death went down on the books as a suicide.
Sloppy’swas only a few blocks from my office. That’s where Punt said he’d spent Saturday night and that’s where I decided to go first—even before I stopped by my office and said hello to Gram. I pedaled through the damp morning air to the bar where a likeness of Hemingway hung above the entryway. Don’t know what I expected to find so early in the morning. Sloppy’swouldn’t open for several hours. I knew that, but I pounded on the closed door anyway.
No response. I pounded again.
“You got a problem, ma’am?” a motorcycle cop called to me from the curbing. “That place’s closed. Maybe I can help. You leave something there last night?”
I started to reply, to make up a tale about a forgotten purse or car keys, when the door creaked open. An old Cuban leaning on a broom scowled at me.
“What you want?”
He waved at the bike cop and the cop rode away.
“You know Punt Ashford?” I asked.
“Everybody know Punt Ashford.” He scowled and gave me a closer look. “What you want?”
“I want to know if Punt came here on Saturday night, Sunday morning.” My shoulders sagged. How did I think a janitor could help me? Even if he came up with answers I wanted to hear, would anyone believe him? He didn’t look like he’d ever been anywhere near a courtroom—or a bathtub.
“Why you want to know? You his woman?” He leered at me. “Punt Ashford be missing from your bed?”
I thought of a lot of smart and not-so-smart answers, but I forced a civil tone as I replied. “It’s important to me and to his family to know if Punt patronized this bar on Saturday night.”
The janitor held out his hand and grinned, sticking his tongue in the hole where two front teeth were missing. “What you pay?”
I hadn’t expected this, but I dug deep into the pocket of my jumpsuit and came up with a ten and slapped it into his grimy hand. He shook his head, grinned, rubbed his thumb and two fingers together. I pulled out two ones and showed him the inside of my empty pocket. He scowled and pocketed the bills.
“Punt not here on Saturday night.”
“You sure?”
“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask?”
“Think carefully.”
“Okay. He be here for a short while. I be sure.”
“Okay, so you’re sure. What part of the night was he here?”
“Early part. Around eight or nine.”
“Not later?”
“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask? He have coffee then he leave.”
“You know a guitar man named Shim?”
“Never heard of no Shim. Worked here a long time. Know most everyone, but no Shim.”
“Thanks.”
He closed the door and I rode on toward my shop twelve dollars poorer. So much for Punt’s alibi. He came to Sloppy’searly on Saturday night, but he left. And Shim? A strange name. Had Punt made it up? If he had made it up, why? What was he hiding?
Punt’s lying disappointed me, left an ache in my gut, but what had I expected? Maybe he’d been out with some woman—a woman he didn’t want anyone to know about. Did he think I’d be interested in who he went out with? I wouldn’t care about his women friends or his alibi if I wasn’t almost sure to be in for serious questioning about Margaux’s death. The truth concerning Punt’s whereabouts last Saturday night could make a big difference in my life.
I pedaled on to my shop and chained and locked my bike to a utility pole near the back door. Stepping inside, I opened the drapery at the front window and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Gram appeared at my door immediately, leaving three sleepy-eyed customers sipping espresso at her coffee bar.
“Good morning, Keely.” Gram’s caftan swished as she entered my office and thrust the Citizen into my hand. “Take a read. Better to know what be said about you.”
The editor usually hides the bad news on page nine or ten, but Margaux’s death made front page headlines above the fold. WIFE OF CIVIC LEADER FOUND DEAD. I scanned more specific details
Sloppy’swas only a few blocks from my office. That’s where Punt said he’d spent Saturday night and that’s where I decided to go first—even before I stopped by my office and said hello to Gram. I pedaled through the damp morning air to the bar where a likeness of Hemingway hung above the entryway. Don’t know what I expected to find so early in the morning. Sloppy’swouldn’t open for several hours. I knew that, but I pounded on the closed door anyway.
No response. I pounded again.
“You got a problem, ma’am?” a motorcycle cop called to me from the curbing. “That place’s closed. Maybe I can help. You leave something there last night?”
I started to reply, to make up a tale about a forgotten purse or car keys, when the door creaked open. An old Cuban leaning on a broom scowled at me.
“What you want?”
He waved at the bike cop and the cop rode away.
“You know Punt Ashford?” I asked.
“Everybody know Punt Ashford.” He scowled and gave me a closer look. “What you want?”
“I want to know if Punt came here on Saturday night, Sunday morning.” My shoulders sagged. How did I think a janitor could help me? Even if he came up with answers I wanted to hear, would anyone believe him? He didn’t look like he’d ever been anywhere near a courtroom—or a bathtub.
“Why you want to know? You his woman?” He leered at me. “Punt Ashford be missing from your bed?”
I thought of a lot of smart and not-so-smart answers, but I forced a civil tone as I replied. “It’s important to me and to his family to know if Punt patronized this bar on Saturday night.”
The janitor held out his hand and grinned, sticking his tongue in the hole where two front teeth were missing. “What you pay?”
I hadn’t expected this, but I dug deep into the pocket of my jumpsuit and came up with a ten and slapped it into his grimy hand. He shook his head, grinned, rubbed his thumb and two fingers together. I pulled out two ones and showed him the inside of my empty pocket. He scowled and pocketed the bills.
“Punt not here on Saturday night.”
“You sure?”
“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask?”
“Think carefully.”
“Okay. He be here for a short while. I be sure.”
“Okay, so you’re sure. What part of the night was he here?”
“Early part. Around eight or nine.”
“Not later?”
“Lady, you doubt me, why you ask? He have coffee then he leave.”
“You know a guitar man named Shim?”
“Never heard of no Shim. Worked here a long time. Know most everyone, but no Shim.”
“Thanks.”
He closed the door and I rode on toward my shop twelve dollars poorer. So much for Punt’s alibi. He came to Sloppy’searly on Saturday night, but he left. And Shim? A strange name. Had Punt made it up? If he had made it up, why? What was he hiding?
Punt’s lying disappointed me, left an ache in my gut, but what had I expected? Maybe he’d been out with some woman—a woman he didn’t want anyone to know about. Did he think I’d be interested in who he went out with? I wouldn’t care about his women friends or his alibi if I wasn’t almost sure to be in for serious questioning about Margaux’s death. The truth concerning Punt’s whereabouts last Saturday night could make a big difference in my life.
I pedaled on to my shop and chained and locked my bike to a utility pole near the back door. Stepping inside, I opened the drapery at the front window and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Gram appeared at my door immediately, leaving three sleepy-eyed customers sipping espresso at her coffee bar.
“Good morning, Keely.” Gram’s caftan swished as she entered my office and thrust the Citizen into my hand. “Take a read. Better to know what be said about you.”
The editor usually hides the bad news on page nine or ten, but Margaux’s death made front page headlines above the fold. WIFE OF CIVIC LEADER FOUND DEAD. I scanned more specific details
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