Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (17 page)

I wouldn’t feed you anything that would kill you. Just eat it and quit complaining!

—Dr. Kiel Christianson to his children

I collected my belongings from my office, blew past Danielle without explanation, and stormed out of the office. Most likely she would have heard the entire conversation, anyway—the walls are mandoline thin. And the volume had been ramped up pretty close to shouting by the time I finished. In my dreams, I might have wished that Wally would run after me, insisting that I had been right all along and that he’d ejected Ava for good—she was now out of the picture. The reality was different. I needed to suck it up and realize that this job was history. Possibly I could find another job related to food writing. Not likely I’d land another gig as a food critic, the position I’d dreamed about all of my short working life. But lots of people did lots of things that might not have been their first choice in order to stay on this island. I could do the same.

Assuming that I wanted to stay on the island, with or
without Wally. My heart started to beat faster and I felt my stomach pitch and roil. I needed to focus on something else or I would go mad. I yanked the phone from my backpack and started making calls. First one to Edel.

“It’s Hayley,” I said after the beep at the end of her message. “Just wanted to confirm that I will be back by five and ready to help in any way you can use me. But call me if there’s any news on the fire or Juan Carlos’s death, okay?” I hung up and dialed Officer Torrence. He didn’t answer, either.

“Is there any news on the fire or the murder or the arson or the shooting? Are the police doing anything about any of this?” I took a breath. “Sorry,” I added. “I know that isn’t fair. I’m having a really lousy day. Call me when you get a chance?”

I got back on my scooter and buzzed down Southard Street past the Truman Annex gatehouse and left to Fort Zachary Taylor Beach. I needed to pull myself together before I talked to any other living being. After paying my token entry fee, I drove the half mile to the farthest beach, heading to the point where cruise ships make their turns into the channel leading to Key West. I left my scooter near the bicycle racks and trudged out to the beach.

As it was still early in the day, families gathered in town for the holidays had not yet arrived to spend hours baking in the sun. I took off my sandals and walked along the water. As I calmed down, I began to notice the line of Jet Skis bouncing along the horizon. And the waves crashing against the rocks a couple hundred feet off the beach. I’d heard that the snorkeling around them was amazing—my friends had reported seeing schools of colored fish darting through the water. I swore to myself that I’d get some goggles and go exploring in the New Year.

As my heart and pulse rates slowed, I forged a semblance of a plan. I texted Torrence and told him I would be coming by with a sandwich around one to apologize and chat. “Sandwich” would probably get his attention, though, in hindsight, “chocolate” would have been a surer bet. Then I tried to focus on exactly the questions for which I needed answers. Who had shot at me and why? That one I had a personal stake in. Who had set fire to Edel’s restaurant? Why was Edel’s ex-husband in her storage shed the night of the fire? Who was trying to sabotage her food? Was Edel having difficulty following the city’s rules and regulations? Was she having conflict with her neighbors? And which of her employees—if any—might have wanted to see her fail? And was there anything I could do to save my job?

Once I’d ordered two Cuban mix sandwiches with extra pickles and BBQ chips from Coles Peace for pickup at noon, I perched on a picnic table under some trees a little ways from the beach. I started my search by Googling Ava Faulkner’s name, grasping for anything that would help rescue my spot at
Key Zest
. I assumed she had not changed her surname, as this had also been the given name of her sister, Kristin, who had tragically died not long after I’d come to town. But that was a whole other story. Remembering that Palamina had told me that Ava and she went to college together at Columbia University, I began to Google their two names in tandem. The only connection I discovered was the mention of a sorority gala coordinated by Palamina Wells and Ava Faulkner. At least my trail was slightly warm. I could imagine the havoc Ava must have wreaked among her sorority sisters.

Then I started searching through the magazines for which Palamina had worked. On the masthead of a short-lived fashion magazine, I found the names of
Palamina and Ava as staff assistants. But four names down from theirs was another I recognized: Edel Waugh. Bizarre. So Ava had to have known Edel years ago. Did she dislike her former colleague back then as much as she did now? I wondered if I could get Palamina to talk. Probably not. However, it did seem worth warning Wally about the connection. I hated to watch
Key Zest
take a direction that was based on Ava’s grudges.

Wally answered his phone on the first ring. “I only have a minute,” he said brusquely. “Still in a meeting.”

“Understood,” I said. “I thought you should know that Ava, Palamina, and Edel all worked on the same magazine in New York some years ago.”

“And that’s important because?”

“Because she seems to have you in a headlock and that’s okay if it’s really good for you and
Key Zest
, but what if she’s making decisions based on old grudges rather than what’s truly right for your magazine? I’m not so sure you’re seeing everything so clearly right now. With your mom being sick and the investors waving money in front of your nose—” I stopped, gulping back the tears that took me by surprise. “You’re vulnerable right now, that’s all I’m saying. Be careful.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, still formal and cool. “Thanks for the suggestion.” The connection was severed. Probably in more ways than one. I blotted my face dry on my sleeve and headed off to get the sandwiches.

When I’m dead worn-out, in a reverie, I often think that when it comes time to die, I want to breathe my last in a kitchen.

—
Banana Yoshimoto
, Kitchen

On the way back from the beach to the parking lot where I’d left my scooter, my phone rang—a call from my stepmother, Allison. Retracing my steps to a bench in the shade of some tall fir trees, I accepted the call. I hadn’t spoken with her in a while so I might as well catch up now.

“Hayley, we haven’t heard from you in forever,” she said, sounding cheerful rather than accusatory, but a little concerned. “And usually that means you’re either crazy busy or crazy worried, but don’t want to bother us with the details.”

“You know me too well,” I said with a laugh. “How about both at once?” We’d grown a lot closer since the events surrounding Connie’s wedding last spring. She gave me credit for persuading her ex to allow my stepbrother to live with my father and her this year, rather
than be shipped off to a military academy. “How’s Rory doing?”

“Absolutely thriving,” she said. “He can hardly be bothered to sulk like a normal teenager. He just finished up with the cross-country season. For a kid without much experience in athletics, he did really well. And it even looks like he may be elected one of the captains. And his grades are all B or better.”

“Wonderful,” I said, really meaning it.

“Now you,” she said. “Tell me the worried part. I can picture the busy. How’s it working out to have your mom down there?”

I heaved a big sigh. “It’s all fine. She’s very busy, too, helping Jennifer with a million catering gigs.” I paused. This wasn’t really my story to tell, but Allison knew the players and might have some insight. “Can I trust you with a secret? No telling Dad.”

“Of course,” she said, adding a laugh. “His information is doled out on a need-to-know basis.”

“Sam proposed,” I told her. “In front of an entire dinner party.”

“That was bold. And she said?”

“Nothing. She said nothing.”

“Hmm,” said Allison. “Can I be honest? She hasn’t dated anyone else since the divorce, right?”

“Not worth mentioning.” Not that I knew of. But her adventures on Match.com, where she’d met Sam, had all been a cold shock to me. Who knew how many dates she’d gone on before finding him?

“She’s über-cautious when it comes to men,” Allison said. “Maybe she’s got a psychological block against considering a happy relationship. Maybe the idea is too scary.”

I couldn’t help defending my mother. “She planned
on her marriage to Dad lasting forever.” Not that my parents’ divorce had anything to do with Allison.

“I meant no criticism, just observation.” Allison waited, then added, “A little bit like you, wouldn’t you say? Or you’re like her. She’ll get around to it when she’s ready. He’s a lovely man; it would be a shame to cut him loose. Some other single woman would snatch him up.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Exactly.”

“And how’s Wally?”

“Deep in talks with investors who are interested in butting into
Key Zest
. Ava’s behind it, of course. I’m not sure how long I’ll even have the job, never mind the boyfriend.” My voice caught in an embarrassing hitch. I tried to cover that up by segueing into the story about Edel and her ex, and the terrible, deadly fire. I described her staff and her fierce insistence on becoming a foodie star in the Key West scene, in spite of the very recent tragedy. “I don’t believe she was involved in the fire, but the cops haven’t come up with another good suspect.”

“So, you’re writing a piece on the restaurant?”

“I was. Until the fire and the death and the complications at
Key Zest
. What happened to Edel and her ex-husband was so sad. Their New York restaurant had been a raging success, but she pulled out after his very public betrayal.” I explained more about the Page Six story.

“Was she angry enough to kill him?”

“I hate to think the worst of her, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t so.” A heavy wave of sadness washed over me. Did most marriages end in disaster? Change the subject, Hayley.

“What do you have planned for Christmas?” I got
up from the bench and started to walk toward the parking lot as she began to tell me about their holiday plans with her sisters. “Sounds like fun. I’ll miss you guys. Right now I have to go. I’m headed over to the police station. Maybe if I dangle a Cuban mix in front of Lieutenant Torrence, he’ll tell me what they’ve learned.”

“Maybe even better, just enjoy your lunch and leave the business of solving crimes to them?” she asked lightly. “But I know you better, so tell that sweet man Torrence I said hello.”

Torrence had had a lot to do with saving Rory, and Allison would always remember that. I hung up promising to pass along her greetings and call again soon, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that she hadn’t found out I’d been shot, because she’d worry herself sick. And my father even more so. And disappointment about the same. Much as I wanted to stand on my own two feet in this new Key West life, sometimes having a relative in your corner felt like a very good thing.

I buzzed up Southard, then over to Fleming and then Eaton, finally pulling into the busy parking lot at the Coles Peace Bakery. The lunch rush was in full swing, including a cluster of women ordering holiday pies and platters of Christmas cookies. I wormed my way to the counter, paid, and grabbed my sandwiches. The tantalizing smells of mustard and roasted pork and dill pickles called to me all the way over to the police station.

After picking up the phone on the wall outside the front door and stating my business, Torrence came to the lobby to get me. “A bribe,” he said with a grin, and reached for the bag of sandwiches. “Come on in and tell me what’s on your mind. How are you feeling? How’s the arm today?”

“Just fine,” I said, though, in fact, that whole side of my body had started to throb and I was dying to take a painkiller. I followed him into his office, where we spread out a layer of napkins, unwrapped the sandwiches, and began to eat. I opened the barbecued chips and tapped a few out onto a napkin. “Have you identified a suspect?”

“We’ve got guys canvassing the harbor and contacting all the boat captains who were in the parade. Nothing’s turned up yet.” He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered seeing something new? Or thought of someone who might have it in for you?”

I ran my fingers down the length of the injured arm, feeling a ripple of the terror I’d experienced the night before. “No. I mean, nothing in my life is going really well at this point. But not awful, either. Nobody has it in for me in an ‘I’m going to shoot you’ kind of way.”

I debated whether to tell him about the woman I’d interviewed this morning who lived in the apartment overlooking the harbor. He’d be annoyed. But, on the other hand, I was tired. And not feeling enough oomph to act like Hayley against the world.

“I did have one interesting conversation,” I said to Torrence, not meeting his eyes. “There’s a woman who lives on the second floor over the building next to the Schooner Wharf Bar. I saw her light on and I took a chance that she’d chat with me for a minute. But she really didn’t have much to add other than steer me toward Wes Singleton.” I squinted and risked looking at him dead-on. “You probably know him. He used to own and run the Fishing Hole on the bight. He spends a lot of mornings near the harbor. She thought he might have seen something.”

Torrence set his sandwich down on the desk.
“Haven’t we been over this before? If the police are investigating a crime or an incident, the best thing for you to do is to mind your own business. Supposing this lady was willing to talk with one person but not more than one? You’ve already spoiled the possibility of a professional police interview by blundering in with your questions. Supposing she has taken the time between her chat with you and her chat with us to tweak her story?”

He was getting all wound up so I interrupted him to confess the rest of my transgressions. Why get yelled at twice? “Then I should also tell you that I spoke with Wes Singleton. But I couldn’t help that. I was in line at the Cuban Coffee Queen and he was ahead of me. I couldn’t be rude.”

“And he said?” Torrence asked.

“That one of Edel’s chefs, Glenn Fredericks, used to work for him. Apparently this man is sick to death of Edel’s controlling nature. I didn’t get much more, because then Wes went off on the city commissioners, along with the rest of the city administration. He’s angry, of course, because he lost his lease on the restaurant that his family ran on the harbor for a million years. But he’s got no beef with me.”

Torrence nodded, picked up the sandwich again and began to eat. “We know all about him,” he said. “He’s a crackpot but harmless. Better use of your time would be to let us do the work and maybe you go bake a cake or something.”

“I think you must be kidding, but those are fighting words,” I said, starting to steam inside.

He laughed. “I’m kidding. But bring me a piece when you’re finished. Red velvet, maybe. With cream-cheese frosting. That’s my favorite. I always go on a diet after Christmas, but I’m not there yet.”

“You’re a comedian.” I folded up my trash, including the section of the sandwich that I hadn’t finished. I’d lost my appetite over the morning. In fact, the whole week had been enough to put me off my feed. A new kind of diet, I thought as I pushed through the front door of the station and went out into the bright light of the early afternoon. The “lose your job and your weight stress-and-gunshot” diet.

I tucked the sandwich into my basket and flipped through my messages while perched on the scooter. Edel had texted, inviting/suggesting/insisting that I be in the kitchen at five, ready to chronicle the opening minutes of her bistro’s opening night.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to work on the line in her kitchen. I love to cook and to try new recipes and new combinations of food. But, on the other hand, the part of my job that feeds my soul is writing about food. Teasing out what makes one meal good, but another magical. Discovering a new chef or a new dish and describing my find to the world—or at least to other food-addled diners who’d go out of their way for something special. For me, the cooking itself was not so much the miracle. It was all about the eating. And then choosing the words that brought that food to life on the page.

A second message was from my mother, who was working in Jennifer’s kitchen all day but would love to catch up when I had a minute. Why not now? I had nowhere else to be and nothing really to work on. The only downside was that it was difficult to obfuscate the truth when faced with my mother in person.

I texted her back and told her I was on the way over.