Killer Takeout

by Lucy Burdette

  If it was even possible, Danielle looked worse. The makeup around her eyes that she so carefully applied every morning was running down her cheeks in black and purple streaks. Her beautiful blond hair was a rat’s nest, stuck to the duct tape wound around her head. It was the least of her problems, and mine too, but I had to wonder whether some of her golden curls would have to be cut off.

  “Focus, Hayley,” I muttered to myself.

  “Why on earth did they send you in here?” Kat asked.

  “Believe me—no one sent me,” I said. “They are all outside having major heart attacks. There won’t be enough beds for all those guys in the coronary unit,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful and unconcerned. “How about you let these three go and then we can chat more comfortably?”

  Still pointing the gun at Miss Gloria, she pulled a chef’s knife off the shelf and held it at Danielle’s throat. She pressed until a droplet of bright red blood popped out of the cut and ran down my friend’s pale neck. Danielle began to cry again.

  Time to regroup. If none of us was going to live through this experience, at least I could try to get her to admit to the murder. “I’m guessing, then, it was you who poisoned Caryn Druckman. But I don’t really understand why.”

  “I thought you did understand how much this restaurant meant to us.” Using the knife, she pointed to Grant and then to herself. “He’s a brilliant chef, and you must know yourself that a chef who owns his own restaurant can write his own script when it comes to the menu. The Paradise Pub was killing his creativity. And we were earning peanuts. But with me beside him in our own place we were going to be the hottest place on the island. With the best food too.”

  She looked at me as if I was supposed to respond. Plain enough to see that this was not the time for a mixed review. “That breakfast he made me was amazing.” I cleared my throat. “And I loved all your ideas for the classic but new takes on island fare. And your ideas for naming the place were brilliant. But what did Ms. Druckman have to do with any of that?”

  Catfish scowled. “She soured the deal we had set up with the previous owner. Seymour ratfink Fox.”

  “Seymour?” I asked.

  She nodded. “He agreed to sell to Grant. They shook hands on it. And then she ruined everything by coming in on top of us with better terms. Better in what way, you might ask?” she added. “Not better for the locals. Not better for anyone who would be eating there. What the people of Key West wanted was his cooking.

  “But she wanted a platform for her stupid northern ideas of foodie trends. She couldn’t stand to lose anything. And losing that dumb contest made stealing this restaurant seem more important to her.” She stabbed at Grant’s chest with the tip of the knife for emphasis and he squawked through the duct tape. “And she trashed our dreams. You’ve not seen what he’s like when he isn’t doing what he loves.”

  She turned to him again and shook her head with disgust. “Actually you’re seeing it right here. He’s lifeless. And our life together would be over. I could not allow that miserable bossy bitch to stand between us and our future.”

  “I understand that,” I said. “But why are these two tied up?”

  “Grant didn’t get that I poisoned her to help him. That everything was going to be okay. And then your silly friend came barging in here last night with her talk about clues and how close she was to figuring things out. And how it wasn’t her family who killed Druckman. And if one of us did it, we needed to confess. Obviously, I couldn’t let her go.”

  Suddenly I heard an ear-piercing crash-bang and a light flashed and a huge black shape shattered the small window and I was crushed to the floor under the weight of an enormous officer wearing a black jumpsuit and a helmet. “Drop the gun and the knife right now or we shoot,” called out another officer.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Catfish hit the floor, flattened by two more SWAT team members. Once they had her safely cuffed, they led her out, cut the tape off the others, and we stumbled back into the sun.

  I rushed into my mother’s waiting arms. “I can’t decide if that’s the bravest or the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” said my mother. But her eyes floated with tears as she stroked my hair off my face.

  31

  He looks at her like she’s afternoon tea and he’s parched.

  —Jenn McKinlay, At the Drop of a Hat

  In the parking lot, Danielle tearfully explained that her aunt had harassed Caryn Druckman by posting the unflattering photos on Instagram and Facebook. So certain that her relative had not been involved in the poisoning, she thought about what I’d told her about Beach Eats and decided that maybe the poison came from there, and figured Grant was the logical murderer. She had driven over to Paradise Pub to warn Kat that her boyfriend had poisoned his rival.

  But Catfish had already tied Grant up, and she knew that Danielle would rat her out to the cops. She felt she had no choice but to tie up Danielle too.

  “What was she planning to do with the two of you?” I asked.

  Danielle shook her head mournfully. “She couldn’t have killed Grant. She loved him so desperately. But me? Nothing good was going to come of it.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police? Or me?”

  “Remember, we were in the hurricane of the century, Hayley. You think I didn’t think of that? I had no cell service. And there were certainly no cops around.”

  After the police car left with Catfish handcuffed in the backseat, headed for the Stock Island jail, and Grant and Danielle had been checked out medically and taken off to the station to give their official statements to the detectives, we decided it was time to face the music. Either the houseboat would be there, or it wouldn’t. Miss Gloria was trying hard to put on an optimistic face, but we all knew her heart would be broken if she’d lost her home on Tarpon Pier.

  It took us almost half an hour to get across the island. Many trees had been knocked down, requiring detours, and the roads were clogged with trash and live wires. Without the normal hum of electrified life, the town was eerily quiet, though some of the residents and town employees were already stacking palm leaves and detached shingles in piles by the side of the streets. Here and there we heard the noise of generators and leaf-blowers roar to life.

  As we rolled up the Palm Avenue causeway in Sam’s car, Miss Gloria said from the backseat beside me: “I’m going to cover my eyes. Tell me if it’s okay to look.”

  Which was a little funny if I thought about it, because what if the houseboat was destroyed? How long would she keep her eyes covered? But I kept my smart mouth shut, realizing almost as quickly that I too was scared silly about what we might find, and ready to be heartsick for her—and me—if our home was gone. She had been so brave for so long.

  As we crested the hill, my gaze searched the horizon, desperately hoping to see the same landscape of roofs and pipes and ropes that we’d left only hours earlier.

  Sam slowed the car and pulled into the far end of the parking lot.

  “The boat with the big smiley face on the roof is missing its porch tarp,” I said, taking Miss Gloria’s cool hand and rubbing it between mine. “But I see Connie and Ray’s place right behind it. And oh my gosh …” My voice swelled with joy and my throat with tears. “Our home is there too.”

  Miss Gloria threw her arms around me and rested her head against my shoulder. “Oh thank god, thank god. I thought we were goners this time.”

  Once Sam had parked, we sprang out of the car and hurried up the finger. The two-story yellow houseboat was missing its roof, and the speedboat usually filled with trash seemed to be missing altogether. As we arrived at our place, the Renharts’ boat chugged into the slip next door and banged against the pilings. Mrs. Renhart waved furiously, doing a little happy dance with the fluffy gray cat she had clutched in her arms. Then she put him down and picked up the old black cat and danced him around too. Schnootie the schnauzer leaped from one side of the deck to the other, yelping furiously.

  Mr. Re
nhart’s voice rang out over the cacophony of sounds. “Will you shut that damn dog up? Or I swear I will take her back to the pound.”

  “Oh, Schnootie, rooty-tooty, you know Daddy doesn’t mean that,” Mrs. Renhart crooned, swooping the dog up and clutching her to her neck.

  Good gravy, it felt fantastic to be home.

  After checking on our boat, we caught up on the adventures of our seafaring neighbors, which boiled down to Mr. Renhart getting into a huge fight with the tugboat driver and deciding he’d turn around and come back home and take his licks like the rest of us.

  “Where did you ride the storm out?” I asked.

  “The lee side of Big Pine,” said Mr. Renhart.

  “The cats were amazing,” said Mrs. Renhart. “Born sailors. Schnootie?” She looked down fondly at the gray dog, who panted at her feet. “Not so much.”

  “Speaking of cats,” I said. “We’d better buzz down the island and retrieve ours from Chad’s place.”

  “I’ll go,” said Sam.

  “And Chef Martha from Louie’s Backyard called,” said my mother, holding up her phone. “They won’t be open in time to host our reception—they have no power. But they’d love to have us pick up the food and bring it somewhere so we don’t lose everything.”

  “Here!” said Miss Gloria. “We’ll have a big party to celebrate all our good news right here on the dock. We can do what Garbo’s Grill was doing—welcome anyone who needs a meal. Say five o’clock?”

  A police car pulled into the lot and Bransford emerged. We watched him lope up the finger.

  “Thought I’d check on you all,” he said. “And thought you’d be interested in hearing that Catfish Kohls was charged with murder. As you can imagine, Grant Monsarrat is crushed. He still hopes to pull his business out of the embers, if Seymour’s willing to sell it to him. And make it friendly to both locals and tourists.”

  “How in the world did she kill Druckman? And why?” asked Miss Gloria.

  “Seymour Fox had made a deal to sell the Paradise Pub to Grant. But Druckman started to pressure him over the last month about selling it to her instead. She offered a lot more money, cash, not extended credit as Grant Monsarrat would have required. Seymour got more and more upset and fell off the wagon along the way. Finally he withdrew the verbal contract with Grant. Apparently Catfish flipped out and put isopropyl rubbing alcohol in Caryn Druckman’s punch, figuring if she was dead, Seymour would have to sell the place to Grant.”

  “That must have been the funny sweet smell on her breath,” I said.

  Bransford nodded. Though he had been talking to everyone, he was staring at me as if he had something else on his mind.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Can I have a private word?”

  “Of course.” I glanced at the others, gave a little shrug, and then followed him to his car.

  He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out raspy. “I’ve told my ex not to come back. We’re finished. She comes, I tell her it’s over between us, she cries, she leaves. We’ve been finished for quite a while now; she simply can’t quite accept it. I don’t understand why you would think I’m still involved with her.”

  “Ziggy’s babysitter said a woman was here visiting and you were out all night, and she thought it was your ex.”

  I watched him struggle to stay calm. “The dog sitter is not a credible witness—remember that, okay? Ziggy loves her and she’s available at all hours, but she’s dizzy as heck. I was working, Hayley. Fantasy Fest, remember?”

  I squirmed a little, keeping my gaze pinned on the cleft in his chin so I wouldn’t risk my voice wobbling. It felt silly to have doubted him and an enormous relief to hear the truth.

  “I know you’ll never become Mr. Communication, but I thought you’d text, at least let me know you were okay.”

  He stared at me for a full minute. “A seventeen-year-old girl died yesterday morning from an overdose of tainted heroin. She was here with her friends for a week of fun. After we failed to resuscitate her, I had to call her parents with that news. I thought of calling you, but it all felt too grim, and I honestly didn’t know how to say it without breaking down. And then we had to deal with her friends, who were completely hysterical. And then the evacuation.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “For an outsider, this job takes some getting use to. And some wives and girlfriends never do. And it’s been especially hard these last couple of years, with people attacking officers. And a few rotten officers attacking people. And overall bad feelings between cops and civilians. So it feels hard to ask this.” He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed down and then up. “But I wondered …” He turned a deep shade of red and pulled his sunglasses back over his eyes. “I wondered if you might like to try moving in with me.”

  I gulped, my temples throbbing and my heart racing. Good gravy, I hadn’t seen that coming. Something in his cautious heart must have gotten shaken loose by the hurricane scare. Or maybe the sadness around the dead teenager had done it. Or maybe something else that I might never know. Because he wasn’t a talker.

  And now he looked anything but soft and open, his arms crossed over his chest, his sunglasses mirroring a distorted image of me. I paused for a minute to put into careful words the reaction that welled up inside.

  “Thank you very much for that offer. But this is my home for now,” I said, looking back at the motley group of boats and neighbors and family clustered on the dock. “I’m planning to stay here until I find another place that feels even more like home. Experimenting with living together doesn’t feel that way to me. I’ve sort of tried that, you know? With some unsatisfactory results.” I grimaced and grinned.

  He wasn’t smiling at my weak joke.

  “Though I appreciate the offer.” I reached out to touch his hand, but he’d taken a step back, leaving me pawing at the air. “And it’s a good offer, just not quite right for me at this time.”

  Good lord, I was starting to sound like a rejection letter from a literary agency. “Though I’d definitely accept an invitation to go out to dinner and see where we go from there. If that’s okay?

  “But better still, we are going ahead with the reception, right here on the dock. All the food my mother ordered and Chef Martha prepared would go bad if we didn’t eat it.” I looked straight at him. “It would mean so much if you came. We’re starting at five.”

  He nodded after a minute. “I’ll try. We’ll see what things look like out there.” He waved in the direction of Old Town. Then a smile flickered across his face. “I liked the way they did it though.”

  It took me a minute to figure out what he meant. “Mom and Sam? You liked the wedding ceremony in the closet during a hurricane bit?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not the hurricane. Small guest list. No fuss. No big poufy dress and monkey suit. No ridiculous dance steps in front of a crowd. Been down that road already. With some unsatisfactory results, as you would say.”

  I grinned and reached over to chuck his chin. “Are you asking me something?”

  “Not exactly. Someday. I might.” He shuffled a step away.

  I swooped in and gave him a five-star kiss and then a casual wave before he drove off, and I swiveled away to help Miss Gloria.

  Let him think I was all about the minimalist wedding, as if I hadn’t had dreams about all the trappings of a wedding, like forever, like every girl in America. But I could give him plenty of space. Hey, I was in no hurry either. He never would have gotten near the subject if he wasn’t serious.

  And if it came down to it, we’d call in the hostage negotiator to rescue us from the bare-bones ceremony and reception that he was picturing. I noticed then that Mrs. Renhart had been watching the whole thing, probably listening too, as she brought Schnootie to the little grassy strip alongside the parking lot. Both of the old cats had followed and were sniffing around the barnacle-encrusted ropes coiled at the end of the finger.

&
nbsp; “So the new kitties did well in the storm?” I asked.

  “As though they were born and raised on a boat,” said Mrs. R. She stooped down to run her hand along Jack’s spine and then Dinkels’. They both rumbled happily in response.

  “Hope that guy pops the question soon,” said my neighbor, her eyes narrowed as she watched Bransford’s cruiser pull out into the Palm Avenue traffic. “You know what, Hayley? After adopting these cats, and Schnootie, marrying Mr. Renhart was the best decision I ever made. I hope you’re as lucky in love as I’ve been.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Amazing,” I added, trying to stifle a look of disbelief, as she trundled off home, a cat under each arm and Schnootie trotting behind.

  My cell phone rang and Palamina’s number came up on the screen. I considered refusing to answer, but decided I should face the worst and get it over with.

  “Hayley, I called to apologize about my behavior lately. I’ve done some thinking and decided you’re right. I haven’t been treating you and the others with the respect you deserve. I got freaked-out about being head of this magazine by myself. In New York, I never had to make a decision without a dozen people pawing through the work and editing it to within an inch of its life. I was a little cog in a big machine. And the more I thought about this responsibility, the tighter I got. And I took that out on you people.

  “But while the storm was raging, I realized I’m not by myself. First of all Wally’s my copilot.”

  I swallowed the Duh that rose up in my throat.

  “And second, you and Danielle are in this with us. And you’re great at your jobs and I need to trust you. I’m sorry about how I’ve acted. If there’s anything I can do for you, I’d like you to have a relaxing few days off.”

  It took me a moment to process what she’d said. “Apology accepted,” I said.

  “But I mean it about some time off. What can I take off your plate?”