Of course, the caterer had seemed like a slam dunk. Who made better food than my own mother? But I didn’t want her and Sam to be slaving in the kitchen instead of enjoying the wedding. Luckily, Irena and Maria and their extended family, Cuban-Americans who had worked for my mother on the Little White House event last winter, had stepped up instantly to offer their services. I had had a hand in solving their relative’s murder, and they were eager to help us in return. Our wedding food would reflect all the things I loved most about this island—the seafood, the tropical flavors, and a little dash of Cuba.
Nathan had insisted that all this was fine, he truly didn’t have a preference. He only wanted me to be completely happy. As long as we served enough food to satisfy all the guests and enough wine to make them giddy without endangering their drives home or attracting negative attention from local cops, he’d be content. He hadn’t wanted to discuss his first wedding in much detail, other than to say it was a dog-and-pony show that had cost a good chunk of his ex-wife’s family fortune, not to mention goodwill between him and his in-laws. Not a great way to start a marriage. Miss Gloria had encouraged me to run a Google search looking for the announcement of his previous wedding so we could get the dope on the story. But then we’d both come to the conclusion that that would be a breach of trust, not to mention bordering on stalker-creepy.
As usual, just being near the water calmed me down a little, allowing me to believe that this was indeed the right choice for our wedding ceremony. Our wedding ceremony. Yikes. Those three words brought back all the anxiety that the sounds of sloshing water had drained away. I parked my scooter and walked out to the point, where the beach met a large rock jetty and where cruise ships and other larger boats found the channel deep enough to allow them safe passage through the reefs surrounding Key West.
Before I arrived in town, one set of city commissioners had lobbied to dredge the channel deeper so that even bigger cruise ships could dock at our island. But the local residents rose up and rejected that proposal. Living wasn’t always easy here, where one set of interests was often knocking into the interests of others, such as the rich people versus the homeless. The year-round working people versus the snowbirds who fluttered down for the winter season. The people with deep ties to business versus the people whose hearts were tethered to the environment. I supposed this might be true of anywhere I chose to live, but the small size of the island and the fragility of its vegetation and wildlife, and even the island culture, made the outcome of these struggles feel more poignant.
Steve Torrence appeared behind me and startled me out of my thoughts.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said.
“Let’s hope it can hold until next weekend,” I said. “Probably won’t.”
“Oh,” he said, circling his arm around my shoulders. “You’re getting married, my friend—this is supposed to be a joyous time. I hope this isn’t evidence of a downward spiral inside your head.”
“Hope not,” I said, and then pecked him on the cheek, just happy to be enveloped by his friendly aura. “But it’s been a weird weekend. Have you ever had a day where it seems that everyone you meet either lies to you or is hiding something?”
“Are you kidding? You’re talking about the life of a police officer. Out on the streets, people lie just for the sport of it.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Don’t tell me this is about Nathan.”
“He doesn’t reveal enough for it to constitute a lie.” I laughed but without a lot of mirth behind it.
“Remember what I said about that yesterday …”
“I know, talk to him directly if I’m upset about something. And I will. But he’s so wrapped up in whatever case he’s got going on. What does he have going on?” I did not think he’d answer this, but he wouldn’t hold it against me for asking.
“I’d tell you if I could. And he’ll tell you when he can.”
“Is he safe?”
“He’s doing everything in his power to keep himself safe, as well as the people around him. That’s always our first concern. And really, we go through so much training, physical and mental, that it’s hard to get the best of us.” He tapped one fist to chest and the other on his head.
I heaved a great sigh. “I think this food tour death has gotten to me. I’m worried about everything and everybody.”
“That must’ve been a terrible thing to witness.”
“It was. And then I met with the widowed husband for coffee.” I held my hand out. “Don’t get upset. I didn’t go looking for this, but he was desperate for someone to talk with who’d been there. He seemed so horribly sad. Even so, I felt that he was lying to me the whole time we were chatting. But why lie to me? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Often it has to do with the person who’s lying rather than the person they are hiding something from. Could he be holding back some kind of truth about himself that he thinks would look ugly in the light of another person’s eyes?”
I nodded. This sounded both right and familiar. And it would help explain why he was hoping his wife had been murdered.
“The problem is that secrets grow poisonous after a while and begin to leak,” he said. “Toxic spills.”
“Speaking of toxic, I think the chef at Isle Cook Key West believes the woman’s death was her fault,” I said.
“Food poisoning?”
“Maybe, but maybe not accidental. Have you heard anything new about cause of death?”
“Natural causes, that’s all I’ve heard so far,” he said, pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “Tell me more.”
“She won’t talk to you—she’ll barely talk to me. So I’m telling you this in a strictly confidential way.” I fluffed up my hair, which had been flattened from my helmet. “And I chatted with her bosses on the way out. They are understandably concerned about their business; they don’t want to get a rap for food poisoning or something worse. I’m sure all the restaurants on the tour are worried.”
Steve frowned, slid off his glasses, and replaced them with sunglasses. “The cops are looking into all of this. Think about it, Hayley, if she didn’t want to tell you something and she refuses to talk to the police department at all, what are the chances she did something illegal?”
He waited until I nodded.
“Pretty good I, suppose,” I said. “But like what? She wouldn’t have poisoned her own customer. Who would do something like that?”
“Supposing they had a connection from the past? Supposing she’s been planning this since, well, since forever. Or supposing she’d planned a prank and it went badly south?”
“But how would Martha even have known that Audrey was in town? According to her husband, Audrey was a last-minute addition to the trip.”
“And you’ve already said you felt like he was lying or hiding something as he talked to you. You can’t absorb everything that someone says and assume that it’s true. As cops, we assume there are always other sides to what a witness or suspect is telling us, many shades of truth. As you gather data, one version begins to stand out as more true than the others.”
This seemed right to me. I’d done the same thing myself, the data-gathering bit, and seen my psychologist friend Eric build his understanding of his patients brick by brick this way, too. I nodded again to signal that I agreed with his thoughts.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Please don’t get more involved. You did the right thing, trying to convince the chef to talk with me. You’ll call me the instant you hear anything new?” he asked.
“Of course. And please do the same?”
He nodded. “If I can. No promises.”
Which I didn’t like, but I understood. “Enough about that,” I said. “We were going to go over the ceremony and get ready for the rehearsal.” I glanced over at him, and we started to walk toward the point where the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico came together, where our ceremony would take place. A suitable metaphor for joining me and Nathan together—the results could be a little bumpy, but
exciting. “I know this isn’t quite normal, rehearsing the rehearsal. I suspect it’s downright neurotic.”
He smiled, “You’re right. I wouldn’t do this for everyone. But you’re a special friend and so is Nathan. And you seem so anxious that I’m happy to help. What do we need to work on?”
“Most of the planning is easy—I stayed with tradition,” I said. “Nathan goes up the aisle first, along with you. And the two of you stand there flexing your cop muscles and looking handsome while the music plays.”
He laughed and pumped his bicep and patted his six-pack abs.
“Then my mother and Sam walk up and take seats. Then Ray helps his daughter strew the basket of petals. That will be so cute. Unless she melts down. With a toddler, that’s always a possibility.” I fanned my face with my hand, thinking I shouldn’t have taken any chances with this wedding. I should have gone simpler. Like eloping.
“What’s the backup plan if she falls apart?” Torrence asked patiently, pulling my mind back to the facts.
“Her mom, Connie, will be right behind her. So if the baby starts to shriek, she scoops her up and they come down together. And Connie always carries emergency snacks like Cheerios and fruit pouches. And I’m sure she’ll have the baby take a nap before the wedding.”
“Perfect,” he said. “Then you and your father, right? Sounds like you’ve thought everything through. But … you still look worried.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip. “Will it hurt Sam’s feelings if he’s not more involved in the actual ceremony? He is the one married to my mother.”
“On the other hand, they haven’t been married very long,” Torrence said. “And he wasn’t around during the time she was raising you, right? And he seems like a lovely man who doesn’t easily take offense.”
“All true,” I said, my mind catching on something he’d said. “My mother had the most to do with raising me, so why isn’t she walking me down the aisle? Why does she end up sitting on the sidelines watching my father walk me to the altar?”
He shrugged and I grabbed him for a quick hug, feeling a thousand pounds lighter. “I think that’s the missing piece. Thanks.” I hugged him again and left him looking befuddled as I trotted back to my scooter and headed toward my lobster mission.
* * *
Eaton Street is one of the busiest streets in Key West. Lots of tourists arrive in town on this route, as well as workers and delivery trucks and gigantic buses that sail around the curve from the Palm Avenue bridge. The road is narrow and runs two ways, making it utterly unsuitable for those tourists on wobbly bicycles who choose to navigate the street along with cars, trucks, and scooters. All in all, not the setting you might choose for an outdoor café. But if the food is good enough, I’ve realized, people will eat anywhere, particularly for lunch.
The Eaton Street Seafood Market is located inside what used to be a gas station, decorated with white art deco–style stucco with pink piping. This store serves fresh fish from local fishermen, and had recently added an outdoor café. It was here that we had enjoyed our Key West pink shrimp during the tour. One of the owners was replacing a sun umbrella as I parked my scooter.
“Miss Gloria called about the lobster,” he said before I could greet him. “They’re holding it for you inside—with her special discount, of course. I tried to talk her into the Key West pinks because the lobster is so pricey right now. But then she explained what you’re making. What time is dinner?” He winked and grinned. Then his face got somber. “You were on the tour the other day when that woman took ill. So tragic,” he said. “Hopefully it wasn’t a seafood allergy. But why you would take a seafood tour if you were allergic to the stuff, I can’t imagine.”
“I haven’t heard a word about an allergy. Her husband was told it was a stroke,” I said, glad he had brought it up so I didn’t have to find a way to finesse the subject. “Do you remember noticing anything off about her when we were here? We stopped at the brewery right after we ate your shrimp, and that’s where she collapsed.” I realized too late that he might take that as an accusation.
“After we delivered your pinks, I went back to work on the umbrellas,” he said, gesturing at the canvas shading the tables on the sidewalk. “Hurricane Irma shredded our other umbrellas, and out here, we need the shade or our diners wilt. And it was very busy with other lunch customers that day. All that to say, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. But from what I remember, she seemed fine. And nobody else got sick, right? If the shrimp had been off, everyone who ate it would’ve gotten sick.”
“They tasted great,” I said quickly. “And I remember her looking fine too. Call me if you think of anything that stands out?” I asked, handing him one of my Key Zest cards with my cell phone on it.
Then I went inside to collect the lobster and pay for it, learning that Miss Gloria had already given her credit card over the phone. I buzzed home, parked the scooter, and approached the houseboat, prepared to apologize again. But the door to Miss Gloria’s room was still shut tight. She wasn’t the type to sulk, so I assumed she was taking one of her senior-citizen power naps.
I stashed the lobster in the fridge, put a pot of water on to boil, and began to shred cheddar, Parmesan, and Gruyère cheeses. After sautéing a small chopped shallot and a few mashed cloves of garlic in butter, I added flour to the flavored butter and began to stir in milk. Once the roux thickened, I added the cheeses. When the pasta was cooked to al dente and the cream sauce thick and cheesy, I mixed it all together with the lobster meat, topped it with buttered panko crumbs, and popped the pan into the oven.
Then I texted my gym trainer Leigh and told her I would need to lose five to seven pounds in the next day’s workout. She messaged back quickly with a horrified emoji face, and suggested I bring her some of whatever high-calorie treat I was making.
The house phone rang and I snatched it up. Collect call again; this time I accepted quickly. “I’m sure you’re looking for Miss Gloria,” I said. “So sorry about the misunderstanding this morning.” I set the phone on the counter and went down the hall to roust my roommate out of her room. She emerged blinking and headed directly to the phone.
“Odom, how are you? I’m sorry my roommate hung up on you earlier.” She listened for a moment and then laughed and listened again, turning away from me. I could hear only her side of the conversation, which consisted of a lot of mm-hmms, reallys, and thank yous.
She turned back to me when she was finished. “He hasn’t heard anything about someone tracking Chef Martha. But he’s got feelers out and will call back if does. Other than that, there is apparently a lot going on around this island—smugglers, both human and drugs, he thinks, plus some bad dudes moving down here for the winter. Neither of which has anything to do with your question.”
“Thank you,” I said, and then after a pause, added, “I’m so sorry if I sounded judgmental about your son. I had no idea.” Tears pricked my eyes and hers looked a little damp too. “I’d love to hear about him if you’re willing to tell me.”
She sank down onto the couch and patted the cushion beside her, reaching for my hand. “It’s so hard, you know, because you love these small beings more than life itself. You gave them life, and then they grow up and become separate little humans, and you nudge them out into the world like a little floating candle on the river, with so many hopes and dreams attached. But sometimes strong currents or storms come up and they get pushed away from the path you set them on and you’re terrified their light will get blown out.”
She took a shuddering breath. “You’ll see one day when you have a child.”
“If,” I said with a smile.
“You will.” She grinned back. “First of all, your mother will get grandmother fever and the pressure will mount and mount. And you’ll want to pass on Nathan’s gorgeous eyes to a baby.”
“And my grandmother’s recipe box when the green-eyed tyke gets old enough,” I said. “But go on. Please tell me about your son. This isn’t Frank, right?”
“It’s so hard to worry from a distance,” he’d said. Miss Gloria generally traveled up to Michigan to see them for a couple of weeks every summer, but none of her family had come to Key West since I’d known her.
“She’s amazing,” I remembered telling him. “Some days she has more energy than I do. And her mind is razor sharp. I promise I will look after her and let you know if anything changes.” I didn’t tell him that as often as I looked after her, she watched over me too.
“James. My second,” she said, drawing my attention back to our conversation. “He was always so sweet and soft—a real-life cuddle bear.” She held her arms to her chest, as if rocking an infant. “I fear I babied him more than I should have. He was very sensitive about criticism, so we probably said less to him than we did to Frank, who could roll with any feedback, absorb it, and come out stronger.”
I nodded and waited, allowing her all the room she needed to tell me as much or as little as she wanted.
“Anyway, it was white-collar crime. Nothing vicious or physical, thank goodness. That would’ve been so hard to live with.” She sighed and plucked at a glittery thread that had come loose on her sweatshirt. “Harder. He worked for an accounting firm, and he siphoned off money from his clients. Small amounts at first, and then when he didn’t get caught, the numbers got bigger. He married a woman who wanted the best of everything—more than they could reasonably afford.” She looked at me intently. “I tried very hard to get along with her, but we could tell right from the start—how much her family spent on the wedding—that she had big eyes and was full of envy. She was deeply disappointed in what we offered for the rehearsal dinner.” She sighed, remembering the pain. “Over time, he fell behind on his mortgage and his credit cards, and the ‘borrowed’ money floated him out of trouble. Until he got caught.”
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