An Appetite for Murder

by Lucy Burdette

  And then, in the distance, I heard the welcome whoo-hoo of an approaching siren. I paddled in place, listening as the man chasing me crashed back through the brush, got into his car, and screeched off down the highway, back over the bridge and away from Key West. The lights of an emergency vehicle strobed through the darkness, then two doors slammed. I swam over to the edge of the water and hoisted myself onto a stand of mangrove roots.

  Flashlights probed into the bushes where Eric’s car lay balanced on its roof. Two officers stomped down the embankment and peered into the vehicle.

  “There’s no one in it,” called one man to the other, “but it sure smells like a brewery. And the engine is still warm.”

  “Hello?” hollered the second officer in a deep voice. “Anyone out here? It’s the police. Come out and show yourself.”

  “Over here. Please don’t shoot. It’s Hayley Snow.” Trembling uncontrollably, I stabbed my hands in the air without being asked and scrambled back through the bushes. Their flashlights raked my face. “I haven’t been drinking, honest. Another car forced me off the road and a bottle of beer hit the windshield and exploded.”

  “Who was in the other car?” asked the cop with the deep voice.

  “I have no idea. I’ve just come from a restaurant in Miami and—” I couldn’t help it; I started to shake even harder.

  “She’s shivering,” said the other cop. “Soaking wet. Let’s get her into the cruiser.”

  He patted me down, then took my elbow and helped me pick my way up the bank, then opened the back door of the cruiser, which idled at the side of the road. He popped the trunk and came back with a silver survival blanket and handed it to me. The baritone-voiced cop slid into the driver’s seat, picked up the radio, and called for an ambulance.

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I said, teeth still chattering. “I swear I just need a ride home.”

  “It’s standard procedure,” said the first policeman. “Besides that, you’re bleeding and you just came through a rollover.”

  While we waited for the paramedics, they grilled me for more details of what had happened. I told them how I’d been to dinner in Miami Beach and that I had no idea who was in the black car and explained again about the chase and the gunshots.

  “It’s a borrowed car,” I moaned. “My friend is going to kill me. It’s his vintage Mustang. Painted by Rick Worth. He’s that artist in Key West. At no small expense.” My head dropped to my hands and I swallowed a sob.

  Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance arrived and two burly paramedics emerged. After a quick exam, they recommended a spinal X-ray.

  “You could very well have a fractured vertebra. It’s not worth the risk to ignore it.”

  They rolled a gurney out of the back of the van, fastened a padded support around my neck, and loaded me onboard. The van bumped back onto the highway. Finally beginning to feel warm and safe again, I tried to puzzle out who could have been in that car. When had I picked up the tail? In the parking lot of Hola or somewhere along the Keys? Given the doggedness of the driver, it seemed impossible that the chase was random. Someone had wanted me dead. I started to shake again.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Lower Keys Medical Center and I was wheeled into the emergency room. I checked my watch, which had somehow managed to survive the ocean dunk. It felt late, but it was barely ten. An orderly parked my stretcher in a hallway and I dozed off for a half hour, exhausted by the drive and the chase.

  By midnight, the police had taken a complete report on the car incident and I signed off on it. A tired-looking physician checked me over, read the spinal X-ray, and diagnosed a sprained wrist and wrenched shoulder. He determined that the cut on my cheek could be managed with a butterfly bandage, no stitches. All of which I could have told him without lingering three hours in the ER. A brisk nurse wrapped my wrist and instructed me to ice it the next day and take copious milligrams of ibuprofen.

  I was dying to get home to bed. My muscles ached, my clothes were clammy and salty, and my head pounded. The towing company the police had phoned promised to tow Eric’s damaged car to a body shop on White Street by morning and to deliver my purse to the police station. I didn’t dare call Eric for a ride home. I knew Connie wouldn’t be available—she and Ray were visiting friends in Marathon overnight. I had the definite feeling they’d made those plans because they needed some space. From me and my infinite drama.

  But I had no money for a cab. That left Richard Kane, my underimpressive lawyer, or Chad’s secretary, Deena, who had barely agreed to talk to me in broad daylight and certainly didn’t owe me any late-night favors.

  I approached the attractive black receptionist at the information desk and asked to use her phone. She pushed it across the desk and watched as I dialed Kane. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding sleepy and possibly a little drunk. I explained what had happened and where I was, already beginning to wish I hadn’t called.

  “I guess I’m wondering if you could help me out and maybe send someone over to pick me up.”

  There was a long pause. “Miss Snow, I would suggest that A, you call a cab. I’m certain the hospital can provide you with a list of phone numbers. And B, phone my office on Monday morning and schedule an appointment to come in. With this kind of behavior, you are not helping your case.” And then he hung up.

  Stunned and furious, I slammed the phone down. I was a fool to have thought he’d help. The receptionist, watching all this with great interest, pushed a list of taxicab companies across the surface of her desk.

  “They’ll all charge you about the same thing, but the West Sider will probably get here the quickest.”

  I thanked her and made the call. The dispatcher assured me that a cabbie would pick me up in a half hour. I sank into the seat next to the receptionist’s desk. “I don’t even have any cash to pay for the ride.”

  “They’ll wait while you run into your house. I heard you say your purse is MIA—these guys are used to having people pay them when they get home. You aren’t the first passenger without a red cent,” she said, smoothing a lock of hair back into its bun. She adjusted reading glasses with brightly colored rims on the bridge of her nose. “Your lawyer sounds like a piece of work. I couldn’t help overhear. I’m Esmine.” She reached over the desk to shake my hand. “I’d give you a ride home myself, but I’m not off work until seven.”

  “That would feel like a long wait.” I thanked her for her kindness, suddenly thinking she might be able to help me locate Miss Gloria.

  “Listen, Esmine, my neighbor was brought in here yesterday with a head injury,” I told her. “I’m so worried about her. Would you happen to have any information on a Gloria Peterson?”

  Esmine clattered a few lines into her computer and read off a room number on the second floor. “She’s listed as stable. Of course, it’s way too late for visiting hours now.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me over the top lip of her glasses.

  “Of course,” I said, with a bright smile. “And my cab will be here any minute. Can you tell me which way to the ladies’ room?” I limped off in the direction she pointed and then ducked into the stairwell and up to the second floor. Miss Gloria’s room was two down from the stairs. I’d poke my head in to make sure she was okay.

  Tucked into her hospital bed, my neighbor looked like a child, her face floating pale and delicate in the wide expanse of white sheets, bed rails hemming her in on both sides. Her thin wrist was tethered to an IV. A second old woman snored in the bed near the window. Miss Gloria’s eyes flickered open and she recognized me right away.

  “Hayley.” She reached out with the free hand, her voice tremulous but clear. “I’m so glad to see you. Could I possibly trouble you to check on Sparky? I’ve been so worried about him. I couldn’t remember your number or I would have called.”

  “He’s fine,” I said, squeezing her hand gently and perching on the chair beside her bed. “We brought him down to our boat after you were taken to
the hospital. And he’s settled in so well.” I didn’t mention how Evinrude had gone missing—I’d start weeping and she’d worry herself sicker. “Tell me how you’re feeling. How long are they keeping you here?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, slipping her hand from mine and touching the bandage on the crown of her head. “They can’t seem to believe an old lady could manage at home. They won’t release me except to a relative. But the longer they make me lie here, the weaker I’ll get. My son’s flying in tomorrow. He’s talking about a nursing home in Dearborn. Michigan in winter? I’ll just die.” Now she started to cry and I patted her birdlike forearm, thin and practically translucent. She seemed more fragile already.

  “He’s just worried about you,” I said. “This incident probably scared him half to death. With any luck, this nursing home idea will blow over and we’ll get you settled back at the marina.”

  She smiled weakly and dried her tears on the sheet.

  “What in the world happened yesterday? Did you see the person who hit you?” I asked.

  “I walked down to the end of the finger to stretch my legs before supper. It was dusk—don’t you hate how early it gets dark this time of year?”

  I nodded with encouragement. “And then?”

  “I thought I saw someone on the dock near your houseboat. But it didn’t look like you or Connie or Ray. So I called out, ‘Hello, can I help you with something?’ ” She touched her head again and licked her lips. “I thought maybe someone was lost. Maybe one of the men looking for the soup kitchen or—”

  Her eyes welled up and tears spilled over onto her papery cheeks for the second time since I’d arrived. We’d had this conversation just last week—she hated how the homeless folks in town were automatically greeted with suspicion. Since when did being rich make you a better person?

  “And then what happened?”

  “And then he rushed up and hit me and that’s the last I remember until I woke up here.” She waved her hand weakly at the bedside table with its plastic pitcher, a cup with a straw dangling from it, and a Bible.

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  She shook her head. “That stern policeman with the nice chin came back twice to ask me those questions. He’s so cute, isn’t he? And very kind to me.”

  “He is cute,” I admitted. “If you like that type. I hadn’t noticed the kindness.” I steered Miss Gloria away from the attributes of Detective Bransford and back to the attack. “What did he look like, the man who hit you?”

  “He wasn’t a big man.” She looked me up and down. “Definitely taller than you. But he had a cap on and some kind of bandanna over his mouth—”

  A nurse bustled in from the hall, then stopped still and frowned, hands reaching for her ample hips.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here? There is no visiting allowed at this hour. I’m going to call security.” She slid her cell phone from the holster at her waist.

  “Not necessary. I won’t make any trouble.” I stood up and started past the nurse, stopping at the door to blow a kiss to Miss Gloria. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t waste one more minute worrying about Sparky.”

  I hurried back down the stairs and through the lobby to catch my cab, an enormous sadness swelling my chest so I had trouble breathing. Hard to imagine how that frail little person with a patchy memory could be allowed to fend for herself on a boat. But how long would she survive confined to an old folks’ home in Michigan where it fell dark in winter by four p.m.?

  23

  “Pastry is like people. Some dough needs a lot of kneading; some requires much less.”

  —Kathleen Flinn

  The next morning at seven, feeling like the Tin Man before he discovered oil, I forced myself up and fed Sparky, who wound between my legs and purred his appreciation. Aching from nose to toes, I threw on some sweats and went out into the cloudy, cool morning—the kind of day that brought out down coats and mittens on the natives. I hiked the length of our dock, calling softly for Evinrude—no answer. Pushing back a rush of grief, I returned to the boat and set to work in the galley.

  I’d promised to bring back Eric’s car before he went to church this morning. Since I had no car to return, I hoped that delivering warm coffee cake and two extra-large coffee con leches to Eric and Bill would soften the blow. Cursing Chad yet one more time for chucking my stuff, I scratched out what I remembered of the recipe for my grandmother Alvina’s crumb cake on the back of an envelope—mostly flour, milk, sugar, eggs, and plenty of butter. And then cinnamon cut into more butter and sugar for the crumbly topping.

  Once the two pans of cake had baked and then cooled enough to handle, I packed one of them in foil and secured it on the back of my scooter. Before heading down Southard Street, I stopped by the body shop on White and set off to search the car lot.

  Eric’s convertible had been dumped in a weedy space behind the cement block building. I sagged against the cement; he was going to kill me. The manatees that had been hand-painted on the hood were dented and scraped. The roof itself was torn open and the school of tropical fish on the driver’s-side door was smashed into an unrecognizable mass. How had I emerged in one piece?

  I fled back to the scooter and drove down to the Courthouse Deli on Southard and Whitehead for the coffees. I wished I had thought to purchase a box of designer dog bones for Toby the wonder dog. More rodent in size and appearance than dog, he growled and snarled at anyone other than his immediate family. But Eric and Bill adored him, and a friend of Toby’s was a friend of the guys. And I needed all the help I could manage.

  On the last few blocks to Eric’s place, I practiced what to say.

  Blunt but mournful? I regret to say I wrecked your car.

  Understated but cheerful? There’s a tiny problem with the Mustang . . .

  Immediately defensive? There’s been an accident—it wasn’t my fault.

  The last was clearly the worst, but nothing felt right. I pulled into their driveway, which gaped nakedly without Eric’s car. Their small house radiated warmth, with a wide front porch holding two green rocking chairs and shelves of plants. Maybe this would turn out fine. Eric met me at the door, Bill right behind him. Eric grinned when his gaze fell on the three large cups of coffee. Then he sniffed the air.

  “Oh, Hayley, is that coffee cake? You didn’t have to . . .” He scanned the driveway, his face puzzled. “You came on your scooter? But where’s the car?”

  “It’s an interesting story . . . ​Coffee first, before it gets cold.”

  They welcomed me in, the screen door banging shut behind us. I crossed the room to set the breakfast goodies on their glass coffee table and distribute the coffees. Then I collapsed on the upholstered bark cloth couch. From his perch on a flowered rocker, Toby growled at me like the steady rumble of distant thunder as I explained last night’s disaster.

  “Had you been drinking?” Eric asked after a long silence, his face stony.

  I didn’t like the question, but I couldn’t blame him for asking, really. “Chef Doug poured me a half glass of the house merlot to drink with his carnitas, but that’s it. You can believe it or not, but I was forced off the road by a lunatic who then tried to shoot me.”

  The two men exchanged glances—the unspoken language of a solid partnership.

  “That sounds absolutely terrifying,” said Bill. “Excuse me. I’m going to get some utensils for this fine peace offering.”

  Eric said nothing. The language of a friendship circling the drain.

  Bill came back from the kitchen with forks and plates, carved large squares of coffee cake, and passed them around. He stood for a moment behind Eric, massaging his shoulders and smiling at me. “The car can be repaired. We’re just glad you’re okay. Did you say someone shot at you?”

  I snuck a look at Eric. Not so clear that he felt the same way. But at least he had started to eat. So I repeated in more detail how I’d crawled out of the car, plunged into the ocean, and dogpaddled und
er the bridge until the cops arrived. And then I described my conversation with the chef and the visit with Miss Gloria.

  Eric’s fork clattered to his plate. “If this accident is somehow related to the murder, you’re over your head trying to figure things out,” he said. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I admitted. “Seems like there has to be a connection. Someone went to a lot of trouble to see me silenced.”

  “Here’s the thing, Hayley,” Eric said. “If you couldn’t identify the driver or the car, and Miss Gloria wasn’t able to tell you anything that the police don’t already know about who attacked her, it’s time to let the authorities do their job. At this point, I regret that I encouraged you to do otherwise because you’ve apparently put yourself in serious danger.” He patted his lips with a napkin.

  If I had been him, I’d have wanted to mention ruining the car and Connie’s houseboat too. But he held back.

  “Did you tell the cops what you found out from the chef?”

  Feeling sheepish, I admitted that I’d said very little to the police about the reason for my trip to Miami. “I hated to implicate anyone unfairly. And besides, they haven’t shown much interest in my opinions and observations so far. I feel like I have to look out for myself.”

  “You need to tell them everything.” Eric glowered until I agreed.

  After leaving Eric and Bill’s home, I rode up Olivia Street, past the Key West cemetery, whose worn stones and dreary fence about matched my mood. The bright yellow conch tour train pulled out in front of me, every seat in every car jammed with tourists. The amplified voice of the conductor explained the legends of the city’s dead as he drove—the 1907 murder-suicide, the Spanish-American heroes, and most visitors’ favorite grave marker from the town hypochondriac that read: “I told you I was sick.”