Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  He cleared his throat. “Might there be room on your houseboat? I know he’d love to have some special time with you.”

  “No can do,” I said briskly. Rory and I had never lived together long enough to bond like sister and brother. After my parents’ divorce, I spent only alternate weekends and Wednesdays with Dad. And the weekends dwindled further once he remarried and moved two towns away.

  “Think Airstream trailer on the high seas. The smallest model. Between me, Miss Gloria, two cats, wedding favors, and hundreds of cupcakes, we don’t have room to spit.” Was I being uncharitable? I looked around at the common spaces of our tiny houseboat, the counters in the galley covered with cupcakes, cupcake batter, zested limes, dirty pots and pans, and Evinrude, my gray tiger cat, eyeing it all from a stool beside the stove.

  My father fell silent, which made me feel awful. “What about Eric Altman? Didn’t your mother stay in his guest room in January?”

  I groaned. How did he even know this? When I moved down to Key West from New Jersey last fall, I’d assured my old friend Eric I would only ask this kind of favor in case of emergency. He’d insisted on hosting mom, because she’d been so kind to him when he was a troubled teen. It wasn’t fair to foist Rory on him.

  But then I pictured messy, grumpy Rory camped out on our single couch not five feet from the room where I’d be desperate to sleep. This was definitely an emergency.

  At exactly that moment, Miss Gloria’s black kitten, Sparky, launched himself up onto the stool beside the stove, chasing Evinrude onto the counter. The two cats sprinted across two trays of pale green cupcakes waiting for icing, tipping them up perpendicular to the counter. They crashed onto the floor and splattered into a million pieces. “Shoo!” I shrieked. The bowl of green batter rocked and then tilted, dumping its contents down the front of the stove.

  “Gotta go right now,” I said to my father. “I’ll ask Eric.”

  I hung up the phone and lunged for the cats. Evinrude slipped through my fingers and vanished down the hall. “Et tu, Brute?” I yelled after him.

  2

  And somewhere, a soufflé has just fallen.

  —Charlotte Druckman

  I swept up the shards of cupcake, mourning their perfect texture and delicate green color. As I dumped them into the trash, Evinrude peered around the corner into the kitchen, his gray ears and white whiskers twitching.

  “Bad kitty,” I said. “You’re supposed to be helping, not making things worse. That’s what pets are supposed to do.” He trotted over and wound his lithe striped body in figure eights around my legs, purring as loudly as the engine that had given him his name. I snatched him up and rubbed my cheek on his head, then set him back down on the banquette against the wall of our little galley kitchen. My smartphone buzzed, clattering across the kitchen table, onto the floor, and into the Key lime cupcake batter.

  Staff meeting at noon, the flashing text on the screen read.

  I groaned, scooped up the phone, and wiped it down. My boss, Wally, had been crystal clear about how I needed to be ready to pitch story ideas for the next few issues of the magazine.

  “We need more structure,” he said. “We’re getting bigger, with a bigger audience. They expect us to act like professionals and produce a professional product. We can’t continue with an editorial calendar that consists of ‘Oh crap, we have an issue coming out Wednesday. What can we write?’”

  Danielle, his administrative assistant, had giggled, but Wally glared at her, looking fierce and serious. I was willing to bet the scolding stemmed from his co-owner’s pressure. Ava Faulkner had despised me ever since her sister’s murder last fall. Even after I was cleared of all suspicions, the slate wiped clean, the real murderer jailed, she still despised me. Whenever we met on the street (and Key West is a small town—crossing paths is inevitable), she looked right past me, her thin lips drawn to grim lines, her eyes frosty like the color of Arctic ice floes. If we’d been the only survivors on the island, she’d still have acted as though I didn’t exist. Hers was a hatred based on that small but piercing connection in our past, and the memory of it festered inside her like a puncture wound.

  Eric, a friend since childhood and a clinical psychologist, liked to remind me that her toxicity was eating at her more than it scalded me. I should ignore her. Challenging wisdom.

  I zipped down the hall to change into my Key Zest uniform—a yellow shirt decorated with little palm trees, a pair of clean jeans, and red sneakers—all the while hunting through my head to come up with a pitch. But the only thing that came to mind was the ruined cupcakes.

  Cupcakes! Why not kill two birds with one stone by pitching a story on wedding desserts? At the same time, I could pick up samples for Connie and Ray to try. I had no time to waste, with the wedding only four days away. The thought made my heart gallop with anxiety.

  I googled “wedding cakes Key West” and came up with a list of possibilities that I tapped into my smartphone: Key West Cakes, Amazing Cakes and Creations, and my old standbys for cupcakes and cookies, the Coles Peace Bakery, the Old Town Bakery, and the bakery department in the Fausto’s supermarket. Then I packed up six of the lime cupcakes, which had survived the onslaught of the cats, as bribes for the staff meeting. Even Ava Faulkner might weaken when she saw these beauties.

  I scribbled a note for my roommate, Miss Gloria—“Had a CAT-astrophe in the kitchen, will clean up later”—and pinned it to the fridge with a Fast Buck Freddy’s magnet, yet one more Key West shopping landmark that had bitten the dust since I’d arrived in town. It was not that easy to make a living here, whether you were a restaurant owner, an upscale souvenir shop owner, or, especially, a writer. I jogged down our finger of the dock to the parking lot, where my silver scooter was parked, and bungied the box of goodies into the basket behind my seat. Then I revved up the engine and chugged over the Palm Avenue hill, which led into town.

  Once I got to our office—the attic “suite” above Preferred Properties Real Estate on Southard—I dashed up the stairs, stopping at the door to finger-comb my curls and take a calming breath. Which didn’t do much for me, especially once I pushed the door open and heard the not so dulcet tones of Ava Faulkner, already ensconced in Wally’s office. Danielle, our receptionist, rolled her eyes and tapped her watch.

  “Better hurry,” she whispered. I glanced at the clock—only two minutes late. But late was late in Ava’s book and I should have known better.

  After stuffing the cupcakes into the mini fridge, I swung around the corner into Wally’s office. “Morning, everyone,” I said, my voice quavering with faux cheeriness—after all, my father’s daughter. I slid onto the metal chair close to Wally and pulled a pen and paper and my phone out of my backpack. Danielle appeared at the door, poised to take notes too.

  “Nice of you to join us,” said Ava, tossing a hank of golden hair over her shoulder but keeping her gaze pinned on Wally.

  “We were about to start with the editorial calendar,” he said, tapping a finger on his computer keyboard. He read off the notes on his screen. “‘Off the Beaten Track—How to Avoid the Spring Break Crowds.’”

  “Is that even possible?” I asked, and then laughed. No one answered.

  “That’s been done by every publication on the island,” Ava said.

  “How about ‘Key Zest Dishes on Cats—Hemingway’s Other Legacy,’” Wally tried. “Everyone talks about his writing, but not about the cats. And there’s been that whole controversy about the height of the fence and whether the cats should be allowed off the property.”

  “I heard that story on NPR!” Danielle exclaimed.

  “Imagine the great photos we could get to go along with the text,” Wally added, his head bobbing.

  Ava shrugged. “It’s a little goofy, but fine.”

  Wally jotted my name beside the new article’s title. I could only hope he didn’t need the draft this week. “I’ll let Hayley speak to the food features.” He nodded at me.

  “I’ll be review
ing 915,” I said, mentioning a casual restaurant at the far end of Duval, almost to the Atlantic Ocean. “Small plates, reasonable prices, a comfortable window on the Duval Street zaniness.”

  “I don’t want small plates for this issue,” said Ava, again looking at Wally, “especially from a restaurant that’s been here since the Stone Age. What else have you got?”

  “I’ve been meaning to try Paseo,” I said. “It’s Caribbean food—on Eaton Street where Paradise Café used to be?”

  She sighed and shrugged her shoulders, which I took as a yes.

  “And maybe I can pull together a sidebar about breakfast on the go. I had the most amazing sticky bun from the Old Town Bakery this week.”

  “OMG—those are heavenly!” Danielle said.

  Ava delivered her a look that would have melted a weaker woman to a puddle of caramel.

  “What else?” Wally asked briskly.

  “My bigger feature will be a review of wedding cakes. I was thinking I could include a couple of bakeries plus Fausto’s, Coles Peace—the regulars. Kind of focusing on how you can pull together a gorgeous pièce de rèsistance even if you’ve decided to get married at the last minute.”

  Ava laid her silver pen on Wally’s desk, her perfectly painted lips curling in disgust. “Wedding cakes in March? You’d have to be insane to plan a Key West wedding in March. The island is thick with spring breakers. The streets are disgusting by morning. I won’t even mention what I saw on Duval on my way over. No one in her right mind would choose that. And no one would be interested in a piece like that.” She slapped her notepad on the desk next to the silver pen. “Unacceptable.”

  I felt my neck and face flush a deep, hot red. My mother and I share the reddish curls and pale skin of her Irish grandmother—and it’s never pretty when we get mad or embarrassed. Now I was both. Wally’s lower lip twitched. He couldn’t side with me directly—he’d spent too much capital simply insisting that I remain on staff.

  “If you don’t like weddings, let’s brainstorm,” he said. “What do you think of when you think spring break? I think beer. Wet T-shirt contests. Edible meals on the cheap. Battles of the bands.”

  I glanced over at Danielle, who hovered in the doorway, where Ava couldn’t see her. “Wet T-shirt contests?” She mouthed. “He’s lost his marbles.”

  I scratched a note on a scrap of paper. “Excuse me a second,” I said to Wally. “I’ll be right back.”

  Out in the hallway, I passed the note to Danielle. Then I grabbed the cupcakes from the mini fridge and arranged them quickly on a white plate Danielle kept to use for occasional snacks and various celebrations. They looked gorgeous—cream cheese frosting the pale green color of early-summer leaves with a sprinkle of lime zest on top. I delivered the plate to Danielle and motioned to her to slide the plate onto Wally’s desk, in between him and the fire-breathing dragon. Then I returned to the office and took my seat again.

  “‘How about taking a sweet break with a cupcake—find the best of the island,’” Danielle read off the note I’d given to her. Any ideas would have a better chance of surviving coming from her mouth than mine. She passed out napkins with dancing hearts on them, leftover from our Valentine’s Day party, which had been a tad morose since we’d had to produce a whole magazine issue aimed at lovers when none of the three of us had a valentine.

  Wally’s face brightened. “Everything could be Key lime. Or maybe some coconut thrown in. That makes the piece obviously Key West-y for the tourists, but Hayley would of course hit places that aren’t on the tourists’ radar.”

  He peeled the paper liner off the cupcake nearest to him and took a bite. “These are amazing. Where did they come from?”

  “Fausto’s,” I lied. Ava would never eat something I’d baked.

  She picked up a knife from the plate, cut one of the cupcakes in half, and then in quarters. She dipped a finger into the frosting and nibbled. “Hmm, pretty good. Though I like mine a little sweeter.”

  She’d probably prefer the icing on a supermarket bakery cake, chock-full of artery-clogging trans fat and overloaded with powdered sugar. I managed to force a smile and say nothing.

  A few minutes later we’d agreed on a list of articles including breakfast on the go, the Hemingway cats, Paseo, and the spring break cupcake roundup—all due at the end of this week. Although how in the world I would manage that with my family arriving today…and Connie’s wedding. I could feel a tiny bubble of hysteria rising up.

  “One more thing,” Ava said, laying her palm flat on the folder in her lap. “We’re way over budget on the meals and entertainment line. This month, I want that number cut in half.”

  “I can explain that,” I said. “I like to try to visit each place I’m reviewing three times—twice is my minimum.” I leaned forward, grinning foolishly, and tried to meet her eyes. “I feel like I give the establishments a fair shot that way.”

  Ava looked at Wally. “We don’t have the funds for multiple visits. If your restaurant critic needs to eat three dinners to make up her mind about whether the food is any good, I’d suggest you advertise for a new employee. Besides,” she added as she slid her papers and her iPad into a purple leather case, “a restaurant should always be on its game. After all, if a customer has a lousy meal somewhere once, chances are they aren’t going back.” Now she smiled as my grin faded. “And besides that, negative reviews are good for our traffic. Conflict brings in readers. Even novice journalists know that.”

  My jaw dropped open in disbelief. How could I count the ways she was wrong?

  “What if the line cook broke his arm that night? Or the dishwasher quit midshift? Or the shipment of avocados came in black? Or the steak gray?” I took a deep breath. “Ruth Reichl used to visit places six times before she wrote a review.”

  “Ruth Reichl was the food critic for the New York Times. And the editor of Gourmet magazine. And the publisher of umpteen bestselling books. You’re no Ruth Reichl—not even close,” Ava snapped, then focused back on Wally. “Bottom line is, if we don’t have the money, we can’t spend it.”

  Then she stood up and stalked off, leaving a cloud of cloying perfume in the office and a sour taste in my mouth.

  Wally sighed and reached for another cupcake, refusing to meet my eyes. “All I can say is we have to pick our battles. At least we got the okay on the cupcake gig, right?”

  “And the cats!” Danielle peeled the paper liner away from her treat and began to lick the icing all the way around its circumference. “I can’t stand that woman, though. She makes me so tense. I feel like a wet dishrag every time she leaves.”

  I wolfed down a second cupcake, which I knew I’d regret as soon as I’d finished. It was hard enough to keep my weight in check as a food critic—anxiety eating was a habit I couldn’t afford. Danielle wasn’t the only one who didn’t do tension well. And I was facing an entire week of eggshell-walking between handling the details of the wedding and managing the various factions of my family.

  My phone buzzed with news of an incoming text, this time from my stepmother, Allison. Which meant my relatives must have arrived on the island. The cupcakes in my stomach growled and whirred.

  FYI, Hayley, Allison’s text read. Rory is dying to ride one of those Jet Ski things. Do you think that’s a good idea?

  Of course it wasn’t a good idea. Teenagers and speed—what could be worse? Teenagers and speed and alcohol maybe. But what was I supposed to do about it? I wasn’t his mother. I eyed the remaining cupcake, but heaved a sigh, wiped my lips, and texted her back.

  Can you interest him in fishing? Or paddleboarding?

  Then I headed out to face the music.

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