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

by Burdette, Lucy

  She nodded gravely.

  Lieutenant Torrence was waiting for us at the fountain. “I appreciate you coming in,” he said, swinging the heavy glass door open. “We’ll go up to the conference room, where we can chat. The others are waiting.”

  He led us down the hallway to the back of the building, where the elevator was located. We all four loaded on and stood facing the door, not saying a word, our worried expressions reflected in the polished metal.

  “Straight down the hallway,” said Torrence. “Hayley will remember.”

  I took off ahead of the others, striding the length of the hall to the conference room that overlooked the parking lot. Bransford was there, along with the chief of police, who looked somber and stoic. He must be sick to death of having accusations of incompetence leveled at his police force in the local paper and the locally based blogs.

  “Have a seat,” Torrence said as he closed the door behind us.

  We sank into office chairs. Down the hall, we heard a series of sharp yips coming from the direction of Bransford’s office. He must not have had time to drop Ziggy off. I still couldn’t believe he had a dog. And such a cute one. I would not look at him, not even once, I decided, as I felt a surge of heat sweep up my neck to my face.

  Both the police chief and Detective Bransford crossed their arms over their chests.

  “Hayley said—” Torrence began. “Wait. I don’t think you all know each other. Let me back up and make introductions,” he added, glancing at the three of us. “This is Detective Nathan Bransford; I suspect you already know him. And our police chief.” He turned back to the cop side of the table. “And here we have Hayley Snow, resident food critic; her roommate, Miss Gloria; and our tarot card reader, Lorenzo Smith.”

  Lorenzo nodded formally at each of the men.

  “Please go ahead,” Torrence told Lorenzo.

  “I did not kill Bart Frontgate,” said Lorenzo in a low voice. “On that let’s be clear. But I believe I have information about your cemetery burglar. And possibly some information bearing on the murder case.”

  “We’d like permission to record your confession,” said Bransford, holding up a small recorder.

  “He’s not confessing,” I said brusquely. “He said he didn’t do anything. Did you not hear that?”

  “As you like,” said Bransford, not looking at me. “Do we have your okay to record?” he asked Lorenzo.

  Lorenzo nodded. “Cheryl Lynn Dickenson is one of my clients,” he began. “She has visited me on and off, but more recently it was more often. I’d say half a dozen times over the last few weeks. I grew very worried about what I saw in her cards and also the way she was behaving during the readings.”

  “Describe her behavior,” said Bransford.

  “Erratic,” said Lorenzo. “Jumpy. Edgy but excited.” He heaved a great sigh. “So when she did not return as she promised several days ago, I went looking for her at her home. I knocked. No answer, so I went round the back. As the door was open, I went in.” His expression hardened. “That might be illegal if you did it, but I went as a loving and concerned friend.”

  And then Lorenzo described how he found the fork in his client’s kitchen, and then panicked, thinking he needed to protect a fragile being. So he rinsed it off and returned it to the back of her silverware drawer.

  “The implement was bloody?” Bransford asked.

  Lorenzo nodded, but then held a finger up. “Well, I wouldn’t say bloody, but it wasn’t clean.”

  “Exactly where was the fork?” Torrence asked.

  Lorenzo fidgeted. “On the counter.”

  And then the fibbing came in. I watched his face carefully to see if he’d give us away.

  “But I also saw that she had a drawer upstairs in her bedroom full of goods that looked like the things you’ve been describing in the crime reports,” he said.

  “Such as?” asked Torrence.

  “Such as men’s watches and some cash. And iPhones and iPods and mini iPads.” He hung his head. “She also had a pair of night vision goggles, which I took with me and hid in my cat food bag. I can’t really explain that.” He glanced over at Miss Gloria and she nodded her support.

  “You can’t explain that? Why in the name of god didn’t you call the police?” asked Bransford through gritted teeth. The police chief sat, watching all of this unfold, his neck cords pulsing with tension.

  “Men like you won’t understand this,” said Lorenzo, “but my readings suggested she was in trouble. The constellation of her cards worried me deeply. Several times the Devil turned up in combination with the Tower. And I began to see her surrounded with a bright red aura. And that image got stronger and so powerful, those minutes I was in her home. I was afraid for her life and all I could think was to protect her.”

  “You’re right,” said Bransford. “We don’t understand that. Because a normal person would consider the fact that this woman was a thief, best case. And in the worse case, a murderer.”

  Lorenzo shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “See, the police department can’t operate on the basis of woo-woo hunches,” Bransford said. He waited a moment. “Can you explain how the bloody fork got into the Dumpster where our officers recovered it later that same evening? Wrapped in your tablecloth?” Emphasis on the words bloody and your. He was such a bully. And poor Lorenzo was shrinking into his chair.

  “I can’t explain that. After I left her home, I pedaled home on Olivia Street,” said Lorenzo, his voice a whisper. “Officers were stopping people at the corner of Eisenhower, but I was too upset to talk to anyone. I could only think things would get worse if they learned I’d been in her home. How would I ever explain?”

  And now the heads of all three policemen were nodding.

  “Help us understand your relationship to Bart Frontgate,” said the detective. “There are video cameras on Mallory Square; you must know this. We saw you fighting with him just last week.”

  Lorenzo turned practically purple and fluttered his eyes. “Everybody fought with him—he was a most annoying man.”

  “What was your disagreement about?”

  Lorenzo folded his hands on the table. “He was harassing one of my clients.”

  “Cheryl Lynn Dickenson?” Torrence asked.

  Lorenzo nodded.

  Bransford again: “So you were worried about her and went to her home. Is it possible that you wanted to save her, and this incident with stabbing Bart happened by accident? Is it possible that you blacked out and don’t remember the sequence of events? A neighbor saw you leaving her home right before the fork was discovered.”

  “That’s preposterous,” I said. “You’re fishing now.”

  “Then how did I drag his body to the bight?” asked Lorenzo, his eyes blazing. “And I can tell you right now, I do not own a boat.”

  “A very good question,” said Bransford. “And I don’t recall mentioning a boat.” He looked at the other two cops and then back at us. “We are going to place your friend under arrest. Thank you for delivering him. Say your good-byes and the lieutenant will escort you out.”

  “But he told you everything—he didn’t do anything wrong,” Miss Gloria protested.

  I squeezed her hand. “We need to go. He’ll be okay. They won’t do anything awful to him, because they know we’d investigate and scream bloody murder.” I wished I’d used a different description. “Detective Bransford sounds like a tyrant, but this department knows better than to let him run the whole show.” I glared at Bransford and then said to Miss Gloria, “We can be more useful if we go home and find him a lawyer.”

  “Call my mother, too?” Lorenzo asked. “Tell her where I am. She won’t be surprised. But please, she doesn’t need the gory details.”

  We both hugged Lorenzo, and then Lieutenant Torrence ushered us to the ground floor and out into the night. “I promise I’ll call you with any news I can share,” he said. “It feels lousy, I know, but you did the right thing.”


  “You’re right, it feels lousy,” I said, my voice cool and unfriendly.

  “What’s on your calendar for tomorrow?” I asked Miss Gloria on the way home. Just to make conversation, because she must have been feeling as flattened with exhaustion and disappointment as I was. I would not soon forget the haunted look in Lorenzo’s eyes as we left him with the phalanx of cops.

  “Now that I know my way around the cemetery pretty well, I’ve started studying the meaning of the symbols on the gravestones,” she said, her face brightening. “I’ll be the only guide who can give a tour on that subject. Would you come over tomorrow for half an hour to listen to my talk? I know you don’t like the cemetery as much as I do.”

  “You got that right,” I said. “We’ll be spending enough time in a cemetery for the rest of eternity. Why start early?” I forced a laugh.

  Once we were settled back on the boat, I called Wally to tell him my article would be a day late because of Lorenzo’s situation. I vaguely hoped he’d be bubbling with warmth or even offer to come over or take me out for a bite to eat or a nightcap—anything, really, that would demonstrate the spark that Lorenzo inferred was missing. But instead, he seemed distracted and distant.

  “I’m glad the right thing was done,” he said after hearing my story. “Don’t forget the staff meeting tomorrow. You can bring the piece then.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said. “I was thinking about interviewing the owner of the floating restaurant before I write that review up—maybe ask him about what the permit process was like and get a statement from him about his exemption from the restaurant statutes. What do you think?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “We’ll talk with Palamina about it tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” I said, staving off the end of the conversation. “You were right on that. And you missed the most amazing cake.”

  “I’m sure it was delicious,” he said. “Have a good night.” And hung up.

  Then I called Eric, feeling really blue. “Lorenzo needs a lawyer,” I said flatly. “The cops have him.”

  Once I had gotten the name of the lawyer Eric had used last year, and given him a brief rundown on the day’s activities, I considered calling Mom. She’d be sick about Lorenzo’s arrest. And then she’d ask about Wally. And talking about the coldness that had permeated the conversation with him would only make it feel more real. I’d phone her tomorrow.

  17

  The flat-footed key lime pie should be repaired or replaced, and the poached fruit in a moat of sparkling wine was a little too Ladies Who Lunch for me.

  —Pete Wells, “Expressing Himself with Joy,” The New York Times

  The next day dawned crisp and slightly brisk, with enough sun that the mercury would probably hit eighty by noon. There had been no news from Lorenzo, but I didn’t expect any. I could picture him in his orange jumpsuit behind bars at the jail, a target for derision and bullying from other more seasoned and hardened inmates. Hopefully Eric’s lawyer would manage an arraignment sometime today and extract him out of that awful prison.

  I texted the owner of the floating restaurant, telling him I’d like to meet with him that morning to take a few photos before the review went live, and that I would love to chat with him for a few follow-up questions if he was available.

  I had no idea what might be going on with Wally, but at least I could keep my i’s dotted and t’s crossed on the business side of things. Palamina had said she wanted photos, so she’d get them. Still, it seemed wrong to wait for her stamp of approval on every idea I had. This regime wasn’t turning out to be that much of an improvement on the last.

  Edwin Mastin texted me right back with a resounding yes. The truth is, most people in the business of selling something are desperate for publicity. I thought of an old advertising slogan: “Even bad publicity is good publicity.” Or was it the best publicity is bad publicity? It didn’t matter: He was eager to talk to me and maybe I could slip a few questions in about how well he knew the Gates family and Bart’s history on the island while I was at it.

  He was waiting for me on the dock in front of For Goodness’ Sake, along with his wife. I snapped a few photos so I wouldn’t be caught in a lie about the purpose of my visit. “Good morning,” I called brightly.

  “And it is a beauty.” Edwin grinned. “But then it’s almost always a good morning on this island.” He pointed to three chairs set up on the deck with a primo view of the harbor, facing toward Edel’s restaurant, the Bistro on the Bight. “I thought we should take advantage of the weather and chat out here.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve joined you,” said Olivia in a wistful voice.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  We took our places and Edwin signaled for a man in a long white apron to bring us coffee—café con leche in white china cups with anchors drawn in the foam, and a small bowl of brown sugar cubes.

  “Such a wonderful setting and such service,” I said, tipping my face toward the sun. “This is almost too pretty to drink.” I dropped two cubes in my coffee, stirred, and took a sip. “That’s delicious. Thank you.”

  “So how did you like your meal the other night?” Edwin asked after a few minutes of small talk. He reached over to put a firm hand on my elbow. “And don’t feel you have to sugarcoat it. We know we have things to work on.”

  Olivia nodded gravely. “We want this place to be the best it can be.”

  I hemmed a little, then decided honesty was best. “First let me say I’m not a huge fan of Japanese food. I’m afraid I was ruined by years at the local Japanese steakhouse—anything too authentic seems odd. And I’ll say that in the review and talk about how I try not to let my personal preferences color my opinions.”

  Edwin shook his head with a wry smile and took his wife’s hand, her long, delicate fingers disappearing into his meaty fist. “But that’s not really possible, is it?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said, smiling at her. “We loved the burger; that was probably our favorite. Not so crazy about the bento box.”

  “We’re taking that off the menu,” she said. “Though we’ve had experience with authentic Japanese food, we shouldn’t overreach.”

  “People don’t necessarily visit Key West to have their palates stretched,” said Edwin. “But we figured we’d start casting the net wide and then close in on the choices that people enjoyed most.”

  I nodded, though if I’d had a restaurant, I would have done it the other way around—start smaller, with perfectly executed dishes, and then try some more experimental food. But it wasn’t my place. So I went on to describe the dishes we enjoyed, and which others, not so much. Edwin jotted a few phrases into his phone as I talked. This was not normal food-critic protocol, discussing a review ahead of time with the owners. Far from it—it probably bordered on unprofessional. But this wasn’t a normal situation, either. Lorenzo was in jail, accused of murder. And I would go to whatever lengths it took to help clear his name.

  “I was walking through the cemetery the other day,” I said, looking at Edwin, “and I could see that you’ve come from one of the original Key West families. So you probably have some perspective about the ups and downs on this island.”

  “I don’t know about perspective,” he said. “But we sure have been here forever.”

  “Forever,” Olivia echoed. “Sometimes I think it’s past time we left—started somewhere fresh.”

  “Sounds like you have a question?” Edwin asked.

  “One of my friends is implicated in the Bart Frontgate matter. I wondered if you had any thoughts about what happened or why Bart was killed.”

  Edwin plucked at his shirt, scraping off a splatter of something that resembled mustard. He looked up and smiled. “Sorry. I was helping the chef this morning and I should’ve put on an apron.”

  “I tell him that every time,” said Olivia fondly, brushing at his collar. “But does he ever listen?”

  “Frontgate has always been an enigma,�
� Edwin said. “He wanted to be a star, but he never wanted to really work through channels.” He rubbed his chin, gazing across the water. “I don’t think he realized that he’d never achieve rock-star status as a street performer at Sunset.” He looked back at me. “You probably know he insisted on that primo spot on the square.”

  I nodded. “I saw the memorial after they found his body in the water—with all the notes and flowers. Although by yesterday, already a new set of performers had taken over his section.”

  “It’s valuable real estate. All real estate is valuable by definition on an island. Because it’s finite. I bet we’ve got more real estate agents per square inch than anyplace else in America. All squabbling over the same high-end homes. Why should it be different with performers?”

  “Or restaurants,” I said, my eyebrows arcing.

  “Touché.” He laughed.

  “But as you were saying,” I said.

  “He was not a nice man,” said Olivia.

  Edwin patted her back. “Agreed. As I was saying, he was a robber, really. I heard from my friend Rick—the guy who performs with Snorkel the Pig—that he put in an order for a Vietnamese potbelly himself. That’s the best example I have. He sees how someone else is succeeding and tries to snatch it away from them. Or saw, I should say. The whole thing is very sad. But what else could you expect from a group of people who teeter on the edge of sanity?”

  Which seemed a little harsh from one local to another, but why would I expect them all to pull together? “Enough about Bart. Last thing I wanted to ask was about the process of getting approval for a floating restaurant. I’ve seen quite a few articles protesting the food trucks, but not so much publicity about your concept.”

  “Her highness excepted,” Olivia said, ducking her chin at Edel’s place across the harbor. “We haven’t gotten complaints because we’ve worked hard at doing everything by the book. Health inspections, workers’ compensation—all that good stuff.”

  “The only thing we’ve skirted—and I can say this to you because it’s not a secret—is the Historical Architecture Review Board,” Edwin said as he shrugged. “Ms. Waugh would have skipped that, too, if there had been any way to work it out.”