Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (15 page)

Bransford stayed near the foot of the bed, but Torrence came closer. “What’s the report?” he asked.

“They think I’ll live,” I said. “But right now it hurts like hell.”

“Let’s review how this happened,” said Bransford, his eyebrows arching to fierce peaks.

“We were riding in the parade,” Connie explained, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. “We were focused on the activity around the Schooner Wharf because it was almost our turn to cut away from the flotilla and process in front of the judges. There were hordes of people on shore, a lot of them drunk and excited. Next thing we knew, Hayley was bleeding in the bottom of the boat. If there had been a shooter, I don’t know how we would have noticed in all that chaos.”

“But did you see anyone with a gun?” he asked me.

I shook my head, suddenly overwhelmed at the idea that there really had been a shooting and that I was the intended target. Obviously this had happened—I had the wound to prove it. But the meaning was finally sinking in.

“What direction would you say the bullet came from?” Bransford asked. “Where do you think the shooter might have been stationed?”

“We were headed into the harbor. So I’d say maybe it came from the left dock?” I looked over to Connie. “Does that sound right?”

She shrugged. “I was up in front, waving at the crowd, so I didn’t notice anything. I didn’t even know you’d been hit until I heard you screaming and saw the blood. There was blood everywhere,” she told the cops with a shudder.

“Was anyone else hit?” I asked from my supine position. “Maybe someone on another boat saw this happen.”

“Of course we’re investigating the situation thoroughly.” Bransford bared his teeth, his annoyance obvious. “But it’s vital that you try to remember details. The question has to be asked: Was the shooter after you, or were you struck at random or accidentally?” He took a
deep breath, clearly trying to rein in his impatience. “Have you had any threats? Was this a warning or an actual assassination attempt? Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt you? You would know the answers better than anyone.”

“But I don’t know anything about it,” I squawked.

“Why would anyone want to shoot Hayley?” Connie’s lips trembled. “It makes no sense.”

“It’s just possible,” said Torrence in a soothing voice, “that this could be related to the fire the other night and the death of Ms. Waugh’s ex-husband. Let’s think about the possibilities before we get too excited, okay?”

Before we
freak out
, is what I imagined he really wanted to say. The nurse came in with a paper cup of water and a big pill and I swallowed it down.

Torrence turned away from Connie to focus his attention on me. “Who knew you would be involved in the boat parade?”

“My family, of course,” I said, feeling a little tearful thinking of my mother and how distraught she’d be when she heard about the latest catastrophe. “Including my mom and her boyfriend and my cousin and Miss Gloria. They’re all up at Mallory Square, watching the parade. They’ll worry,” I said to Connie, “when they don’t see Ray’s boat.”

“Who else?” Torrence prodded.

I tried to clear my head of all the rubbish circulating and concentrate on his question. Had I discussed the invitation to ride in Ray’s boat with anyone else? This sounded familiar, like a dim bell ringing—the echo of a conversation I’d had several days earlier. And then it came to me: Edel’s kitchen.

The painkiller was taking effect, making me feel like the room was spinning and my brain was stuffed with
cotton candy. “Edel’s restaurant,” I said. “A few days ago, when I was there to get material for my article. And then she asked me to help her out.”

“Who else was in the kitchen?” Bransford asked sternly.

I glared at him, though his features were beginning to look fuzzy and my lips were beginning to feel tingly and thick like my grandmother’s pink pincushion. “Pretty much the whole staff. Edel, of course. Her sous-chef, Glenn. Mary Pat Maloney, the line cook. The pastry chef. Rodrigo, the dishwasher.” I was struck with the giggles. “It couldn’t be the pastry chef. They’re not all murderers.”

Connie took my hand and squeezed it hard. “Take a deep breath, sweetie,” she said. “You’re getting hysterical.”

I closed my eyes and breathed and breathed, trying to picture the scene in the kitchen—who had been there and what exactly I’d told them. “I was all excited about riding with Ray and Connie. I’d seen the parade last year but I knew it would be so cool from the water.”

“And, so,” said Torrence gently, “you told them what the boat looked like, maybe? Or not?”

“And the decorations,” Bransford added. “Did you know in advance what the theme of Ray’s lights would be?”

“Reindeer and chickens.” My eyes flew open and my stomach lurched. “You think someone I know from Edel’s kitchen was waiting for me and tried to pick me off?”

“It’s a theory,” Bransford answered.

“Something we need to explore,” said Torrence.

The nurse bustled into my cubby, which made the space feel crowded to the point of claustrophobia. She noticed it, too, and shooed the cops out into the hall. “You can take her home now,” she said to Connie as she handed me a sheaf of paperwork. She went over
the discharge instructions and had me sign to say I’d been informed. “You’ll want to review this reading material when you’re at home.”

I glanced at the papers—a treatise on puncture wounds, another on foreign bodies, and instructions for follow-up care and the possible side effects for the painkiller and antibiotics I’d been given. Not at all the kind of bedtime reading that would lead to sweet dreams.

We must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.

—David Mamet,
Boston Marriage

I woke up at nine a.m., feeling sore and uneasy. After one glance at the prescription pill bottles lined up on my bedside table, the night’s events flooded my brain. I resolved to take Advil today, rather than the high-powered painkiller, as the drug had rendered my brain cells fuzzy and my dreams ominous. I stayed in my bunk for half an hour, listening to the wind rattle through Mrs. Renhart’s chimes and thinking about who in the world would have tried to shoot me. And where he’d been shooting from. And why. A tap sounded on my door.

“You up?” asked Miss Gloria. “I come bearing gifts of caffeine and sugar.”

“Come in!” I dragged myself up to sitting and both cats rushed in ahead of my roommate. She narrowly avoided tripping and sending the steaming mug of café au lait across my grandmother’s hand-stitched quilt. We scolded the felines, who settled onto the bed at my
feet, unrepentant. Miss Gloria fussed about, opening the blinds and uncovering a plate that held two of my favorites from Glazed Donuts, the shop near the Tropic Cinema—a plain glazed and a salted-caramel cake doughnut. Next to the treats, she had placed the
Key West Citizen
.

“Thank you, wonderful woman,” I said, reaching for the coffee. First things first.

“Have you called your mother?” asked Miss Gloria, after everything had been arranged to her satisfaction. “She’ll want to know about this.” She gestured at my bandaged arm. “We were very puzzled when Ray’s boat didn’t come by Mallory Square.”

I nodded, sipping slowly. I had texted my mother after reaching the houseboat last night, saying that Ray had had engine troubles and I’d phone the next day. But Miss Gloria knew the whole story. When I’d first arrived home, bandaged and half-hysterical, there was no way to hide the truth. I did play down the terror of the evening—the sharp pain as the bullet ripped through my flesh, the trip to the emergency room in the ambulance, the detective’s questions and concerns. After some extended begging, she’d agreed not to call my mother in the middle of the night.

“I plan to talk to her this morning. There’s nothing she can do about it and she has her own worries. Like what to do about that gorgeous ring.”

Miss Gloria pursed her lips. “She ought to just go ahead and marry that man. Where is she going to find someone kinder and with money, too? But I suppose the only people who really know what’s going on inside a relationship are those in it.”

“I’m certainly in no position to give advice on love,” I said, and tried to smile.

I thanked her for the breakfast treats and then
opened my computer and turned it on, hoping she’d leave me to sort out my troubles.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” she said. “I’m going to put some laundry in. Shall I leave the cats?”

I glanced at the felines, who were stretched out, grooming themselves at the end of the bed. Just watching them lick their glossy fur into submission brought my blood pressure down. “They’re great. They’ll keep me company while I work.”

Spotting the sheaf of aftercare papers the hospital staff had given me, I paged through the instructions. Good gravy, I knew they had to warn patients about the very worst reactions that might occur, but the flood of medical jargon was truly terrifying. Especially for a person who leaned toward hypochondria in the first place.

After memorizing the side effects of the medications I’d taken, I skimmed the front page of the
Key West Citizen
. Then I turned the page, dreading the possibility of seeing my face in the crime report. It would be awful for my mother to read about the shooting in the newspaper—not to mention generally humiliating for me. Fortunately, my news had not made the crime column. I clicked on my e-mail box and scrolled through the stories sent by the Konk Life e-news blast. Nothing there, either. And no messages about progress in the case from either of my police friends—though Bransford hardly counted in that category.

I let the snapshots of the night before run through my mind. It had all happened so quickly—the shooting, the sharp pain, and then Ray turning our craft out of the flotilla toward the dock. And the crowd had been so thick in front of the Schooner Wharf Bar and so focused on the glorious lighted masts passing by, chances were most of them wouldn’t have noticed the
haphazard retreat of one small motorboat. Besides that, I remembered hearing fireworks before the parade, which would have disguised the sound of a gunshot. Still undecided about how much I would reveal, I dialed my mother’s number. The frantic tenor of her voice made the decision easy.

“I’m over in Jennifer’s kitchen,” my mother said, her voice high and tight. “We’ve got two dinner parties and a cocktail reception this evening, and all hands are on deck. Would there be any possibility—” she broke off, and I could hear a conversation in the background.

“Never mind. Jennifer tells me her standby servers are coming in an hour. I’ll call you tonight and let you know how everything goes. Okay, honey?” She didn’t pause long enough for me to reassure her or confess. “Jennifer tells me that Edel’s been given the go-ahead to open her restaurant this evening.”

“Really? Tonight?”

My mother clucked sympathetically. “It will be good for her, take her mind off all the recent troubles. Her mother-in-law was a pip, wasn’t she? Gotta go, sweetheart.” She made a smooching noise and hung up.

Only then did it occur to me that she talked so fast because she had things she was hiding from me. I wasn’t the only Snow woman with secrets.

After breakfast, with Miss Gloria’s help, I wrapped my injured arm in plastic bags and took a shower, staying in the stall long enough so that the stream of hot water beat some of the stress balls out of my neck and shoulders. By the time I dried off and dressed in warm sweats, my phone blinked with a voice message from Edel.

“Any chance you could help me out in the restaurant today?” she asked. “The cops told me late last night that the bistro was good to go, so I ordered in all
the fish and meat and vegetables, and they’re promising a quick delivery. I’m going to try for another soft opening tonight.”

I worked the fingers on the hand of my injured arm, opening and closing the fist and tapping them against my palm. The movement hurt a little, but not enough to keep me at home. Besides, Edel probably needed my observational skills more than my culinary expertise. Perhaps I had seen something during my hours in the kitchen last time that I didn’t realize I’d seen. Something hidden in plain sight? And perhaps it was related to the shooting last night during the lighted boat parade. If I could pay attention to how each of her kitchen staff reacted when I showed up—very much alive—those tiny clues could unravel the mystery.

Or was she still hoping that I’d write a story on the bistro? At this point, that seemed like a more and more distant possibility—Ava certainly wouldn’t publish it. And who else would, once they heard about my conflict of interest?

I debated whether to call Lieutenant Torrence and let him know where I was going. Chances were he would suggest that I stay home. And just as surely, I knew that I would not, could not, listen to him.

This time without Miss Gloria’s assistance, I dressed in jeans, my most comfortable red sneakers, a white tank, and a long-sleeved yellow-plaid flannel shirt that would cover the bandage on my left arm.

“Are you certain you can manage on your scooter?” Miss Gloria asked. “Do you want me to drive you over? Or we could call a taxi.” She fluttered around me like a hen with new hatchlings.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, and squeezed her hand with reassurance. “I really feel so much better. And helping Edel will get my mind off what happened. No one’s
going to come after me in a kitchen full of cooks. They all have ready access to sharp weapons.” I didn’t tell her that part of my reason for going was to watch the reactions of Edel’s staff, looking for a possible murderer. Instead, I laughed at my attempted joke, grabbed my helmet and backpack, and headed out the door.

After a quick stop at the Cuban Coffee Queen for a large café con leche, I parked my scooter in the head of the alley behind Edel’s restaurant, where all the fire equipment had been stationed several nights earlier. The place still reeked of charred wood, but the half-burnt fence and the remains of the little shed out back had been removed. I imagined it had been terribly painful for Edel to keep passing the very place where her ex-husband had died. And painful, too, to think that the last words between them had been ugly with anger. I squared my shoulders, checked that the shirtsleeve covered my injury, and headed into the kitchen.

Inside, the space was already warm and scented with the delicious smell of frying onions, chopped ginger, and baking chocolate. Mary Pat Maloney was at her station, her fingers working furiously with a knife, a tall pile of slivered scallions in front of her. She looked up as I arrived, but did not return my friendly smile.

“Good morning,” I said. “You must be working on that amazing fish special.”

Her lips pinched, she dropped the knife on the cutting board and walked toward the big cooler.

“Morning, Rodrigo. Morning, Louann. Morning, Glenn.”

“Morning, Hayley,” said Louann and Glenn. Rodrigo gave a wave and a smile. Nothing in those reactions gave me any insight into the possible identity of the shooter.

I wandered through the small kitchen, admiring the
flaky pastry that Louann was layering into a buttered dish, and the pot of pale pink vodka sauce that Glenn was stirring. No one seemed unhappy to see me, but overall the atmosphere felt a little subdued, even angry.

The doors leading from the kitchen to the dining room swung open, and Edel swept in with Leo McCracken, the head waiter, on her heels. She clapped her hands and the clatter at the workspaces grew quiet.

“Listen, people,” she said. “We have some big news. The food critic from the
New York Times
is vacationing in Key West this week with his family. Once he saw the news about the fire, he got interested in our bistro and he’s coming for dinner sometime tonight. Or so we’ve heard on the coconut telegraph.” She glanced back at Leo, who wore a sly smile.

“Speaking of the fire, I know I’ve spoken with all of you individually. I know most of you are deeply saddened by Juan Carlos’s death.” Her lower lip trembled. She glanced down, brushed an imaginary crumb off her white jacket. “I’m sick about it, too. You all read the stories about him . . . I know that. Just understand that most of what was printed was not true. And regardless of what the truth might have been, we loved each other dearly.” She swiped at her eyes with the towel draped over her shoulder. “The best way I can think to honor his memory is to cook the most amazing dishes we can. Cook like we’re on fire,” she added fiercely.

I blanched at the unfortunate metaphor, but Edel didn’t seem to have noticed. She glanced around the room, making eye contact with each of the staff. “Thank you for your support.” She marched over to me and lowered her voice. “Are you going to be able to get your piece published in
Key Zest
this week?”

I gulped. Was this why she’d called me in? I thought I’d been pretty clear about my iffy status. “I’m kind of
on hold,” I told her. “Wally and Ava are negotiating with some possible investors and the entire direction of the magazine is in question.”

I started to formulate the words to describe what I saw as the mounting conflict of interest, but the expression on her face darkened.

“I should say, I’m going to have everything ready to go . . . in case I get the go-ahead.”

She stared at me as if I’d really let her down, then grunted and turned away. She walked from station to station, critiquing the work of her employees, from the number of custard and graham cracker crust layers in the key lime parfaits, all the way down to the spots left on the bottoms of several skillets by the Spanish-speaking dishwasher. When it became clear that she was too absorbed with her own staff to find something for me to do—and perhaps she’d never intended to let me work, I retreated from the heat and tension of the kitchen to the dining room. Leo and the other servers were busy wrapping silverware in snowy white napkins.

“Can I pitch in with something here?” I asked. “I came to help out in the kitchen but it looks like I’m in the way.”

“If you could stay out of her warpath, I’d advise it,” said Leo, crooking a smile. “I’m afraid she’s not handling her grief all that gracefully.”

“Who does?” I asked, as I sat and reached for a napkin. “Is such a thing even possible? She probably should have taken a few more days off.”

“She processes everything by working harder,” he said. “And when she works harder, we work harder. You should have seen her the night that Page Six broke the story on Juan Carlos and his paramour. We’ve never served so many covers. And the cooking was
brilliant that night, brilliant. But we were worried that a couple of the staff would have to be hospitalized to have fluids forced. They were exhausted and dehydrated.”

Startled by his chattiness, I decided to mine the lode of information while it was open. “Would you say she was surprised by his infidelity?” I asked.

“Perhaps not surprised, but definitely disappointed.” He stood up and shouldered the tray of wrapped silver and then carried it off to a corner shelf that held water pitchers and extra vases of tropical flowers.

Once it became clear that he wasn’t coming back, I got up and wandered outside to the walkway bordering the harbor. From this vantage point, I could trace the path in the water that the lighted boat parade had taken last night. Clutching my injured arm protectively, I started toward the Schooner Wharf Bar. In front of the bar, I scanned the edges of the harbor, looking for crannies where the gunman might have been hiding. It was difficult to believe that someone—anyone—would have shot at me. Was it to scare me away? And from what? Or had it been random bad luck?

I had been a small target in a chaotic night. If someone had truly wanted to kill me, he would have had to have been an incredible marksman. And the shot must have been taken from a hiding place above the water. I scanned the harbor’s skyline again, noticing the second-floor apartment to the right of Edel’s place, with its tiny deck out front.