An Appetite for Murder (22 page)

“I’m okay,” she said, slipping her hand from mine and touching the bandage on the crown of her head. “They can’t seem to believe an old lady could manage at home. They won’t release me except to a relative. But the longer they make me lie here, the weaker I’ll get. My son’s flying in tomorrow. He’s talking about a nursing home in Dearborn. Michigan in winter? I’ll just die.” Now she started to cry and I patted her birdlike forearm, thin and practically translucent. She seemed more fragile already.

“He’s just worried about you,” I said. “This incident probably scared him half to death. With any luck, this nursing home idea will blow over and we’ll get you settled back at the marina.”

She smiled weakly and dried her tears on the sheet.

“What in the world happened yesterday? Did you see the person who hit you?” I asked.

“I walked down to the end of the finger to stretch my legs before supper. It was dusk—­don’t you hate how early it gets dark this time of year?”

I nodded with encouragement. “And then?”

“I thought I saw someone on the dock near your houseboat. But it didn’t look like you or Connie or Ray. So I called out, ‘Hello, can I help you with something?’ ” She touched her head again and licked her lips. “I thought maybe someone was lost. Maybe one of the men looking for the soup kitchen or—”

Her eyes welled up and tears spilled over onto her papery cheeks for the second time since I’d arrived. We’d had this conversation just last week—­she hated how the homeless folks in town were automatically greeted with suspicion. Since when did being rich make you a better person?

“And then what happened?”

“And then he rushed up and hit me and that’s the last I remember until I woke up here.” She waved her hand weakly at the bedside table with its plastic pitcher, a cup with a straw dangling from it, and a Bible.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

She shook her head. “That stern policeman with the nice chin came back twice to ask me those questions. He’s so cute, isn’t he? And very kind to me.”

“He is cute,” I admitted. “If you like that type. I hadn’t noticed the kindness.” I steered Miss Gloria away from
the attributes of Detective Bransford and back to the attack. “What did he look like, the man who hit you?”

“He wasn’t a big man.” She looked me up and down. “Definitely taller than you. But he had a cap on and some kind of bandanna over his mouth—”

A nurse bustled in from the hall, then stopped still and frowned, hands reaching for her ample hips.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? There is no visiting allowed at this hour. I’m going to call security.” She slid her cell phone from the holster at her waist.

“Not necessary. I won’t make any trouble.” I stood up and started past the nurse, stopping at the door to blow a kiss to Miss Gloria. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t waste one more minute worrying about Sparky.”

I hurried back down the stairs and through the lobby to catch my cab, an enormous sadness swelling my chest so I had trouble breathing. Hard to imagine how that frail little person with a patchy memory could be allowed to fend for herself on a boat. But how long would she survive confined to an old folks’ home in Michigan where it fell dark in winter by four p.m.?

“Pastry is like people. Some dough needs a lot of kneading; some requires much less.”

—­Kathleen Flinn

The next morning at seven, feeling like the Tin Man before he discovered oil, I forced myself up and fed Sparky, who wound between my legs and purred his appreciation. Aching from nose to toes, I threw on some sweats and went out into the cloudy, cool morning—­the kind of day that brought out down coats and mittens on the natives. I hiked the length of our dock, calling softly for Evinrude—­no answer. Pushing back a rush of grief, I returned to the boat and set to work in the galley.

I’d promised to bring back Eric’s car before he went to church this morning. Since I had no car to return, I hoped that delivering warm coffee cake and two extra-­large coffee
con leches
to Eric and Bill would soften the blow. Cursing Chad yet one more time for chucking my
stuff, I scratched out what I remembered of the recipe for my grandmother Alvina’s crumb cake on the back of an envelope—­mostly flour, milk, sugar, eggs, and plenty of butter. And then cinnamon cut into more butter and sugar for the crumbly topping.

Once the two pans of cake had baked and then cooled enough to handle, I packed one of them in foil and secured it on the back of my scooter. Before heading down Southard Street, I stopped by the body shop on White and set off to search the car lot.

Eric’s convertible had been dumped in a weedy space behind the cement block building. I sagged against the cement; he was going to kill me. The manatees that had been hand-­painted on the hood were dented and scraped. The roof itself was torn open and the school of tropical fish on the driver’s-­side door was smashed into an unrecognizable mass. How had I emerged in one piece?

I fled back to the scooter and drove down to the Courthouse Deli on Southard and Whitehead for the coffees. I wished I had thought to purchase a box of designer dog bones for Toby the wonder dog. More rodent in size and appearance than dog, he growled and snarled at anyone other than his immediate family. But Eric and Bill adored him, and a friend of Toby’s was a friend of the guys. And I needed all the help I could manage.

On the last few blocks to Eric’s place, I practiced what to say.

Blunt but mournful?
I regret to say I wrecked your car.

Understated but cheerful?
There’s a tiny problem with the Mustang . . .

Immediately defensive?
There’s been an accident—­it wasn’t my fault.

The last was clearly the worst, but nothing felt right. I pulled into their driveway, which gaped nakedly without Eric’s car. Their small house radiated warmth, with a wide front porch holding two green rocking chairs and shelves of plants. Maybe this would turn out fine. Eric met me at the door, Bill right behind him. Eric grinned when his gaze fell on the three large cups of coffee. Then he sniffed the air.

“Oh, Hayley, is that coffee cake? You didn’t have to . . .” He scanned the driveway, his face puzzled. “You came on your scooter? But where’s the car?”

“It’s an interesting story . . . ​Coffee first, before it gets cold.”

They welcomed me in, the screen door banging shut behind us. I crossed the room to set the breakfast goodies on their glass coffee table and distribute the coffees. Then I collapsed on the upholstered bark cloth couch. From his perch on a flowered rocker, Toby growled at me like the steady rumble of distant thunder as I explained last night’s disaster.

“Had you been drinking?” Eric asked after a long silence, his face stony.

I didn’t like the question, but I couldn’t blame him for asking, really. “Chef Doug poured me a half glass of the house merlot to drink with his
carnitas
, but that’s it. You can believe it or not, but I was forced off the road by a lunatic who then tried to shoot me.”

The two men exchanged glances—­the unspoken language of a solid partnership.

“That sounds absolutely terrifying,” said Bill. “Excuse me. I’m going to get some utensils for this fine peace offering.”

Eric said nothing. The language of a friendship circling the drain.

Bill came back from the kitchen with forks and plates, carved large squares of coffee cake, and passed them around. He stood for a moment behind Eric, massaging his shoulders and smiling at me. “The car can be repaired. We’re just glad you’re okay. Did you say someone shot at you?”

I snuck a look at Eric. Not so clear that he felt the same way. But at least he had started to eat. So I repeated in more detail how I’d crawled out of the car, plunged into the ocean, and dogpaddled under the bridge until the cops arrived. And then I described my conversation with the chef and the visit with Miss Gloria.

Eric’s fork clattered to his plate. “If this accident is somehow related to the murder, you’re over your head trying to figure things out,” he said. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I admitted. “Seems like there has to be a connection. Someone went to a lot of trouble to see me silenced.”

“Here’s the thing, Hayley,” Eric said. “If you couldn’t identify the driver or the car, and Miss Gloria wasn’t able to tell you anything that the police don’t already know about who attacked her, it’s time to let the authorities do their job. At this point, I regret that I encouraged you to do otherwise because you’ve apparently put yourself in serious danger.” He patted his lips with a napkin.

If I had been him, I’d have wanted to mention ruining the car and Connie’s houseboat too. But he held back.

“Did you tell the cops what you found out from the chef?”

Feeling sheepish, I admitted that I’d said very little to the police about the reason for my trip to Miami. “I hated to implicate anyone unfairly. And besides, they haven’t shown much interest in my opinions and observations so far. I feel like I have to look out for myself.”

“You need to tell them everything.” Eric glowered until I agreed.

After leaving Eric and Bill’s home, I rode up Olivia Street, past the Key West cemetery, whose worn stones and dreary fence about matched my mood. The bright yellow conch tour train pulled out in front of me, every seat in every car jammed with tourists. The amplified voice of the conductor explained the legends of the city’s dead as he drove—­the 1907 murder-­suicide, the Spanish-­American heroes, and most visitors’ favorite grave marker from the town hypochondriac that read: “I told you I was sick.”

“Making crap up since 1958.” Ray liked to joke that was the conch train’s motto. Nothing, of course, was mentioned about Kristen, who was surely the most recent cemetery resident.

On impulse, I stashed my scooter on the sidewalk outside the metal fence and walked through the main gate. I guessed that Kristen’s remains would have been interred on the east side of the cemetery nearest Olivia
Street, where the ashes of the newer residents were secured in a hulking brown granite tomb.

I skirted a sad little child-­sized crypt bordered in white and blue tile, unable to bear reading the inscription. Then I noticed a figure in a pink and yellow shirt depositing a bouquet of pink roses by the edge of the large, stone crypt: Meredith, the woman I’d seen weeping at the funeral. I seemed to have a knack for intruding on her private moments.

But it was too late to pull back and pretend I was heading in a different direction. She held her hand up in greeting, the sleeve of her flowered blouse fluttering to her elbow. Her hair was pulled back into a French braid and she wore a blue sweater tied around her neck. She looked tired, dark half-­moons below her eyes.

“I guess if you have to end up in a cemetery, this would be the one to choose,” I said, and immediately wished I could snatch the words back. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to know what to say. You were obviously close to her.”

“And you were obviously not.”

She was not pulling punches. “We weren’t great friends, no,” I admitted. “Did Kristen have any enemies that you knew of?”

“You mean besides
you
?”

Her eyes bugged and I didn’t get the idea that she was joking.

“I didn’t kill her, no matter what
you’ve
heard,” I said in a breezy voice, as though there was no doubt. “Punishing the woman who stole my boyfriend is definitely
not worth a lifetime in jail. And the whole infidelity incident was as much his fault as hers. They say it takes two and they’re right. As it turns out, I’m better off without Chad anyway.”

Meredith snorted out a bitter laugh. “Men are most times more trouble than they’re worth. And he was definitely no exception.” She forced a smile. “As Kristen’s sister’s eulogy showed. But to your question, Kristen’s family has enemies,” she added. “They’ve lived on the island for ages and they own a ton of property. They’re always trying to take development further than a lot of residents here prefer. Besides Easter Island, they’re pushing the plans for the waterfront at the Truman Annex. I’m sure you’ve read all about it in the paper. A lot of folks don’t think we need a huge stadium or yet one more fancy marina.”

Meredith flashed a smile, then went back to rubbing her arms, staring at the name carved in granite. Faulkner.

“How did you meet her?” I asked.

“Kristen hired me at her place in Miami when I was just starting out,” she said, adding a heavy sigh. “I had a rather useless certificate in baking and pastry from a school in Oregon and absolutely no practical experience. She was super-­supportive.” She fixed her blue eyes on my face. “Whatever you’ve heard about her, she wasn’t a bad person.”

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully and said nothing.

“She had promised me the pastry chef position in the new restaurant,” she explained through a fresh onslaught of tears. “That’s why I moved down here. We’d already met with Robert to talk about menus. One of
the specials was going to be pistachio baklava. Neither of us likes walnuts—­too heavy and oily.” She smacked her lips as though masticating a mouthful of spoiled nuts. “She encouraged experiments. Moving away from the recipes on the page was what she said separated great chefs from merely good ones.”

Meredith and I had more in common than I would have thought—­big ambitions that appeared to have been thwarted. “Maybe it’ll happen without her,” I offered. “The restaurant, I mean. Is Chef Robert still in town?”

“I don’t know for how long,” she said. “Or even how to get in touch with him. I don’t have his phone number. Besides, I doubt that Robert could get a restaurant off the ground without her. He isn’t that disciplined. And as you could probably tell from the eulogy at the funeral, Kristen’s sister is not interested in taking over.” She peered a little closer. “My goodness, what happened to your face?”

“A car accident,” I said, palpating the butterfly bandage and the bruise that had bloomed around it. “I’m really fine, but the car, not so much. The worst thing is, I’d borrowed it from a friend.”

“That’s awful. Did another driver hit you?”