“The cops? Which ones?” my mother asked. “What did they want this time?”
“One of them was Bransford, and she said he was hard on her. They ended up taking her zombie costume with them. I’ve never seen her show up to work looking such a mess. I told her I’d try to chat with her Fantasy Fest king, Seymour, after the event tonight. I’m sure the police have already talked with him, but maybe he’ll remember something that lets her off the hook definitively. I hope.” I held up crossed fingers, and she crossed hers too. “Oh, and the Renharts had their boat towed away this evening. The mister thinks the hurricane is coming through.” I sighed. “And Connie and Ray are taking the baby upstate to Disney.”
My mother turned a little pale. “Do you think we should clear out too?” She clasped her hands to her cheeks. “I would be sick about losing the ceremony on the beach, but we shouldn’t be foolish about this either.”
Sam took her hand and squeezed. “We’ll do exactly what the authorities tell us to do, okay? They’ve had a ton of experience with storms.”
I flashed her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Besides, Miss Gloria thinks we’re okay, and she’s been through a lot of hurricane seasons down here. We’ll keep a close eye on things.”
The young woman at the takeout window called my name and Sam and I went to retrieve the food. The luscious scent of fried onions and sauerkraut wafted from the stack of Styrofoam containers.
“Good lord,” said my mother. “We really went to town this time.”
We laid everything out on the built-in wooden table overlooking White Street and began to eat. I was crazy for the sauerkraut and mushroom pierogi with sour cream dipping sauce, but Sam preferred the potato and cheese filling. As we worked our way through the kielbasa and the hunter’s stew, I took a few photographs and jotted notes into my phone.
When we had eaten as much as we could without being gluttonous, we returned to Sam’s rental car and headed across the island to the Casa Marina resort. Mom and Sam and the rest of my family had stayed here for Connie and Ray’s wedding a year and a half ago. It’s a spectacular property, built by Henry Flagler in the 1920s. Once you pass through the hotel lobby, the property opens up to an enormous outdoor space, studded with fire pits, bars, swimming pools, and reflecting pools, all leading to a grand vista of the Atlantic Ocean.
Today the grounds bustled with pets and their owners, strutting in their costume creations. The outfits were definitely a tier above what I’d come to enjoy seeing at the New Year’s Eve dachshund parade. On the far side of the biggest pool, a band wearing furry gray hats with pointy ears swung into “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.” We worked our way through the crowd in the direction of the beach. There were dogs dressed as royalty and cats in tutus and birds dressed as English valets and Dracula and even a few pigs. The din was intense, a cacophony of barking and cocktail party chatter, and underneath all that, the music pounding. We grabbed a plastic glass of white wine from a passing waiter and pushed toward the water. A makeshift stage had been erected perpendicular to the beach. The chairs in front of the stage were already filled, and observers had begun to crowd in on either side.
“I’m glad we ate,” said my mother with a wink. “I think you were right about the snacks being mostly dog biscuits.”
We wiggled through the viewers until we got a clear view of the stage. Sam spotted Danielle and the rest of the royal court seated at a table just off to the side of the steps leading up to the stage. A thin man wearing a crocheted dog hat complete with snout and floppy ears approached the microphone.
“Welcome to our annual masquerade contest,” he said. “We are delighted that you came out to support us and this most worthy cause, AIDS Help. From what I saw walking around earlier, I can see that the judging tonight will be very challenging indeed. But I believe our distinguished and lovely panel is up to the task. With no further ado, I bring you this year’s king and queen of Fantasy Fest, Mr. Seymour Fox and Miss Danielle Kamen.”
Danielle and Seymour swished up onto the stage as the crowd cheered. She looked stunning in her purple gown with the gold sash draped across her chest and a sparkling tiara in her hair. As we got closer, I noticed that under a layer of makeup her color was still pale, like one of the porcelain dolls that I had loved as a child. Though how many other girls had forced their dolls into playing chef and waiter?
Danielle waved and smiled and maybe someone who didn’t know her would have thought she was having a blast.
“Isn’t that the girl who poisoned her rival?” said the woman in front of us to her companion. “I can’t believe they didn’t fire her on the spot. They should not have a murderer representing our town.”
My mother clamped her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “She did no such thing. You should have some facts before you start making that kind of accusation. Where I come from that’s called slander.”
“Well, excuse me for living,” said the scolded woman. She grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and dragged him away from our group.
Back onstage, the MC announced: “And we are also happy to introduce their Royal Courtiers, Miss Kitty Palmer and Mr. John-Bryan Hopkins.”
The MC’s lips quivered for a moment and I wondered if he was going to mention the death and obvious absence of Caryn Druckman. I desperately hoped that he wouldn’t. Once the runners-up took their bows, all the royalty trooped back down the stairs to the judges’ table and sat facing the stage.
“We have five categories tonight,” said the MC. “Overall creativity, best canine, best feline, best other, and best owner/pet look-alike. Now, may the contest begin!”
The band ratcheted up their volume to an earsplitting level and people and their pets began to stream across the stage.
“That’s precious,” said my mother as a woman dressed as a flowerpot trotted by carrying her midsize mutt, who was dressed as a butterfly.
“I like the gold diggers.” Sam snickered, pointing out three women wearing tight gold sheaths and gold-sprayed hard hats as they posed at the edge of the stage in front of the judges, towing small dogs with coins and dollar bills attached to their fur.
“It’s a guy thing,” I told my mother. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just feeling some last-minute oats. Let him have enough line and he’ll hit the end and jerk back.” I pantomimed a choking movement.
Sam elbowed me in the ribs. “I thought we were pals.”
The pets continued to troop across the stage: Chihuahuas dressed as peacocks, multiple versions of lionfish and lobsters and snorkelers and mermaids, a few pet-person zombie combinations probably left over from the bike parade. And near the end, a white cat shaved except for his lion’s ruff and puffy tail, both dyed pink, a goat spray-painted red wearing devil horns, and a small pig with green wings. The final entry was a well-built man, naked to the waist, wearing a string mop on his head and another strung around his waist. He strutted across the stage accompanied by a Puli dog with a long white corded coat, who honest to gosh looked like a moving mop as he trotted.
“He’s got winner written all over him,” said Sam.
“And the dog’s not bad either,” said my mother with a giggle.
The audience nearest the judges’ stand began to rustle and murmur, and a man shouted: “Someone call nine-one-one. We have a lady who’s ill.”
Two blue-uniformed policemen waded into the crowd, pushing the looky-loos back and calling for calm. Based on the expression on my mother’s face, the same terrible thought struck us both at the same time.
“What if it’s Danielle?” I said. “We need to help her.”
We squirmed through the crowd toward the royal table. Danielle had appeared ashen when I’d seen her across the lawn, but now she looked pale as Snow White. Her bearded king, Seymour, hovered helplessly nearby, playing the role of the biggest dwarf. The police got busy pushing the crowd back. Dogs shrieked their disapproval, cats yowled; I even heard the nay of the dyed-red goat. All I could think of was Caryn
Druckman; how she’d collapsed in the zombie bike ride and ended up dead. My mother took my hand and squeezed so hard that I knew she was thinking the same thing.
When we got ten feet from the judges’ table, I saw the twins, Danielle’s mother and aunt, trying to get closer, their faces sick with concern.
“Let her through! Let her through!” I hollered, shoving some of the spectators to make a path. “This is her mother!”
Enough of the gawking people moved aside so that Mrs. Kamen could rush through. Paramedics arrived, one bombarding Danielle about her symptoms and the other interviewing people nearby about what they had noticed before she collapsed.
Seymour watched in horror with the rest of us as they loaded Danielle onto a stretcher and rattled her across the manicured grounds, off through the main hotel lobby toward the waiting ambulance. I came up beside him and patted his shoulder.
“I’m Hayley,” I said. “You may not remember because it’s been so crazy this week, but we met at the coronation party. I work with Danielle at Key Zest.”
“I remember,” he said with an instant smile. But his eyes look glazed and I figured he would have said that to anyone who approached him. He was in automatic royal politeness mode.
“What happened here?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. She didn’t look one hundred percent well when she arrived. But she said she was fine, just a little tired. We are all kind of worn-out from the last couple of months. And upset about what happened on the bike ride.” Now he met my gaze. “It was serious already but now this is totally scary.”
“I’d love to talk with you soon,” I said. “Can I call you in the morning?” He nodded and read off his cell phone number so I could punch the information into mine.
The organizers of the pet masquerade scrambled to settle the remaining judges back at their table and quiet the bystanders so they could announce the winners. Meanwhile, Sam and my mother and I slipped through the crowd and out through the lobby of the big hotel. We half walked, half trotted to the place near the bocce courts where Sam had parked the car. None of us said anything, but I suspected we all had the same worry on our minds: Had Danielle been the victim of Druckman’s killer? It seemed absurd to think that two people could have been poisoned in big crowds—the logistics were mind-boggling. But I couldn’t get that thought out of my head.
19
My salades composées were thickets of yearning, drifts of leaves and flowers, sprigs of herbs and tiny carrots that looked like they had been blown there by some mighty force of nature. I was fueled by sublimated rage, the outsider with something to prove, taking the ingredients I was handed and making sure they transcended their limits.
—John Birdsall, “America, Your Food Is So Gay,” Lucky Peach, May 16, 2015
“I’m going to assume they’ve taken her to the ER at the Lower Keys Medical Center?” Sam said.
“That’s my bet,” I said.
He started the car and roared up Flagler to reach Route A1A, then over the Cow Key Bridge and onto Stock Island. Minutes later, we were parked in the big lot that adjoins the back of the golf course. We rushed into the ER. I have visited here a number of times in the past, both for my own unfortunate injuries and for friends and family. But I’d never seen this many tutus and painted faces in the waiting room. Some of the stricken appeared to be intoxicated, others were slightly bloodied. I imagined that the more serious cases had probably already been triaged.
My mother reached the information desk first.
“We are here for Danielle Kamen,” she said. “She was brought in after an incident at the pet masquerade event. She was a judge. And she’s this year’s Fantasy Fest Queen. She’s beautiful and blond and she had on a purple gown and a tiara. She’d be hard to miss.” She glanced around the room. “Though you have quite a few unusual getups tonight.” She flashed an encouraging grin at the woman manning the desk. “Has she been admitted? May we see her? We’re her dear friends; my daughter is like a sister to her.”
The clerk had launched into her speech about patient privacy, when I saw Danielle’s aunt across the room. I touched my mother’s arm and pointed, and we abandoned the gatekeeping clerk and sprinted over to the hallway leading to curtained cubicles, the first line of defense in the ER. Aunt Marion disappeared into the third cubicle, and we squeezed in behind her. Danielle was lying pallid against the white hospital sheets, an IV snaking into the delicate skin on top of her hand and an oxygen tube in her nose. Her mom sat on the far side of her bed, a hand placed protectively on her shoulder. On the plus side, her eyes were open and she was definitely breathing. Even so, my mother was unable to suppress a gasp of dismay.
“What in the world happened?” I asked. “We saw you go down like a sack of turnips right in front of the stage.”
Danielle blinked slowly, her eyes now brimming with tears. “I don’t know what happened,” she said in a whisper. “I wasn’t feeling great to begin with, but I wasn’t about to shirk my duties after all those people worked so hard to get me elected.”
My mother took a step closer and put her hand on Danielle’s temple. “Honey, first you have to take care of yourself or you’re of no use to anyone.” She looked across the hospital bed for confirmation from Danielle’s mother and aunt.
Honestly, to me it appeared that their agreement with this statement was begrudging. But my stubborn mother held her silence until they both nodded.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” said Danielle. “One second I was enjoying the dogs in costumes and then suddenly I felt so woozy and my head started to spin. And I thought I might throw up.”
“We suspect it’s vertigo,” said Danielle’s aunt. “It runs in the family—our inner ears are overly delicate.”
“Had you eaten anything unusual?” I asked Danielle.
“She’s hardly eaten anything at all in the last two days,” said her mother. “I have a feeling she’s just dehydrated.” She patted her daughter’s untethered hand. “For that matter, it could be a stomach virus. All these people crowding into town, you know they bring thousands of crazy germs along with them. And here we locals sit like jelly in a petri dish, ready to take them in and let them multiply.”
“The doctors have ordered all the tests they can think of,” said Danielle’s aunt. “They aren’t going to send her out into the world if she’s had a heart attack or stroke.”
Danielle looked alarmed. “I’m a little young for that, don’t you think? I think it’s just stress.”
“Miss Druckman’s death has been a terrible shock for all of you. And I can see how feeling sick would make you worry about your own health.” Sam patted her feet, swathed in a white blanket. “You said the cops were back to talk with you again earlier?”
Danielle took a quick peek at my face. “I’m not trying to be mean about this, Hayley, but that Bransford …”
“Go ahead,” I told her, bracing to hear about something terrible that he’d done. I hated feeling somehow responsible for his harsh public presentation.
“He keeps saying things like We have plenty of evidence that you hated her. And I’m not saying there isn’t good reason for you to have these feelings. But now she’s dead. And you had excellent access to her throughout the zombie party at East Martello. We have photos and witnesses that corroborate this. Help us understand what happened.”
By the time she’d finished parroting his words, she was bawling and the machines attached to her were beeping so loudly that a nurse came running.
“What are all you people doing here?” she demanded, and made shooing motions until we backed out of the cubicle.
Once Danielle’s mother had promised to call us with updates and we’d exited the ER, feeling worried and frazzled, I asked Sam to drop me off at the Polish deli, where I’d left my scooter. “I’m going to nip up to Sunset and check in with Lorenzo,” I told them.
“What I don’t understand,” said my mother as I scrambled out of the backseat, “is what’s going o
n between Danielle and her mother. There’s something strange about her presentation—did you notice? Once Danielle’s out of the woods, I think we should visit them again.”
“Tomorrow.” I kissed her on the cheek, blew another kiss to Sam, and then hopped onto my scooter and fastened the helmet.
The ride from White Street to Mallory Square took twice as long as usual. The streets were clogged with visitors who seemed to have come to the island equipped with a death wish. I leaned on my horn more times in that short trip than I had since I bought the bike. The air felt oppressive, sticky, and hot, and waves of heat radiated up from the streets. Maybe the visitors had fried their brains.
I parked near the Custom House Museum and forged through the sunset viewers, many of whom were heading north to Duval Street. The sun had set, but there was still enough light to see the remains of the nightly party. From the looks of the folks buzzing his T-shirt display, Dominique the cat man must have just wrapped up a successful performance. I walked in front of the Westin and over the short bridge near the aquarium. Just after the bridge, food vendors lined each side of the walkway.
I stopped first to chat with Christy Haussler. Her face lit up when she saw me. “How about a coconut ice on the house? Have you ever done a review of Mallory Square snacks?”
“Great idea,” I said. “And I’d love one. Though we had an enormous dinner at the Polish deli. But we didn’t have dessert, and my stomach is letting me know.” I patted my midsection, which let out an audible growl. “And I also had a big breakfast at the Paradise Pub, cooked personally by the chef/owner. But a little sugar can’t hurt, right?”
She grinned and handed over the ice cream. “Did you ever find that painted face you were looking for? And how is your friend?”
“The answers are no and not that well.” I told her how Danielle had taken ill at the pet masquerade party.
“That reminds me, I was thinking about your questions about what I noticed before the zombie bike ride,” Christy said. “I remembered that Beach Eats was serving some kind of fancy cocktail for the royals. I’m guessing the police already talked to them. Seymour Fox is the owner of the food truck. And Paradise Pub, though I’ve heard he sold it.”
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