“Thanks so much,” she said, hugging me warmly. “Are you going downtown this afternoon?”
“Yes, I need to spend at least an hour wandering Duval Street and interviewing a few of the restaurant owners and diners. Somehow I have to get this article finished before we leave.”
“Would you mind running me over to Sunset? I feel like I need to touch base with Lorenzo before we go to your mother’s for supper.”
Lorenzo was our Tarot card-reading friend who set up every night at Mallory Square to advise visiting tourists about their lives. Some people dismissed him as a fruitcake, but I knew better. He had a deep spiritual connection with the universe around him. And he understood the unconscious motivations of the world and the people he met better than anyone I’d ever known, with my psychologist friend Eric Altman running a close second.
We agreed that Miss Gloria could spend the time while I was interviewing people having a little tipple of wine at happy hour, and then we would both buzz over on my scooter to talk with Lorenzo. And after that, run to my mother and Sam’s place for a pre-trip going away dinner.
We clipped on our helmets, Miss Gloria grabbed my waist, and I fired up my scooter and pulled out onto Palm Avenue. The traffic was light, a welcome change from the hordes that flooded Key West in the high season from December through March. I enjoyed all the seasons of our island but a break from the partying crowds was welcome. I took White Street to Southard, and parked my bike in the assigned area at the corner of this one-way road, which would leave us very near to the blocks designated as a pedestrian mall.
Each week, in the local papers, I’d read articles assessing the effects of this pedestrian mall project. The restaurants along these blocks were thrilled with the opportunity to expand their space to outdoor seating right on the street. Others, retail places without that same option, insisted that their sales were dropping. And restaurants outside the three-block mall often complained that they weren’t allowed the same outdoor open seating, and suggested that their sales were being siphoned off by the lucky few. The dispute appeared to be coming to a head soon.
I settled Miss Gloria on the couch outside the art gallery Duval Destiny and brought her a tiny glass of complimentary chardonnay. She had not an inch of room for new art on her walls, and these psychedelic roosters and orgasmic naked women certainly wouldn’t be her style even if she did, but the owners didn’t seem to mind her occasional appearance. To my mind, she was an asset, as she never let a tourist pass by without chitchatting with them about supporting local businesses and artists.
As I walked closer to the Italian restaurant where I planned to start my research by questioning my waiter acquaintance Cheech (so nicknamed for his spacy appearance), I heard a loud noise—the crack of a gun?—and then a panicked voice yelled, “He’s got a gun! Help! A gun!” Then all around me people began shouting and crying and running and pushing—both ways, toward the noise and away from it.
I froze for a moment, with my heart pounding. The spate of mass shootings in the news had us all in terror that we would experience this kind of event firsthand. No matter where you were headed or what the event might be, the bad guys could find you. Churches, movie theaters, schools, shopping centers—nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe. Which definitely put a damper on the Key West party mood.
Nathan had insisted on drilling the entire family on how to behave in the case of an active shooter: First, you should look for the exits when you arrive at any destination.
Second, if you are caught in an incident, evacuate and run if at all possible. If escape is not possible, drop, roll, hide, and call it in. In that order. And silence devices so beeps and messages won’t give you away to a killer intent on hunting victims.
If there is no other option, fight.
It must have killed him to tell us all of that, especially the fighting.
I sorted quickly through the possibilities. If I headed to the teeming sidewalk, I was afraid I’d be crushed by the panicked crowd. Running down the less-crowded middle of the street was out too. If there really was a crazy person shooting, I’d become the perfect target. As Nathan advised, I dropped to my knees on the pavement and rolled into the gutter. Too late, I froze, wondering whether I’d gotten the rolling bit mixed up with a fire emergency.
Chapter Two
Everything depends on the moment the spice hits a hot pan: whether it sizzles with a mouthwatering fragrance or turns to ash.
—Sasha Martin, Life from Scratch
My face ended up smooshed near the white-stenciled words on the curb above the drain, warning potential litterers, “Anything discarded here will wash into the ocean.” The gutter smelled of stale beer and cigarette butts and pizza, but strongest of all was the stink of my own fear. I curled into the smallest human ball possible, knowing that I could still be an open target for a crazed shooter. Should I get up and run to help Miss Gloria? Nathan had drilled the same safety information into her head as he had mine, with great patience. I had to think she’d be hunkered down behind the art gallery furniture. Or maybe she’d been smart and quick enough to run inside.
Hearing more muffled shouts but no gunshots, I crab-walked toward better cover—a nearby trash can. I peered around the edge to see what was going on. I heard the sound of footsteps pounding and two different voices yelling, “Drop the gun! Hands above your head! Police!”
Then I heard the clatter of metal on pavement and saw two hands stretched high above the heads of the crowd. Tourists and bystanders had begun to push toward the scene while two fierce police yelled at them to move back. More officers came running down the street, some with guns drawn and some with police dogs loping beside them.
“Stand back,” a tall officer shouted to the crowd. “You need to clear the area.”
Miss Gloria came up behind me and tapped my shoulder. “I think you’re okay to come out from behind the trashcan now. The only bad guy they seem to have trapped is Ray.”
“Ray?” I stood up and brushed the grit off my knees, realizing I had scraped them raw in the flurry of activity. Ray was my dear friend Connie’s husband, father of the adorable baby Claire, and a very talented and peace-loving artist. I could not imagine him getting into an altercation with the cops, especially over a gun.
She took my elbow and we moved to the sidewalk, close enough that we could hear the men talking. Shouting was more like it.
“I panicked,” Ray was explaining. “I heard gunshots and got spooked. I would never shoot anyone, I swear. My gallery manager was there—she saw everything—”
“You’ll need to come to the station,” said the biggest cop, the same man who had stopped me for running through a stop sign on my scooter after Christmas. He was intimidating because of his size and his bald head, but he seemed like a nice enough man. If you liked tough police personas. Which, being married to one, I suppose I did. Before migrating to Key West, I didn’t know one single policeman. I’d never imagined I’d end up with so many police officers in my life.
“You can’t brandish a weapon in a public space. It’s a crime,” the cop said.
“But it was self-defense,” Ray told him. “Or it would have been.” His voice trailed off weakly, as though he recognized he was in deep trouble. The crowd around him had gotten louder, offering their own opinions and observations.
I caught Ray’s eye and shouted above the din. “Do you need anything? Do you want us to come with you? Call Nathan?”
He shook his head, the expression on his face bleak, then marched down the street with a cop at each elbow. Should I text Connie? Or butt out and assume Ray would call her? I decided to text Nathan instead and ask him to check up on Ray. Better not to terrify my friend until we had some facts. I also needed to let Nathan know that although we had been on the scene, we’d suffered nothing more than a few scary moments.
The tourists who had gathered around to see the cause of the commotion were encouraged by the police to move on with their evening activities while the au
thorities continued to investigate the incident. I felt a little shaky and not at all interested in writing this “woman on the street” article that I had promised my bosses. As usual, I had loaded too much onto my plate. But this time I wasn’t going to try to choke it all down. Interviews about the Duval Mall experiment were not going to be possible under these circumstances anyway. Everything would still be here when we got home from our trip. I sent a quick text off to my two bosses, explaining that Duval Street was a disaster following a possible shooter incident and that I’d do the Mall article on my return. Which was all true. But most of all right now, I needed to see Lorenzo and then share a meal with my mother and Sam, and then, finally, check in with Connie and Ray.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we parked the scooter in the lot off Mallory Square. With sunset not due until after eight, the crowds were light on the plaza. The sun was still blazing high in the sky over the horizon, and the air felt hot and still and smelled of yesterday’s popcorn. Even the seagulls were quiet, perched on the edge of the pier, facing in toward the square, on the lookout for a breeze or a handout. We found Lorenzo free at his booth near the edge of the water.
“What happened?” he asked, getting up to greet us. You both look upset.”
Miss Gloria explained the incident on Duval Street. “It was enough to rattle the sturdiest of souls. All those people running and shrieking, and us with no idea what was really going on.”
“The world’s gone mad,” he said in a somber voice. “We’re all at sixes and sevens.” He gave us each a hug and then sat back down and reached for his deck of cards.
We perched on the two folding chairs across from him, our hands clenched on the blue tablecloth. “You know what isn’t helping?” I added. “I think we’re both nervous about traveling.” I glanced at my friend, and she nodded her agreement.
“We want to go, we’re so excited. But at the same time, it’s a little scary too,” said Miss Gloria. “I haven’t been out of the country in many years, and Hayley’s never been abroad. And Key West is comfortable. It’s home.”
“And we like being able to check in with you when we feel like the world’s rocked off its rails,” I said. “You’re our security blanket.”
A wide smile lit up his face, and he pulled the deck of colored Tarot cards out of our reach. “I don’t need to read any cards to tell you that this will be the trip of a lifetime. Everybody feels a little anxious going somewhere new. You can let that stop you, or you can acknowledge the feeling and then go anyway. It’s so wonderful that you’re sharing this trip together. And if you need to talk with me while you’re away, your mother can come over with her phone and we’ll FaceTime.” He reached across the table to gather a hand from each of us, and then squeezed. I felt his warmth spread through my fingers, and that made me feel the tiniest bit teary.
“Should we bring you back a redheaded man in a kilt?” asked Miss Gloria, once he’d let go of our hands. Lorenzo had had a longtime partner in his life, but no new fellow recently. And he loved the Jamie character from Outlander as much as we did.
“Perfect!” said Lorenzo, and we moved aside for his next customer, a large woman in a bright purple shirt, who was pacing behind us.
“I read about you in a mystery book,” I heard her say. “I still can’t believe you’re here and you’re real.”
He chuckled. “Very real.”
Then we motored over to my mother’s home, located on a street a block from the waterfront in the Truman Annex. We could smell something delicious before we even got inside the house.
Mom met us at the door. “I wasn’t sure what kind of cuisine you’d have in Scotland,” she said on the way to the kitchen. “But we made a shepherd’s pie and a nice, light lime sponge cake for dessert. There was no point in trying to replicate fried fish and mushy peas—we can’t compete with what they do with a deep fryer!” She gestured at the big center island, where they’d set up bottles of wine, one red and one rosé, beaded with cool droplets. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and then we’ll eat.”
“I was so excited at the thought of making Scottish rumbledethumps,” said Sam as he pulled a bubbling casserole from the oven. “That would have involved leftovers and no meat—not proper for a send-off meal. But I still love the name.”
“This dinner sounds amazing,” I said. “And we could use some comfort food about now.”
While Miss Gloria explained the gun incident at Ray’s gallery, I went to the sink to blot the blood oozing from my knees and wash the scrapes off. No telling what organisms might lurk on the Duval Street pavement.
“Poor Ray was having an absolute fit,” I said. “I couldn’t even believe he had a gun with him. But I’m sure I’ll hear the full story once we get home to Houseboat Row tonight.”
We took our seats out on the porch and inhaled every bite of Sam’s ground beef and veggie casserole, which swam in a thick gravy and was topped with mashed potatoes and turnips. “The Scottish people are going to beg for this recipe,” said Miss Gloria to Sam. “Do you mind writing it down so Hayley can make it?”
Sam began to scroll through his notes, to send the recipe to Miss Gloria’s phone. I got up from the table to help my mother clear the plates.
“Nothing from Connie or Ray?” she asked, as we loaded dishes in the dishwasher.
“Not a peep.” I brought out my phone and navigated to the Key West police Twitter account. “Let’s see what the authorities are saying.”
I read the most recent tweet aloud. “‘No active shooter was discovered on the Duval Street mall. One individual has been taken in for questioning. Police searched the area and found no credible threat. Visitors are advised to take caution and report suspicious activity.’”
The tweet further down their page from earlier in the afternoon reported a possible shooting, with police on the scene. “Anybody in the area should shelter in place and evacuate when cleared.”
It seemed pretty clear that they had determined there had been no gunshot before Ray’s panicked reaction, and that perhaps visitors to the area had also panicked, including Miss Gloria and me. This was the good news and the bad news about social media. Important information could be spread quickly, but often it was inaccurate and sometimes inflammatory. I reported this latest news to my family while Sam cut us wedges of a light and lovely lime sponge cake.
“I’ve read about other incidents like this,” Sam said, passing the plates around. “Even in Times Square, people heard what they thought were gunshots, and the noise turned out to be the backfiring of a dirt bike. And in Boca Raton, a panic was started by popping balloons.”
“I hate that the world has come to this,” said my mother, looking sad. “I’m glad you’ll be getting away for a bit. Is it true that they don’t allow guns in Scotland?” She gulped and threw a worried look at me. “Do you think Nathan is planning to bring his handgun? I wonder if that would be permitted?”
Chapter Three
He knew it was crazy, but then he could feel his mind being eaten away at the edges. It was like mice nibbling at a piece of rotting carpet, leaving his thoughts ragged and frayed.
—Ann Cleeves, Harbour Street
Upon our return to Houseboat Row, I took Ziggy for a quick walk along the edge of the parking lot, noticing that Connie and Ray’s lights were on at their place farther down the dock. No sign yet of Nathan.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I told the animals once I’d returned the dog to our place. “I’m going to run down to Connie’s boat to get the facts. We aren’t leaving until tomorrow.” They both stared at me, Evinrude, impassive, from his perch on the plaid dog bed; and Ziggy, worried. I knelt down and kissed him on his shiny head. “We have so many pet sitters lined up that you will be begging for some alone time.” This might be true of Evinrude—he was a cat after all—but it was hard for Ziggy to get his fill of human attention. Passing the Renharts’ boat, I could hear their TV cranked up to full volume—sounded like a rerun of Everybody L
oves Raymond. Further up the dock, strains of classical music wafted out over the water from Mrs. Dubisson’s boat. This was something else I appreciated about our pier in paradise—we weren’t homogeneous, and yet we didn’t judge one another.
I hopped from the wooden walk to Connie’s front porch and tapped on my friend’s door. A few minutes later, I heard the clack as her peephole opened. Then the door swung open and Connie invited me in. “I was hoping you might stop by,” she said. “Ray is beside himself. He’s having a beer up on the deck. Do you have time to join us?”
“Nathan’s not home yet, so I have some time. Just a finger.” She poured me half a glass of pinot grigio, and I followed her up the steps. “Has the baby gone to bed?”
“Yes, thank goodness. Tonight was an easy night. If anything can be labeled ‘easy’ with a toddler.” She laughed but she sounded tired. And worried. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d checked on a visitor through her peephole.
We emerged onto the roof deck, where Ray was splayed out on one of their lounge chairs, with a beer in hand. A CD of the Soul of Key West played at a low volume. The night sky was unusually clear, allowing a swath of stars to shimmer in the distance over Garrison Bight and the Navy base. A night made for chilling out with your wife. Ray, however, looked anything but relaxed: I could see the lines of worry on his face, etched in the unflattering glow of the streetlight from the walk below.
“Goodness,” I said, wondering how to approach him and deciding on direct. “That was so scary tonight on Duval Street. I’m glad you’re home. What in the world happened?”
“It’s a long story,” he said—and then clamped his lips together as though that was the end of it. “Not a big deal really.”
Standing at the head of his chair behind him, Connie rolled her eyes. “I’d say getting hauled off to the police station for drawing a gun on Duval Street is a pretty big deal. Maybe Hayley can help, if you let her.”
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