Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (22 page)

If you’re seized with terrible, unprintable rage towards someone you love, a ripe, velvety avocado can send you over the edge with its innocent bystander meekness.

—Kate Christensen,
Blue Plate Special

The next day, with Miss Gloria settled back on the houseboat with her sons, and the grocery shopping completed for Mom and Sam’s Christmas dinner party, I couldn’t help gnawing on the last unanswered question: How had Juan Carlos ended up in the fire? Neither Wes Singleton nor Ava Faulkner claimed to know anything about it. Rodrigo’s description of the dead man’s last fight with Edel kept surfacing in my tired brain. What could he have wanted so badly from her that he traveled to Key West and snuck into her shed?

Her recipes, of course.

I found Edel in her kitchen at the bistro, alone. She was paging through her recipe bible, taping the edges that I thought might have been torn in the struggle with Juan Carlos. She looked up, her eyes haunted with sadness.

I leaned against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest. “So, he was looking for the recipes you two had developed,” I said. “In the safe that you said did not exist. I would have thought he’d made copies. Or at least committed them to memory. You, too,” I added.

“I wanted to keep them safe,” she said. “They were trade secrets. We had tried a number of brand-new ideas right before I got fed up and left New York,” she added. “Neither of us have the kind of mind that retains every detail—not until we’ve made the dish half a dozen times. Even then . . .” She spread out her hands. “We’ve got hundreds of recipes in the file.” She tapped the book, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ve made lots of notations along the sides of the pages. What worked especially well. Substitutions to consider. Tweaks on the temperature and how to plate the final product. Side dishes—everything that fleshes out a recipe draft and transforms it into a signature dish.”

“But wouldn’t he have had those on a computer at the New York restaurant?” I asked.

“Some of the ones we were using in New York, yes. But it wasn’t only the dishes we’d worked on together over the years—I would have shared those with him in the end. I’d developed a lot of new ideas for the bistro. Fresh takes on old favorites. Ways to set my restaurant apart from everything we’d done together. It was the only way I had to prove to the world—and to me—that I was capable of standing alone in the kitchen. Without him.” Her eyes grew moist and she pressed her lips together, tightened her jaw. “Moving past our history so I could be a chef myself—not the woman behind the famous man.”

“So, it meant a lot, him coming down here and trying to steal the book.”

“Everything,” she said, softly. “Everything. It meant his needs were more important than mine. And that the garbage he’d come spouting was really that: garbage.”

“What did he say?”

“When he first arrived, he begged me to come back with him. He was sure we could get our magic back. I said I’d have to think it over.” She fell silent again.

“But?” I nudged.

“But he kept calling and calling. And it sounded like he’d been drinking. I told him to go to wherever he was staying and sleep it off. I didn’t care if he spent the night in the mangroves with the other bums; I’d talk to him again the next day.” She began to straighten the canisters of spices on the counter, then wiped the surface clean with a big sponge.

“And that was Monday,” I prompted. “The day the restaurant was closed.”

She tossed the sponge into the sink and perched on a stool. “I came back over here because I was nervous about the opening. And upset about the things that had been happening in the kitchen. Someone was undermining me. I’d risked everything for this new restaurant. I couldn’t relax.”

“But once you got here . . .”

“He had already broken into the shed. Yes, I had a safe there, where I kept the recipe bible.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “You think I was being paranoid, but there was a lot at stake.”

“Obviously,” I said.

“He’d already opened the safe because I’m a fool and I used the same combination I’ve used all my life, starting with my high school locker. Of course, Juan Carlos knew what it was. In all the hustle of getting the restaurant ready and preparing for our opening, it
simply didn’t occur to me to change it. It never crossed my mind that he’d be desperate enough to steal from me.” Silent tears ran down her cheeks.

“So, you went to the shed and—what?” I asked.

“Honest to god, I caught him red-handed, with the safe open and the book tucked under his arm. He was utterly soused, as has so often been the case in the past few months. I was furious. Livid. We struggled. He was reaching to choke me, so I picked up the rolling pin lying on the shelf and clunked him on the head. He went down like a sack of turnips, looking so surprised.”

“You knocked him out?”

“That’s the funny thing—he was still talking, blabbing about how we were so good together and he wanted only the best for me . . . I took the book and told him I was locking the door and leaving. He should pull it closed when he got himself together. I wanted him gone, off the island and out of my life. That’s the last I saw of him.” She suppressed a sob. “Between the clunk on the head and the alcohol, he must have passed out. I hid the recipe bible in the deep freezer and left for Sunset Key.” The shuddering sobs came hard and fast. “And then someone set the place on fire . . .”

I waited a few minutes, patting her back as she cried. “I’m sure your name will be cleared. It was a horrible coincidence, nothing more.”

She ran her sleeve over her eyes. “I was so focused on getting away from him and back to my condo. You have to understand that his betrayal shook me to the core. But now I wished I had stayed with him, made sure he was okay.” Her shoulders slumped a little lower.

I couldn’t think of way to argue that with her, so I rustled in my backpack until I came up with my copy of the
New York Times
. “Did you see the review this
morning? Paul Woolston went crazy for this place. Let me read you my favorite part.” I opened up the food section until I found his review of the Bistro.

Chef Waugh’s version of spaghetti Bolognese (which, sadly, is not a regular offering on the menu—yet), was bold, rich, and possibly the best pasta sauce I’ve eaten since a trip to the northern part of Italy more than ten years ago. This dish not only proves that Waugh’s cooking comes from the heart, but her recipes can more than hold their own with any top restaurants in the business—including those of certain well-known Italian chefs brimming with testosterone and hubris. She could braise shoe leather and we’d gladly gnaw it down, all while bowing to her artistry and praising its texture and robust flavor.

She took the paper from me and scanned the article, a big smile lighting up her face by the time she’d finished reading. “I’m thinking of adding the spaghetti Bolognese to the permanent menu after all. If Woolston of the
Times
says I can cook whatever I want and get away with it, why would I argue?”

Before zipping over to my mother’s house to help with the feast preparations, I made one more quick stop—at
Key Zest
. Wally was in his office, as I’d hoped. I’d called him the night before and left a message with all the news, including Ava’s arrest for arson and attempted murder.

“I’m really sorry about the way things have gone,” he started as soon as he saw me. “And I owe you and Danielle an apology. I shouldn’t have allowed Ava to bully me into taking on those investors.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Marcus Baker
bailed out yesterday when he heard about Ava’s role in sabotaging the bistro. But Palamina wants to pick up the slack where Ava left off. Money-wise, I mean. She’s not sure she wants a hands-on role with the content, but she wants to invest. She likes what we’re doing and she’s itching to help with our social-media campaign. She loves you and your work and wants to see you gain a bigger profile.” He grinned.

I grinned back—a grin so big it felt like it might split my face wide open. “Better than I could have dreamed.”

“Me, too,” he said, but then his face fell. “Except you were right: My mom’s illness has really affected me more than I admitted—even to myself.”

“I wish you wouldn’t apologize for that,” I said.

“It’s important to me that you understand,” he said.

And then he told me what it had been like sitting with his mother as the stew of chemical poison dripped into her system. How he could literally see her rosy complexion turn bluish white as the IV emptied into her veins.

“I’m so sorry about that,” I said. “I don’t know how to say it better than that.” Tears welled up in my eyes and I reached over to take his hand. “If it had been my mother, I’m not at all sure I could have been as brave as you.”

“You find that you do what’s needed,” he said quietly. “But it changes things. There are no guaranteed happy endings, you know?”

He planted a kiss on my forehead and picked up the suitcase that I hadn’t seen next to his desk. “I’m off to spend the holidays with her. I’ll be back after the New Year and we’ll get to work.”

Deliciousness is in the details.

—Betty Fussell

Christmas flew by in a happy blur. Because Miss Gloria asked, we all attended the Christmas Eve service at the Key West Metropolitan Community Church, where Lieutenant Torrence served as pastor. After the lessons and carols and the most beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night” that I’d ever heard, we retired to Mom and Sam’s place for a magnificent feast.

Mom had talked Sam into saving the roast beef for New Year’s, but we decimated a twenty-pound turkey, along with corn bread and sausage stuffing, mashed potatoes and turnips, corn pudding, brussels sprouts roasted with maple syrup, and a river of gravy.

“We should have done this before we ate, but better late than never,” my mother said. “Let’s go around and say what we’re thankful for this season. I’ll start.” She squeezed Sam’s hand with her right hand and held up her left to show us the ring. “Thanks to my daughter’s wise counsel, I’m getting married to the sweetest, kindest, most patient man in the world.”

Sam grinned at her and then me, and everyone at the table broke into cheers and congratulations.

“I know I’ve been a little crochety this week,” said my cousin Cassie, when her turn came. “It’s a weird time for me. I so admire how Hayley has made a new life with so many new adventures and new friends.” She turned to look at me. “You have so many wonderful things ahead of you. While I, well, I’m having a baby.” She burst into tears.

“It’s an adjustment,” Joe said. “Because we know how it will change our lives. And that’s scary.”

My mother got up and circled the table to give Cassie a hug. “Honey, becoming a mother has been the absolute high point in my life. I just know you’ll find that to be true. And golf will always be there waiting.” Cassie smiled through her tears and returned my mother’s embrace.

“I’m grateful to be here with all of you and not rotting away in the bilge-pump cubby,” said Miss Gloria, beaming. “And grateful for that silly schnauzer.”

“Ditto,” said her son Frank. “Listen.” He pointed at me. “I know you feel responsible for what happened, but you needn’t. Our mother has never seemed happier than this past year, living with you, at least not since our father died. She’s got new friends and new interests—heck, we can’t get a word in edgewise when we call her.”

“Wait just a minute,” she said, but he kept talking.

“She wants to tell us everything about what you’re cooking and where she’s going with you or Janet. She looks and sounds ten years younger than the last time I visited. I wouldn’t dream of forcing her out of here. As long as you’re willing, the houseboat is your home and she is your roommate.”

“And now,” said my mother, “it’s time for dessert!”

On New Year’s Eve day, Mrs. Renhart emerged from her living room to her deck with Schnootie, both of them in costumes. Schnootie’s outfit was a full-body, soft-sided felt bun with the tips of brown hot dogs poking out of each end. A large band of yellow felt imitating mustard squiggled across her back. Mrs. Renhart’s costume was only a hat, but some hat—a two-foot-long stuffed hot dog in a bun that perched atop her head like William Tell’s arrow through an apple, only with a mustard squiggle that matched Schnootie’s.

“Oh my gosh,” I said. “You two are hysterical! Where are you headed?”

“The Dachshund Parade,” Mrs. Renhart replied, grinning like a monkey.

“But isn’t Schnootie a schnauzer?” Miss Gloria said, her brow furrowing into puzzled lines.

“Of course she is,” said Mrs. Renhart. “But all kinds of dogs march in this parade.” She waved us over to her deck, more animated than we’d ever seen her. “I’ve been working on the costumes for months. And Schnootie and I have been practicing so she doesn’t try to scrape it off while we’re walking down the middle of Duval Street.”

Miss Gloria and I disembarked from our boat, walked the few yards up the dock, and boarded hers. We oohed and ahhed over the hand stitching, the remarkable likeness between the two costumes, and the subtle line of relish made of green sequins that she’d added to Schnootie’s hot-dog bun only the night before. I avoided meeting Miss Gloria’s eyes, for fear we would burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Are there prizes?” I asked. “You will surely be in the running.”

“No prizes,” she said. “But I’ve always wanted to have a dog I could take to this parade.” She swooped
up the schnauzer into her arms and kissed her on the lips.

I had to look away. She was so happy, it was painful. But funny as heck, too.

“I made a hat for Mr. Renhart, too, but he went off fishing.” She held up a large felt hamburger and bun, and this time Miss Gloria and I dissolved into helpless giggles.

“Maybe we’ll buzz up later to take a look,” I said, when I caught my breath.

Mrs. Renhart’s cell phone rang. She put down the dog and took the phone from her pocket. Her face fell as she listened.

“Right now?” she asked. “Can you get anyone else? What about Jonette? Or Al?” She listened again, the smile fading from her face. “Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Oh dear, what’s the matter?” Miss Gloria asked.

“I can’t go,” she said, pulling the hot dog from her head. “I’ve been called into work. Schnootie will be so disappointed. We’ve looked forward to this forever.”

I doubted that her schnauzer cared a whit about marching around the block with a bunch of similarly clad hot-dog imitations, but I nodded sympathetically. Schnootie was, after all, the heroine of houseboat row.

“Unless . . .” Mrs. Renhart’s face brightened as she looked at me. “Would you be willing to take her? It’s a lot to ask, but . . .” Her voice quavered. “I would be glad to lend you my hat.” She held out the stuffed hot dog, her smile tentative.

“I’d pay good money to see that,” Miss Gloria piped up. “Just try it on. I’ll wear the hamburger.”

I backed up a few steps toward the dock, unable to see myself doing something quite that foolish. But Mrs. Renhart looked so mournful. Even the dog at her feet
dressed in that silly costume looked sad. “I’d love to help out but I have no way to get down to the Courthouse with the dog. I wouldn’t trust myself on the scooter with an animal.”

“But you forget—I have a car!” Miss Gloria cried.

With Miss Gloria in the front seat and Schnootie in the back, we drove down Fleming until I spotted a parking space and jockeyed Miss Gloria’s land yacht about a foot from the curb. I hopped out for a look—not my best parking job. “That’s the best I can do.”

“It’s fine,” said Miss Gloria as she sprang out of the car. “I never get closer than this. Besides, we don’t want to miss the parade.”

I hooked Schnootie to her leash and we waded through the massive New Year’s Eve traffic streaming across Duval Street. When the tourists saw the hot dog on my head and the second wiener strapped onto the schnauzer’s back and, finally, the hamburger perched atop Miss Gloria’s white hair, they parted ways to let us through. We reached the Courthouse Deli just as a small white van with A
UDIO
V
ISUAL IN
P
ARADISE
painted on its side panels began to pipe “Who Let the Dogs Out?” over their speakers. Even I began to feel jaunty.

We forded into a sea of dachshunds dressed in tutus and wings and tiaras and devil costumes, and even a small mutt wearing a white box that had the words M
Y
G
IRLFRIE
ND
I
S A
D
ACHSHUND
written on it in large black letters. Schnootie snarled and snapped at a few of the dachshunds. Finally the stimulation seemed to overwhelm her and she relaxed and began to enjoy the parade. Our cavalcade lurched up Southard Street, following the van, which followed three police officers on horses who cleared the way, towering over the little
dogs. The sidewalks of Duval Street were crowded with tourists three or four deep, all the way to Appleruth Lane. Ahead, the white van’s speakers blasted Elvis Presley singing “Hound Dog.”

“Look!” said Miss Gloria. “They’re taking videos of us. Maybe we’ll be on the news tonight! I feel like a movie star.”

Maybe Lassie or Mr. Ed, I thought to myself but didn’t say. In our faux-dachshund attire, we were clearly the biggest spectacle for blocks, possibly the entire parade. As we drew near the finish line, Mom and Sam and Joe and Cassie waited outside of 2 Cents restaurant, hot dogs in one hand and beer in the other. Except for Cassie, who held a bottle of water up to me in a toast. Then I noticed Wally, standing beside Mom, his arm linked through hers.

“Happy New Year, darling!” she called to me. “You are the most beautiful hot dog in all of Key West.”

“And that’s saying something today,” Wally added with a laugh. “Happy New Year!” And then he blew me a kiss that set me quivering from my head to my toes.