Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  She squared her shoulders. “First of all, we don’t use canned broth in my food.” She barely smiled. “And second, no, I can’t think of any reason he’d have been there. We’d fought hours earlier, and then I returned to Sunset Key to try to calm down. You saw me at the bar.”

  I nodded. “Do you keep money there? A safe?”

  “No,” she said. “I would never leave valuables on that property. Too many people passing through. And he was definitely not after my money, what there is of that. His family is filthy rich.”

  I sat quietly for a moment, wondering now whether they’d had a prenuptial agreement, and whether any of his family dough would be hers upon his death—probably not after the divorce. And trying to parse out what she wasn’t saying.

  Her eyes widened, big as pot lids. “I see what you’re thinking. The same idea the cops had. That I needed money for the restaurant project. And that doing him in would do the job because I’d inherit.”

  I snorted. “I hope that’s not the best theory they’ve got cooking. There are plenty of ways that plan could go terribly wrong. What do you think happened? Did the police tell you exactly how he died?”

  The tears began to run down her cheeks again. “The blow to the head knocked him out but it appears he died of smoke inhalation. If only I’d gone back to the restaurant and found him, I could have saved him.” She removed the napkin from under her drink and blotted her eyes.

  “So, are you thinking maybe someone set the fire to try to cover up what they’d done?” I said, watching her expression closely to see whether this hit home for her. Nothing.

  “Or else he was unlucky,” I added. “Really unlucky.”

  This time she winced.

  “Any ideas about who set the fire? Did he have problems with any of the staff who were working with you at the new place? Any conflicts that could be construed as a motive for murder?”

  She smoothed out the damp napkin on the tabletop, folded it until it looked like a paper fortune-teller, the origami finger toy we used as young teenagers to predict the names of our future husbands. Then she lifted her gaze to meet mine. “He fought with many people. You have to understand, he was intensely emotional, which came, I’m certain, from his mother. She’s a hot-blooded Spanish woman who never has gotten over Juan Carlos marrying someone of Irish descent. Oh, how I dread seeing her.”

  “The funeral,” I said.

  She shook her head. “She’s not intending to have a funeral. A memorial service in a month or so, so all his friends and relations have time to make reasonable travel plans. She may be a hothead, but she’s practical, too.”

  “So, you’ll see her in a month?”

  “If I’m invited.” She groaned. “But, worse than that, she’s flying in this afternoon to claim his body. I told her I’d pick her up at the airport and then put her up in my guest room. She declined staying with me, but I insisted that we have dinner—after all, we were the closest women in his life. At least for a while. But I’m dreading this so much.”

  She looked as though she would cry again. I knew what my mother would have me do.

  “Why don’t you both come to my mother’s place for dinner tonight? She’s having our gang already. Two more will not matter to her. In fact, I know she’d insist.” After a few more minutes of convincing, she agreed.

  “Will you be involved in planning the memorial service?”

  “She won’t let me anywhere near it.”

  “But still, he was your husband …”

  She rolled her neck toward one shoulder, then the other. “We were history, as far as she was concerned. It’s not worth fighting her on this.”

  A million thoughts ran through my head. How tragic it was that she wouldn’t be invited to her own husband’s memorial service. How complicated their lives must have been, entwined in both love and work. How hard it must have been for her to wrench herself away. Had she been as successful at separating herself from him as she claimed?

  “I wonder what will happen to his restaurant in New York,” I said.

  “No idea. I suppose it will depend on what instructions he left in his will. And what his mother wants to do. It would be a shame to see it go.”

  “How was the place doing after you left the city?”

  “Of course there was a big burst of interest following the disgusting publicity in that gossip rag. And a lull after I left with a few of the staff. But overall fine, I suppose.”

  She looked deflated, like a cake pulled from the oven too soon. “I should go.”

  “See you tonight, then.” I patted her hand, paid our bar tab, and then headed out into the day. Sunny but breezy—most of the locals were wearing sweaters; some even had moved to hats and mittens. With no real work to do, I would have considered going to the beach, but it would have been windier there. And, besides, my mind was absolutely racing. So I drove over to Southard Street and parked in back of the Preferred Properties Real Estate office and shot up to the third floor to Key Zest. Which, chances were, would not be my place of employment much longer. And that thought made me feel instantly sad.

  Danielle was not at her station, but thin lines of light leaked through the slats of Wally’s shutters. I crept closer, listening for voices, but heard nothing. So I quickstepped to the end of the hall and settled in at my desk. Think like an optimist, I told myself. And for ten agonizing minutes, I brainstormed hypothetical articles for my possible future. A story on the lighted boat parade with excellent photographs would be a must for Key Zest. Of course the other magazines in town would also be carrying pictures of the boats in the harbor, all strung with Christmas lights. Nevertheless, we couldn’t ignore one of the most beautiful events of the season. And I already had a front-row seat booked on Ray’s boat.

  Then I roughed out a review of the Kojin Noodle Bar based on previous experience—its light and savory dumplings, irresistible cold sesame noodles with shrimp, and the more adventurous pho and dragon bowl. My stomach growled ferociously and it occurred to me that the gut was my ticket in to talk with Wally. I dithered for a couple of minutes—should I ask him or just order? I called in an order big enough for two and went back to my computer.

  Minutes later, I phoned Connie to find out where Ray thought the best vantage point on land to see the boats tomorrow evening might be. When she didn’t answer, I left a message with the question. Then I moved on to roughing out a story on the New Year’s Eve day Dachshund Parade, which had to be the strangest parade in Key West. Which is saying a lot, as this is a town replete with strange parades. But two city blocks undulating with dachshunds, aka wiener dogs, dressed in costumes, and other dogs dressed as hot dogs to impersonate dachshunds had to take first place. Last year, a Chihuahua flash mob gathered together through Facebook joined the procession at the last minute.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it a minute longer—this pretending to be productive. I went out to pick up my food. Back inside, with two big steaming bags of noodles, I rapped on Wally’s door.

  “Come in,” he said, sounding surprised.

  I pushed open the door. “Listen, I suddenly had a fierce craving for noodles from Kojin.” I held up the loot. “Hope you’ll help me eat—I ordered enough for the whole office. Want anything special to drink?” I plopped the bags on the floor and clapped both hands to my head. “I’m babbling like a crazy person. Let me start over.” I picked up the takeout bags, turned around, and walked out, closing the door behind me—feeling like banging my head against it. Or simply fleeing. Instead I pasted on a big smile and knocked again.

  “Come in.” He opened his door.

  “It’s me. Just wondering how things are going.”

  Wally burst out laughing. “What about the noodles? Aren’t you going to mention the noodles?”

  I grinned. “I figured I’d just show up with them and you’d get interested.”

  “Sit for a minute, okay? I am sorry about the way things are going around here,” Wally said. “It’s a stressful time and I
wish it wasn’t spilling over onto you and Danielle.”

  “Can you tell me anything?” I took the seat catty-corner to him and put the bags of food on the floor, hating that I sounded like I was pleading.

  Wally sighed. “Nothing’s been decided for sure. We’re doing a lot of talking. And, of course, I’m talking about you and Danielle as part of the package.”

  “And Ava?”

  “Ava is a major pill. Nothing is going to change her opinion about you. Well, maybe if you win a Pulitzer. Or a James Beard Foundation award. Yeah, that’s the ticket.” He turned back to his computer and tapped through his e-mail in-box. “I know I got a press release about this earlier in the week. The entries close on December eighteenth.”

  “I’ll do whatever you suggest, but the chances of me winning a James Beard award are like the chances of finding a steamed vegetable in Paula Deen’s kitchen.” I pulled the container of dumplings out of the bag, offered one to Wally, and then dragged another through a pool of spicy sauce and popped it into my mouth. Instant ecstasy. “Who are these people who are thinking about investing?” I asked when I’d finished my bite.

  He rolled his neck in a slow circle and I heard the crackles of tension. “They’re both from New York City, colleagues of Ava’s when she worked in magazines there years ago. I’m not sure anything will work out with Marcus Baker; he’s not really clicking with Key West. But Palamina, she loves the place. It’s like she lived here in another life.”

  “Is Ava out with them now?”

  “She set up a little mini tour for each of them based on their interests. I think Palamina was going to hit the Hemingway House and then the butterfly museum. Or was it vice versa? Ava’s got other things to do today, so I’m meeting Palamina at the Banana Café at noon. And, no, I’m sorry you can’t join us. And I’m sorry about all those noodles.” He flashed a wry smile. “They smell delicious, but I need to save myself for lunch. Maybe you can take the leftovers home to Miss Gloria?”

  I nodded, feeling a heaviness settle into my stomach. Feeling ridiculous and hopeless. “I roughed out some ideas for articles for this week and next,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “I’ve never been so productive.”

  He ducked his head, looked away. “Let’s give it some time. See how things go.”

  I slumped back to my cubicle with the takeout food. Sometimes hard news makes me hungry as a bear bursting out of hibernation. Other times—like now—I lose my appetite completely. I checked my e-mail, scrolled through a dozen Facebook status updates about holiday baking and cat antics, considered calling my mother. Instead, I stashed the noodle-shop takeout in Danielle’s refrigerator and left the office. I headed across the island on Duval Street, which, I had to admit, looked better than any other time of year, decked out in faux-fir garlands with red bows and lots and lots of lights.

  If Duval Street were a woman, she was dressed to kill.

  17

  I had a lump in my throat the size of a bundt cake pan.

  —Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

  I parked in the open lot between Duval and Simonton streets and jogged toward the butterfly conservatory. Even if Palamina wasn’t inside or even if she refused to talk with me, a visit with the butterflies would calm my galloping mind and soothe my spirit. I went into the gift shop crammed full of butterfly doodads and paraphernalia, bought a ticket, and stepped inside the double doors that protected butterflies from escaping to the harsh outside environment.

  The temperature was warm, the humidity high, and the air permeated with the sounds of birdsong and bubbling streams; I could feel my blood pressure plunging. I stopped to admire two gorgeous striped butterflies feeding on fresh cantaloupe, and watch a school of pink fish dart through the pond shaded by tropical foliage. Each time one of my negative thoughts pushed into consciousness, I shoved back. You’re going to lose your job. Get lost. You don’t have a boyfriend. Not listening. Your stepfather-to-be prefers your cousin.

  “Ridiculous!” I said out loud. My inner voice was sounding like the lament of a ten-year-old.

  The woman ahead of me turned around. “Were you talking to me?”

  Palamina. I would have recognized the patterned tights and the over-the-knee black boots anywhere.

  I grinned. “I have the bad habit of muttering to myself and sometimes it gets louder than I expected.” I thrust my hand at her. “Hayley Snow. We met yesterday in the Key Zest office.”

  “Of course I remember you,” she said, clasping my hand between both of hers and shaking it warmly. “I love your reviews. I’ve been reading over all of the back issues, and I think you bring a special zip to the magazine. Aside from that, I can tell you truly love to eat. Nothing worse than an anorectic food critic who picks at her meals.”

  “I’m definitely not a picker,” I said, grinning and patting my belly, feeling my cheeks flush. “Thanks for the nice compliment. I’m glad you think I add a special zip, because, to be honest, Ava Faulkner wouldn’t always agree. In fact, she’d like to pull the zipper closed on my employment contract.”

  “Ava doesn’t hold all the cards,” said Palamina. But her face had tightened, the warm, welcoming smile faded. “This place is amazing,” she said, pointing to a pair of flamingos who had waded out of the shadows of the pond. “Wally and Ava had some wonderful suggestions for visiting what they imagined might be my favorite things in this town. And they were spot-on. I’m going to see the Hemingway cats next.”

  I clapped my hands. “Totally my number-one happy place on the island. I take the tour at least every couple of months, because each of the guides adds his own twist to the Hemingway story. But sometimes I go just to sit with the cats. The cats are the best.”

  We began to wander through the rest of the conservatory, Palamina exclaiming joyfully at each new species of butterfly. “I wonder how they get here.”

  I shrugged and pointed out a pair of hummingbirds hanging over the flowers of a flashy red royal poinciana. “So it sounds like you’ve known Ava a long time. How did you meet her?”

  “We were sorority sisters,” she said. “Seems like a lifetime ago. After graduation I stayed in New York, where I’ve been working on women’s magazines for the past ten years. And meanwhile Ava was smart enough to move to paradise.” She held out her arms, as if she meant the butterflies, the conservatory, the day, the island. She seemed to have fallen in love with Key West even more quickly than I had.

  “I’m not convinced my colleague is bowled over by this opportunity,” Palamina continued, “but I love what you and the other staff have done with Key Zest so far.”

  I made a snap decision: There was no advantage to being coy. “Unfortunately,” I said, “I suspect you’ll find that you have to choose between Ava and me.” I sighed. “Since she is the big boss, there’s not much of a contest.”

  Palamina laughed, tossing her streaked mane back like the horse she was almost named after. “Don’t give up yet. I do know how to deal with her,” she said. “We worked together for years as copy editors and researchers and general magazine gofer slaves.”

  I left Palamina meditating on a small metal bench in a recess of the conservatory. Glancing back, I saw two or three butterflies had landed on her multicolored hair to check out the new territory. I felt a little better knowing that she admired my writing and my ideas, but I thought she underestimated the power of her former classmate’s wrath.

  Back outside I stood on the sidewalk, blinking, adjusting to the tumult of tourists and the bright sunshine. I walked to the parking lot where I’d left my scooter and noticed a police car idling near the corner of United and Duval. The door swung open and Detective Bransford got out.

  “Oh lord, what did I do now?” I asked.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he said, cracking a grin. “I know I was a little rough on you yesterday,” he added gruffly.

  I couldn’t see his eyes through his dark sunglasses but he still had a small grimace on his lips. I
kind of enjoyed seeing him grovel. “You were.” I waited him out, letting him sweat.

  “I’m under a lot of pressure to solve both the arson and the mysterious death,” he said. “You know as well as I do how much is going on in this town during the Christmas season. The Chamber of Commerce has made a huge push about the lighted boat parade and the Old Town harbor as a holiday destination. Christ, they’ve spent a small fortune on advertising, even placing posters in the New York City subway system. But I’m getting panicked phone calls from the bed-and-breakfasts in town that people are canceling because they’re spooked by the fire.”

  He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “So, I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”

  “I get it,” I said. “Okay—you’re under a lot of pressure. But I have nothing to do with any of this. I don’t have anything to add.”

  “You don’t think you have anything to add,” he said abruptly. “But you spent a full day and a half in Ms. Waugh’s kitchen before the events in question occurred. I suspect you may have seen something that you don’t realize that you saw.” He removed his glasses so I couldn’t avoid the fierce look in his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to review your experience during those days.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said. “If it’s not inconvenient.”

  He couldn’t seem to help a little sarcastic inflection on the last word. I slid into the passenger’s side of his cruiser and he maneuvered the laptop computer protruding from under the dashboard out of my way.

  “So, Ms. Waugh called you to come and observe her kitchen,” he began.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Wally told me that my assignment was to do a piece on this new chef who was quite well-known in New York City. I was to write about the restaurant she was opening in Key West. It was only later that I learned that she had asked for me.” I paused for a moment, puzzled. “But how did the assignment come about in the first place?” I wondered aloud. “It couldn’t have been that Ava wanted the feature on Edel’s place. Ava definitely didn’t want me writing the piece. Maybe worth looking into that,” I told Bransford. “Maybe she hates her for some reason. Although, in my experience, she dislikes about eighty percent of the people she runs into.” I frowned. “But, on the other hand, my opinion is colored by the fact that I’m one of the people she can’t stand.” I stopped to draw a breath.