TWENTY-NINE

After inserting the key in the lock, I’d opened the door when someone called to me.

“Miss? Miss? There’s nobody at home there. May I help you?”

I turned to face a puff-ball of a woman, short and fat and wearing a caftan that flowed around her ankles. Her headband echoed the turtle pattern in the caftan.

“I’m Keely Moreno.” In the mist of rain and the rising wind, I left the porch and crossed the yard to extend my hand toward the woman. “I’m a friend of the Ashfords and I’ve come to give the house a quick check while Mr. Ashford’s away.”

“I’m Daisy French from next door,” Puffball said. “We neighbors keep an eye on Beau’s house, too. But we never have problems around here. Glad to meet you, Keely. Give me a call if you need any help. I’ll be right inside.”

I thanked the woman then I climbed the porch steps again and unlocked the house. I was sorry I’d entertained the thought that Slone Pierce might come here to hide out from the police. I tried to calm my fears by remembering that he was in police custody. Once inside, I checked the three doors that opened to the outside before I examined each window. No smashed glass. All locks in place. I breathed easier.

I considered placing some markers here and there throughout the downstairs, a thread on a certain spot on the carpet, or an envelope between two couch cushions. Then on another visit, if any of the markers had been moved, I’d know an intruder had been here.

You’ve been reading too many detective novels, Keely. Finish looking around and go on home.

I left the house and locked the door, turning to wave toward Daisy French’s house in case she might be watching. In fact, I hoped she was watching. In spite of knowing Slone Pierce’s whereabouts, I still felt uneasy as the early dusk and threatening clouds predicted an early evening. Why not skip the carport check? The thought tempted me, but I discarded it and walked around the side of the house. No point in opening the cupboards. They were still locked. Nobody had been here since last night when Punt and I picked up Beau’s scuba mouthpiece. I started to leave and return to my bicycle when I heard a tell-tale crunch. Whirling around, I saw a man half hidden by a palm tree.

At first I thought another neighbor had come to check on Beau’s property, but chills playing along my arms and across my nape warned me of danger. I grabbed a deep breath, planning to call to Daisy French.

“Don’t scream. Keep quiet.”

I didn’t recognize the guttural voice, and when the person stepped into full view, I understood why. A person wearing a hooded raincoat that blended with the cloudy day began approaching me. A nylon stocking covered his face and head. But nothing covered the pistol in his hand. His? His? It could be a woman. The androgynous outfit made it hard to tell.

“W-who, who are you?” I stuttered and my voice shook, revealing my fear. “What are you doing skulking around this house? You’re trespassing on private property, and…”

“Shut up, woman,” the voice ordered. “We’re leaving this property right now. Together.”

“The neighbors are watching. You won’t get by with this—with whatever you’re planning. Someone will see you and call the police.”

My captor chuckled. “No. That won’t happen. It’s early and most of the neighbors are still at work.” He held up a cell phone. “I called the French home the minute I recognized you. Told them their daughter had been injured. They’re probably already on their way to the hospital. Come with me now and you won’t get hurt. At least you won’t get hurt right here.”

A gun barrel prodding my ribs prompted my obedience. It surprised me that I managed to keep talking.

“I rode my bicycle here. In the morning, Mrs. French will think it strange to find it still padlocked to the palm. She’ll connect the bike to the phony call about her daughter.”

“We’re taking the bike with us. Where’s your key?” He held out a hand. “Give me the key.”

I hesitated.

“Give me the key. Now.” The gun prodded—harder this time—and the person pressed his body closer to mine and linked his left arm through my right arm. “See, we’re old friends walking down the street on a dismal evening. Some people consider walking in the rain romantic. However, I’m not one of them. Hand over the bicycle key.”

Now he was clutching my arm and twisting it behind my back. It had to be a man, didn’t it? Even through my pain I realized a woman wouldn’t have strength for both holding a gun and twisting an arm.

I wear my bicycle key on a lanyard around my neck. With my free hand I jerked it off and handed it to him.

“That’s more like it, Keely. I thought I might be able to make you see things my way. Now come with me and we’ll collect your bike.”

“Someone will see us. I’ll shout for help.”

He nudged me with the gun again. “You think I won’t shoot?”

“That’s right. I think you won’t. You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t dare risk revealing yourself. The sound of a gunshot would bring neighbors on a run.” My words sounded phony even to my own ears and I knew he didn’t believe me.

Walking side by side, we entered the front yard and headed toward my bicycle. I wondered how he’d manage to unlock it with a gun in his hand. I needn’t have wondered.

“Unlock it,” he ordered. “Right now.” He chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d risk doing it, did you? Unlock the bicycle.”

I moved as slowly as I dared, dropping the key as if by accident, but I retrieved it, followed his orders, and unlocked the bike.

“Pull it into riding position,” he said. “My car’s parked around the corner. Place both hands on the handlebars and wheel it straight ahead and then around the first corner to your left. Forget about escaping. I’ll have my gun trained on you every second. You try to ride away, and you’re a dead woman.”

Could this man be Slone Pierce? Had the TV announcer said Slone was under arrest? Or maybe he’d said the police were holding him for questioning. I wished I’d listened more carefully. Fear-driven thoughts raced through my mind. Why would Slone Pierce come after me? Maybe because Punt and Randy were off island and I was available? How I wished Punt and I had never gone to his house to talk to Nicole!

Again, I forced myself to recall safety rules from the past. Don’t let him get you in a car even if he has a gun. Huh! I wondered how often that lecturer had run while someone held a gun to his ribs. Of course, if I tried to escape on my bike, I’d be a moving target and moving targets are hard to hit. I wondered if this man had practice in shooting at moving targets. And I wondered why all these crazy thoughts were rushing through the turmoil of my mind. I was about to be kidnapped, and who knew what else my captor had in mind—yet all I could think of were safety rules that wouldn’t do me any good.

Talk, I told myself. Show some spunk. You talk to clients all day, so talk, now when your life depends on it.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “If you want something from the Ashford house, go back and take it. But let me go.”

“I warned you not to nose into the Randy Jackson case. But you’re a dumb broad. You didn’t pay attention. Now you’ve caused me trouble.”

“I really can’t cause you any harm. I’m no detective. I’m no PI. If anyone gives you trouble it won’t be me. It’ll be the police who’ll soon have information that’ll bring the Randy Jackson case back into their thinking “

“You’re wrong. You might say you’re dead wrong. When the police find your body, they’ll face a hot case that’ll make them forget about a decades-old cold case.”

“Cops may slide unsolved murders to a back burner, but they don’t forget them. And in this case, they’ll have Randy Jackson and his mother to remind them of Dyanne Darby.”

“Hah! The news media will be screaming about the murder of Keely Moreno. Or maybe I can think of some way to pull this off and make your death look like an accident—or a suicide.”

“You’re not that smart.”

“I’m smart enough to want to get the police involved in a new homicide. I found a patsy to take my place in prison for twenty years, didn’t I? I call that plenty smart.”

“You won’t get by with such a thing again.”

“Of course I will. There are people on this island who think you should be doing a little jail time yourself.”

“Nobody ever charged me with a crime.” My whole body grew hot and I guessed how Randy must have felt when he heard himself accused of a murder he didn’t commit.

“You may never have been charged with homicide. But that doesn’t make people believe you’re innocent. Many folks still wonder what Margaux Ashford might say if she could speak from the grave. And others wonder what Jude Cardell might have said if he’d had a chance to confront the police. Keely Moreno, if you should happen to die—accidentally—some folks would say, serves the broad right.”