Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (16 page)

“You’d think so, right?” She shrugged. “Well, Rutherford didn’t help. He filed for divorce and primary custody and told me I’d never see my son if I fought him. He said he’d tell the court I wasn’t a fit mother and that would be the end of everything.” She rested both hands on Rory’s sleeping form. “We’ve never quite righted the ship. And this little incident isn’t going to help.”

“You seem so strong now. It surprises me that he was able to threaten you,” I said.

“That’s me now,” she said with a wistful smile. “But it took a lot of therapy to get here. Believe me, I’ve wished many times that I could do it over and stand up to him.”

Outside in the hallway, I heard arguing voices. Then someone knocked loudly,
rat-a-tat-tat
. A man with a shock of black hair, a gray turtleneck, and a blue blazer burst into the room. He rushed over to Rory’s bed, unloosed the sheet that Allison had just tucked in, and looked Rory over, from his dirty bare feet to his rumpled hospital gown to the scrapes on his face.

“What’s going on with him?” he demanded, turning laser eyes on Allison. “What’s the latest? Where’s the damn doctor?”

“Hello to you too, Rutherford,” said Allison.

He was instantly unlikable, and the story Allison had just told me about how he’d pressured her into surrendering custody of her son didn’t help one bit. Nor did the fact that he ignored my presence altogether. I tried to drum up some empathy by imagining that he was terrified for his son, acting boorishly out of fear and love.

“I’m Hayley Snow,” I said, offering my hand, which he did not take. “We spoke on the phone this morning? I’m Rory’s stepsister.”

Still nothing.

“The doctors are optimistic,” Allison said in a small voice. “He’s breathing well, reacting to painful stimuli. And he’s young. That’s always an advantage.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

“Why wasn’t he airlifted to the Ryder Trauma Center?” Rutherford asked. “Why wasn’t I consulted sooner on his treatment?”

“We found him this morning,” Allison said. “We called you as soon as humanly possible. He was breathing on his own. The CT scan was negative except for some soft-tissue swelling. They intubated him briefly to protect his airway.”

“Why wasn’t he taken to Miami immediately?” Rutherford asked again.

“We made that decision with his doctors, who felt they could handle his case just fine here.”

Allison took a shuddering breath. I hoped she was on the way to standing up to her unpleasant and boorish ex.

“Look, we’re all devastated by what happened. And I’m so terribly sorry for letting him go out last night. A thousand times I’ve thought if only I could do it over again. But I can’t . . .” The tears began to course down her face. But Rutherford’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, he looked stonier.

“Rather than bullying the lady,” said a commanding voice from the doorway, “perhaps you could provide some helpful information.”

Our heads swiveled to the doorway: Detective Bransford. And for once, I was utterly relieved to see him.

“And you are?” asked Rory’s father.

“Detective Bransford. I’m in charge of investigating the death of the girl who was seen last night in the company of your son.”

“What death? What girl?” Rutherford sputtered, refusing to look at the detective’s face.

Allison and I stayed quiet. Let Bransford take the heat.

“Would you care to step outside?” he asked.

“I’m staying right here with my son,” said Rutherford, moving closer to the bed.

Bransford stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “As Rory’s mother probably explained, your son appears to have been involved in the theft of a Jet Ski while in the company of a girl.” He tapped the footboard on Rory’s bed. “Her body was found floating in the channel at the top of the island earlier today.”

“What does that have to do with Rory?”

“Exactly my question,” said Bransford. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and waited.

“My son doesn’t know anyone in Key West,” said Rutherford. “He couldn’t possibly be involved with this girl.”

“Apparently he did know her,” said Bransford, turning to Allison. “Or so your husband tells me.”

“Jim thinks he knew the girl?” Allison asked, looking confused. And then angry. “You let him chase around after a troubled girl and yet somehow you didn’t think that was important enough to tell me?” she demanded of her ex.

Now I realized that Bransford must have gotten my father’s message about the link we’d found—the missing girl in New Jersey. He strode across the room, tapped some keys on his phone, and held it up in front of Rutherford. “Do you recognize this young woman?”

“Mariah,” he spat. “Goddammit.”

“She’s dead,” Bransford repeated. “And your son was the last person seen in her company. What can you tell us about their connection?”

“He claimed she was his girlfriend,” Rutherford said through gritted teeth. “Not if I had anything to say about it.”

“What the hell?” asked Allison. “If you knew this girl was coming to Key West, you should have warned me.”

“How the hell would I know she was coming here? I told you I thought it was a lousy idea—”

“You never—”

Bransford signaled for an end to their argument and continued to question Rutherford. “Was this a recent development? Where did he meet her?”

“She didn’t look like the kind of girl who’d attend Rory’s prep school,” I couldn’t help saying.

Rutherford scowled. “Of course he didn’t meet her at school. She was a townie. From a troubled family. I told him he was forbidden from seeing her.”

“That worked out well,” I muttered under my breath, and reached for Rory’s hand, wanting to protect him from the negative energy in the room. I could feel tension freezing my muscles and seeping into every cell of my body—the ones that weren’t already filled with heartbreak. At some level, Rory must be absorbing this too.

Rory’s fingers closed over my hand and I could have sworn he squeezed back.

A nurse appeared at the door. “Every one of you needs to get out of this room. Now!” she said, pointing to the hallway.

Nobody really aspires to be Martha Stewart because we all know she’s basically a product.

—Emily Matchar

I parked my scooter at the end of the lot on Tarpon Pier and trudged toward our dock, feeling a little lighter in my heart even if leaden in my body. At least Rory’s condition was improving. And I felt closer to Allison than I ever had.

A few stars glittered in the sky and the water slapped against the boats. This had always been a comforting sound; now it was sadly connected with the girl in the mangroves. A shadow flickered in the bushes beside the Laundromat. My breath caught and I lurched to the right, prepared to run to the road and flag down help from passing motorists if I needed it.

“Wait! Wait! It’s me!” Wally stepped out of the shrubbery, his glasses glinting in the spotlight. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You haven’t been answering your messages.”

I clapped my hand to my chest. “You scared me to death. What were you doing in the bushes?”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I was afraid if I sat on the bench or waited on your deck, one of the neighbors would call the cops.”

“Sheesh.” I rustled in my backpack for the phone, which I’d switched to vibrate on the way to the hospital. And, yes, there were three missed calls from Wally. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had happened since I’d seen him earlier.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you. It’s been one thing after another since my family hit town.”

“No apology needed. I was just worried.” He took my hand and rubbed my palm between his two. “And wondering”—he dropped my hand and pushed his glasses to the top of his head, a sure sign he was about to suggest something I wouldn’t like—“how would you feel about taking a leave of absence for a little bit? Your family needs you. And you don’t need the pressure of all those deadlines.”

I thought about it for five seconds—how nice it would feel to have that work lifted off my shoulders, how much easier it would be to focus on my family. On the other hand, in a week, they’d all be back up north. And I’d be left here with—nothing. I could imagine Ava at the next staff meeting, refusing to give me any assignments. Insisting to Wally that I was unreliable. That less than four months into my employment, I was showing my true colors: amateur, loser, poser.

I shook my head. “Ava would never let me back in. I have to stick this out. I can hang in there. I have the Paseo review roughed out. I sent you the piece on breakfast pastries, right? I can go back to the Hemingway House tomorrow and work on the cats.”

“Ava’s got those cats on the brain,” he said, flashing a goofy smile and readjusting his glasses. “She called me this afternoon wondering about doing a sidebar on their diet.”

I groaned. “For a successful businesswoman, she has the dumbest ideas ever. Next it will be a cat food cook-off, Friskies versus Iams. A Key West Topped Cat Chef competition?”

He grinned. “Agreed,” he said. “Okay, so if you won’t take a leave of absence, any chance you could get me a review on Two Cents by Friday?”

Two Cents was a fairly new restaurant in Old Town. I’d heard good things about the menu and had been meaning to review it. But in the next twenty-four hours? He must be joking.

“Friday is tomorrow,” I said. “Instead of what?” Hoping it would replace the cat piece, the one with the slippery lead. I wouldn’t mind extra time to develop that.

“Not instead of,” he said. “In addition to.” He scrunched his face, as if he was afraid I might spit. Or slap him.

I took a long, slow breath in, pushing back the reactions that an employee shouldn’t show a boss: fear, annoyance, despair, disbelief. How could he swing from offering me time off to loading on more assignments in the space of less than five minutes?

“I can do that. By Saturday morning at the latest. Are you sure Two Cents is okay with Ava? She nixed 915 at the staff meeting. Two Cents is pretty casual too.” No point in pretending the extra pressure wasn’t coming from Ava Faulkner. We both knew it.

“She only nixed the small-plates idea,” Wally said. “Look, I should have told her she was being unreasonable. But I hate to give her any ammunition. You keep turning in that high-quality work and pretty soon she’ll move on to worry some other bone.”

He laughed, then leaned in to kiss my cheek, a serious expression back on his face. “You take care of yourself. You’re more important than any magazine.” He slipped back into the darkness and I stumbled up the finger to the houseboat, touching my hand to my face where he’d kissed it.

If only my mother wouldn’t mention his shapely butt, I could keep my mind on my work, where it had to be at
Key Zest
. He was a nice man who cared about his employees—that was all. And cared about his own job even more than that. Because otherwise, he would have pushed back when she pressured him.

Yeah, why hadn’t he just told her no?

Once I’d collapsed on the sofa and flipped on the TV, I texted my father, in case Allison hadn’t had the chance to warn him.
Rutherford’s at the bedside. No point in rushing over there now
.

But I knew he’d go anyway.
Come by our houseboat tomorrow?

Then I called Torrence, just to keep him in the loop. And to be honest, to find out if he had any news to share that Bransford wouldn’t. No matter how many times Sam warned me about the police, I knew Torrence was my friend.

He answered on the first ring and I filled him in on the latest. “I’m certain that Rory wouldn’t have killed that girl,” I said. “I just want to be sure you’re looking for someone else.”

“It’s hard to have someone you love under suspicion,” Torrence said. “But sometimes we think we know someone, yet there are parts of them they keep hidden. We all do it.”

“But he isn’t a killer,” I said. “I’ve known him since he was a toddler. He’s never set fires or hurt animals or any of that stuff you hear about.” I felt near tears, frayed at my seams and ready to split into a thousand pieces.

“I’ve been doing this job a long time,” he said. “Most people I meet are good. But they don’t always act good under pressure. And teenagers”—he sighed—“teenagers are the worst because they feel things so intensely. And they are so sure they’re right, and they have to act
now.
”

Which wasn’t the least bit reassuring. I had to admit it described Rory exactly. If I could figure out what was driving him, the rest of the answers might fall into place too. I heard sirens whoop in the background.

“Gotta go,” he said. “Speaking of acting out, the spring breakers are crazy tonight. We’ve already escorted four visitors out to the jail. I promise I’ll keep you posted.” He hung up.

The television was tuned to the Food Network, where the Pioneer Woman and her hunky husband were fixing steaks topped with creamy brandy peppercorn sauce. A cup of brandy? Was she kidding? She smiled all the way through her sauce preparation, making the recipe look like a snap and chattering cheerfully about how a man on the grill meant all was right with the world. Everything sizzled in her life. I felt discouraged and inadequate in comparison. After watching fifteen minutes of her chatter, I headed off to bed.

•   •   •

Miss Gloria must have gotten up early, because the light was streaming in through the cracks in the blinds. And Evinrude hadn’t made a peep. But I could smell the fine scent of roasted coffee and something else—cinnamon? Peaches? Toasted pecans? And in the background, soft voices rumbled, both male and female. Sounding almost like my parents, together, a harmony I hadn’t heard since I was a kid. In my exhausted state, was I hallucinating?

I pulled a sweatshirt over my pajamas and went out to the kitchen. A pan of coffee cake studded with caramelized pecans and peaches was cooling on the counter along with a fresh pot of coffee that smelled like vanilla. All the trademarks of my mother with an assist from Ina Garten. I filled an oversized yellow mug with coffee, slid an oversized square of cake onto a plate, and headed out to the deck. Miss Gloria, Mom, Sam, and my father were lolling in the morning sun. Evinrude was draped over my mother’s lap. He lifted his head and mouthed a silent meow as I sat down.

“Morning, honey,” my mother said.

“Good morning,” I said. “Evinrude looks like he’s died and gone to heaven.”

“That cat doesn’t like me,” my father said.

Mom stroked the cat from head to tail. “You have to reach out to him a little, Jim.”

“I’m not reaching out to a damn cat,” my father snapped back.

“Then you’ll reap what you sow.” Mom laughed and turned to me. “I’m glad you got to sleep in a little, Hayley. We had a wicked long day yesterday.”

I finished chewing a bite of the warm and fragrant cake and took a sip of coffee. “This is definitely going to ease the pain. How’s Rory?” I asked, the night’s events at the hospital finally rushing into my brain after the first influx of caffeine.

My father shrugged. “He’s not conscious, but he’s restless, which I suppose is good news. He’s been plucking at both his IV and his oxygen tube. The doctor seems to think he’s coming out of it. He threatened to tie Rory’s hands to the bed rails if we don’t keep a close eye on him.”

“I swear he squeezed my hand last night right before I left.” Another thought hit me. “Why aren’t you over there? How’s Allison holding up?”

He made a sour face. “After the brouhaha in Rory’s room, the nurses are being very strict about limiting visitors. I can’t very well insist his own father leave his bedside so I can be there—even if he is an ass.” He cast an apologetic look at Miss Gloria, who I’m sure had heard the word before, and then frowned. “Though I’d like to. I’m going back at noon to spell ‘Rutherford,’” he added, his voice mocking the name as he made air quotes with his fingers.

“I’m sure you’ve been over this a million times,” I said, thinking of my conversation with Torrence the night before, “but tell us what Rory was like at home?”

“You got a good sample when we arrived on the island,” said my father. “He’s a classically annoying teenager, including that thing they do with the earphones and the text messages and the whatever.”

“It’s a phase,” said Mom, her voice full of real sympathy. “At least he has friends. He’s not one of those kids that everyone points to after a horrible crime, saying he was a loner and they always expected things would blow up. The only way teenagers can leave the nest is to make connections with kids out in the world.”

“Thank god every kid didn’t feel entitled to her own phone where you were growing up,” my dad said to me.

“My boys found ways to annoy us even back in the dark ages,” said Miss Gloria, giggling.

“Looking back, were there any red flags before you all came south? Is it possible that he was using some kind of drugs?” Sam asked. If he hadn’t said that softly, with such compassion, I imagine my father would have snapped his head off. Especially coming from Mom’s new beau, Mr. Big-shot Lawyer Lovebird.

“Anything’s
possible
.” Dad sighed and rolled his head to one shoulder and then the other, the cricks in his neck cracking loudly enough to be audible. He’d gotten sunburned on the boat yesterday, in spite of the clouds. The back of his neck from hairline to collar had been roasted like a lobster on the grill. “Lately, he hasn’t cared much about school. When he’s at our house he listens to music—or the dreadful cacophony that he calls music—and fools around online. He seems very interested in earning money. But big money, not the few bucks a boy could pick up shoveling snow or delivering papers.”

He turned to face me. “I think that’s why he latched onto the idea of visiting the Mel Fisher treasure museum. Once we got to the gift shop, he wanted me to buy a treasure diver’s guide to the Keys. But it was almost fifty bucks.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I probably should have just sprung for it. But he and Allison fight all the time about money. It’s like if she doesn’t buy something, she doesn’t love him. I hate that, and I keep telling her she shouldn’t feel guilty if she doesn’t give him everything he asks for. In fact, it works the opposite way—the more she gives, the more he thinks he’s owed.”

“That’s a tough one,” Mom said. “I bet every divorced parent walks into that trap over and over, until you finally see it coming and shut it down.”

He smiled at her a little. “I offered to buy him a treasure map that was displayed in the gift shop instead. He informed me in his haughtiest voice that it was a ‘
freaking jigsaw puzzle
.’ Only he used a ruder word than that.”

I laughed. “I can picture that. You’re about seven years too late to offer the kid a puzzle, Dad.”

My father smiled. “I guess. When I married Allison, I didn’t think about the years I’d be spending with a teenage boy.”

“Anything else you remember about the museum?” I asked.

“He told me about the gold bar that was stolen from the Mel Fisher display a couple of years ago. They had an exhibit set up where patrons could reach in and touch the actual ingot. They captured the burglars on videotape, walking right out of the door with the treasure in one guy’s pocket. Apparently the criminals were never seen after that, never caught. Rory wanted to ask the guard about it, but I was afraid they’d find us suspicious, so I herded him out.”