Eric brought the coconut cake over to the coffee table—tall, fragrant, and fuzzy with coconut shavings. The dogs, who’d been snoozing on the couch between Miss Gloria and me, hopped to the floor, yapping and leaping with excitement.
“Not a chance, you guys,” said Bill, pushing the animals away. “That’s people food.” He bowed in Eric’s direction. “You’ve outdone yourself, my friend.”
Eric grinned and plunged a carving knife into the cake. “How big of a piece do you want?”
“Enormous,” said Miss Gloria, holding her arms out wide as a beach ball.
“And make mine bigger than hers,” said Sam with a wink.
Eric carved big slices of the tender yellow cake, three layers filled with creamy white icing, more frosting swirled over all, and finally, a thick layer of coconut patted over the whole cake. He ran his finger over the knife and tasted, nodded his approval, then distributed the plates to us.
“I’m awfully sorry we will miss the ceremony,” he said to my mother as he handed her the last slice.
“Sam and I have been talking things over,” said my mother. “We’re thinking about postponing the wedding until you guys and Connie and Ray are back in town. We’re a little bit frozen on what to do. Should we clear out like you, or stay here and hope for the best?” Her lips trembled and her eyes got glassy.
Sam took her hand and squeezed it. “On the other hand, I don’t want to wait any longer to marry this woman,” he said. “Remember how long it took her to say yes?”
“Yes, we remember.” I rolled my eyes. “We had to live with her while she was vacillating. It wasn’t pretty. We told her she’d be crazy to take a pass on you.”
“You were right, as usual,” said my mother, cupping Sam’s chin with her hand. “He’s a peach.”
“Give the weather another day,” said Miss Gloria. “I think it’s going to miss us. We can go ahead with the service and have the small dinner at Louie’s as planned. Then we’ll throw another, bigger party when everyone gets back in town. Hey, life is short. Be greedy and grab all the joy you can hold.”
Caryn Druckman could have told us that.
24
Sometimes when husband call me from the kitchen and his voice is sharp as the knife he holding, Bobby look up at me and make the face, the way children do when they taste a sour green mango from the tree.
—Thrity Umrigar, The Story Hour
The next morning, I woke up from a deep sleep to clanking and banging. For one groggy moment, I thought the hurricane had blown through. But the boat wasn’t rocking any more than yesterday and the spot on my quilt where Evinrude usually sleeps was empty and cold, meaning he’d been up for some time. He spends stormy nights draped over my neck like a fox stole.
I vaulted out of bed and trotted down the hall to the galley where Miss Gloria—Hurricane Gloria—had everything we owned out on the counter, the kitchen table, and even the floor. Tied around her waist, she wore an apron bearing the face of Randy Thompson from his stint on the Topped Chef TV show. And she had a checkered dishcloth tied around her head, pushing her white hair into a disheveled Mohawk.
“What in the world is going on?” I asked, hands on hips, surveying the devastation.
“Here, get a cuppa coffee. You can have the last inch, and then help me out,” she said. She poured the dregs of thin liquid from the coffeemaker into my favorite pink mug and handed it to me. From the living room, the television blared, the Weather Channel of course, with news of strengthening eye walls and water temperature and wind shear trumpeting through our small living space. The national forecaster broke for the local station, announcing that an evacuation order had been put in place for visitors to the island. A determination would be made at the end of the day regarding cancellation of Saturday’s Fantasy Fest parade.
“It’s coming?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” she said. “They are all such alarmists. But it pays to be prepared. In case we get to rocking and rolling, I thought it would be smart to put the loose stuff into the drawers and cabinets that lock. The problem is, since you moved in with all your wonderful cooking gear, the space is overwhelmed.” She collapsed onto the built-in bench behind our kitchen table and swiped the checkered dishcloth over her forehead.
“But is the forecast different?” I asked, trying to figure out what was causing the worry lines etched on her face.
“Not significantly.” She frowned even deeper. “But my son Frank is having a fit. He’s giving me today, and if the storm doesn’t move northeast, he’s making me a plane reservation. I don’t want to leave”—her eyes sparkled with tears—“but it’s not really fair for them to sit up in Michigan and worry themselves sick. I ought to go visit my family anyway, right?”
I felt instantly queasy at the thought of her leaving the island without me. Her confidence about surviving any storm was the reason we were all willing to stay. And down a little deeper, I felt sad that my status as the nucleus of her island family was not enough to keep her here. And then guilty to even think that.
“He’s right,” I said, reaching across the table to grab her hand. “If the storm isn’t dying off, you should clear out. You’re not a young woman.”
“I’m not?” She grinned and stood up to return to work. “My darling husband thought of everything when he fitted out this boat.” She pointed out the clips on the drawers that would hold them closed even in the worst turbulence. And the hooks on the pantry door, and the little railings on most of the shelves.
“But he didn’t plan on your KitchenAid mixer or your Cuisinart or your collection of cookbooks or your Calphalon cookware.”
“Hey, don’t diss the KitchenAid. Girls my age are getting married just so they can get that mixer at their shower. As you can see”—I ran a hand lovingly over the cherry red enamel of my machine—“I wasn’t willing to wait for the right guy to pop the question.”
Once we had found a place for everything, I brewed a new pot of hot fresh coffee and sat at the table with a bowl of granola to read my e-mail while Miss Gloria went to shower. Buried halfway down my in-box, I found a note from Miss Gloria’s son. “We are so grateful for your friendship with and caretaking of our mother.”
Ha! As if I had to do anything other than rein in her zany energy from time to time. And feed her.
“We would so appreciate your support in getting her on the plane tomorrow. It was not easy to find a seat, so postponing is not an option.” He had copied her itinerary and pasted it into the e-mail. So they weren’t waiting until tomorrow to decide; they were planning for her to leave regardless of changes in the weather. Eight a.m. sharp.
“Will do,” I answered back. Not bothering to add my sense that she’d rather go down with the ship in Key West than be alive almost anywhere else.
I began to click through the photos on the official zombie parade Web site again, hoping I’d see something new. I thought about Eric’s comment the night before—how little we knew about Caryn Druckman. I mentioned this to Miss Gloria when she came out of the shower. “I’m going to try Mrs. Renhart again. Maybe they’ve got cell coverage wherever they landed. She would probably know about the funeral mass.”
Sure enough, my text message went through, followed by a quick response. Service at St. Mary’s Star of the Sea at 10 a.m. today. Hope all is well on the dock.
“I can be dressed and ready in ten minutes,” Miss Gloria said.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.
“Everything’s finished here,” she said, gesturing at the shipshape galley. “Mah-jongg is canceled today. No one wants me to sit around and twiddle my thumbs. No telling what kind of trouble an old lady could find.”
“You’ll let me do the talking?”
“Of course,” she said, her grin wide. “Don’t I always?”
While I dressed quickly in black capri pants and a cap-sleeved white top and my best black-sequined sneakers, Miss Gloria donned her most subdued sweat suit—the only one not decor
ated with rhinestones or baby bunnies. We buzzed over Palm Avenue and down Truman to the Catholic church at the corner of Windsor Lane, an enormous white stone edifice with double towers and expansive grounds, unusually spacious for this island. The louvered doors lining both sides of the sanctuary had been thrown open to catch any passing breeze, and a handful of well-dressed people were filing in. I parked the scooter, and we removed our helmets and smoothed our hair.
“After we go to the service and solicit clues, we can light a few candles at Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto,” Miss Gloria said.
I chose to ignore the comment about soliciting clues—it would only rile her up. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I’m not,” she said. “But Sister Gabriel lobbied to have the grotto built in the 1920s to protect the island from hurricanes. Lots of island people go there to light candles and pray during the hurricane season. I try to visit every time a storm heads this way. You can believe it works or not, but we haven’t had a direct hit since the grotto was constructed.”
“So all that talk about how you know how to handle a hurricane might be hot air,” I said, sort of teasing. “You’ve never actually lived through one?”
“We count Rita,” she said. “Devastating storm surge. And no one would say Wilma wasn’t pure hurricane. And completely unpredictable at that.”
She nodded gravely as we took seats in one of the rear pews, a good way behind the other mourners, who seemed mostly female and over fifty. The funeral mass went by quickly, as there were few personal remarks made from the pulpit. In fact, the only family in attendance seemed to be a cousin, introduced as Ann Druckman. She assisted in bringing the gifts to the altar, and later read one of the passages from the Bible. At the end of the service, after we’d all teared up at a lovely rendition of “On Eagle’s Wings,” the priest invited visitors to a reception in the garden.
I took a small cup of juice and a cookie and wandered among the other guests. I stopped near a group of three women that included Druckman’s cousin.
“So sad about Caryn,” one of the women said. “Did she have a history of heart problems?”
“Type one diabetes and high cholesterol,” Ann Druckman answered. “As heavy as she was, she had no business on a bike. I always teased her that the only thing she ever exercised was her mouth. But she just laughed. And now look what’s happened… .”
One of the other women patted the cousin on the shoulder. “We will miss her too. She did so much in the service of charity in the short time she was here. She raised a ton of money for Wesley House and the Old Island Restoration Foundation and the Waterfront Theater. She was tireless.”
“I wonder what’s going to happen to her property now that she’s gone?” a silver-haired thin woman asked of Ann Druckman. “Hadn’t she just purchased something new?”
“Having not seen the will, I have no idea. She did not discuss real estate with me. She knew I would not own property on this island if you gave it to me. Too risky,” said Ann Druckman. “Now that I’m here, I can’t really see the lure of the place either. I’d rather not be subjected to what’s usually hidden under people’s clothing, whether they paint their flab or not.”
The women tittered.
“Most of us regulars stay away from Duval Street, especially during this festival,” said the first woman. “But this week is unusual—a lot more party animals and a lot less charm. You should come back at Christmas time. All those twinkling lights on the palm trees? It’s magical.”
“I like my snow at Christmas, thank you very much.” Druckman’s cousin chuckled. “Helps with the hot flashes.”
“Have they determined what actually killed Caryn?” the first woman asked in a hushed voice. “We’d heard she was poisoned… .”
“Nothing definitive showed up on the tox screen, according to the detective. Her blood alcohol level was super high, though that can’t be the whole story. Our entire family is known to drink like fishes and it never did the rest of us any harm.”
“Sometimes alcohol can interact with a medication,” said the silver-haired woman. “Maybe that was the case?”
Ann Druckman scratched her scalp, thinking. “She did tell me about the high protein/low carbohydrate diet she was on for the past few months so she’d look good on the dais.” She shook her head emphatically. “It’s never a good idea to skip carbs. I believe that’s why she sounded so cranky lately. And of course she was distraught about losing the crown to that skinny young woman who swooped out of nowhere.”
Then all three women seemed to sense me hovering and listening and turned in my direction, looking a little hostile—as though I didn’t belong. “You were a friend of Caryn’s?” the silver-haired woman asked.
“I wouldn’t say friend, but an acquaintance. Through the Fantasy Fest royalty competition. I attended a lot of the fund-raising events and admired her bulldog tenacity.” I grinned and brushed the crumbs off my hands and got out of there before they could pursue my nonexistent connection with the dead woman.
After locating Miss Gloria coming out of the restroom, we headed toward the grotto, a lovely arch made of coral rock, rustic in the manner of a New England stone wall. The statue of Our Lady of Lourdes was set into the stone cave, and another statue on the ground gazed up at her. A metal stand was also located inside the stone cubby, containing candles, matches, and a few flowers. A sign on the wooden box suggested a donation of one dollar for a votive candle and three for the larger size. We each lit a tall white taper and said a silent prayer, mine for no hurricane and safety for my friends and family.
As we moved away, an older woman was finishing up her walk on the flagstones, which were laid out in front of the grotto in a big loop shaped like a rosary. I recognized her as Ann Druckman, the cousin who’d brought the gifts to the altar but had a distaste for Key West.
“Again, we’re sorry for your loss,” I told her. “This is Miss Gloria, my roommate. This is Caryn’s cousin.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ann.”
We chatted for a moment about the service and when Ann would be returning to Michigan—the earliest plane she could manage this afternoon.
“It must be so frustrating not to know exactly why she died,” I said. “I didn’t want to mention this in front of the other ladies, but I was riding near her in the zombie parade. I stopped to try to help, but I have no medical training.” I held my hands open. “I wish I could have done more.”
“Thank you,” she said, and dabbed at her eyes with a shredded Kleenex. “What was … Was there anything … Did she say anything before they took her away?”
I put my hand to my chest and breathed deeply as the memory of that moment rushed into my mind. “Nothing I could understand. I don’t think she was suffering.” Isn’t that what you were supposed to say to comfort a grieving relative? “I thought maybe she’d had too much to drink. Her breath had a sweet smell, and I suspected that grain alcohol punch they were passing around. Lethal stuff.”
I stuttered an apology for saying too much and knowing too little.
“She was a ball of fire right up to the last moment before she died,” I added. “She brought a lot of zip to the contest this year.”
“She never could stand to lose,” said Cousin Ann with a tired shrug. “Go big or go home—that was her motto. I think she got that saying from the editor of a women’s magazine. But it started when we were kids playing board games. If she was losing, look out—many’s the time she knocked the game off the table and stormed away. I do believe that competitive fire had only gotten worse over the years. At least she’s at peace now.”
We nodded solemnly as she walked away.
“What did we learn?” asked Miss Gloria.
“Not much, I’m afraid. She hated to lose and she wasn’t eating enough bread and cake, which caused her to be crabby.”
We got onto my scooter, chuckling. This business of eschewing carbs wouldn’t happen in our home. I texted Torrence to tell him the few fa
cts I’d learned at the funeral, hoping that would motivate him to call me back and tell me what was actually happening with the case. Because it sure didn’t sound as if they’d told Druckman’s cousin much of anything. Now that I was thinking about the murder again, it surprised me that there’d been no police presence in the church. Which might mean the whole thing was solved. Or not. I dropped Miss Gloria off at the cemetery as she’d requested and tried to figure out what to do next.
25
Gentlemen prefer girls who know how to cook, whether they be blonde, brunette, or titian.
—Anita Loos, Foreword, What Actors Eat—When They Eat
I considered stopping to visit my Realtor friend Cory Held, who worked at Preferred Properties Real Estate, which was located on the first floor of the building housing our Key Zest office. Much as I wanted to find out what deal Druckman was working on right before she died, I wanted to avoid running into Palamina even more. It felt weird not to be going into the office, not to have assignments to be mulling over and roughing out. I had to hope that Palamina would come to her senses and beg me to come back to work. Unlikely, but maybe Wally would knock some sense into her. The odds were not in my favor.
I checked out Cory Held’s Facebook page and was pleased to see that she was holding an open house off Southard Street early this afternoon. According to the listing description, this house was a gorgeous conch home with a tiny guesthouse and dipping pool in the backyard, all on a quiet lane not so close to Duval that it would be noisy, but close enough to stumble home on foot. I supposed that in her ambitious Realtor’s mind, there was some small chance that a Fantasy Fest attendee would have such a great time this week that they would be moved to buy a piece of property on the spot.
I drove over. She was propping up the OPEN HOUSE sign and draping it with strings of colored glass beads as I pulled up on my scooter.
“Hayley,” she said, “don’t tell me you’re finally ready to get off that houseboat?”
Killer Takeout Page 17