Death on the Menu

by Lucy Burdette

  Stepping into this living room was like sliding back into the 1940s, decorated as it was with fashionable antique furniture that might have come out of my grandmother’s home, right down to the faint smell of must. This was exactly what the renovation begun in 1988 had been aiming for. Well, maybe not the must.

  I edged through the living room, past the piano where Harry Truman once played, and peered into his favorite room, the bar. Several of the guests were leaning against the carved wooden bar that had enough dings in it to conjure up the ghosts of Truman and his cronies. Shot glasses sat on an etched silver tray, some empty, some still full of rum. But Turner Markham and the Havana mayor crowded around the display case, yelling in a combination of angry English and Spanish, the police officers at the ready.

  I recognized Rusty Hodgdon from the Hemingway Home in town and Dana Sebek, the owner of a local dive shop, both hovering a few feet away, looking concerned. I wondered how these people had been chosen to attend the conference, which was giving them unprecedented access to the Havana dignitaries. Was it familiarity with the issues? Money greasing palms? Or something else entirely? I ducked through the dining room to get closer, and Bill backed away from the arguing men to stand next to me.

  “What’s up?” I whispered.

  “I mentioned that we were planning to take them out to Stock Island tomorrow morning to do a quick tour of the Cuban chugs at the botanical gardens. The Havana mayor went ballistic.” He tipped his chin at a handsome, dark-skinned man, wearing a neat mustache and a perfectly pressed white shirt. His face, however, was taut with rage.

  Many Cubans had attempted crossing the Straits of Florida in these homemade boats or chugs to risk a chance at a better life. Key West residents found the ingenuity and doggedness of these immigrants astonishing, and about a dozen rafts had been transported to the botanical gardens for display. The Cubans’ transportation ranged from old fishing boats to structures made out of oil drums and foam to windsurfers, the last having been tried by three desperate men. One of them had made it alive. Now this policy was history, but wounds obviously still lingered.

  “I knew this weekend could be touchy, but half of what we’ve planned seems offensive to the Cuban visitors. And the Key West people are equally hotheaded.” He sighed, inclining his head in the direction of our most famously opinionated commissioner, Turner Markham. He owned a fair slice of real estate and businesses on the island and didn’t hesitate to advocate decisions that appeared to directly benefit him. At some points it felt impossible to distinguish what was in Key West’s interests from what lined his coffers. Locals laid bets on how long he’d last in city commission meetings before losing his temper. At one particularly contentious public meeting, the city attorney had come to the session dressed as a sports referee.

  “I better wade back in there and apply more rum to the troubled waters,” Bill said.

  I returned to the kitchen, where Tito Rodriguez’s version of “Cuando, Cuando” was blasting from the speaker on the counter. Sam was down on one knee in front of my mother, singing into an oversized spoon. “When, when, when,” he crooned into the utensil. She had an enormous goofy smile on her face, and the other women were giggling with delight.

  Mom turned off the music. “What’d you find out?”

  I summarized the fracas involving the chugs.

  “They didn’t say anything about canceling the conference, did they?” Sam asked as he got to his feet. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I suggest we keep our attention on preparing an outrageously amazing dinner,” my mother said, clapping her hands together. “Sometimes food soothes impossible situations. Remember Connie’s wedding?”

  She was right, as usual. In my mother’s family, lovingly prepared food meant comfort and care and even hope. A warm snickerdoodle cookie, for instance—maybe with a little chai spice added in for mystery—was a declaration of heartfelt affection. Great meals hadn’t been able to save my mother’s marriage to my father because he didn’t speak her language. For him, food was fuel—the dinner table merely a quick stop at the human gas station. But food had saved my friend’s wedding. My best pal Connie, who lives on the water near Miss Gloria’s boat with her husband and baby, had had the worst constellation of prickly relatives ever show up for her celebration—both my relations and hers. But the food (including, all modesty aside, my contribution of lime cupcakes with lime cream cheese frosting) was incredible. And by the end of the weekend, almost everyone was on speaking terms.

  There was probably a good compromise for the visit to see the chugs—such as making it optional. I chuckled to myself. Even if it wasn’t that easy, no one had asked for my help. Nor would they—my expertise was food, not politics.

  I dumped a box of firm green peppers into the sink, washed them one by one, and then began to carve them into strips. Next to me, Sam was chopping a mound of onions, his eyes streaming with tears as he reprised more sad love songs in broken Spanish. When the onions and peppers were done, Maria scraped them into the olive oil sizzling in a large pot on the stove and Sam and I began to cut the beef.

  “This looks like very nice meat,” he said to my mother. “How are we doing with the budget?”

  It wasn’t out of line for him to ask—when they’d first met, she’d just finished running her fledgling catering business in New Jersey into the ground. She couldn’t bear scrimping on the quality of her ingredients—everything she ordered had to be top of the line. So, in the end, the outgo of money had been larger than the inflow, the enterprise had cost her a fortune, and she’d regretfully closed it down.

  This time around, she had her finger on the pulse of every expense. “I’m all over it,” she said. “I got a great deal from Jimmy Weekly at Fausto’s.” Our local market, our local butcher, and another local city commissioner, all in one funny Key West package.

  Once the beef mixture was bubbling in two enormous pots on the six-burner Imperial stove, scenting the air with cumin and garlic, Mom hurried outside to help Sam and Gabriel set up tables. I cleaned the white Formica counters and swept the black-and-white tile floor. Irena and Maria sat at the small kitchen table chopping the prepared shrimp into bite-size pieces and mixing them with mayo, lime juice, fresh dill, pimientos, and slivered almonds. Closer to dinnertime, we would halve and stuff the ripe avocados; if done too early, the fruit would turn an unappetizing brown.

  I poured myself a glass of water and sat down to help mince the fresh fronds of dill, then moved on to slicing the pimientos and stuffed green olives that would be added later to the stew. Irena talked softly in Spanish to her cousin, who looked distressed.

  “Boyfriend troubles?” I asked Irena, taking a guess, always a reasonable guess in my life. Maria was not only cute; she could also cook like an angel. I imagined she was swamped with prospects. Not all of them desirable.

  Irena shook her head and pinched her lips. Okay, I got it. None of my business. I nodded and kept chopping, trying my hardest to understand the fast chatter but without much success. When the women lapsed into silence, I looked at Maria and winked. “Throw me a bone, and tell me what ingredients go into that flan.”

  She grinned, and the smile reached her eyes this time. “Leche,” she said. “Y huevos.”

  I planted my hands on my hips in exaggerated outrage. “Eggs and milk? That’s all you can give me? That could lead to an omelet or French toast or even plain old scrambled eggs.”

  The women laughed, and Maria said something in Spanish. “Maybe when you get married, she’ll share it,” Irena translated.

  “Or how about you two make me Cuban flan instead of wedding cake?” I asked as I got up to clear the dirty plates and cutlery from the table. “Don’t worry, that’s not happening anytime soon. So you’ll have lots of time to think this over.”

  When the kitchen was tidy and the other women had started working on the hors d’oeuvres, I stashed our rinsed, empty coolers in the storeroom off
the kitchen. The shelves were lined with cans of paint and boxes of other supplies for touching up the Little White House as needed. In the long pantry hallway at the other side of the kitchen, the white tablecloths that we’d use for this evening’s dinner hung on hangers. A favorite local florist, Gourmet Nibbles and Baskets, had constructed gorgeous arrangements of flowers and tropical greenery, all chosen to represent the flora of both Havana and Key West. The brilliant crowning touch was the fleet of small boats in which the foliage was planted, with red birds of paradise representing sails. On the stern of each boat, someone had painted the name of Hemingway’s beloved craft: Pilar. Only the biggest sticklers for detail might complain that the Pilar had been a motorboat—no sails involved.

  With my part of the early preparations finished, I took a tiny bite of shrimp out to Barkley, the Little White House cat, named after Harry Truman’s vice president, Alben Barkley, in spite of her sex. A few other feral cats sometimes made their homes under the building, but handsome brown Barkley was the one and only official mascot. She wound through my legs and mewed her thanks, and then I began to help Gabriel ferry the arrangements out to the tables.

  “Muy hermosas,” I said, pointing to the flowers.

  “Very pretty,” he agreed shyly.

  After we put all the flowers out, I paused for a minute to wipe the perspiration off my forehead. Gabriel didn’t even look winded. “I would have known you were Maria’s brother anywhere,” I said. “I’m Hayley.” I reached out to shake his hand, which was firm and somewhat calloused—not unexpected, as he worked with his hands. He had dark skin and dark hair and eyes and didn’t stand much more than three or four inches taller than me. A sturdy man who appeared solid and reliable. “I don’t suppose you have her flan recipe and would be willing to share it?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. Which I took as a no. Then he nodded and smiled and trotted back to the house to take a heavy load of glassware from Maria while I joined my mother on the other side of the house.

  She and Sam had set up tall cocktail tables on the west lawn of the house and the large round tables for dinner in the most protected area near the Harbor Place garage. Perhaps the garage was not the most scenic backdrop for dinner, but it would allow the security detail to keep a close eye on our guests and repel the potential intrusions of curiosity seekers.

  My ex-boyfriend Chad, whom I’d followed here from New Jersey three years ago before getting shucked out of his life like an undersized oyster, lived in this condominium complex. He and the other residents were probably chafing at the inconvenience of the special security measures. He had not been one to look on the bright side. I could imagine him grousing that the security was more stringent than a few minor-league Cuban dignitaries warranted.

  When everything seemed to be in place—the birds of paradise sailing gracefully in the center of each table, sound system tested, bar stocked, more foliage arranged on the stage—I touched base with my mother.

  “Okay to run home to change clothes and pick up Miss Gloria?” My octogenarian roommate had wanted desperately to work the entire weekend. Mom had persuaded her to compromise: rest during the day and come for the excitement of the opening party.

  “Of course, honey,” she said. “I think the place looks beautiful, don’t you?”

  I nodded my agreement. “Magical.”

  She kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t forget, clean white shirts and black pants even for you two. No sequined leaping dolphins. No sweatshirts. No red high-tops.” The dolphins and sweats were Miss Gloria’s uniform, the high-tops all mine.

  “It’s going to be perfect,” I said, hugging her shoulders. “You’ve thought of everything. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Suddenly, two Key West police officers with radios crackling ran past the back door, headed to the front of the building.

  Chapter Four

  All good secrets have a taste before you tell them, and if we’d taken a moment to swish this one around in our mouths, we might have noticed the sourness of an unripe secret, plucked too soon, stolen and passed around before its season.

  —Brit Bennett, The Mothers

  I heard shouting from the living room of the Little White House. I went back through the kitchen and the pantry and into the dining room, trying to puzzle out what was happening. The Havana mayor and our fiery Key West commissioner were going at it again, this time in heated Spanish. I wished my teacher were here to translate. Seeing no one to stop me, I skirted past the large dining table and peered into the entry hall.

  The Cuban visitors, the Key West dignitaries, and the two officers I’d seen run by the kitchen were gathered around a display case in the living room next to the desk where Harry Truman had worked on his visits to the island. Most of the shouting was happening in Spanish, way too fast and furious for my limited comprehension. I did catch the words Hemingway, Nobel, and la catastrophe, which even a beginner student of Spanish could safely assume meant catastrophe.

  I edged a little closer, circling around Harry Truman’s blue velvet couch, which, like the other items in the Little White House, had been restored to exactly the way it had looked when Truman was in residence. Bob Wolz, the director of the Little White House Foundation, stood next to one of the Cuban visitors, who was shaking a furious finger at our city commissioner. Bill hung a few yards behind them.

  I inched up behind Bill. “What’s going on?”

  He looked grim. “I’m not sure exactly, but it appears something valuable is missing. Something on loan from the Cuban people.”

  He’d told me earlier in the week that he worried about this most—what if something went wrong with one of the priceless artifacts on loan from Hemingway’s life in Havana? Any cautious progress we’d made in normalizing relations between the two countries could be destroyed in an instant.

  A second posse of uniformed Key West policemen, including my friend Lieutenant Torrence, burst in from the entrance next to the former Secret Service booth.

  “Let’s all stand down a moment,” Torrence said, once he’d had a few seconds to assess the situation. “We can certainly get to the bottom of this, but shouting at one another will not help.”

  A man standing in the gaggle translated the lieutenant’s words into Spanish. And some of the rage and tension in the air seemed to leak away. I felt a breath of relief—Torrence was a wizard at defusing difficult situations. Unlike my own Detective Bransford, whose native impatience tended to spike at inconvenient moments and who was much better at interrogating than peacemaking.

  “Now one at a time,” said Torrence, “tell me what’s going on here.” He pointed to the man closest to the glass case, and that unleashed another torrent of Spanish.

  “Despacio y con claridad, por favor,” said Torrence. “Explain what happened slowly and clearly, please.”

  The babble of voices continued, but eventually it all seemed to boil down to the following: the Nobel prize gold medal that Hemingway had won for his masterpiece novel, The Old Man and The Sea, was missing from the case. I retreated into the kitchen, feeling sick to my stomach. Every one of us was frazzled and exhausted, and there was still tons of work to do tonight and lots more to come in the remaining days and hours of the weekend. Even if my mother’s food and service were spectacular, the lost medal could be all most guests remembered. And the press would have a field day with this news.

  The others stopped what they were working on and gathered around to hear my report. “Hemingway’s Nobel prize medal has gone missing. I’m sure the cops will start to interview people separately to see if they noticed anyone near the display case. The Cuban visitors are enraged, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s not left the country since Hemingway gave it to them.”

  My mother moaned softly.

  “I suspect they’ll be in here next asking us the same questions,” Sam said.

  Irena jumped right in, sounding defensive. “We haven’t left the kitchen or the grounds since we got here. None of us other th
an you even went into the main part of the house. Wasn’t the case locked?”

  “I assume so. Bill and Bob Wolz are in charge, and they’re both meticulous planners. Besides, the medal wasn’t the only valuable item in the case. The Hemingway Home here on the island loaned some valuable artifacts, too. The owners will have a fit when they hear about this.” I started to pull my phone out of my pocket, then instantly stuffed it back in. Who did I think I was going to call? Certainly not Nathan. He’d hear about it anyway, but to have me calling him so early in the conference, sounding worried, would only give him more ammunition for his argument that we should withdraw. And why would it be my business anyway, when the place was crawling with security?

  Bill came into the kitchen, looking depressed, and confirmed what I’d told the others. “Bob is trying to convince the cops and our Cuban visitors that the medal was misplaced or overlooked in the unpacking and therefore maybe never made it into the case.”

  “But you gave a tour this morning. Doesn’t anyone remember seeing it earlier?” Sam asked.

  “I have no idea,” Bill said, his shoulders slumping. “You know eyewitness reports are notoriously unreliable. Bob’s going up to the attic to search through the packing materials. We saved every piece of paper and every single Styrofoam peanut. We fully expect that’s where we’ll find it. He’s convinced everyone else this is what happened.”

  But this sounded like magical thinking to me, and I suspected that Bill agreed—I could read it all over his face. He was a lousy liar. He was a guy who played by the rules. And I could have sworn I personally had had a glimpse of the gold medal in that cabinet when I was lurking in the living room earlier.

  “You’ll help me figure this out, right?” he asked, his eyes begging.

  Chapter Five

  Franklin barbecue doesn’t have to be so humane. Employees could probably stand on the roof pouring hot lard over customers’ heads without driving too many people away. Once you start thinking about how much brisket you want, it’s hard to leave.