An Appetite for Murder

by Lucy Burdette

  Maybe it was time to visit Lorenzo for another tarot card reading. His services weren’t in my budget for more than once a week, but this had been an especially stressful string of days. I could use some external direction from an uninvolved party. No one was less involved than Lorenzo, who only weighed in if he had a twenty-dollar bill tucked into his pocket. Mallory Square was not exactly a direct route home, but not a major detour either. The Sunset Celebration participants should be just setting up, and I was willing to bet he’d agree to an early reading.

  When I reached the main square, many of the performers had marked off rectangular spaces of territory with ropes laid out on the cement and were unloading the tools of their trade—knives and fire wands for the fire-eating juggler, musical instruments for the one-man band, and cages of restless felines for Dominique the cat man. A few tourists were lined up at the trolley bar in front of the Westin. Tony, the homeless cowboy I’d seen at Higgs Beach the other day, was lounging on the cement seawall, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer with several other men. I called out hello as I hurried by.

  Fifty yards past them, Lorenzo was spreading a black cloth on his card table, his robe and hat folded neatly in a pile behind him. “Greetings,” he said with a smile.

  “I know I’m early. But could you squeeze me in for a quick one?” I sank into his chair without waiting for an answer and slapped my twenty on the table.

  “For you, always,” he said and offered me the witch hazel spritzer and then the deck. I shuffled and cut the cards. He dealt them out and began to study the arrangement. And I tried to concentrate so I’d remember later exactly what he’d said. Sometimes the meaning of the reading didn’t become clear until well after I’d left his table.

  “You’ve experienced lots of struggle in the past.” He straightened the corner of the Hermit card—a sad, old man carrying a lamp—and sighed. “Might you have regrets? But you must look inside yourself for answers. Your inner guide should lead you to the light.” He ran a finger over his waxed mustache, smoothing it into a neat curve.

  I ground my teeth, hoping he could come up with something that didn’t sound like a syndicated horoscope in the Key West Citizen.

  “Hmmm—the Emperor again. There’s a strong man who’s a pain in your life—perhaps he’s keeping you from moving on? And with him comes a sense of recklessness. Has there been a divorce? Did he marry for money?”

  He looked up to see if I was following. I nodded: Yes, Chad was a strong man. And yes he was a pain. And yes, yes, yes, there were nothing but divorces connected to him. He did divorce for a living—a very good living, at that. But as far as I knew, he’d never been married. And I didn’t need a set of tarot cards to explain why.

  “There is a child invited on a short trip. They should definitely go.” Lorenzo lined up the edges of two of the cards and continued to study them. “You have an opportunity to go on a big trip—you should definitely go.”

  I sighed. Lorenzo didn’t seem to be on his game tonight. Maybe he’d used up his psychic powers for the week. But this was not what I was spending my money for. Not a chance I’d be going on vacation anytime soon. I tapped my fingers on the table and waited, trying not to glare at him.

  “There may be a small accident, but don’t worry—nothing serious.” He pointed to the Fool card. “There are new beginnings and surprises, but you must look before you leap.”

  Now I couldn’t keep my exasperation from showing. “Isn’t there anything about a murder?”

  His eyes widened, but he composed himself quickly. “Ah. Not here. Though I did read about the incident in the paper. Was she a friend of yours?”

  “Not mine. A friend of the man who’s a pain.” I pointed at the Emperor card.

  He smiled as he turned over one last card, and then the smile faded. The brick tower, with flames bursting from its windows.

  “There will be chaos. Do be careful. And remember what I said last time about keeping your focus.”

  I hurried off through the gaggles of tourists, goose bumps rising on my arms and legs, reviewing Lorenzo’s words. The emperor—Chad—had behaved especially boorishly over the past few days. Which forced me to ask, for the thousandth time: What in the world had I seen in him? And why did I leave my home to live with him, when I barely knew him?

  The second question was a little easier to answer: I was looking for a way out of my life in New Jersey. Two point five years back in my mother’s nest when I was a full-grown woman, not a fledgling, were two years too many. And, Chad or no Chad, the fact that Connie and Eric both lived in Key West made the move irresistible. His invitation had just given me the courage to fly.

  The November chill was closing in as the sun dropped over the horizon. I felt worn down and a little jumpy as I reviewed the rest of my reading. Recklessness, a small accident, and chaos.

  Eric disapproved of my fortune-teller addiction. He’d even explained to me why fortune-tellers’ predictions appeared to come true: Easy mark visits charlatan. Charlatan predicts trouble in the form of a blue truck. Easy mark scans the horizon until that blue truck appears. Fortune-teller’s powers confirmed.

  “A hundred red vehicles might pass by, but you’d only see the blue one,” he explained.

  “And so what?” I remembered asking. But I was beginning to understand that Chad might have been the blue truck. And I should have let him drive on by.

  I fired up my bike, settled my feet onto the footrest, and decided to make another quick stop before heading home. It was never a good idea to face an angry roommate empty-handed. Not that Connie was angry exactly; more like horribly disappointed. Which, in my mother’s hands, had always felt like a bigger weapon than anger. As I considered which shops might be open, I remembered the hysterical girl who’d been comforted by Eric as I left the funeral. She worked at Cole’s Peace. With any luck, she’d be there now and I could ask her some questions, killing two birds with one stone. From the looks of her distress, she must have known Kristen well. Maybe she’d have some insight into her possible enemies.

  Cole’s Peace Bakery was located almost at the end of Eaton Street just before it curved into Palm Avenue and roared past Connie’s marina. As usual, Eaton was clogged with trucks belching diesel and old cars full of day workers heading off the island during our scaled-down version of rush hour. The stream of oncoming traffic finally broke and I veered across the road into the parking lot and left my scooter near a crooked and rusty bike rack.

  I’d discovered Cole’s Peace bread the first time Chad took me out to dinner at Sarabeth’s, a branch of the original restaurant in New York City. I had devoured every crumb in the breadbasket and almost but not quite ruined my appetite for dinner. I’ve been a stalwart fan ever since.

  The tiny artisanal bakery and sandwich shop was attached to the greatest restaurant supply store in the southeast. That could be an exaggeration, but I doubted it. Where else could I have found the cherry pitter my mother craved? Or the good grips corn stripper I planned to use every day in corn season? Or the wooden human head knife holder that I’d given to Chad as a funny housewarming gift? While I was there, I’d stop in and price replacement of the knives that Chad had refused to return. Not that I had the money to buy anything right now, or my own kitchen to put anything in, but someday . . .

  I grabbed my backpack and yanked on the kitchen store’s door. Closed. I hurried into Cole’s. Reduced to swooning by the scent of baking bread, I chose two rectangular loaves—a hearty multigrain and a breakfast bread studded with chunks of orange mango. For good measure, I added a bag of salty bagel chips and one of their homemade cheese balls. How could Connie not soften when I came in with this loot?

  “We’re about to close up,” said the woman behind the cash register. “Can I get you anything else?”

  I pulled myself away from the other tempting delicacies in the cooler and brought my selections to the counter. This was definitely the same woman whom I’d left sobbing in Eric’s arms just an hour ear
lier. Meredith, Bill had called her. The skin around her eyes had the puffy look of a serious cry. I deposited my stuff next to the cash register.

  “Rough day,” I said with a tentative smile.

  Her eyebrows creased in surprise and then she looked leery.

  “I saw you at the funeral,” I explained quickly. “You’re Meredith, right?”

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I take it you were there too.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I tried, hoping she’d tell me how she knew Kristen. If she turned out to be chatty, I’d ask more. Obviously. And if she asked me how I knew the victim, I’d have to rely on some vague explanation of how small the food world is in Key West.

  “Thanks. That’s twenty dollars and fourteen cents.”

  I’d have to be more direct. “I’m Hayley Snow,” I said, putting my money on the counter and then reaching out to offer my hand. “Were you friends with Kristen?”

  “We met in Miami years ago,” she said with a tepid squeeze back.

  Which honestly made it sound like it didn’t matter too much to her one way or the other whether Kristen was dead. So now I wondered if death in the larger sense of the word had sent her into a Niagara Falls’ worth of tears. Or was she possibly one of Eric’s patients—the kind that gets so attached to him that a sighting of him in the real world reduces them to gelatin?

  “Eric’s a great guy,” I tried next. “And an excellent psychologist. I’d go to him myself if we weren’t old friends from way back.” I barked a short laugh. “And don’t think I haven’t tried to talk him out of holding that line.”

  She smiled politely, as if she had no idea what I was blathering on about. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe she wasn’t his patient after all, but I’d certainly never find out from him. Probably not her either, the way this one-sided conversation was going. But it got me wandering down another blind thought alley: What was the confidential connection that had brought Eric to that funeral?

  I tried one last tack. “It’s spooky that they haven’t solved the murder yet, don’t you think?”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” she said firmly. “What have you heard?”

  “Not all that much,” I admitted. “Can you think of anyone from her Miami days who might have had it in for her?”

  She shook her head. “These things are always about money. And right now, there’s no bigger pot than Easter Island.”

  11

  “I suppose there are people who can pass up free guacamole, but they’re either allergic to avocado or too joyless to live.”

  —Frank Bruni

  As I hiked down the dock with my packages, I spotted Connie and Ray lounging on our houseboat’s top deck, drinking wine. Connie had switched on the white lights that outlined the roof of the boat and they glittered jauntily in the gathering dusk.

  “I come bearing gifts!” I called up, my voice wobbling with the hopefulness of a wagging tail on a bad dog.

  “Get yourself a glass of wine and come join us,” said Connie. “Better bring a sweater.”

  Encouraged by her friendliness, I went into the galley, arranged the cheese ball and bagel chips on a pretty flowered plate, and poured myself a half glass of white wine. It was almost six o’clock after all, and my earlier Prosecco buzz had definitely worn off. Not that I’d really enjoyed it anyway, between the stress of the funeral, the fight with Chad, and another disturbing reading from Lorenzo. I hiked up the spiraled stairs to the second floor, Evinrude trotting behind me. He liked happy hour as much as the next cat.

  “What a day,” I said as I came out of Connie’s bedroom onto the deck. I slid the snacks onto a small table between my friends and collapsed into a beach chair across from them. The cat hopped onto my lap and I fed him a tiny taste of cheese. He purred with pleasure. I waved at the Renharts who were out on their top deck too, enjoying Budweiser from cans and Lay’s potato chips from an oversized bag.

  “Beautiful night,” I called over to the next boat.

  “Paradise,” said Mr. Renhart, as he popped the top on a tall can of beer and dropped his hand onto his wife’s thigh.

  “I’m sorry I was hard on you last night,” Connie said in a soft voice. “Somehow this will all work out.” She leaned over and squeezed my wrist. “Did you go to Kristen’s funeral?”

  “Me and most of the citizens of Key West and Miami,” I said, lowering my voice so I wouldn’t blast my gossip to the neighbors. “I can’t quite figure out why she was so popular.”

  “Her family’s lived here forever,” said Ray. “They own a ton of property, including Easter Island and half of Sunset Key.”

  Sunset Key is another small island just off the harbor, this one fully developed and inhabited by wealthy folks. This here-but-not-here arrangement gives them the full benefit of the climate and allows an occasional escape into the town’s funky party scene, without requiring a full commitment. Half of Sunset Key had to add up to big, big bucks.

  “The clerk in Cole’s Peace thinks Easter Island was behind the murder,” I said. “I suppose it would be worth a ton too, if you had the money to develop it.”

  “Absolutely,” Ray said. “And a lot of residents are not in favor of it.”

  “Oh!” I said, turning to face Ray. “I’d almost forgotten. I ran by Key Zest this morning and thank God I did. Kristen had erased me from the list of job applicants. She told Wally—the editor—that I’d withdrawn my application. So I really, really appreciate your tip.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Ray. “A shot from the grave.”

  “That’s so mean-spirited,” Connie said. “You’d think you stole her boyfriend, not the other way around.”

  “Which reminds me of something else. Kristen’s sister, Ava, gave the most appalling eulogy. One of the many things she said was that Chad had hooked up with her briefly before he went out with Kristen.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” said Connie.

  “How did he ever have time to fit her in? Where did Chad even meet her?” Ray asked. He spread a chunk of cheese ball onto a bagel crisp and leaned back into his chair. “Did he know her before he got together with you? I can’t imagine moving that quickly.” He grinned at Connie. “It takes me a while to warm up to a woman.”

  “It takes a while for you to figure out when a girl is interested,” she said, touching his knee where the skin and a few blond hairs showed through the hole in his jeans. Connie had lurked in his studio for weeks and had bought two paintings she could ill afford before he finally asked her out for coffee.

  She laughed and turned her attention back to me. “You didn’t know Chad that well either when you decided to move here.”

  I felt a warm rush of blood spread from my chest right up through the roots of my hair. I was not proud of jumping into Chad’s life and his home so quickly.

  “He moved even faster with Kristen,” I said, choosing to ignore my impulsiveness and focus on him. “Of course I never asked him where he met her or how they had the chance to connect. I was too shocked and too busy screaming at him once I found them in bed.”

  I glanced over at the next houseboat, where the Renharts had moved to their bottom deck and were now grilling. Sausages, from the smell of it. My stomach rumbled. Maybe they were the big plump Italian kind that was hand-stuffed behind the meat counter at Fausto’s Market. And maybe the Renharts had peppers roasting too. Focus, Hayley.

  “Don’t most affairs happen after the primary relationship’s gone stale?” I asked. “If Chad and I went stale in under two months, that must be a record.” My eyes welled up with tears even though I really wanted to be done crying over that rat.

  Connie rubbed my shoulder and then fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and handed it to me. “I’ve dated guys for shorter times than that.”

  “But you didn’t travel the length of the country to move in with them,” I moaned. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “Don’t you think he might have known her before he met you?” asked Ra
y.

  “Of course he knew her. Everybody knows everybody in this town,” Connie said.

  “But what if you interrupted something,” Ray said. “Or Kristen thought you came between them. That would explain a little better why she didn’t like you.”

  “Despised me,” I said glumly. “But he certainly never mentioned her.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t talk to you about her. What was the funeral like?” Connie asked. “Was Chad there?”

  So I described the scene at the reception—the big turnout of chefs and foodie types and how Henri Stentzel had reason to dislike Kristen too, according to Porter anyway. And how Chad had yelled at me with the cops watching. And then how Eric had rescued the poor sobbing female from Cole’s Peace just before I left. “If I was in charge of the murder case, I’d see plenty of avenues to explore.”

  “Luckily, you’re a food critic, not a detective,” said Connie firmly. “So are your pieces ready to go off to Key Zest?”

  I glugged the last inch of my wine and heaved myself out of the low-slung beach chair. This was my last chance to choose the reviews I would be sending over to Wally and polish them until they shined: Only a fool would squander it. “I’m headed to the computer right this minute.”

  After a quick stop in the kitchen to feed Evinrude and pour myself a glass of sparkling water, I retreated to my cubicle and booted up the computer. While I was waiting, I made the bed, changed into sweats, and put away all the outfits I’d gone through this morning trying to find one that would span job interview to funeral.