“Can I pitch in with something here?” I asked. “I came to help out in the kitchen but it looks like I’m in the way.”
“If you could stay out of her warpath, I’d advise it,” said Leo, crooking a smile. “I’m afraid she’s not handling her grief all that gracefully.”
“Who does?” I asked, as I sat and reached for a napkin. “Is such a thing even possible? She probably should have taken a few more days off.”
“She processes everything by working harder,” he said. “And when she works harder, we work harder. You should have seen her the night that Page Six broke the story on Juan Carlos and his paramour. We’ve never served so many covers. And the cooking was brilliant that night, brilliant. But we were worried that a couple of the staff would have to be hospitalized to have fluids forced. They were exhausted and dehydrated.”
Startled by his chattiness, I decided to mine the lode of information while it was open. “Would you say she was surprised by his infidelity?” I asked.
“Perhaps not surprised, but definitely disappointed.” He stood up and shouldered the tray of wrapped silver and then carried it off to a corner shelf that held water pitchers and extra vases of tropical flowers.
Once it became clear that he wasn’t coming back, I got up and wandered outside to the walkway bordering the harbor. From this vantage point, I could trace the path in the water that the lighted boat parade had taken last night. Clutching my injured arm protectively, I started toward the Schooner Wharf Bar. In front of the bar, I scanned the edges of the harbor, looking for crannies where the gunman might have been hiding. It was difficult to believe that someone—anyone—would have shot at me. Was it to scare me away? And from what? Or had it been random bad luck?
I had been a small target in a chaotic night. If someone had truly wanted to kill me, he would have had to have been an incredible marksman. And the shot must have been taken from a hiding place above the water. I scanned the harbor’s skyline again, noticing the second-floor apartment to the right of Edel’s place, with its tiny deck out front.
If someone had been watching the parade from there, he might have also seen the shooter.
22
I was not one to turn down a second dinner, as you could never be quite sure when the next good one would be served.
—Piper Kerman, Orange Is the
New Black
I retraced my steps along the dock, headed away from the Schooner Wharf Bar. A set of rickety stairs clung to the side of the building, leading to the apartment whose windows I had noticed. I gazed up, trying to decide whether I should call the police or feel things out first. Pretty much the entire department had the idea I was a hysterical fruitcake at this point. Calling them with unlikely theories would not impress them further.
Besides, a light glimmered at a desk or bureau in the window overlooking the harbor. And possibly the shadow of a human being hovered in the window, too. Strike while the iron is hot. I heaved a big sigh and started up the stairs, clutching the weathered railing with my good hand. I paused at the top on a small landing ringed with potted herbs. I recognized a bushy rosemary plant, a basil plant bursting with fragrant leaves and flowers, and possibly two varieties of thyme. The sort of person who grew herbs was likely to be kind, not scary. “Besides, time is not on your side,” I muttered, and rapped on the door.
After several long moments, I heard the tip-tap of approaching footsteps. A sixtyish woman swung open the door, blinking in the sudden light. She had hips that swooped into a wide pear shape, gorgeous curly graying hair, and an open face. She could have been Miss Gloria’s younger sister, only with a lot more meat on her bones. And that resemblance gave me the courage to blunder forward.
“Good afternoon. Or I guess I should say good morning,” I stammered, checking my watch. “You have a lovely view up here.”
She squinted and looked me over from top to bottom. “Do I know you? I’m not prepared to buy anything today.”
“Oh no,” I said, reaching to touch her elbow to try to reassure her. She took a step back. “I was involved with the lighted boat parade the other night, and I was just thinking what a beautiful place this must’ve been to watch the action.”
She nodded, the suspicion still clear on her face. So far I’d explained nothing.
“Spectacular. The rent’s too high and the appliances are on their last legs and it’s noisy at night, but when it comes to the view, this place has it nailed.”
She stopped talking, leaned against the door, and tucked a springing curl behind one ear. “What do you mean, you were involved with the lighted boat parade?”
“My friend Ray—he’s an artist—he decorated his little Boston Whaler, and I was along for ballast.”
She nodded, her blue eyes still narrowed.
“May I speak frankly?” I asked, and continued on before she could answer. “I was hit … I was hurt—” I squirmed, trying to think how to dance around this. Coming up with nothing but the bare facts. “I was shot at the other night on a boat right over there.” I pointed across the harbor to the approximate place where Ray’s motorboat had been idling, and then toward the mooring where an expensive-looking fishing boat called the Happy Hooker waited. Finally, I rolled up my shirtsleeve to show her the bandage. Blood had leaked through the dressing and stained the gauze. She gasped, her eyes widening. “I’m okay now. But the thing is, as I was walking along the dock I saw your place. And I had to wonder if maybe you saw something that the police hadn’t asked about yet. You said you were out on your deck last evening. Maybe you would’ve noticed something out of order. I know it was a crazy night and the crowds were incredible. And all those lights were flashing—like a discotheque, almost.”
She nodded again, squinting now as she took in my story. “I get a reduced rent here because it’s such a noisy corner. As you can imagine, it’s not easy to sleep until well after midnight. And then in the morning the early birds start trooping along the harbor and workers clean the boats and empty the trash. If I was the kind of woman who needed a lot of sleep, I’d be psychotic.” She grinned. “But you don’t want to know about my sleep apnea.” She thought for a few moments. “I watched the whole thing. A couple of my friends were here having a glass of wine and some cheese. We sat out on the balcony, enjoying this spectacular show. I’d say I saw just about everyone I know, and, of course, lots of folks I didn’t recognize.”
Her gaze lingered on my bandaged arm. “We did see a boat race over to the far dock where the flashing blues were clustered. We wondered what was up. We figured someone had too much to drink, maybe even fell overboard.” She shrugged. “There are so many strangers in and out of this town, it’s hard to get too worked up about one more ambulance. One more tourist transported to the emergency room.” Her eyes met mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
Of course she hadn’t known it was me. She didn’t know me. “Remember after that horrible bombing at the Boston Marathon? Remember how people recalled seeing those two men who left the backpacks—once they got over the shock of having survived the attack?”
She bit her lip. “I watched that whole thing unfold on television. My father spent some years living just outside Boston before he joined the military. Can you believe that kid was hiding in a boat in the backyard the whole time?”
I smiled with encouragement. “Think back to after you saw the blue lights—do you remember anyone running along the dock—away from the scene? Anyone who didn’t look as though they belonged? Anyone shady or suspicious?” Which was a silly question—half the population of the island looked shady and suspicious.
“No one running.” She shook her head.
“Okay, forget about the running part. If you could, just tell me who you might have seen. Maybe one of them would have some helpful information.”
“I did see the fellow who cleans the Fury party boats every morning. He came by. But he was drinking beer with his buddies. Nothing out of the ordinary. And then the fellow who gu
ards the parking lot just down the way on Greene Street. You always know him by his monstrous dog. No one is going to try to get a free parking space with those two watching over the lot.” She chuckled at her own humor.
“Any other folks that you recognized?” I prompted her, feeling rather hopeless. She unfortunately didn’t give the impression of someone who noticed details. She saw what she expected to see and that was her story.
She rubbed her chin, paced over to the window as if to reimagine the night’s activities, and then continued to free-associate. “And let’s see, Wes Singleton, who used to own the restaurant just up the block. He was here. I know he feels bad about that New York woman taking over the business that has been in his family forever. I see him a lot in the mornings, talking with Glenn.”
“Glenn?”
“Glenn Fredericks. He works at that new restaurant. Tall, handsome guy with white hair.” She blushed and patted her stomach. “He’s brought me a late-night snack twice. I can’t wait for that place to open. Do you think she’ll have the sense to offer a locals’ discount? Who does she think is going to keep the place afloat when all the tourists have gone after the high season?”
I shrugged, my heart welling with desperation. “She’s pretty business savvy. So no one was carrying a rifle with scope?”
“Sorry, no gun.” She smiled, but weakly, a little spooked by my intensity. “I’d follow up with those people. I don’t have anything else for you.”
She edged toward the door and I got the message. I thanked her and hurried down the stairs, trying to sort out the whole bunch of nothing she’d given me. Coffee. I needed coffee. The adrenaline I’d felt when I first woke up had ebbed to nearly nothing.
Half a dozen people were lined up ahead of me at the Cuban Coffee Queen, and I almost decided to skip the stop. Until I noticed that the second person in line was the previous owner of Edel’s restaurant. The man whom Miss Gloria’s “twin” said she often saw talking with one of Edel’s employees. He paid for his coffee and Cuban sandwich and carried the coffee to the bench underneath the pink blossoming bougainvillea to wait for his food. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket and lit one up.
While waiting to order, I studied the man’s face and dress, while pretending to be fascinated by the birds chirping among the pink flowers and trying not to look obvious. His skin was weathered, with the look of a man who spent a lot of time in the sun, perhaps on the sea. I paid for my con leche and walked over to take the seat beside him.
“Beautiful day in paradise,” I chirped, like one of those birds.
He slitted his eyes and glanced over. Was I for real?
“I have a feeling we’ve met here before.” I thrust my hand toward him. “You look so familiar. I’m Hayley Snow. I write for Key Zest and drink as much Cuban coffee as I can manage.”
He answered with half a smile but did not take my hand. “Wes Singleton,” he said.
“Oh you were the owner of the Fishing Hole,” I said. “I had a memorable meal there about eight months ago.” I wasn’t lying—I had had a meal there—memorable for the indigestion that followed.
“You surely won’t be having anymore,” he said, glaring at me now. “The powers that be decided that a local man struggling to make a living couldn’t pay as much in taxes and fees as a New York outsider. I’m sure they figure an outsider can be more easily fleeced, being more stupid and gullible than we locals are. I guaran-damn-tee you that extra lease money goes right to line the commissioners’ pockets.”
“Your specialty was fried fish and shrimp, from what I remember,” I said. “And those amazing double cheesy fries.” Thinking it might calm him down a bit if I admired his food and his menu before I pursued his rage-filled rant about the local authorities.
“We made the food that people like to eat,” he blustered. “And not just the damn tourists, either. I had a crowd of locals who came every morning for breakfast—best damn biscuits and gravy in the state of Florida,” he said, smacking his lips.
My stomach growled and I wished I’d ordered a sandwich along with my coffee. Miss Gloria’s doughnuts had been delicious, but they weren’t holding me. “I love biscuits and gravy. As long as I don’t think too hard about the sausage grease where the gravy originated.” I laughed but he did not. “How was your restaurant doing?”
“It was doing just fine,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.
The worker at the little window called out his name and he stomped over to retrieve his sandwich. Returning to the bench, he pulled it out of the brown paper wrapping and took a big bite. Ham, cheese, pickles, and mustard, from what I could see through his non–Emily Post–approved chewing. He swallowed, swiped a cheese-greased hand across his lips, and took a slug of his coffee.
“They told me with only a week, maybe two weeks’ notice, tops, that they were doubling the rent on the lease. Didn’t give me the time to do any research into a loan or anything. I went to one of those damn commission meetings that Tuesday and spoke my piece.” His words picked up velocity. “And what do you think they said?”
I shrugged and widened my eyes to look interested. Actually I didn’t have to pretend because I definitely wanted to hear the story. Maybe Edel was having a similar kind of problem with the city government.
“They told me thank you very much and they appreciated my family’s contribution to the city of Key West over the years. And they were so sorry if my business had to fold, but a restaurant could expect some ups and downs.” A little froth of bubbles appeared in one corner of his mouth. “My family paid good money to the government of this island for the past fifty years. I was born in Miami and moved here when I was two years old so my father and grandfather could open this restaurant. They would turn over in their graves if they could see what that fancy la-di-da New York lady plans to serve …”
“So, they thanked you for your service to this city,” I said, wanting to get him back on track. “And what else?”
“And what else?” He slapped his leg with his free hand. “They said if I couldn’t find a way to pay the rent and the higher taxes, I should find another place for my restaurant. Where the hell would I find a place to put a new restaurant? Maybe Stock Island, where there are no customers to speak of? Or along Roosevelt Boulevard, where the construction has just about killed the businesses over the past two years?” He sucked in the last pull on his unfiltered cigarette, almost burning his fingers. Then he dropped the butt to join the others littered underneath the bench and ground it into the asphalt with his boot. “If I had only thought about setting a fire, then I could have rebuilt the place and drawn in the crowd she’s pulling in.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, back toward Edel’s place.
“It’s tough to run a successful restaurant in this town,” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s hard anywhere, but especially on this island. Did any of your employees find jobs in the new place?”
“Glenn Fredericks,” he said. “He’s a wicked good cook. My main man. And now she’s got him working like a McDonald’s fry cook and she hangs over him every two minutes, correcting his technique. No wonder he’s pissed.”
The worker at the window called my name and I went to retrieve my coffee. I couldn’t think what else I could get out of this man—not without working him into a lethal frenzy. He had one story line that he believed was the truth and there was no moving him away from it. Plus he seemed to be accusing Edel herself of arson. What would she have gained from that? The smart thing to do would be to call my friend Lieutenant Torrence and suggest that the cops swing by for a chat with Glenn Fredericks.
“It was nice talking with you,” I said to the man. “How did you like the lighted boat parade last night?”
He looked puzzled. “I skip the tourist-driven hokey holiday crap,” he said.
As usual, it seemed, someone was lying.
23
[Rich Torrisi] went on: “That’s the biggest misconception of being a chef: If you’re not
behind the stove, your restaurant’s worse.”
Or as Mr. [Mario] Carbone put it, “Do you think the C.E.O. of Bank of America is watching your checking account right now?”
—Jeff Gordinier, “The Red Sauce Juggernaut,” New York Times
As I walked back to the area where I had parked my scooter, a text from Wally flashed onto my screen. If available, good idea to show face at Key Zest. ASAP. If you can spare the time.
I stuffed the phone into my pocket, feeling utterly annoyed. If I was available? Show my face? He acted as though I had been the one to choose unemployment, as if I couldn’t be bothered to dabble in my work. I loved this job. And I’d taken it deathly seriously from the moment I landed it.
I texted Edel, telling her I’d be back sometime after five. As I motored across the island to our office, I wondered why Wally’s attitude had changed. Had Ava’s poison finally worked its way into his system? Why did he want me showing my face? I didn’t have any assignments—she’d taken them all away.
My phone buzzed again, telling me that I’d received a voice mail. I’d turned off the ringer while interviewing the lady down at the harbor and forgotten to turn it back on. Wally had called, then left a voice message and then the offending text message when I didn’t answer. I pulled over on Whitehead Street and, cringing, played the voice mail through.
“I’m having another meeting with the investors. You’re not invited—that’s not what I meant,” he had added quickly. “But I’m thinking it won’t hurt if you wander in. Or, take that back, walk in purposefully, as if you’re working even while things are on hold. Because you’re just that dedicated,” he added with a forced chuckle.
Which made me feel sick to my stomach. Because I was that dedicated. But Ava couldn’t see it and probably never would. I was beginning to wish I’d brought one of the painkillers that had been dispensed last night. Fuzzy edges might just help when facing my nemesis.
Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 17