“She kept alluding to the fact that she had done something dangerous, something illegal. And this obviously frightened her but also gave her a rush.” He pressed one hand to his cheek and the other to his chest. “I think that’s what upset me most. She was feeding off the danger.”
“And then what?” asked Ms. Gloria.
“Then I suggested she come back the next night. I suggested that she slow down and think things over before she got too involved. And she did come back, a few more times. I thought we’d really forged a connection and were making some progress.” He ruffled the white kitty’s fur. “But then she disappeared. When I heard the news the other night about Bart Frontgate’s death, I really panicked.”
“I’m not following,” said Miss Gloria. “Why would you think she’d murdered that man?”
“It’s hard to explain. Just that the sense of danger—violence even—was so strong in her cards.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “I couldn’t know for sure, of course, but murdering someone would fit with the level of agitation I was seeing.”
“But then,” I said, “the murder weapon turns up wrapped in your tablecloth.”
His expression grew pained. “I couldn’t imagine why she would divert the police in my direction, unless she killed him and then panicked. Maybe she chose to shunt the blame off on any reasonable target, even me. Or maybe she worried that I would turn her in. In that case, did she think that if I was in jail, I couldn’t hurt her?” He looked so sad. “I would never reveal what she’d said. Since I’d gotten this information in a confidential relationship, I simply couldn’t go to the police. What would I possibly say? I didn’t know what she’d done or what had happened to her. When I thought of her, that bright red color kept coming to mind—the sense of danger. So I ran.”
“That’s not a long-term solution, young man,” Miss Gloria said, patting his knee. “Why did you put those goggles in the cat food?”
“It won’t make much sense to you,” he said, keeping his gaze on his lap. “It barely makes sense to me. I got so worried that she’d panicked and done something crazy. So I went to her home.”
I felt my eyes widen. “You broke in to her place?”
“I didn’t break in; she left the back door unlocked. And there on her kitchen counter were the goggles. And then I got spooked by someone on the sidewalk outside and grabbed them and ran. And when I got home, I said, Marvin Junior, for the love of God, what have you done?”
I couldn’t help snickering a little, because his voice sounded exactly like his mother’s.
“So I stuffed them in the cat food bag so I could deal with them later. And then the cops came sniffing around, suggesting I was responsible for Frontgate’s death. I swear, I never meant for you two to get involved. I’m so sorry.” His voice broke and he fought back tears.
“Well, you can’t do much tonight—what there is left of it,” said Miss Gloria, patting him again. “I think we should all try to get a couple hours of sleep. I’ll bring you a pillow and a blanket and—” She looked at Lorenzo and then the couch. “You’ll barely fit here.”
“You can have my room,” I said.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ll be fine right here.”
“We’ll figure the problems out in the morning,” Miss Gloria said. “Things are always easier in the morning after a cup of coffee. And maybe Hayley will make us some of those once-in-a-blue-moon pancakes. That will definitely improve our situation.”
13
I don’t have to tell you I love you. I made you pancakes.
—Kathleen Flinn, Burnt Toast
Makes You Sing Good
I was the first one up in the morning, unusual for me. But Lorenzo’s appearance and his worries about his client had churned through my dreams overnight. When it became clear that I wouldn’t be able to drop back off for a couple of extra z’s, I rolled out of bed. I fed the cats and then headed to the galley to make coffee and begin to collect ingredients for the once-in-a-blue-moon pancakes. These were not the delicate silver dollar pancakes of my youth, but rather a crusty, robust cousin. The kind of food that would stand up and roll out of the room if it didn’t approve of the condiments served alongside it. Aunt Jemima fake syrup? I’m out of here. Margarine or other fake butter? Hasta la vista, baby. These were the kind of pancakes that would stick with a person through a long morning. And I had a feeling our whole day could be a long one.
I measured out the blue cornmeal, coarse like the sand used to make cement, and then added unbleached white flour, baking powder and soda, a little sugar, and salt. Into a glass measuring cup, I poured buttermilk and whipped in eggs and vanilla. Then I mixed both bowls of ingredients together and added a heap of blueberries. The chunk of butter I plopped into my cast-iron frying pan began to pop and sizzle.
Within minutes both Miss Gloria and Lorenzo were up and seated at the kitchen banquette. Lorenzo looked pale and exhausted. I poured them each a cup of coffee and went back to watching the stove.
“How did you sleep?” Miss Gloria asked Lorenzo.
“I didn’t do too much sleeping. A lot of worrying,” he said.
“We should make a plan, then,” Miss Gloria said, slapping the table with her palm. “A plan always helps.” All three cats jumped up on the bench and nuzzled Lorenzo.
“A plan sounds good,” he said, as he rubbed each cat’s head in turn. “But right now it feels impossible to come up with anything sensible.”
“You should lie low,” I said to Lorenzo as I flipped the first pancakes onto a plate and delivered them to the table with syrup and cinnamon butter. “It won’t do any of us any good if you’re arrested and thrown in the slammer. I’ll talk to Eric while I’m at lunch and get his read on the situation.” I squeezed Lorenzo’s shoulder, trying to communicate caring—and more confidence than I actually felt. “You didn’t really get a chance to see this the other day, but Eric’s very empathetic and he can totally be trusted to keep a secret.”
“I was also thinking,” Miss Gloria said, “that if you didn’t kill Bart Frontgate and this girl didn’t, either, who did? Can’t you tell us who to talk with at Sunset? We didn’t have too much luck the other night, but you might have a better idea who we could approach. You know the characters. You understand the action.”
“Let’s go back to Bart Frontgate for a minute,” I said, bringing another steaming stack of blue pancakes to the table. I served Miss Gloria first, then scraped a couple of them onto my plate, where I slathered them with cinnamon-scented butter and doused them in real maple syrup.
I took the first bite—loaded with texture and flavor. “Are they too gritty?” I asked.
“No, fantastic,” Lorenzo said, and Miss Gloria, her mouth full, nodded her agreement.
“The only guys we really got to talk to at Sunset were the homeless men,” I told Lorenzo. “And some new jugglers dressed like pirates and the man who makes hats. None of them were saying a whole lot. But if you could make some suggestions about who might be in the know, we’d follow up.”
Lorenzo laid his fork down on his plate and swallowed hard. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to send you nosing into people’s business. Some of those characters are very rough. And if one of them is a murderer …” His voice trailed off. “I don’t want any part of putting you two in danger.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t actually try to arrest anyone,” said Miss Gloria with a peal of laughter. “Just gather intel. You know, like undercover spies used to do when they were fighting the KGB.”
Lorenzo put a hand to his forehead, glancing from Miss Gloria in her red heart pajamas to me in mine. “It would break my heart if anything happened to either of you.”
“Well,” said Miss Gloria, “suppose you lay out some cards and see what kind of trouble’s in the future? Whether any of us are in danger? Maybe you could get tips from the other side?”
He snorted and began to eat again. “These pancakes are amazing. I love the blue color. And the texture. And th
at little hint of cinnamon. They make ordinary pancakes look like tissue paper.”
“Thanks,” I said, grinning. He was distracting us from Miss Gloria’s question, but he’d get around to answering when he was ready.
When he’d powered through the remaining hotcakes and a second cup of coffee, he turned back to Miss Gloria, a sad look on his face. “My channels feel completely blocked right now. It happens when I’m scared, I think. I freeze up and forget to keep my heart open to what the universe is saying. And my mind, the place where I usually see things, is just a big white space. Nothing. I tell my clients—choose love instead of fear, and then your path will become clear. But it’s so much harder than it sounds.”
“We’ll think of something,” Miss Gloria said. She got up to clear the dishes away and refill our coffee cups for the third time.
“We can do some good old-fashioned sleuthing without getting into trouble,” I said. “Especially if you give us some guidance. Who are your friends down there at Mallory Square?” I asked. “Who are the good guys? The guys we could chat with and tell them you’d sent us?”
“The fellow who owns Snorkel the Pig,” said Lorenzo. “He’s a decent guy. Pretty new to performing. So he’s not involved in all the ugly politics that have been going on for years. But on the other hand, will he know anything? I’m not sure.”
“What about Dominique the Cat Man?” Miss Gloria asked.
Lorenzo sighed, scraped a stray blueberry onto his fork, and popped it into his mouth. “He’s smart because he stays out of the petty machinations of the rest of the Sunset Celebration. Have you noticed that he’s always got a spot on the outer perimeter of the madness?” We both nodded. “He’s earned it because of the show he puts on.”
“He’s very entertaining,” said Miss Gloria. “And it’s wicked hard training cats to do things. We tried with Evinrude and Sparky, and honestly we got nowhere.”
“They got a lot of great treats for doing nothing,” I agreed.
She wiggled her fingers and clucked her tongue to get Lola the kitty’s attention. “Maybe with this new baby girl we’d have better luck.”
“I don’t know,” I said shaking my head. “As far as I can see, Evinrude and Sparky are busy teaching her everything they know. And it’s not all good. I saw her out yesterday teasing poor Schnootie to the point of apoplexy.”
My cell phone skidded across the counter as it rang, and I got up from the table to answer. Torrence. “Good morning,” I said brightly, though I was tempted to send it to voice mail.
“What’s this about a breakin on your houseboat last night?” Torrence asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was an overreaction,” I said. “You know how you’re always telling me not to try to handle things by myself?” I glanced over at Miss Gloria and Lorenzo, feeling sick with guilt. But even more afraid I’d say something odd that would bring him rushing over. “So rather than attack a burglar on my own, I called nine-one-one. But I think it was just the cats banging around. We have a new kitten and they’re all acting crazy. As I’m sure you know, your cops didn’t find any sign of a break and enter, nor did they find anyone on the finger who shouldn’t be here.”
“You did the right thing,” Torrence said. “Don’t let the possibility of embarrassment keep you from doing it again, got it?”
“I got it,” I said.
“That’s not the only reason I called,” said Torrence. He paused for a moment. “I’m hoping you can promise to keep this confidential. But I think you should know, so I’m taking the chance. If—or I should say when—we find your friend Lorenzo, aka Marvin Smith Junior, he will be under arrest for murder. I can’t say exactly why; I can only tell you the case is quite clear.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me?” I asked. “It’s not quite fair to give me that information and no facts to back it up.”
Torrence cut me off. “I can’t say anything more. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But I’m hoping that you will keep this in mind if you’re in touch with your friend. Encourage him to turn himself in. It will go easier for him if he cooperates, and that’s not just a television crime show cliché.”
“Thank you for calling,” I said in a weird, high voice that didn’t sound like me. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” And then I hung up and returned to the table, not sure how much to say.
As much as needed and nothing more, I decided. I took Lorenzo’s hand and stared into his eyes, noticing for the first time the wide pupils, surrounded by two concentric rings of rich brown. And then the tired lines webbing from the corners of his eyes that left him looking older than I figured him to be. I thought I knew him, but maybe I didn’t. Maybe he had been driven to a heinous personal attack that I could scarcely imagine.
“I need you to tell me the truth. Did you kill that man?”
“No, I did not,” Lorenzo said. “I did not.” He pulled away from me and rubbed the fingers of both hands together. A washing motion. “But Cheryl Lynn might have killed him.”
“Cheryl Lynn is your client?” I asked.
He bit his lip and nodded. “That’s where I found the fork.” He looked back up at me and then over to Miss Gloria, whose face was frozen with disappointment and dismay.
“What do you mean you found the fork?”
“On her counter,” he said. “I cleaned it up and put it at the back of her silverware drawer.”
This boggled my mind. “What fork are we talking about? And what the heck was on it?”
He groaned, a long, low noise like an animal in distress. “I don’t know exactly. It looked messy. It could have been blood, maybe even from the meat Bart used in his act. But it just as well could have been spaghetti sauce. I told you about how I grabbed the goggles—I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to help her in case she’d done something awful. So I cleaned it up and hid it in plain sight—with all the other oversized implements in her kitchen.”
“But that’s tampering with the evidence,” I said. “You can’t do that—it’s against the law.”
Lorenzo set his lips in a thin line. He got up and went over to the sink, where he began to rinse our breakfast dishes. “The ants will come if you don’t wash that syrup off right away,” he said.
“I suppose that lets out going to search her house,” Miss Gloria said. “That was my next bright idea. But maybe we could take a quick look before the cops figure out it might be part of the crime scene.”
“No, no, no,” said Lorenzo, slapping the sponge down on the counter. “I can’t believe she did it. And even if she did, it wouldn’t have been at her home.”
“Then why in the world would she have a bloody murder weapon?” I asked.
“It wasn’t bloody, it was—it had something on it …”
“This has really gotten bigger than what we can deal with, even for a dear friend. You’re changing the story every time we talk. You have to call Torrence yourself and turn yourself in.”
“But—” he began.
“There’s a murderer loose and you’re protecting him. Her, I should say. And meanwhile, you’re the main suspect in the investigation, sitting right here at our breakfast table.” I pounded on the Formica, more upset than I’d been in a long time.
“What if we look for clues just for today?” he suggested, his voice pleading. “If nothing turns up that points us in the right direction, I’ll drive over to the police station and turn myself in.”
“You won’t drive; I will take you,” I said. “It’s that or nothing.”
The disappointment on his face was plain, but keeping him here any longer, even just the day, felt wrong. I no longer trusted what he said.
“You look tuckered out,” Miss Gloria said. “Why don’t you grab the first shower? Come on. I’ll show you the ropes and get you a clean towel.”
Lorenzo followed her to the bathroom while I washed the dishes and cleaned up the ingredients from the blue pancakes. The celebratory euphoria that I’d felt earlier, the kin
d of good feeling I get from helping a friend, was gone. I wiped the burners of the stove clean and wrapped up the leftover pancakes to store in the freezer for a snack at some future low-blood-sugar moment. I left a message for Eric, reminding him to meet me at Azur at noon, then pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and thought about making a list.
I pictured the Sunset Celebration and how hard it was to get the truth from unusual people with unusual lifestyles who had not a shred of a reason to trust me. Maybe a better idea was to take something irresistible to eat to a local, someone who’d been around town forever and who would’ve heard whatever there was to know about Bart Frontgate.
I heard the patter of the water running in our shower and Miss Gloria returned to the kitchen. “I have to take a shift at the cemetery in about an hour,” she said. “I’m thinking maybe you should swing by after work and we could go look at this Cheryl Lynn’s house.”
“I don’t think—” I started, but Miss Gloria cut me off.
“She could be dead in there and who would know? Lorenzo didn’t look any further once he saw the goggles and the fork. He totally panicked. He swears she’s in some kind of trouble, but definitely not murder.”
“So what, she stole the murder weapon from somebody else’s home and just happened to leave it lying around?” I asked. “If Lorenzo really washed it up and put it in the drawer, how in the world did it get in the Dumpster?”
“Well, maybe she threw it out after he was there,” said Miss Gloria. “Or maybe he did and he’s afraid to tell us. Anything is possible. And worse comes to worst, I get a ride home—instead of driving myself”—she grinned—“and then we can swing by Mallory Square and see if any of Lorenzo’s friends are around.”
Lorenzo emerged from the bathroom, his hair wet and his face worried. “I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you for doubting, but I think Cheryl Lynn is in some very dark trouble. And by trouble, I don’t mean she murdered someone.”
Either he really believed this, or he’d memorized a couple of lines that he would parrot until he won us over.
Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 12