Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (13 page)

“Come and have some of our cookies,” Miss Gloria suggested.

“No can do,” said Connie. “We’ve been working on the decorations for Ray’s boat for the lighted boat
parade and we’ve run out of supplies. Gotta make a run up to The Home Depot. Remember you guys are invited to come with us tomorrow evening.”

“Hot dog!” said Miss Gloria. “That’ll be the best seat in the house.”

“Bring Wally if you like,” Connie said.

I rolled my eyes. “We’re not really going anywhere together these days.”

“Oh, Hayley,” said Connie. “I thought you two were perfect for each other.”

“In a perfect world we might have been,” I grumbled. “But that perfect world wouldn’t include Ava Faulkner.”

Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.

—Sophia Loren

I double wrapped the cookies in tissue paper, zipped them into plastic bags, and strapped them into the basket on the back of the scooter. Then Miss Gloria and I donned our helmets, climbed aboard, and roared away. We stopped to admire the Christmas lights on Southard Street that had won second place in the town-wide competition. These decorations were a more expansive and sophisticated version of the lights I’d seen over in Mary Pat’s neighborhood. A school of blue fish flashed by, lighting up in sequence across two sides of the home. Above the faux water line—a string of blue lights—Frosty the Snowman manned a rowboat, dipping his oars into the sea over and over. And finally at the far right corner of the house, Santa reeled in one of the bright blue fish. Every inch of the property was decked out with lights, ending with a carpet of white bulbs on the sidewalk that led to the street.

“Snow! I love it!” said Miss Gloria. “This one is so
amazing that it’s hard to imagine what the first prize display looked like.”

Then we crossed Duval Street, crowded as always, tooled through the Truman Annex gates past the gatehouse and down two blocks to my mother’s street. Since I’d visited on her first day in town, she had wound lights and garlands of fresh evergreens around her porch pillars and along the railings. Candles flickered in every window and a big wreath dressed with a red bow and golden musical instrument ornaments hung on the front door. We parked in the shallow brick driveway to the right of the home and banged the knocker.

Sam flung the door open, a warm smile on his face. “Early Merry Christmas—come in, come in!”

He hugged us both, took the cookies, and ushered us inside. At the far end of the tropical-style living room towered an enormous fir tree, sparkling with white lights. I breathed in the heavenly evergreen scent. Around the base of the tree sat boxes of ornaments that I recognized from many trips up and down the stairs to the attic before and after holidays past. Labels on the brown boxes in my mother’s neat script read: F
RAGILE
!
C
RÈCHE
AND
T
RAIN
S
ET
!
A
UNT
M
ARY
’
S
A
NTIQUES
!
and H
AYLEY
’
S
H
OMEMADE!

“How in the world did these get here?”

A wide grin split Sam’s face again. “I packed them up and had them sent.”

“That’s so sweet!”

I dropped to my knees and began to peek into the boxes, feeling a wash of nostalgia. Here was the green glass good-luck pickle from the year I turned seven, and the pickles that followed every year until I turned fifteen. And here a piglet with her spider friend from
Charlotte’s Web
, the year I was eight. And the set of
perfect crystal snowflakes from the terribly imperfect Christmas after my father had moved out. Handel’s
Messiah
played softly from the enormous Bose speakers and the sound of banging pots from the kitchen clanged in the background—a perfect accompaniment.

“Everyone’s in the kitchen,” Sam said, after I’d spent a few minutes rooting through the ornaments. “They say people will always gather there, no matter how nice the other rooms are.”

“As good as this house is starting to smell,” said Miss Gloria, “I am heading for the kitchen, too.”

I tore myself away from my childhood memories and followed her. Standing at the center island, my mother and Cassie wore matching Christmas-themed aprons and Mom was instructing Cassie in the finer points of chopping vegetables for a salad. Joe sat at the kitchen table with Wally, drinking a beer. With Wally? My heart flip-flopped.

Right away, Wally noticed my chagrined look and shrugged helplessly. “I know this is a little awkward with all that’s going on at
Key Zest
,” he said, “but I ran into Sam here at Fausto’s and he insisted that I come.”

Mom looked over from her workstation, dried her hands on her apron, and hurried across the room to hug us. “We knew you wouldn’t mind if Wally came to supper. I assured him that you can set aside the work stresses and just enjoy the evening,” she whispered for my ears only. “Sam said he was about to buy the most pathetic-looking takeout. He couldn’t just leave him there alone.”

“If you say so,” I muttered. I set the cookies on the table and Miss Gloria and I began to arrange them on a big green platter as the others exclaimed over our decorating skills.

“Cocktails and tree trimming before anyone gets
dinner,” said Sam, when the prep work was finished. “Come on out to the living room and taste my special Christmas cocktail. I call it the Jungle Red.” Sam motioned to us to pick up glasses and hefted a glistening pitcher filled with a dark pink liquid.

“What’s in it?” asked Joe, looking at the pitcher with some suspicion.

Sam listed the ingredients—pomegranate juice, Prosecco, and orange liqueur. And garnishes of raspberries and pomegranate seeds and a lemon twist.

“I’ll stick with beer,” Joe said, backing away. He cracked open another bottle of Key West ale.

“Me, too,” said Wally. He moved over to stand with Joe and they clinked their bottles.

Once we all had drinks, my mother and I began to unwrap the ornaments, and with the assistance of Cassie and Miss Gloria, hang them on the tree. When the boxes were emptied, we stood back to admire the results.

Mom sighed and slung an arm around my waist. “Like old times. Only better, right?”

I kissed her cheek. “Good new times.”

Sam rummaged through the tissue paper in the box that had held the crèche. “There appears to be something you missed,” he said, pulling out a small cardboard box taped shut. He handed it to my mother, who looked as puzzled as I felt.

“I’ve never seen this before,” she said, turning to me. “Do you remember putting this one away?”

I shrugged. “Not really. But last Christmas was so hectic. Remember how I had to split my time with Dad and Allison and you guys and then get back down here for New Year’s? Open it up and see what’s inside.”

Mom took the little package from Sam and used a pair of scissors to slice the packing tape. Inside was a
green velveteen cube that looked suspiciously like a jewelry box. She peered up at Sam, her brows furrowed. Then she cracked open the box, revealing a ring, an antique gold band with an exquisite pattern of diamonds set into the gold.

“I was hoping this might be a good time to ask you if you’d marry me,” Sam said, a tentative smile on his lips. His face had flushed pink and he looked happy yet vulnerable.

Mom’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed, like a hungry tarpon. “I hardly know what to say. You’ve caught me entirely by surprise.” She took a deep breath. “It’s absolutely lovely,” she said, staring at the ring, without addressing his question in the slightest. She set the box on the coffee table, dialed up a big smile, and turned to me. “What are Allison and your father doing for the holidays? Did you say something about a cruise?”

I looked at her, whiplashed by the change in subject. “Rory is visiting his father over the holiday, so they’re going to the British Virgin Islands for a few days.”

Why was she bringing that up now? It was a rare thing for my mother to lack words suitable to a big moment. And it seemed rude and hurtful to sweet Sam. “The ring is stunning, Sam,” I said, leaning in to get a closer look. “And now I suggest we vacate the premises and give you two some privacy.” I tipped my head to the others and they leaped up and followed me to the kitchen.

“Sometimes surprises aren’t what they’re cracked up to be,” said Cassie, glancing over at her husband. “We talked the idea to death before my sweetie proposed.”

“I feel a little sorry for him,” said Joe. “Since he gave her the ring so publicly, I bet he was thinking she’d
accept on the spot.” He squeezed Cassie’s hand. “I suspect he’s not used to someone else calling the shots.”

Miss Gloria giggled. “He’d better get used to it. Strong women abound in this family!”

“I’ll second that,” said Wally.

We remained in the kitchen for the next ten minutes, trying to make ourselves useful. No doubt my mother would let us know when the coast was clear. The time lag did not bode well for Sam and his proposal. If she’d accepted, they both would have bounded into the kitchen to make that announcement and show off the ring for a second and more rousing round of admiration and congratulations.

I stirred the Bolognese sauce that simmered on the stove and took a taste, then adjusted it with a dash of kosher salt and a couple grinds of fresh black pepper. Cassie and Joe and Wally worked on putting together the salad, and Miss Gloria pressed two cloves of garlic and mashed them into half a stick of softened butter. We slathered the butter on a white country loaf from Old Town Bakery that had been cut in half lengthwise and then wrapped it in foil. Just when I had begun to wonder whether we’d be spending the night hiding out in the kitchen, Mom bustled into the room without Sam. Then the doorbell rang.

Mom frowned. “Who could that be?”

“I’ll get it,” Sam called from the front room.

My stomach twisting, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I mentioned to you that someone else might be stopping by.”

“Well, I never imagined you were serious,” said Mom.

“I never imagined he’d actually come. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s the Fuller Brush Man,” I muttered again, and went off to see.

But it wasn’t Detective Bransford at the door, it was Chef Edel and her mother-in-law. Ex. They both looked pale and pinched, as though they’d been fighting. Or at least as though they’d been through a terrible war, which an untimely death could be considered. My mother and the others came into the living room to greet the newcomers.

Once I had introduced them around, Sam made quick work of providing drinks. Miss Gloria hurried over to the two of them with crackers and a bowl of smoked fish dip, a specialty of the Eaton Street Fish Market.

“This must be a terrible, terrible time for you,” said my mother. “We’re so glad you came by. Though I’m a little worried about my Bolognese sauce,” she said to Edel with a smile. “From what my daughter tells me, it can’t possibly live up to yours.”

“I’m just grateful when someone cooks for me,” Edel said. “It doesn’t happen very often. People are intimidated by making dinner for a chef.”

“Like when someone sings ‘Happy Birthday’ to a musician,” said Miss Gloria. “No one but me will sing to my daughter-in-law the opera singer, because they’re so worried that she’ll critique them for their range or their notes.”

“Exactly,” said Edel.

“She knows I can’t sing,” joked Miss Gloria. “So she braces for the worst.”

My mother turned to Edel’s mother-in-law. “We are just devastated about the news of your son’s death. I told Edel yesterday how much we adored the restaurant in New York City. My ex-husband and I would go there for every special occasion.” She threw back her head and laughed, her voice high and strained. “I even went there with a girlfriend to finally celebrate our
divorce. That’s the thing about a great meal: It’s appropriate for any occasion whether it’s happy or sad. And, my goodness, the sautéed spring vegetables on cheese grits with those Parmesan crisps?” She put her hands to her chest. “That dish was a dream come true. And the plate looked like an artist’s palette.”

“Thank you,” said Juan Carlos’s mother. “Though that particular recipe was Edel’s, I believe. But I do appreciate your sympathy.” Sam topped off her pink drink and she took a long sip, and I tried to think of another avenue of conversation. The doorbell rang again.

“My goodness,” said my mother, fanning her face with her hand, “we are having quite a night here.”

Sam strode across the room to answer the door. Detective Bransford followed him back in, bringing with him a blast of cold air. Which pretty much matched the expressions on the faces around me.

“The wind has really picked up,” said Bransford. “We may need our down parkas by the end of the evening.” He cracked a grim smile. “But good evening, all.”

My mother moved forward. “I bet you haven’t met everyone, Nathan,” she said. “This is my friend Sam from New Jersey.” She laid a hand on Sam’s back, then yanked it off just as quickly, as if touching a hot griddle.

“I think we may have met last year with the Rory business,” said Sam. “But nice to see you again.”

My mother nudged Cassie and Joe forward. “And these are my niece Cassie, and her husband, Joe Lancaster. She’s a golfer on the LPGA tour and Joe is her shrink.”

Everyone laughed. “Not exactly,” said Cassie.

I took a step closer to Bransford and took over from
my mother. “I know you’ve met Wally. And certainly you know Edel Waugh and her—Juan Carlos’s mother.”

“Yes.” Bransford nodded. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

With no more introductions to give, an awkward silence fell over the room.

Sam clapped his hands together. “What are you drinking, man? Sorry to fall short on my duties.”

“What have you got?” responded Bransford. Looking around the room at the women, he added: “Nothing pink, please. Do you happen to have a Diet Coke?”

While Sam rummaged in the cooler to find the detective a soda, my mother excused herself to finish getting the dinner ready. “Why don’t you stay with the guests?” she suggested to Miss Gloria and Cassie. “Hayley can help me finish up.”

In the kitchen, I fluttered around the table, adding enough place settings for the newcomers. And gritting my teeth to stay silent—waiting for my mother to comment about the marriage proposal.

“This is turning out to be a most unusual evening,” she finally said from her place at the stove.

“You got that right. Did you give Sam an answer?” I hissed.

She waved her hand. “Later.” But the grimace on her face and the empty ring finger told it all: There were no wedding bells in our family’s immediate future.

Wally stuck his head into the kitchen, then motioned me closer and tipped his head at Edel, then Bransford. “Why is she here? Why is he here?”