Jonah had sacrificed a lot of sacred cows: amateurs on food boards and their Twitter-driven hysteria, endorsement of precious foodie trends, lack of transparency and fortitude from chefs and the writers following them. In forty-five minutes, he’d managed to spurn most of the cutting-edge trends in the food world. And some of them well deserved it. What could I possibly add to his brilliant dissection? And would I have a strong enough stomach anyway? And whom exactly did he plan to wrestle to the mud over the next two days? And how could I summarize it in a way that would beat back the threat of getting canned by Ava Faulkner?
“Do you think we’ll get a chance to meet Jonah in person?” Mom asked.
“I e-mailed him and tried to set up an interview, but he’s got a very busy weekend,” I said. “He told me to look out for him at the party. Fingers and toes crossed he has a spare minute.” I held up my crossed digits and laughed.
She crossed her fingers too and smiled, then grabbed my elbow. “Hayley, wait! Isn’t this the bar Hemingway used to drink in after he finished writing for the day?”
My mom stopped in front of Sloppy Joe’s, where the noise roared out onto the street. Sunburned customers clustered around the tables covered with plastic tankards of beer and baskets of french fries and burgers. My stomach growled and I thought wistfully of Eric’s rhubarb crumb cake. More people spilled onto the sidewalk to smoke and drink more beer. A trio of ponytailed men in tropical shirts played aggressive, pulse-pounding rock music on electric guitars at the far end of the bar. I’d never set foot in this place and I doubted that Hemingway would have enjoyed it either.
“Let me get your picture here,” Mom said, pushing me toward the painted sign that read “Established in 1933” and sighting through her viewfinder. “Now smile!” She snapped four quick photos.
“Hey, what’s that?” She pointed to a camera fastened to the underside of the roof overhanging the sidewalk.
“It’s the Duval Street webcam, Mom,” I said. “They have it mounted on their Web site so people who aren’t in town can see what they’re missing. Remember when I first moved here last fall, I wanted you to watch it but it wouldn’t load on your computer? Let’s get moving. I have a lot people I’d like to meet. And wouldn’t it be awful if they ran out of wine?”
“Or food,” said my mother, tucking her camera into her handbag and trotting ahead of me up the street.
By the time we reached the Audubon House, a long line of hungry people snaked out of the gated white picket fence onto the Whitehead Street sidewalk. The ladies Mom had chastised in the auditorium—twice—were just ahead of us.
“What is this a line for anyway?” asked the woman with the helmet of silver hair.
“The bar,” answered the other. “You would think they could plan better. This is not relaxing.”
A waiter in a white shirt passed by with a platter of shrimp toast.
“Smile!” said Mom to the waiter as she took his picture. I managed to snag two pieces just before the plate was snatched clean by the unhappy woman in front of us. Mom nibbled at hers and pronounced it delicious.
“I think they used fresh dill. And the mayo is definitely homemade. Oh, Hayley”—she learned over to kiss my cheek, her hazel eyes bright with sudden tears—“I’m having so much fun already.”
I looked up from the notes on my smartphone and smiled. “I’m glad.” I felt a needle of regret that I wasn’t enjoying having her as much as she was enjoying being here. I swore to myself that I’d try harder not to allow my nerves or my reactions to her well-intentioned motherly ministrations ruin the visit. As we inched forward toward the bar, the pressure on my bladder grew intense.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Will you hold my stuff?”
I handed her the canvas bag containing my phone, notebook, wallet, program, and the press copy of Jonah’s book I’d brought in case I ran into him, and dashed down a long brick walkway, passing groups of people chatting at tall cocktail tables with plates of nibbles and glasses of wine. Twenty yards to the right, one serving station was dishing up tiny lamb chops. The smell of roasted meat and garlic called to me like metal filings to a magnet, but I decided it would be rude not to wait for my mother. At the next station, more waiters were setting up coffee, tea, and enormous trays of chocolate-covered strawberries. Those I could not resist. I veered over and popped one into my mouth, savoring the bright burst of berry coated in a crisp shell of dark chocolate with the smallest hint of orange—no resemblance to the greasy, grainy, overly sweet chocolate I’d had in wedding fountains. I’d pick one up for Mom on the way back.
At the far corner of the property at the end of another long brick walkway, I located the restrooms in a small white clapboard building shaded by dense green foliage—palms, ferns, and bougainvillea vines covered in hot pink blossoms. As a woman climbed the steps ahead of me, I recognized the white-blond hair and slim, black-draped figure of Olivia Nethercut, one of my food writing heroines. Jonah was spectacular and controversial and brilliant, but I could picture myself having a career like Olivia’s—food critic, philanthropist, and cookbook writer. My psychologist friend Eric had told me more than once that people who wrote down their goals achieved them more often than those who didn’t. So on page one of my notebook, I’d dashed off a list for this weekend. Number one: an exclusive interview with Olivia. Jonah’s interview was number two.
“Ms. Nethercut,” I said, panting a little as I caught up with her. “I’m Hayley Snow and I just wanted to say how thrilled we are to have you in town. Speaking at the conference.”
She nodded blankly. My face flushed as I suddenly realized that accosting her in the ladies’ room would probably be considered a journalistic faux pas. On the other hand, it was way too late to pretend I hadn’t seen her. I started to hold my hand out, then realized my fingers were covered with melted brown goo.
I began to stammer like a waitress with her first table. “Isn’t it a gorgeous night? Never seen such a full moon. They’re so lucky that squall blew by to the south. I don’t think they had any rain plan at all.”
Inside the ladies’ room, the novelist Sigrid Gustafson was applying a fresh layer of lipstick at the sink. Hearing me prattle, she caught Olivia’s eye and grimaced. Olivia ducked into a stall and I took the one next to her.
“I loved your memoir, A Marrow Escape,” I chattered, unable to shut myself up. “And I sent a check off to your foundation at Christmas.” So what if it was ten bucks? That was all I could swing, working only part-time at my friend Connie’s cleaning service before starting at Key Zest.
“Thanks,” she said in a muffled voice. “You’re very kind.”
Feeling disappointed and slightly brushed off—she hadn’t shown one smidgen of curiosity about who I was or what my connection might be to the seminar—I told myself that once we emerged and were busy with the less personal task of hand-washing and away from Sigrid’s eye-rolling, I’d announce my credentials and request an interview. But by the time I’d exited the stall, both of the women were gone.
I stumbled back down the stairs, mentally pinching myself for acting like a groupie instead of the professional critic and writer I was supposed to be. Though I was a foodie groupie, like my mother before me. What was wrong with that?
Maybe I’d annoyed Olivia with my gushing. Maybe I’d broken some unwritten rule of courtesy by even speaking to her, even if it was to admire her cutting-edge criticism, gorgeous writing, and generosity. Maybe it was rude to compliment one writer in front of another. Maybe I’d crave the same kind of distance from scruffy fans in the unlikely event I ever got famous. In that case, why the heck attend a food writing conference?
I wandered off to collect myself on one of the black metal benches by the reflecting pool in the corner of the property before rejoining the party. Lush staghorn ferns and mother-in-law tongues shielded the seating area from the restrooms. Two large metal birds—more egret in shape than flamingo—were posed gracefully in the wate
r, and clusters of water lilies floated over most of the surface. I took a seat and tried to slow my whirling thoughts: This weekend could be fun if I would only relax.
A trickle of water burbled out from a pipe in the pool’s wall, and I noticed that something was pushing the lily pads up, something surfacing from the dark recesses of the water. The wind gusted, causing the palm fronds overhead to clack like castanets and bringing a whiff of roasted meat that now smelled more rancid than enticing.
I edged a step closer, my heart ratcheting up to uneven thumps like a Kitchen Aide mixer loaded with dough. A third bird statue appeared to have been broken off at the shins and was lying on the bricks next to the pool, the sharp metal beak pointing to a sodden mass of—something.
I squatted at the edge to peer into the water, and was horrified to recognize a swatch of orange linen painfully similar to the shirt Jonah had worn onstage. There must be some reasonable explanation. He didn’t own the only orange shirt in the world.
I grabbed the ruined statue and poked at the mass. A pale face bobbed up through the lilies, white flesh and blond hair stained with algae. I tried to scream. The sound caught in my throat, emerging as a strangled squeak.
I kicked aside my mother’s expensive sandals, rolled my pants up to my knees, and waded into the water. It was colder and deeper than I’d expected and I skidded on the slick pool bottom and barely caught my balance. Grabbing hold of the orange shirt, I dragged the body to the shallow steps at the end of the pool, propped it up on the edge of the brick walkway, and finally steeled myself to focus. Oh my Lord, it was definitely Jonah.
I pressed my fingers against the clammy skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse—nothing.
What now? My phone was in the bag I’d left with Mom. And the last time I’d practiced CPR was in high school when I’d taken Red Cross training in hopes of working as a summer lifeguard. I’d flunked the water safety portion of the test and dropped out to work for a local caterer.
I screamed for help.
“Breathe, Jonah,” I moaned, looking around for someone—anyone—to assist me. In the distance, the loud buzz of a million conversations floated through the trees from the direction of the Audubon House. How could it be that the grounds were mobbed and yet not one person was close enough to hear me?
I squeezed Jonah’s nostrils shut and blew two quick puffs of air into his cool lips, noticing an angry red knot on his forehead partially covered by his hair. His mouth tasted of sour coffee and pond water. I pulled away, gagging, and broke off my amateur CPR to try to wrestle him farther up onto the sidewalk. He was too heavy.
I yelled again. “Help! Help!” No one came.
“Help!” I shrieked a third time, then tipped Jonah’s head back, leaned my weight onto his chest, and pumped until a stream of greenish water leaked from his mouth. He still didn’t seem to be breathing. I couldn’t fumble around while his life ebbed away. I leaped up and tore down the sidewalk and around the corner to the dessert and coffee table.
“Call 911,” I instructed the woman tending the coffeepot. “I need help right away—a man has hit his head and fallen into the pool! We need a doctor right now. He’s not breathing well.” Which was the understatement of the decade.
I pounded back to Jonah’s limp figure with one of the white-shirted waiters heavy on my tail. “Let’s get him onto the walkway,” I said.
With the server clutching one arm and me the other, we pulled Jonah completely out of the pool. Rivulets of water ran from his clothing, staining the bricks deep red. His face was ashen underneath the tan. I tucked my pink sweater around his torso, then continued with chest compressions while the waiter blew desperate breaths into his mouth.
“Is anything happening? Do you think he’s breathing?” the waiter asked. “Do you think he had a heart attack?”
“He’s only in his thirties. I can’t imagine he has heart problems. Just keep blowing,” I said, sounding more hopeful than what I felt. “His skin tone looks better than when I found him,” I said.
“I don’t know,” said the waiter. “He looks dead to me.”
3
Modern recipes were clean and bloodless by comparison, suppressing violence between cook and cooked. Not so here. Truss them…lard them, boil them quick and white.
—Allegra Goodman
After what felt like hours, two EMTs arrived, along with Officer Torrence, a policeman I’d met last fall during a murder investigation. He did a double take when he saw me. I’d been the Key West Police Department’s favored suspect for the better part of a week. And now here I was again, the first responder at a second disaster that—if I were to be completely honest—also looked like foul play.
Usually the cops in this town arrived at the scene with a “why are you bothering me now?” expression. They’ve seen too many drunken tourists and panhandling bums weeks away from their last shower to get excited by a man stumbling into a dipping pool. But Officer Torrence’s gaze darted from the angry red lump on Jonah’s forehead to the lush foliage screening the restrooms to the low brick wall over which anyone might have scrambled.
“Miss Snow, what’s going on here?” he asked, which seemed like an odd opening salvo to me. Wasn’t it obvious?
“I found Jonah Barrows in the pool and we”—I pointed to the waiter beside me—“pulled him out.”
A small crowd of partygoers had followed the cops to the reflecting pool and clustered around us, jostling and craning to see the trauma. Several of the women had begun to blubber at the shock of it all, which made me feel like crying too.
“Move aside, folks,” Torrence said, pointing to the approaching EMTs. “These people need room to work.”
“Gladly,” I said, shuffling away from Jonah’s inert form.
The paramedics surged past me, unfolding their portable stretcher, oxygen tank, and defibrillator by the time they reached Jonah. Once two other police officers had arrived to secure the area, Officer Torrence led me to the stairs of the restroom facility.
“You found him in the pool?”
I nodded and felt my pants, looking for a tissue to blot my eyes. No pockets. No bag. I wiped my face on my sleeve. I was starting to shiver and wished I hadn’t given away my sweater.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” he said. “Right from the beginning.”
The beginning—that awful, ominous lily pad bobbing. I sank down to the bottom step, my stomach clamped into a fierce knot. I put my head between my knees and took a couple of deep breaths. When the wooziness passed, I sat up, licked my lips, and began to explain.
“I was waiting in line with my mother for a glass of wine and something to eat. But then nature called and I dashed over here to use the ladies’ room. The day has been such a whirlwind, so I went to collect my thoughts at the reflecting pool before rejoining the party.” Didn’t seem necessary to report that I’d been discouraged because I’d been dissed by one of my favorite food writers.
“When I got here, I noticed that one of the statues had been broken off.” I described how I’d come closer, seen the face in the water, and fished out Jonah. “He gave the keynote speech tonight for the food writing conference. We’ve been trying to get him to breathe on his own for the last fifteen minutes or so.” I waved at the waiter, who hovered five feet away, looking as green as the algae that soiled Jonah’s shirt. “I couldn’t say whether he tripped and fell into the pool or whether someone hit him. Either way, he’s got a big lump on his forehead.” I fingered the skin under my widow’s peak, picturing that angry, swollen knot.
Torrence grimaced, brown eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Did you see anyone leaving the area around the pool as you entered? Any movement in the bushes surrounding the property?”
“Nothing like that. No one’s been around at all. I yelled and yelled for help and not one person came. Finally I had to run out to the dessert table to get help.”
“And how about the ladies’ room?” Torrence asked. “Did you notice anyone there?”
>
“Olivia Nethercut used the bathroom the same time I did.” I stopped to take a breath and picture the scene. “Another woman—Sigrid Gustafson, I believe is her name—was at the sink when we came in. But there’s no way either one would have had time to run out and wallop Jonah—I would definitely have seen them leaving the pool area. Besides, he’d been in that water a few minutes at least before I arrived. He simply wasn’t breathing.” I shuddered and dabbed my eyes on my shirt again.
“Who’s in charge of this conference?” he asked.
“Dustin Fredericks. I’ll find him and bring him over.” I couldn’t wait to get away from the scene of Jonah’s accident. I snugged the sandals back on my feet and bolted before Officer Torrence could insist I remain in the area.
I pushed through the crowds around the bar and the hors d’oeuvres tables and found Dustin at the far side of the grounds. He was talking with Julia Child’s longtime publicist, a man known for his spot-on imitations of his former client, and a food critic from the Washington Post. I grabbed Dustin’s wrist and tugged, ignoring his companions’ stares and his outrage.
“Listen, you have to come with me,” I said quietly. “I’m Hayley Snow. With Key Zest. Someone’s fallen into the pool and hit his head.” How could he not have heard the sirens?
Dustin shook me off. “Find security and have them handle this. I’ll get there shortly.”
“It’s urgent,” I added. “It’s Jonah.”
Shoulders tightening, he whistled out an irritated sigh. “Opening night of the biggest show in town, my career’s on the line, and that buffoon goes swimming?” Dustin turned to the two men he’d been chatting with. “Excuse me, please. Something’s come up.” He lumbered off ahead of me, grumbling. “He needs to get over it—put a Band-Aid on his boo-boo and get out here and do some patch-up work with our sponsors. He didn’t give a keynote address. He whacked our seminar like it was a cheap piñata. I should have known better than to tap him. When has he ever done what I asked him? He thinks he’s like one of those banks, too big to fail. We’ll see about that….”
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 3