I shouted over the din. “They host a regular parade of great musicians, and on quiet nights they hold bingo games or ukulele concerts. On New Year’s Eve, the party will probably stretch all the way across the street.” I pointed to the people sitting on a red bench in front of the Courthouse Deli on the other side of Whitehead. “That’s probably the only bench in America that has its own Facebook page.”
We stood at the edge of the bar watching the scene and looking for Paul. As Amber had predicted, he was sitting at the bar with a bottle of beer in front of him. Though he was wearing a T-shirt with an enormous pink cupcake on it, he looked decidedly glum.
Before I could even decide how to approach him, my mother-in-law was headed his way. I scrambled after her. She tapped him on the shoulder, introduced us, and reminded him that we were big fans of Au Citron Vert and devastated about the loss of Claudette.
“Have you heard any more about who killed her?” Helen asked. “Have they made an arrest?”
He seemed stunned by her straightforward assault, but answered anyway. “Nothing. Most likely the cops are so overwhelmed by the holiday crowds right now that nothing much will be accomplished.”
“I attended the library event the other day,” I said. “What in the world happened between Claudette and David Sloan? It looked as though that was a shock to you, too.”
“Pardon my French, but that man is truly an ass. There was no good reason he couldn’t have included her in that competition except for the fact that she would have trounced the old guard. Our pastries are on a higher plane than anything else served in Key West. Maybe someone was paying him off to diss her. More likely he was pissed because she had more talent in her pinkie finger than he could hope for in a lifetime.” He drained the last of his beer, and Nathan’s mother signaled the bartender to bring him another.
“And Claudette had a temper. She was not one to be pushed around. But even I was a little astonished when the pie hit his face.” He began to snicker, but then he seemed to remember his boss was dead and his expression returned to somber.
“Is it possible that she had some kind of personal thing going on that had nothing to do with her shop? An angry boyfriend or ex-husband maybe, or girlfriend for that matter, who might have wanted to kill her? Did she seem upset lately?” I asked.
“Wired. She seemed wired. But it’s not like I’ve known her forever. This could be her personality baseline, for all I know. And it’s a lot of pressure to get a business up and running, hire all the staff, and train people to do exactly what you want. She was a stickler for details. Over the last two months, she’d already fired five people.”
And that brought to mind the recent news stories about disgruntled employees returning to their previous places of employment to express their rage with guns. “Would any one of those people have come after her to retaliate?”
“Really, I have no idea,” he said. “I’m sorry, but she was extremely private. I wasn’t in her closest confidence.”
“What do you think will happen to the shop now? And the people working there?” Helen asked.
“Oh, we’ve all worked in a million restaurants around this town. We’ll land on our feet if the place goes belly-up,” he said, waving his hand in air.
“Who owns the shop at this point?” I asked. “We’ve heard rumors that Claudette had a silent partner in her business.”
“I suppose that will be a question for the estate,” Paul said, frowning and worrying the label on his beer bottle. “Right now, they’re not telling us much of anything. So we’ll keep working until we’re told otherwise. I’ve unofficially taken charge of the back of the house, so we’re still producing the products.”
“By the way,” I said, “I bought a piece of the classic key lime pie in your place yesterday. It was so good. Really head and shoulders above a lot of the other pies we’ve tried this week.”
“And we’ve tried a lot of them,” said Helen.
Paul’s face lit up. “Thank you.”
“Your recipe?” I asked. “And if so, will you share the secret?”
“We can say that I made a major contribution,” he said, his smile wide. “But you know how it is, a chef has to keep some things close to his chest in order to get a leg up on the competition. So not sharing right now.”
“I understand.” I smiled back and high-fived him. Keeping secrets was definitely a chef’s prerogative. Especially with this key lime pie contest yet to be completed. With great honor and kudos to be awarded to the winner. And even more important, Paul could very well be unemployed once the dust settled on his boss’s murder. He would want to take any special recipe with him.
“Will you be participating in the contest tomorrow?” I asked.
“I think so—not with her pastry, though. I wrote Sloan an email saying we’d love to be allowed to compete with our classic pie. Hard to say whether he’ll dismiss me because of my connection to her.” He turned away from us, so I tugged on Helen’s sleeve. Time to go—he was clearly tired of our questions.
“What did you think of him?” asked Helen as we made our way back up Southard Street to find the car.
“He’s intense,” I said, glancing at her face to see if she was testing me or whether she really wanted my opinion. “He cares very deeply about what he’s doing, and also about his pie and his work. He’s testy, but maybe not a murderer?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But on the other hand, her death seems to have benefited him greatly. He’s the head honcho now. He’s in a position where he can spotlight his own recipes. Personally, I wouldn’t rule him out. And he seemed uncomfortable talking with us, which would make sense if he had something to hide.”
“I see your point,” I said, feeling as though my observation skills had been found lacking.
“So what did you decide to write for your piece? Where’s the best lime pie in town?” she asked.
I dodged a group of kids gathered in front of Charlie Mac’s and sighed. “It’s like the Wizard of Oz. It doesn’t exist.”
“You’ve spent all week eating and visiting pastry shops; you surely can’t get away with saying that in your article,” she said.
“But it’s true. There is no best. It all depends on what your taste is. If you like a super-creamy pie, you’re going to like what we made at the Key Lime Pie Company. As you saw, they add extra whipping cream to their toppings. If you like meringue with a twist, try Moondog. I think that was your favorite, right? If you like flashy meringue, then you want to eat Bee’s pie at Blue Heaven. And so on. A true pastry chef’s pie might be found at Key West Cakes or Old Town Bakery.
“That’s why this question is really a big publicity stunt. Newspapers and magazines and websites like it because we need something to write about, and if there isn’t something real, we might have to make it up.”
“Who would do this kind of job?” she asked, stepping off the curb into the street to avoid what appeared to be a bachelor party in full party mode. The men wore T-shirts with tuxedoes silk-screened onto them and carried tall beers. “Pastry chef, I mean.”
“People who need money, of course,” I said with a smirk. “To be serious, though, I see it as a calling.”
“But you’re basically making something that is bad for the people who buy it. Heart attacks. Diabetes. Obesity. Dental problems. It all comes down to fat and sugar, and both of those are a huge problem in this country,” she said.
This didn’t feel right to me—in fact, it was antithetical to everything I believed. It would be hard to argue her point, but I couldn’t pretend I agreed. “I don’t see it that way. Of course, I realize that Americans are too fat and couch-bound; I read that everywhere. But I believe obesity has more to do with fast food and sugary soda pop than pastry chefs. I see baking things as a gift for the people who are going to eat them. Especially if they’re made at home, especially from scratch—like Cheryl’s cookies. Those were a gift of love.” I grinned. “Even the key lime squares, despite the fact that ke
y lime anything was the last thing we wanted.”
We arrived at the car, and I drove the few blocks to drop her off at my mother’s house. “I need to work in the morning, but Nathan or I will be in touch to make plans.” I tried to look friendly and warm, but my smile felt a little tight.
I drove home, feeling uncomfortable, as though I’d been exposed as beneath Mrs. Bransford’s standards. I wondered what her first daughter-in-law had done for a living. What was she passionate about, aside from Nathan? I could tell from dating and now living with Nathan that he was not a big food person, not like me and my mother. He ate to live, whereas we lived to eat. Miss Gloria fell somewhere in the middle, although secretly I felt this had to do with her lack of skills in the kitchen. The few times she had insisted on cooking for me, the results had been dreadful. She had told me her husband had done most of the cooking over the course of their long and happy marriage, and I believed that was from a sense of self-preservation.
It would be hard to worm my way into the graces and heart of a mother-in-law who didn’t care what she ate. And eschewed sugar. She was tall and willowy and clearly didn’t consume one ounce more than what her body called for. Ectomorph to my endo.
Waiting at the traffic light by St. Mary’s, I thought more about Nathan and his relationship with food. Our first date several years ago had been for a meal at Michael’s restaurant. He stood me up because there had been a terrible incident with a hanging at the harbor. None of that was his fault or really representative of his feelings about eating, but all the same … was it a premonition of things to come?
I pulled into the parking lot by our pier, got out, and locked the doors. Then I crept up the finger in the dark, watching for unfamiliar shadows and listening for noises that weren’t familiar either. A muffled woof came from Mrs. Renhart’s boat, with an answering woof, woof from ours that had to be Nathan’s little dog. I wondered if Miss Gloria had thought to take him out before she hit the hay. She probably had, knowing her, but if he was left loose in the living area, I’d take him again anyway.
Our fairy lights still hung willy-nilly from the rafters. I would straighten them in the morning before I went to work. Maybe if our place looked normal, that would help us all feel less anxious. Was there anything worse than feeling frightened about going into your own home? I didn’t think so.
All three animals were waiting for me on the living room couch, so I hugged and kissed each of them in turn and distributed treats. “I missed you guys,” I told them. I grabbed Ziggy’s leash from the hook beside the door, and he began to circle around with excitement.
“Just a quick one,” I told him.
Coming home was reminding me that all my regular activities were out of whack. I was barely cooking, I had only been to the gym once this week, and Ziggy and I had not gone to the dog park to exercise with Eric and his dogs.
“Next week, buddy, I promise things will be back to normal.”
But thinking of Eric reminded me that I was committed to helping him with the Cooking With Love event at the Metropolitan Community Church on Saturday. If Nathan’s mother was still in town—I couldn’t keep a small sigh from escaping—I’d recruit her to go with me. Not that I thought she’d be a big help in the kitchen, but at least we’d be spending some time together. And Eric, being a psychologist and a generally gentle and easy soul, would surely make a connection with her. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her, but the constant sense that I was dog-paddling to win her approval was exhausting.
On the way into my room, I noticed that Miss Gloria had left a note on the counter: We forgot to pick up our homemade pies from Sigrid. Could you possibly do that tomorrow? I have a walk scheduled with the old ladies (ha, more like a death march!) and then a shift at the cemetery. Signed with lots of x’s and o’s.
Lying in bed, my head spinning even though my body was weak with exhaustion, I couldn’t help thinking about the people we’d met over the day from the pastry world. I needed to make notes and send them to Nathan. But not tonight. The sound of a swish announced a text arriving on my phone. A long one. From my mother-in-law.
One more thing I meant to say. Your mother told me about how your premonition saved Nathan from almost sure death. I thank you for that. It’s so, so important to pay attention to those messages. I’ve honed mine over the years. I came down because they are tingling like crazy.
Wow, who would have guessed that this tough, straightlaced woman would end up having that much in common with Lorenzo? I was glad I’d taken her over to meet him. I didn’t dare tell Nathan what his mother had revealed—that she was worried about an enemy coming after him. Telling her secret was not my job.
And yet keeping a secret felt just as wrong.
I wondered if I’d ever sleep.
Chapter Twenty
I never wrote a negative review without worrying about closed restaurants, lost jobs, and fired chefs; there was no joy in thinking about the harm my words could cause.
—Ruth Reichl, Save Me the Plums
It barely registered when Nathan slid into bed with me and the cat. The clock on my side read one AM. And he was gone again before six. I forced myself up shortly after I heard him leave, played with the cats, and made a quick breakfast, enough for Miss Gloria to eat too when she returned from her walk. Considering the sweets we’d been gobbling and the influx of pizza last night, I concentrated on protein—hard-boiled eggs with a side of crispy bacon—and a bowl of fruit. I dressed in jeans and my favorite red sneakers and a cheerful pink swing blouse, then headed to the office on my scooter.
For two hours, I worked without interruption on the articles that were due by noon. I had decided to use my conversation with Nathan’s mom as the lede in my key lime pie story: Where and how does one find the best slice of pie in Key West? It depended, of course, on individual taste and preference, but asking the very question could lead a visitor on a wonderful tour of the island.
When that piece was polished, I started to work on the short sidebar article about quick bites that would provide delicious food for all ages without breaking the bank. I’d already made notes on our dinners at Oasis and Clemente’s, so it was not hard to put this together. Finished earlier than I’d expected, I decided to make a brief visit to the library to talk with Michael, followed by a stop at Blue Heaven restaurant. With any luck, I could catch their pastry chef, Bee, and ask her a few questions for my article’s context. And while I was there, nose around about what she might have heard about Claudette.
I crossed over on Bahama Street to Fleming, and then up a block to the pink stucco library. I climbed the steps, passing several weathered men smoking and subtly asking for change. Christopher, the fellow who’d made martinis last night at Sloan’s book event, was manning the front desk, sorting through a pile of returned books and movies.
“You’re a busy guy,” I said. “From martinis to the Dewey Decimal System in less than twelve hours.”
“A man of all seasons,” he agreed, matching my smile. “Can I help you?”
“Is Michael Nelson in? I’m following up on a few questions about the pie event held here the other day.”
“Let me see if he’s available.” He disappeared into the back room and returned with the librarian, who had his short dark hair gelled into an impish peak and wore a set of Bluetooth earphones around his neck. He gestured for me to come around to the side of the front desk in order not to block the trickle of patrons who’d followed me in.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m finishing up my article about Sloan’s pie contest this afternoon—still trying to figure out the incident with David Sloan and Claudette Parker. I hoped you might have gleaned some insight into what happened between those characters, since you were the host.”
“Characters is the right word,” he said, making a face. “I might have suspected that Sloan set the whole thing up as a publicity stunt had it not been for Ms. Parker’s death. That makes the memory of the day so much more ominous.”
&nbs
p; I nodded my agreement. When I pictured Sloan’s face covered in pie, what came to mind was his shock and fury. From that angry reaction, I would never have guessed he’d planned to be covered in whipped cream, no matter how many Facebook posts ensued.
“How well did you know the other contenders? Or did you delegate those kinds of details to your staff?”
Michael looked puzzled, probably wondering—and with good reason—what this had to do with a food critic’s assessment of pie. “We’re a little short-staffed because of holidays and vacation, so I made the contacts myself. And Christopher’s been pitching in when he can.” He tipped his head at the man helping patrons check out books. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Personalities, backgrounds of the chefs, something to help me and the readers understand the undercurrents of the pastry scene in town. There must be something dark underneath the surface, right? Or the day wouldn’t have ended the way it did.”
He adjusted his earphones and squinted. “Not one of the chefs behaved like a diva. They all seemed pleased to participate, if a little stressed by the holiday week timing. Claudette was clearly the most high-strung, as though maybe she felt she had the most riding on the outcome.”
“Which being new to the island, she probably did,” I said.
Michael straightened the stack of papers on the desk while he thought this over. “And she was the only one who had her assistant hovering around while she barked orders. The rest of them came solo. But I would have said that was her wanting to make a perfect presentation rather than lord something over her staff.”
“What about Sloan himself?”
“He’s harmless enough,” said Michael, “in spite of the big mess he made. Although ultimately I hold him responsible for what happened at the event. A less contentious, flamboyant person might have been able to calm Claudette down, but Sloan fanned the flames. At least he was apologetic and offered to stay and help clean up, even though he was obviously steaming. And he can write well enough, actually very well, when he bothers. I would say he has a personality the opposite of Claudette Parker’s. She was absolutely detail oriented and meticulous and fastidious. Sloan? Fast and furious.”
The Key Lime Crime Page 15