“Maybe even better, just enjoy your lunch and leave the business of solving crimes to them?” she asked lightly. “But I know you better, so tell that sweet man Torrence I said hello.”
Torrence had had a lot to do with saving Rory, and Allison would always remember that. I hung up promising to pass along her greetings and call again soon, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that she hadn’t found out I’d been shot, because she’d worry herself sick. And my father even more so. And disappointment about the same. Much as I wanted to stand on my own two feet in this new Key West life, sometimes having a relative in your corner felt like a very good thing.
I buzzed up Southard, then over to Fleming and then Eaton, finally pulling into the busy parking lot at the Coles Peace Bakery. The lunch rush was in full swing, including a cluster of women ordering holiday pies and platters of Christmas cookies. I wormed my way to the counter, paid, and grabbed my sandwiches. The tantalizing smells of mustard and roasted pork and dill pickles called to me all the way over to the police station.
After picking up the phone on the wall outside the front door and stating my business, Torrence came to the lobby to get me. “A bribe,” he said with a grin, and reached for the bag of sandwiches. “Come on in and tell me what’s on your mind. How are you feeling? How’s the arm today?”
“Just fine,” I said, though, in fact, that whole side of my body had started to throb and I was dying to take a painkiller. I followed him into his office, where we spread out a layer of napkins, unwrapped the sandwiches, and began to eat. I opened the barbecued chips and tapped a few out onto a napkin. “Have you identified a suspect?”
“We’ve got guys canvassing the harbor and contacting all the boat captains who were in the parade. Nothing’s turned up yet.” He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered seeing something new? Or thought of someone who might have it in for you?”
I ran my fingers down the length of the injured arm, feeling a ripple of the terror I’d experienced the night before. “No. I mean, nothing in my life is going really well at this point. But not awful, either. Nobody has it in for me in an ‘I’m going to shoot you’ kind of way.”
I debated whether to tell him about the woman I’d interviewed this morning who lived in the apartment overlooking the harbor. He’d be annoyed. But, on the other hand, I was tired. And not feeling enough oomph to act like Hayley against the world.
“I did have one interesting conversation,” I said to Torrence, not meeting his eyes. “There’s a woman who lives on the second floor over the building next to the Schooner Wharf Bar. I saw her light on and I took a chance that she’d chat with me for a minute. But she really didn’t have much to add other than steer me toward Wes Singleton.” I squinted and risked looking at him dead-on. “You probably know him. He used to own and run the Fishing Hole on the bight. He spends a lot of mornings near the harbor. She thought he might have seen something.”
Torrence set his sandwich down on the desk. “Haven’t we been over this before? If the police are investigating a crime or an incident, the best thing for you to do is to mind your own business. Supposing this lady was willing to talk with one person but not more than one? You’ve already spoiled the possibility of a professional police interview by blundering in with your questions. Supposing she has taken the time between her chat with you and her chat with us to tweak her story?”
He was getting all wound up so I interrupted him to confess the rest of my transgressions. Why get yelled at twice? “Then I should also tell you that I spoke with Wes Singleton. But I couldn’t help that. I was in line at the Cuban Coffee Queen and he was ahead of me. I couldn’t be rude.”
“And he said?” Torrence asked.
“That one of Edel’s chefs, Glenn Fredericks, used to work for him. Apparently this man is sick to death of Edel’s controlling nature. I didn’t get much more, because then Wes went off on the city commissioners, along with the rest of the city administration. He’s angry, of course, because he lost his lease on the restaurant that his family ran on the harbor for a million years. But he’s got no beef with me.”
Torrence nodded, picked up the sandwich again and began to eat. “We know all about him,” he said. “He’s a crackpot but harmless. Better use of your time would be to let us do the work and maybe you go bake a cake or something.”
“I think you must be kidding, but those are fighting words,” I said, starting to steam inside.
He laughed. “I’m kidding. But bring me a piece when you’re finished. Red velvet, maybe. With cream-cheese frosting. That’s my favorite. I always go on a diet after Christmas, but I’m not there yet.”
“You’re a comedian.” I folded up my trash, including the section of the sandwich that I hadn’t finished. I’d lost my appetite over the morning. In fact, the whole week had been enough to put me off my feed. A new kind of diet, I thought as I pushed through the front door of the station and went out into the bright light of the early afternoon. The “lose your job and your weight stress-and-gunshot” diet.
I tucked the sandwich into my basket and flipped through my messages while perched on the scooter. Edel had texted, inviting/suggesting/insisting that I be in the kitchen at five, ready to chronicle the opening minutes of her bistro’s opening night.
I tried to imagine what it would be like to work on the line in her kitchen. I love to cook and to try new recipes and new combinations of food. But, on the other hand, the part of my job that feeds my soul is writing about food. Teasing out what makes one meal good, but another magical. Discovering a new chef or a new dish and describing my find to the world—or at least to other food-addled diners who’d go out of their way for something special. For me, the cooking itself was not so much the miracle. It was all about the eating. And then choosing the words that brought that food to life on the page.
A second message was from my mother, who was working in Jennifer’s kitchen all day but would love to catch up when I had a minute. Why not now? I had nowhere else to be and nothing really to work on. The only downside was that it was difficult to obfuscate the truth when faced with my mother in person.
I texted her back and told her I was on the way over.
26
She turned back to the stove and stirred furiously, splashing bright red sauce over most of the stove. “I mean, what kind of a crazy person with mush for brains would look into the eyes of love and ignore it?”
—Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of
Little Italy
I located Jennifer Cornell’s place off Roosevelt Boulevard, in the VFW building. The only glimpse I’d gotten into her kitchen previously was in an advertisement I’d seen in the free Menus magazine, featuring Jennifer herself in a white chef’s toque and jacket, stuffed into an enormous stainless-steel stockpot. And grinning like a madwoman. She was not one to shy away from interesting publicity.
Inside, the air smelled like toasted coconut and fried seafood. Plus fresh garlic and basil and tomatoes and grilled onions. And maybe even ginger. A cornucopia of wonderful flavors. My mother, swathed in a white apron, stood before an eight-burner gas range, fishing shrimp out of boiling oil and placing them on paper towels to drain.
“It smells wonderful in here,” I said. “What’s on the docket tonight?”
“It’s a wedding at the Oldest House on Duval Street,” Mom said. “The bride is a woman after my own heart—after choosing her man, she’s focused her heart and pocketbook on the menu.” Then she looked away, making me think of Sam’s proposal and the naked look of hopefulness on his face as my mother had opened the ring box. Mom clapped her hands. All business.
“Will you taste this sauce, honey?” she asked, clip-clopping across the kitchen in her green clogs to grab two bowls of dipping sauce. “Jennifer usually serves the coconut shrimp with mango chutney, but I was thinking something less sweet and more spicy might be a fabulous contrast.”
She handed me a
small plate containing a piping-hot shrimp coated in a crispy coconut crust. I dipped the shrimp in both sauces while she chattered about the plans for this reception and another luncheon tomorrow and a cocktail party after that. “These people down here in the high tourist season are on a treadmill of fun,” she added.
“How about you? Are you having a good time?”
“I am having a ball,” she said. “Everything I imagined and more.”
But her voice sounded brittle and the smile on her face was not quite convincing.
I was about to push her harder about Sam when Jennifer Cornell bustled into the kitchen.
“I was just about to ask Hayley about Edel Waugh’s new restaurant,” Mom said, though we hadn’t been talking about that at all.
“She’s planning to open tonight, finally,” I said.
“She’s opening in spite of her husband’s death?” Jennifer’s forehead crinkled with concern. “I’m surprised that the cops are letting that happen. And, besides, how can she possibly cook under these circumstances? Sometimes I worry that if I have a sad day or I’m distracted, my feelings leach into my food. Those are times when I try to step away and let my assistants do the lion’s share of the cooking. Those days, I stick with paying bills and working on advertising. Jobs that won’t be affected by sorrow or a lousy biorhythm.”
“Wow,” I said, “you’re exactly right. Though I hadn’t thought of it in those words. But I’m sure she feels she can’t bail out—she thinks the food critic for the New York Times is coming for dinner tonight.”
“Huge opportunity. Huge risk.” Mom turned back to the task of frying shrimp. Working on the middle island, Jennifer began to cut an enormous bag of tiny limes into halves.
“Dessert?” I asked.
She nodded. “Key lime pie. The bride wanted the whole meal to be tropical. To me that’s fun.”
“Back to Edel for a moment,” Mom said. “I know we can’t really get into her head, but why do you think she’s pushing so hard? She’s so ferocious about her food and her place. Why?”
“I’ve wondered, too,” I said, and turned to Jennifer. “Some of it must have to do with going out on her own as a woman in this business. In the articles I’ve read, her husband, Juan Carlos, was usually credited for the magical combinations of ingredients and recipes. Edel was mentioned after him, the business tour de force, the sharp-edged negotiator, but also the woman behind the man and his cooking.”
“I bet you that stuck in her craw like a chicken bone,” Mom said, patting her neck with a paper towel.
“It’s harder for a woman chef,” Jennifer said. She tapped a fist on her chest. “I’m a little different. I don’t take myself too seriously. If she wants to compete with the top restaurants—I don’t mean just in Key West—she must be serious.” She pointed to the newspaper articles pinned up over her desk: Jennifer in the stockpot. Jennifer in a mermaid’s costume, including a big tail and a bikini top, posed with a dashing pirate. “I don’t mind fooling around with things like this. I intend to have a successful catering business, not garner a James Beard award.”
“Maybe that’s why she can’t serve her spaghetti Bolognese,” I said. “It’s too much like something an earth mother would cook, without enough manly pizzazz.”
Jennifer began to crack eggs deftly, dropping the yolks into one bowl and separating the whites into another. “The bride says her new motherin-law is allergic to anything citrus,” she said. “So we’ll have to make something chocolate, too. I was thinking of your Scarlett O’Hara cupcakes,” she added, looking at Mom. “Unless that’s too much to accomplish this afternoon?”
Mom shook her head and grinned. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the day here cooking. And I love the idea of those pink iced cupcakes at a wedding. They’re so romantic. Did any raspberries come in the shipment this morning? If not, I imagine we could do something very similar with strawberries.”
“I’ll take a look.” Jennifer headed off to the enormous refrigerators at the far end of her kitchen.
“Don’t you and Sam have any plans?” I asked, once she’d disappeared, keeping my voice light and innocent.
“Sam’s a grown man,” Mom said. “He can take care of himself.” She fell silent and went back to plunging the shrimp into hot oil, which sizzled and popped.
“Listen, Mom,” I said finally, “I seem to remember you telling Connie last spring that even though she had to make her own decision about marrying Ray, as far as we could see, they were a wonderful couple. I say the same about you and Sam.”
She did not answer.
I forged forward despite my mother’s frostiness. “It seems like something about his proposal has got you spooked. Did he take you by surprise? Did you not like the ring?” I snickered to let her know I was joking about the jewelry. My mother had never in her life put money or diamonds ahead of her connection with someone, and I doubted she would do that now. But in her current condition, I couldn’t be sure.
“I’m just getting started making a life for myself,” Mom finally said, turning the shrimp in the hot oil with a pair of chopsticks. “I’ve never truly been successful on my own.” She waved off the protests that she must have assumed were bubbling to my mouth. “Yes, I was a good wife and a super mother. You turned out to be everything I could have dreamed of in a daughter.” She flashed a tremulous smile. “But I never supported myself. I never had a career.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Hayley, your career has gone farther than mine ever did and I’m more than twenty years older than you are.”
“But, Mom—”
“Sam would take care of me. He wants to take care of me. But I don’t have the nerve to let go of what I’m trying to do and trust the future with him. Trust that his care would last forever. Trust that depending on him would feel okay to me.”
“But, Mom, surely he wouldn’t ask you to give up catering. He seems to love the fact that you’re launching something new.”
She tightened her shoulders and turned to face me, her eyes intense. “I don’t have the nerves for it, Hayley.”
I would have tried to argue if I could have thought of a strong rebuttal, but then her face froze in horror as she stared at my arm. I glanced down. Blood had seeped from my wound through the dressing and from there through my long-sleeved shirt.
My mouth working faster than my mind, I said, “It’s not as bad as it looks. The bullet barely creased the flesh.”
27
Pie solves most things.
—Barbara Ross, Clammed Up
It took more than fifteen minutes to tell the details of the story of last night’s incident to my mother’s satisfaction: the lighted boat parade, the shooting, and the visit to the emergency room. Mom’s gasps and outraged quasi-expletives slowed down the narrative.
“But why didn’t you tell me?” she asked three or four times during my story. “We didn’t see Ray’s boat go by, but, my gosh, we never imagined you were in trouble. I wish you had called. I wish I’d been on the boat with you in the first place—”
“Mom,” I said, turning off the burner under her frying pan and then taking both of her arms in my hands and pressing her onto a stool near the counter. “This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d get hysterical.”
Mom turned to Jennifer, who was watching our exchange in awe and dismay. “Am I hysterical, Jennifer?”
“A smidge,” Jennifer replied, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch away from each other.
“Maybe we should get started on the cupcakes while we’re discussing this?” I suggested. “I’ll work on the frosting.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Mom said.
“It’s just oozing. I’ll show you later when I change the bandage. Seriously, it’s only a flesh wound. They found nothing wrong with my bones—no nicks, no scrapes, nothing. There were no symptoms of any vessel damage. It’s just ordinary, everyday bleeding.”
“It’s a gunshot wound,” Mom said
, her voice tight with worry. “There’s nothing ordinary about it.”
Jennifer called up the cupcake recipe on her laptop, and Mom began to stomp around, measuring the flour and the baking powder and sugar and cocoa powder. All the while, she interrogated me about what the police had said last night, what they learned about the shooting, and what kind of protection they were affording her daughter. Her only daughter. I wondered if Jennifer was worried about all this angst leaching into her bridal cupcakes.
“Of course they’re canvassing all the boats that were in the parade,” I said. “Plus they will send patrols around to talk to the owners of the bars and as many customers as they can get hold of. Bottom line? There really is no reason for someone to be shooting at me, which speaks to it being a random hit.” I tried to sound measured and unconcerned and utterly confident that the cops would solve the question of who’d shot at me and why.
Mom’s eyes widened, as if this was the first time she had considered a motive. “There might very well be a reason,” she said. “What about Edel’s situation and the fire? There is something very scary going on with that. For heaven’s sake, her husband was murdered right on her property.”
“We don’t know that,” I said sternly. “There are a million other ways it could have happened.”
“How widely was it known that you were attending the boat parade?” Jennifer asked.
“It wasn’t a secret,” I said, then tried to reconstruct conversations I’d had about the event. The town locals had been talking about it for weeks—and I had, too. “I remember the day that I first showed up at Edel’s restaurant, the kitchen staff was talking about the Christmas activities on the island. And I mentioned how much fun the boat parade was and that I would be riding in Ray’s boat. He’d just invited me earlier that morning, and I was very excited.”
Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 19