“Why would she think that?” I asked.
She held out her hands. “Because he isn’t here, for one. And for two, he has dark skin—”
I started to protest. I’d gotten into my share of rhubarbs with the local authorities, but my experience with the Key West police had always been fair in the end.
Irena cut in. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like, do you?”
I had to admit that I didn’t. I had been thinking of this weekend as a happy celebration of Cuba–U.S. relations, and I was beginning to realize how complicated the truth might be.
“I can take an extra table or two, no worries,” I said. “Lucky thing you decided to serve the stew and rice family style. After dinner, we’ll put our heads together and find Gabriel.”
I spent the next forty-five minutes at a dead run, serving the individual shrimp-stuffed avocados to each guest, ferrying bowls of ropa vieja to the tables, filling bread baskets, clearing dirty dishes. The little kitchen had begun to look like a combat zone. Finally the diners were finished eating and Bob took his place at the microphone to invite guests to turn their attention to the area around the stage.
“We have some very special guests tonight. First, it is my greatest pleasure to introduce you to Diana Nyad, the only athlete to have completed the swim from Havana to Key West—without a shark cage!”
A trim and athletic woman with short blonde hair bounded up the steps, and the audience rose to its feet in a thunderous ovation. Once the clapping died down, she described how thrilled she’d been about being able to make a physical connection between the two countries.
“Spectators saw two arms in the water—one swimmer. But my effort was possible only because of amazing teamwork. One of my teammates is here with me tonight.” She introduced her trainer, Bonnie, and then told a story about her early days when she’d been competing for a spot on the U.S. Olympic swimming team. “A friend advised me not to leave one fingernail of effort out in the pool. Then, no matter what happened, win or lose, I would have no regrets.
“This is how I see the work to rebuild the relationship between Cuba and the United States,” she said. “It may not be easy; we must put forward all the energy we have to make this happen in order to discard the conflicts of the past and help the people of both countries benefit. But I’ve touched the land in Havana and Key West, and the people in both cities have touched my heart. We can do this, together.” She picked up a cornet from a music stand and played “Charge,” then exited the stage to vigorous applause.
As she went off, Jimmy Buffett appeared onstage and began to sing “Havana Daydreamin’,” and the guests went wild again. Some of them donned crazy hats featuring stuffed parrots and fish and even beer bottles, and began to dance with choreographed motions that went with his song. The conference organizers had certainly held nothing back. I would have liked to stay and gawk, but remembering my mother’s stress level, I hurried into the kitchen to pick up a tray of glorious flan.
As I rounded the corner with the dessert, former president Obama sprang onto the stage, looking more relaxed than he’d ever appeared while in office. Beside me, I heard Miss Gloria gasp.
“Diana,” he said, pointing into the audience, “come back up here, please. I want to give you a hug.”
She returned to the stage and he hugged her. Then he took her by the hands and nodded to the band. They swung into a fast rhythm and Jimmy Buffett began to croon “Volcano.” I stood by my mother and Miss Gloria, all of us mesmerized and eyes brimming with tears, as they spun around the stage. We’d seen this president cut loose occasionally while he was in the White House, but tonight he looked so much at ease. Like a man who’d had a ten-ton weight lifted off his shoulders.
“I don’t know…” sang Jimmy.
After this song wound down, Mr. Obama posed for photos with Diana and Jimmy, and then stepped up to the microphone. “It’s a pleasure and an honor to be here tonight, on the same lawn where one of my heroes, Harry Truman, took working vacations during his terms in office. He was a man who inherited the leadership of a dazed country in mourning and guided us through a period of chaos and grief with great common sense, humility, and humor. Had I visited this island and the beautiful grounds of this Little White House earlier in my career and seen how charming they are, I would have spent more time here.”
The audience broke into applause. To my right, Bob and Bill grinned with delight.
“Thank you,” Mr. Obama said. “Thanks so much. I was asked to speak tonight because of my historical connection with Cuba. My team and I were thrilled to be able to assist in opening up relations with our sister country.”
He continued to talk about the hope he felt for a resurrection of the relationship between the countries. As he wrapped up his remarks proclaiming optimism for the future, I heard popping noises and then a terrible scream. Shouts erupted from the Little White House for the second time today. My heart thudded wildly and my hands broke into a slippery sweat. I looked around for my mother—right beside me, thank goodness—and for Miss Gloria. I felt a surge of relief, seeing that Sam had his arm around her shoulders and was guiding her to a folding chair near the building’s restrooms.
“Everybody on the ground, now!” shouted two Secret Service agents.
“Now!” repeated Lieutenant Torrence, who had materialized feet from us.
I dropped to my knees, bobbling the tray of flan I’d been carrying. The custard slid off the plate and smashed into the grass, spraying caramel across my face and into my mother’s hair. And all over our city commissioner’s gorgeous pink silk shirt. Instead of the happy tinkle of silverware on china and the amazing, cheerful music of Jimmy Buffett, the grounds had fallen silent. The only noise left was a whisper of palms as a breeze drifted through them, and then barked commands from the direction of the White House kitchen.
“No way,” my mother said from her place next to me in the dirt near the sidewalk. “This amazing night can’t be ending with a disaster.”
Chapter Seven
Any fool can make a sauce but you can’t fake the crust.
—Adam Gopnik, The Most Beautiful Room in New York
“Don’t panic,” I muttered, although inside that’s exactly what I was doing. We hear about shootings and other terrorist incidents every day, but who thinks it could happen to them? I craned my neck from side to side to try to see what was happening. Within seconds, the former president and the other celebrities had been whisked off the stage into waiting vehicles. The cars sped off, and security guards and police began swarming the building. Two German shepherds and their handlers wove among the flattened guests, sniffing.
Some long minutes later, the authorities cleared us to get to our feet. I brushed the dirt off my face and knees and tried to sop up the worst of the caramel sauce as it trickled down my chin and chest. Following Sam’s lead, I hurried among the tables, assisting guests who were struggling to get up. Sam and my mother instructed the bartenders to move around the diners, offering more wine. We raced back to the staging area outside the kitchen to pick up undamaged flan and deliver the dessert. As I wound through the tables with a large tray, Bob climbed the steps to the stage and took the microphone in hand.
“Sorry about the interruption, folks.” He looked sheepish and unhappy but tried to cover it with a smile. “One of our bartenders came across a defective bottle of prosecco, and that unfortunately, made the popping noise you heard. And that startled one of our waitresses. Hence the yelling.”
There was some laughter from the guests, but underneath that, a murmur of complaints and disbelief. And I had to agree—how could a bottle of fizzy Italian champagne make a sound that would cause someone to scream as though they were being murdered? And besides, his face was lined with anxiety—the longer he stood on the stage, the sicker with worry he seemed. He breathed in deeply.
“Unfortunately, there has been an incident with someone inside the building who was frightened by the noise. Rescue workers are with him now. Meanwhi
le, authorities will most likely need to talk with many of you, so please sit tight for the moment,” he added. “The caterers are in the process of serving the most amazing flan you might find anywhere, outside of Cuba, of course. Please enjoy that while you wait.” He patted his forehead with a white hanky. “A quick note for conference participants: tomorrow morning, meetings will be taking place at our new city hall on White Street rather than here on the Little White House grounds. Following those sessions, we will gather at the Sunset Key boat dock on the Margaritaville Westin pier at noon for our short trip to have lunch on the island.”
A babble of questions rose up from the guests, but Bob descended heavily from the stage without answering.
“What in the world is going on?” I whispered to my mother, who seemed ready to cry or burst into a thousand pieces. “The police wouldn’t ask to talk to bystanders if someone had a heart attack.”
“Not clear yet,” said Sam, his mouth set hard and his hand resting protectively on my mother’s back. “Something to do with Maria. For sure, she won’t be available to help clean up; that’s all we’ve heard.”
As I delivered the last tray of flan to one of the tables, I saw Lieutenant Torrence deep in conversation with Mayor Diaz. Diaz, who’d worn a sour expression since the gold medal incident this morning, had grown increasingly furious. I hoped my friend’s Spanish would be up to the task. I hustled around my section as well as what would have been Maria’s, picking up empty plates and listening to the conversations.
“This flan is astonishing,” said a redheaded woman at one of my tables. “What are the chances you could get me this recipe?”
“Not a whisker,” I said. “And I’ve tried everything outside of kidnapping the chef.”
Shortly after my mother and Sam were taken inside, though it seemed like hours later, my turn came to talk with the authorities. As I was ushered into the building, I felt relieved to have the chance to go into the kitchen and find out what had really happened. Maria sat at the kitchen table sobbing hysterically, smudges of blood on her face and hands. Police and other security formed a circle around her, trying to calm her enough to answer some questions.
“Oh my god, what happened?” I asked my mother, who had retreated against the windows in the hall.
“I can’t even believe it,” she whispered. She pointed in the direction of the storage area where I had placed the empty coolers earlier. “She found her brother in that closet. He’d been stabbed in the chest, and there was blood everywhere.” Mom looked dazed and frozen.
“Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Where in the world are the paramedics?” I asked, feeling a rising tide of panic.
“They’ve already been in with him,” Sam said grimly. “It’s too late to do any good. Obviously, this is a crime scene now.”
I clapped a hand to my mouth and took a step back. “Dead?” Nathan had warned me about a possible negative event, but never in a million years had I imagined something like this. Or maybe I just hadn’t wanted to consider a possibility like this. “What can I do? How can we help?”
Sam tipped his chin at Irena, who had her hand on Maria’s shoulder, shushing and calming her as though she were the mother and Maria a desperate baby. And having about that much effect too, which is to say, none. “Nothing to do right now.”
Steve Torrence came up behind us, his face fierce. “We need to talk with each of you again, one at a time, to find out what you heard and saw. So please remain in the area until we finish the interviews. Likely, we will need to talk to you again tomorrow as well.”
“Did the president get away all right?” my mother asked, a sorrowful hitch in her voice.
“He’s fine,” said Torrence. “Jimmy Buffett too. Hayley, can you come with me please?”
He nodded at me and I followed him to the other side of the kitchen and then down the opposite hallway, where a chair had been set up to face the police. Nathan was waiting, along with a woman detective I had met several years ago when my stepbrother disappeared into a spring break crowd. They both looked deadly serious. Behind them stood a man dressed in black, wearing an FBI jacket.
“Take a seat, please,” the woman said.
I held a hand up to my boyfriend, my lips beginning to quiver. “I know, I’m sorry, I should have listened. But you can see there is no way we could have canceled this evening. Not with all those big stars coming. And it’s a terribly important subject—I’m only now beginning to realize how different the points of view are and to understand some of the history—”
I could tell from the horrified look on Nathan’s face that I was frothing-at-the-mouth babbling. But I couldn’t seem to stop. “I guess the more immediate question is why in the world would someone want to kill Gabriel? He has nothing to do with any of this; he was just working for the caterers.”
I collapsed onto the folding chair and began to hyperventilate.
“Mom needed some extra muscle and he was available, and, oh god, poor Maria—”
“Hayley, stop talking for a minute,” Nathan said quietly. He squatted down next to me and took my hand, stroking it from wrist to fingertips. “Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Finding the killer is our job now, isn’t it? You don’t need to worry; we’ll find out the answer. We’ve got all kinds of professionals here. Good ones.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to take in a couple of deep yoga breaths, feeling his warm hand on mine and noticing the scent of his perspiration. This night had been a horrible and tragic shock for everyone, not just me. I needed to pull myself together.
Once I’d stopped shaking, I opened my eyes again. “Okay. Sorry. I’m ready now. Sorry.” Nathan stood up and indicated to the others that the interview could proceed.
“Start at the beginning,” said the lady cop. “When did you notice anything off about this party?”
I reported how the protesters and the heavy security had set everyone on edge right from the get-go. And then I described the fighting—squabbling really—between Commissioner Markham and the Havana mayor. “Of course, once the gold medal disappeared, we were all on tenterhooks. Maria”—I pointed down the hall, where we could still hear the sobbing woman—“was sure her brother would be blamed.”
“What was the reason for that assumption?” asked Nathan.
“Do you want facts or speculation?” I asked.
My detective sighed. “Definitely facts, if you happen to have any, and might as well hear the speculation now as later.”
I bit my lip and tried to concentrate above the injured animal sounds Maria was making in the kitchen. But I could feel her terror and sorrow swirling, winding me tighter and tighter.
“Things could be worse, right? At least you have a closed crime scene. And a list of all the attendees. The problem will be going through all the names and trying to figure out who in the world had a connection to Gabriel or Maria. Or Irena, for that matter, since Gabriel was her cousin. Or maybe it wasn’t personal at all. He could have happened upon someone doing something bad and simply been horribly unlucky. My gosh, there must be Secret Service agents everywhere, even on the condo roofs, right? Surely…” My words were coming out faster and faster and my breath, too, whistling like the wind in a set of bagpipes that couldn’t quite get going.
Nathan reached across the space between us and took my shaking hand again. “Hayley, sweetheart, we don’t need you to run the investigation, remember? We’ve got the FBI here and the Secret Service and most of the Key West Police Department. We only need you to tell us what you saw and heard, okay?”
I nodded, looking down at my small hand in his big one, grateful beyond words for his kindness.
“Breathe with me first,” he said, inhaling a big gulp of cumin-scented air and letting it out slowly.
I followed his lead, whooshed out some air, shuddered, and found myself a tiny bit calmer.
“Can you handle one more thing?” he asked, his voice soft.
But I got the underlying meaning. They nee
ded me. “Sure,” I said. “Anything.”
“Do you recognize this knife?”
Chapter Eight
A kitchen has high temperature and a lot of people working at high speed, very close to each other—and with a knife in their hand, Ms. Puig said. Such a place certainly can create tensions.
—Raphael Minder, “Stressed by Success, a Top Restaurant Turns to Therapy,” The New York Times, February 28, 2017
We finishing cleaning up from the dinner after the interviews had been completed and the last guests had filtered off the grounds. It was well past midnight when we powwowed in the kitchen. Concerned about her cousin’s reactions to the attack, Irena had gotten permission to follow Maria in the ambulance to the hospital. I was grateful to Turner Markham, who had lobbied to allow her to leave early. He’d shifted into overdrive after Gabriel was discovered, like a gracious host at a party gone terribly wrong.
Maria had grabbed my forearm on her way out, gripping roughly like a drowning woman. She tried to speak, but she was sobbing too hard to get the words out.
“Hayley, please,” said Irena, moving forward to circle an arm around her cousin’s shoulders. “Can you help us find out who murdered Gabriel? My cousin doesn’t believe anyone will tell the truth. She doesn’t believe the police care either.”
I nodded reluctantly. “Given how many important people were here, no one’s going to tell me much of anything. I’ll try, though. I’ll keep my eyes open.” I watched her hurry down the steps after her cousin and the paramedics who supported her, then turned back to the kitchen.
My mother looked exhausted, as did Sam, though he also looked exhausted with the satisfaction of a job well done. Miss Gloria was sound asleep in a chair in the storage hallway where the interviews had been conducted. Her chin was tucked into her chest and she snored softly. Someone had folded clean dishtowels around her shoulders and over her lap to keep her warm.
Sam hovered around my mother, attempting to cheer her up. “I think the beef dish was a huge hit,” said Sam, rubbing his belly and grinning. “Did you see how little was left over? And the flan was to die for, just as you said it would be.”
Death on the Menu Page 5