let it run for a few yards before I raised the rod tip and reeled in line. The fish and I played that strenuous game for the next half hour. My arms ached and my breath snagged in frenzied gasps by the time I brought the fish to the boat—both of us exhausted.

“Good one, Keely. Bet it’ll go eight or nine pounds. Maybe more.” Punt jumped from the poling platform and came to the boat side, grabbing a landing net on his way.

“I want to release it.” I admired the silvery body, the black eye staring at me. Then the fish gave one more surprise lunge in an unsuccessful effort to escape. “I don’t intend to keep it, Punt. Bones are no good for eating.”

Punt leaned over the side and scooped the fish into the landing net. “Okay. You don’t need to keep it, but before you release it, I want to snap a picture. Proof, you know. Proof to show any doubters who might give us an argument when we get back to the marina. Hold the net a minute, okay?”

I took the net he thrust into my hands, feeling the full weight of the fish. Punt scrambled to open the storage bin under the passenger seat and pulled out a camera and a steel tape.

“I’ll hold the net, Keely, while you step onto the bow again. The tape’s weighted. It’ll stand upright while you hold the fish near it. Let the tail touch the bow and be sure the nose is on the level with a number on the tape. When you’re ready I’ll snap the pic and we’ll have our proof.”

Inserting my fingers into a gill slit, I managed to lift the fish into position next to the tape and Punt clicked the shutter. He clicked it twice to be sure he had a good shot.

“Done! Now let’s lower it into the water.” We eased the bone back into the net and then submerged it in the sea. “It’s just lip-hooked, so it’ll be an easy release. Let me get my pliers.”

I lifted the net to boatside again while Punt removed the hook with one deft movement. Moving quickly, I submerged the net and lowered it from under my catch, but the fish didn’t move. For several moments it lay motionless as a bathtub toy.

“I hope it’s still alive.” I prodded the fish’s tail with the net, eager to see some movement. Then I leaned over the side, grabbed its tail, and pulled the fish back and forth to get water flowing through its gills.

“It’s alive.” Punt leaned over the side, too, and we both pulled the fish through the water. “It’s finding its bearings, getting ready for a long run.”

Punt knew the drill. Suddenly, water splashed in our faces as the bonefish took refuge under the boat for a few seconds before streaking toward the open sea. Big fish with their beauty and speed always left me awestruck and I watched this one out of sight while Punt pulled the anchor.

“Snack time. Agreed?”

“Agreed!”

Punt pointed the boat toward the beach where mangroves grew into the water, their brown roots arching like stiff ropes along the shoreline. Island builders. That’s what conservationists called the mangroves. The trees showered their seeds into the sea, and in due time new plants sprouted from the brine.

Punt eased the boat a few feet from a cove before he cast anchor again. I grabbed our lunch and Punt pulled a blanket from a storage bin. Pausing, we both rolled up our jeans before we splashed into the water, stopping a few feet from shore to rinse fish slime from our hands. Once ashore, we smoothed the sand, spread the blanket, and plopped down to rest.

“Some fish, Keely. I’m going to enter it under your name in the marina’s bonefish contest. That specimen could be the winner.”

“Forgot all about that contest. What’s the prize?”

“Lots of honor and glory around the marina and in the Citizen, of course, but also a slip for your skiff—rent-free for a year.”

“Not bad.”

I handed Punt a soda and a sandwich then unwrapped one for myself. Aah! Minced conch and dill pickle mixed with relish and mayo. Paradise. I gulped the first bite then slowed down and enjoyed the rest of the sandwich. And the sunshine. And the tradewind.

“Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

Punt allowed me the cliché. “Few wintertime fishing days turn out to be so nice. It’s more usual to face high wind and rough seas.”

“Conch sandwiches always taste better on the beach,” I said. “Wonder why.”

“Everything’s a lot better on the beach.” Punt reached to pull me toward him and I didn’t resist. We lay in a loose embrace and I enjoyed the touch of his warm lips against mine. For a moment it was easy to shove thoughts of Randy Jackson, the warning note, the phone call from my mind. We kissed and we kissed again as we snuggled into an even closer and warmer embrace. I wanted it to last forever, and I knew Punt wanted it to evolve into something more intimate. But neither of those things happened. A raucous shout snapped us to attention. In a skiff about fifty yards offshore, a couple of men were training binoculars on us.

“Damn!” Punt stood and shook his fist at them. I ducked behind a mangrove. “They’re just teenagers,” Punt called.

I peeked. The intruders retreated a few yards, but not because Punt scared them. They were bent on teasing us and making pests of themselves. They took turns using the binoculars.

“Forget them, Punt. It’s too nice a day to let kids spoil it.”

Punt sat again. “But they scared you. I suppose you’d rather be thinking about Randy Jackson.”

“Not rather. But I do need to talk to you about him and some other stuff. Wish you’d seen all of that TV show. The program was an effort to make people aware of the plight of exonerated ex-convicts.”

“I got that much from the lead-in. Randy did a lot of jail time before the courts found him innocent, right?”

I told Punt a few more of the program’s highlights. “But the show ending evolved into a climax that almost blew viewers away like kites in a gale. Randy, in madman mode, approached the camera until his face filled the screen. His expression could have scared anyone who saw it into thinking he might still belong behind bars. Reverend Soto, the program emcee, jerked Randy off camera, but too late. He’d already announced the one thing he wanted most—revenge.”

“I’m guessing that’s how a lot of people might feel—a need for revenge—were they in Randy’s position. No job. No money. No anything.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about. Besides revenge on society in general, Randy wants to see Dyanne Darby’s killer arrested, convicted, jailed. If that happens, he thinks employers would be willing to believe he’s innocent and offer some jobs.”

“A good goal, I’d say.” Punt took another swallow of soda.

“Maybe a worthy goal if he could accomplish it without being a danger to society—to the person or persons he thinks may be guilty. Randy scares me. I think he’s the type of guy who may hit on his chosen target first and ask questions later—perhaps from another prison cell.”

“Well…” Punt stared at a cormorant floating on an updraft far above us. “I realize Randy’s mother’s your cleaning lady, but why are you making Randy Jackson’s problem your problem?”

“Because I empathize with him. Because I empathize with his mother. I know what it’s like to be down and out.”

“So do I. We both know that.”

“Maxine wants me to help them find the culprit in this cold-case murder. I told them I didn’t want to be involved, that I didn’t think I could help unless it might be to point them toward a good professional detective. You.”

“I’m flattered you think I can help.”

“Investigating’s your business—yours and Nikko’s. Will you talk to Randy and Maxine? Give them some advice? Pro bono?”

“I suppose I could do that. Do you know who Randy suspects of killing Dyanne Darby? What’s his thinking? He’s had twenty years to mull it over.”

“I haven’t talked to Randy in person. But Consuela’s clued me in to her eclectic thinking.”

Punt groaned and gulped the rest of his soda. “What’s Consuela got to do with it? How’d she undulate into the picture?”

“She’s presently dating Randy Jackson—among others, of course.”

“Of course. I’m afraid to ask you who Consuela thinks may have murdered Dyanne Darby over twenty years ago—when Consuela couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven.”

“Yeah, right. I know how you feel, Punt. Anything Consuela says should be taken with a grain of sand. Her opinions are usually worth about that much. But she sometimes does use a bit of logic. She thinks one of the divers who worked with Randy at the time of his girlfriend’s death might be responsible. That’s fairly straight thinking—for Consuela. She’s calling the motive jealousy, you know, if-I-can’t-have-her-nobody-can. She could be right, you know.”

“How does she know who those divers were? Seems to me it might make more sense for the killer to have offed Randy. Then he’d still have Dyanne alive and well and all to himself.”

“Strong point. Why not Randy instead of Dyanne? So there are two ways of looking at that murder. Randy gave Consuela the names of some of those divers he considers potential suspects—Beau being one of them.”

“Dad! Cool your jets, Keely.” Punt stared at me, and I hoped he’d begun taking my words seriously. The case was hitting too close to home for his comfort. “I know Dad’ll be able to give us an airtight alibi once he and Jass get back from England.”

“Give us an alibi? Us? I want nothing to do with this case. Nada. I’m doing my part by suggesting the Jacksons talk to professionals—you and Nikko.”

“Consider the ‘us’ a slip of the tongue. What other divers did Consuela mention besides Dad?”

“One of the first was Gus Helmer. Remember him?”

“The shrimper who works the Pink Gold?”

“Right. He’s one of my current clients. And she mentioned Slone Pierce, and Ace Grovello, and Reverend Soto. They all worked for Mel Fisher in the early eighties, and they’re all still living and working in Key West, but no longer as divers.”

“Reverend Soto? Ridiculous! Consuela’s a few innards short of a chum bag. According to what I remember reading about the case, Soto’s the person who fought to get Randy released. Soto and Shelley Hubble. Consuela’s crazy and I don’t want anything to do with her and/or Randy Jackson.”

“I’d hoped…”

“There are lots of things I’d do for you, Keely, but investigating people Consuela suspects of murder isn’t one of them. Please don’t ask me to get involved with Consuela. She’s a wannabe writer out to use you—or me—to make a name for herself.”

“Punt?” I’d buried my guilt at not stepping forward to help Randy and my fears for as long as I could. “Punt, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

Punt sighed. “Give. But if it involves Consuela, I’m unlikely to change my mind about the Randy Jackson case anytime soon.”

“This morning I found a threatening note on my office door.” I imagined alarm bells going off in Punt’s mind as he stared deep into my eyes. “Maxine received a similar note. And later we both received death-threat phone calls.”

“What’d the note say? What’d the caller say?”

Repeating the note contents to Punt was like reading an etching engraved in my brain.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Punt sat up and looked toward his boat.

“Guess I thought I could deal with my problems on my own. Then I changed my mind when you refused to help Randy. My working alone on the case wouldn’t be fair to the Jacksons. They need the best help they can get—you and Nikko, once Nikko gets back from Tallahassee.”

“Show me the note. I might be able to get some fingerprints off it at the office.”

“It’s at my apartment. In my jumpsuit pocket.”

Punt stood and we began folding the blanket. “Come on, Keely. Let’s go.”

“Does this mean you’ll help the Jacksons investigate the Darby murder?”

“Yes, now that you’re involved. You don’t think I’d turn you down, do you? When can the four of us get together for a meeting?”

“I can’t speak for the others for sure, but how about tomorrow after my last patient? If that suits you, Maxine, and Randy, it’s a plan.” I carried our sandwich wrappers and soda cans as we splashed into the water and boarded the boat. Punt ground the motor three times before it started then I clutched the edges of the passenger seat for support as he gunned the boat on plane and we skimmed across the water toward Key West.

At the marina Punt tipped a dockhand to care for his boat, a chore he usually preferred to do himself. I knew then for sure that my news about the note and phone call had caught his full attention. He broke the speed limit getting to my office, but no cop stopped us. Nor did one appear when he parked in a no parking zone.

“Where’s your door key?” He held out his hand and I dropped the key into it. “Wait here while I enter first.”

I waited, hovering close behind him.

“What be going here?” Gram hurried from her shop. “Car in bad place. Police have it towed. At owner’s expense.” Then she stood in front of the Karmann Ghia as if she might try to protect it with her life.

“It’s okay, Celia,” Punt said, stepping outside. “I’m going to find a better parking place right now.” He drove away and Gram and I waited in my outer office for a few minutes. I’d just finished telling Gram about my big bonefish when Punt returned. Gram was eager to see my romance with Punt flourish, so she told us goodnight and disappeared into her shop.

“No sign of a forced entry,” Punt said, checking both my doors. “Now show me the note.”

I grabbed my jumpsuit from the bedroom chair and pulled the note from the pocket, spreading it on the bedside table so he could read it.

“Very amateurish.”

“Think maybe some kid’s trying to scare me?”

“I might think that if Maxine hadn’t received a similar note. Do you have a Ziploc bag? I’ll take the note to my office and check it for prints.”

I found a baggie and Punt had slipped the note into it and was tucking it into his shirt pocket when we heard a sharp thud along with the sound of shattering glass.