Free Pier Pressure by Dorothy Francis Page A

about the guy looked different,” he called. “He seemed young, young as my dad maybe, but bald. When his hood fell back and he walked under a street light, the beam sort of bounced off his head. Maybe he has cancer or something. A kid in my class has cancer and the doctors shaved his head. Maybe…”
    “Run on, kid,” Punt said. “We believe you.” Then he turned to me. “Jude! I told you you couldn’t trust a restraining order.”
    “I believe you, Punt. It’s only a worthless piece of paper.”
    I didn’t tell Punt that I’d seen Jude walking on Grinnell Street that morning and that Gram had seen him walking past my shop. Had Jude been following me all day? My scalp tingled at the thought of him following me, furtively watching me turn into Jass’s backyard, waiting until dark to skulk off with my bicycle. For all I knew, Jude might still be lurking nearby, waiting to catch me walking home alone in the dark.
    “Sometime I’d like to know how Jude Cardell talked you into marrying him. I know it’s none of my business, but after high school you wouldn’t give me the time of day, yet that bastard…”
    I didn’t remind Punt that after high school he came on as a druggie, in and out of jail and making headlines in the newspaper’s daily Crime Report on a regular basis.
    “Well, now what?” Punt looked at the bulky bike and we both knew it wouldn’t fit into the Karmann Ghia. We walked back towards our driveway parking place.
    “I can ride it home, Punt.”
    “No way will I let you even consider riding it home with Jude in the neighborhood.” Punt thought for a moment. “Tell you what. You drive the car going slowly, and I’ll pedal along behind you.”
    “No way. That won’t do. I don’t ride at night—no lights, too dangerous.”
    Once we reached the car, Punt backed from the driveway and onto the street. He got out, helped me into the driver’s seat, and handed me the keys. “Let’s go. I’ll hang on and you can pull me. Your house or your office?”
    I sighed in resignation. “My house. Georgia Street, and be careful.” I wished I were spending the night at my office. At least Gram and Nikko were nearby on Duval, and several other merchants lived in apartments above their shops. However I had promised Mr. and Mrs. Moore to look after their home. Georgia Street lay in a safe part of town, but up-north snowbirds owned many of the houses—people who only came to the Keys when cold chased them from the northland.
    When I stopped the car in front of my place, Punt took my hand in his and squeezed it so tightly I felt my ring cut into my finger.
    “I’m walking you to the door, chaining your bike to the porch rail, and seeing you inside, Keely. Then I’ll circle this block for awhile. Anything strange happens, you give me a buzz.” He jotted his cell phone number on a scrap of paper he pulled from his glove compartment.
    “Thanks for your help and your concern, Punt. I appreciate.”
    At the door, he waited until I unlocked it and snapped on the porch light as well as an inside lamp.
    “Take care, Keely.” He paused for a moment, then turned and walked back to his car.

Eight
    I ENTERED THE house with the eerie feeling that someone lurked inside waiting for me. Hiding. Waiting. Ready to pounce. My heart thumped like a steel drum and I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my jumpsuit. The drapery at the front picture window hung open and I started to close it. No point in letting anyone outside peer in at me. On second thought, I dropped the pull cord and left the drapery alone. If Punt circled the block as promised, he’d be able to see inside, see if anyone or anything threatened me.
    At the time I agreed to house-sit for the Moore family, I’d liked the place—the backyard pool, the floor plan, the Florida decor. A shotgun house, Gram called it. A person could shoot a bullet down the central hallway, hitting nothing but the back entryway. The bedrooms, the living-dining room,