An Appetite for Murder (9 page)

“The rest is confidential. But you should come too.”

“You’re killing me,” I said. “Why in the world would I do that?”

“Because if the cops think you’re really involved with the murder, that’s the last place they’d expect you to turn up.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “The murderer always goes to the funeral. That’s how they catch him.”

Eric laughed. “Then consider that the other job applicants will all probably attend to pay their respects. Wanna be the only one who doesn’t show? After you stop by the magazine office and straighten out the misunderstanding about your application, I’ll meet you at the church.”

“Sounds just awful,” I groaned. “I hate funerals. And I’d feel like an imposter.”

“And one more thing: Blue Heaven is catering the reception. Isn’t that one of the places you wanted to review? I know your samples are due on Friday. Today’s Wednesday. I’m just saying . . . ​I’ve known you since you were seven and you’ve never been a quitter.”

“I’ll think about it.” I hung up, feeling nauseated at the thought of attending the funeral—­what business did I have there? Didn’t it make perfect sense to pack my bags and leave town? Or was I acting like a loser? I dropped off to sleep with those questions pinging in my brain.

And Lorenzo’s words too:
Keep your focus.

“Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper.”

—­Adelle Davis

I woke up hungry—­a good sign—­and decided to take myself out to breakfast before I faced
Key Zest
or Kristen’s funeral or any other hideous tasks. Mom always insisted this was the most important meal of the day. Except for my middle teenaged years when I’d argued with everything she suggested and subsisted on a gruel made of blender-­whirred yogurt, berries, and wheat germ, I’d taken her advice to heart.

The problem: Where? There were so many breakfast choices in town; it was no easy decision. And this fact of course got me thinking about how Chad would use my enthusiastic appreciation of the plethora of local omelets as evidence of character weakness. I shut that thought down quickly and turned my attention to
another potential article I could pitch to the paper: “The Early Bird Pays Off: Best Breakfasts in Key West.”

I was definitely feeling feistier than yesterday—­not willing to allow a computer error to torpedo my chances at a dream job. Nor to be held responsible for a murder I didn’t commit. I swished on a little mascara and some blush, thinking I would stop at the
Key Zest
office after I ate and ask about the status of my application. I thumbed through last week’s e-­mail, found the one that had informed me I was on the short list, and printed it out.

After trying on half of the things jammed into my phone-­booth-­sized closet, I chose a sleeveless black swing dress that looked professional, would fit in at a funeral, and didn’t need ironing—­but also made the most of my curves. In the bathroom, I brushed my hair and for once the curls sprang out sweetly and framed my face as if I’d planned the whole thing. Like maybe I finally had that cute Hayley Mills thing going. Sometimes the best way to summon your nerve was to dress the part—­or so my mother would say. So I added my black sequined high-­top sneakers and headed out the door.

Miss Gloria was watering the potted plants on her deck, her black cat sunning on a faded canvas chair.

“Don’t you look pretty!”

I nodded modestly. “Thanks. I’m going to a job interview, but first, breakfast.”

She perked right up. For a skinny little lady whom I’ve never seen handling any edibles other than cat food, she loved to talk about eating. I liked to drop off little bags of groceries with items I knew she wouldn’t buy for
herself when I could. And I’ve offered to take her out to eat a few times, but so far she hasn’t accepted.

“How about Pepe’s?” she asked. “They have the most wonderful pancakes. And omelets. And Bloody Marys too.” She flashed a mischievous smile.

“Early for that!” I said, strapping on my helmet and waving good-­bye. Once on my scooter, I tucked the hem of my dress firmly under my thighs, dropped the bike off its kickstand, and started the engine. Pepe’s it would be. I drove over the bridge with its grand view of Charter Boat Row, up Palm Avenue to Eaton and then right to Caroline. “ ‘There’s a woman gone crazy on Caroline Street,’ ” I hummed as I approached the restaurant. One of Jimmy Buffett’s best. And appropriate for the day and the setting.

I settled at a table on the patio underneath a trellis twined with an enormous bougainvillea studded with pink blossoms. A small flock of brown birds twittered on the branches. One of the birds swooped down to the other chair at my table and sang at the top of his lungs, his little neck puffing with effort.

“Shoo, you!” said a waitress, flapping her order pad at the bird and then smiling at me. “What can I get for you?”

After ordering a mild green chili and Monterey Jack omelet, with a rasher of bacon (extra crispy), and an assortment of baked goods on the side, I took out my phone and began to rough out an introduction. Since I text as fast as the next guy can write, it seemed like the perfect cover for a food critic not wishing to draw attention to herself. I would look like just one more obsessed young person who couldn’t part with her smartphone.

One of the great joys of vacation is breaking away from home-­based habits. Instead of downing the same healthy but boring bran cereal and fruit, why not treat yourself to a full breakfast out? Luckily, Key West offers tons of choices. Pepe’s, snuggled into a quiet section of Caroline Street, claims to be the oldest restaurant on the island—­and frankly, the booths inside look it! This is not the setting for a diner who prefers upscale elegance, but it’s chockablock with home-­style food and local color. Make a beeline for the patio and enjoy people (and dog and bird) watching while you wait.

When my breakfast was delivered, I snapped a photo of the plate, and then put the phone away and dug in. At the table next to me, two men in wrinkled shorts and sandals discussed the vagaries of the real estate market and then segued to bonefishing. How could I not love this place? I no longer had the excuse of Chad to stay on the island, but by now I was hooked. Where else would I find this funny combination of locals (“conchs” they called themselves, pronounced with a
k
sound, not a
ch
as in Chad), rich people, homeless people, gays, cruise ship escapees on day passes, and people like me who love the weather, the water, the lack of pretense? Every day the local paper featured a “citizen of the day” who waxed on about the joys of living on this island. And the editor never ran out of prospects.

This was so not New Jersey. The thought of having to pack up my meager belongings and crawl home was utterly depressing. November in Berkeley Heights was a
dreary, dreary proposition. The jaunty colors of autumn would have faded, leaving dim sun and plummeting temperatures. Even the birds would be leaving.

So once I’d finished my food and taken a few more notes about the fresh-­squeezed OJ, the crusty whole-­grain toast, and the omelet oozing cheese, I used that dread to force myself away from a third cup of coffee and on to the offices of
Key Zest
. The funeral wouldn’t start until eleven, so surely someone would be working.

On my way from Caroline to Southard Street, I tried to figure out my approach. Direct would be best, I thought. I practiced: “Good morning, I’ve come to check on the status of my application for the food critic position.”

But should I mention Kristen’s death to the magazine staff? Maybe they were truly sad. Wouldn’t it be callous not to bring it up? Though acting apologetic seemed like the wrong tack altogether since I hadn’t murdered the woman. Expressing dismay and sorrow? Disingenuous. Surely everyone at the office would have heard about the brouhaha with Chad. Who would believe I thought anything but “she got what she deserved”? Hopefully they wouldn’t know about my trips to the KWPD, but this being a small island, news flashed faster than crème fraîche went sour in the heat. The best I could do was approach the desk with an expression of subdued regret.

I parked behind Preferred Properties Real Estate and hiked up to the second floor. After running my fingers through my curls to fluff up the helmet hair, I tapped on the door and stepped inside. The
Key Zest
office looked as though someone had bought out the stock of Tommy Bahama products—­all weathered wicker with faux tropical foliage upholstery and more fake foliage settled in the corners of the room and on the receptionist’s desk. “Adrienne Kamen,” the nameplate on her desktop said. Even she wore a silky yellow shirt studded with palm trees.

“Can I help you?” she asked without looking away from her computer. Like Evinrude, she seemed to be able to sense a change in the atmosphere without seeing it directly.

“I’m sorry to be a bother,” I said, instantly kicking myself for sounding weak. “I’m Hayley Snow, one of the applicants for the food critic position? I was wondering if the deadline is still Friday?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing up briefly, then dropping her gaze back to her screen and resuming a spurt of furious typing.

Another mental kick for asking a question that could be brushed aside like so many bread crumbs. “Is Wally Beile in?” I asked, hoping I’d pronounced the name right. Kristen’s co-­owner, who now held my future in his hands. I hadn’t met him personally, but I had certainly seen his name on the masthead and his picture on the website. He looked one heck of a lot cheerier than Kristen ever had. “I’d just love one minute of his time.”

She shrugged her thin shoulders and stepped away from her computer into a back room. I heard the rumbling of a man’s voice and then her voice answering. She reappeared.

“Go ahead in. And by the way, I love your shoes.”

“Thanks,” I said, pointing one sequin-­sneakered foot, grateful for any connection.

Wally turned out to be a thirtyish man with heavy black glasses and wiry brown hair—­and the same yellow shirt as the receptionist. Cute, if you liked a nerdy style. He reminded me the tiniest bit of Eric, which was a good thing.

I pasted on my most authentic and regretful smile. “I’m so sorry about Kristen, er, Ms. Faulkner.” Just what I’d told myself not to say.

“Thank you.”

I wished I’d done some research on what their relationship had been like. Had he been one of Kristen’s fans? Or was her passing a great, if unexpressed, relief? And then, too late, I realized I shouldn’t tell him that I knew I’d been dropped from the list of applicants. What to say instead?

“I’m one of the applicants for your food critic job. I know this is a tough time to ask, but since the deadline is approaching and I was riding by anyway . . .”

My voice trailed off to a whisper and I could see I was losing him. A busy guy with too much to do and a dead coworker did not need a pathetic job applicant sucking up his time. Flashing on the empty bedroom in my mother’s house and how much I would loathe returning to that life, I pumped myself back up.

“I love your magazine and I want this job more than anything. I just stopped by to say you’ll have my articles in your in-­box by Friday, as promised. Tomorrow, right? I knew that.” I started backing toward the door.

He finally cracked a grin. “What’s your name again?”

“Hayley,” I said. “Hayley Snow. Hayley as in Mills. Snow, like the weather.”

He smiled again and began to thumb through a stack of files on his desk; then, with a puzzled look on his face, swiveled around to his computer and tapped on the keys.

“Oddly enough, I have an e-­mail in my spam folder from Kristen that came in last weekend stating that you had withdrawn your application.”

“Oh gosh,” I said, feeling that cheese omelet roil in my stomach. “That’s so not true. It must be a misunderstanding.” I leaned forward to try to get a look at his screen, and jerked back just as quickly so as not to appear pushy. “I made the first cut. At the beginning of last week, I got that news and was told my samples had to be in by Monday. And then, as I’m sure you know, the deadline was changed to Friday. Tomorrow.” I dug around in my purse for the printout, feeling tears push their way past my sinuses—­so not the right impression for a potential employer. “I am dead serious about wanting this job. Can I fill out a new packet? My articles are written—­I have to go over them one more time to be sure there aren’t any typos. But I’m so, so ­serious—”

He held his hands up and spoke in a soothing voice—­the kind I’d used with my mother when she was winding herself up and almost ready to blast off. “Take a breath, Hayley, as in Mills. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll look into this a little further. Do you need a glass of water? A Xanax, maybe?”

“I’m fine, really,” I said, flashing a weak smile and
sinking into the wicker chair against the wall. I smoothed my black dress over my thighs, started to crack my knuckles, then clenched my hands in my lap. If this fell through, and Connie didn’t want to employ me anymore—and let’s face it, why would she with the mess I’d made?—­it was hard to see how I could stay in town. Eric and Bill’s place was too small for long-­term guests, and besides, he was allergic to cats and he needed his space after all those hours of listening to his therapy customers. A neurotic, desperate roommate would not be an asset.

Wally scrolled through several more screens of ­e-­mails. When he turned back to face me, his expression was carefully neutral. “Hayley. I should have remembered the name. But ever since we heard the news about the murder, it’s been pure chaos here. I hardly remember my own name. But I think I understand exactly why your file disappeared.”

“Oh my gosh,” I said. “What happened?”

“Kristen and I had this discussion a while back. She said she couldn’t work with you—­there was a conflict of interest. Having to do with a man, I believe?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“She was an excellent businesswoman, except for a few blind spots. You being one of them.”

“Were you her boss or the other way around?” I didn’t mean to insult him, but why would he allow her to act so unprofessional?