I pulled up the calendar on my laptop and looked over my obligations for the day. Personal training at seven thirty. Ugh. As much as I’d been eating over the holidays, this calorie outgo would be a drop in the bucket. And since I’d skipped a few sessions, all the work would feel that much harder. I thought of making oatmeal with blueberries and almonds to counterbalance the heavy load of key lime pie I’d shouldered last night, but instead I poured a second cup of coffee, dosed it liberally with milk and sugar, and scrambled two eggs in a big pat of butter and popped a piece of mango bread from Cole’s Peace bakery into the toaster. I loaded up the cats’ bowl with kibble and freshened their water. Nathan must’ve given them something at whatever hour he was up and out or they would have been hollering at six AM as usual.
I absolutely had to start working on my pieces due Friday, one of which was to focus on casual eats that would be both delicious and family friendly. I would not cover the usual tourist spots like the Waterfront Brewery, Turtle Kraals, and Pepe’s, as visitors could find those without my guidance. Instead, Wally had suggested I seek out smaller venues, newer to the community, that served great food. The two I had in mind were Clemente’s pizza, which had replaced the nude-dancing-girls establishment on Fleming Street, and Oasis on White Street, featuring casual Mediterranean food. I wondered if Nathan’s mother would be willing to eat at either of those places—or enjoy them. She would have to …
Slowly, as my brain organized tasks for the day, I began to remember—and feel—the horror of yesterday’s discovery. Nathan had not left any news about the murdered woman, but I would not have expected him to. He’d let out that one little snippet about how she might have died, but nothing more. Unless the case was wrapped up and the suspect on his way to jail, he would not feel free to share details from an active police department investigation. Even if I’d been part of the discovery. I took a quick shower, twisted my hair into a knot at the back of my neck, and dressed in clothing for the gym.
Replacing my wedding ring after moisturizing my hands, I noticed the beads I’d picked up last night on the dead woman’s sidewalk. I’d dropped them into the little Japanese bowl on my bureau with the rest of the stuff from my jeans pocket. I took them over to the window to see more clearly. Yesterday I’d assumed they were made of cheap glass, like Fantasy Fest beads. But in the light of day, I could see that these were gorgeous blue stones, some carved with tiny letters in a language I didn’t recognize. Was this part of a necklace the dead woman had been wearing? Would it provide any clues to her life, or her death? Or had it been dropped by a random passerby?
I might find answers about the beads themselves at the gym. WeBeFit was a small space crammed with high-end workout equipment and bustling with personal trainers and their clients. Because of the small space, there was a continuous conversation that soared and sputtered and wove among the customers and the staff—politics both national and local, cats, the flooding of our Key West streets caused by global warming, food. It helped keep us from focusing on the pain of our sit-ups and weight-bearing repetitions, and kept the trainers from expiring of tedium.
One of the people who often worked out at the same time I did was a jeweler named Tony, an elegant older man with a mysterious past. I slipped the beautiful beads into my chest pocket and pulled the zipper tight. He knew everyone in this town, and he also knew everything there was to know about jewelry, including who might have given what to whom. I’d have him take a look and then hand everything over to Nathan when I saw him.
In the gym, a mix tape of Beatles songs was playing over the speakers. All the regular trainers were on duty along with their customers, who had probably overeaten during the holidays same as I had. I grabbed a stainless-steel water bottle from the fridge, picked my way carefully through the sweating clients, and stashed my backpack in the women’s locker area. I was a little early for my appointment, so I had time to ask my jewelry questions. Tony was performing calf-strengthening exercises under the watchful eye of his trainer.
I waited until he finished his set. “If you don’t mind, could you take a look at some beads I found on the sidewalk last night? They are so pretty and so unusual that I’d like to find the owner and return them. I realize this is a long shot, but maybe you will have seen them before?” I spread the necklace out on the desk inside the front door. Tony and his trainer and my trainer, Leigh, came over to look.
Tony studied the engraved beads without expression. “The necklace would have been valuable; you are right to want to find the owner. The stones are lapis lazuli, tiger’s-eye, and a rare blue jade. Blue tiger’s-eye is called hawk’s eye, and crystal people believe it’s helpful in reducing anxiety and fear.”
“Huh. Any idea what the engraving on the other stones means?”
He looked at me, then back at the beads. “I believe they were part of a Hindu prayer bead necklace. Old. Probably one of a kind.” He rubbed his fingers together as if he were counting the beads of a rosary.
“Have you seen something like this before?”
He shook his head. “The combination is unusual enough that I might have remembered, but I’ll look through my records.”
“He photographs everything he works on,” Leigh explained.
I took a quick picture of the beads and texted it to Tony, then continued with my workout.
After finishing up, I rushed home, dropped the beads from the necklace in the bowl on my dresser, and dressed in street clothes (a notch above what I usually wore because of Nathan’s mother). Then I drove my scooter down the island to the office.
Danielle was manning the front desk, which sat in a little bulge in the hallway that we called the reception area. Most of the work and living spaces and yards and gardens in our town were smaller than their counterparts would be on the mainland because of the space limitations that came with living on an island. And I’d grown to find that both cozy and endearing rather than claustrophobic.
“They’re waiting for you,” she said. “No one’s out of sorts about anything in particular, as far as I can tell.” She winked and made a face.
Both of my bosses, Wally and Palamina, tended toward moodiness in their own way. I counted on Danielle’s people-reading expertise as a friendly barometer. I tapped on their door and went in. A faux-wicker folding chair had been set up next to Wally’s desk for me.
“Good morning,” Palamina said.
Wally only nodded. Okay, correction on Danielle’s observations: Mr. Grumpy was in attendance.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Nathan’s mother is visiting.”
“We want to run over this week’s issue, make sure the ducks are in a row,” Wally said. “Remember we’re going to send everything to the printer Friday afternoon.”
Obviously there wasn’t time for chitchat. I explained to my bosses that I had done most of the research for the key lime pie roundup and would have it finished by this afternoon. Tomorrow morning at the latest.
“And restaurants?” asked Wally, tapping a pencil to his lip.
“Since it’s New Year’s Eve week with lots of kids and families in town, I was planning to do Clemente’s, the new pizza place on Fleming Street, and Oasis on White.” I’d eaten once before at each and knew I could work up pithy reviews without a huge amount of effort.
As soon as the words were out, I started to wonder again whether either of these would be pleasing to Nathan’s mother. Part of me felt that, since she hadn’t given us any notice, she would have to go with the flow. On the other hand, she didn’t exactly seem like a go-with-the-flow kind of person. But if she didn’t like the sound of what I proposed, I’d tell Nathan he needed to take her out somewhere fancier. Maybe the Marquesa, which tended to emulate New York–style fine-dining food (and prices), if he could get a table. A little quality mother–son time couldn’t hurt.
“Earth to Hayley,” said Wally.
I smiled. “Sorry, there’s a lot going on, as usual. Nathan’s mom surprised us with
an unexpected visit. And of course he’s busy getting ready for the New Year’s Eve onslaught. So I’m scrambling to entertain her. Yesterday turned into a crazy day.”
“That’s the worst,” said Palamina. “I had a mother-in-law from hell myself for a little under a year. Can’t imagine what it would be like for a lifetime.”
I felt instantly guilty about dissing Nathan’s mother when I’d barely spent any time with her. I should be grateful she’d deigned to visit instead of piling on the mother-in-law jokes. Best to change the subject back to work. “I have one question on the pastry article. The day wasn’t crazy bad because of Nathan’s mother; it was bad because we found a body.”
Danielle got up from behind her desk in the hallway and came to the door to listen in. I explained about the brouhaha at the library, and then discovering Claudette Parker on the porch, and how the deceased was the author of the key lime napoleon. And also the deliverer of the pie to Sloan’s face.
“Oh my gosh,” Danielle said. “My boyfriend mentioned there was a body found in Old Town near the cemetery when he came in late last night. But I never imagined you were involved.”
“Again,” Wally muttered.
I shot him a scathing look. “Back to my question: should I include that napoleon and Claudette Parker in this piece? Should we postpone the whole thing until next week’s issue? I sent you two versions, one including the library disaster and one without it. Maybe we should sit tight and see what unfolds with the murder?”
“We can’t do that,” said Wally sharply. “We have a huge backlog for the new year because of the holidays running together. And we pride ourselves on starting out fresh, as you know. No leftover gingerbread houses or recipes for fruitcake bread pudding or how to recycle candy canes so it doesn’t look like you’re regifting something stale from Christmas. So we’ve got to go with your roundup in this issue. And besides, since David Sloan’s closing key lime party is Friday, we planned to link those stories.”
“Maybe leave that one confection out?” Palamina mused. “Or maybe better yet, if you have time, go over to the shop and see what’s happening? Was she the owner of the place or the pastry chef? Or both? Any silent stakeholders? If the place is open and you see those napoleons in the case, we’ll run with the pie piece as written. If it’s not, reconsider. And maybe you can talk to the other staff while you’re there and see if you can get any insider information about the death. It’s hard to imagine the two events aren’t linked—the pie-throwing followed in close proximity by Miss Parker’s murder.”
Wally’s lips had hardened to a grim line while Palamina was talking. She waved away his protest. “Look,” she said, “I’m not suggesting Hayley investigate the murder. But it’s surely going to have a ripple effect on what she’s writing, and we look like fools if we ignore that. Wasn’t this whole contest predicated on the competition between key lime pastry chefs? It might mean something big that this woman is no longer part of that. And it wouldn’t hurt a bit if we broke the story ahead of the other online rags.”
I gathered my things and stood up, before Wally could voice his worries. Or worse yet, insist I start over, which I did not have time for. “I’ll keep you posted about what I find.” On the way out, I whispered to Danielle that she should let me know if she heard anything else from her beau.
My mother texted me as soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs.
We want to have you all to dinner tomorrow but busier than a one-armed paper-hanger today, as your grandmother used to say. See you at Oasis at seven. Meanwhile, call your mother-in-law. We’re on our way out and she is pacing.
Yikes. I did as suggested. Only I took the chicken’s way out and texted Nathan’s mother instead of calling.
Good morning! Hope you had a restful sleep. Would you like suggestions for the day today? Visitors always enjoy the Hemingway house, for the cats if nothing else. Although they also offer a very cute Hemingway-focused tour. And the Harry Truman Little White House is full of charm and history. I have a few stops to make for work this morning but would love to take you to lunch later.
I sent that off to see if she’d bite. And then rustled through my notes about the pies we’d tasted last night to see what was missing.
If it’s not too much trouble, would enjoy riding shotgun with you this morning, she texted back.
Yikes again. But what choice did I have? And how could it hurt to take her to the new bakery and maybe to a few others? I’d decided after looking over my notes that I hadn’t sampled an adequate number of pies to fill up the allotted words.
Be there in 15, I texted back. Depending on traffic. I’m on my scooter so dress accordingly.
Maybe she’d bail out at the prospect of a scooter ride.
Chapter Nine
“It’s not about the chefs anymore,” she said. “You can’t just come with a dollar and dream.” Mainstays depart. Now what?
—Kim Severson, “As Mainstays Depart, Charleston Asks Where Its Restaurant Scene Is Headed,” The New York Times, May 7, 2019
On the contrary, Mrs. Bransford was waiting on the back porch of my mother’s home. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a gorgeous pale-pink cashmere sweater that made her skin glow. The color matched my mother’s pink helmet, which dangled from her wrist.
“What’s on the agenda?” she asked.
“I want to go by the shop owned by the murdered woman. My major article for Key Zest this week is a roundup of key lime pies, and my bosses are wondering whether it’s appropriate to include this woman’s pastry.” I paused to think this over for a minute. “Not sure exactly what I’m expecting to find that will make a difference, but if she was the architect of the napoleon and she’s the only real pastry chef, she won’t be making it anymore. So there’s no point in including it. It will only make readers feel bad because they can’t get one. And we’ll look tone-deaf in the worst way.”
“And maybe,” she said, swinging her leg over the scooter and sliding on behind me, “maybe someone will tell us more about what happened last night. And if they don’t offer answers, we can ask some pointed questions.”
I turned around to look at her in astonishment. “Your son would not be happy.”
“And so?” she asked with a small grin. “This wouldn’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. He’s not my boss. I suspect he’s not in charge of you either.” She clipped the pink helmet over her perfectly coiffed hair and looked straight ahead—ready to go.
We drove out of the Truman Annex and across Whitehead to Greene Street, winding past groups of noisy tourists who spilled out from the bars along the way. Though it was well before noon, the party was in full swing. I parked in front of Old City Hall, a stunning brick building, dignified in the middle of the party chaos. We disembarked, and I pulled the scooter onto its stand.
“We can walk from here. It’s hard to find parking closer to the harbor. And it occurs to me that we can visit the Key Lime Pie Company while we’re this close. And Kermit’s, too.” A group of twentysomething women wearing glittery New Year’s hats and short sundresses and carrying cups of beer jostled us off the sidewalk.
“By the way, if you take a tour of the city this week, don’t let anyone tell you that Hemingway used to drink at Sloppy Joe’s,” I told her, pointing back to the establishment at the corner of Duval that had swallowed up the sparkly tourist girls. “The original bar was located where Captain Tony’s is now. Oh, and also,” I added, “if you’re interested in the writers of Key West, the literary seminar people give a wonderful walking tour. I can check later and see which days it might be running, depending on how long you’re staying.”
She didn’t comment on either the tour suggestion or the length of her visit.
We found the new bakery in the next block. Last time I stopped in to check the place out, I’d been in a super hurry and it hadn’t registered how close this was to both Kermit’s Key West Key Lime Shoppe and to the Key Lime Pie Company. Very unwelcome competition, I s
uspected.
The bakery was not closed as I would have predicted. Either the dead woman had a business partner or she was not as important to the bakery as the previous press might have suggested. Or someone had made the decision that, death or no death, this was the busiest week of the season and the show must go on.
Ten or twelve people were already jammed into the small space, perusing the pastries behind the counter and chattering about what to choose. I listened for any word that the customers had heard about the death, but they seemed to be largely uninformed tourists.
The top shelf of the counter under the cash register was filled with key lime napoleons. I also noticed a glorious key lime pie with one piece removed. Odd, because I distinctly remembered Claudette announcing that key lime pie was passé. The filling was deeper than in many of the pies I’d seen so far, and not overwhelmed by meringue. The pastry appeared to be a flaky butter crust rather than the more traditional graham cracker. How could I not sample? When my turn came, I ordered a piece of the pie and a napoleon to go.
“I’m very sorry for the loss of your chef,” I said to the man behind the counter. “What a terrible shock that must have been.” He looked familiar, and I thought perhaps he’d been in the background of her photo in the paper when the shop first opened. Then it came to me—he was Paul Redford, who’d been introduced day before yesterday at the library as Claudette’s assistant.
Paul rang me up, nodding in agreement. “In shock, that’s what we are. We thought about closing up for the week at least, but we had all this stock and all these people clamoring for it. Plus all these people working in the kitchen who need their jobs. And I know the recipes cold. It made more sense to simply soldier forward.”
Nathan’s mother leaned closer to me and whispered, “Ask if he knows anything about what happened.”
I wasn’t going to argue. “Any word on who did this to her?” I asked.
The Key Lime Crime Page 6