Free Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery by Michael Haskins

onto the bow cabin’s bed. I didn’t bother undressing. I lay on the covers and wondered why I was bothered by Walsh’s story, the dead woman, and the marshals. Luis bothered me too, because if he was telling the truth I had misjudged him and I didn’t think that was possible.
    Music from the salon woke me from a restless sleep. It was 10:45. Bob was sitting down reading the morning Citizen.
    “We can’t be in it,” I said and walked to the galley for some cold water.
    “No,” he said turning the page. “But Walsh is.”
    “They know about him?”
    Bob laughed. “I guess one of his employees knows. Amanda because she’s written about his telling his employees, ‘ They are after me .’ Kind of turning him into a Key West character, but she also reported he’d not been located.”
    “That was quick.”
    “Mostly speculation and filler about other Key West characters. No comment from the cops.”
    “I need a shower and a con leche ,” I said.
    “I’m going to my marina and do the same. Should we meet at Schooner or Sandy’s?” He put the paper down and stood.
    “I’ll walk to Sandy’s around noon and meet you,” I said. “Lunch at Schooner.”
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah,” I said and smiled. “This is more than it seems and I can’t figure it out.”
    “Forget about him, let them catch the psycho,” he said and left.
    Easier said than done, especially when curiosity was a blessing and curse.

Chapter 17
    B ob met me at Sandy’s, a small, twenty-four hour, hole-in-the-wall take-out sandwich shop that makes a mean café con leche . We ordered two large with four sugars each and drank quietly while Bob drove to Schooner Wharf. It had been a long night and I was still tired, even after a few hours sleep.
    Bob pulled into an open spot on Eaton Street and we walked the two blocks to the bar. The empty con leche cups went in the trash by a crowded B.O.’s Fish Wagon restaurant and we continued on William Street to the back entrance of Schooner.
    Everyone knows that September is peak hurricane season in the Keys, but the lunch crowd was sizeable as they sat around the sunny patio finishing their meals, not thinking about hurricanes, and ordering more drinks. Local drinkers filled the four-side bar, bullshitting, bragging to each other in the shade, and were not too concerned about lunch. Some peeked at the bar’s large TV, when the Weather Channel did its tropical update report.
    We sat at the bar next to the Professor, a scholarly gentleman and writer of books on the history and characters of the Florida Keys. He’s always working on his next book, but seemed to do most of his afternoon research from a barstool.
    The Professor’s Ivy League outfit consisted of a Penn State T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, sandals and his pipe. He was the only person I’d ever seen in Key West smoking a pipe. I am sure he had an Oxford dress shirt and tweed jacket with elbow patches at home. Tufts of unruly gray hair sprouted above his ears, along the side of his baldhead. Bushy eyebrows did their best to hide his dark-brown eyes and sometimes he had a few days’ beard growth, as if he intended to grow one; other times he was clean-shaven. I guess he had difficulty deciding about growing a beard. An open notebook sat on the bar, along with a bottle of beer and the unlit pipe. He was right out of central casting in Hollywood, but he fit Key West perfectly, anyway.
    “Professor,” I said in way of a greeting and notice his beard stubble.
    He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose, stopped reading his notes, and smiled. “Mick, how are you today?”
    “Can’t complain,” I said with a smile. “And you?’
    He took a swallow of beer and turned back to me. “I think I’m dead,” he said. “I think we all are.”
    “I’ll get us cigars.” Bob shook his head, frowned, and walked away. He refused to suffer fools, real or imagined. “Order me a beer.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that, professor.” I bit