Inside, the restaurant looked perfectly nice, though maybe a little worn around the edges. I imagined that the frayed carpet and slightly faded upholstery would be less noticeable in the candlelight. The staff, dressed in black trousers and crisp white shirts, were busy setting up the tables, filling salt and pepper shakers, and folding napkins into sharp quarters for each place setting, in preparation for the Saturday-night onslaught. After a few minutes, the maître d’, an officious man with black hair combed and shellacked like rows of young corn, noticed me at the host’s stand and hurried across the room. He took a moment to look me over, from red sneakers to blue jeans to the long-sleeved Cat Man of Key West T-shirt.
“Sorry, we don’t open until six. And we are fully booked until nine thirty. May I help you make a reservation for another night or recommend a place to get a drink?” he asked.
Thinking, I was sure, that I might prefer to come back on an evening when I was better dressed.
“Actually, I’m hoping to have a word with Doug Rodriguez,” I said, flashing a phony smile. “I’m writing an article on Florida’s rising chefs and it’s going to press tomorrow and my editor tells me I have room to feature one more. Henri Stentzel—the former owner here—she said it would be a criminal oversight if I didn’t speak to Hola’s chef. Please.” I extracted a small notepad and pen from my back pocket and tapped the pen on the podium for emphasis. “Ten minutes.”
“He’s preparing dinner,” the officious man said.
I rustled a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on the reservations book.
“Henri said that?” he asked, sliding the bill into his pocket.
I nodded my head vigorously and forced another hokey smile. “Really, I’ll hardly take any of his time.”
He wheeled away and came back shortly. “He says he can talk to you for a few minutes while he works.”
“Thank you so much!” I followed him down a narrow hallway, past the restrooms and their lingering scent of industrial cleanser, and through a swinging door into the clang and bustle of the kitchen. I sniffed the air, picking up the fragrant odors of sautéed onions, cilantro, and long-simmered beef.
“Over there,” said the cornrowed receptionist, pointing across the room to the man at the stove.
Dodging past two women in white coats chopping piles of onion and garlic and a pastry chef painting layers of phyllo with butter, I approached the chef, who wore a white jacket that had probably started the shift pristine, chef’s pants dotted with dancing chili peppers and a few random splotches of sauce, and a tall, pleated white hat. His face had the pitted pizza look of untreated adolescent acne. He was sautéing something in a skillet.
“My gosh, it smells incredible in here!”
He gave me a brisk nod and adjusted the angle of his toque. “What magazine did you say you were writing for? Eduardo didn’t catch the name.”
“I didn’t tell him. But I’m Hayley Snow and I’ll be working for the new style magazine, Key Zest. What are you preparing tonight?”
He jiggled the frying pan—sliced plantains?—and frowned. “Key Zest? I haven’t heard of that.”
Rather than dig myself deeper into a pit of lies, I told him who I really was and spilled everything out, starting with how I’d driven three-plus hours in the rain and ending with Kristen’s murder and my status as a suspect.
“I’m so sorry I fibbed to get in here, but I’m kind of desperate,” I said. “Actually, not kind of—I am desperate.”
He picked up the frying pan and tossed the vegetables with an expert flick of the wrist. “So you’re not a journalist?”
“I am a journalist, but more or less freelance. I’m so sorry,” I added again, “but I never thought I’d get in to talk to you if I told the truth.”
“You wouldn’t have,” he said and turned the flame off under his pan. “Leave some of those onions in bigger chunks,” he called to a woman chopping at the counter nearby. He wiped his hands on a towel, lifted the lid of an enormous pot on the back burner, and stirred the contents. A cloud of fragrant steam escaped. My stomach gurgled.
“Listen,” I said, “it’s not only that I’m in trouble. Henri’s a suspect too. And you are probably the only person who would understand the possible connection between Kristen’s death and Hola’s former chef. And if I could figure that out and pass it along, the cops can quit wasting their time and track the real murderer down. I’m sure you knew Henri,” I said. “Porter said she hired you—that she hand-picked the entire kitchen staff.”
He knocked his spoon against the side of the pot, laid it on the counter, and frowned. After a minute, he looked back up at me and said: “We were shocked when we heard Kristen had been murdered.” He tipped his head to include the rest of the kitchen staff. “What do you need to know?”
I asked him about what had really happened between Kristen and Henri and what the story was with the previous chef’s departure. “Was it the money that drew him away? Was Kristen able to offer him more celebrity than what he might have found here? Or what?” I didn’t want to insult him by suggesting this slightly shabby restaurant didn’t look like a chef-maker, especially when his food looked and smelled delicious.
“Let’s sit for a minute,” he said, and led me to a small table at the back of the kitchen. “You know that Henri and Robert—that’s the chef—were seeing each other, right?”
“I had no idea.”
Doug rapped his fist on the checkered tablecloth. “She had ten years on him and she was his boss, but still they fit together pretty well. Robert’s always been fiery, but Henri knew how to handle him. Even the times he got raving drunk and quit in the middle of the dinner rush—and it happened more than once—she was able to talk him into coming back before much damage was done. I think, in his heart, he knew how much he owed her, too.”
“So if they were a good fit personally and she helped him professionally, why did he leave?” I asked.
He sighed, took a red handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his face. “Working in a kitchen is brutal work. It’s hot, a lot of pressure, long hours. We all blow off steam at the end of the night by going to bars in other restaurants—the ones that stay open later. The third shift, we call it. Some of us used to wake up in the morning just hoping we weren’t in jail.” He flashed a crooked smile. “Henri, being the owner, usually had to stay late to close up this place.” He gestured to the door leading to the dining room. “Used to be her place anyway. We started hanging at Kristen’s restaurant, the Blue Giraffe. She’d often be at the bar. And then, well”—he shrugged—“sparks started to fly between her and Robert.”
“Sparks?”
“Like raw meat hitting hot oil. You could literally smell the attraction between them. We all saw it coming, but who had the balls to warn Henri? So one night Henri finished up here in time to join us for a glass of wine. Only Robert wasn’t at the Blue Giraffe. He’d gone home with Kristen.”
“Was this before or after Kristen offered him the job on Easter Island?”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I doubt she’d have been that interested in Robert the man if he hadn’t been such a brilliant cook. She wanted Robert the chef. And she was going to use whatever she had to lure him over. But after that night, Henri gave him an ultimatum. And Robert never could resist a challenge. So he left with Kristen for Key West. And the stuffing seemed to leak out of Henri. Soon after, she put the place up for sale and moved on herself.”
“I can’t even imagine how embarrassing that must have been, to have the whole staff witness him defecting.” I could imagine it really—I’d been through something very similar. At least I hadn’t been humiliated in front of a dozen employees. “Would you say she was angry?” I asked. “Or more sad?”
“Angry at Kristen, sad about Robert. Very angry,” he added. “I was pissed off too—we all were. We thought we were cresting a wave—that this restaurant was going to open doors to our future. We’d heard rumors that the food critic at the Mia
mi Herald had us in his sights.”
“But you’re the head chef now, right? Couldn’t that still happen for you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He shook his head in disgust and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “But the damage was done with Robert’s name off the masthead and then Henri selling the place. No one wants to spotlight a restaurant in terrible flux.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “And you might have noticed that the new owner isn’t so particular about keeping the place up. Or sometimes even buying the best ingredients. Though I fight for that.” He sighed. “Your dinner is only as good as what goes into it.”
I thanked him for talking to me and wished him luck. Then I couldn’t help it—I asked him about tonight’s dinner specials. He grinned for the first time since I’d come in.
“The special tonight is Costilla de carne, braised short ribs served on a chili and cumin puree. On the side, a medley of sweet corn and poblano peppers. And those fried plantains.”
By the end of his description, I was drooling like a dog in front of his supper dish.
“Would you like to try it?”
“I’d love to.” He got up from the table and returned with a glass of merlot and a plate of his stew. He turned to go back to work, but then paused a couple steps away. “Call me if you find out what happened to Kristen.” I nodded. “Or if you have any more questions. Bon appétit.”
“Thanks for everything,” I said.
The meat absolutely melted off the bone and the corn accompaniment was fresh and bright. And the clanking of pots, clattering of knives, sizzling of meat, and cheerful banter of the sous-chefs were better than any background music I could have chosen.
When I’d sopped up every drop with the last quarter of a buttery corn meal biscuit, I wiped my mouth and returned to the stove to thank him.
“I’m almost a food critic,” I said. “I’ll find out if I got the job this week. But if I reviewed your restaurant, I’d be raving.”
I didn’t say that if he was this good, his top chef, Robert, must have been amazing. Kristen wouldn’t have gone after someone average for the restaurant she planned to open. He had to be great.
And maybe not only in the kitchen either.
21
“The tricky part about being omnivores is that we are always in danger of poisoning ourselves.”
—Jeffrey Steingarten
The rain had picked up again by the time I got back to Eric’s car. I rustled through his CDs and selected Rosanne Cash singing her famous father’s list of essential country tunes.
“I’m growing tired of the big-city lights,” Rosanne began. Me too—enough of Miami. After almost two months in Key West, I liked the feeling of coziness and containment on the island and I loved being always near the water.
I drove south on the highway and back to Route One, rolling Doug’s rant over in my mind. It had never occurred to me that the thing Henri and Kristen had in common was a man. I knew they had shared a male chef, of course. But the man part hadn’t registered. I thought about Doug’s description of Kristen’s relationship with Robert—like raw flesh crackling in hot oil. Didn’t sound like something you could sustain over the long-term. Or would want to.
And I wondered why Henri would choose to move to Key West, where she knew her ex-lover had settled in with Kristen. Although he hadn’t really settled in with Kristen because Kristen was seeing Chad for the second time around. The time line for all this drama was extremely confusing—a fast game of musical beds that I hadn’t even realized I was playing.
I made good time right up until I hit the turquoise-lined two-lane bridge leading over the water to Key Largo. Then the rain began to pour down in torrents and the darkness closed in on me like a too-warm blanket. I had to drive slowly, peering yards ahead to stay on the road. The emergence of Shell World or an occasional boat yard or even a gentleman’s club brought a little light and relief from the long, stressful ride. My shoulders tightened to cords and a headache pulsed across the back of my neck and coursed up to my temples. I considered stopping at the Winn Dixie in Tavernier to use their facilities and buy some aspirin, but convinced myself I could make it home fine if I pushed on nice and steady.
As I drove through Islamorada and onto Tea Table Key, a car with super-bright lights pulled up behind me. I cocked my hand above my left eye to shield the glare from the side-view mirror. In the rearview, I could barely make out grinning grillwork and halogen lamps riding my bumper way too close for comfort in this lousy weather. I slowed down so the driver could easily pass. But the other car slowed right down with me. A game of chicken I had no interest in playing. I pressed on the accelerator. Maybe if I upped my speed I could shake them off. The sedan clung to my tail.
For the next ten miles, I tried everything—faster, slower, weaving from my lane to the opposing and back again—praying that a cop would be waiting in the bushes and pull one or both of us over. But not another soul was out in this teeming rain. My heart was pounding out of my chest. My hands sweated so heavily I could hardly hang on to the wheel. And my phone was buried in my purse, on the passenger side floor. I didn’t dare reach for it or take my eyes off the road.
As I drove over the Saddle Bunch Bridge, the car following me banged into the rear bumper of Eric’s car.
“Stop it!” I screamed, careening toward the concrete barrier. Just before crashing, I yanked the wheel, swerved back onto the road, and mashed on the gas. Eric’s engine roared in response.
The black sedan raced up behind me and slammed the bumper again. Who could this be?
I hydroplaned across the oncoming lane, and scraped along the left-side barrier, fighting for control. But the Mustang spun, jumped the concrete barricade, and flipped over the palmetto bushes toward the water. An instant later, the car hit the ground, jerking my head so hard I thought my neck would snap. A bottle of Eric’s beer from the six-pack in the backseat sailed over and smashed into the windshield. A piece of broken glass sliced my cheek.
Stunned, I hung upside down, suspended by the seat belt, my shoulder aching from the pressure—my whole body aching—and adrenaline pushing furiously. Blood ran into my eye from the gash.
Rosanne Cash finished singing “Take These Chains from My Heart” and swung into “I’m Movin’ On.” The engine was still whining and the headlights cut a swath through the brush. Did I smell gas? Panicked, I pictured the car catching fire, me trapped inside an inferno. I managed to wrestle the keys from the ignition and switch off the lights. The engine ticked and darkness closed around me like a coffin.
I strained to listen for the person who’d forced me off the road. But it was hard to hear over the gurgling of the ocean mixing with the still-teeming rain outside the car. Had a car door slammed? Who was this? And why were they after me? If I stayed here, I could be picked off like the slowest goose in a winter’s V.
I forced myself to move. Feeling for the soft convertible top, I used my left hand to wedge my weight away from the roof. With some pressure off the seat belt, I was able to release the latch with my right hand.
I crashed to the ground, my neck snapped forward, and pain shot down my spine. I rolled off my back into a crouch, whimpering, then felt around for Eric’s window crank. Thank God this was an older-model car. Not even letting myself think how sick he would be that I had trashed the Mustang, I rolled the window down and scrambled out into the brush. Into the cold rain to face whoever had run me down.
22
“Love is most dependable when it’s edible.”
—Kim Adrian
Once I’d crawled into the shelter of the palmettos near the water, I lay curled into an aching ball for a few moments, trying to catch my breath. The rain pelted my face and I started to shiver, both from cold and fear. The long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans that had felt warm and comfortable when I put them on this afternoon were quickly soaked through. Up the embankment on the road, the halogen lights that had been following me for miles glared through the trees, the palme
ttos spiking like drawn swords in their path. Then I heard the sounds of someone crashing through the brush in my direction.
I desperately wished for my phone, but there was no time to return to the car and search. I pulled myself into a squat, wincing as pain sliced through my wrist and shoulder. Duck-walking toward the water, I pushed through the sharp leaves of the palmetto bushes that formed a thick hedge along the shore. One slingshotted back and slapped me across the cheek. I cried out before I could stop myself.
There was no place to go. Caught between Eric’s car, the ocean, and the approaching footsteps, I kicked off my sneakers and waded into the frigid shallows of the Atlantic Ocean. I dropped into the water, my breath catching at the shock of cold, and pushed off with a frog kick, trying not to think about alligators, spiky lionfish, Portuguese men-of-war—whatever might be there. Not more than a week ago the Citizen had run an article about a stingray leaping up out of the water to pierce a woman’s lung, breaking several of her ribs. She only lived because she was a trained paramedic. Or was it her boyfriend? Either way, I was cooked.
Something slimy brushed my leg and I squeaked and splashed furiously to get away. A loud crack hammered out from the shore and splashed in the water just feet from me. A gunshot? I pictured a hunter in camo lurking in the mangroves, me in his sights. I pushed off from the murky bottom, dove down into the water, and swam as hard and deep as I could, back toward the Saddle Bunch Bridge, years of forced swimming lessons as a kid finally paying off. Under the protective concrete overhang, I might have the best chance of survival, assuming I could outlast whoever was after me. Or stay alive until daybreak—many long hours away.
As I dogpaddled silently under the bridge, fighting against the current that pushed me toward the open water again, I heard several more shots, even closer now, as though the hunter was emptying all he had into the water sloshing under the highway. I frog-kicked closer to the sloping concrete, holding just my nose clear of the water to reduce the size of my target.
An Appetite for Murder Page 16