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

by Burdette, Lucy

  “We have to trust him,” Miss Gloria said. “His judgment is better than ours—he’s psychic.”

  “And while I was in the shower, I thought over what you said,” Lorenzo added. “You’re right. If nothing turns up by this evening, I’ll go with you to the police station. I shouldn’t have hidden the evidence. But you know this yourself: You see something that doesn’t belong, that doesn’t feel right, and you respond. You just act without thinking.”

  Not much I could say about that. More than once, he’d seen me shoot off like a pressure cooker with a blocked steam release valve.

  “But who is this Cheryl Lynn?” I asked. “Could she possibly have had a reason to take the fork used to stab Mr. Frontgate?”

  His face looked even more worried. “Drugs, I suppose. If she was really high, she might steal. That would fit with the craziness I’d seen during her last couple of readings. And that awful red color.” He shuddered and Miss Gloria patted his back.

  “But maybe it wasn’t drugs at all. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe she just picked the fork up somewhere.” He drooped into a chair.

  “Oh, come on, what are the chances?” I asked. “Would you pick up a bloody implement?” Silence. Of course he would—he’d done exactly that.

  Finally Lorenzo said, “Bart wasn’t an evil person.”

  “How would you describe him?” I asked.

  “He didn’t think much about the people around him. ‘Oblivious’ is the best word, I guess. It probably took up all his energy, living on the edge as he liked to do.” Lorenzo laughed. “Of course, you don’t have to be terribly observant to realize that. He made his living on a high wire, juggling flaming forks.”

  “Good point,” Miss Gloria said.

  “And Cheryl Lynn, like I said, she liked the excitement of the edge, too. I could see that all over her cards. But I didn’t notice anything that made me think she’d be a danger to others.” He dropped his head to his hands and ran his fingers through his curls.

  I noticed a few sprigs of silver that I hadn’t seen before. Almost as if the last few days’ worth of events had aged him beyond his years. “So anybody else at Mallory Square he didn’t get along with?” I asked.

  “Well, Louis. He’s the guy who weaves those hats. They butted heads all the time. But Louis gets on everybody’s nerves. But on the other hand, he knew exactly how to push Bart’s buttons.”

  I studied his face. Was he telling us the whole truth now? “One more thing,” I said to Lorenzo, determined to ferret out a lie if he’d fed us one. “Why in the world did you wrap that fork in your own tablecloth and then throw it in the Dumpster where anyone could find it? It just sounds dumb. Unless there’s something else you’re not telling us.”

  His eyes grew wide. “No, no, I swear I told you everything. I did not remove the fork from the house. I panicked and grabbed it and threw it in her drawer. Then I got out of there and started to ride my bike back home. The cops were stopping everyone who came from the direction of the cemetery. You know how freaked-out they are about catching the thief.”

  Miss Gloria nodded. “The longer the robberies go on, the more embarrassing it is for the police. Not to mention scary for the neighbors.”

  “They were stopping tourists, kids, even the iguanas,” said Lorenzo.

  Miss Gloria giggled, but I was finding it hard to see any of this as funny.

  “It was only then that I realized my tablecloth was missing from the cart. I couldn’t go back to look for it. And I was so sweaty and nervous, I’m surprised they didn’t arrest me right on the spot.”

  “Which would probably have been for the best,” I grumbled. “She may very well have been the murderer—you like to think the best of everyone. And we’re the idiots who are hoarding information to keep the cops from solving the problem. If Wally ever gets hold of this drama, I won’t have a job or a boyfriend.”

  “Hayley sounds harsh,” said Miss Gloria, reaching around the rounded corner of the table to hug Lorenzo. “She’s worried about you; that’s all.”

  I made a face and headed for the shower. Then I spent an hour holed up in my room, tweaking the article about For Goodness’ Sake that I’d started on the ferry last night. The mood I was in probably colored my review, because I didn’t find all that much positive to say. I raved about the burger and the tempura and the beautiful night on the boat, winding up with a semihopeful suggestion that seeing as it was early in the season for this restaurant, things would likely get better. And that Valentine’s Day was probably not the best night to judge anyone’s food. And that I was looking forward to trying dinner there again.

  Which I wasn’t. There was a major contrast between this opening night and the one I’d experienced at Edel’s restaurant, Bistro on the Bight, last December. Edel was the kind of chef who wanted every detail taken care of. Who wanted every bite memorable. For Goodness’ Sake, on the other hand, gave the impression that good enough was fine. That the Japanese-style food was a gimmick because maybe the chef otherwise couldn’t cook.

  Then I gathered my things together, stuffed them in my backpack, and tapped on Miss Gloria’s bedroom door, where we’d agreed that Lorenzo would hide out for the day.

  “I’m going to Azur with Eric,” I told him. “And then Miss Gloria and I will noodle around town a little bit. You should probably be thinking about how you plan to word your confession. Because I think that’s where we’re headed. To the police station.” I frowned. “And be thinking about exactly why you hid the goggles, and why you cleaned the bloody fork. Because that’s sure what I’d like to know.”

  14

  After all, life-changing work experiences come and go. But homemade meatballs and red sauce are forever.

  —Ann Mah, Mastering the

  Art of French Eating

  By the time I reached the tiny parking lot at Azur, I was beginning to dread the lunch with Eric. I was pretty sure the food would be good, and Eric’s company is always welcome, but it would be painful holding so much back from him.

  He was waiting inside by a big potted palm, the waiters bustling around him, preparing for the lunchtime rush. After we’d bussed cheeks, the host led us to a table on the porch. As with many places in Key West, the restaurant made the most of a small space on a busy street, ending up with a spot that looked cozy and tropical. Before the host could slip away, I ordered a basket of eggplant chips with fleur de sel and rosemary honey, along with Mediterranean mussels and tater tots bravas with salsa diablo. We refused his offer of bread: We couldn’t afford the empty calories, no matter how fresh it was.

  “You seem tense,” Eric said right away with his head cocked, looking puzzled.

  “You’re onto me,” I said, trying to force a smile. “As usual I’m worried about my job. And where things are headed with Wally. It must get old listening to the same old, same old stories.” I tried to keep my voice light and solid like a wall that his curiosity could bounce off. Luckily, he was professional enough to get the message and to respect my privacy.

  “Have you heard anything from Lorenzo?”

  “Not a word,” I said, crossing my fingers under the table. Childish, but I hated lying to my dear friend.

  “And your mom?” Eric asked.

  “Going crazy.” I grinned. “Her baseline anxiety is pretty high, as you know. She’s taking awfully good care of Sam, but I think she can’t wait to get back down here.”

  The waiter delivered our premeal nibbles, followed soon by the main dishes I’d ordered. Eric sampled the gnocchi bathed in short ribs sauce and pronounced them amazing. “It’s kind of cool that they cook winter dishes even when it’s eighty degrees here.”

  “This would really go over big in New Jersey, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “I think they’re getting another ice storm tonight, or so my mother said.” I paused for a minute to jot some notes about the food in my iPhone. “Have you ever had one of the Mallory Square street performers in your therapy practice?”

  He looked up, surpri
sed. “Where’d that come from?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Lorenzo. And that got me to thinking about the other folks who appear for Sunset every night and what their lives are like. And what their psychology is like. Even the homeless guys are a little easier for me to wrap my head around than those performers.”

  “I haven’t ever treated one,” said Eric. “I would guess there’s a fair amount of alcohol and drug abuse. Those performers have to get themselves ramped up every night. And this is not like a Broadway show or big-name concert where they’re being paid regardless of how they perform. These guys rely on the hat being passed.”

  “And there’s nothing much to bind them together as a group,” I said, “so it doesn’t surprise me that they’ve had trouble negotiating a new contract with the city. It’s more like a bunch of individuals fighting to make their way than a real functioning community.”

  “You’re thinking about Frontgate’s murder again.”

  I nodded. “It can’t be Lorenzo. He’s too kind, too gentle.” I felt a spurt of sadness. Because who knew what lurked underneath that kindhearted exterior? “I am so hoping it doesn’t turn out to be him.”

  After we’d tasted all the dishes I ordered, we asked the waiter to wrap up the leftovers for Eric to take home to Bill and the dogs. “You didn’t have much of an appetite,” the waiter said as he cleared the nearly full plates.

  “The eyes-bigger-than-stomach problem,” I said. “But the food was wonderful.”

  The truth was I didn’t have an appetite. Which had something to do with the blue moon pancakes sitting heavy in my gut, and something to do with the oversized secret hiding out in Miss Gloria’s bedroom.

  “What are you up to the rest of the day?” Eric asked. “I hope you’re not having to eat dinner out, too.”

  “Probably not. Haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m going to buzz over to the cemetery. Miss Gloria is being trained as a tour guide and she wants me to be one of her guinea pigs. I went the other day and she’s having so much fun with it.” Somebody else wouldn’t have noticed the change in my voice.

  “It must be hard, though, with her being in her eighties,” Eric said. “Hard not to think about mortality.”

  I nodded, throat constricted, wiping my face with a white linen napkin to cover the tears that had filled my eyes. “I realize that any of us could go at any moment, but some are closer to the last curtain call than others.”

  Eric patted my hand. “We’re due to shake off the blues and schedule a martini night at Virgilio’s. Or a beer at the Green Parrot,” Eric said. “I’ll check the list of bands coming this weekend and text you what looks good.”

  We strolled out into the blanket of warmth radiating from the sidewalk and I headed south and east on my scooter toward the cemetery. Miss Gloria doesn’t carry a cell phone regularly, and she wasn’t standing outside the sexton’s house as we’d agreed earlier. So I parked and went in. Jane Newhagen, her boss, was poring over handwritten records that had been spread across a long table. She looked up with a big smile.

  “Your roommate is out memorizing gravestones and the stories that go with them. She’s amazing. Most people her age would be content to sit in a rocking chair in front of the television, but she’s the most enthusiastic new guide we have.”

  “She’s amazing, all right,” I said. “Can you point me in her direction?”

  “Better yet, I’ll show you the way,” said Jane. She got up from the table, straightened a few stacks of records, and followed me out into the bright sun, locking the door behind her. “The sexton is giving a talk to the new class of Key West Ambassadors,” she said, noticing me watch her lock up. “Most people wouldn’t do any damage in here, but there’s always the one who might wander by and decide my vintage paperwork would make a good souvenir.” Her eyebrows raised, she shrugged. “We’re all a little on edge with the cemetery burglar business.”

  “What’s the latest on that?” I asked.

  “There hasn’t been anything new in the last few days,” she said. “The police have been working with the homeowners association—folks who live around the cemetery. And they’re sending out regular e-mails to keep people informed.”

  “More like keep them from freaking out?” I asked, and we both laughed. “I’d be happy to hear any family stories you don’t mind telling me as we walk,” I said. “Until Miss Gloria came to work here, I never really thought of how much is buried in the cemetery.” I snickered. “I mean I know there are bodies.”

  “But there’s history,” she said. “So much wonderful history.” She waved at a worn stone that was listing to the left. “This is Sofronia Bradley Hall. Her claim to fame is that her husband was a game warden who was murdered because he was trying to protect endangered birds from poachers. They were killing birds to grab feathers for women’s hats.”

  “That’s awful,” I said. “Not being married to a hero, like Sofronia, I’m going to have to do something important to get included in your history.”

  She chuckled and pointed at another set of stones, which looked familiar.

  “Oh my gosh, that’s the murder-suicide grave. Miss Gloria told me about them the other day. I think it’s horrible that they’re buried together.”

  Jane shrugged. “Probably that was arranged in happier times. The story goes that they were fighting, probably drinking, and he shot her and then finished himself off by drinking carbolic acid.”

  “So he punished himself,” I said. As we continued to walk, the diminutive shape of Miss Gloria emerged. She was standing in front of the wedding cake monument, where six layers of crumbling concrete were settled on a brick base. On the short end of the cake, a white marble marker was etched with the initials WWR and MMR.

  Miss Gloria said, “If I do well enough in the stock market the next few years, I’m going to make a donation to renovate this grave site. It’s so gorgeous—it’s criminal to let it fall apart like this.”

  “Donations gladly accepted,” said Jane, swishing her ankle-length skirt.

  I left the two of them chatting about what the grave site might look like if it was updated, and wandered two plots over to the Gates family plot. On the far side, behind a black iron fence, I spotted another family plot by the name of Mastin. I called over to Jane. “Is this is the same family as the fellow who just opened the floating restaurant?”

  “Yep, that’s the one,” she said. “They’ve been around this island forever, too.”

  “How do you score a plot in this cemetery?” asked Miss Gloria.

  “Not that you’re going to need one anytime soon,” I scolded her.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Of course not. But planning ahead saves your family a lot of trouble when the time finally comes.”

  “Unless you’re willing to join the others in the condos,” Jane said, pointing across the cemetery to a group of cement crypts near Olivia Street, “getting buried here is not that easy. Obviously there isn’t any free land around for expansion. But sometimes a family will sell their property because they’ve moved away from Key West. Or maybe their ancestors thought everyone would want to be buried here, but they’re planning something else. That’s how I got my plot.”

  “We’d love to see it,” said Miss Gloria.

  “Sure,” Jane said, and beckoned us to follow down the main path.

  I smiled automatically, but I didn’t really want a tour. The whole cemetery thing was creeping me out. Even when I tried to think of it as fascinating history, the present realities of age and inevitability crept into my mind.

  So I stayed behind to study the names in the Gates family compound, thinking that somewhere in here must be a hint about Bart Frontgate’s life, and from there, his death. As I leaned against the metal fence that separated this plot from the one next to it, a sudden flash of movement drew my attention. A scaly three-foot creature with spikes running down its back and a third eye disappeared into a sinkhole under a flat crypt. I screamed. The two ladies c
ame running. “What’s wrong?” asked Miss Gloria, her chest heaving and voice aquiver.

  “I swear a giant lizard slithered under that crypt.” I pointed to a hole under the slab where he’d disappeared.

  “It’s the darn iguanas,” Jane said. “They wouldn’t harm you; they’re mostly herbivorous. You probably scared him more than he scared you.”

  “I doubt that.” I felt my heart beating so hard I could almost see my shirt move. “They don’t smell so good, either.”

  Jane grinned and shrugged. “They like it here because it’s quiet and they can lie in the sun on the gravestones and soak up the heat.”

  “And then they keep house under the graves?” I asked, taking a few steps away from the gaping hole under the crypt cover. “That’s kind of gross.”

  “Hayley’s not a cemetery person,” said Miss Gloria, cracking a grin. “I’m going to get her out of here. But I’ll see you tomorrow.” She linked her hand through my arm as we marched down the path. “I’m not leaving until we’ve at least looked at the outside of that girl’s house. Maybe she’s home and she can answer all our questions.”

  15

  Mispronunciation—the “k” in “knish” is not silent—could trigger the same response as a cold knish: disappointment, revulsion and a jabbing sense of missed opportunity. Or perhaps worse. An icy knish can at least be reheated.

  —Laura Silver, Knish: In Search

  of the Jewish Soul Food

  Miss Gloria and I mounted the scooter and drove two blocks to Cheryl Lynn’s address. The house looked quiet and abandoned. The trash can and recycling box were empty, tipped over in the driveway, and the small yard’s grass was longer than that of the houses around it.

  “We should probably tap on the door before we go blasting in,” said Miss Gloria.

  “Of course we should,” I said, though I hadn’t exactly thought of that. We left the scooter on the street and scuttled up to the door.

  Miss Gloria knocked lightly. We listened: no footsteps, no radio or TV, no scrabbling of a dog’s feet on the wood floors. Hard to say whether we were being watched by any of the neighbors. The homes on either side looked slightly rundown, not the kind of neighborhood where houses had been renovated and resold to wealthy outsiders by profit-hungry contractors. Not yet, anyway.