Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003)

by Burdette, Lucy

  “Lovely. Thanks,” I said as she waved me to one of the lounge chairs. She returned shortly with two cups of tea in bone china with silver around the rims, and flicked off the television. I stirred a cube of white sugar into my cup and took a sip of tea, which tasted a bit like sweetened dishwater. I settled the cup into the saucer.

  “Is this wedding china?”

  She nodded and flashed a sad smile.

  “Did Lorenzo ever mention the name Bart Frontgate?” I asked. “That’s the man who was killed.”

  She shook her head, her lips tense again. “Nothing like that.”

  She was scared to death, and I was pushing too hard. “What can you tell me about why he left Key West in such a hurry?” I asked in a gentle voice. “Was he concerned about something? Why was he here?”

  “I don’t know anything about that man, Frontgate, or whatever,” she said. “He was worried about a girl. Someone who relied on him.”

  “That’s why he ran?” I asked.

  “He ran because he didn’t believe the police would look for the real killer. He thought they’d be satisfied with any suspect—even himself, and he had nothing to do with it. Clean up the mess, dump the trash into the bin. Tell the public the mystery was solved. And be done. Let the people think the murder was the result of a drunken brawl and that it probably didn’t matter too much who the real killer was. As long as someone was caught and punished.”

  I noticed a photograph across the room on the table next to the TV, and I got up to investigate. Two men stood together, stiffly, a teenage Lorenzo, or Marvin Junior, as she called him, and a tall blue-eyed man with wide shoulders—most likely his dad.

  “That was my husband, Marvin Senior,” the woman said. “It may be the only photograph I have of the two of them together.”

  “They didn’t get along?” I asked.

  “I’m sad to say they did not,” she said. “Marvin Junior hated sports. He didn’t mind losing, but he hated the idea of beating someone else. And even more, he couldn’t bear hunting and fishing. He wanted no part of hurting other creatures. He was not a boy’s boy—you know what I mean?”

  I nodded, thinking that issue seemed to cause more trouble between fathers and sons than any other I’d heard of. Men sometimes had an image of what their relationship with a son should be like, and it was hard to give that up and adjust to what was really there.

  “My husband resented that Marvin Junior spent so much time with my mother. He never did forgive my mother for getting him started with tarot cards. But she was certain that he was gifted, that he had the sight. And he was so soft and sweet and he preferred the company of his grandmother to the rough-and-tumble boys in the neighborhood.”

  “She was his respite,” I said.

  Her eyes glistened with tears. “Marvin Junior adored my mother and he soaked up her attention, and he finally began to understand and accept that he did have an unusual vision.” She took a tissue from the box beside her chair and patted her face. “My husband was so relieved when he went off to college. But instead of studying, Marvin stayed up late nights and read cards for people in the common room.” She gave a soft laugh. “That didn’t do much for his GPA and he finally dropped out.”

  I replaced the photo and went back to my chair. “Tell me about the girl he worried about. Not a girlfriend?”

  She shook her head. “He believed she was in danger. Maybe doing something illegal, too.” Her forehead wrinkled with concern. “Nothing feels more important to him than helping people find their way.”

  “Was it possible he believed this woman killed Frontgate?”

  Lorenzo’s mother shrugged and covered her face with her hands. “He takes on the problems that people bring to him. He takes them too much to heart. It’s like he doesn’t have the filter that most people have, a shield to protect himself from other people’s heartbreak.”

  Lorenzo’s mother stood up. “I was about to put a frozen dinner in the microwave. Would you like to stay for supper? I know it’s late … I got caught up in my programs. Or we could go across the street and get a blooming onion at the Outback. Marvin Senior and I used to do that every week and I miss it. But I certainly couldn’t order a whole one by myself.” She patted her stomach. “I can’t handle fried food the way I used to.”

  Neither sounded at all appealing, even though I was hungry in spite of the snacks I’d packed. And the two pieces of cake I’d eaten—not saving one for her as I’d intended. “Thank you so much for the kind offer. I was hoping to catch the late ferry back to Key West. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “I’ll take you,” she said. “Give me a minute to freshen up and I’ll be right with you.” She went into the back bedroom to get ready. I breathed a sigh of relief, pleased to have dodged the bullet of a frozen dinner or an oversized fried onion with mayonnaise-y dipping sauce. Neither of those options would be good company on the long, dark boat ride back to Key West.

  Mrs. Smith led me to the elevator and we clunked and lurched to the bottom level and trotted across the parking lot to her car. She gestured to a big old Buick stored under a carport next to a golf cart. The inside of the car seemed to be held together with duct tape. “Don’t mind the patch job,” she said, grinning as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “No way my husband was going to trade this car in. ‘Nothing new could be better than what I already have,’ he always said. Which I suppose was a good motto for a long marriage.” She smiled. “Are you married?”

  “Not yet.” Which sounded dishonest. “Not even close. Maybe someday. My mom’s engaged, though.” I mentally clunked my skull for sounding silly. But the subject of marriage seemed to turn my head to mush.

  She fired up the car, backed out of the carport, and headed out of the complex, waving to the guard as the arm protecting the driveway swung up. “Wait, how did you get in here?”

  “Don’t be mad at him,” I said. “I was very persuasive. Said you were turning seventy-five and I was here to help celebrate.”

  “Seventy-five, huh? You added five years to my total.” She laughed away my apology, then turned right toward Fort Myers Beach, where the ferry docked. We wound through a series of smaller streets, never setting tire on busy, crazy Route Forty-one.

  “You could be a taxi driver yourself,” I said with admiration. “You seem to know all the back roads.”

  “I don’t like to make left turns into oncoming traffic,” she admitted as she pulled up to the curb.

  “Do you know where he’s gone?” I asked as I was getting out of the car.

  She glanced over, her face quiet, and said nothing. She knew exactly what I was asking. She simply wasn’t going to answer. So I traveled four hours each way on a rolling sea for zippedy-do-da-nothing.

  12

  She had said that the very thought of him made her want to pan-fry her face, but I didn’t believe her.

  —Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There

  Will Be Apricots

  It was hours after midnight when I finally staggered into our houseboat, feeling queasy and yet ravenous. Evinrude, Sparky, and Lola greeted me at the door. After a quick scratch hello behind three sets of ears, I marched directly to the refrigerator. The cats launched into a chorus of meows. “Shush,” I whispered, “you’ll wake Miss Gloria.”

  I poured them each a tiny dollop of milk and rummaged around until I found some cheese, a decent-looking apple, and two pieces of leftover pepperoni pizza that Miss Gloria must have ordered for supper. Standing by the sink, I ate quickly, then noticed a package that had been left on the counter. Miss Gloria had scrawled a note on top.

  Valentine’s package. You won’t believe how cute they are!

  I tore open the wrapping, buzzing happily with the thought that maybe Wally had recognized he’d overreacted and dropped off a Valentine’s gift after all. But instead of something romantic from him, or even last-minute, day-after holiday chocolates, my mother had sent white flannel pajamas with bright red hearts all over them. Sigh. A second note was
clipped to my jammies, also in Miss Gloria’s handwriting.

  She sent me the same! So cute! I washed and dried and ironed them so we could wear them right away.

  I rubbed the fabric between my fingers. They did feel soft and cozy. So I slid them on, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed, determined not to think about Lorenzo’s problems. Or my own. Everything would look brighter in the morning. It always did.

  A couple of hours later, I woke up with the vague foreboding that I’d heard a noise in the living room. The cats? I could see in the faint graying light that slipped through the slats of my window blinds that Lola was gone from the bed. The other two were splayed across my quilt, ears perked and eyes wide so they looked alert and worried. My heart began to pound. And I was rushed by memories of Miss Gloria’s terrible near-death experience last winter.

  Miss Gloria. Oh my gosh. What if an intruder had gotten to her again? But having learned my lesson over the past fourteen months, I dialed 911 and whispered my address.

  “Stay on the line,” the dispatcher said, so I tucked the phone into the pajama chest pocket. Then I grabbed the scrap length of two-by-four that I’d kept at the back of my closet ever since Miss Gloria’s fright, and edged my door open.

  “Get out! I’ve called the police!” I shrieked into the living room. “The cops will be here any second.”

  And as if to underscore how serious I was, the sound of sirens screamed from the direction of the police station across the bight. With the piece of wood poised over my head, I peered into the living room. A tall man in black jeans and a black T-shirt froze, looking terrified, with Lola in his arms. Lorenzo.

  Miss Gloria burst out of her cabin, also dressed in my mother’s Valentine’s Day pajamas and brandishing a wooden rolling pin. “Lordy, lordy,” said Miss Gloria. “What in the world is going on? You people could wake the dead.”

  “Lordy, lordy is right,” I said. “The cops are gonna show up any minute. What are you doing here?”

  Lorenzo’s eyes widened with fear. “I swear I’ll tell you all about it, but they can’t find me,” he said, clutching the white kitty to his chest.

  “We’ve got to hide him,” I said to Miss Gloria, my brain still fuzzy with sleep and the shock of being awakened abruptly. “The back deck?”

  She shook her head. “That’s the first place they’ll look. Come here quickly. Leave Lola with Hayley.” She grabbed Lorenzo’s forearm and hustled him down the hall. Then she flung open the trap door that led to the cubby containing our bilge pump. Last December, we’d installed a new pull and oiled all the hinges so the door worked easily, so that even a small person like her would be able to push it open if she was ever trapped again. “It won’t be comfortable, but it won’t be for long.”

  He handed me the kitty and lowered himself into the pit. Then he crouched down, folded himself into a ball, and signaled for us to drop the lid. Because of his height, the door wouldn’t quite shut, sticking up a quarter inch above the floorboards around it. Miss Gloria grabbed the heart-shaped rag rug that we kept on the floor in front of the kitchen sink and threw it over the opening. The kitty leaped out of my arms and dashed into the bedroom.

  “There. Just don’t say a word until we give the all clear,” she called down to Lorenzo. “No coughing, no throat clearing, not even a hiccup.”

  We heard the clomping of boots on our outside deck, and then banging on the door. Miss Gloria and I both scurried over and peered out. Two cops in blue uniforms from the Key West Police Department were waiting, right hands on guns, left hands holding two oversized flashlights. I flicked on the outside deck light and opened the door. A few bugs fluttered into the pool of light.

  “You called for help?” asked the bigger man, dark haired and lanky. The other man, smaller and rounder, stood a foot back, his eyes scanning the room behind us and the boats to either side, following his flashlight beam.

  “I thought I heard an intruder,” I explained. “But it turns out it must have been the cats.” I pointed at Evinrude, who lounged full-length on the coffee table, looking appropriately mischievous.

  “We’d like to come in and take a look around,” said the smaller man.

  “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” said Miss Gloria. “I bet sometimes people call for help but they’re being held hostage. And the hostage taker catches on to what’s happened and tells them to answer the door but warns the prisoner: ‘If you say one word about us, we’ll shoot you in the head.’”

  The cops exchanged glances. “Something like that,” said the smaller cop, looking from her heart pajamas to mine. “You had an incident here last December, didn’t you? Can we come in?”

  “Of course,” said Miss Gloria. “Maybe we can get you something to eat while you’re casing the joint.”

  I glared at her behind the big man’s back. The longer they stayed, the harder it would be for Lorenzo to remain quiet, crammed into that little cubby. And besides, I’d just foraged through the refrigerator and polished off the edibles. There would be very little of interest to an uninvited guest.

  Neither one took her up on the offer of snacks, but they began searching through every space on our boat where an intruder might possibly hide, including the tangle of clothing and shoes that constitutes my closet. They finished by flashing their lights on the back deck, all through Miss Gloria’s plants, where I’d foolishly imagined that Lorenzo would be safe.

  We perched on the living room sofa, waiting for them to reappear. I buried my fidgety fingers in Evinrude’s fur. The policemen clomped back down the short hallway, the bigger one tripping on the heart-shaped rug. Miss Gloria leaped up.

  “Oh, silly me, we are always stumbling over that, too.” She kicked the rug back into place, took his elbow, and marched him safely to the living room.

  “I’m sorry we were a bother, Officers,” I said. “I’m a friend of Officer Torrence, and he’s always telling me, ‘Call the police even if you’re not sure you need help.’ I have a little reputation for trying to do things myself.” I pasted on a silly grin and bobbled my head.

  “You may very well have had an intruder in here,” said the big cop, his face looking fierce. “You ladies need to be more careful about locking your door.”

  “We need to get the latch fixed,” said Miss Gloria, fibbing so quickly my head was spinning. “It just gave out this week. I’ve called a fellow to come do that and a few other odd jobs. But it’s so busy on the island this time of year. They tell you they’ll definitely be here and they don’t show up. I’ll tell him tomorrow that it’s urgent.”

  “We’re going to have a look up and down the dock, just to be safe,” said the small, round policeman. “It’s a good thing that you called. You should always call if there’s a question. Trust your instincts. When women don’t pay attention or don’t want to raise a fuss, that’s when they get into trouble.”

  I nodded vigorously and got up to show them to the door. For ten minutes we watched the flicker of their lights as they went up the finger, illuminating our neighbors’ decks with beams of light. Finally, after waving as they passed our boat, they trooped back to their cruiser and drove off on Palm Avenue.

  “Sheesh,” said Miss Gloria. “I’ve never known them to be quite so thorough.”

  We hurried back inside to the hallway, removed the rug, and opened the hatch door. Lorenzo scrambled out. He was drenched in sweat, even his hair soaked into damp rings. And he was trembling.

  “Coast is clear,” Miss Gloria sang out.

  “What in the world is going on?” I asked. “I’ll get you a glass of water, and then come sit and tell us.” I was beginning to realize that, as much as I wanted to protect Lorenzo, I was sick with apprehension about whether he might have done something terrible. Was this really the right thing—hiding him? I filled a glass with cool tap water and brought it to the living room, determined to squeeze the facts out of him. He was sitting on the couch with Lola on his lap. Miss Gloria was perched next to him, massaging his shoulder, w
hich looked as hard as concrete. Lola sputtered her kitten purr—the only one of us happy and relaxed.

  “I went to see your mother last night,” I said, handing him the drink. “Might as well get that out on the table.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I came. She said you were so worried. I feel bad about all of this.”

  “She mentioned something about protecting a girl. Supposing we start there.”

  “Or we could start with those wacky night vision goggles,” said Miss Gloria. “Hayley here got into man trouble on account of those.”

  He cringed, then covered his face with his hands. After a deep breath, he dropped his hands back to Lola, buried his fingers in her fur, and looked at both of us. “It’s all the same; it’s all part of the same story. This girl—I’m loath to say her name because it was given to me in confidence—she came for a reading and she was very agitated. And I became worried about her, though not necessarily for the reasons she mentioned.”

  We waited for him to gather his thoughts, each of us with a cat on our lap, Miss Gloria and I in the goofy matching pajamas. “So she came for a reading,” I prompted. “On Mallory Square?”

  He nodded and took a sip of the water. “I noticed right away that she had an aura of danger around her.”

  “An aura of danger?” asked Miss Gloria. “What color is that?”

  “Red,” he said. “Of course. And then after I read her cards, which were very disturbing, she started to talk. She was keyed up, too, like she was on drugs, though I’m not certain that she had taken anything.”

  “What were the cards like?” I asked.

  “Every dangerous combination you can imagine. Past, present, and future. Worse than anything you’ve ever drawn.”

  Evinrude dropped off my lap with a thunk and headed into the galley to hunt for stray kibbles. I hugged my knees to my chest. “And that’s saying something.”