I lowered my voice. “Do you think it’s possible he killed her?”
He cocked his head and made a face, as if to say, Really? I waited him out.
“Possible, maybe. Probable, maybe not. He was pissed about the pie, but at some level, I think he might have appreciated the emotional intensity of her gesture. Even if it made him very angry. He appreciates a big show.”
I murmured, hoping to encourage him to keep talking.
“From my perspective,” he said, “it would make more sense if she had killed David Sloan. She despised the clownish nature of the contest, from what I saw. She thought he had no class. You know the publicity stunt he did several years back for national television?”
I nodded, remembering that the weather person from one of the major networks had visited the island several years earlier. Sloan was chosen as one of the local celebrities to meet her—and he presented the biggest key lime pie in the world on air. Who knew if that biggest in the world claim was true, but it was said to feed a thousand visitors.
“He performs the same stunt every summer for the Key Lime Festival, and I think he even made a supersized pie in Boston. Anyway, Claudette and I were chatting before the event. She seemed a bit perplexed about Sloan’s background, so I described a few of his antics, including the oversized pie. She made it very clear that she thought a pie that big was grotesque, and quite possibly dangerous to anyone who ate it. Because where was a refrigerator large enough to keep it cool?” He twirled his headphone wire around one finger. “She was going along with the events he set up because she wanted the publicity for her shop, but she didn’t consider him a professional.”
I nodded vigorously. “They weren’t exactly competing on the same field. He loves flashy stunts and events, and she, I think, was focused on her elegant products.” I tried pressing him again to give an opinion about the murder. “Do you think her disdain hit its mark with him—could it have bothered him enough that he wished her harm?” I wondered.
Michael had begun to fidget. “I didn’t know either of them well enough to weigh in on that.”
I attempted one last query. “Think about it, killing someone in a public way and leaving her splayed in a Santa costume was not a subtle way of getting rid of her.”
“David Sloan is not a subtle person,” he said. “And that’s all I can say on that matter.”
I tried to thank him for his time, but he vanished before I could get the words out. Christopher came over to the side counter, his face serious. “Michael won’t say it in public or for the record, but we all think Sloan killed her. Probably not intentionally, but you were there—we all saw the rage on his face.” He shrugged. “Personally, I like the guy. And I certainly like what he pays me on the side. But he’s a loose cannon and might well have done something in the moment that he regretted later. She could have invited him to her home and then made him so angry …” He mimed a strangling motion with two hands on his own throat.
“Angry about what?”
A new patron approached the desk, asking for assistance in finding Florida writers from Hemingway’s days. “His lack of professionalism? His ridiculous contest? His cookbook? Too many possibilities to even list.” He tipped his head at the patron. “Sorry not to be more helpful.”
“You were helpful, thanks.” And yikes, I thought.
I waved to Christopher and headed outside into the creeping humidity and warmth of the day. If Sloan was the killer, he had ice in his veins. I simply couldn’t imagine strangling someone to death and then proceeding with a martini-laced book signing and other key lime events as if none of that had happened.
Chapter Twenty-One
Blackberry jam: tart, dense, and passive aggressive, something you might spread on toast like gelatinous fury early in the morning while tears pour down your face as you imagine all the seedy things he’s done.
—Jennifer Gold, The Ingredients of Us
Traffic was beginning to pick up on Fleming Street, probably visitors who’d overslept after a late night and were now looking for the libation-laced lunch that would relieve their hangovers. I collected my scooter, determined to squeeze in one more stop before picking up the pies from Sigrid as Miss Gloria had requested. This time I’d nip into Blue Heaven to see if I could chat with their pastry chef, Bee. She’d been around town a long time and might have some insights about David Sloan different from those I’d heard at the library. Or maybe her impressions would confirm them.
Blue Heaven was located at the edge of the neighborhood referred to as Bahama Village, where natives of Bahamian heritage clustered. The restaurant had a lot of history, including claims of being a former brothel, not to mention the home to boxing matches refereed by Ernest Hemingway. Most of the dining room was set up in an enclosed plaza, with a fresh-air bar, a stage to host live music, and chickens famously pecking at diners’ feet. I’d never seen the restaurant without a crowd of visitors waiting to be seated—whether for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
I was in luck—Bee was taking a break outside the kitchen door, enjoying a splash of sunlight, smoking a cigarette, and watching her bit of the world go by. She was dressed in a colorful patchwork skirt that fell almost to the floor, a sleeveless orange T-shirt that showed her pastry-kneading muscles, and a white apron spattered with evidence of her morning’s work. She wore a handful of beaded necklaces around her neck and had her hair tied back with a faded blue bandanna. She jerked up when I spoke her name and blew out a ring of smoke, her eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
As she didn’t seem to recognize me—and why would she?—I introduced myself again. “I’m working on a big feature for Key Zest magazine about the key lime event this week. And I’m also writing a piece about the individual pies that I’ve been tasting. Yours, by the way, is delicious.”
She nodded her thanks.
“Do you have any idea about what went on behind the scenes between David Sloan and Claudette Parker? I’d love to understand the psychology behind that pie-in-the-face moment.”
I realized as soon as the words were out of my mouth and saw the blood draining from her face that they did not follow from what I claimed I was working on. She’d have to think I was a nosy parker, or maybe worse, an undercover police officer. Neither of which would encourage her to talk freely. “Whatever undercurrents existed between them can’t help but be part of my story,” I hurried to explain. “The smashed pie is on everyone’s mind. I’ve seen it all over Facebook and Instagram.”
She squinted, then shook her head. “I was as shocked as anyone else when she hit that bozo in the kisser with the pie.” She snickered, tapped the ash off with her pointer finger, and then dropped the butt and ground the remains into the sidewalk. “I have to admit, I was glad she didn’t choose mine. I suppose Sigrid’s pie made more of a mess, if Claudette was thinking that far ahead. That extra creaminess, you know?” She snickered.
“Had you met her before the event last week?”
“Only by reputation. I kept meaning to go over and buy a few of her pastries and see what all the fuss was about. But we are so busy here this time of year. And honestly, once you’ve made a thousand key lime pies in a day—for years—the idea of eating someone else’s version is not that appealing.”
“Claudette arrived brand-new on the island this past fall, right? Do you have any idea how she recruited her workers?”
Bee fingered the packet of cigarettes in her apron pocket, finally extracting another and lighting it up. “She poached a few, of course. One of my assistants gave notice unexpectedly, and I’m pretty sure that’s where she went. But that’s okay. People move around to different restaurants all the time, hoping to move up the ladder. Or maybe they just need a new experience. Or some new energy. The kitchen can be an intense place with big personalities jammed into a small, hot space. People get on each other’s nerves.”
She sighed as if she was finished explaining, but I waited her out, hoping she’d say a bit more.
“This is hard
work, and we’re taught from the beginning that cooking and baking aren’t meant to be about how we feel. How our customers will feel as they eat must always come first. But sometimes the stress and frustration of the job gathers bigger and bigger. And that’s when you might see a person blow up”—she threw out her arms—“and stalk out.” She shrugged. “Time for a new job.” She inhaled deeply and then blew out a cloud of smoke.
“What about her number-two guy, Paul? Where did he work before she hired him?”
She squinted and scuffed the sidewalk with one worn clog. “I think he’s worked just about everywhere on the island—everywhere where they have pastry on the dessert menu. He’s very talented, but also super-ambitious. So he has little patience when he feels he isn’t being appreciated.”
This was getting interesting. Because by all appearances, Claudette Parker had not completely appreciated him. At least not enough to feature his key lime pie in her bakery case. But good gravy, would you kill someone just because they weren’t gaga over your pie? He’d been working for her only a few months, and it seemed to me he ought to have given the process some time.
I smiled at Bee. “You’ll be at the finale of the key lime event this afternoon at the lighthouse?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I guess the owner of your restaurant must be on board for the contest? It would be hard to compete and give up work hours during such a busy time if you didn’t have support from above.”
“He’s all for it.”
Her sentences were getting short and snippy, but I had a few more questions. The more restless she appeared, the more I wanted to know. I kept thinking about my mother-in-law’s revelation about how she could tell if someone was lying. Bee seemed so uncomfortable, as if she’d much rather not be talking to me at all. About what? was the question. Murder? “Were you the original architect of the mile-high meringue?”
“Who remembers back that far? For all I know, it might’ve been Hemingway himself who made the first pie with mile-high meringue.” She dropped her cigarette, ground it out, and then picked up both of the butts and slid them into her apron pocket.
“And you’re happy with staying on here?”
She narrowed her eyes, looking me over as though I might be a spy. “Very happy.”
But there was no joy in her voice.
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I said. “Wishing you and your pie all the best in the contest.”
She thanked me and disappeared into the kitchen.
Was she bored with baking the same things over and over? I wondered. At least in my job, there were no repeats, no reruns—at least not yet. If I stayed in the same job for years, I’d probably run out of new restaurants to review. But at least I wasn’t making an actual physical object for each customer at Key Zest. Somehow my work felt a bit less personal.
Or was fidgeting a sign of something more ominous, such as a very guilty conscience?
As I returned to the rack for my bike, Miss Gloria texted.
Don’t forget to pick up the pie. And Helen is here. She wants to ride shotgun for the afternoon if that’s acceptable.
Sheesh. My mother-in-law had turned into the original eager beaver. I texted back a double thumbs-up and buzzed across the town to Greene Street again. Thank goodness I didn’t have a car to park, because there was not a space open anywhere. The din of partying visitors had gotten louder since yesterday. And music blared out of most of the doors I passed.
As it had been yesterday, the Key Lime Pie Company was jammed with visitors. I waited in line to pick up the pies we’d made the day before, wishing I hadn’t made this promise to Miss Gloria. Finally I reached the counter, where Sigrid recognized me immediately. She went to the huge freezer and returned with the two little pies.
“Any news on Claudette Parker’s murder?”
“Sadly, no,” I said.
“I was thinking about this after the lesson yesterday,” she said slowly. “Remember what I told you about Marcus Lemonis investing in this place?”
I nodded.
“There were a lot of rumors circulating when Claudette was renovating and opening her place. You’ve visited the shop, right?”
I nodded again. “It’s gorgeous. All top-of-the-line.”
“A couple of weeks ago, I stopped over when it wasn’t so crazy busy in this town. I was going to welcome her to Greene Street.” She grinned. “Of course, I took her one of our pies. She’d stepped out to the bank, but her assistant Paul showed me around the kitchen. From a few of the things he said, I got the impression that he’d invested some money, maybe before she hired him.”
“Did he have complaints about how her kitchen was outfitted?”
“From the way he talked, I gathered that there was stress between the two of them. Maybe he thought she was spending too much at the outset? He mumbled something about how at least we listened to our investors. He’s apparently an excellent baker himself, but there was only room for one name on that marquee. Hers.”
She pushed the pies across the counter. “Anyway, after I thought it over, I figured you should know.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
His voice, as one fan wrote in a YouTube comment, sounds like what melted chocolate tastes like.
—Maureen Dowd, “Tom Ford, Fragrant Vegan Vampire,” The New York Times, April 20, 2019
With the pies safely bundled into my basket, I zipped across the back roads to Houseboat Row. Miss Gloria and Helen and our three animals were waiting for me on the porch. I went inside, tucked the pies into a tiny space in the refrigerator, and returned to the deck.
“Everybody ready? I guess we better take the car.” It wouldn’t be easy to find parking near the lighthouse where the pie finale was to be held, but I could probably find something closer to Bahama Village.
“I’m waiting for a call from Cheryl,” said Miss Gloria. “The first applicant on the list for the orange kitty backed out, and now they’re making home visits in order to choose the best situation.” She thrummed her fingers anxiously on the small table beside her lounger. “I’ve scooped the litter box and washed the cat bowls and put out that fluffy bed and the scratching tower and the toys that our guys ignore. I’m trying to make it look like a fun and happy place for a new kitten. There’s not much else I can do to make it look appealing.” She looked as though she was near tears. “I feel like that kitty is destined for me, but it’s out of my hands. Anyway, you two go ahead on the scooter. If she gets here in the next hour or so, I’ll take an Uber to the lighthouse.”
I couldn’t think of a darn thing to say to ease her nerves or give her comfort. We already had a lot of animals living in a small space, and there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Other than explain to the people making the decision that Nathan and I would be moving soon, taking two of the furry guys with us. We hoped. I couldn’t imagine there would be a pet lover anywhere on the keys who would dote more on this kitten, or provide more fun, than Miss Gloria. But she was right, it was out of our hands.
“She’ll see when she gets here that you would provide an amazing home,” I said. Then, to distract her, I described what I had learned from talking with the library staff, the Blue Heaven pastry chef, and Sigrid at the key lime pie factory. “Bottom line? We need to keep a close eye on both Paul Redford and David Sloan. And Bee Thistle, too. Those are the names that keep coming up.”
“Got it,” said Helen, fastening her bike helmet into place over her perfect hair. “Ready for action.”
* * *
Key West lore has it that Hemingway used the lighthouse to find his way home on nights when he’d had too much to drink at Sloppy Joe’s. Whether the story was true or not, the lighthouse was located directly across Whitehead Street from the home Hemingway had shared with his second wife, Pauline. And it was the highest place on the island, with a gorgeous view for those willing to make the climb to the top.
The perfect place from which to drop pies, I supposed.
A
mob of people circulated on the grounds around the lighthouse keepers’ home, a cute little museum that honored the history of the tenders of the light. I recognized pie tasters, pie bakers, interested onlookers, and a smattering of press.
“How is this supposed to work?” asked Helen, once we were inside the gates on the lawn.
“Sloan’s billing the event as a fund raiser for the soup kitchens in town—Cooking With Love run by Metropolitan Community Church and the one operating out of St. Mary’s. The first fifty people to pony up fifty bucks get to taste all the pies and vote on their favorites, and most of that money goes to charity. As a professional food critic, I am not eligible to vote. Besides, I’d hate to have to describe something by eating one bite. However, I bought Miss Gloria a ticket …” I blushed and started to stammer. “I didn’t get one for you based on what you said last night about sugar and all.”
“That’s perfectly correct,” she said. “There is no way I’d be interested in tasting all those pies. Especially since we tried most of them over the last two days. Sometimes if I hear too much about a certain food, I lose a taste for it altogether. I know that isn’t true for everyone. You foodies, for example, never seem to tire of talking about what you’re eating and what you ate yesterday and what’s on the menu tomorrow.” She tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you didn’t waste fifty bucks on me.”
In one way, I thought she was trying to make me feel better about not buying her the ticket. But in another, she was letting me know—again, even if unintentionally—how very different we were. The more she talked, the more self-conscious I felt. So I just grinned stupidly and began to walk around the display tables to take photos of the pies. Everything was there, from the creamy pies made by the Key Lime Pie Company, to the tall peaks of brown meringue produced by Blue Heaven, to the understated creaminess of the pie from Key West Cakes, to Kermit’s strawberry–key lime bars dipped in dark chocolate. Everything I had been sampling and writing about and more, only in miniature form.
The Key Lime Crime Page 16