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

by Burdette, Lucy

  After I wrapped things up with the Mastins, I motored over to the Key Zest office. Only Danielle had arrived, which surprised me.

  “Wally and Palamina had a business coffee this morning with the chamber of commerce,” she informed me. “But they’ll be back by ten for the meeting.”

  I grabbed a glazed doughnut from the platter on her desk and went down to my office nook to work. I tweaked the rough draft of “Paradise Lunched,” summarizing the food from my visit to Firefly—which seemed like weeks ago—and yesterday’s outing at Azur. Then I roughed in the section on the Vegetarian Café. I’d had lunch there with Lorenzo last week, so at least for this draft version, I could visualize and write up a few of the dishes we’d actually eaten. The bartender and the waitress had been so happy to see Lorenzo. They delivered extra artichokes on his pizza and a plate of sweet potato fries on the house. The memory made me heavy with sadness, rather than hungry, as I might have expected.

  After finishing that work, I e-mailed the whole thing to Wally and Palamina. Then I thought about what Mastin had said regarding Bart and the other performing artists living on the edge of reality. Key West is definitely a place of flux, and in flux tempers can rise. But considering what I’d heard from the Florida history librarian, hadn’t that always been so? Wasn’t there always some new group discovering paradise and wanting to grasp it and keep it for themselves?

  Twenty minutes later, my shoulders tensed reflexively as I heard Wally and Palamina come in. And then Danielle called down the hall to say the meeting was starting. I joined them in Wally’s office, which appeared to be the office of both Wally and Palamina at this point. WallyandPalamina: one word, like a wedding couple’s Web site. I pushed away a flicker of jealousy. The two of them were positively bubbling about the chamber of commerce meeting.

  “I don’t know why we never thought of this before,” said Wally. He smiled at Palamina. “Brilliant idea: They loved us.”

  “They did love us,” she agreed. “Because they are all about celebrating the city of Key West and drawing in new people, and so are we.” She raised her hands over her head and waved them from side to side. “Wheeee!” Then she cleared her throat. “But back to business. Hayley, tell us about your articles for this week’s issue.”

  “I’m just about finished with ‘Paradise Lunched,’ which by the way is a brilliant title; thank you,” I told Palamina. Buttering her up couldn’t hurt. Right? She certainly liked it when Wally called her brilliant. “I sent you the draft. If I have time, I’ll make one more stop at the Vegetarian Café, although I could practically recite what’s on the menu without going.” I grinned at Wally, who’d eaten there with me more than once. His return smile was barely there. “And I’ve made good progress on For Goodness’ Sake. In fact, I stopped by for an impromptu visit this morning just to chat with the owners about what it’s like setting up a floating restaurant.” I paused and bit my lip. “I kind of had to tell them about what I’m putting in the review, but that won’t change what I was going to say. Not much, anyway.”

  “Hmm,” said Palamina, nibbling on her own lip. “That’s not what Paul Woolston would do, I don’t think.”

  The restaurant critic for the New York Times. Invoking his name in a critical comment gave it much more heft than it would have otherwise.

  She wrinkled her forehead and looked at Wally. “Do you feel it’s okay to run it if she’s contaminated the facts?”

  “I don’t think ‘contaminated’ is quite fair or accurate,” I protested.

  “It will be fine,” Wally said. “Hayley has good judgment in these things, and if we don’t like it there’s always a red pencil.”

  They snickered together and went on with the agenda, Wally and Palamina clicking through the bullet points. Even Danielle was full of ideas. She’d been working on the e-zine’s Pinterest boards and was especially proud of one called “Key West, the Character.”

  “Take lots of photos when you’re out doing research,” Palamina told me. “Danielle can use some help in this area.” I nodded and scribbled a note to myself. Team player. Buck up, cheer up, and take pix. WallyPalaminaDanielleHayley. I’d be all over it.

  “You’re so quiet, Hayley,” said Danielle. “Everything okay?”

  “Stomach’s a little queasy after last night. Probably got a bad clam.”

  “Where did you eat?” Her carefully shaped brows drew together with concern.

  “It’s a metaphor,” I said, and smiled with hearty reassurance. “I’ll be fine.”

  When the meeting had concluded, everyone full of excitement except perhaps for me, Danielle excused herself to run to a doctor’s appointment, and Palamina hurried off for her meeting with one of the city commissioners.

  “Could I have a word with you?” Wally asked as I started toward my office cubby.

  “Sure,” I said, and sat back down in the chair where Palamina had been sitting. My chair, before she came on board.

  He got up and closed the door behind me. “I’d like to put something out there. It’s not written in stone, but I thought I should tell you where I am.”

  My stomach clenched up and I knotted my hands together, trying to keep a neutral expression. Something rotten was coming. “Sure, I always want to hear what you’re thinking.”

  He nodded and tweaked his lips into something resembling a smile. “I think we should call off the personal relationship between us right now. Concentrate on business.”

  “Oh my god,” I burst out before I could think. “Are you seeing Palamina?”

  “Oh, Hayley.” He reached across the desk and took my hands and squeezed. “Of course I’m not seeing anyone else. Certainly not Palamina. That’s not it at all.” He sat back in his chair. “I just feel like now is not the time for us. Key Zest could really be on the cusp of something special. I feel more excited about our magazine than I ever have. And I want you to be part of the team. And I don’t think our relationship and Key Zest can work together. Surely you see it, too?”

  How could I answer? I obviously couldn’t beg him to reconsider and not drop me like a steaming spud. And besides, all the things between us that we hadn’t addressed were flashing through my mind. His mother sick, mine very much alive and needy. My job hanging on Palamina’s approval, his secure. And the balance of power that could never be quite right between us, with me as employee and him as boss. And the heat between us fading like a tableside flambé.

  And, I had to admit, I loved him as a boss: funny, insightful, brimming with new angles and appreciation for my work and my humor. As a boyfriend, he hadn’t really stepped up.

  “I see it,” I said. “I’m just sad about it. That’s all.” And then I got up and walked out.

  18

  You can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn’t make them biscuits.

  —Traditional Southern saying

  Walking down the short hall to my office, I could hardly catch my breath. I snatched up my backpack and hurried down the stairs, fast enough that my friend Cory in the real estate office below couldn’t flag me down for a chat. As I ran, I thought about where I might go and not run into a bunch of people I knew, and then be forced to make pleasant chitchat about anything at all.

  The West Martello Tower gardens on the Atlantic Ocean came to mind. This is one of the most peaceful spots on the island, with an amazing display of tropical foliage overlooking a small beach and then the long turquoise stretch of the Atlantic Ocean. The surrounding beaches and streets would be teeming with visitors, but I should be able to find a solitary spot in this garden. I buzzed over on my scooter and at the entry to the fort, pushed past a small group of elderly tourists and into the thickly planted recesses of the grounds.

  Barely registering the blooming orchids and the grand old trees and the weathered brick remains of the fort overlooking the Atlantic, I sat on one of the stone benches for a while, trying to inhale the calm and push thoughts about Wally and Lorenzo out of my head. A phone call came in from my mother, b
ut I let it go to voice mail.

  Half an hour later, feeling a little more normal and collected, I bit the bullet and called Mom to explain what had gone on with Lorenzo the night before.

  After a string of worried questions, most of which I couldn’t answer, she asked, “Where are you now? Make sure you give that sweet Wally a hug for me and tell him I asked about his mother.”

  “Will do, but I’m taking my coffee break at West Martello garden,” I said. “Say, you and Sam should put this place on your list of possibilities for your wedding. They have the cutest little gazebo overlooking the water. But it’s pretty inside, too, all red brick with tons of orchids, in case you hit bad weather on your big day.”

  “I am a million miles from wedding planning,” my mother said. “At this point in our lives, we’ll be thrilled to make it to the grocery store. I suspect you and Wally will get to the altar well before we do.”

  “Doubtful.”

  She shifted into doting and psychic mother mode. “Oh, sweetie. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing really.” I sighed. “Literally nothing. I’m pretty sure I’ve been dumped, but so nicely that I can’t be sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I figure that out.” Obviously, I had been dumped. But it seemed better all around to ease her into this news.

  She uttered some reassurances that neither of us believed, and then more credit to her, she signed off rather than quiz me about the details of what had just happened. We hung up and I left the calm of the garden to head over to the cemetery—a different and less comfortable kind of quiet.

  I waited for Miss Gloria at the sexton’s office as we’d planned. The cemetery is larger than you might imagine, crisscrossed by a grid of roads covering a big city block. So no point in striking off to hunt for her; there was nothing to do but wait. I texted her in case she’d brought her phone and tried not to think about what had happened in the staff meeting. I inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass, listened for the sound of a leaf blower in the distance, and felt the sun beat down on my head.

  But my inner child wanted to scream, “I’ve been dumped—it’s not fair!” over and over and over. I pushed the thoughts away again, this time trying one of Lorenzo’s techniques—something he would suggest to his clients while he was shuffling his deck of cards. A meditation of gratitude.

  “Think of all the people in your life for whom you are grateful,” he’d say, “and notice them one by one in your mind.”

  My mother. My father and stepmother. Mom’s boyfriend, Sam. My stepbrother, Rory. Miss Gloria. My friends Connie and Ray. Wally.

  Tears immediately welled up in my eyes. Before I could start bawling and embarrass myself in public, I spotted Miss Gloria making her way down the path that led to the office.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she called, breathless. “I was having a little chat with Jane about reconstruction of some of the monuments and where my money could be best used if I leave them some funds in my will.”

  I groaned. “That gloomy thinking again.”

  “No,” she said, “it’s thinking ahead. Everyone should do it, even a young sprite like you.”

  “I can barely keep track of what’s on my plate in the here and now, never mind the hereafter,” I said, giving her a little squeeze as we began to walk. “So tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “It’s very cool,” she said, her white curls bobbing with energy. “Almost like reading Lorenzo’s tarot cards. You can kind of tell what was on people’s minds, and how they felt about the deceased person, and how well they had worked through the grief about the death. The saddest monuments are erected after a child has been lost. The carved lambs and cherubs.”

  “Terrible,” I said. “I can’t imagine.”

  “The saddest one in the whole cemetery may be the angel facing the cherub across a plot of stones. Do you remember seeing that?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe you’ll take me by.”

  “The angel sits on Mary Navarro’s tomb. She was only forty-four when she went. But her daughter died four years earlier, at the age of nine. So the tomb reads, ‘To the sacred memory of a brokenhearted mother.’”

  “That’s brutal,” I said, following her down a worn path shielded by shade trees and bristling with bromeliads. How I wished she’d taken a normal volunteer job, like helping with the Friends of the Library’s book sale or the animal shelter or even showing off gold coins and other treasure at the Mel Fisher Museum, for heaven’s sake.

  “I was sad when my sweet Gordon died,” Miss Gloria went on, “but he had a good life and we had a good, long marriage. But a baby, oh my. That child never had a chance to figure out the first thing about life. Who she should be and where she might go.” She whirled around, narrowed her eyes, and took my hand. “Imagine what your mother would have missed, never seeing the woman you turned out to be. What a talented and loving person you are. I feel that way and I’m not your mother. I’m your roommate.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and swung out ahead of me. “Come on, I’ll show you the angel.”

  This was turning out to be a very emotional day.

  After she described the meaning of the sculptures and engravings on half a dozen monuments, we approached the double family plot where I’d seen the iguana yesterday. The gamey smell seemed to have grown stronger, strong enough to make me gag.

  “Something smells awful,” I said. “And this heat isn’t helping.”

  “Iguana poop,” said Miss Gloria.

  “It would have to be one of heck of a big reptile, a lot bigger than the one that scared me yesterday. Do you smell it? It’s like something died here.” I covered my nose with my hand. “Unless a whole pack of the darn things moved in overnight.”

  “It does smell funky,” said Miss Gloria, pinching her nostrils together.

  I pointed to the crypt, close to ground level, where the cement had heaved, leaving the opening.

  “Maybe I should call Jane over to check it out,” Miss Gloria said.

  “I’ll run up and get her,” I said.

  “It’ll be faster if I text her,” said Miss Gloria. She whipped her phone out of a voluminous pocket and tip-tapped furiously on the keyboard with a little stylus. Within minutes, Jane arrived at the grave and Miss Gloria explained that it appeared the odor under the tomb had gotten stronger.

  “I saw our gravediggers and that nice stone mason, Isaac, working on the other side of the cemetery about an hour ago,” Miss Gloria said to Jane. “Can we ask them to come over and see if they can push the cover off this crypt?”

  Jane laughed. “Nothing’s quite that simple around here. We certainly can’t dig up a grave without the owner’s permission.”

  “But what if the owner is dead?” I asked. “Isn’t that how it works by definition? The owner of the plot dies and gets buried?”

  “No, it’s the living family’s property. But I brought a flashlight,” Jane said, pulling a black light out of her backpack. “Before we make a big fuss, let’s take a look and see if we see anything.”

  We crept closer to the grave and she shone the beam into the crevice. A large green iguana darted out of the hole, causing us all to screech in unison and leap backward. I tripped over the wrought-iron gate and crashed to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Gloria asked.

  I did a quick body scan and brushed the dirt off my palms. “I’m fine—I don’t like those animals. Not up close, anyway.”

  Jane tapped a hand to her chest. “That got my heart racing.” She grinned. “So we definitely have an iguana infestation. I can call the nuisance animal patrol and see if they’ll put out some traps.” She squinted and rubbed her forehead. “But you’re right; I’ve never known them to smell this bad.”

  The cherub statue that Miss Gloria had described to me earlier flashed to mind. As the odor mushroomed, so did my imagination. I thought about the child-sized statue Miss Gloria had shown me. And then how when I was kid, I liked to hide out in small spaces that felt like private little c
aves. I studied the hole—was it possible that a small child could have crawled in and gotten trapped? I blurted out, “What if a kid hid in there and—”

  “Don’t even say it.” Miss Gloria held up her hand.

  “That’s it, I’m calling Lieutenant Torrence,” I said. “This is creeping me out. Maybe he’ll be willing to bring some officers over to take a look. Would that do the trick? Can you open a grave if the police suspect there’s a child in jeopardy?”

  “You can call,” Jane agreed with some reluctance. “It can’t hurt to have them look. The sexton’s out of town until tomorrow. I’ll let know him what’s up. And I’ll run back to the office and get the owner’s name and number. When the cops get here, if they need to do more than look, they’ll be able to call for permission to open the vault.” She started off toward the office, then turned to face us again. “Miss G, if you don’t mind, see if you can track Isaac down? It wouldn’t hurt to get his opinion about what it would take for the guys to open things up.”

  As Miss Gloria headed along the path to find Isaac the mason, I called Torrence and explained the issue.

  “Do you have any idea how busy we are here?” he said in a short voice. “I cannot possibly come to the cemetery. Every single one of my officers is out on patrol. Not just on patrol—actively working situations.”

  “Have you had any reports of missing children?”

  The silence on his end told me the answer. “I can see if Bransford has fifteen minutes.”

  I groaned.

  “It’s him or nobody.”

  “Him, then.” He might not believe I’d stumbled on a police emergency, but I felt it in every cell of my body. We could not, and should not, handle this ourselves. Someone with proper authority had to investigate.

  Miss Gloria returned with a wizened black man, as thin as a rail, with ropy arms and of uncertain age—somewhere between fifty and ninety. “This is Mr. Isaac,” she explained. “And this is my roommate, Hayley.”

  “Nice to meet you,” we said in unison.