“Would you like to go with me?” I asked. “I’m sure a lot of folks will want to share your grief. Your aunt was much beloved by this crowd.”
Mary’s eyes shuttered closed, then quickly back open. “No, thanks. The part of Auntie Yoshe I want to remember has nothing to do with her fame. I’ll think of her teaching me how to use a knife properly when chopping the ingredients for a salad. Or how to choose a melon and which greens would be too bitter if they were left raw but would go perfectly in a stir-fry.” Tears choked her voice again. “And the memories she shared of growing up with my mom. I’ll miss those most of all.”
I gave her a hug on the sidewalk, not wanting to risk another scolding from Reba. “Good luck with everything,” I said, and walked away, my thoughts whirling.
Maybe it was a terrible stereotype about Asian family shame, but even stereotypes often start with a few grains of truth: Wouldn’t Yoshe have been devastated by the feedback from her editor? And despite Mary’s insistence that they were working on a way to salvage the cookbook, wouldn’t Yoshe have felt a terrible sense of humiliation if her family’s history was about to be exposed by Jonah?
Yes, she’d been a small person, but as any petite baseball player or golfer could attest, swinging a weapon with success was all about using the levers in your arms efficiently.
20
A splash of blood from the rib eye steaks carved for the rich man on the hill.
A touch of green from lobsters cracked and cleaned for the fussy housewife,
Who will eat pink flesh but not green, no matter how pleasing the taste.
—Fritz Ewing, Death in Four Courses
I checked my e-mail on the way back to my bike, hoping I’d finally have a message from my own mother. But nothing. I hated to think of finding myself in Mary’s shoes—having lost both her mother and her aunt, the two women she felt closest to in the world. Feeling a wave of anxiety surge forward, I hopped on the scooter and drove off, winding through some of the small residential streets on the eastern side of the island. There was absolutely no reason why Mom would be over this way and not have let me know, but it allowed me to feel like I was doing something.
With only five minutes left before the event started, I parked across the street from the San Carlos Institute for the final session, including what Dustin had dubbed a “book-signing extravaganza.” Which seemed a little more upbeat than the situation called for, but I could understand that murders or no murders, all the panelists would want those stacks of books to move.
I stood at the back of the auditorium, searching the crowd for my mother’s familiar form. The seats were about half-full, none of them occupied by Mom. The red velvet curtains swept open and Dustin blundered onstage, followed by a trickle of food writers, who once again took seats at the tables of the makeshift diner. He stood at the podium, pale and unhappy.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we are devastated by the events of this weekend. We had so much to celebrate. I could not have imagined how this would turn out.” He dropped his head into his hands, causing an abrasive rumble in the microphone attached to the podium.
And causing me to wonder, again, whether on that opening night he really might have anticipated some of what would unfold in the ensuing days. I remembered him pacing in the wings as Jonah sacrificed one after the other of the food writing world’s sacred goats. Had his rage mounted as Jonah strutted and preened and made innuendos about the secrets he planned to expose, while the faces of the writers in the background tightened defensively? I wished I’d been more familiar with the panelists at the beginning of the weekend. Maybe then I could have recognized a desperate or murderous expression, suppressed for the sake of the public appearance, but perhaps incompletely.
I searched the faces of the stragglers posed onstage this afternoon. Olivia was there, perfectly coiffed and exquisitely dressed as always. Sigrid sat across the stage from her, in yet one more bright muumuu, this one resembling the dizzying patterns of a Turkish rug. Fritz, the culinary poet, the most shadowy of the possible suspects I’d considered, was seated in the back row. I pulled out my phone and typed his name into the search bar. Most of what surfaced appeared to be appalling reviews of his poetry collections, one of them penned by Jonah. Sigrid wasn’t the only writer whose lifework had been panned by the featured speaker.
“As I said in my opening remarks,” Dustin continued when he’d gathered his emotions, “Jonah was a bright star in our universe. He wanted the best from us—no pretense, no nonsense, no puffery. Maybe sometimes he pushed this too far, but in the end we were all better for his challenges.” He paused and mopped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “I thought it might be appropriate at this moment, rather than ramble on with my own recollections of this brilliant man, to ask some of his colleagues to speak about their relationships with him.”
Apparently Dustin hadn’t prepared them for this eventuality, because no one came forward. After an impossibly awkward few minutes, Fritz stood and shambled to the mike. Dustin nodded with gratitude and stepped aside. Fritz pushed his glasses to his forehead, unfolded a half sheet of lined paper, and smoothed it on the podium. He studied his audience with pale blue eyes, then turned his attention to the paper.
“‘The Butcher,’” he said. “A poem to honor Jonah Barrows.”
Morning comes, the butcher’s wife hands him an apron, starched white.
Keep it clean, she scolds.
At night, he brings it home, layered with the detritus of his day.
A splash of blood from the rib eye steaks carved for the rich man on the hill.
A touch of green from lobsters cracked and cleaned for the fussy housewife,
Who will eat pink flesh but not green, no matter how pleasing the taste.
Marrow from hacked bones,
Distributed to fancy restaurants and slavering dogs alike.
And as the day goes by, the hues of the apron morph from red to gray.
I tried, he says, handing it to the missus come evening. I had my work to do.
I squirmed in my seat in the silence that followed, wondering if this had anything at all to do with Jonah. Wondering if this man was a little psychotic. Up on the stage, Sigrid was rolling her eyes and muttering to the writer on her left. To my relief, and I imagined that of the rest of the people in the auditorium as well, Olivia shot out of her diner booth and moved gracefully to the podium. She touched Fritz’s elbow and hovered, smiling, until he stepped aside.
“Thank you, Fritz,” she said, clapping her hands as he returned to his booth. “That was most unusual. And touching.” She turned back to the podium and smiled sadly. “Jonah Barrows must have had what scientists refer to as a ‘supertaster’ palate—that is, more taste buds than ordinary humans. He could tease out the tarragon from the sage and the Tillamook from the Fontina the way few other chefs or reviewers or writers could. But he also had a sharp eye and an incisive way with words. He could cut to the bone.” She folded her slender white hands on the podium and cleared her throat. “There was a tremor of loss in the landscape of technology when Steve Jobs died too young. And we in the food world feel a similar seismic upheaval with the death of Jonah Barrows. I personally am grateful to have had the pleasure of spending some precious time in his presence. Thank you.” She nodded at Dustin and returned to her seat.
“That was lovely and generous,” said the woman seated in front of me. “She’s so right about the comparison with Steve Jobs.”
I thought it was a rather major exaggeration, but I wouldn’t take her on, especially at the man’s memorial. After a few of the other writers took their turns extolling Jonah’s talents, Dustin thanked them and moved on to speak of Yoshe’s strengths and his exquisite sorrow at also losing her. Then he opened the mike for comments from the audience about both of the writers. One by one, conference attendees trooped up to the standing microphone and told stories about their love for Yoshe King’s cookbooks. Few of the speakers mentioned Jonah.
Finally the session ended and I started up the aisle toward the vestibule, falling in behind Fritz Ewing. “Your poem was so unexpected,” I said. “I’m amazed that you could come up with something so polished so quickly. And I couldn’t help wondering if there was a message in it about the events of the weekend.”
A wicked smile played across his lips. “I wondered if anyone would bother to inquire. The butcher must do his work, whether it dirties his apron at the end of the day, or not. Jonah operated that way too.”
“And that means?”
“Didn’t you see All the President’s Men? Remember the scene where Deep Throat tells Bob Woodward to ‘follow the money’?”
I nodded slowly.
“The same applies here.”
“Okay, so have you heard anything about a franchise that several of the writers were interested in investing in?” I asked.
“Impossibly lowbrow,” he said with an edge of scorn in his voice. “But all’s fair. I would have invested in it myself if I’d had the dough. Or had I been asked.” He doffed an imaginary hat and slipped into the stream of tourists passing by the institute.
21
So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being.
—Kafka
I returned to the office again, this time feeling like I had the bones of a story that would capture the events of the weekend. “At what price honesty?” the headline could read.
Of course, truth was a value we’d all claim we espoused. But Jonah took it so far that his words became weapons. And his weapons cost him friends. I jotted some notes, but the longer I worked, the harder it got to concentrate. There had been two murders. And many career and life-changing secrets seemed to be at risk—including those people he’d contacted before the conference. And my own mother was hot on the trail of … something. And I could no longer suppress my concern about her absence.
My phone buzzed with news of an incoming e-mail. I found a message from Mary Chen.
“Hayley, thank you for your kindness and for the wonderful though brief escape. Exactly what I needed after a horrible weekend. I’m now waiting in the Miami Airport for a delayed plane. You were so right—nothing worth eating here, though the coffee isn’t bad. While I was sitting around, I tried to reconstruct what my aunt told me when she called me in so much distress. I may not have gotten it all exactly right, but here’s the gist. It pains me deeply to send it on, but for Yoshe’s sake, I believe it’s important to let people know how destructive Jonah Barrows was.
“He told her that while he appreciated her concerns about her privacy and her career, and her intent to restore her reputation, he couldn’t overlook the fact that she planned to hoodwink the very people who adored her and admired her by constructing and exaggerating a phony background. His allegiance had to be to the truth, rather than to an individual concerned about the size of her next royalty check.”
Stomach churning, I saw clearly that Yoshe had every reason to wish Jonah dead before Friday’s panels. But had she killed him? Had she picked up that metal bird, knocked him out, and left him to drown? And if so, how and why had she died?
I read the message over again, then thought of calling Bill to see if he’d give me the password to Eric’s e-mail. Because maybe Eric had received a threatening message as well. But it was one thing for her niece to invade Yoshe King’s privacy—she was already dead. I doubted that Eric would ever forgive me—or Bill—for plundering his private messages when he was very much alive.
So I hurried back out to the parking lot and drove across the island to talk one more time to Reba at the bed-and-breakfast. Which by now felt a little like squeezing an old lemon, but I had no other ideas.
As I entered the lobby, Reba was checking in her latest guests, a pale young couple, both redheads, who looked like they’d blister like lobsters after one afternoon in our sun. Reba marked two x’s on a colored map laid out on the counter.
“Since you haven’t visited our town before, Ernest Hemingway’s house is a must-see. The Southernmost Point is right up the block, and you can’t beat Duval Street for people-watching—right over there.” She smiled, pointing outside to the intersection across the street, and then handed over the keys and the map. “We serve breakfast from seven thirty to nine thirty. Your room is on the end, third floor. We were able to upgrade you to a better view.”
The young woman squealed and clapped her hands.
Yoshe’s room, I thought.
As the customers mounted the stairs, Reba turned to me, her smile fading. “What now?”
“I’m sorry to be a pest, and I’m sure the police have already asked you … but you’re certain you didn’t hear anything the morning Ms. King died? No screams, no arguments? Did she have any visitors at all that day?”
“As you heard me explain”—she waved at the echoing steps of her retreating guests—“I’m busy with breakfast in the mornings. Making coffee, replenishing pastries and juice and fruit. After that, it takes me an hour or more to clean up. The kitchen does not have a water view, so thank God”—she crossed herself—“I didn’t see her fall. I wasn’t aware that she had any visitors. I told you about the one phone call. And I just don’t know anything more. I wish I could help—you might have more luck canvassing people in the hotel next door. Maybe someone was out on a balcony? Walking on the beach? I told your mother the very same thing. And the cops. And Ms. King’s niece.” She left the counter, marched back into her office, and slammed the door.
I retreated outdoors and perched on the porch swing to check my phone again. Nothing from Mom. Why not stop over next door?
I exited through the garden of the bed-and-breakfast and walked quickly through the motel entrance and out back to the pool that overlooked the ocean. The area around the pool was blanketed with chaise longues—and dozens of people reading, sleeping, and soaking up the sunshine. I hardly knew where to start—it could take days to canvass all of them. But then I saw a girl in a purple bikini and a straw hat head for the outside stairs that led to the third floor overlooking the adjoining property. A room there would have had a view of Yoshe’s balcony. I trotted upstairs and rapped on the door into which she’d disappeared.
The door banged open. “We don’t need our room freshened,” said the girl.
I flashed a big smile. “I’m not from housekeeping. I’m looking for some information about an incident that happened next door. Maybe you heard about the woman who fell from her third-floor balcony yesterday?”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “We did hear the sirens.”
“It’s a long shot, but any chance you might have heard some folks arguing before that?”
“Oh my gosh,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “I never put it together. We were trying to sleep in, so my friend got up and closed the window. Why would I want to travel all this way to hear arguments about money, when I could stay home with my boyfriend and fight for free?”
“So it was about money?” I asked. “Can you remember any details?”
“They both sounded pissed,” the girl said. “And the one woman was really out of control. But I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”
“So the woman was angrier than the man?”
“No,” she said. “It was two women.”
“Two women fighting? Are you sure?”
“Of that much I’m sure.”
I thanked her and headed back out to the street, my mind churning in confused spirals.
My phone buzzed. While I’d been chatting with the sunbather, Allison had left a message saying she’d helped Eric’s mother sift through the boxes of stuff from his school days. Mostly they’d found high school and college yearbooks, along with a couple of textbooks on abnormal psychology from graduate school.
“But Mrs. Altman did dig out one old letter—it was so painful,” Allison continued. “Eric felt his mother didn’t appreciate how important it was to be open about his sexuality. She’s almost certain, look
ing back, that he was involved with that Jonah Barrows. He was angry that she didn’t want to tell his grandmother the news. The poor old woman was almost ninety and half dotty anyway. And there was a clipping about a death—a young man who’d fallen from an eighth-floor balcony in the college residence hall. None of that probably helps, but I wanted to let you know that Mrs. Altman is en route—and she’s a basket case. Better have comfort food ready, because she’s going to need it. And call anytime if you need us down there.”
I sighed and tucked the phone into my pocket. I didn’t feel much like cooking—especially with Mom missing. And Eric in jail. If it turned out he had been romantically involved with Jonah, his arrest seemed more ominous. But I’d pretty much talked to all the people I could think of.
So I drove across town to Fausto’s Market and bought enough ground beef for a monster meat loaf, along with a big sack of potatoes and a bag of carrots. I packed the groceries into my scooter’s basket and motored back to the marina.
The houseboat was still empty when I arrived with my loot. I put everything away and then began to pace through the small rooms, out to the end of dock, and back again. Mom’s camera, I finally noticed, was sitting on the tiny driftwood coffee table, connected to her laptop with a cord. I brought the computer screen to life and began to flip through the hundreds of photos she’d taken this weekend.
I stopped when I came to the opening night party. There were three shots of Eric and Bill on the sidewalk outside the picket fence surrounding the Audubon House. In the third snapshot, taken fifteen minutes later according to the time stamp, Eric had turned to the right and appeared to be talking to a small Asian woman. Yoshe. I flipped backward and then forward. He looked fine in the first two shots—not his most cheerful and photogenic ever, but then Mom was not as skilled a photographer as she was a cook.
But in the third frame, his expression had changed to a look of distress. I studied the photo, trying to figure out what might have happened in the intervening moments. What if Yoshe had sought him out and confessed to the killing? What if she’d told him she was feeling suicidal? Would he be able to come forward with what he’d heard? It would be just like Eric to go to jail protecting someone he barely knew. But how would she ever have found his name?
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 19