Killer Takeout

by Lucy Burdette

  I laughed. “On my salary? Not happening.” I felt a quick clench in my stomach—maybe I had no salary at all. A neatly bearded man on a rental scooter drove up and whooped at Cory.

  “John-Bryan!” she yelled and trotted over to give him a hug. Then she drew him back over to me and introduced us.

  “I recognize you from the performance at the Coronation Ball,” I said. “You are a fabulous dancer.”

  “Thanks. And I owe you a phone call,” he said in a deep Southern drawl, his brown eyes large behind big black glasses. He vibrated with an energy that seemed as though it could fill a room. He reached over and folded me into a bear hug.

  “Apparently you already know each other,” Cory said.

  “Not really,” I said, and then grimaced. “I’m kind of looking into Caryn Druckman’s death on behalf of my friend Danielle. That’s why I messaged you,” I told him. “Since you were so close to the action and yet an outsider to the politics, I wondered if you might have noticed something that other people wouldn’t.”

  “That was so tragic,” he said. “I was riding up front near Danielle and Seymour and we never knew anything had happened to Caryn until it was over.”

  “I wasn’t so lucky,” I said. “I was right ahead of her when she fell.”

  “Come on in, both of you, and we can chat,” said Cory. She grabbed JB’s arm and steered him up the walk. “And you have to see this house.”

  We entered a set of French doors that opened into a great room paneled in whitewashed Dade pine. The floor was constructed of wide wood boards, the honeyed color perfectly reflecting the pale peach cushions on the wicker furniture. A bamboo ceiling fan rotated slowly, causing the oversize houseplants to wave like lazy hula dancers. Cory placed a sign-up sheet for visitors on the wooden table in the vestibule next to a stack of business cards.

  Then she whisked us through the first-floor rooms, which were open to the backyard with its tiny blue pool surrounded by palms and a latticework fence dotted with purple and yellow orchids, and a studio at the end of the property. “This is all wonderful, but the best is coming next,” she said with a big smile.

  I immediately drooled over the kitchen: a four-burner gas Wolfe stove with a copper hood, a side-by-side stainless full-sized refrigerator/freezer—not feasible on a houseboat—and a stunning coral-topped island surrounded by tall stools where I could picture Miss Gloria perching to chat as I worked. It was nothing like the fabulous professional kitchen in the Paradise Pub, but it would suit me perfectly.

  “Someday,” I said, sounding a little mournful. “Do you cook?” I asked John-Bryan, who was swooning over the double oven.

  “He’s a wonderful cook,” Cory said, “famous for his honeyed smoked peaches.” She winked at him. “Your smoker would fit perfectly on that deck. If you’re going to spend this much time in Key West, you really need a place.”

  John-Bryant laughed and turned to me. “She’s an amazing saleswoman and I have to say, I’m weakening.” He grinned. “Now, what can I tell you about Druckman?”

  “Did she seem sick to you at all over the past week? Was she a big drinker?”

  He rubbed his chin as we trooped upstairs to see the bedrooms. “No to sick, but yes to drinker,” he said as we admired the master bedroom with its pencil bed piled with white pillows and array of watercolors painted by local artists on the wall. “But the kind of drinker who could hold her liquor—not even show how much had gone down the hatch.”

  After more drooling over the gorgeous master bath—two sinks, a spa tub, and more shelves than we had in our entire boat—we headed downstairs.

  “I’ve heard that Caryn Druckman was working on a real estate deal, or had settled one right before she died,” I said to Cory. “I know you’re not supposed to talk about a client’s private business, but I thought since she’s gone, you might have heard something unofficially.” Though what did I really know, because no one official was bothering to text me back.

  “What could she have been looking for? She has to own one of the nicest homes on the island already. Besides, it’s a very slow time, this week,” said Cory. “And now they’ve begun evacuating visitors. In fact, I’m probably wasting my hours here, unless I can talk this big lug into signing a contract.” She squeezed JB’s arm with affection. “I can’t think of one property that’s gone on deposit.” She dug her phone out of her purse and scrolled through several screens. “Nothing on the MLS. Though that doesn’t mean a deal couldn’t have been done with a handshake. Though Conchs are cautious. If they were dealing with an outsider, I would think they’d go through professional channels.”

  “And Druckman was still an outsider, same as me,” said JB. “Much as we wanted to be considered natives. And as much money as a certain person might have thrown at the situation.” His eyebrows lifted above his glasses. “And all the social media in the world can’t really buy you friends, though she tried her best.”

  “And this fellow would know,” said Cory. “You have how many—like, a hundred thousand Twitter followers?”

  He grinned. “Eight hundred and sixty-five thousand, but who’s counting?”

  After a few more minutes of chatter, I left the two of them looking through the adorable house again. I felt as if I was circling close to the answer, but not close enough to grasp it.

  I decided to buzz by Grant’s restaurant on the way home, thinking I would talk to him again about what he might have seen from his position behind the counter at Beach Eats during the zombie bike ride. Sometimes, when I’m trying to remember something, I set it aside for a couple of days. And out of nowhere, the missing detail floats to the top of my mind. Maybe it would work the same way with him.

  I tried the front door, but in spite of the lunch hours posted on the menu outside, found it locked. I didn’t imagine this was because of the storm prospects—wouldn’t they have covered the windows with plywood and painted the wood with wild boasts against the hurricane? Or even more likely, they’d be throwing a hurricane party. With two drinks for the price of one, all named for storms that had brushed or hit Key West in the past: Donna’s Daiquiri, Mitch’s Mojito, Cleo’s Cosmo, Bertha’s Bloody Mary, Wilma’s Last Word.

  I trotted around the back of the building, but the kitchen access was locked too. The two kittens I’d seen the other day were hunkering under the Dumpster, but I didn’t have the time or the means to lure them out. As I debated whether to put a call in to the SPCA and leave a message about the abandoned kitties, the back kitchen door squeaked open and Catfish emerged with a bowl of milk.

  She startled and clapped a hand to her chest. “You scared me. I wasn’t expecting company back here today. Everybody seems to be battening down the hatches.”

  “Doesn’t look like you guys are planning to open either.”

  “Grant says maybe for bar traffic later this afternoon,” she said. “We hate to cook a lot of stuff and have no one in the dining room to eat it.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I hate this. There are so many ways a restaurant can fail, but I never believed a hurricane would get us.”

  “Maybe it’s heading out to sea,” I said. “Maybe it will turn out to be nothing. We said prayers at the hurricane grotto this morning.” I smiled with encouragement, trying to figure out a graceful way to transition to my question. “I know I’ve asked about this before but hope you don’t mind if we go over once more what you saw at the zombie party. I figure you and Grant had the best view from the Beach Eats truck.”

  “They still haven’t figured out what happened to that woman?” Catfish asked. “Our police department …” She shook her head in disgust.

  “They’re busy with Fantasy Fest, I suppose.” Then I explained that I’d gotten conflicting reports, what with Seymour claiming he didn’t drink, but other people assuring me that he did. “Did you happen to notice him drinking out of a silver flask? I know it’s unlikely that you’d remember, but I figured it was worth a try. He’s this year’s Fantasy Fest King.”

&nbs
p; “Honestly, I was too busy serving and cleaning up to notice much of anything. But there weren’t many sober people at that party, I can assure you.” She set the saucer of milk down and watched the kittens lap it up noisily. “I’m thinking we should bring them inside if the storm hits. Or would that be more frightening to the poor little guys than riding it out in familiar territory? We’re all toast anyway, I’m afraid,” she said, and started to cry.

  “How many storms have you lived through here?”

  “Twenty years’ worth. Wilma was bad, but this one scares me more.” She looked on the verge of full-blown hysteria. As I wondered whether to offer a hug, she wheeled around and disappeared into the kitchen.

  26

  Someone needs to tell these chefs their food is no good. They need to know so they can cut their losses and move on.

  —Amy E. Reichert, The Coincidence of Coconut Cake

  On the way home, I stopped at the Bayview tennis courts on the off chance that Kitty Palmer, the third candidate for queen, was either teaching or playing. She was the last person I could think of whom I hadn’t met who might have some insight into Caryn Druckman’s behavior over the last months and weeks, and hence her death.

  I heard the whop, whop, whop of a tennis ball hitting rackets before I could see the players. A tall, muscular woman with short brown hair was playing with the head pro, Paul Findlay, walloping any ball he hit over the net into the corners of his court—keeping him scrambling. He seemed relieved to take a break when I signaled to Kitty that I hoped for a moment of her time.

  She trotted across the court to the bleachers where I waited. I introduced myself and explained briefly that I was trying to help my friend Danielle, the Fantasy Fest Queen, who now appeared to be high on the police list of murder suspects. “You were right there as the relationships developed between Danielle and Druckman and also Seymour. Would you say there were sparks between any of them right away?”

  She perched on the bench, took off her sunglasses, and wiped her face with a white towel. “Everyone was civil at the beginning, of course. The organizers worked hard at trying to make the competition seem fun. They wanted to psych us up so we’d spread the excitement and get lots of people to attend the events. So everything was peachy for a while.” She stretched her leg out and massaged her calf. “However, in the month leading up to the coronation, the friction between Caryn Druckman and Danielle emerged. And then something was going on with Seymour. Or that’s what I saw, anyway.”

  “What were their problems? Obviously they weren’t in direct competition for a title.”

  “Mmm.” She squinted and slid the sunglasses back on. “I couldn’t say that I knew the subject—I tried to stay out of the drama, which was not easy, I can assure you. Druckman wanted to be a big wheel in this town; that’s how I’d sum it up.”

  But what did that have to do with Danielle? “So, you’d say there was more trouble between Seymour and Druckman than Danielle and Druckman?”

  Kitty laughed. “Oh, she never liked Danielle. She thought she was a local twit with beauty and no brains. And she complained a lot about Danielle’s family. But the organizers kept telling her to keep her focus on the ball. That the point was raising money, not winning.” She began to bounce a tennis ball on her racket and I could see she was impatient to return to her game.

  “And what about John-Bryan? How did he fit in?”

  “Thank goodness for him—he was in it for the fun, and if he hadn’t been there to lighten up the mood, more dead bodies than the one might have turned up.”

  “Was there a lot of drinking among the candidates? Did you notice whether Druckman commonly drank at the events?” I asked.

  “Definitely, but she was the kind of woman who could hold her liquor and you’d have no clue how much she knocked back. That’s why I was so surprised to see her swerving around on her bike. I chalked it up to a lack of balance and grace, but maybe it was just plain too much to drink.” She held an imaginary phone up to her ear as she got to her feet. “Give me a buzz if you think of any other questions.”

  I trudged back to my scooter, drenched by the humidity—and I hadn’t hit one tennis ball. Had I found a motive for murdering someone? It seemed not yet. As I drove the few blocks back to the houseboat, I noticed traffic clogging Truman Avenue and heading north on Route One.

  Inside our cabin, Miss Gloria had the TV blaring.

  “They’ve finally, definitely called for an evacuation,” she said. “The town has canceled the Fantasy Fest parade. And the locals parade too, though good luck telling the locals anything. All visitors are expected to leave by ten p.m., and residents by morning.”

  “That would explain the traffic jam,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, but failing miserably. “We’ll drive you to the airport early tomorrow and then clear out ourselves. We’ll take Sparky with us, if that’s easier.”

  She nodded her thanks, looking as though she might burst into tears. I texted my mother the plan and then watched the Weather Channel for a few minutes with Miss Gloria.

  “Maximum sustained winds have increased to near seventy-five miles per hour, moving Margaret from a tropical storm to a Category One hurricane on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Wind Scale. Additional strengthening during the next twenty-four hours is forecast.” The anchor turned to the hurricane specialist. “This one is hard to predict, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. The current track is one possible path in our spaghetti model.” The map showing all the colored lines appeared behind the weather people. “We are still hoping for a slight weakening as Margaret encounters high shear and dry air in the eastern Caribbean Sea. But residents and visitors in the path of the storm should evacuate promptly as directed.”

  Then the screen flashed to the Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto, where we’d lit a candle this morning. A reporter was standing on the church grounds, holding a microphone, his curly hair swirling.

  “I’m reporting to you live from Key West, Florida, where local and state officials have pulled the trigger on the big Halloween parade and posted an evacuation notice. As you can see”—he gestured to the little cave with its flickering lights—“folks are still hopeful.” In the background, a couple of teenagers waved at the camera crew. I clicked off the television.

  “I guess we’d better pack a few things up,” Miss Gloria said.

  I filled a small suitcase with clean underwear and a few changes of clothes, and then got the cat food and litter and the carrier ready to go, and put everything by the door. Now what? I couldn’t stand to spend the night watching weather reports. So I opened up my laptop and began to make notes on what we’d learned—and what we hadn’t—about Caryn Druckman.

  I started by reading some of the Key West Facebook groups. Leigh had been right—the locals were crabby. Unhappy about the hordes of rude tourists, the restaurants catering to tourists with New York prices for mediocre food, and out-of-towners snatching up real estate and renting it out to snowbirds so that low-to-middle-income workers had no shot at affordable living on the island.

  Then I clicked over to Druckman’s Instagram account, leafed through her photos, which included many, many shots of the AIDS Help royalty events, and then switched over to Facebook. A ways down into her feed, I noticed several unflattering photos posted to her timeline with rude comments about the woman, her appearance, her incessant need for attention, and the persona she had developed as the Key West maven.

  Why hadn’t she removed these? When I clicked on the names of the people who had posted to her timeline, phony accounts came up. It was almost as though a cyberbully had cracked the Facebook code and figured out how to harass her publicly.

  Seymour was obviously lying about his drinking, but why? Did it have something to do with these taunts? Danielle’s family was another possibility. Did one of them have the computer expertise to do this? If Druckman believed that they had posted all those unflattering photos, she might have blamed Danielle. And that would explain her rage, which le
d to the catfight on Duval Street in front of The Bull and Whistle.

  I glanced at the clock on my built-in bedside table. Midnight—way too late to call Danielle again. And at this point, my focus needed to be getting some rest so I could help pilot my family to safety tomorrow.

  27

  She rose from the table in her white pantsuit, picked up the plate of offending toast, and slowly made her way across the dining room to the kitchen expediting station. The cooks saw her coming and scattered like roaches.

  —Michael Procopio, “The Cheese Toast Incident,” Food for the Thoughtless, May 20, 2014

  Early the next morning, we waited in the parking lot for Sam and my mother to pick us up. The weather had deteriorated overnight and I’d barely slept as the boat rocked in the heavy chop, with Evinrude yowling his distress.

  The fishermen that Miss Gloria’s son had hired from the marina across the causeway struggled to tie extra lines from our home to the dock. They could barely keep their footing as the waves in the bight seethed, pounding our ramp. Evinrude and Sparky caterwauled inside the cat carrier, expressing their outrage about the small space and the intermittent fierce gusts of wind and the general disruption to their cat lives. I sympathized completely and tried a comforting shush.

  “They know something awful’s happening,” I said.

  Miss Gloria laughed. “They don’t need to be prescient to figure that out. The wind’s got to be blowing forty miles an hour, maybe more. I don’t feel right leaving you here,” she said, gripping my hand with both of hers.

  I felt a hitch in my breathing, but I tried to smile through it. “It’s just for a little while, until the worst blows over. We can pick you up at the airport anytime you’re ready to return. Your sons are right: You need to get out of here. I should have insisted you leave yesterday.”

  Sam pulled into the parking lot, my mother riding shotgun, looking frightened but determined. I opened the door for Miss Gloria, then handed the cat carrier and our small bags in after her. I hurried to the other side of the car and slid in, my hair swirled to a nest of unruly curls.