“And you are beautiful, even dressed as a zombie,” I said. “How did the final TV show taping go?” Victoria, aka Randy Thompson, had been chosen two years earlier to appear on a new foodie television show—the taping for the second season had recently wrapped up. The original recipe that wowed the judges and launched his second career turned out to be his grandmother’s recipe for cheese grits with shrimp, bacon, and scallions. Just the thought of it made my mouth water.
“A blast,” Victoria/Randy said. “We’ll have lunch soon and I’ll dish.”
“You don’t look so hot,” she added. “Is everything okay?”
I gave her a brief recap of the downed zombie incident. “I have to get back to work, but call me tomorrow,” she said, patting my back.
I took a few more photos of the passing zombies, got back on my bike, and peddled slowly up the island to my home. I was feeling emotionally wrung out, and my thighs and calves were burning from the unaccustomed long bike ride. I couldn’t wait for a glass of wine and a heaping plate of whatever food my mother had chosen.
But the SUV in the marina parking lot with the Key West police logo suggested the evening might go differently than I’d hoped. I was not looking forward to seeing what I saw on my houseboat: Detective Nathan Bransford settled in a lawn chair between my mother and Sam, Miss Gloria hovering close by. Bransford couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable. Was this a social visit, a get-to-know-the-parents kind of deal? Surely he would have given me a heads-up about that.
Pausing for a second on the dock, I studied him to assess how much trouble he’d taken with his appearance. His hair looked as though he’d wet it down but not washed it, then run the rakes of a comb through. The blue shirt that picked up the green glints in his eyes was the same one that I’d seen on him earlier, and his jacket was rumpled.
No, the visit was not social.
Suddenly aware of the paint drying my face and the bloody shirt I was wearing and the red measles spots Ray had added to my arms and legs, I couldn’t have felt more unattractive.
“Look who turned up,” my mother warbled, tapping Bransford’s wide shoulder with two pink-painted fingernails.
“We have been having such a nice chat,” said Sam in his faux hearty voice, which made me suspect they had been struggling to keep a conversation running.
Bransford was not big on social niceties. When I’d dared mention a few weeks ago that he didn’t try very hard in social situations involving my friends or people he didn’t know, he told me it came of seeing too much of the dark side of humanity. Small talk was meaningless in the face of all that darkness. And I told him that appearing to listen with genuine interest goes a long way to smooth the rough patches in life. And that even in the heart of my home state, New Jersey, known more for gangsters and raunchy reality show stars than etiquette, we understand that friendly chitchat oils the most difficult interactions.
“You look a little bedraggled,” my mother said as I came aboard. “Did you have fun? The baby was so sweet and delicious.”
“You ate the baby?” I said and forced a laugh.
Mom grinned, patting the seat beside her, inviting me to sit. “I’m going to watch her again tomorrow, right after we have our premarital counseling with Lieutenant Torrence.”
Torrence works as a part-time pastor in his time off from the police department, and my mother had insisted that, given how helpful he’d been to our family, she’d allow him and only him to consecrate their marriage.
“I’m glad,” I said, mustering a big smile and hoping Bransford wasn’t taking this grandmotherly enthusiasm as a personal message. He was about as far from being ready to have kids as I was—triple light-years. “Did you tell them what went on today?” I asked the detective.
“I was waiting for you.” He set down his mug of coffee and stood up. “Would you like to talk privately?”
“It’s fine for them to hear whatever you have to say,” I said. “They’ll hear it anyway.”
“Everyone sit down, sit down,” said Sam, gesturing at the chairs on our little deck. “Can I get you something? More coffee? A beer? A leftover piece of that killer strawberry cake?”
I was dying for a glass of wine but this didn’t seem the time for it.
“That woman didn’t make it,” Bransford said, his eyes boring in on me.
I felt myself droop. I so hoped for everyone’s sake, especially her, that she would be fine. Overheated, maybe, or too much to drink. Or even a tiny heart problem, something that a short stay in hospital or a pacemaker might fix.
“What woman?” Mom asked, reaching for my hand. Her gaze searched Bransford’s face, then pinged back to mine. “A friend of yours?”
“The parade had just started when a zombie behind me collapsed. I stopped to help. She had a little froth of blood in the corner of her mouth and her hands were so very cold.” I pressed my lips together, determined not to fall apart.
“What in the world happened?” asked my mother.
“We won’t know for sure until the medical examiner gets a look at her,” Bransford said. “But at first pass the possibilities include a heart attack and some type of poison. The symptoms can be quite similar.”
“Oh, honey, that’s terrible,” my mother murmured.
Honey me or honey him?
“Who was it?” Sam asked.
Bransford said her name and my heart sank, even though I’d already guessed the truth after looking at my photos. Caryn Druckman.
“She was Danielle’s rival in the royal court,” I said. “If you don’t mind, Sam, I think I would like that glass of wine.” Sam leaped up to fetch it.
“Do you remember seeing someone with a sort of zebra design on their face about the time she fell off the bike?” Bransford asked me.
“Oh geez, not really. I was focused on not getting run over. Lots of those people had started their party early. Or maybe they weren’t used to riding bikes. Anyway, there was a lot of swerving and wobbling.” I put my head in my hands and squeezed, trying to remember more details.
“Tell me you don’t think Danielle was involved,” I said finally, looking up to meet his gaze.
“Interesting that you should bring that up right away,” Bransford said.
“What does that mean exactly? She’s a friend, a dear friend. Of course I’m concerned about her.”
“A darling girl, really,” Miss Gloria added.
“My bet’s on a heart attack,” said my mother. “People don’t take care of themselves these days. Besides, Danielle wouldn’t poison someone. No way.”
Bransford managed a pained smile. “None of Hayley’s friends are capable of murder—she tells me that every time we have an incident.”
“Not funny,” I said, and took the glass of white wine from Sam’s steady hands, my own fingers shaking. “Where do things stand with Danielle?”
“She’s a person of interest, along with half the town,” Bransford replied. “We don’t even know for sure whether Ms. Druckman died of natural causes, but it’s important to gather the data before this place explodes later in the week. We’ll talk tomorrow when the dust settles—you’ve had a long day. I’d appreciate it if you think of anything you might have seen pertaining to the situation, you call me right away?”
Just then, a deliveryman carrying sacks of food clattered up the finger. “Snow?” he asked.
“Never in Key West,” Sam joked, pulling out his wallet. “Stay and have a bite with us?” he asked the detective.
Bransford shook his head. “Still on duty. Crazy week.”
“Obviously,” said my mother. “We hope to see you again, under different circumstances.”
The detective stood, for a moment seeming to consider whether to hug me, but then he hopped the small gap between the houseboat and the dock and started away.
“He’s a tough nut,” my mother said, watching him go. “I hope he’ll make you happy.” Her voice told me she wasn’t sure this was possible. She began to open the b
ags of food and then bustled into the kitchen to get plates and forks and napkins.
“We decided to order from the Café,” said Miss Gloria.
“Mmmm, good choice.” As I sat down to spoon spicy noodles with stir-fried vegetables onto my plate, I realized I should call Danielle and invite her over. She answered on the first ring, sounding small and weak. “We’re just having a bite on the boat,” I said. “Would you like to come over?”
“I suppose you’ve heard about the woman who died,” she said. “And that I’m implicated?”
“Not implicated,” I said, keeping my voice light and positive, “but a person of interest. All that means is that they’ll continue talking to you because you had some kind of connection with her recently. Come on over and we’ll give you moral support and extra calories.”
“Thank you, Hayley, so much. I really appreciate that. But I’m already in my pajamas. I’m going to watch Dirty Dancing again—that movie always cheers me up. I’ll see you at the staff meeting in the morning? I’d love to chat afterward and hear what Bransford told you.”
“Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean he’ll tell me any secrets. He’s not big on pillow talk,” I said, laughing. And then turned Twizzler red realizing that the older generation was listening in. The best thing to do would be to ignore it. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight thirty; get some rest,” I told Danielle.
After dinner, my mother and Sam helped clean up and set off for their hotel. I retired to my little bedroom with my laptop and Evinrude the cat. He was acting a little clingy, walking back and forth over my legs and then swatting at my fingers when I opened up the computer. I suspected this was related to the amount of attention that Connie’s baby was getting. Most of the cooing and fussing that had gone to him and Miss Gloria’s Sparky in the past was now being diverted to the infant.
“It’s not that we love you less,” I explained to him while stroking his fur from head to tail, “but a baby is something special.”
He started to purr. Then he licked his paw and began grooming the dark M on his forehead. I fired up my laptop and scrolled over to Facebook. Many of my friends had posted photos from the zombie parade. And there were photos on the official Web site for the event too. For forty-five minutes I searched through all of them, trying to find pictures of the people who might have been riding near me when the parade took off from East Martello. I also looked for the painted faces resembling the pattern of zebra stripes that Bransford had mentioned. Who knew if it actually meant anything, but it was the only clue he’d given me. I made a short list of people to chat with. Jennifer the face painter would be able to help me with painting style, I hoped. Second, I’d call Victoria/Randy in the morning and see if she could have lunch soon. She often had the pulse of the underbelly of Key West. And she’d performed several times onstage during the coronation festivities—she would have been backstage, privy to any conflicts emerging. She would have had the best view in the house. And maybe an inside track into what was going on behind the scenes.
And third, I needed to talk more to Danielle about the competition for Fantasy Fest Queen over the past week. Of course, I knew the highlights because I’d helped with several of her fund-raising events. But maybe she’d think of details that might clarify who wanted that woman dead.
8
Mrs. Morse said, “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it so why don’t I cut you a nice piece of chocolate cake?” She could fix almost anything with a piece of cake—or pie.
—Anita Diamant, The Boston Girl
I woke early the next morning, fed the cats, and started a pot of coffee. With a steaming cup in hand, I headed out to the deck, where the water of the bight was quiet—no waves, no birds, no sounds but the distant motor of a fishing boat. Even wacky Schnootie the schnauzer next door was still sleeping. The morning already felt hot, the air heavy with moisture, and so still that Mrs. Renhart’s prized collection of wind chimes didn’t stir. A bank of clouds diffused the peach of the rising sun off to my right.
I was relieved to have a little time to myself before the chaos of another day at Fantasy Fest crashed in around me. And also a little space from our visitors. I love my mother’s company, but she has all the subtlety of a steak dinner. Which is to say, what you see is what you get—no subterfuge. Absolutely everything is on the table. With a second cup of coffee in hand, I spent fifteen minutes noodling the opening paragraph about my takeout article.
When people hear that I’m a food critic, they sometimes think “snob.” They imagine that what other folks enjoy, I’d find unpalatable. And they imagine that my days are full of foie gras and caviar-encrusted sushi. But if you object to flabby, greasy French fries, you can count on me to object to them too. And then tell you about them!
When I had drafted the section about the lunch Sam and I had eaten at Garbo’s Grill, I began a lighthearted piece about the zombie parade. Given the tragedy that had occurred yesterday, I was not convinced that it would be smart for Key Zest to run this, but I’d be ready in case Wally and Palamina insisted it should go.
I also made some notes about questions to ask Danielle. With any luck at all, the case of the dead woman in the parade would’ve been resolved overnight. But a heavy feeling in my chest suggested that it wouldn’t be sorted out so easily. Surely the police would’ve already inquired, but I wanted to ask Danielle more about the competition for queen. What had actually happened with the voting the night of the coronation? Had she sensed any serious rancor with the dead woman? Or any of the other candidates? Who were her supporters? How had people reacted when the results were announced? And what had actually provoked the attack in front of The Bull and Whistle?
Danielle was born and raised on the island, leaving only to attend four years of college in Gainesville, which gave her the distinction of the label “saltwater conch.” And conchs have a powerful reputation for sticking with their own. Did she have a friend or relative who would go so far as to actually destroy a perceived enemy? And why would this woman be considered an enemy of Danielle when my friend had already won the crown? I sighed. This seemed utterly ridiculous. For all we knew, the death had absolutely nothing to do with Fantasy Fest or Danielle.
I gobbled a bowl of granola, savoring the chewy dried cherries along with the crunch of nuts and oats drenched in milk and a splash of maple syrup. Then I dressed in my coolest linen shorts and a tangerine-colored swing top and burnt orange sneakers and drove down the island to Key Zest.
As was her custom on Monday mornings, Danielle had brought in a selection of doughnuts from the Glazed Donuts shop on Eaton Street. Though we all protested about not needing the calories from fat and sugar, the plate was always empty by the close of the workday. Danielle greeted me with her usual wide smile, but her face looked pale and pinched.
“Any news?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “You?”
“Didn’t sleep a wink,” she said.
I folded her into a quick hug. “We’ll figure it out.” Then I went down the hallway to deposit my backpack in my office nook and retrieve my notes for the meeting.
My phone buzzed and Lieutenant Torrence’s name came up on the screen. I accepted the call. “Mom and Sam are so looking forward to meeting with you,” I said, fingers crossed that was what he wanted to discuss.
“Me too. But this is a heads-up,” he said. “We are going to do a press conference later on this afternoon. I left a message for your friend Danielle but figured you would be seeing her, too, and would want to know. We’re putting out an urgent appeal to anyone who might have seen what happened during the parade yesterday.”
“Won’t that cause a panic?” I asked. “Make it look like the police don’t quite know what they’re doing?” Knowing that it would cause Danielle to panic anyway.
“We can’t fool around with this, Hayley,” he said. “The stakes are too high. There are too many damn people squeezed into this town and the chances of information getting lost are, well
—” He sighed. “And it’s only going to get worse as the week goes on. And some of our esteemed visitors have left their manners on the mainland, assuming they had any to begin with.”
“What about the tiger stripes that Bransford mentioned?” I asked.
“Dead end,” said Torrence, his voice final and dismissive. “Anyway, it was zebra.”
“But I have a friend who paints faces—”
“We’ve had to move on,” Torrence said. “I’m not asking for your help this time; I just wanted to keep you posted. And Bransford says you should please stay out of trouble. And for once, he and I agree about something.” I heard a clicking noise that sounded as if he was grinding his teeth. “On another note, I’ve made a date with your mother and Sam to meet at the Fort Zach beach this evening at five to work on the wedding planning. It’s the only time I’m free before Sunday. Can you make it?”
“Sure,” I said. “See you there. Let me know if anything breaks on the zombie case, okay?”
Torrence gave a noncommittal grunt and hung up. Everyone was a little crabby this week with all the hordes descending on the island for Fantasy Fest. It wasn’t quite like spring break, when thousands of college kids who’d been pent up over the winter appeared with their cases of beer and lids of pot and board shorts and bikinis. That could usually be managed with extra staff and a lot of vigilance. Those kids were younger and some even underage, and our cops had success with doling out community service for the ones who colored outside the lines. Fantasy Fest wasn’t even like New Year’s Eve—while intense, that party lasted less than twenty-four hours. This was a full week of crazy parties, and people who arrived in our town prepared to behave in ways they never, never, never would at home.
Wally whistled from down the hall, and I gathered my stuff together to join the staff in his office. I had thought at one time that Wally and I would end up a couple, but it wasn’t in the cards. In fact, just about everyone on the island and in my family noticed the lack of chemistry between us before I did. His whistle pierced the air a second time and I had to chuckle: Our once-promising romance was reduced to him whistling for me like a pet dog. I hustled down the hall and took the last seat.
Killer Takeout Page 5