Pier Pressure by Dorothy Francis

of Mom’s death and now of Margaux’s.
    As I lay tense and exhausted, my mind retraced the day’s happenings. When I closed my eyes, the image of Margaux’s body seemed imbedded on the back of my eyelids. Would I be accused of that murder? The thought chilled me. I knew Margaux hadn’t committed suicide. I agreed with Jass that the guilty person must be found in order to protect the names of the innocent and in order to get a killer off the streets. The person finding the body…
    When I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness, outdoor night sounds seemed amplified. In the distance I heard a car horn honk followed by the squeal of tires. Closer at hand the wind whispered through palm fronds. Then a thump outside told me something had hit the front door. Hard. Bolting upright and suppressing a scream, I slipped from bed.
    Without turning on a light, I crept across the cool floor to the living room, pulled the drapery aside a crack, and peeked out. Yeowl! A neighborhood cat clung to the door screen for a few moments before jumping to the porch and darting away on cat business. I relaxed and returned to bed.
    I still lay staring at the ceiling when someone knocked on the front door. Don’t answer it. I lay still, listening. Who could it be at this hour? Jass? Beau? Punt? Jude? Please, God, not Jude.
    If I didn’t answer the knock, someone might try to break in. I had promised the Moores to protect their house. The next knock sounded louder, more demanding. I grabbed a robe, felt its cool silkiness glide over my body. Turning no light on, I eased barefoot into the hallway and peeked through the security hole in the door.
    Detective Curry and a woman stood on the porch. Plain clothes. They both wore gray suits and white shirts.
    “One minute, please,” I called. I fumbled with the security chain and then with the lock until I could open the door. “What is it, please?” A screen door stood between us, but I didn’t open it or invite them in.
    “We’re sorry to bother you at this time.” Detective Curry’s steely eyes bored into me. “This’s my partner, Detective Winslow. May we come in?”
    I nodded to Detective Winslow as I opened the screen and let them enter. Detective Curry met my direct gaze while Detective Winslow’s dark eyes inspected me from my clinging robe to my bare feet as if looking for incriminating flaws. Her head with its mane of tawny brown-gold hair barely reached Detective Curry’s shoulder, and she moved with a cat-like grace. The word “tiger” leaped to mind.
    “How may I help you?” I didn’t invite them to sit down.
    “We’d like you to accompany us to police headquarters,” Detective Curry said.
    “Why?” My reply sounded blunt and revealed my irritation, but I didn’t care. “Do you have a warrant?” Was that a logical question? Seems like I’d heard it on TV shows.
    “We have no warrant, Miss Moreno,” Detective Curry said. “We just have a few more informal questions we’d like you to answer. Informal questions. It’s your privilege to refuse to come with us or to answer queries, of course.”
    “Of course.” I tried not to sneer. “May I get dressed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Please have a seat. I’ll be quick.”
    I tried to guess what strategy the detectives might be using. If they suspected me of murder, surely they’d hold off questioning me and alerting me to the direction of their investigation until they had developed a strong case against me. Surely they hadn’t had time to develop such a case. On the other hand, they might believe that quick and early pressure might cause me to confess and save them lots of trouble.
    They both sat on the couch, staring after me as I retreated to the bedroom and closed the door. My hands shook as I let the robe slide from my shoulders and pool into a puddle of crimson silk on the floor before I reached for my bra and panties. I wondered about the meaning of this visit. Detectives in the middle of the night? It reminded