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it offered a picturesque attraction for tourists visiting the island for the first time.”
    “Opinions differ.” I said. “And those who preferred E. coli-free water won out.”
    “So maybe Houseboat Row posed a health hazard. Nobody doubts that those boaters sometimes dumped their waste directly into sea. But that wasn’t the case with boat captains at the shrimp docks.”
    “You squeaky-clean guys kept your boats shining with spit and polish?” I took a deep breath and grinned at him. “Can’t imagine what caused the smells in that area.”
    “A little shrimp fragrance never hurt anyone, Rafa. We shrimpers dumped waste in the sanitary stations the city provided for that purpose. The only reason the city fathers wanted to get rid of the shrimp docks with their ‘working waters’ ordinances was so they could attract wealthy yachters from Miami—even from Europe or Australia. In today’s world, the bottom line’s always money, and yacht captains have more of the long green than shrimp boat captains.”
    “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about the politics of it, Kane. I knew you put up a strong fight to keep The Buccaneer docked in Key West, but…
    “You bet I felt strongly about it. Still feel strongly about it. I’ve seen pictures of that upscale yacht basin in Marathon. Old-timers tell me it used to be an area where shrimpers kept their boats and sold their catch to locals and tourists who stopped to chat with their favorite captain and buy shrimp fresh from the sea.”
    “You’re right about that. Dad sometimes took a five-gallon bucket and paid old Captain Anders to fill it with fresh shrimp that Mother served to guests that night. Even Cherie had to help when we shelled and deveined those whoppers.”
    “Then politics took its toll. Commissioners forced those captains to leave. I hated to see that happen here. Diego talked for and voted for clearing out the shrimpers. As a commissioner, he led a group of followers. He led, and his opinions and his vote counted with the other commissioners—counted big time. It’s one area of thinking where Diego and I disagreed.”
    For a few moments Kane and I sat in the deck chairs sipping our sodas and enjoying an unrestricted view of the bay. Although the vastness of the sea made me feel smaller than a grain of sand, sometimes it gave me a sense of all’s-right-with-the-world. But not today. Kane’s effort to divert my attention failed. I couldn’t forget Diego’s body floating in the black water at the marina. Nor could I forget that in Chief Ramsey’s eye, I was a person of interest.
    The impact of Diego’s death, the finality of all death left a sadness in my heart that I couldn’t eradicate. Kane broke into my morbid thoughts, but he still didn’t mention Diego. I tried to turn my ears off to his chatter. Impossible.
    “Sometimes I wonder how old The Buccaneer is, Rafa. Old-timers say boats can remain seaworthy for years if their owners follow the rules in maintaining them. Got a buddy who claims he celebrated his cabin cruiser’s hundredth birthday last year.”
    I wondered why Kane avoided talking about last night’s murder. Did he think avoiding the subject would spare my feelings—or his own? Surely he must know Diego was uppermost in my mind this morning.
    “How old do you think The Buccaneer is?” I forced myself to go along with Kane’s trend of thought. Time enough later to think about Diego—maybe the rest of my life. A life behind bars? I forced myself to bury that thought. Surely the chief would find other people of interest.
    “I bought The Buccaneer from a guy named Ace Bradford about five years ago. He moved back to Iowa. Said he missed early-onset flu season and December’s ice and snow storms.”
    “Maybe he was kidding.”
    “Yeah. I guessed he missed his girlfriend who he said waited for him in Des Moines. Ace told me he bought this boat from a guy named Red Chipper.”
    “You ever met him?” I asked.
    “Red