Which sounded like an extreme reaction, typical of a young and troubled teenager in a world where true love could be declared when you barely knew someone. Although maybe I understood this better than I wished. Wasn’t I the crazy girl who’d followed Chad Lutz to Key West after one glorious three-day weekend and a bunch of sexy text messages? I sighed. This could be bad news for Rory if the cops interviewed these kids. And they probably would. Probably already had.
“I don’t think he did hurt her,” I said softly. “But I’d really like to help find out what happened. Can you tell me about Mariah?”
The girl snuffled and then the sobbing escalated until the teenagers nearest the cubby gathered around the doorway, scowling at me. Two girls rushed over to Daisy and hugged her, shutting me out of their circle of grief. One of theirs—whether they knew her well or not, she was their kind, she belonged to them—had been violently taken. And if Daisy’s assumptions were representative, some substantial percentage of the kids probably thought my brother had killed her.
I stood up and backed into the main room.
Jai held her hands up. “Sorry. She’s pretty fragile right now. I’ll see what I can find out,” she added. “I’ll call or text you.”
16
The thing that made cookbooks unique was the personality behind the book. The cook, the chef, the voice in the dialogue about each recipe. A recipe box filled with recipes had a story to tell.
—Daryl Wood Gerber, Final Sentence
When I got back to the pier, Schnootie the Schnauzer was tied to the deck of the Renharts’ place, staring at our boat, looking forlorn. She yipped at me, and Mrs. Renhart waved from her deck chair. “I’m so sorry about those cupcakes. My beastie’s still a little wild.”
“It was a perfect storm,” I said with the brightest smile I could manage under the circumstances. With the wedding canceled and Rory in the hospital and a girl drowned in the mangroves, the cupcakes no longer ranked as the biggest disaster in my life. “When—if—things settle down, we’ll have you over to introduce her properly to the felines.”
Inside, Miss Gloria and the cats were watching with interest as Mom patted a spinach, dill, and feta cheese filling into two glass pans. Then she layered a thin sheet of phyllo pastry over the top, picked up a small paintbrush, and began to dab on melted butter.
“This is amazing,” Miss Gloria said. “Now I see where your daughter gets her talent.”
“This is as close as I come to artistic.” Mom laughed. “We already made the salad,” she said, turning to me. “Your pie ingredients are on the table. I left the cream cheese out to soften, and Miss Gloria washed and hulled your strawberries. The oven’s already on.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s heaven having a sous chef, isn’t it?”
“Sam’s getting the hang of it when I cook for him. I’m training him early,” Mom said. Miss Gloria giggled. “Stop that,” Mom said, but then they both burst out laughing. Obviously my mother’s love life had been under discussion. Again.
I ignored them and sat at the kitchen table to slice berries as Mom continued to paint her phyllo layers with butter. Miss Gloria grated white cheddar and mixed it into a bowl containing cream cheese, then added chopped red peppers, scallions, and mayo. When the pimento cheese dip was chilling and the two pans of spanakopita were finished, ready for baking later, my mother cleaned up the area around the sink and we traded places. Mom and Miss Gloria went out to the deck with cups of coffee and I extracted the food processor from the bottom pantry shelf. I whirred two packages of chocolate graham crackers to crumbs, then stirred in sugar and melted butter, and pressed the mixture into two glass pie pans. While the crusts baked, I whipped cream and folded in whipped cream cheese, vanilla, and a little more sugar. With the filling in the fridge and the crusts cooling on the stovetop, I joined the others on the deck.
“And you rascals are coming with me,” I said as I passed Evinrude and Sparky. I scooped a cat up in each arm and brought them outside. Evinrude jumped up on the railing, stared Schnootie into a quivering, yapping gray mass, and began to groom himself as though the Schnauzer did not exist.
“He’s going to torture that poor animal into the doggie nuthouse,” my mother said. “Anything new with Rory’s case?”
“I stopped in at Project Lighthouse,” I said. “But the kids were really too upset to talk to me. This girl’s death has been a horrible shock for them.”
“I remember when my son was twelve or thirteen,” said Miss Gloria, “and one of the boys in his class committed suicide. The students were inconsolable.”
“It’s the same thing here,” I said. “And I’m afraid these kids think Rory killed her.”
“Oh no,” said Mom. “He’s not that kind of boy. It’s all so upsetting—they’re looking for someone to blame. No one expects a young person to die,” she added. “It isn’t the proper order of things.”
We gazed out from the deck across the water, soaking up the afternoon sun, lulled by the slap of waves against hull. Several sets of wind chimes tinkled from boats down the finger. But the hazy mangrove islands in the distance would never again look innocent. My cell phone interrupted the silence: Jai. I returned to the kitchen to take her call.
“I was able to talk with Daisy after you left,” she said. “I’m sorry if the kids made you feel bad.”
“I understood. They have to blame someone.”
“Mariah was fairly new to town—I’m guessing she arrived two weeks ago or so,” Jai continued. “But Daisy, poor Daisy. She’s so young and so conflicted about being away from her family. She’s always looking for another mother figure and she took to Mariah like a lost duckling. That girl did have a special sparkle. At the same time, she seemed very vulnerable. It was an irresistible combination.”
“You don’t very often send out text alerts about kids like you did yesterday,” I said.
Jai was silent for a few moments. “The first time she came in our door I had a sense she was in danger. I thought about calling the cops. But what would I tell them? This girl looks like she’ll find real trouble?” She heaved a sigh. “That could be true of most of the travelers who come through here.”
“So what was different about her?” I asked.
“The kids were worried too,” she said. “A couple of them confided to me she was all wound up about a scheme to get rich. They were afraid she was going to do something dumb.”
My heart sank, as I imagined all the dangers a lost teenage girl and a hormone-driven boy without much impulse control might get involved with. “Drugs?” I guessed. “Prostitution?”
“I don’t have the details, but drugs are always a problem. Whatever it was, Daisy thinks Rory was the one who suckered her in.”
“But he only met her twenty-four hours ago,” I protested, feeling a strong urge to protect my stepbrother.
“I’m telling you what she said.” I could hear a ruckus in the background, an angry shouting match between boys that sounded like it was escalating fast.
“Got to go,” she said. “We’ll stay in touch.”
I hung up feeling helpless and sick with worry. How did Rory get into such a mess? I couldn’t wait for him to wake up and explain himself. Surely there was another answer, other than him ensnaring this girl in something illegal that led to her death, which seemed to be the way the signs pointed.
Back on the deck, I started to explain to Mom and Miss Gloria what Jai had told me. But Evinrude sashayed outside again, leaped up onto the deck’s railing, and hissed. Schnootie began to bark her fool head off, drowning out our conversation. My cat balanced on the railing, motionless except for his switching tail, watching the dog fling herself into the air, nearly strangling herself repeatedly.
Mrs. Renhart rushed out from her cabin and snatched the dog up. “Who’s my little Schnootie-Bootie? Who’s my silver beastie?” She looked over at us, grinning like a monkey. “She must be starving. At the animal shelter, she got used to eating right at four,” she said. “We’ll get
things worked out, don’t worry. She and Evinrude will be BFFs before you know it.”
I waved and smiled. When pigs flew, that’s when Evinrude would befriend a dog.
“She’s gone completely gaga over that animal,” said Miss Gloria. “But it’s kind of nice to see her so happy.”
“Is it really four o’clock?” my mother asked. “Good Lord, I have to get dressed. We’ll see you over at the gallery? I may be a little late. I’m sure Sam isn’t ready either. He gets so absorbed in his work, he hardly knows where he is—never mind that he’s still wearing pajamas.”
She collected her purse and sweater, kissed us both, and roared off to the Casa Marina. I trotted back to the kitchen to finish making the pies, alternating the layers of sliced strawberries with the whipped cream mixture. I finished by placing decorative rings of halved berries on top and stood back to admire the results. When the world seemed to have spun off its axis, what could be more reassuring than homemade dessert?
Miss Gloria came in to take a peek. “You’ve outdone yourself, young lady,” she said. “But I say that every time, don’t I?”
I picked up her hand and kissed it. “Yes, you do. And I love it.”
“I’m going to stay put this evening and make sure we’re set for dinner,” she said. “Your mother said the spinach pies need an hour to cook. I’ll tidy up around here and then iron the cloth napkins and set the table. Everyone needs a little pampering today.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I hate for you to miss Ray’s reception.”
“I’m sure.” She nodded and grabbed her little black cat just as he jumped on the counter and made a beeline for the whipped cream bowl. “Your family has had such a lousy week. I want this dinner to be special.”
“You’re the best,” I said, and hurried off to hit the shower. I hadn’t had time to get to the Laundromat just yards up the dock, so my choices for outfits were limited. Black cuffed jeans and a black T-shirt with red boots? Or black cuffed jeans with a white lace top and sandals? I sighed. My mother would hate the first outfit. Besides, maybe it looked too gloomy, considering the last two days. And Mom would love the fact that I was still wearing the jeweled sandals that had been her hostess gift when she’d visited in January. So I patched some moleskin on the points where they rubbed my skin raw and prepared to gush about how much I loved them.
17
I don’t LIKE food—I LOVE it. And if I don’t love it, I don’t SWALLOW.
—Anton Ego
Not far from Sloppy Joe’s Bar, where the tourists flock to soak up some liquid Hemingway, the Gallery on Greene looks on the outside like any other smallish storefront in Key West. Well, minus the Tshirts splashed with gross slogans. But inside, the two-story space holds hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of art, from the carved and painted wood folk art of Cuban-born Mario Sanchez to the splashy tropical palettes of local celebrity painter Peter Vey.
As the door closed behind me, I searched the milling crowd for Ray and then his parents. On my scooter ride over, Ray had texted me, asking if I’d keep an eye out for his folks if he got tied up with admirers.
I know things are a big mess but will you help with my folks? Don’t think they’ve ever set foot in an art gallery, he’d said. You’ll recognize them, trust me.
If I couldn’t help paste his bride and their wedding plans back together, at least I could try to help his family feel comfortable.
I took a quick tour around the edges of the room to see the work by Ray and three other artists. Though the subjects of Ray’s paintings were everyday scenes, almost nondescript, his colors were luminous, as if every painting was bathed in the glow of a sunset. I claimed no artistic expertise, but his work looked much more professional than the cartoonish sea creatures, fussy tropical flowers, and faux-impressionist palm trees of the other artists.
I spotted Ray in the far back of the gallery, surrounded by fans. His parents stood in the center of the room, near a trio of wooden park benches and elaborate boat models. As Ray had promised, they were not hard to pick out—Ray’s clear blue eyes came right from his mother and the sharp nose and chin directly from his dad. But rather than Key West casual like most of the other guests, they were wearing what was probably their Sunday best, a blue suit for Ray’s father, and for his mother, a ruffled blouse and gray wool skirt that fell in that no-style zone just below her knees. Clutching plastic cups of white wine, they looked bewildered, or stunned.
I hurried over. “You have to be Ray’s folks,” I said. “He looks exactly like both of you. I’m Hayley Snow.” I shook hands with Ray’s father and hugged his mom.
“You’re the maid of honor,” said Ray’s mother, laying a papery hand on my cheek, her face lighting up. “Raymond has told us so much about you. I’m Alice, and this is Charles. Thank you for all you’ve done to help with the wedding.”
Obviously, they hadn’t been informed that the wedding was canceled. Maid of honor or not, I doubted it was my job to break this to them. My mother and Sam worked their way through the crowd and I introduced them to Ray’s parents, feeling relieved to have reinforcements.
“I hope Ray told you—we’d love to have you over for some supper back at my houseboat when you’re done here,” I said. “Mom and I made a simple dinner, but enough for an army. You must be hungry and exhausted. I’m never eager to go out to eat after a long day of traveling.”
“It was a long day,” Ray’s dad, Charles, admitted. “Three different planes starting at six a.m. this morning, and the last one so small the captain asked how much we weighed before we were allowed to board.”
“Can you imagine?” asked Alice. “I so badly wanted to fib, but what if the plane crashed because I’d shaved ten pounds off my number?”
“Or fifteen,” said Charles with a sly smile. She slapped his hand and laughed with the rest of us.
“What’s the weather like in Idaho Falls?” asked Sam.
“Oh, it’s been a long winter,” said Alice. “And no sign of spring yet. More snow flurries all week and temperatures in the thirties.”
“Not much better in New Jersey,” said Sam with a rueful grin. “Even the crocuses are waiting for better weather.”
“Alice and Charles were just thanking us for helping with the wedding,” I said to Mom, lifting my eyebrows in an SOS. If she wanted to inform them the party was over before it really got started, I’d be happy to let her. Not that it was her job either, but Ray didn’t appear to be handling anything directly. Knowing him, he’d be too embarrassed to tell his family.
I excused myself and left my mother giving them directions to houseboat row, hoping that she’d figure out some gentle way to break the news, or enough of it that they wouldn’t be blindsided by the disappointment barreling in their direction. I threaded through the browsers and schmoozers to the back left corner where Ray’s paintings were displayed.
Ray hadn’t lived on the island all his life—he wasn’t a saltwater Conch, in other words. But he’d made friends—lots of them—over the last ten years. And they were all here to celebrate his success. A few of the partiers, dressed in green shirts and beads, had obviously wandered in from a very early Saint Patrick’s Day celebration on Duval Street. Others, as I could tell by the orange dots the gallery owner was sticking to the identifying labels next to the paintings, were serious buyers. And Ray’s paintings were going faster than those of the other three artists sharing the opening. From a distance, the colors drew the viewers in. Up close, they could only marvel at how he’d managed to find the beauty in such homely street scenes.
As I drew nearer, I could hear an older couple offering effusive congratulations. Nance Frank, the owner of the gallery, tapped Ray on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can I pull you away for a minute? The Swifts would like their picture taken with you and the painting they purchased.”
“Wow,” said Ray as he passed me. “This feels really strange. Now I know what it’s like when a musician hits the big time. Or somethi
ng like that, anyway.” He dropped his voice. “Have you seen Connie?”
“Not yet. Did she say she was coming?”
He shook his head, looking like a kicked dog. “We haven’t spoken since this morning. She won’t take my calls.”
I trailed behind them to the bench where the editor of a tabloid called Conch Color was stationed. Photos were snapped, hands shaken, all while Ray’s parents looked on. When they were finished and Ray had been swept away to speak to another buyer, I introduced them to Nance Frank, the gallery owner.
“How are you feeling?” she asked Ray’s parents. “You must be so proud.”
“Oh we are,” said his mom.
“I just keep asking, how in the world did this happen?” asked Charles, looking utterly bewildered. “Raymond never studied art. He liked to draw cartoons as a boy, but we didn’t encourage that because we saw no future in it. How was he going to earn a living?”
Alice nodded in agreement. “We really hoped he’d take over the hardware store. We’ve never been artsy kind of people.”
Charles pursed his lips and took her hand.
“But we’re so happy for him,” she added quickly. “Just puzzled, that’s all.”
“He’s the real deal. Every once in a while we come across an artist who’s self-taught.” Nance grinned and brushed blond bangs out of her eyes. “I get one thousand submissions a month from artists who hope I’ll represent them in this gallery. But your son has something special; his colors are radiant. I saw it right away. He reminds me of a young Peter Vey.” She swung around to eyeball the gallery. “Lovely to meet you two. Will you excuse me? I think we’ve got a buying frenzy over there.”
As she hurried off, Charles mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief. “I hate to sound like a hick, but who the heck is Peter Vey?”
“He’s a local artist,” I told them. “Possibly the most successful painter in the Keys.”
Alice’s gaze swept the room, past the knot of people clustered near Ray’s paintings, over to the bar, and then back to the door. “But where is Connie?” she asked. “I can’t tell you how happy we are to have her joining our family. We already love her like a daughter.”
Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 14