The waitress arrived with our tacos, giving us all a breather from the difficult conversation. And based on the tightness of her expression, I thought Danielle needed a chance to collect herself. I doused my sandwich with a squeeze of lemon and a few shakes of hot sauce and took a big bite. The fish was fresh and the cabbage crunchy against the soft shell. I tipped my face to the dappled sunlight and closed my eyes and chewed, thinking again how lucky I’d been to land on this island. And reminding myself not to brag about it in the future to those who weren’t as lucky.
After she’d nibbled at her fish, Danielle put her fork on her plate and turned to me. “The real tipping point was when this woman came up to me and began gushing about what a great queen I was and how they chose the best woman for the job and how wonderful it was to have a local person serving in this position rather than some social-climbing scab and so on. And suddenly Caryn just flew at me and tried to claw my face.” Danielle stopped and began to cry.
“That bitch,” said Danielle’s mother. “If she wasn’t already dead I would kill her myself.”
“Shhhh,” said her sister. “It’s not a good idea to joke about something like that.”
“It wasn’t a joke,” said Danielle’s mother.
“Anyway I saw what happened after that,” I said. “Or at least the end of it when she had a grip on your hair and the cops were called.”
“I tried to get away from her,” Danielle said. She patted the tears from her cheeks with her napkin and inhaled a big breath. “I figured sooner or later she’d pull herself together and act like a normal grown-up person, not a teenager or a thug. I figured she would come to her senses if I could just duck out of her range and let some other people calm her down. But it didn’t work.”
“Did you know the woman who was congratulating you? And did Caryn know her?”
“I saw her at a few of the events, always with a glass of wine in her hand, three sheets to the wind.” Danielle shrugged. “I have no idea whether those two were friends. It seems unlikely.” The twins nodded their agreement.
I wiped my lips with my white napkin, feeling as though we weren’t getting to the bottom of anything. “So the third candidate, Kitty, wasn’t all that enthusiastic about setting up the parties?”
“Or maybe she didn’t realize how much work it would be,” Danielle said. “But she obviously wasn’t that invested. So when Caryn was overbearing, she would just roll her eyes and back away. I can’t imagine her caring enough to kill someone, I guess I’m saying. Not in this context anyway.”
“One more question,” I said, gazing at each of the women in turn. “And this may make you feel uncomfortable but I feel like it needs to be asked. Do you think it’s possible that someone actually had it in for you, Danielle, and not Caryn at all? Of course it will depend on what the medical examiner says about how she died.”
“I sure hope that’s not true,” said Marion, taking her sister’s hand.
“The only person I’ve ever known to hate Danielle enough to harm her is dead,” said her mom. “And if anyone else gets anywhere near her …” She fisted her hands in front of her chest and glared. Like a mother bear—I would not have dared mess with her cub.
The waitress came around again and we reluctantly waved off the key lime pie. “I’ve got this, Hayley,” Danielle said, reaching for the check. “You’ve done so much for me already.”
I thanked them all for the lunch, said good-bye, and headed outside to my scooter, wondering if anything was clearer than it had been. Now I knew that the dead woman was highly competitive, and not nice in the way she went about trying to win. Not that either of those things was big news. Nor did they really explain why she might have been a target for murder.
I had enjoyed watching the interaction between Danielle’s mother and her twin sister. I grew up an only child, and after age ten, an only child of a single mother. I had always longed for a sibling. Though friends over the years assured me that brothers and sisters could be overrated, I loved the idea of someone aside from my parents who would have known me since birth. Someone who shared my history intimately. Sometimes it was not easy to be my mother’s only child. All the love and hopes and dreams she harbored were pinned on me, not distributed—and diluted—among a group of other children.
Yesterday, after the call to pick up Danielle at the police station, I had wondered briefly why she didn’t phone her own family. She tried Wally, I knew that. But her next call was to me, not to her flesh and blood.
Now that I’d met the twins and asked myself the question, the answer emerged. Danielle’s mother and her aunt were very invested in the Fantasy Fest contest and Danielle’s reign. My family’s reaction to the fight was Oh you poor thing, how can we help? followed by offers of food and drink.
Her family would have been focused on how to hunt down and punish the perpetrator.
10
But I wouldn’t have tucked into a big, steaming plate of offal even if threatened by a gang of knife-wielding butchers.
—Ann Mah, Mastering the Art of French Eating
As I inserted the key in my scooter’s ignition, wondering whether I’d work better at the office than home, I received a text from Lieutenant Torrence. The press conference had been moved up to two p.m. on the steps of old City Hall on the far side of town.
Which gave me a sinking feeling, because what was the rush? And why in the world weren’t they meeting inside the building instead of on the steps? Why not a small gathering inside the police department? This new arrangement gave me a sense that they were grandstanding or, even worse, communicating a feeling of panicked urgency that I hoped didn’t exist. Even if Palamina planned to write this news up for our next magazine issue, I wanted to be there to hear it all for myself.
So I strapped on my helmet and drove across the island. A good-sized mob of people had already gathered on the steps of the old brick building that has served as the temporary location for city commission and other meetings, while the renovated City Hall in the former Glynn Archer school building was being polished on White Street. Is it only in Key West that projects are accomplished more slowly and suck down more money than anyone ever anticipated? Probably not, but I’d never paid that much attention to local politics back in New Jersey. But this town mattered—it felt like my home.
Without the sweet ocean breeze that we’d enjoyed at Louie’s Backyard, the sidewalks around old City Hall were hot as the griddle top in a busy breakfast kitchen. I sniffed the air and wrinkled my nose, and amended my observation: a griddle top that hadn’t been cleaned in days. Or weeks. Lieutenant Torrence and the police chief were stationed at the top of the steps, surrounded by several officers in uniform. A microphone had been set up in front of them, with wires snaking back into the building. The crowd seemed to comprise of reporters, townspeople, and tourists who’d stumbled onto the scene from Duval Street only one block south.
The microphone crackled and the police chief began. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We will keep this brief and let you get back to your business. We wish to alert you to two items of public interest. Number one, we would like to ask for your assistance. You may have heard about the unfortunate incident that occurred during the zombie bike parade yesterday. Mrs. Caryn Druckman, a well-loved part-time resident of our island, fell ill and was taken to the hospital after collapsing on the street. We are seeking information from anyone who may have attended the event and seen something unusual prior to the launch of the parade. Anyone who might have noticed her interacting in an unusual fashion or ingesting something unusual should please come forward and report this to our office.”
A ripple of conversation shuddered through the people listening. “What do you mean by unusual? Other than a mass of zombies on bikes,” shouted out a reporter.
“Spot-on,” said the chief with a mirthless laugh. “We don’t see zombies every day. I meant anything threatening or conflictual.” He glanced at Torrence, who st
ood beside him with hands folded over his stomach. They both nodded.
“And what about ingesting? What do you mean by that? Are you saying she was poisoned?”
There was another exchange of worried glances between Torrence and the chief. “If you saw her eating before the parade kicked off, or noticed anything unusual in her demeanor or behavior, please let us know,” Torrence said. “That’s as much as we can say right now.”
“In another matter,” said the chief, “we would like to request that all of you remain aware of the possibility of worsening weather conditions. We hate to rain on your parade, but our first priority is always your safety. As you may know, there is a tropical depression hovering off to the east of Cuba in the Atlantic Ocean. Some forecasters predict this is coming our way.”
He swiped the back of his wrist over his forehead and tried to smile over the grumbling that had started up in the crowd.
“We should know more in the next twenty-four hours. Of course, many of you have been looking forward to this week all year, and we appreciate that it would be disappointing to have to leave the island earlier than you had planned.” He raised his voice to be heard over the noise.
“But again, you will understand that our first concern must be public safety. We hope as fervently as you do that the forecasters are wrong. But please stay tuned to the local weather station or to our official city Web site, where we will post updates on the track of the storm. If winds increase and the storm takes a path such that a hurricane watch or a warning is issued for this area, we will greatly appreciate your cooperation. In those cases, a mandatory evacuation order will be put in place. Again, you will be notified by radio, Web site, and newspaper.”
“No f-ing way!” cried a group of rowdy men standing behind me, and their derisive hoots were taken up by the folks farther back. They spilled off the sidewalk onto Greene Street chanting “Hell no, we won’t go.” Which seemed more than a little silly in comparison to the seriousness of the times when that phrase had first emerged.
“That’s all for now,” said the chief—he was shouting now. “If I can hear them over this racket, I’m happy to take your questions.”
Several hands waved furiously and the chief called on a frizzy-haired woman in the front row whom I recognized as a frequent presence at city commission meetings. Her byline often appeared on the front page of the Key West Citizen. “It sounds like Mrs. Druckman died and that you believe Mrs. Druckman may have been murdered. If this is true, are there any leads in the case? And from what did she die?”
“Thank you for that question,” said the chief. “We always appreciate your attention to detail. Our thoughts and prayers are with Mrs. Druckman’s family and we will notify you when we know more.” A tight smile flickered over his face. I was sure he did not always appreciate her attention to detail. Particularly when it cast a shadowy light on the police department.
“But was she murdered?” the reporter pressed.
“She died shortly after reaching the hospital. We’re investigating all possibilities,” said the chief. “Nothing is ruled out. That’s all I have to say. Except that, again, if—I repeat if—her death did not occur of natural causes, our investigation will confirm that and we will proceed to find the party responsible. As of now, the toxicology reports are not back from the medical examiner’s office.”
So it was looking like murder. I felt a little sick to my stomach thinking of Danielle’s unhappy interactions with the dead woman. My impression of the dislike between the two women had only increased over the course of the lunch. I knew from my past experience with two bosses at Key Zest how toxic those feelings could become. And I wished I hadn’t witnessed the intensity of Danielle’s mother and her aunt—their fierce desire for Danielle to win the crown. Surely none of them had anything to do with the murder. But their rancor toward the dead woman made them look bad. And sound bad too. Gasoline on the fire of police suspicions.
The chief continued. “Because we have these concerns, we are taking the unusual step of asking eyewitnesses to make themselves known.” He glanced over the crowd, making eye contact with a smattering of the spectators. “Many of you are guests in Key West and possibly not accustomed to working in partnership with the police.” He tried a wide smile that I’m sure he meant to be friendly. Instead it reminded me of a barracuda circling his prey. “Let me assure potential witnesses that there will be no negative consequences for speaking up.”
“No negative consequences,” Torrence repeated, and then ran off several phone numbers for witnesses to use in reporting tips.
I waited for the crowd to disperse, then sped back over to Jennifer the face painter’s apartment in the Truman Annex. The plan: do some research for the new bit I’d promised Palamina and pursue the question of the zebra-style face paint. Torrence had dismissed this as a dead end, but I simply didn’t believe him. As I climbed the back stairs to the second floor, a woman emerged from Jennifer’s place. She wore a short, sleeveless crop top over skin that had been painted with swirls of blue flowers. The beak of a hummingbird emerged from her cleavage. She flashed a friendly smile.
“Here for a paint job?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Jennifer did my zombie face yesterday, but today I have a few questions for her. I’m doing a story for our local magazine Key Zest on personality in relation to body painting. Your meadow is beautiful, by the way.” I gestured at her chest and the tendrils of flowers that snaked up to her neck and over her shoulders, partway down her arms.
“A story on what?” the woman asked.
“I’m thinking about how personality is expressed in the scenes that folks choose for their body paint. Do you have any thoughts about that connection?”
“I wasn’t really thinking that deeply when I asked for the flowers,” the woman said with a laugh. “Bodies to me are beautiful. And so if I was going to show mine to the world, I wanted it to be painted in a cheerful way.”
She pulled up her shirt so I couldn’t avoid seeing the whole palette. “Gorgeous,” I said, then hurried inside, hoping I hadn’t come across either as a prude or a voyeur. Unfortunately, my eyes had probably been popping. We didn’t have naked people running around in public in New Jersey, painted or unpainted, and I still wasn’t used to it.
Jennifer was washing her hands at the kitchen sink. “Come on in, Hayley; I have a minute before my next customer arrives.”
“I saw your latest canvas.” I grinned. “Can they shower with that stuff on? How long does it last?”
“If she wanted to peak for the parade on Saturday, she got painted too early,” Jennifer said. “But there are so many parties earlier in the week, and lots of my customers attend those. Sponge baths are what I recommend to make sure the paint lasts.”
This picture of naked painted people sponging their armpits flashed to my mind and I hid my eyes with my hands. Good gravy. On this point I was beginning to agree with Wally and Lorenzo: This week was too much.
Jennifer laughed. “But you said you had more questions?”
I explained quickly about the press conference and the dead woman, and my concern that my friend would be fingered if it did turn out to be foul play, which was the way I thought things were leaning. “I have two questions,” I said. “First, I wondered if this paint job was familiar. Maybe you did it yourself or you could point me to someone who might have?”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled quickly through the photos of the zombie bike ride. I chose an earlier photo of the zombie down, aka Caryn Druckman, and expanded the photo to highlight the painting on her face with its elegant red glitter paisley near the outer corners of her eyes. “You can see that it looks kind of the opposite of what you did for me. She has more white, and then you’ll notice the red glitter.”
Jennifer took the phone and studied the photo, then finally shook her head. “It’s not one of mine although it’s pretty. And I do like glitter but not clumped like this one.”
She clicked ove
r one frame, which turned out to be the video I’d taken holding the phone up over my head as I pedaled the bike before Caryn Druckman had collapsed. We watched her bike begin to wobble and slow until she finally fell off and clunked heavily to the ground.
“Wow!” Jennifer cocked her head and looked up at me. “This is the lady who died? Spooky to have this right on your phone. What in the world happened?”
“Something bad,” I said, gulping, deciding not to go into the details of the poison idea. What was the point of spreading rumors? “The police are looking into it.” I grabbed the phone back, not wanting to show her the next shot of the woman splayed out on the ground, almost dead; it was too creepy. And besides, the photo I’d taken was out of focus, the button pretty much pressed by error. I swiped backward until I reached the photos from the warm-up party. “You can see better here the different approaches to painting.”
Then Jennifer scrolled through some of my zombie photos, commenting as she swiped about the creative costumes, the paint jobs, and the sheer number of people in the crowd. “It’s not that we all have distinctive styles like famous painters do,” she said. “I don’t pretend to say I’m a Renoir or a Van Gogh or anything.” She laughed and tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. “But I like to imagine that I understand what look my customers are going for. And I try to think about their costumes and match the painting to those. I like to use bold colors and glitters and pay a lot of attention to detail.” She swiped through more pictures.
“Wait!” I said. “Go back one frame.” I recovered the phone from her and studied the photo that I had noticed as it flashed by. Danielle and the rest of the royal court had posed in front of the live zombie band and the Beach Eats food truck. The cups of punch were being served—maybe painkillers? And one of the servers had her face painted—I thought it was a her—in hallucinogenic zebra stripes. I was sure Torrence had mentioned stripes.
“Do you recognize this person?” I asked Jennifer.
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