Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (12 page)

As my parents’ marriage wore on and she grew angrier, the eggs were medium boiled, their firm yolks like thick golden velvet, with spots of remaining tenderness just barely discernible.

—Elissa Altman,
“Angry Breakfast Eggs”

Once the female detective had taken my statement and my contact information, she dismissed me for the time being. Jai’s traveling kids, the ones who’d found Mariah, were not so lucky. They were loaded into an unmarked car and transported to the station for further questioning. I buzzed back over to Tarpon Pier and called Lieutenant Torrence from the parking lot to fill him in on the latest, which he’d probably already heard.

“I feel bad for those kids,” I told him, “finding their friend dead and now scared to death and dragged into the police department.”

“The detective has to make sure she gets everything she needs from them while the story’s still fresh,” he said. “Once they calm down a little, they may remember more about the situation than they were able to tell her on the spot.”

“Like what?”

“Like what shape the body was in when they found it. Anything unusual they might have noticed around the mangroves. And so on. You—we know how to find later if we need to. With those kids, you never know.”

“I guess,” I said, thinking of how Rory had vanished so quickly into the Key West spring break party scene. And he was a “normal” kid with a loving family. Nothing to run from. As far as I knew.

“At a crime scene,” Torrence added, “you never know whether a witness was more involved than they tell us at the beginning. It’s not uncommon for someone who looks like one of the victims initially to end up having been the attacker.”

Which stabbed a jolt of fear to my gut. Was he talking about Rory? I thanked him for his help and trotted up the finger to our houseboat.

Miss Gloria was snoozing on the couch, the cats curled up on either side of her, Evinrude’s motor idling. He blinked in sleepy recognition. I would have loved a nap myself, but I knew better than to think I could fall asleep the way my mind was racing. Instead, I took a long, hot shower, dressed in dry clothes, and set out across the island to the Casa Marina. I took a back way over, up Flagler to South Roosevelt Boulevard and along the beach. Other than the yellow police tape marking off the area, most of the traces of the crime scene that I’d left only forty-five minutes earlier had been cleared away, as if none of it had happened.

A little farther down the beach, the food trolleys catering to spring breakers had opened for business and I could smell the tantalizing odors of tacos and hot dogs. Though how I could be hungry after what I’d witnessed this morning was beyond me. I pulled into the hotel parking lot, so distracted that I almost ran down the valet. He leaped from the driveway to the sidewalk.

I parked my scooter and ran over to apologize.

“No problem, I’ve got quick reflexes.” He grinned and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “How are your folks enjoying their visit?”

“To be honest, there’s been a little more excitement than we bargained for,” I said. “My brother was injured last night and he’s in the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, frowning. “You mentioned something about him this morning. I wasn’t quite awake.”

I nodded. “It was darned early. I suppose you heard about the girl who drowned just up the road,” I said, knowing news traveled fast in this town.

“A little bit,” he said. “That’s so sad.” A look of concern crossed his face. “I hope she didn’t have anything to do with your brother.”

“I hope not,” I said, feeling tears prick my eyes.

A deep blue Mercedes pulled into the lot, and he started over to help the driver. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do,” he called over his shoulder.

“Thanks.” I turned away and dialed my mother. Sam answered her phone.

“Your mom’s in the shower,” he said. “Can I give her a message? Is there news about Rory?”

“Sort of,” I said, and told him about the dead girl washing up in the mangroves.

“That’s horrible,” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “Where are you now? Does Allison know?”

I choked up a little, thinking of how awful she’d feel when she got this news. Because however it had happened, the girl’s death would lead to more pressure on Rory. “I’m downstairs. I need to get to the office, but I thought if you guys were decent . . .”

“Come right up,” he said firmly. “Room 412.”

I hurried into the lobby, which looked just as posh and welcoming as it had yesterday when we’d all gathered for what was supposed to be a joyous, relaxing week. But in that short time, everything around me had gone to hell. Silly as it sounded, I felt like I needed my mother.

Mom met me at the door to their room, in her bare feet and a white terry bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She pulled me into a hug, then drew me into the room and closed the door.

“Oh honey, tell us what happened.”

So I sank into a plush white upholstered chair across from Sam, who looked like a teddy bear in drawstring flannel pajama bottoms, a faded Princeton sweatshirt, and tousled hair. After describing my visit to Project Lighthouse and then how the call had come in about the girl in the mangroves, I voiced the fear I hadn’t wanted to admit to myself: the possibility that my stepbrother could be accused of her murder, and the even more distressing possibility that he had in fact killed the girl or, almost as bad, gotten into a terrible accident and allowed her to die.

“I think you’re jumping to the worst conclusions too quickly,” said Sam in a businesslike voice I hadn’t heard from him before. “There could be dozens of explanations for why she ended up where she did. She had an entire life’s history that we know nothing about, and she only met your stepbrother last night. Anyway, her body was discovered on the opposite side of the island from where we found Rory. And he isn’t a bad kid, just young and a little reckless. Am I right?”

“Yeah.” I wanted so badly to believe his reassurance—he was a lawyer after all. And a smart and sensible man. But my picture of Rory was morphing like a fun house mirror. How much did I really know about him these days? I felt for my throat, suddenly filled with a lump so big it was hard to breathe around it.

“The chain she was wearing around her waist ended up around her neck,” I said, fingering my phone and wondering whether to show the photo I’d taken. “I remember seeing the little skull on the end of her belt. And Rory had injuries on his hands that looked like they came from a chain. It’s going to be hard to explain that away.”

Mom’s eyes widened. “She had a chain around her neck?”

I nodded, kept the phone in my pocket. Saying it out loud was enough.

My mother unwrapped the towel from her head and blotted her hair dry, worry lines radiating from her lips as she frowned. “Seems more likely that some third party attacked them both, doesn’t it, Sam?”

Sam cleared his throat and leaned forward. “You have to allow the police to do their jobs—collect the evidence, interview folks, and then come to their own conclusions. You can speculate all day long, but it’ll only make you anxious.” He ran his fingers through his hair and squinted at me. “Did you tell your cop friend about the chain link connection?”

“I only thought of it as I was riding over.” Which was not true, strictly speaking. But I hadn’t been able—or willing—to put it into words until now.

He rubbed his chin, hard enough to make the sound of his whiskers audible. “Did you mention to the cops that she was wearing the chain belt in the photo?”

“Not yet.”

“They’ll figure it out,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Honestly, I’d keep your suppositions about Rory between us. Chances are, they’ll notice those details and put the rest together. And it won’t help your brother one bit to spotlight your worst fears. I had a case like this one time where my client’s mother blabbed to the cops and ended up getting him convicted.” He shook his head. “She hadn’t meant to harm her son’s case. She’d only meant to help.”

Which made my heart rate tick higher—had I said too much already?

I swallowed the saliva pooling under my tongue. “I did already mention the chain and the deli bench photo to Lieutenant Torrence. But he’s my friend.”

“Remember though, he’s a cop first,” said Sam gently.

“What can we do to be helpful to poor Allison?” Mom asked.

“I’m certain Detective Bransford isn’t going to want a few citizen deputies traipsing around the island, looking for clues. Especially citizens who are peripherally related to a suspect,” I said, managing a weak smile. “If that’s what you were thinking.”

Mom laughed. “I was thinking that at some point, everyone’s going to need to eat. And doesn’t Ray’s show open tonight?”

I groaned. “Five o’clock at the Gallery on Greene. If you think we should still go. Is it disloyal to attend the opening if Connie’s called off the engagement?”

“Surely not,” said Mom.

“Nothing seems sure at this point,” I said.

“I suggest we make a nice dinner to serve after Ray’s party. If it’s okay with Miss Gloria, we could ask people back to your houseboat. Ray has family coming in today too, doesn’t he? People will need a place to gather. And try to regroup. Someplace that feels warm and homey. That’s where you shine, honey.” She grinned.

“Won’t that put a lot of pressure on Connie?”

Mom shrugged and walked briskly across the room to comb her hair out in front of the bureau mirror. “I’ll call her,” she said. “Maybe I can take her for coffee and get to the bottom of this. What do you think about spanakopita? You can serve a dish like that hot or warm or even room temperature and it’s still yummy. And maybe a great big Greek salad.”

My mouth began to water at the prospect.

“What about your strawberry cream pie, the one with the chocolate crust?” my mother asked me.

“Perfect. And pimento cheese with crackers and celery, in case people get there early?”

Sam rubbed his stomach. “That sounds amazing. You’re making me drool.”

“I’ll run to Publix and do the shopping,” Mom told me. “I know you have things to take care of.”

•   •   •

I zipped over to the
Key Zest
office to finish tapping out the piece on breakfast pastries. It wouldn’t hurt to stage a personal appearance, to reassure Wally that I was working hard on my assignments and making significant progress, regardless of the actual facts. I swore on the way over that I would not talk about the problems I was juggling: Act professional, turn one of the pieces in early, and be on my way.

But I hadn’t counted on my coworkers’ solicitous comments hitting me as soon as I came into the office.

“That was such a nice party last night! Did it go on forever?” Danielle asked. “You look a little peaked.”

Wally emerged from his cubicle, pushed his glasses up to the top of his head, and looked closely at me.

“Hayley, what’s wrong?”

My lips started to quiver and pretty soon the whole story poured out.

“Can I take something off your plate?” Wally asked. “Your family should come first.”

I felt a rush of gratitude. On the one hand, giving up my writing assignments would make for less to worry about this week. On the other, I could picture Ava Faulkner panting for an opportunity to can me. Now was not the time to appear weak or vulnerable.

“I’ve got the breakfast article practically in the bag,” I said. “But thanks. And I’ve already started to rough out the piece on the Hemingway cats. That one won’t be hard.” Not if I could think of some clever way to frame the darn thing. And fit in another visit that wasn’t interrupted by terrible news. “What else do I have?”

Danielle ran her finger across the spreadsheet open on her computer screen. “The review of Paseo,” she said.

“I need to go out to the hospital and check on Rory,” I said. “But I could swing by the restaurant and pick some food up to take to Allison and my father. He said they weren’t hungry—”

“And he’s related to you by blood?” Wally joked. “I’ll call an order in and you get going. Anything they won’t eat?”

“Get the salad for Allison, with grilled shrimp or chicken, maybe one of those enormous chicken sandwiches for my dad. And a pork roast dinner for me, just so we try a little of everything. Oh, and the roasted corn, better order two of those.”

I thanked them both and trotted down the hall to stash the Hemingway cat notes on my desk and then wash my face and use the ladies’ room. I blew a kiss at them on the way back out, thinking how incredibly lucky I’d been to land this job, with these people. But Wally reached for my wrist as I went by, and pulled me into a hug. My head against his shoulder, I slowly hugged him back, overwhelmed with the minty scent of his aftershave. My heart began to beat faster and I pulled away before I could do—or even think of doing—something stupid with my boss.

I understood when I accepted this job that I was to think of myself as a kind of public functionary—a Designated Eater. I endured the caloric overload and the punishments to the body so readers could spend their time and money more sensibly.

—Todd Kliman,

“The Food-Critic Father”

I roared across Simonton Street and took a right on Eaton. The spring break hordes had begun to clog the streets, which meant good news for the merchants. Not so good for us locals, as I had begun to think of myself. For us, more traffic, more lines, more need for reservations, more crap left on the streets; trash dropped wherever they finished drinking or eating, as if there was a giant housemaid who would come around at night after the bars closed and pick up after them. Which in a way, I suppose there was—the street sweepers that circled Old Town every morning. But even this was part of the Key West cycle, a phase you had to roll with if you wanted to make this place home.

The food at Paseo’s wasn’t quite ready when I arrived, so I sat on the bench outside and made some notes about the “ambiance.” A parade of trucks and scooters rumbled by on Eaton Street, belching and honking at hapless bicyclists who didn’t know enough to use the bike lane one street over. Not exactly a garden spot for eating, but my mouth was watering at the smells of garlic and roasted meat wafting from the grills inside the restaurant. With the take-out food finally in hand, I set off through the traffic up the island toward the hospital. I phoned my father once I had parked and was walking to the entrance.

“Dad, I brought you some lunch. On my way up. How’s Rory?”

“About the same,” he said, his voice gruff with something. Exhaustion? Worry? Gratitude that I had come? Definitely the first two and hopefully the latter. “Nothing’s changed—nothing better, nothing worse. I’ll meet you in the waiting room and you can go in for a minute. Allison will be glad to see you.”

I wasn’t sure that was true. She was probably mired too deep in a pit of grief and fear to care who visited. I carried the fragrant sack up to the third floor where the intensive care unit was located, hoping the scent of Caribbean spices wafting from the bag wouldn’t bother the other worried families.

My father met me in the hall, and offered me a hug more substantial than his usual reserve allowed. He wore the boat shoes and jeans and polo shirt he’d thrown on this morning, and he smelled of body odor and salt air and bad coffee. His face was pale, carpeted with a blond stubble that was—for him—unusual. He hated to be underdressed or poorly groomed—even at home, but especially in public.

“She’s in with him,” he said, tipping his head at the door leading to the patient rooms. “Call the nurses’ station from the phone by the door and they’ll buzz you in.” He took the food from me. “Go on and say hello.” He sniffed at the bag. “This smells good. I didn’t think I was hungry.”

A nurse in pink scrubs let me in and pointed out Rory’s room. I used the Purell dispensed from a stand to clean my hands, then tapped lightly on the door to my stepbrother’s room and took a step inside. Rory looked young and vulnerable in the hospital bed, the sheets drawn up to his chest, the machines by his bedside beeping and hissing. Wires snaked out from under the sheet, leading to the portable heart monitor and then to a computer. He had an IV inserted in his arm and an oxygen tube in his nostrils. The scratches across his cheek bloomed red against his white face.

Allison was seated on the far side of the bed. She tried to smile but mostly failed. “Thanks for coming.”

I waved her thanks away. “Everything going okay?” I mentally pinched myself. Of course it wasn’t going okay. Her son was injured and unconscious—and god only knew how he’d ended up like this. “I mean, how are you holding up?”

Her eyes watered and one tear wandered down her face and dropped from her chin to her forearm. She looked at the damp spot as if she didn’t know what it was or where it had come from. “I can’t believe this is happening. I never should have let him go out by himself last night.”

“It was my fault,” I said. “I had no idea he would meet people that fast. And—”

A knock sounded on the door. Bransford entered, a grim expression on his face, trailed by the nurse swathed in pink. “Ten minutes,” she said to him, shaking a warning finger. “Out of the room. I don’t want him hearing anything stressful. And I’m sorry but you”—she pointed at me—“will need to leave.”

I forced a smile at my stepmother and glared at Bransford, trying to communicate that he needed to go easy on her. Allison sucked in her breath, her eyes glassy, and reached for my hand. “Please can she stay for a moment?”

The nurse made a
tsk
ing noise, then nodded. “Five minutes,” she told Bransford.

We shuffled just outside the door so Allison could maintain a sight line with Rory. Bransford leaned against the wall and turned to Allison, who had clasped the fingers of my left hand in a vise grip. He said in a gentle voice: “You’re probably not aware that the girl your son was seen with last night has expired.”

Allison squeaked and clutched my hand harder. Was it my imagination or had the beeping of Rory’s machines increased its tempo?

“We have an obligation to treat the death as a homicide until we find out that it’s something different,” Bransford continued. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Your son may have been involved with this young woman’s death.”

Her expression froze; a little spit bubbled in the corner of her mouth.

“When Rory regains consciousness, we’ll be able to ask him directly what happened, but in the meanwhile . . .” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Does your son have a history of theft? Violence? Cruelty to animals? Fire-setting?”

The machinery in the room hissed and cheeped and Rory seemed to sigh. Allison shrugged helplessly, let go of my hand, and returned to Rory’s bedside. She leaned over to stroke his downy cheek, which was marred by a few acne scars and the lattice of scratches. We followed her back in.

“I’m not aware of any kind of trouble like that. But . . .” Her words trailed off and she slumped back into the plastic chair beside his bed.

“But?” Bransford prompted her.

“But he is a teenage boy, and lately he’s been a challenge.” She paused again.

“A challenge?” Bransford asked.

“What does this have to do with anything?” I asked, thinking of Sam’s advice about how maybe the cops were not our friends. I touched the back of Allison’s free hand. “You don’t have to tell him anything,” I said gently.

Bransford glowered at me. “If she wants us to find the person who hurt her son, she will want to tell us what she knows.” He fixed his eyes on her, an empathetic smile on his lips. “You said your son had been a little challenging lately?”

Allison glanced at him, then back at me. “His grades took a nosedive this last year and my husband—ex-husband—is furious.” Her voice wobbled. “He hates the idea of wasting all the money he’s spent to send him to the same boarding school everyone in his family attended.” She shook her head and flashed me a shaky smile. “I always thought private school was ridiculous. Hayley here went to a public high school and then Rutgers, and look how well she turned out.”

I squeezed her hand, sure Bransford didn’t want to hear more about my plebeian pedigree.

He grimaced. “And so?”

“And so my ex decided a military academy would straighten him out. Of course, Rory was furious about that.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her son’s ear and then straightened the tube that was feeding him oxygen. “Is furious.” Her voice drained away.

“Do you have names of any friends who might be able to speak to his frame of mind before he arrived in Key West?” Bransford asked.

Allison’s face froze, only her eyes darting from Rory’s face to mine, and then to the detective. “Hayley? Can you think of anyone?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. We haven’t kept in good touch. It’s my fault. He’s just a kid. I should have reached out a little more.”

“It’s not your fault,” Allison said. And to the detective: “Maybe you had better speak with his father directly.”

“We have spoken with him. Briefly,” Bransford said. “Since he’s on the way down, we’ll talk in more depth when he arrives on the island.”

“He’s coming to Key West? Rutherford? Oh my god, he’s going to kill me.” She buried her face in her hands and began to weep.

“That’s enough for now,” I said to the detective. I stood up and pointed to the door. He turned to leave, and I followed him out to the waiting area, where my father had a napkin tucked into his shirt and the food spread out on the coffee table. He sprang to his feet, gripping the Caribbean roll, a dab of sauce on his chin and more on his fingers, still chewing.

“What’s going on?”

Bransford said nothing.

“Rory’s father is on his way down,” I explained. “And Allison’s in a million pieces.”

My father set the sandwich on the table and strode over to the phone hanging by the entrance to the ICU. “Could you buzz me into my son’s room?”

“Do you have a working theory here?” I asked Bransford, once my father had disappeared into the unit. “Or are you just trying to intimidate her?” How had I ever found this man attractive? He looked the same on the outside—tanned, fit, and handsome—but how had I missed that he lacked a heart?

“You can think the worst of me if you choose,” he said, his eyes narrowing as though he could read my thoughts. “But the fact is that this boy was the last person seen with a girl who may have been strangled to death last night. And the marks on his face and his hands suggest that he was involved in a scuffle. Even a rookie would find that an interesting coincidence.” Then he straightened the knot on his thin black tie and strode down the hall toward the elevators.

I sank to the couch in front of the food, legs quivering. Why did fighting with him make me so hungry? It was pretty simple, really, according to my psychologist friend Eric’s assessment. Food meant love and comfort and even peace in my family. Quite natural that I’d crave something good to eat when I felt a little sad or angry, or like now, a lot of both.

I started nibbling around the edges of the Caribbean salad bowl with its rainbow of cabbage, beets, cilantro, and romaine lettuce, topped with grilled chicken, then worked my way through tasting the roasted pork with black beans and rice, and, finally, sampled my father’s sandwich. For the next half hour, I roughed out a review of Paseo’s food. On the one hand, eating and writing about food felt ridiculous in the face of my family’s crisis. On the other hand, it calmed me down and distracted me from fruitless worry.

Paseo’s Caribbean restaurant, while no dining garden spot, is loaded with fresh dishes that burst with flavor without tasting overly spicy. Don’t feel deprived should you choose to order the salad, as it’s chock-full of happy surprises like beets, cilantro, and grilled chicken or shrimp. I usually run screaming from corn on the cob out of season, but Paseo’s fire-roasted version, slathered with butter, cilantro, parmesan cheese, and lime, is to die for. Literally. I could see choosing this as my final death row meal. With something chocolate for dessert, of course.

Finally my father emerged from the ICU unit, looking exhausted.

“She’s sleeping, thank god,” he said, and then added: “I think he’s going to come out of this. His color looks a little better to me than it did when we first got here.”

I nodded. Whether it did or it didn’t, I wasn’t about to dampen his optimism.

“Allison told me about the detective haranguing her. That rat bastard.” He knotted his fists, scowling. “Surely that’s not the man you followed to Key West?”

“That was Chad Lutz,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “The divorce lawyer.”

“You deserve better than that, Hayley,” he said in a stern voice. “Just because your mother and I got divorced doesn’t mean you should settle for someone who doesn’t treat you well.” He sighed. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean is, there are good men who want real relationships with good women, and that’s what you deserve.” He squinted and sat down beside me, patted my knee. “I wasn’t always the father I wanted to be. But I love you dearly. I hope you know that.”

Then he picked up the sandwich he’d abandoned earlier and started to eat again, heading off any further sappiness.

“Thanks, Dad. I know.” I grinned and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Dad, what do you understand about Rory’s problems? Why is his father insisting on the military academy? It seems like such a bad fit for him.”

“Rutherford doesn’t like the kids he was hanging out with. Any of them. I think there was a girl whom he particularly considered a bad influence.” He rubbed his forehead. “To be honest, I wasn’t paying close attention.” He dropped his hand and heaved a heavy sigh. “Most of our communication with Rutherford these days is by text message. To Allison’s phone. So I only get snatches of it.”

He crooked a smile. “You know I’m not famous for my listening skills. And besides, he drives me crazy, always up on his high horse. The snotty tone alone slays me. More times than not, he starts in lecturing Allison about how she should be handling Rory. And just about every communication ends up with arguments about money. It makes me want to punch him.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “I’d better get back in there,” he said, and pushed off from the sofa. “I’ll call you later.”