Paul stiffened, staring at me and then at my mother-in-law. “Not that they’ve told me. If the cops ask my opinion, I will tell them she was killed by someone who resented her brilliance with pastries. She blew everyone on this island out of the water, and someone couldn’t stand it. They couldn’t tolerate that kind of competition. So-called key lime juice in a bottle was not going to cut the mustard any longer with sophisticated culinary tourists coming to the island. You know how it is here—transient chefs sink to the lowest common denominator when it comes to food.”
This had not been my experience of Key West. Nor had I written anything like this—except in my poorly considered early article that David Sloan had rightly criticized. Yes, of course, chefs came and went. It was hard physical labor and turnover was part of the business. And some chefs had substance abuse issues and flailed around until they were fired for missing too many days of work or making mistakes with the menu. And some of them couldn’t afford the cost of living in paradise—second-home owners and escapees from the northern winter tended to drive the prices of everything higher. And some of them couldn’t handle the sheer physicality of the work.
But I didn’t believe any of these problems was confined to Key West, nor did a majority of workers in our island foodie world have them. I took the bag of baked goods from Paul, along with a brochure from Key West’s Finest about finding hidden gems off Duval Street that sat near the register.
As we left the pastry shop and started over to the Key Lime Pie Company, I began to muse out loud about where the dead woman fit into the key lime culture of the island. “Just about every restaurant on this island serves key lime pie—it’s almost an obligation. With social media reporting on every new iteration of the basic recipe, owners must feel they have to serve something special.” I glanced over at Nathan’s mother, who did not appear fascinated.
“You think someone killed her because they were envious of her pastry like he said?” she asked. “It seems a stretch as far as motives for murder go.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But she was new to the island and she was making a huge splash in our foodie world, and probably sucking business away from other shops.” This happened sometimes with a brand-new restaurant. But my metaphor was a little off—her entrance had resembled fireworks more than splashing.
“Lots of other businesses have started out this way—she wasn’t the first,” I explained. “And many of them fizzled after that first burst of enthusiasm. ‘Here I am, look at me, the best of the best,’ and so on. The next thing you know, storefronts are shuttered and the owners and chefs limp off, headed back to the mainland for what they perceive to be an easier kind of life. Maybe after having squeezed several other local places out of business. Because we have limited real estate, obviously, there are only so many entrepreneurs who can be shoehorned onto the island. Same with contractors, same with health clubs—”
Nathan’s mother cut me off. “I wish you’d pushed a little harder. Maybe asked some tougher questions, like who actually does the baking. Who made the decision to move here? And why? As you say, there’re already plenty of key lime pies being made on this island. For better or worse.” Mrs. Bransford frowned. “With all your foodie connections, you must know someone who would have some insider information on this.”
I felt a bit like I’d been rapped on the knuckles. To cover my embarrassment, I glanced at the brochure I’d picked up in the shop—a catalog of off-Duval businesses collected by Amber Debevec from Key West’s Finest. Amber was an entrepreneur with a huge social media following who specialized in telling tourists where to find the best of the best on our island. She pretty much knew everything. And in the past, she’d been quite willing to share her knowledge with me.
“I do know someone,” I said. I texted Amber to ask if she might be free for coffee or lunch. She answered right away, and we arranged to meet up the next day at the Roof Top Café at noon.
“What’s next?” asked Nathan’s mom.
“I need to make a stop in the Key Lime Pie Company to grab a piece of pie for my tasting article.”
The decor of this shop was an eye-popping key lime color, and it gave the place the impression of being a small company rather than a pastry shop, not nearly as homey as Claudette’s place. That aside, this storefront was even busier than Au Citron Vert, crammed with tourists eating pie, eating ice cream, and buying key lime–flavored souvenirs. I tried to catch the cashier’s attention for a quick word, but she was frantically ringing customers up, calling out orders, and refilling the refrigerated case with fresh pies. I recognized her as Sigrid, the short African American woman who’d presented the creamy pie that ended up in David Sloan’s face. From the way she was directing and correcting other employees, she appeared to be either the owner or the manager. Someone who might well know something. I fell into the line.
Fifteen minutes later, my turn came. I ordered two pieces of pie to go. As Sigrid rang me up, I said, “You’ve had some wonderful local press recently. Congratulations on the Florida Weekly list. There is so much competition in this town, it must mean a lot.”
She beamed. “It does mean a lot. We know we are the best, but it’s good to have that recognized.”
“Are you getting a run for your money from the new place up the block?” I asked. “What a horrible shock about their pastry chef.”
“Yes, awful. Though I didn’t know her, other than by sight and reputation,” Sigrid said, glancing up at me with narrowed eyes. She handed my credit card back. “Still, it was a terrible thing to happen. People migrate down here to settle in paradise and bring their awful mainland problems with them.”
Did that mean she knew something about Claudette’s past, or was she making a harsh generalization about outsiders?
“How has the new shop affected your business?” asked Nathan’s mother, who had pushed up next to me. “We imagine the people already established in this area could not have been pleased when Ms. Parker moved in.”
Sigrid turned to look at Mrs. Bransford, a frown on her face. “No one was happy about another key lime pie shop on this street. For heaven’s sake, it’s already saturated.” She waved her hand. “But I suppose she thought she’d get the best traffic from the cruise ships if she settled here. They often don’t like to walk very far when they get off their boats, so Duval Street and Greene get a lot of their business.” She called out some instructions to the girls behind her, who were slicing pies and pouring coffees. “And naming it Au Citron Vert? Really? La-di-da. It would be one thing if she came directly from Paris, but she did not.”
She turned to the next customer. We were dismissed. But Mrs. Bransford stopped her with a megawatt smile. “If you have one more second, we’d like to hear about the pie-baking lessons. We both need brushing up on our techniques.” She gestured at the sign on the counter describing key lime pie classes.
I gulped. I’d not heard one peep about Nathan’s mother’s interest in either cooking or baking, and she’d barely tasted dessert last night. She was slender in the manner of a person who didn’t even think about dessert, never mind actually baking it and eating too much of it.
Sigrid smiled back. “We hold classes on Thursdays and Fridays. They last an hour, and you may take your pie home at the end of the class.”
To be honest, I doubted I would learn anything new at an hour-long class. I’d read so much and heard so much about key lime pies that I felt I could make one in my sleep. On the other hand, if Sigrid was teaching and the class was small enough, I’d have an hour’s access to her. She knew something more about Claudette Parker; I saw it in her face. But in the work I’d done in the food community, I’d come to learn that casual chitchat while cooking always led to frank conversations.
Nathan’s mother glanced at me, and I shrugged. “Tomorrow morning’s clear. Sloan’s contest is on Friday afternoon.”
“We’ll take two slots for the morning,” she said. She held out her credit card.
“Make
it three if you have them,” I said. “Miss Gloria would enjoy this.” Even if nothing else came of it, I could write a short piece for Key Zest on making the iconic pie.
“I didn’t know you were interested in baking,” I said, once we were back on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Bransford laughed. “Not at all. But I didn’t believe for a moment that she did not know Claudette. Her shop is only one block from the French place. She admitted she knew the woman wasn’t Parisian, and I suspect there was lots more she could say. I figured we’d hear more over an hour while keeping our hands busy in the class. She struck me as the kind of woman who was bursting to gossip if given the right opportunity.”
I stared at her, impressed. That was exactly what I’d been thinking.
Chapter Ten
And so, bit by bit, on the backs of those traitorous breaths, in snuck the fragrance of something baking in an oven.
—Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper
After picking up more pie slices at Kermit’s key lime shop near the harbor, known for its iconic owner/chef’s costumed shenanigans and for a pucker-worthy taste, I stowed the pie in my scooter’s storage bin and we drove to the last stop I had planned for the morning. A Facebook friend had insisted that Key West Cakes on White Street made the best key lime pie on the island. Other folks might dispute that, but I felt I had to test it for my roundup article to be fair.
And besides, I was getting hungry, yearning for one perfect piece to tide me over until lunch. We parked on White, a busy cross street that ran between Eaton Street and the Atlantic Ocean, and entered the shop. Just inside was a tall glassed-in case containing a gorgeous multi-tiered chocolate cake spackled in large flakes of chocolate, a baby shower cake, and a carpet of cupcakes. Large glass containers held piles of cookies. A hand-painted sign rested on a small pink chair. It read: You are the Icing on my Cupcake. I could imagine hanging that in Miss Gloria’s kitchen, but I wasn’t so sure about the kitchen in Nathan’s and my houseboat. I feared Nathan would find it sappy. After snapping pictures of everything, I ordered two pieces of pie and a potpourri of sugar cookies at the counter from a serious man with deep blue eyes.
“Do you mind if we sit for a few minutes while I make some notes?” I asked my mother-in-law. “And maybe nibble on some pie?”
“Not at all,” she said, pulling out her own phone. “But I’ll pass on the pie.”
I sank into a chair beside a café table in the window to sample and write. As I ate, I thought of the words I’d use to describe this pie: super-creamy with a crumbly, buttery crust and fleurettes of what had to be real whipped cream all around the edges. One delicious mouthful felt like it might contain the day’s entire allotment of calories and cholesterol. The difficulty with this piece I was writing would be figuring out how to find words to differentiate the pies. I hadn’t tasted a bad bite so far.
Nathan’s mother had returned to the cash register before I even noticed. I stopped tapping into my phone to listen.
“You must have heard about the pastry chef who was murdered last night,” she said to the young man piping frosting on starfish cookies. “So tragic.”
He glanced up at her, his blue eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe we got sucked into attending that ridiculous event at the library. Enough said.”
“Ridiculous event?” she asked, her voice innocent as an ingenue.
“David Sloan, ridiculous. The more trouble he can stir up, the better he likes it.”
“And he likes that because?”
“Conflict equals publicity, in his mind anyway,” the man said.
“Do you think Ms. Parker was killed because of that event?”
“I’m not in the know, but anyone could see the rancor between the new shop and the rest of the bakers in town. She seemed so sure that her product was superior to any of ours.” He sniffed, and turned the cookie to begin icing the other side.
As Mrs. Bransford returned to my table, I was scraping the little plastic container of its last creamy bite, feeling a little piggy in front of her. I couldn’t help it—this was my job, and besides that, I loved food. And I was ravenous. Just then, Miss Gloria called.
“What’s up?” I asked my roommate. “I’m just finishing the most lovely pie.”
“Did you save some for me?” she asked.
“I’ve ordered you a slice,” I assured her. Which I hadn’t. But she could have the one I’d bought for my mother-in-law. Besides, we also had samples from two other shops.
“This afternoon, I was wondering, if it wasn’t too much trouble, whether you would mind running me out to the SPCA?” Miss Gloria asked.
I glanced at Nathan’s mother and then at the clock on my phone. I did not have time to run my guest back down the island, then return to the houseboat to pick up Miss Gloria and take her up to the next island where the shelter was located. And work on my article and get ready for dinner.
“I’m happy to ride along,” Nathan’s mother said.
Another mystery, because she didn’t seem to be an animal lover. In other words, she hadn’t dropped everything to chirp and cluck to get our cats’ attention when they sashayed past her. Nor had Ziggy the wonder dog caught her interest. And he was adorable in a wacky doggish sort of way, and also the apple of Nathan’s eye.
“We’ll be home shortly,” I said. “Then we can discuss.” I brought the extra slice of pie for Miss Gloria and the cookies and tucked them all into the basket at the back of the scooter with the other assorted goodies. Nathan’s mother hopped on, and we buzzed up to Houseboat Row.
Several construction vans were parked in the lot, and I could hear the happy sounds of nail guns and band saws—coming from my future home. A miracle! But as we walked up the finger of the dock, I saw the workers clustered on Mrs. Renhart’s boat, not mine. Sigh.
Miss Gloria was waiting on the deck with the cats, who wound between her legs, meowing.
“Looks like everyone wants a piece of the action,” I said, handing over her confections. “I didn’t know cats loved key lime.” I turned to Nathan’s mother. “Can I get you a snack or coffee?”
“A glass of water?” she asked, perching on the rocking chair next to my roommate. “I’ve passed my pie quota for the year and caffeine quota for the day.”
Miss Gloria hollered after me as I hit the kitchen. “And don’t let those cats tell you they haven’t eaten, because they scarfed down a whole can of cat food only twenty minutes ago.”
I returned with three glasses of water, ice, and lemon slices. “Tell me about the SPCA. Are you thinking of volunteering?”
Miss Gloria had been working for a while now giving tours of notable gravestones and architecture in our local cemetery. Some people thought it was a little spooky for her to be working in the graveyard when she had crossed over into her eighties and might be joining the ranks of the buried sooner rather than later. But she paid no attention to their naysaying—she enjoyed bringing the dead people back to life by telling their stories and tales of old Key West. And she especially loved spreading the word that there was a lot more to Key West than drinking on Duval Street—the city was loaded with interesting characters and history.
“It’s not that,” she said. Several expressions flitted across her face in succession: mournful, embarrassed, hopeful.
She pointed to my houseboat-to-be, and then to the boat on the other side of us, where four strapping guys were nailing new siding onto the Renharts’ home. “I got to thinking that pretty soon they will be making real progress on Nathan’s place, and that drives home the truth—you will be moving out before I know it. And you’ll be taking your husband and his dog and Evinrude with you. That’s all I can think about, and it makes me feel so sad.”
Her lips started to quiver and her eyes got a little teary. I leaned over to hug her, thinking I should reassure her that nothing would change. Which was exactly what I’d been trying to tell myself as well. Even though it would. We’d knock on each other’s doors and ask politely if it wa
s convenient to have coffee instead of stumbling out of bed and finding each other at the kitchen table or on the deck. And she’d worry that she was a drag on my new marriage if she accepted too many dinner invitations from me. And who knew what Evinrude would do—he might even refuse to make the move. He was a cat, after all, mercurial and unpredictable.
Why did any kind of change feel so hard?
Miss Gloria continued to talk. “Mrs. Dubisson knew I was feeling blue, so she called the shelter and found out that the orange tiger kitten I pulled out of the bushes last night is still there.” She held up her hand to stop me from protesting. “I know we’re one cat away from becoming crazy cat ladies, but all I can think of is you’ll be leaving and taking Evinrude. The idea of having only one cat in the house feels pathetic and lonely.”
“We’ll be right next door, remember?” I said. “And Evinrude will not understand the concept of moving. He loves you so dearly. He and I will be over here all the time, I promise. You’ll hardly notice a difference, except that you’ll be able to get in the bathroom without queuing up.”
I kept my voice cheerful and flashed a reassuring smile. But I was beginning to feel sad, too. We had developed something special and unexpectedly magical in our little home. She felt like my family in only the best way. No telling what would be left after the construction dust had settled.
“Maybe one of his owner’s family members will show up to claim him. Wouldn’t that be the best ending? They would keep a connection to Claudette by raising her cat. I know you would do that with Evinrude.”
Miss Gloria’s face fell. “I would, but I live with Evinrude. He is family. She hardly had time herself to get to know that kitten.”
I sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere. “I don’t suppose it will hurt to look over the kitty.”
She beamed and picked up her bag. “We better take the car, since there are three of us.”
Chapter Eleven
At home, my mom was an indifferent cook … She would have been perfectly happy to take a pill that would allow her to forego eating altogether.
The Key Lime Crime Page 7