TWENTY-TWO

The next morning, the aroma of coffee and frying bacon drifted to me, but in spite of the enticing smells, I didn’t hurry to get up. Punt had shoved aside the wicker screen that usually separated the bedroom and kitchen areas, and I saw him standing near the stove. A white terrycloth towel secured around his waist contrasted with his tanned skin. I wondered if he missed his carefree days of bumming on the beach.

“Rise and shine.” He glanced in my direction, grinned, and blew me a kiss.

I sat up, dangling my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling for my slippers, but the “rise and shine” part of his command required more strength than I could muster. Mornings following one of my nightmares left me feeling drained and useless. Punt poured two glasses of mango juice then sat beside me as we enjoyed the treat.

The juice revived me. A few minutes later I felt stronger and I slipped into my robe while we shared scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at his glass-topped table. In spite of the hearty breakfast, I faced the day slowly. It wasn’t until the last toast crumb disappeared that I glanced at my watch.

“Punt! It’s almost noon. I had no idea. Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“Didn’t know we had a schedule.”

“We have things to do today. There’s Randy and the shrimp boat and…”

“You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You had a hard night.”

“We had a hard night—Consuela in person. Jude in phantom. I’d like to forget.”

“We need to talk, Keely. When we going to do that?” Punt rose and stood behind my chair, leaning to kiss my forehead. “When?”

“Not today. Please, not today. Give me a little more time. I’m carrying so much baggage it’s wearing me out.”

“So I’ll help you carry it.”

“You have a few bags of your own, remember?”

“Maybe we should have a joint session with your shrink. How about it?”

“I’m not sure. I hate the thought of a third person mucking through the private details of our relationship. There are special moments we’ve shared that I want to keep private, moments I want to enjoy in the secrecy of my heart.”

“So what can I say?”

“Nothing more right now. Okay?” I rose, kissed him on the hollow of his throat where his pulse throbbed against my lips. When we stood apart again, I began loading the dishwasher while Punt wiped the table and the stove.

“We’d better hurry to Randy’s place. Be sure he’s getting ready to leave at one o’clock as promised.”

“Right.” Punt snapped my rear with a dish towel, then we both scrambled to get dressed for the day—cut-offs, T-shirt, sandals—the local’s uniform of the island. Sometimes the tourists catch on to our casual dress code, but seldom. They seem to prefer their up-north slacks and collared shirts or Hawaiian shirts and shorts.

Saturday—a whole weekend off. It felt good to leave my jumpsuit in the closet. I gave Randy a wake-up call to alert him to our imminent arrival.

“Good!” Punt exclaimed. “At least he’s up and about.”

“You thought he might not be?”

“You never know. A guy like Randy might decide he has other mullet to fry. He wasn’t totally sold on taking a week’s run on a shrimper. And he knows nothing about Captain Shrimp Snerl. His name alone could be a turnoff. I’m going to call Maxi-Taxi.”

“Good thought. I forgot we can’t get three in your car. But it’s a ways to Stock Island. Why not drive to Randy’s place, then call the taxi?”

“And leave the Karmann Ghia unattended on Stock Island all the time we’re at the shrimp docks? Thanks a lot, but no thanks. It’ll be safer here in my carport.”

I didn’t argue, and when Maxi-Taxi arrived, we got in and the driver nosed his way through the midday traffic on North Roosevelt. A huge pick-up with Alaska plates cut ahead of us at the left turn signal onto the highway, but our cabbie kept his cool. I grinned. Punt scowled but he didn’t offer any backseat advice.

I never tire of gazing at the water from the Boca Chica Bridge. A few boats were motoring in from half-day charters. I felt envious. Lots of sun and almost no wind. A travel brochure kind of day in living color. The driver turned at MacDonald Avenue, and when we reached the Jackson trailer, Randy scowled at us from an aluminum chair on the open-air porch. A duffel rested at his feet. Today he wore a No Name Key T-shirt with threadbare jeans and boat shoes. A faded sweatshirt lay across the duffel. Punt and I slid from the taxi. I looked around for some sign of Lavonna, and seeing none, I stepped closer to the trailer.

“Morning, Randy.” Punt greeted Randy with a handshake and a scowl. I smiled and nodded.

“Ready to go?” I asked. “Taxi’s waiting.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Randy kicked at the gravel with the toe of his shoe and lowered his voice. “I appreciate you getting me this gig, man. And I’ll do my best to perform whatever duties Captain Snerl has lined up for me. But as soon as we dock, I’m ready to begin rounding up some DNA.”

“You know how I feel about that.” Punt spoke softly, keeping his back toward the taxi driver. “First show the police a viable suspect, then consider getting the DNA.”

“We think differently, don’t we?” Randy’s gaze never left Punt’s face.

“Where’s Maxine?” I asked, desperate to change the subject, to avoid a last-minute argument that might nix our plans. “Working,” Randy replied. “Where’d you think?”

“I thought she might want to go with us to see you off.”

“This’s no pleasure voyage, Ms. Moreno. No ticker tape. No champagne.” Randy stood, picked up his duffel, and headed toward the taxi. He sat beside the driver. Punt and I shared the back seat. We said little on the ride to Land’s End Village and the shrimp boats.

After Punt paid the driver, we walked along the planked dock. Several rusty-hulled boats trimmed in black bobbed in the water, lashed to dock cleats with lines encrusted with brine. Dark masts and riggings rose silhouetted against the sky like the devil’s jackstraws. Overhead, gulls screamed into the tradewind that fanned my cheeks, and closer at hand a pelican showered us with water as it splashed into the bay in pursuit of a pinfish. I tasted brine on my tongue, my lips, and tried to avoid thinking about what else might have been in those drops of water. A dead-fish smell on the dock filled my nose—even the back of my mouth. For a moment I held my breath. Then I exhaled slowly, trying to accustom myself to the odor.

“There it is, Punt.” I pointed to a boat where three men were checking lines and nets. “Midnight Moon.” A glamorous name for such a clunker of a boat. I wondered what Randy might be thinking and if he’d be able to deal with the smells that wafted around us. But I guessed a prison cell didn’t smell like rose-scented eau de cologne.

At that moment Captain Snerl saw us, waved, and motioned us aboard. Punt grabbed a dock piling for support then stepped over the gunwale and onto the gray deck. Turning, he offered a hand to me and then to Randy. The crew had raised the boat’s iron outriggers until they formed a black V against a blaze of sky.

Punt introduced Randy to Captain Snerl and the two men shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.” Snerl’s voice boomed into the afternoon. “We’ll cast off in a few minutes, but there’s plenty of time to introduce you to the boat, show you to your quarters. He led us toward the pilot house, then paused when I reached out to touch what looked like two blobs of rouge-colored fabric attached to the mesh of the trawl nets.

“Those pink things are chaffing gear. They help protect the nets from wear while we drag them along the sea bottom.”

“Your radio in good order?” Randy asked.

I guessed the appearance of Midnight Moon along with his past experiences with Mel Fisher’s dive boats and the sea were making him wary.

At Randy’s question, Snerl motioned overhead. “See that tallest mast pointing to the sun? Well, that’s the radio antenna. Never have had any problem keeping in contact with shore.”

Captain Snerl led us into the pilothouse and lowered a chart rack hooked in place above a bunk bed. Unrolling the chart and securing it into place, he pointed to some numbers penciled in near the Gulf coast.

“Those figures mark my choice of fishing waters for this trip.”

When I eased closer for a better look, Snerl released the chart and it made a loud whooshing as it curled into a tube overhead. I jumped in surprise.

“Why don’t they fold those things?” I asked, laughing at my own discomfort.

“Maps are folded,” Snerl said. “Charts are rolled. Sometimes I need to measure distances on a chart. Folds in the paper could throw off my calculations.”

I resolved to ask no more questions that would point up my ignorance of the shrimp boat scene.

“What will my job be?” Randy asked.

“You’ll have an assortment of duties.” Snerl led us into the galley. I tripped over the coaming, but Punt steadied me. “Randy, you’ll set the table for the four of us. You’ll bus the table after each meal.” He pointed to a pan on the stove. “I’ve got a pot of chowder simmering for tonight, so the clean-up’ll be easy.”

We stepped back onto deck and Snerl continued. “You’ll help man the buoy once we’ve reached our fishing spot.” He pointed to a long chain attached to the bottom of a cane pole that had two battery lights and a white flag wired to its tip. The bottom of the pole passed through the center of three thick squares of Styrofoam. “You’ll help lower this equipment into the sea. The chain serves as an anchor, and the pole will float upright on the foam. I’ll steer the boat around that light in an ever-widening circle. The pole will be our focal point of reference as to our position—our location in the sea.”

I wondered how far away the boat could travel and still allow the crew to see such a small light, but I’d bite my tongue before I’d inquire. I smiled when Punt asked the question for me.

“That small light shows up from a great distance in the dark of night,” Snerl said. “So far I’ve never been lost at sea. We’ll have plenty of work for you, Randy. You’ll also help us discard the by-catch, help ice down the shrimp in the hold.” He looked directly at Randy. “You sure you want to go with us?”

Randy hesitated only a moment before he replied. “I’m sure. I thank you for the opportunity.”

Snerl showed Randy to a bunk in the bow, lifted the mattress and opened a storage area underneath. “You can stow your gear in there.”

Randy dropped his duffel into the bin and replaced the mattress. Snerl led the way back to dockside. Grabbing a piling, Punt hoisted himself onto the dock and turned to offer me a hand.

“Thanks for the boat tour,” Punt said. “I wish you all success on this trip.”

“Thanks, Punt. I plan to dock right here on Friday around midday.”

“We’ll be here to meet Randy.”

Randy gave us a wave and walked to the other side of the boat and stood gazing into the distance. We found a splintery bench at dockside and sat to wait until the Midnight Moon put out to sea. I didn’t think Randy would change his mind and leave the boat, but I wanted to be certain that he’d be off-island for a few days. We watched and waited.

“Punt, it’s wonderful of you to give Randy a chance.”

“Tell me again how wonderful I am. I like the sound of your voice wrapped around those words. But in all fairness I have to admit that it’s Shrimp Snerl who’s taking all the chances by hiring Randy on for a few days.”

“I think Randy really wants to work, and I hope he can tolerate shrimping. Sounds like heavy duty to me—working at night, sleeping by day. Wonder why those shrimp aren’t out and about in the daytime.”

“You’ll have to ask a shrimp about that. How about some ice cream?”

Punt got no argument from me. We walked to the Half Shell Raw Bar. It wasn’t such a scary place in the daytime with all the tourists crowding around. Punt bought two coconut sherbet cones to go and we resumed our vigil at the Midnight Moon.

“Punt, I know you think we should present suspect names to the police first to get their attention, but I sort of agree with Randy. I think the police would be more interested in pursuing an investigation if Randy worked through Attorney Hubble and presented DNA samples first and then gave the police names of suspects to be investigated.”

“You may be right,” Punt said. “Maybe there’s no absolutely right or wrong way to approach this investigation. Guess we might be wise to collect what DNA we can before Randy returns and insists on doing it for us—his way. That’s the scary part—his doing it for us and maybe getting so rough with someone that he earns himself another term behind bars.”

“We have the suspects’ names—all divers. Maybe we could ask Attorney Hubble to present those names to the police. That should, at least, get the police thinking about an investigation.”

“That’s one plan, but in the end we’ll need Randy to explain to the police in detail why one of those men had motive or opportunity to murder Dyanne Darby.”

“And Punt, should we consider Beau a suspect? Randy wasn’t clear on that. Don’t know how he felt about your dad.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to get a sample of DNA from Dad.”

“It wouldn’t? With him abroad? How can you manage that?”

“I’ve a key to his house—supposed to check the place every day to be sure no druggies have claimed it for an overnighter. That happens down here. Some unsavory character sees a vacant house and that place becomes fair game for illegal activities.”

“So you check his house every day. And…?”

“For instance, there’s bound to be a hairbrush lying around—one he left behind. I’ll just snatch a few hairs, tuck them into an envelope, and there we’ll have a DNA sample. No hairbrush available? I might be able to take the mouthpiece from his scuba gear. The police have ways to get DNA from dried saliva.”

“Okay. Sounds workable. Now what about the other four divers?”

“Surely the Reverend Soto will be cooperative once we tell him our plan. I can’t believe he has anything to hide.”

“I’d be embarrassed to approach him and ask for a DNA sample after all the effort he’s put into getting Randy freed. Such a request would be a slap in the face.”

“Ask and it shall be given unto you. Seek and ye shall find. Aren’t those the reverend’s mottoes? Don’t think he’d fault you for taking advice from the Good Book.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Soto if you’ll get the hair sample from Beau’s brush. And that’s enough plans for starters.”

The next time we looked up, we saw the Midnight Moon leaving the dock. Randy stood at the gunwale staring in our direction, but he didn’t return out waves.