Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  “Both the master bedroom and one of the guest rooms look over Old Town Key West,” she explained. “The bath has rain showerheads and both a double shower and a marble bathtub big enough for two. Not very many homes on the island have the kind of storage space this one does.”

  “I don’t care—”

  “I know,” she whispered. “Just play along with me, okay?”

  I closed my eyes, feeling the tears pressing for escape, then nodded. We stopped in the doorway of the biggest bedroom, dominated by a large canvas of red-and-black modern art that hung over a heavy mahogany bed. The bed had been left unmade, sheets tangled, a thick quilt tossed carelessly to the carpet along with a peach-colored bathrobe, all suggesting a restless night. The air smelled of stale perfume. I ducked into the bathroom, where the burnished stone counters were cluttered with makeup, night cream, and an uncapped tube of toothpaste. Two plush white towels draped from the gaping drawers to the floor.

  I poked my head into the walk-in closet, where a suitcase lay open, its contents spilling out onto the beige rug. I recognized the flowing purple silk pantsuit that Olivia had worn to dinner at Louie’s Backyard. And the Burberry case that might have contained Yoshe’s laptop.

  “She did it,” I whispered to Cory, my stomach suddenly queasy, and pushed ahead of her to scan the guest bedroom and bathroom, the two auxiliary closets in the hallway. Empty. I followed her back into the hall.

  “Let me show you the main living area,” she said, and we rode the elevator down one floor and emerged into the dining alcove. She pointed across the room. “You’ll notice the copper exhaust hood and the six-burner Viking stove. Are you a chef as well as a critic?”

  I nodded and, for a moment, thought longingly of what I could cook in this unbelievable kitchen. I sighed. Miss Gloria’s houseboat was the only home I saw in my future. And I’d never truly belong in a place like this. And besides that, I didn’t care for the black cabinets—sleek, yes. Homey, no.

  I tried the door to the pantry, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Sometimes the owners lock one closet where they store their private things,” Cory said. “That way they can keep expensive whiskey or their best china without having to worry about guests or, heaven forbid, renters doing damage.”

  We circled the living and dining room areas, furnished in heavy black leather with red accent cushions and more unintelligible and frightening art on the walls. The closets were mostly empty except for a few coats and umbrellas and a pair of sneakers and there was certainly no evidence that my mother had been here.

  “I guess that’s it,” I said. “I’m afraid I overreacted. Thanks so much for taking me around.” Somehow I would have to let Detective Bransford know that I knew where Yoshe’s computer might have been stashed.

  We stepped back onto the elevator and Cory pushed the button for the lobby. The compartment’s doors slid shut and the car lurched into silent action but then ground to a quick halt. She stabbed at the button again, and then punched the button with the arrows that closed the doors when they were moving too slowly. Nothing happened. She looked at her watch. “Drat. And I have a showing across town in fifteen minutes.” She plucked her smartphone from her purse. “No service. Can you get anything?”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket—no service bars on mine either.

  “I’ve had this trouble before,” Cory said. “The walls of the steam plant were superthick and the service is horrible.”

  Breathing a little harder, I banged on the mirrored wall and shouted for help; then we listened. But who would possibly hear us? The nearest people I’d seen were two blocks away at the ferry dock.

  Cory tried her cell again with no success, then reached for the emergency phone hanging on the wall. “There’s no dial tone. Good Lord, it’s hot in here.” She unwound the blue scarf from her neck and fanned her face with her hand.

  “I hate elevators,” I said, my panic rising. “Didn’t you tell me this thing was brand-new?” A drenching sweat broke out on my face and chest and I began to feel like I was choking.

  “Sit down and put your head between your knees,” Cory suggested, and I sank to the floor, quaking. Telling myself I was not my mother. And that we would find her. And that someone would come soon to let us out of this box. The walls pressed in closer and closer and I labored to breathe.

  “It’s nice that your mom could come for the conference,” said Cory, still working the buttons on her phone. “Not too many daughters would care to spend three full days with their mom.”

  “We have our moments,” I said, my face buried in my hands, not really wanting to talk about it but realizing chatting was the only thing standing between me and a full-blown claustrophobic panic attack. So I’d talk. “I got a little stressed and said something harsh this morning about her living off my father—alimony for life.”

  “Ouch,” said Cory.

  “I know. Other than that, we’ve had a lot of fun and it’s been an interesting weekend. I realized some things.”

  “What kind of things?” she asked.

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “Right out of college, my mother gave up her own ambitions to raise a family. If she really had any to begin with. She got pregnant with me in her last year of school and dropped out to be a housewife and mother. I think I’ve always been afraid I’d take the same path.”

  “You could do worse than that,” Cory said.

  “Yeah, but then you’re at the mercy of the guy you married. Or live with. I tried that when I followed my ex down here. When that relationship blew up last fall, I felt like I’d hitched all my hopes to him. And then he lopped me off like a dead tree limb.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Every woman should have a backup plan. And the money to fund it.”

  “It’s totally creepy that I’d repeat my mother’s exact mistake.” Although Eric would have said it was to be expected—if I refused to explore this stuff in therapy, it was bound to haunt me.

  “I can see how that would freak you out,” Cory said, tapping furiously on her phone again and then shaking it in frustration.

  I continued to jabber—all the thoughts I’d had in the back of my mind over the weekend tumbling out in their full embarrassing glory. “And that’s probably part of why I feel so much pressure about my job at Key Zest—besides the fact that Ava Faulkner is dying to fire me. I started feeling like this would be a huge opportunity to make something of myself. It seemed absolutely critical to come out of this weekend with a big story.”

  The more I talked, the calmer I felt. But my nose had begun to run and beads of sweat were popping out on my forehead: I was baking in the rising heat. And it wasn’t only me. Cory stripped off her blazer and rolled up her shirtsleeves. “My God, it’s getting hotter and hotter.”

  I rolled my neck in circles, listening to the cartilage click. The third time around, I stopped to gaze at the ceiling of our cage. “What are the chances we could push one of those panels out and climb into the shaft?” I asked. “I don’t think we dropped too far from the kitchen level.”

  “Not good,” said Cory. “But we can try.” She narrowed her eyes and looked me over, head to toe. “I suspect I’ve got a few pounds on you, so I’ll be the ballast.”

  First we tried Cory on hands and knees as a step stool—but I was too short to reach the ceiling and too worried about cracking one of her vertebrae to put my entire weight on her. Then she crouched down and encouraged me to stand on her shoulders. After several tries, we collapsed on the floor in a panting heap.

  “What if I hold my hands like so”—she demonstrated clasping them—“and boost you up onto the handrail? Maybe then you can reach.”

  With her help, I balanced on the railing and managed to pop out one of the mirrored ceiling panels. She hoisted me up another six inches and I grabbed a metal bar in the shaft. Wishing I’d spent more time—any time really—at the gym, I duck-walked up the wall and dragged myself into the dim space.

  “What do you se
e?” Cory called.

  “It’s pretty dark. Some cables and a sort of winch. The town house kitchen’s only a couple of feet up, but the outside elevator door’s shut.”

  “You’ll have to force it,” she said. “But hurry up and get out of there. If this thing starts up again, you could get crushed.”

  “Thanks for that good news,” I muttered, and shuffled across the beam toward the sliver of light marking the exit, imploring myself to keep my mind only on what I was doing. I inched my fingers into the crack and pressed until the doors snapped open. Then I shimmied up and scrambled out onto the maple parquet floor, butt first.

  Olivia Nethercut was waiting by the opening to the shaft, a bottle of red wine cocked in her fist.

  “Oh my God, you scared me to death,” I yelped, clutching my pounding chest.

  She kicked at my knees. “One step forward and you and your mother are dead,” she said.

  Cory’s voice floated up from the shaft. “What’s going on? Get me out of here, please.”

  Olivia waggled the wine bottle like a baseball bat and kicked me in the side this time. “Get back in the shaft,” she hissed. “Or your mother is a goner. And that nosy real estate agent too.”

  I curled into a hangdog ball, pretending I’d given up, but trying to figure out how to take her on. What was the point of pushing me back into the shaft? She probably hoped to crush me as Cory had warned could happen.

  I took a deep breath and then sprang up and lurched forward. “You’ve done enough damage this weekend,” I shrieked as I barreled into her legs and knocked her down. I pinned her to the floor with a menacing growl. “Now what the hell did you do with my mother?”

  Olivia began to thrash about like a trapped animal. I was losing control. I threw myself away from her, scrabbling to my feet and grabbing the bottle of pinot. “Where is my mother?” I said through gritted teeth, waggling the wine. “Ten seconds or I knock you cold.”

  She got to her feet and took off running, tearing out of the kitchen and down the hall, and then down a back stairwell I hadn’t noticed on Cory’s tour. I tore after her, clattering down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she burst out into the empty garage, grabbed a metal shovel hanging on the wall, and came toward me, swinging. The shovel glanced off my shoulder and I winced and dropped the wine. The bottle shattered on the cement. With one final surge of adrenaline, I barreled into her midsection, wrestled the shovel away from her, and slammed it into her temple. She crumpled.

  I punched 911 into my phone and bolted from the garage to get enough service bars so the call could go through.

  Two police cars raced up moments later, sirens blaring and lights swirling. I waved them over and Officer Torrence tumbled out of the first vehicle with the female cop who’d interviewed me Thursday night, followed by two other officers I didn’t know. “Olivia Nethercut is lying in that garage. I knocked her out.”

  “Get an ambulance,” Torrence instructed one of the cops, then drew his gun and started over to the gaping door.

  “I hope I didn’t hurt her badly. It was me or her,” I called. “I’m almost certain she was involved in the murder of Yoshe King. And Cory Held is trapped in the elevator. And my mother”—I sniffled back some tears and looked helplessly after them—“is still missing.”

  Then a third cruiser swerved into the parking lot and Detective Bransford and another cop leaped out. Just seeing his solid form, I felt weak with relief. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  The relief drained away. Speechless, I just shook my head and pointed to the condo.

  “You stay put,” he told me firmly. As if I would rush in after them.

  Fifteen minutes later, Olivia was loaded onto a stretcher and carried out to the ambulance, woozy and handcuffed but still spitting vitriol. One of the policemen came outside to wave me in.

  I bounded through the garage, into the condominium, and up the stairs to the kitchen level of the apartment. Cory was just struggling out of the elevator compartment, red-faced and drenched with sweat, not at all her usual immaculate self.

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “I thought I was going to melt.” She strode over to the fancy digital heat control panel on the kitchen wall and switched it off. “She had it pushed up as high as it would go. Maybe she was planning to leave us in the elevator and hope we died of hyperthermia.”

  A muffled banging noise came from the direction of the pantry. Bransford and Torrence drew their guns again and approached cautiously.

  “Is there a key to this door?” Bransford asked Cory.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have access to it.”

  Torrence instructed the lady cop to retrieve a pry bar from their cruiser. She returned shortly and they winched the door open. Inside, my mother lay on her side, wide-eyed, trussed like an enormous turkey, her face red and sweaty, her mouth stuffed with a red potholder.

  While the police untied her and the detective helped her to a chair near the counter, I rushed to get her a glass of water.

  “Thank God you found me,” she croaked as soon as the potholder was removed and she’d taken a sip. “I had the worst choking feeling—like I’d swallowed the Sahara. But then I calmed myself down by thinking about what I’d cook if I lived here. Isn’t this the most amazing apartment?”

  “I had the same thoughts,” I told her, ignoring the puzzled looks of the cops. “I was imagining the parties we could throw on that deck overlooking the whole island.” I reached for her hands, rubbing the circulation back into her wrists.

  Then she hugged me hard and took a long drink of water. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! I heard you earlier, but I was afraid I’d make things worse with Olivia if I made noise. But then when I heard the men’s voices, I figured it was safe to kick the walls so you’d know I was here.”

  “You’re one smart cookie,” I said. “I’m so sorry about the alimony—”

  She put a finger to her lips, cutting me off. “Enough said. I asked him to stop paying me when you left for college—I should have told you. Anyway, I know you didn’t mean it—the weekend’s been a little bit stressful.” And then she grinned. “But kind of fun.”

  I shook my head in amazement—my claustrophobic, helpless mother had come a long way. “Mom, this is Cory Held. She’s a real estate agent who works in the office below mine. She got us into this condo.”

  Mom embraced her too. “Thank you, thank you. If my daughter decides to stay on in Key West and find her own place, we’d love to have your help. I could spot the down payment,” she added. “Though you’ve got a sweet deal with Miss Gloria.”

  “Never mind that, Mrs. Snow,” Bransford broke in. “Exactly what happened here?”

  She fixed a stern look on him. “As you probably know, Hayley and I were trying to understand whether it could be true that that lovely Yoshe King killed herself. Not to mention why our dear friend Eric is in jail.” A horrified look slid over her face. “Before I go on, how about calling the Sheriff’s Department and telling those people to let him out?”

  “We’ll take care of that, Mrs. Snow,” said Bransford. “Please go on.”

  “You wouldn’t have any way of knowing this, but I took a lot of photos this weekend—I was so excited to be attending the conference with my daughter. While I was waiting to meet Hayley for lunch, I ran through the whole lot. Honestly, after Thursday night, no one looked like they were having much fun. But then I came across a shot of Yoshe and Olivia, who looked positively grim. And I remembered that Olivia told us she’d flown into Marathon rather than Key West. Why would she do that, unless she had use of a private plane? And she’s a writer: Where in the world would she get the money to hire a jet? I started thinking about her foundation and I got a funny feeling that maybe she was using public funds in an unethical way … so I asked my friend Sam to look into it.”

  “A funny feeling,” said Bransford, glowering at me. “You two are very much alike, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Aren’t I luck
y?” Mom reached over to stroke my hair, now grinning so hard, I couldn’t help smiling along with her.

  “And then?” Bransford asked.

  “Then I stopped in the conference bookstore. Olivia was there, holding court with her fans. When she left the building and hailed a cab, I followed all the way here on my scooter and hid it in the bushes. But she must have figured out I was onto her. A middle-aged woman wobbling down the road on a pink motorbike will tend to catch your attention.”

  Mom looked sheepish as she explained how Olivia had ducked into the vestibule of the Steamplant Condominiums but left the door propped open. “When I came in, she leaped out from the shadows—scared me half to death—and pretended she had a gun. Of course, if I’d called you people as I properly should have”—she pressed her hands together and bowed at Bransford and then Torrence—“this never would have happened. On the other hand, would you have listened to more theories from me?”

  24

  Cooking connects every hearth fire to the sun and smokes out whatever gods there be—along with the ghosts of all our kitchens past, and all the people who have fed us with love and hate and fear and comfort, and whom we in turn have fed.

  —Betty Fussell

  Miss Gloria had borrowed a folding table from the Renharts for our impromptu dinner party and even sweet-talked Mr. Renhart into setting it up outside on her deck. A dozen tea lights flickered on the white lace tablecloth, disguising the few stains that had collected over the years of use and showing off her antique silver flatware, which she had buffed to gleaming for the occasion.

  Eric, Bill, and Mrs. Altman had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and settled onto the deck chairs with glasses of white wine. Eric had been released from the jail in time to go with Bill to the airport to pick up his mother. Mrs. Altman was doing her best to be cheerful, but she looked bleary and exhausted and wouldn’t let go of Eric’s hand. Every so often she reached up to stroke him from shoulder to elbow, as if he were an enormous housecat.

  “Where do you keep the Ritz crackers?” my mother called from the galley.