The Key Lime Crime

by Lucy Burdette

  Wearing a white chef’s coat with his name in lime-colored cursive on the chest pocket, David Sloan bounded up the steps to the stage and took the microphone. “Welcome to Key West’s premier key lime event! We hope you will enjoy every minute, and we sincerely and fiercely hope you will patronize all the shops and bakers who have participated. And if you will indulge one small reminder, my books, including the Key West Key Lime Cookbook, are for sale at the table on your way out. Even if you did not purchase a tasting ticket, please make your donations to our soup kitchens generous. And we are thrilled to have local celebrities Mayor Teri Johnson, Judy Blume, and Suzanne Orchard in attendance.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered. “Now, before we begin the events of the day, I would like to introduce our new police chief, Sean Brandenburg, who has a few words to share.”

  Chief Brandenburg, a tall, good-looking man with a shaved head, wearing sunglasses and the trademark blue police uniform, climbed the stairs and shook hands with David Sloan, over whom he towered. Our previous chief had been a small man with a large presence. Brandenburg had a presence just by nature of his height. I tried to assess whether Sloan appeared anxious, which he surely must have been if he’d killed Claudette. His face was shiny with sweat, but the temperature and humidity had both risen over the day, so it was unfair to judge him on that. And he was pumping Brandenburg’s hand and grinning like a monkey.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to Key West,” said the chief to the waiting crowd. “On behalf of all of us at the police department, we wish you a happy holiday week. It’s a very busy time in our town, and we ask for your cooperation in helping the island stay safe. Please obey traffic rules and be courteous to visitors, and if you see something out of order or need assistance, let one of our officers know.”

  His face grew more serious. “We are also asking for information regarding the recent death of pastry chef Claudette Parker. As you may have read online or in our local newspapers, she was found murdered on her front porch several days ago.” He shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head and glanced around to make eye contact with some of the people watching.

  “Anyone who has any information about her death or who might have seen something unusual in her neighborhood that evening, please come forward. Feel free to approach me this afternoon, call the help line at the department, or message us on Facebook. We appreciate your assistance in advance—as talented as our department and officers are, we cannot have eyes everywhere. That is why we need you, both visitors and members of our community, to be our partners. Thank you, be safe, and don’t eat too much pie!”

  He grinned, shook hands again with David Sloan, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “He comes across as both friendly and deadly serious,” Helen said, nodding her approval. “Every once in a while, a plea like that garners some interesting information. But more often the keys to cracking open a case emerge from a suspect or a witness whom the police already know. Somebody they’ve already interviewed remembers a bit more. Or decides that holding back on details only makes them look guilty.”

  I studied her face, wondering how she knew so much. And how I knew so little about my own husband’s family history.

  “I know you have work to do,” she said. “I’m going to walk around and see if I can chat up Paul and Bee, and even Sloan, if he has a minute. When shall we meet up?”

  I glanced at my watch. Midafternoon already. “Say, in an hour? I’ll have captured the highlights by then.”

  As I walked around the lighthouse grounds, I reminded myself of my mother-in-law’s advice—not to constrain my thinking about murder suspects to the baking community. And also to remember that if we were considering someone from Nathan’s past, we probably should be looking for a Key West newcomer.

  I took pictures of the chefs with their pies and their fans for the Key Zest social media accounts, noticing that the Blue Heaven pies were there but Bee was not. Did this have something to do with our earlier conversation?

  Next I videoed five men diving face first into the cream-covered pies on the table in front of them. The pie-eating contest was a crowd favorite, but also sort of disgusting. I wondered whose pies they’d used—I suspected they came from a half-price grocery store sale—and what this said about our island’s tendency to gluttony. Maybe it was just a mood, but I decided not to post pictures of the contest. Besides, the pie-laden faces reminded me of Claudette’s attack on David Sloan. And the horrible death that followed.

  As I moved away from the pie gluttony table, I ran into my friend Jennifer Cornell, a chef with a catering business who sometimes shared the industrial kitchen with my mother. As we greeted each other and chatted, I remembered that she had gone to the same culinary school as Claudette, the Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts. And had they also both interned in Paris? We discussed the tragedy of Claudette’s death, and then I asked, “How well did you know her? Were you in the same class?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “Not well. She was coming in as I was finishing up. Back in those days, she was kind of touchy-feely. Meditating to the sound of brass Buddha bowls ringing while counting rosary beads as feverishly as an Italian grandmother.”

  “Beads?” I asked, suddenly on high alert. “Can you remember what they looked like?”

  “No,” she said, after thinking for a minute. “The intensity of French chefs shrieking at her for tiny mistakes snuffed those tendencies out quickly, and she quit wearing them. I think she almost dropped out—which, considering her talent, would have been tragic.”

  She stopped talking to stare at me. “No, on the other hand, she probably wouldn’t be in the morgue on a slab if she’d quit and taken another path.”

  David Sloan came to the microphone again and announced that tasters had fifteen more minutes to complete their rounds and cast their votes. I said goodbye to Jennifer and made another sweep around the grounds, chatting briefly with the pastry chefs and taking more photos. Bee had still not shown up at the Blue Heaven table. All I could think about was the beads Jennifer had mentioned. And what Tony from the gym had said. Were those beads the same as what I’d seen Bee wearing earlier today? I thought they might be similar, and I wished I’d paid closer attention.

  Then I noticed that Christopher was again serving Sloan’s key lime martinis. He’d told me the other night that he had a busy schedule in this high season, and he hadn’t exaggerated. I wasn’t going to consume something that sweet and alcohol laced, not this afternoon, even if it was calling to me. But I stopped to say hello.

  “You may be the busiest guy on the island,” I said.

  “I’ve got a lot of competition,” he said, grinning. “You, for example, are always working. Can I get you something?”

  “No thanks, I—”

  My words trailed off as we watched Chief Brandenburg and two uniformed officers approach Paul Redford’s table. We weren’t close enough to hear what they said to him, but he objected fiercely. Chief Brandenburg kept talking, looking calm but poised for whatever chaos might break out.

  Paul dropped the silver pie server he was holding onto the table, picked up the pie he had been about to cut, and slammed it to the ground at the chief’s feet, where it splattered green goop over his polished black shoes and blue serge pant legs.

  “If you’re finished with your tantrum, let’s go,” said the chief in a loud voice. Then they marched him off across the grass toward the exit, Brandenburg ahead of him and the two officers at each elbow.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Wow is right,” said Christopher. “I’m glad they finally figured out who had it in for Miss Parker. Maybe we can all relax and enjoy the New Year.”

  I turned back to him and pointed at the little cups of light-green liquid on the table. “I’ll have one of those after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Things are still a little tense between them, still lumps in the batter that they need to whisk out.

  —Jennifer Gold, The
Ingredients of Us

  As I dropped Helen off in the Truman Annex, I noticed that my mother’s catering van was in the driveway. I should pop in to say hello. We found Mom and Sam relaxing on the back deck, looking drained and happy to have time at home.

  We described the excitement at the lighthouse. “I suppose anyone is capable of murder, but Paul didn’t strike me as a murderous kind of guy,” I said. “His pie was so good.”

  Everyone laughed. “You never want to believe that a great cook—or especially a baker—has a mean streak,” my mother said.

  “Maybe he was just wound super-tightly with the pressure of the new business, and he snapped and crossed over the line?” Sam asked.

  I nodded slowly. “According to Sigrid, he may have been an investor in her shop as well as Claudette’s second-in-command. Maybe something she did or said caused him to believe that everything was slipping away.”

  “Is Nathan off duty tonight?” my mother asked. “We are thinking of throwing some steaks on the grill and making a big salad for dinner. Would you like to bring Miss Gloria and your gorgeous husband along?”

  “But you’ve been working nonstop,” I said, frowning. “You should take the night off.”

  “We have to eat,” she assured me. “And it won’t be one bit fussy or fancy. Steaks, salad, garlic bread, done! And besides, we want to catch up.”

  I glanced at Helen, who shrugged. “A night at home sounds good to me. We’ve been awfully busy since I arrived.”

  I texted Miss Gloria and Nathan to explain the plan and then headed home for a shower. While Miss Gloria was showering and dressing, I searched on the locals’ Facebook page to see if the news about Paul’s arrest had gone public. Of course it had. There were multiple blurry photos published, including a close-up of the pale-green spatter on the police chief’s shoes. The eyewitness accounts varied widely, from watching Paul get handcuffed and dragged off kicking and screaming to Paul spitting in the face of the new chief. None of which I’d seen.

  And there was lots of chatter about whether people believed he was a murderer, and why or why not. He was having a hot affair with Claudette and she spurned him … she stole his recipes and refused him credit … he’d siphoned off the money she had set aside for creditors and she found him out … Nothing I hadn’t already heard or imagined, having been on the front lines of the key lime crime for the last few days. And most of it probably fiction.

  Now on a roll, I couldn’t resist Googling another enigma: my new mother-in-law. I typed in Helen Bransford, Atlanta. Pages and pages of links loaded, detailing her expertise in forensic science, close psychological observation during witness examination, and the psychology of police departments.

  Miss Gloria emerged onto the deck, her white hair wet from her shower. “What are you looking at? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “My mother-in-law’s curriculum vitae. Why didn’t Nathan warn me? She’s some kind of well-known forensic scientist. She’s got to have over a hundred articles published,” I said to Miss Gloria. “She’s brilliant. I had no clue she was so important. What could we possibly have to talk about? We have nothing in common. No wonder she didn’t want to come to the wedding.”

  Miss Gloria clucked and chirped. “First of all, you’re too tired to think straight. Second, this is a mistake we all make. I think the scientists call it an attribution error. We all think our influence is bigger in the world than it actually is, at least in the eyes of the people around us. You assume Nathan’s mother didn’t come to the wedding because she hated the idea of you. But she had her own reasons to stay away from the wedding. And none of them had to do with you because she doesn’t know you. And as she gets to know you, she’ll fall in love exactly the way the rest of us did.”

  I zipped across the room and gave her the biggest hug. “I don’t know what I ever did without you.”

  She grinned. “I don’t know either. And here’s one more thing: do not forget that you have something huge in common. Nathan. You both love him to the moon and back. And as long as that love continues, it’s a powerful bond between the two of you. That’s how I feel about my daughters-in-law, anyway. Most days.” She snickered.

  We drove back down the island to the Truman Annex, a path that was beginning to feel deeply grooved. The others were already gathered on the back deck, sipping cocktails and nibbling on cheese. Nathan got up to hug Miss Gloria and give me a kiss on the lips.

  “All my favorite girls in one spot,” he said. “Mark this down as a perfect night.” He turned to his mother. “I am so sorry we haven’t gotten to spend much time together at all. This week could not be crazier. And add a murder on top of the New Year’s Eve shenanigans and the fact that half of our hired security people seem to have come down with the Keys flu …” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Anyway, I’ll try to make it up to you. And somehow thank my in-laws for their incredible hospitality.” He saluted Sam and blew a kiss to my mother. He put his arm around his own mother’s shoulders. “I hope my mother’s been behaving herself.”

  “We’ve hardly seen her; she’s the easiest houseguest,” said my mother.

  “And your Hayley’s like a mad hummingbird,” said Helen. “She flits around the island, barely stopping to sip a bit of nectar.”

  I laughed. “I never pass up nectar.” I raised my glass of white wine to all of them. “Here’s to a quieter New Year. And may Claudette Parker rest in peace.”

  Sam stood to put the steaks on the hot grill as three texts in succession hit Nathan’s phone. He glowered and went down the steps to the dipping pool area to read them.

  “I suppose with Paul behind bars,” my mother said, “there’s not a chance that Claudette’s shop will survive.”

  “I don’t see who would have the nerve to carry that forward,” I said. “She had the chutzpah to imagine she could compete with anyone and come out ahead. And she had the talent too. With someone less gifted in charge, that store could end up as just one more key lime shop, only with a pretentious name.”

  Nathan returned to our group. He glanced at his mother and then me, looking distressed.

  “We’ve developed more holes in our schedule, and they have to be filled. Every one of us is taking an extra shift or more over the next two days, including Steve Torrence, me, and even our new chief. They’re expecting me at the station in thirty minutes for my four-hour stint. And I’ll be working all day tomorrow too. My apologies, Mother. I was planning to take the day off and show you around, but the timing is dreadful.”

  “I understand,” she said. “And your wife and Miss Gloria and your in-laws are absolutely delightful and welcoming. And I will never eat another piece of key lime pie again.” We all laughed.

  “Do you want to take a steak for the road?” Sam asked. “We could make you a sandwich. I have some nice arugula and spicy mustard in the fridge. And a loaf of French bread from Old Town Bakery. It would make a fantastic—”

  Nathan shook his head. “No thanks. Not meaning to be rude, but I’ve lost my appetite. Don’t wait up,” he told me. “Four hours probably means six. I hope to be home by midnight.” He looked tired, gray half circles under his beautiful green eyes and a few wrinkles radiating from frown lines that I hadn’t noticed before. I imagined his stomach would be churning with the latest bad news.

  “I’ll be there,” I said, rather than voicing any of the other admonitions that ran through my mind. Be careful. Can’t someone else do it? I miss you. Be so very careful.

  When the steaks were finished and resting on a platter by the grill, I set the table outside while Sam tossed a gorgeous green salad with a mason jar of homemade dressing and crumbles of blue cheese. The flames in the hurricane lamps flickered in the breeze, and I could hear the sound of water slapping against the cement walls of the Navy pier on the Truman Waterfront. This truly was a slice of paradise, if anyone in my family circle could slow down enough to enjoy it.

  “That dressing looks and smells amazing,” I said
to Sam.

  “I tried my hand at a knockoff version of Baby’s salad from Clemente’s,” he said. “I know how much you love it.” He grinned at me as I sliced the oven-hot bread, drenched in melted butter and crushed garlic. “Dinner’s ready,” he called to the others.

  “You are such a treasure,” I said. “Thank goodness my mother didn’t blow it.”

  “That sounds like a story,” said Nathan’s mom, as she took a seat next to me.

  “I’ll tell it,” said Miss Gloria, piling her plate high with sliced steak and a big helping of salad. “I love this story. Poor guy proposed right in front of everyone, and instead of graciously accepting, she walked out without saying a word.”

  My mother buried her face in her hands. “That’s so embarrassing.”

  “It was my mistake for surprising her,” said Sam. He reached for her fingers and squeezed. “Tell Nathan’s proposal story instead. I bet Helen hasn’t heard that one.”

  And so Miss Gloria did, embellishing the details of Nathan arranging for Robert Albury to sing “Try a Little Tenderness” on the Pier House pier, and giving me a box containing a key to the houseboat next store to Miss Gloria’s, and then dropping to one knee in front of the crowd—all as if she’d lived through it herself.

  “I never knew he had such a romantic streak,” said Helen, her smile wide.

  My mother looked completely beat, so as soon as we’d cleared the dishes and helped Sam load them into the washer, I gathered my belongings to take Miss Gloria home. “Remember, we have Cooking With Love tomorrow morning,” I told Helen, to remind her of our date to help with the soup kitchen work. “Eric likes me to be there no later than eight. Seven thirty is even better. You’re not obligated, of course.”