An Appetite for Murder

by Lucy Burdette

  “Easy,” said Turtle, then glanced up and focused on something over my shoulder. His eyes were pale blue with a dark blue rim around the outside and wide dark pupils. In other days, when he maybe hadn’t looked quite so crazy-fragile, those eyes would have stopped women cold on the streets. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, leaning a little closer.

  “Don’t want no trouble,” he barked, startling me backward on the bench.

  “No trouble,” I echoed, holding crossed fingers up. And thinking just how bad I’d feel if I did have to sic the police on him. If I had to throw him under the bus so I could shake the albatross off my own neck.

  “Not too tall, not short either,” he whispered. “Yellow slicker, with a white plastic bag. Squarish shape. Hung out behind the bushes next to the gate until a man came through walking his dog. That’s how he got in. Big black and white Australian shepherd with a silly haircut.”

  A crop of goose bumps covered my arms. Sounded like Turtle had really seen Kristen’s killer.

  He made a sound like a low growl, then scrambled to his feet and bolted off the deck and down the path alongside the building, his dog loping behind. I followed him out, but they took off running down Petronia Street, crossing White, dodging a truck and a scooter, and heading toward the cemetery before I’d even reached the bike rack. I returned to the church basement.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I spooked him,” I told the sandwich man.

  I drove back to Tarpon Pier and popped the scooter onto its kickstand, just dying to tell someone about what I’d learned. From the parking lot, I spotted Miss Gloria sunning herself on the little deck of her boat. A man in black was poised on the chair beside her, one arm out as if ready to hold her back in case she tried to leave. As I drew closer, I saw he looked hot and sweaty in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. And grumpy, as though he’d been on the losing end of a serious conversation.

  “Hooray! Miss Gloria’s home!” I called.

  “Oh, Hayley, it’s so good to see you,” she said, starting to push out of her chair. But her legs wobbled and she collapsed back down. I hurried over to hug her small frame. She still looked pale and delicate, but a hundred times better than she had in that hospital room.

  “Have you met my son Freddy? Thank you for taking care of Sparky. Could you bring him back over any time that’s convenient? I really miss that little rascal. How did he and Evinrude make out?”

  A lump rose in my throat. I couldn’t see the sense in protecting her from my bad news, so I told her how Evinrude had been missing since the day she went into the hospital. Her hazel eyes watered and she reached a hand out to me. I took her fingers and squeezed gently.

  “I’m so sorry, Hayley. You can keep my cat a little longer if you like, for company.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and not shaky like I felt inside. She’d had more pain than one old lady should have to bear over the last few days. And from the glower on her son’s face, it looked like she was headed for more.

  I trotted down the dock to Connie’s boat to retrieve Sparky and his belongings. By the time I returned, Miss Gloria had gone inside, leaving only her son on the deck. I handed over the cat, but he scrambled out of Freddy’s arms, ran mewing to the front door, and disappeared inside. Miss Gloria’s sweet voice seeped through the screen, murmuring how much she’d missed her baby.

  Freddy clapped his hands off and brushed an imaginary black hair from his black shirt. “My mother tells me you’ve been a good friend. We appreciate that. Thank you,” he said, nodding his head briskly. “We’ll be putting the boat up for sale and moving her to Dearborn by Christmas. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a nursing home that’ll take a cat.” His lips curled down, like he thought that was unlikely. Then he nodded a second time, as though I must surely agree with his sensible decision.

  I was feeling awful about spooking Turtle. And losing Evinrude. And the whole nightmarish week. Month, really. But Miss Gloria’s impending losses trumped all that.

  “She’s not my mother, so I hate to be nosy, but I think it’ll just kill her to move away from here.”

  It would kill me, and I hadn’t lived here for decades, the way Miss Gloria had. I hadn’t fused my ways to the ways of the island, the turn of the tides, the way life was appreciated—each day on houseboat row cherished like a piece of polished sea glass.

  “It’ll be a shock for her to move to Michigan. We understand that. But for her own good, it has to be done. It’s not responsible to leave an elderly woman alone down here. The health care on the islands is appalling. A million things could go wrong—that’s already been proven. Thanks again for being a friend.”

  He cracked a mirthless smile and ducked into the boat.

  28

  “Most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.”

  —M. F. K. Fisher

  There were a lot of things lately I couldn’t do a darned thing about—Miss Gloria’s situation was only one of them. Turtle’s hard-knocks life was another. My mind began to work over the bits of information he’d given me about what he might have seen the morning of the murder.

  The deliverer of the pie was medium-sized and wore a yellow slicker. Both of which applied to me. At least on the days I borrowed Connie’s extra raincoat, which was almost every time it rained, as my maroon jacket soaked right through in a downpour. And if you counted five foot four as medium-sized, which some people might not.

  A picture flashed into my mind: Wally Beile slinging his wet raincoat on the peg next to mine the other day in the Key Zest office. As my worthless lawyer might have said: A, he was not a big man. And B, his slicker was yellow. But what could I do about it? Stop by his office and ask if he hated Kristen enough to poison her? A ham-handed interrogation would not likely produce the information I needed. Nor would it help my job prospects.

  I pushed myself to think harder. Someone tried to run me off the road last night and that driver had not meant to only scare me. I was convinced he intended to kill me. He’d emptied enough bullets into the water to turn me into Havarti cheese.

  If Wally had been in that car, was it possible that he believed I had died? What if I showed up for a chat? Might his reactions to seeing me alive (though battered) confirm his identity? Of course, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to say anything—I’d take my suspicions directly to the cops.

  I trotted back down the finger to my scooter and fired her up, my stomach gurgling with anxiety and hunger. I glanced at my watch. Twelve thirty. With any luck, the Key Zest receptionist would be out to lunch and I could burst in unannounced and get a clear view into Wally’s psyche.

  I drove down Southard and parked in the back lot, fluffing my hair on the way to the magazine office. Then I shot up the stairs and paused in the hallway outside the office.

  Keep it simple, I told myself. Passing by—just wanted to shout out a big hello and see if you need anything else for my application.

  Then I’d flash a big smile and watch, like a pelican waiting for the shrimpers to dock. I sucked up a lungful of air and stepped into the waiting area. As I’d hoped, the receptionist’s desk was empty, but the light bled through the blinds from Wally’s office. My heart was beating so hard I thought the real estate agents on the first floor might be wondering about the banging.

  “Helloooo?” I warbled weakly.

  I heard a slight rustling in the back office and then Wally appeared at the door, glasses crooked on his nose and hair standing up as if he’d had a good fright. Annoyance and then confusion flushed his face. “Oh, Hayley. Adrienne didn’t tell you to come over, did she? We’re really not ready to make our decision. I’ve been bombarded with work since Kristen’s funeral.”

  “Sorry. So sorry to bother you,” I mumbled, hitching back a step. “I don’t mean to be a pest, but I wondered if there’s anything else I could do to help with my application. I know you said it was com
plete and all that, and you’d be in touch, but . . .”

  But I felt like a fool. He was surprised to see me, yes, indeed. But it was the surprise of a harassed boss with too much on his plate, not the shock of a murderer who hadn’t finished his job.

  “I won’t bother you again. I can wait with the rest of the supplicants.”

  I grinned and waved and stumbled out of the office as fast as I could. Rolling my shoulders to shake out the cricks of tension, my stomach rumblings ratcheted up to a howl. Next stop: Bad Boy Burrito, where I could kill two birds with one stone—get lunch and check out Henri Stentzel’s reactions to the living, breathing me. If she’d been the person hounding me down Route One in the driving rain last night, I thought I might be able to see it on her face.

  I drove east on Simonton Street, trying not to think too hard about whether I’d torpedoed my chances for the critic job by irritating Wally. The sun emerged as I parked the scooter in front of the burrito shop. Two blocks down the street, whitecaps glinted cheerfully on the ocean. Hard to feel too down on a day like this.

  I pulled open the heavy door to the shop, breathing in the scent of fried onions and chili peppers and maybe a pinch of cumin. As I waited in front of the counter, I spotted Henri at the back of the kitchen. She stood pressed against a tall man, one hand around his waist, the other reaching to caress the streak of silver at his temples. On tiptoes, she stretched up to kiss him. Over her head, he caught sight of me, murmured something to her as he pulled away, and took three quick steps out the back door.

  With an audible sigh, Henri squared her shoulders and marched across the kitchen to greet the customers. Her face paled and her welcoming expression turned to a glare when she recognized me. I was too nervous to wait for her to speak.

  “I’ll have two fish tacos, all the way, double the verde sauce. And why not double the sour cream while you’re at it. What’s a few extra calories between friends? And let’s see—what kind of smoothies are you serving today?”

  She didn’t pick up her order pad or make any move toward the stove.

  “Doug Rodriguez called me late last night,” she said, her voice grinding like tumbling stones in a fast current. “He mentioned that you happened to be in Miami Beach, and just happened to stop by Hola to interrogate him about my relationship with Robert.” Her head dipped almost imperceptibly toward the rear of the restaurant.

  And it clicked who the tall guy must have been: The mysterious and exquisitely talented Robert who’d cheated on her to be with Kristen and left her restaurant’s helm for the so-far nonexistent restaurant on Easter Island. It didn’t take a psychologist to diagnose the strong feelings still lingering between them. I hated to think it, but given all their history, probably hers were deeper than his. As Eric would say, nothing predicts the future better than the past.

  I began to babble. “I know that must seem intrusive and appalling, but the thing is, the cops still believe I killed Kristen. So—”

  “So you figure you’ll shunt them off in my direction?” She planted her hands on her hips and scowled.

  “Well, that’s not—”

  “I don’t suppose I could expect you to imagine what the last six months have been like for me.”

  “I can certainly understand the cheating boyfriend part of it,” I offered, baring my teeth with a girlfriend-to-girlfriend grin.

  “I didn’t just lose a man. I lost my livelihood,” she said in a grim voice. “Do you know how long I saved up to buy that place? And how long it takes to build a staff that can work together? A staff that cares about the place even half as much as you do? And then build a clientele who are willing to come back over and over and spread the word to their friends?”

  “I’m sorry it happened that way,” I said. “I know it’s a terribly hard business. My mom would say it’s challenging enough to cook decent meals at home for your own family. And Doug told me the Miami Herald food critic was planning a major spread on your place right before Robert left.”

  She looked near tears.

  “Robert was the linchpin in that kitchen. He was the spark that made the difference between good food and great. Maybe I would have stayed on if the review had been written, but when the critic canceled . . .” She shook her head. “That disappointment was a knife to my gut. I couldn’t go on pretending everything would be fine. I’d find another chef. We’d rebuild our reputation. Never mind the excruciating personal embarrassment.”

  She wiped her face with the edge of her apron. “When things go really bad in my life, I stay sane by stripping life down to what I can literally control. In this case, I decided I could make burritos. One by one. Jalapeños, guacamole, shaved cabbage . . .”

  She took off her apron, folded it in quarters, and slapped it on the counter. “I’m sorry about Miss Faulkner’s death, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  Then she came around the cooler, marched past me to the front door, and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. She held the door for me.

  “We will not be serving lunch today.”

  29

  “Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”

  —Harriet van Horne

  My stomach pitched and yawed, more from shame now than hunger. Everything I touched on this island seemed to turn sour. I dialed Detective Bransford’s phone extension and a left a message telling him about what Turtle had seen from his perch on the Danger and my stepmother’s suggestion about poisonous nuts in the pie crust. Let him do the police work—I was obviously a disaster.

  I mounted the scooter and started it up, with no place to go and no one to talk to. I motored over to Higgs Beach and slouched at an empty picnic table, lowering my cheek to rest on the cool concrete and willing my mind to empty. A black and white gull hopped up on the bench beside me, pecked at some crumbs, and splattered the edge of the table with poop.

  “You ingrate!” I yelped.

  “You talkin’ to me?”

  Tony’s drawl startled the bird away and me out of my daze. I shook my head and pointed to what the bird had left.

  He shrugged and grinned. “When you gotta go . . . ​Did y’all find Turtle? I haven’t seen his ugly mug anywhere today.”

  I sat up straight and smoothed my wrinkled cargo shorts. “We did have a chance to chat and he told me what he saw. But then I’m afraid I scared him half to death.”

  “Easy to do,” said Tony, doffing his hat. “Y’all have a good day. The cake was awesome.”

  “Thanks.” I mustered a smile and he sauntered away.

  My phone rang and Deena’s name came up on the screen. What in the world would she want with me? The way things were going, Chad had probably told her to call and ream me out. About something.

  “Hayley,” she said when I answered. “I feel silly about this after our last conversation, but I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I can’t find Chad.”

  I let loose a snort of laughter. “You’re barking up the wrong banyan here, Deena. I’d be the last one to have any insight on that topic.” I glanced at my watch. “Monday morning. If I remember correctly, he ought to be right there in the office harassing you about how you’re not typing fast enough to keep up with his dictation.”

  “That’s why I’m worried. He had an appointment in court first thing this morning and two new clients back-to-back wanting to talk about filing for divorce. Litigious clients with deep pockets. He didn’t show for either and now they’re mad at me. And he isn’t answering his cell. Or my text messages.”

  “That’s weird,” I agreed. “Silence from the man whose e-mail trigger finger is the fastest gun on the island. You tried his home phone?” Not that I’d ever seen him use it for an actual phone call—he only had it installed to buzz repairmen through the locked front door.

  “I tried it,” she said grimly.

  “Has anyone else seen him?”

  “He was here ear
ly this morning. His office light’s on and he left a couple of files open on the desk.” She sighed. “Oh, well, you were a long shot. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Hope he turns up.”

  Deena’s call left me with an uneasy feeling. Chad may have been lousy at texting or calling me, especially as our relationship nose-dived, but he was always in touch with Deena. I walked over to the water and sat by the sand, doodling with a stick, letting the events of the last week flit through my mind. I’d talked with a number of people who disliked Kristen, but none of them seemed angry enough to kill her. Wouldn’t committing a murder have to be fueled by toxic rage? The kind that Deena heard often through the closed doors of Chad’s conference room. I threw my doodling stick in the water, watched it wash away, and settled on one disturbing question.

  What if the pie had actually been meant for Chad, not Kristen? And the murderer didn’t know him well enough to recognize his aversion to sweets in general but especially the key lime flavor? If that were all true, Kristen ingested the poison accidentally. And all the ideas I’d had about who wanted to kill Kristen meant nothing, because nobody did.

  The next question followed logically: Who would actually want Chad dead? Because of his divorce practice, I imagined there might be a number of possibilities. He was ruthless when it came to protecting his clients’ assets. I remembered the nasty memo I’d found in his apartment when I’d gone over to clean. With Chad’s killer lawyer instinct, surely there were more like this in his office clipped to the files of other clients. Many more. I pulled out my phone and redialed Deena.

  “You’ve heard something?” she asked.

  “Sorry, no. I was wondering about those files Chad left on his desk this morning. Whose were they?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  I could imagine her pursed lips, painted, glossy, and disapproving. “You called me for help, not the other way around.”