An Appetite for Murder

by Lucy Burdette

  “Sorry,” said Deena. “After ten years’ working for him, client confidentiality is so ingrained—at this point it’s almost a genetic trait. Chad would fire me in an instant if I said anything about anything. Even if his life was in danger.”

  “And it might be,” I said, and explained my idea that Chad might have been the murderer’s target. “After all, the poisoned pie was delivered to his home, not Kristen’s. She wasn’t actually living there, was she?”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “But what do the files have to do with any of that?”

  “They might be related; they might not. But, if I were in your position, I’d go through all of them and make a list of the people he’s represented in horrendous divorces. Especially the cases that dragged on awhile—and maybe focus on the ones that he won. And then, if it were me, and he doesn’t show up in good time, I’d call the cops. Detective Bransford is the guy I’ve been talking to.” I read off his cell number. “He’s overbearing, and takes himself awfully seriously. But he’s kind of cute,” I added with a strained laugh.

  She thanked me and signed off.

  I leaned on my elbows back in the sand, the weak sun warming my face. Wishing for a sandwich. Or a couple of those amazing crabmeat choux pastries that had been served at Kristen’s funeral. Made by Chef Robert, I now knew.

  Deena called again.

  “Hayley, I listened to his office voice mail.” She paused and I could imagine her thinking through how much to say. “One of his clients, who shall of course remain nameless, called to report that his black Audi sedan was stolen on Saturday. The client keeps it garaged a few blocks away, so he didn’t notice until yesterday evening that it was missing. They found it abandoned in the golf course parking lot out on Stock Island. This case fits the description you mentioned—it was ugly and he won big.”

  The puzzle pieces slid into place and I jerked up to sitting, visualizing the grille of the car that had tried to run me off the road. Had it been an Audi?

  “Who was the client?” I demanded.

  “I can’t say the name,” she said. “But I’m worried.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud—then call the cops,” I said.

  I hung up, reviewing the names I could remember from the weeks I’d lived with Chad. Not that he talked to me about his clients—he was more close-mouthed than Deena. But I couldn’t help sometimes seeing bits and snatches of the work he brought home. If Chad had been the murderer’s target, wouldn’t he or she be highly distressed about killing Kristen?

  My brain worked itself back around to Meredith, the pastry chef who insisted to Eric at the funeral that Kristen didn’t deserve to die. What if she hadn’t known that Kristen was staying with Chad, and she killed her accidentally? I thought about her despair in the cemetery and her loyalty to Kristen. And how she’d come so close to landing a dream job in a fancy restaurant. I couldn’t remember if she’d said she was divorced, but she certainly had no kind words for men. And I imagined that she was quite capable of constructing a sophisticated piecrust containing ground, poisonous nuts, so delicious that the person eating the pie would never notice the addition. In fact, the nibbler would only notice the unusual and delectable sweetness. Possibly even gobble a second piece, just as I had, before the poison infused her system and began to shut it down.

  And Meredith had the same initial as the woman mentioned in the memo I’d seen on Chad’s desk when I was cleaning. The woman who’d been fleeced in her divorce settlement, losing her home, her car, and worst of all, her dog. If Meredith accidentally murdered her friend instead of doing in her ex-husband’s divorce lawyer, her hysteria made perfect sense. And it might even make sense that she’d tried to kill me, because she knew that I was asking way too many questions about the murder: I’d interrogated her twice in some detail. I hoped I was dead wrong, because I liked Meredith. She was struggling with the same kind of career angst as me.

  But if I wasn’t wrong, Chad was still a moving target. I called Deena back but was shunted to her voice mail. “It’s Hayley again. This is urgent. Go to his desk and check on the files. If there’s a file open on someone named Meredith who lost everything to Chad’s client, he could be in big trouble. Call me.”

  Next I considered calling Eric, but we hadn’t spoken since that awkward conversation about his ruined Mustang. Would he even care? Hopefully, a long friendship would trump painted sheet metal. I left a message on his voice mail, explaining my new theory.

  This was the problem I’d been grappling with all week: Who really cared about my theories? The answer should be the man I was paying to defend me. I held my nose and dialed my lawyer. If he didn’t react reasonably, I would fire him on the spot. Luckily his beleaguered secretary answered and offered me the choice of getting transferred to his cell phone or put through to voice mail.

  “Voice mail would be fine,” I told her quickly and waited for his pompous introduction. When the beep sounded, I considered telling him about Turtle’s observations. And mentioning my new theory that the pie hadn’t been meant for Kristen at all. That someone had wanted Chad dead, not Kristen. But what came out of my mouth was: “Mr. Kane, this is Hayley Snow. I will no longer need your services.”

  Then I dialed Detective Bransford, feeling unaccountably nervous when his voice mail beep sounded.

  “So, I had this idea that Chad Lutz was the target of the poison, not Kristen Faulkner. Uh, I should say this is Hayley Snow, but you’ve probably figured that out, being a detective and all. What I’m suggesting is that the killer didn’t realize that Chad despised key lime pie. He wasn’t a big fan of desserts in general because, let’s face it, he’s very vain and can’t bear the idea of a potbelly. But I’m not talking about that. This is probably too much information, but he puked his guts out a couple of years ago after eating a piece of KLP. You know how you develop an aversion to a certain food once it’s hurled back up the wrong way?”

  I sounded like an absolute idiot. “What I’m trying to say is . . .” What was I trying to say? I continued to blather to his voice mail. “There’s a pastry chef in town who’s a big fan of Kristen’s. You may have seen her at the funeral—she was devastated to the point of becoming publicly hysterical. And what if that makes all the sense in the world because she’s the one who killed Kristen? By accident?”

  His voice mail cut off. If he was at all interested, he could call me back. I considered phoning Meredith. But if she were the killer, she’d figure out I was onto her and bolt. Maybe better still, I would drop by Cole’s Peace Bakery. If Meredith were there, I’d buy a loaf of bread, chat innocently as if I knew nothing, and then call Bransford the second I left the shop. If she wasn’t, I could try to wrangle her address out of one of the other workers.

  It was almost four p.m. by the time I got across town. The bakery was closed. I was swamped with a mixture of disappointment and relief. In the window of the Restaurant Store attached to the bakery, a small red fifteen-percent-off sale sign had been taped to the door. This was too tempting to ignore. I went directly to the cutlery department and perused the knives. Finally, I chose a Japanese paring knife and a plastic protector and carried them to the counter. While the clerk rang my items up, I said: “I was hoping to talk with Meredith who works next door about a catering gig. She does desserts, right?”

  The clerk nodded. “Pastries are her specialty.”

  I clapped my hands. “My boss is looking for someone who can bake amazing pastries—she mentioned pies, éclairs, and maybe baklava. She’s throwing a big party weekend after next. She’d pay really well because of the short notice. But she’s going to hire someone today and Meredith’s voice mail doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Wow, that sounds perfect for Meredith,” said the clerk. “Bummer that you can’t reach her.”

  “Do you happen to know where she lives? Maybe I could swing by her house and tell her in person.”

  The clerk studied me for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. Then sh
e pulled a piece of scrap paper from the drawer beside the cash register and scribbled an address on it. “She shares a house on Grinnell Street. I’m sure she’d want to hear about your catering gig. She likes working at the bakery and all, but it’s not a dream job, you know? Half the time she’s slapping sandwiches together or working the cash register. And the hours are wicked early.”

  I thanked her profusely and she handed over the knife, packed in its plastic sheath, which I stashed in the long pocket of my cargo shorts. Did I have the nerve to go to her house? Did I have any business getting more involved? But if not me, who else would even care?

  I felt frightened and frozen. Then I thought of Lorenzo, my tarot reader, who was probably setting up for the usual crush of Sunset tourists. Even if he didn’t have an answer, talking things through over the cards should help me decide what to do.

  I drove down Eaton Street and scored a parking spot right in front of the Waterfront Playhouse. Sprinting past the sculpture garden and the man dressed as a soldier but sprayed from head to toe with gold paint, I found Lorenzo preparing to open shop near the water. His cloak was draped over the back of his chair and he was spreading a blue cloth over the card table.

  “Lorenzo! I’m in kind of a hurry. Do you have time for a three-card reading?” My mother started every morning by reading her own cards while her coffee was brewing. I’d rather have it done by an expert. Why would I believe my own magic?

  “Absolutely. And this one’s on me.” He grinned and retrieved his deck from a canvas bag under the table. I waited nervously while he straightened the corners of his tablecloth and donned his cape. To my left, the Cat Man unloaded carriers of hungry felines. To my right, the fire-eater and his assistant laid out thick ropes on the concrete to define his space. Finally Lorenzo handed me the deck.

  “Is your name really Lorenzo?” I asked while shuffling the cards.

  Even under the thick layer of pancake makeup, I could see him blush all the way up to his black turban.

  “I was Marvin until I moved down here from Georgia,” he admitted. “Marvie to my mother. But who’s going to believe a tarot card reader called Marvin?”

  “Point taken.” I handed him the deck.

  “Think about the question you bring to the table today,” he said, eyes closed and fingers to his temples.

  Was Chad safe? Who ran me off the road? Will I get the job? Will I ever have another boyfriend? The questions tumbled through my brain, but there was only so much three cards could tell me. I focused on Chad and nodded at Marvin. Lorenzo.

  He dealt out the cards—the three of swords, the moon, and then the eight of swords. My stomach seized. The only card I hated more than the tower was the first one he’d laid on the table: three swords piercing a heart, with rain falling in the background.

  “I see there has been deep sorrow,” Lorenzo said quietly, staring at me, his hand on the first card. “A divorce. Maybe an affair? A great fear of rejection and loneliness.”

  He focused back on the table. “The moon. Hmm. Things are not as they seem. Are you fooling yourself? Denial brings chaos.”

  “Fooling myself how?” I asked.

  “You’re the only one who can answer that.” He shrugged and pointed to the third card.

  “You have been floundering,” he said, tapping the card. “Feeling vulnerable. And trapped.” He looked up from the table and into my eyes again. “No one can save you from yourself, Hayley. You must take action, not wait to be rescued.”

  I whooshed out a breath. “Thanks. I think.” I smiled weakly, got up from Lorenzo’s table, and left the pier, head spinning. Since meeting Chad, nothing had turned out to be what it seemed. Of course I had to depend on myself, but what exactly did that mean?

  I wove back through the crowds gathering for the sunset celebration, slid onto my scooter, and tried calling the detective again. Still no answer. I decided to run by Meredith’s rental house and take a look. If something seemed awry—like suppose she had Chad tied to a tree in the backyard with three swords piercing his chest—then I could drive down to the police station and round up a couple of officers. I snickered at my own joke, revved up the engine, and veered into the traffic to cross town.

  30

  “A hungry man can’t see right or wrong. He just sees food.”

  —Pearl S. Buck

  I parked my scooter two blocks from the cemetery and approached Meredith’s house on foot. If she was home and Chad was in trouble, I’d be making a dangerous mistake to let her catch me snooping. An enormous banyan tree with multiple curved roots reaching skyward obscured the front of the white conch house. It must be wicked dark inside, especially with dusk falling. I waited a few minutes by the neighbor’s fence, breathing more heavily than the short walk would explain, trying to figure out a reasonable plan.

  I crept down the side of Meredith’s house that was shaded by the big tree. Edging up to the building, I peered through the first window. I could barely make out the shapes of the living room furniture: a denim futon, a large-screen TV, and several pillows scattered on the beige tile floor. This had the feel of a student crash pad, or, more likely for Key West, the home of several minimum-wage workers forced to share quarters.

  I inched farther down the alley between the fence and the house. The next window was covered by an off-white shade, the bottom grimy with fingerprints, one rip patched with duct tape. The bathroom?

  I heard a scratching noise behind me and whirled around to face it. In a great explosion of flapping wings, a rooster sprang from the bushes crowing at the top of his poultry lungs. I clutched my hand to my chest, my heart lunging, and crouched down to wait and see if I’d been exposed by the rooster’s racket. But nothing happened.

  I crept a little farther along the side of the house and peered into a window with jalousie blinds. The flap nearest the bottom was slanted open. Inside, Chad was seated on a battered wooden chair, his hands tied behind his back, his mouth taped with the same silver tape I’d seen on the shade, and his feet bound to the bottom chair rung. The tape lapped over one nostril and it looked like he was having trouble breathing. His body language vibrated with outrage and fear.

  Then a hand clapped over my mouth and I felt something poke me in the small of the back. I shrieked through the grabbing fingers.

  “One more syllable and I shoot,” a woman’s voice hissed, poking me again with what I now realized had to be the barrel of a gun. “Hands on your head.”

  Meredith. Rigid with fear, I raised my hands and planted them, as instructed.

  “Move.” She gave me a rough shove and I wobbled around the back of the house, finally getting a glimpse of her as we turned the corner. Wearing a pink flowered sweater and white pedal pushers, she looked like a Palm Beach housewife, not a kidnapper. We filed through the back door into a small vestibule crammed with shoes, fishing equipment, and bags of empty beer bottles and cans. She slammed the door shut and locked it behind us and then grabbed a handful of bungee cords from a hook on the wall and pointed to a room on the right with the gun. As I stumbled in, Chad’s eyes bugged wide and he rocked in his chair, making muffled noises that sounded like mmmrffff, mmmrff, and mmrrrff.

  “I think he wants to know what you’re doing here,” said Meredith with a dry laugh. She pushed me toward another chair. “Sit. Hands behind you.”

  I sat. She dropped the gun on the faded quilt that covered the metal daybed and wound one cord around my wrists and another around my ankles. Then she backed away and retrieved the gun from the bed, her hands shaking visibly. She was as frightened as I was. How had she managed to capture Chad? He rumbled again underneath his tape.

  “Just for kicks, let’s see what your boyfriend has to say.” She strode across the room, grabbed a loose corner of the tape on Chad’s face, and ripped it off.

  He howled from the pain, both his upper and lower lips now bleeding. He tapped them together gingerly, feeling for damage, and then frowned at me.

  “What in the name of God
are you doing here?” he finally asked.

  Any sympathy I had been feeling drained away. “Deena was worried because you didn’t show up for court. Or your new customers.”

  “Big bad lawyer was going to fleece some more wom-

  en?” asked Meredith in a voice that would have soured milk.

  “You should have hired a more competent attorney,” Chad told her.

  “There was no need to include the dog in the settlement,” she spat.

  “I work for my clients, not their exes,” said Chad. “My job is to protect their interests in the biggest possible settlement. My job is to win.”

  Meredith looked angry enough to blow into a million pieces, but instead began to weep.

  I turned to glare at Chad. “Could you possibly shut up?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to steady my breathing, and then glanced around the room to assess my options. Which looked, quite honestly, lousy. Meredith’s hand was still shaking. Even before Chad’s needling, she had begun to take on a shell-shocked glaze, like she was assessing the situation too—and coming up empty. A poisoning was one thing—death at a distance. Two face-to-face shootings were something else altogether. Could we use her distress to our advantage?

  “Meredith,” I said softly. “I realize you didn’t mean to poison Kristen. She was your friend, your ally.”

  She nodded, so I kept talking.

  “But that means you delivered the pie to Chad. Did you hate him that much?”

  Chad started to protest, but I shushed him quiet.

  Meredith blinked furiously and jabbed the gun at him. “Not only did he clean me out, but then he lured Kristen away from Robert. He totally screwed up the plans for the new restaurant.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would it matter whether she slept around and with whom?” That crack was aimed at Chad.

  “You think Robert would continue to work for Kristen if she was sleeping with this cretin? All of us needed to pull together for the project to get off the ground. Superstud here ruined everything.”