St. Paul’s was a large, white stucco edifice right on the corner of Duval Street and Eaton. Though the doors were almost always open to the public, I’d yet to set foot in it. Since religion was one of my parents’ battlegrounds, I felt anxious in churches under the best of circumstances. Raised by nonpracticing Quakers, my father detested what he called the pompous blah, blah, blah of organized religion. My mother came from a Presbyterian family (God’s frozen people, per my father), and she insisted I attend Sunday services until I attained that pinnacle of teenage surliness where letting me sleep in reduced the number of hours we were fighting. In any case, questions of the great hereafter positively terrorized me, and that was one more good reason to frequent Lorenzo the fortune-teller. I found his definiteness reassuring: He seemed to have a better grip on the distant future than most religious leaders.
And funerals, of course, were the worst church services of all—the somberness of the ministers and the clear fact that even they don’t exactly know where we’re all headed crescendoed at a funeral. The questions I’d swept under the rug about what’s next, if anything, couldn’t help but knife to the surface of my consciousness.
I’d attended services for both of my grandmothers in the past five years, and those were brutal. I could only imagine that an unexpected funeral for a murdered young woman would raise even more horribly raw feelings. And besides all that, I didn’t really belong here. I had barely known Kristen and what I did know, I didn’t like. On the other hand, the pews were packed with mourners. Had Kristen been that popular, or was this evidence of her family’s social standing on the island?
I grabbed a tissue from the box on a black lacquered table in the narthex just in case and pressed against the back wall, scanning the attendees for Eric. This was not the kind of event I wanted to face alone.
The crowd seemed divided into about half casually dressed Key West types, and the rest more sophisticated sorts I guessed had driven down from Miami. Henrietta Stentzel and a couple of other local foodies were camped out in the second to last row, two of them wearing chef’s clogs along with their funeral attire. Probably due at work right after the service. I shifted over a few feet to try to listen to them, but the organ pretty much drowned out their conversation. Then I noticed the three policemen at the far left of the sanctuary, including Bransford, the detective with the cleft chin. He caught my gaze for an instant, having clearly taken note of my entrance.
Just then a woman who looked a frightening amount like Kristen brushed by me, her hand clamped on the elbow of a white-haired lady in a black silk suit and old-fashioned pumps. These had to be Kristen’s relatives—the likeness was too distinctive. The younger woman had Kristen’s white-blond hair—the kind you simply couldn’t get in a salon—and they both had long, thin noses and the same cold brown eyes. Even the perfume the young woman was wearing smelled like Kristen. The identical scent I’d noticed as I straightened Chad’s bedclothes in the apartment yesterday. Something expensive, flowery, and—to me—nauseating.
The older woman shuffled up the aisle to the front pew, bent over like this service was more than she would be able to stand. I tried to tell myself maybe her posture wasn’t a result of her emotional pain, but rather a minor case of dowager’s hump. But tears sprang to my eyes anyway. I knew how my mother would be feeling if it were me in that coffin.
Eric and his partner, Bill, came up beside me. We exchanged hugs and filed into a pew across the aisle from the chefs. I craned my neck searching for Chad. How do you handle funeral etiquette with a relatively new lover’s family? I very much doubted he’d have been invited to sit with them, but what did I know? More to the point, how would I handle Kristen’s family? Staying as far away as possible seemed like the best plan. Show my respect, sample the food, all while acting subdued and innocent. And get the heck out.
Just before the service began, Chad slid into a seat several rows ahead of us, close enough that I couldn’t help seeing how his starched white collar pressed into his skin. He’d had a haircut since yesterday. I tried to stop myself from imagining brushing my fingers along the soft stubble that faded into the nape of his neck. This kind of unwelcome leftover detail from our physical relationship had been filling my head for the past few weeks, like it or not. Especially when I was stressed, and that seemed like all the time lately. Probably I should be thinking less about what went wrong in the relationship and more about why I’d made such a lousy choice to begin with.
The organist launched into “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and the congregation stood and straggled through the hymn. The sniffling had already started as a man in a black robe took his place at the podium. “In John 16, verse 22, the Bible tells us: ‘So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.’ ”
He peered over his reading glasses to Kristen’s family and I zoned out, pushing my attention to the contrast of the dark wood ceiling against the whitewashed walls. The stained-glass windows running the length of the pews had been swiveled open to catch a bit of breeze, but it still felt hot and sticky in the sanctuary. I squinted to read the text at the base of the window closest to me: “Donated by the Faulkner family.” Of course.
Troubled hearts . . . God’s love . . . lamb of God . . . The words floated toward me from the pulpit and my mind veered away again from the service and the dreaded closed coffin and back to the congregation.
Questions caromed through my brain. Why wasn’t Kristen in an open coffin? Had the poison done something awful to her features? Was the person who killed Kristen in attendance? And why was she killed? How seriously did the police consider me a suspect? Ridiculous! They couldn’t be serious. I couldn’t wait for all this to be over.
Then the minister invited Kristen’s sister to speak and my mind snapped back to attention. The blond woman I’d seen earlier mounted the steps, approached the podium, and angled the microphone closer to her lips.
“My name is Ava Faulkner. I’m Kristen’s older sister.” She drew a long breath and steadied her voice. “I’ve always heard that the oldest child is the most driven. But Kristen”—her lips curved into a rueful smile—“Kristen kicked my butt.”
I chuckled nervously like most of the rest of the congregation. Who said “butt” during a eulogy? She was upset, that was all.
“It started in grade school,” Ava continued. “Kristen brought home honors in first grade while I was in second. What kind of teacher even gives honors to first graders? Mrs. Randolph, that’s who. She didn’t seem to realize that she was setting us up for a lifetime of rivalry. Not that Daddy hadn’t already done a damn good job of that.” She flashed a mirthless smile.
“Kristen was just better at things than most people. She was an amazing businesswoman. She saw the potential for profit in places most people would never consider looking. And then she went after it.”
Ava closed her eyes for a moment and pressed two pink-tipped fingers against her forehead. She blinked her eyes open.
“Some of you probably don’t know that I dated Kristen’s boyfriend briefly before her.” Her gaze searched the audience until it landed on Chad. The back of his neck flushed red, red, red. The people sitting near him murmured and rustled.
“Don’t worry—they were a much better match than he and I were. Guppies shouldn’t swim with piranhas.” She smiled. “But don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not that Kristen didn’t see other people; it’s that she saw her own goals so clearly.
“And this will always be our sorrow. Kristen had some amazing things to offer the world, but especially this adorable and provincial little community. Her magazine project was going to be brilliant. If she’d had the chance, she would have brought the style in this town to a new level. And her restaurant on Easter Island would have set a benchmark for fine cuisine. And you all know what she looked like—she was gorgeous. The world lost some zest when we lost Kristen.
“And whoeve
r did this”—she glared over the pews—“to do it with key lime pie, the one dessert she could never resist. That was low.”
I gulped and held myself very still, afraid to see whether anyone was looking at me. Eric took my right hand and squeezed gently. “Breathe,” he whispered.
I bolted off the pew as the organist launched into the postlude, then snuck down the side aisle and out the back door, feeling desperate for a glass of something. Now I really wished I hadn’t come at all. But damned if I was going to sit through all that and not get what I’d come for. I’d grab a drink, pay my respects, check out the food, and get the heck out. All while trying to appear normal.
The reception had been set up in the open-air courtyard connected to the church. Slinking around the people who’d begun to queue up to offer their condolences to Kristen’s family, I made my way to the beverage and food tables. Sustenance first.
After snagging a glass of Prosecco, I filled a plate with nibbles—a mini choux pastry filled with crabmeat, an adorable miniature mushroom quiche, two shrimp cooked to just the right translucence and served with a caper-studded roulade sauce, and a small cup of spicy gumbo. I’d eaten at the Blue Heaven restaurant once last week and I had planned to make another visit before I finished writing my review, but life had gone haywire in the meantime. Luckily, this plateful gave me a chance to try a wide smattering of their offerings. Not that I was the least bit hungry after the breakfast at Pepe’s, but I could sample enough to get the flavors and bang out the review.
Though the closer I looked, the less the food resembled what I would expect from Blue Heaven—it was fancy to the point of being fussy. I loaded a few more things on my plate, then retreated to a back wall and began to nibble. I swallowed a half spoonful of gumbo, which gave my mouth quite a spectacular jolt. I tasted again, slid my smartphone out of my purse, and tapped quickly:
Cajun gumbo takes many forms, but it almost always starts with the holy trinity of vegetables: onions, celery, and green peppers. Blue Heaven carries this balance off just right.
The reception was now mobbed with mourners who rushed the bar and flocked around the tables of hors d’oeuvres. One woman’s voice floated above the din.
“I’ve never heard a eulogy quite like that.”
“Ava knows how to pick her moments,” a second voice said. “Made me think I’m lucky I don’t have any siblings.”
“I adore mine,” said the first. “Do you think they’ll still open the restaurant?”
“They’ve put a ton of money into the planning already. But if they don’t get it going soon, I know for sure Robert isn’t going to hang around town catering funeral receptions.”
Now the voice sounded familiar. Henri Stentzel, dressed in flowing black, her dark curls pulled into a ponytail. Her friend Porter, one of the regular sous-chefs at Seven Fish restaurant, was wearing the chef’s clogs I’d noticed earlier.
“Working at a funeral reception?” she asked, grinning when she caught my eye.
“They say a food critic’s job is never finished,” said Henri. I choked down the crabmeat puff I’d bitten into and whirled around to see who might have been listening, certain I looked guilty.
“I’m not— I didn’t—” The right words eluded me. First of all, I didn’t have the job. And second, no one was supposed to know anything about my application. And third, was it blatantly disrespectful to be using the funeral food as fodder for my reviews? Definitely. Acutely embarrassed, a rush of heat burned my cheeks.
“We’re only teasing,” said Henri, patting me on the back. “I ran into Adrienne from Key Zest outside and she mentioned you were auditioning. Did you try the choux pastry? And seriously, how would you rate this spread if you were writing it up?”
Now I felt really ill. What else had Adrienne spilled to them?
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Porter whispered.
Henri smiled. “Rumor has it that you’ve been questioned by the cops about Kristen’s death. Is that right?”
I felt an even harder jolt to the gut and my breakfast omelet somersaulted and threatened to resurface along with the spicy gumbo.
“They’re just fishing because they can’t seem to find any suspects,” I answered, exchanging my empty Prosecco glass for a second full flute from the tray of a passing waiter and trying to think how to deflect them away from my situation. “Wasn’t that the saddest service? And what a big crowd!” My voice cracked and I took a slug of the drink.
The two women exchanged glances and Henri shrugged. “They say money buys friends. For a while. Oh look. There’s Rhonda! Will you excuse me? And good luck with the job.” She squeezed my arm and hurried off.
I narrowed my eyes, sipped the wine, and turned back to Porter. “She wasn’t a big Kristen fan, was she?”
Porter smoothed her pale hair back into its braid. She narrowed her gray eyes and studied me for a moment. She started to say something, stopped, and then started again. “They had a long history. The restaurant business in south Florida is like a village. I won’t say more, but Kristen made Henri look like the village idiot.”
“But—”
“But much as any one of us in the food service business may have disliked her, we certainly wouldn’t have killed her,” she added briskly. “Any more than you would have. I’m just saying she made few friends up in Miami and she was working hard at killing the possibilities here.”
“In what way?” I asked before she could turn away, thinking Eric would be proud of that open-ended question.
“You’ll hear about it if you end up working for the Zest. And if you were wondering why this food doesn’t taste like Blue Heaven, that’s because it isn’t. Kristen’s sister fired them yesterday. This food has been prepared by the chef who was going to cook at the new restaurant on Easter Island.”
The first I’d heard of this project was in Ava’s eulogy. As far as I knew, that little island, a stone’s throw from Mallory Square, had nothing on it but pine trees. It was surrounded by small sailboats whose owners couldn’t afford an apartment or home in Key West. I knew, because I’d looked into a mooring myself. I only lacked the boat to tie to it. Besides that, I couldn’t figure out how I’d handle the bathroom thing.
“Is that still going forward?” I asked.
Just then Chad appeared, a glass in his hand and a grim look on his face. I’d have hoped he might have softened a little from the ugliness of yesterday.
“Would you excuse us, Porter?” he asked. Porter made a face and quickly backed away.
“Why are you here?” he growled. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“I’m sorry for their loss.” I tipped my chin to indicate Kristen’s family. Under the church roof’s overhang, out of the sun, Ava helped her mother into a chair and then folded her fingers around a glass of wine.
“As if you cared one whit about them,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not the one who was singled out as a jerk in the eulogy,” I huffed, draining the second glass of Prosecco. “You take what you want until you’re satisfied and then you just throw it away.”
He sneered. “You’re so naive, Hayley.”
“And while we’re on that subject, there was no reason you had to fire Connie. She didn’t send me over to clean your place—I did that on my own.”
His newly shaved neck reddened again. “Hayley, I need to be able to rely on the people I employ, not worry about whether they’ll give my apartment keys to people I don’t trust.”
“And I would never have even considered setting foot in your stinking apartment if you hadn’t refused to give me my stuff. My grandmother’s recipes are gone—can’t you think for a minute how that feels? They were in her handwriting! And my best knife, and the serrated set I bought with my graduation money. Except for the one you were using to break down boxes. Why would you keep any of that stuff? You don’t even cook!”
“I didn’t keep it—it’s in the Dumpster,” he said.
A
s our voices rose, the people around us turned to look. Across the room, I noticed Detective Bransford staring at me. I realized right away that it wasn’t the black swing dress, which fell a couple inches above my knees and made my legs look longer than they actually were, that caught his attention. Or the sparkly shoes or any Hayley Mills thing I had imagined earlier. It was me fighting with my ex at a funeral reception, possibly appearing guilty—and if not guilty, certainly out of control—to the trained eye.
Eric materialized from behind two gawking matrons in black suits, grabbed my arm, and offered a perfunctory smile to Chad. “I have someone you must meet, Hayley.” He put my empty plate on a card table and dragged me away through the crowd of chatting mourners to the other side of the room.
“Who?” I asked.
“No one.” He tapped my head with his knuckles and gave a tight smile. “I just rescued you from making an awful scene. And why waste one more minute talking to that blockhead?”
Eric’s friend Bill approached us with an arm around a sobbing woman whom I vaguely recognized from somewhere.
“Meredith is having a tough time today,” Bill whispered. “I told her you see a lot of grief and that it’s perfectly normal to let your feelings out.” He mouthed “help” in Eric’s direction as the woman sobbed into his lapel.
“You must have been a dear friend of Kristen’s,” Eric said. “Come, I saw a bench in the hallway. Let’s go have a chat. Hayley here was on her way out.”
He glared at me and pointed to the door.
10
“Every pastry has the potential of making someone perfectly happy, of momentarily stripping them of adult worries and baggage.”
—Gesine Bullock-Prado
I staggered away from the reception, my head thrumming with a jumble of feelings. I tackled the simplest problem: A food critic had to lay low in the local restaurant business. You simply couldn’t give a fair review if the chef was sending out a parade of special taste sensations that ordinary diners don’t ever experience. I hadn’t given enough thought to how I would handle having friends in this business and how their feelings and their lives could be impacted by what I wrote. I flashed on the case of the chef who committed suicide after he lost his Michelin star. That event struck fear into the heart of even the coldest critic—I couldn’t finish reading the article.
An Appetite for Murder Page 8