But he was trying too hard, sensing as we all did how horrifying the end of the night had been: my mother’s best and sharpest kitchen knife found plunged into the chest of her worker’s brother. No wonder the whole evening felt like a flop. Who would have an appetite for Cuban food or Cuban history after such a night? Who would remember anything but the brutal murder? And who would ever hire my mother again after such a debacle? Finally, I wondered, briefly and selfishly, whether I could ever taste flan again without thinking of this exhausting and terrifying night.
“Did Nathan explain anything to you about what they think happened?” my mother asked. “Those people interviewing me wouldn’t answer a single question.”
I mustered a smile. “The last thing he’s going to do is leak insider information about a murder—to me especially. The last thing he wants is me inserting my finely honed interview and observational skills into the mix.”
Sam snorted with laughter, but Mom looked on the edge of tears.
“Do you think the conference is ruined?” she asked. “Can they possibly continue on as though nothing has happened?”
“In some ways, it’s not a bad idea to keep going,” I said. “Because if one of the attendees is the murderer, it holds him here longer so the cops can do their work. Or notice if anyone leaves early, or otherwise acts suspicious.”
“Him,” Sam said. “You think it’s a him?”
“Gabriel was very strong,” I said, thinking of the dead man’s stocky shape and muscular arms and thighs. He’d carried more tables, more chairs, more boxes of heavy plates and cutlery than anyone else while we were setting up earlier in the day. “A lightweight wouldn’t have been capable of tussling with him and using the knife like that.” I shuddered. “I know I couldn’t have done it.”
“Even if I could have, I can’t imagine doing such a thing. Maybe he was taken by surprise.” Sam shook his head and looked around the tidy kitchen. “Looks like we’re in good shape here. Let’s get home and get rested for tomorrow.”
“I feel terrible for Bill, though.” We’d all watched him slump out to his scooter, on his face an amalgam of disbelief and disappointment. He and Bob had put so much work and heart into planning this conference—and it had been such a coup to convince the others to hold the biggest events here at the Little White House. I glanced at the time on my phone. “I’m going to run by their place and make sure he’s okay, if that works for you. He may not be up, but I can drive by.”
My mother nodded. “We have to drop some things off at the commercial kitchen, so we will take Miss Gloria on our way.”
“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Thank goodness they are herding the muckety-mucks over to Sunset Key for a fancy lunch at Latitudes. We’ll take care of the pastries and the coffee for the morning meetings at the town hall. Feel free to check in, but I think we can manage it.” She looked at Sam, who nodded with encouragement. “But we’ll need you for the cocktail party at the Hemingway Home tomorrow night. Assuming they’re still having it.”
“They won’t cancel it,” Sam said, though the doubt showed on his face, too.
Mom frowned, knitting her brows together. “And if you can possibly come by the kitchen in the afternoon. Oh lordy, we have all those hors d’oeuvres to make. And who knows which of my workers will come. Certainly not Maria. And the way Irena looked, we shouldn’t expect her either.”
She was starting to wind herself up, which I recognized perfectly, since in this emotional arena, I was her carbon copy. I felt my insides churn in sympathetic but useless harmony.
“We’ll deal with it,” said Sam. He widened his eyes and made a shooing motion to me. “You go on along home. Check on Bill and we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
I gathered my things and went out into the night, which had turned quite cool. The closest we might come to the Key West version of winter—I might even see locals in hats and mittens around town tomorrow. I hopped onto my scooter, fastened the helmet strap under my chin, and motored out of the Truman Annex, past all the large single-family homes that had been designed to look as though they’d been here for a hundred years. Several officers still waited at the guardhouse, but one waved me through the gates without asking me to pull over. Several blocks later, I drove into the Bahama Village neighborhood where Bill and Eric lived.
I passed La Creperie, a small restaurant where tourists often crowded to inhale delicate buckwheat pancakes stuffed with cheese and bacon or fruit and Nutella and mainline café au lait in an attempt to recover from celebrations the night before. I could almost smell the lingering scent of butter and chocolate. The building looked like a survivor from the nineteenth century. But, as Bill had told me, it was only ten years old, like the homes in the Truman Annex—a bit of faux Old Town. Its neighbors on opposite corners, on the other hand, were genuine relics—Blue Heaven restaurant, the former bordello where Hemingway coached boxing, and Johnson’s Grocery, run by descendants of the late Bishop Albert Kee. Kee had been a resident of this neighborhood, a preacher, and a self-proclaimed ambassador of the island, who could often be seen by the Southernmost Point, selling pink conch shells and teaching tourists how to blow them.
Bill and Eric lived in a cute conch-style house in the thick of Bahama Village, a neighborhood formerly confined to descendants of the Bahamas. The contrast with the Truman Annex could hardly have been greater. This was not a place where many snowbirds or tourists landed; some of the houses were perfectly manicured, but others lacked the well-kept sheen of the Truman Annex, and a few were truly ramshackle.
Eric and Bill’s front porch, with its tropical houseplants and brightly colored cushions, promised leisurely mornings of coffee and afternoons of wine. But the real treasure lay in the backyard, where the kitchen opened to an eating porch and, steps past that, a beautiful tropical garden. The lights were still on in the house, so I went in the side entrance to the back garden. I was greeted inside the gate by a vibrating blur of white fluff, their new dog, Chester, followed by their more reserved Yorkie/Maltese mix, Barkley (also named after Truman’s vice president.) If the dogs hadn’t gone to bed, the guys would be up too.
“Hello?” I called out, keeping my voice low, as the neighbors were close enough to reach out and take a cup of sugar. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”
Eric welcomed me onto the porch. “Bill just finished filling me in about the disaster at the Little White House. Do you have any news?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “My so-called inside sources wouldn’t tell me anything. Honestly, I don’t know that they have any suspects at this point. I don’t know if anybody’s had to deal with that many people at a crime scene.”
Eric said, “It’s Key West. Every time a crime is committed, isn’t there a crowd around? You must remember the death at the zombie bike ride!”
I wasn’t likely to forget that—I had been right behind the victim when she toppled off her bike.
“How is the poor woman whose brother was killed?” Bill asked.
I sighed. “Distraught, as you might expect. She was worried earlier about whether he’d be blamed for the theft of the gold medal. This is a million times worse.”
“I don’t suppose they made a quick arrest?” Bill asked.
I could only shake my head.
“Do they think this murder was related to the gold medal?” Eric asked, sneaking an anxious glance at Bill.
“Nathan made it clear that he couldn’t share any theories with me. Nor were they terribly interested in mine. I told him what I’d seen and heard, but I wasn’t close enough to the kitchen when those pops went off to see much of anything useful.”
Still on the couch, Bill looked drained, almost gray, completely done in. “This is so terribly tragic. A man killed right there underneath our noses. If only I’d been there to help him.”
“So you could have been stabbed too?” Eric asked.
Bill shrugged. “I feel responsible, you know?” We both nodded.
“Absolutely nothing new about the medal?” he asked, almost pleading. “I feel in my gut that the two things are connected.”
I dipped my head in agreement. “After the guests and the police left, we searched the kitchen again,” I said. “Except for the part that’s still a crime scene. They had an officer stationed there to make sure no one trespassed. I swear we looked in every drawer and cabinet and behind everything on the shelves in the main part of the house, too. Just in case someone hid it away after snatching it up. But we turned up nothing. And who would do such a thing? You could never sell something like that, could you?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. I suppose there’s a way to sell anything, if you have the right contacts.” Bill ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his glasses.
“Or maybe the gold itself was worth a lot?” Eric asked.
“I know it’s nowhere near the equivalent of a human life snuffed out, but you can’t imagine the fallout that will come from this,” Bill said. “Did you know that this medal has not left their country since Hemingway gave it to them, not once, not ever? It was kept in a convent in El Cobre, a small town outside Santiago de Cuba on the island’s southeast coast, for safekeeping. You can’t imagine what we had to do to persuade them to loan it. Bob and I swore a hundred times over that we’d treasure it and return it safely. You saw the amount of security at the place—in addition to the people they brought in to protect Obama and Buffett and the Cubans. And after that medal vanished this morning, we checked with every guest and every worker on the grounds. How is this possible?” He dropped his head to his hands. Both of the dogs moved closer to him, nudging his arms and whining.
I exchanged a glance with Eric. I’d never seen Bill quite so down. “Let’s think about who might have wanted it.”
“Someone with deep connections to a black market that we’ve never heard of,” said Eric. “Because how in the world would you unload something so iconic unless you knew of specific collectors or had buyers who specifically wanted it? A serious Hemingway nut? Or, going a little farther afield, maybe someone with a weird kind of emotional attachment to the prize.”
“How about someone who wanted to ruin the conference?” Bill asked. “Because that’s essentially what is happening here. First the theft, and now a murder? We’re dead in the water.”
I went over to the couch to offer support but couldn’t think of a thing to say.
He looked up from stroking Barkley, who had climbed onto his lap. “Suppose they were trying to ruin something they thought might come out of the conference.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“I don’t know, like better relations between Cuba and the U.S.? Someone who holds a grudge against the Cuban government. Someone who refuses to see this as a cultural exchange between cities, who doesn’t believe America should be doing business with a repressive regime. But this seems like an odd way to go about staking out your position.”
“I have to agree,” I said.
“Suppose some kind of financial windfall hangs in the balance, something that could come out of the weekend,” Eric suggested.
“OK, who has the most invested in the outcome of the conference?” I asked. “Aside from you, of course.” Bill looked up with a horrified expression on his face. I perched on the couch next to him and started to reach for his hand, but he pulled it away. “That came out wrong. No one would ever suspect you.”
“But no one sees all the layers of meaning and motivation, not right away,” said Eric. “The truth takes time to be revealed. Remember when I was a murder suspect?”
“We couldn’t forget,” I said.
Eric had been jailed for possibly murdering a man involved in a food writers’ conference several years before. It had seemed absurd to me that a gentle, kind psychologist could have killed someone, but he had known something no one else did and had refused to speak up about what he knew. And that had made him look guilty. And the thought of that made me even more worried for Bill. If Eric had gotten caught in that kind of web, anyone could.
“You have to tell the authorities everything,” I told him. “Anything you remember. Any theory you come up with. Even if it feels uncomfortable, you’ll tell them, right?”
“Right,” he said briskly. “You know, I’m beat. I’m going to bed.” He pushed the dogs aside and marched into the house.
“I’d better go after him,” Eric said. “We’ll touch base tomorrow.”
* * *
I rode back up the island to Houseboat Row, wondering how I’d ever sleep, as wound up as I was feeling. I texted Lorenzo to see if he was around. He reads tarot cards every night for the tourists who visit the Mallory Square sunset celebration. Some of his customers are simply tipsy people out for a lark. But many are normally grounded people who feel lost in their lives, basically underadvised. They recognize him as a person who has a deeper connection to the universe than most folks. Someone who might help them find direction. I’ve gone to him many times myself—and found him to be a wizard.
Once the sun sets and the crowds clear out of Mallory Square, he hauls his card table and accoutrements to a little nook on Duval Street to continue offering his services. According to Lorenzo, drinking and tarot are not a good combination. And drinking prevails on Duval. But like the rest of us who live here, he does what he has to to make a living in paradise.
All of that to say, I figured he’d probably be awake.
ANY CHANCE YOU COULD COME BY THE HOUSEBOAT FOR BREAKFAST TOMORROW? 7:30? BACON AND CHEDDAR SCRAMBLE AND BISCUITS? I NEED HELP.
He texted back almost immediately.
OF COURSE.
I felt a lot calmer after he replied—knowing he was out there in my world and that I’d see him in person in the morning. After pouring a half glass of white wine, I sat out on the deck listening to the sounds of the night—the slapping of water on fiberglass, the tinkle of Mrs. Renhart’s wind chimes, harmonizing with ours. And finally, from inside my own boat, the distinctively sweet sound of snoring in triple time, two cats and one old lady.
Chapter Nine
I can only talk about things I’ve experienced first-hand. I’m the kind of person who’d have to get into the pan with the potatoes in order to give my opinion on French fries.
—Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop
I got up early to fry the bacon, slice scallions, and grate cheese for Lorenzo’s eggs. A fresh pot of coffee brewed while I measured flour and baking powder and a pinch of salt for the biscuits. I cut a stick of butter into the dry mixture, added a dollop of milk, and mushed it all into a shaggy dough. I rolled that out into a rough rectangle and cut it into twelve biscuits. When the timer on the oven dinged to announce it had reached the right temperature, I popped the pan into the oven. What he didn’t finish, we could freeze. One of life’s little pleasures was finding a stray biscuit in the freezer when I most needed it.
Since I needed to eat at El Siboney for the Key Zest review, it would be wise to avoid the temptation of a full breakfast. Though avoiding temptation was not my strong suit. Or so both my father and Nathan might say. And that thought, coupling the two most prominent men in my life together, brought an uncomfortable zing of recognition. Somehow I’d chosen a boyfriend who resembled my father, even though externally they appeared nothing alike. That wasn’t all bad—my father was a good guy and he loved me. However, he was quick to leap to judgment, especially if he thought I was acting foolhardy. Nathan Bransford all over.
And my father had walked out on me and Mom when I was a kid. He’d tried to stay involved in child-rearing, but I hadn’t seen him as much as I’d wished. Whether it made fair sense or not, I think I’d concluded that (a) Mom wasn’t serious enough for him and (b) I was very much like her, so (c) I’d been left too. And left with a little sliver of doubt about whether my father—or any man—would stick with me through thick and thin. After all, he bailed on my mother, right? Why wouldn’t I be next?
When the bacon was crispy, the
chopped onions were caramelized, and a mound of shredded cheddar was ready to add to the eggs, I heard the soft “yoo-hoo” of Lorenzo as he trotted down the finger that led to our boat. I pulled the biscuits from the oven and went to greet him. Schnootie, the old Schnauzer on the boat next to ours, burst into a cacophony of hoarse woofs. She could no longer see or hear that well, but when she sensed movement or picked up an unusual scent, she sprang into guardian action.
Lorenzo called out a friendly hello to the dog and Mrs. Renhart, who’d come out to see about the fuss. “It smells divine all the way from the parking lot,” he said once inside the cabin. He leaned in to kiss my cheek.
“Grab some coffee, and either sit here while I cook the eggs or go out and enjoy the morning.”
He poured himself a steaming cup and added a glug of milk. “I’ll keep you company. The loonies were out last night,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to talk to someone sane.”
I laughed. “Not all parties would agree with that assessment.”
He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and his curly hair in disarray. Which made me feel immediately guilty for dragging him out of bed so early. I imagined that in some ways, his job was like that of a therapist. Or a cop. So many problems were presented over the course of a workday, he couldn’t help but absorb some negative energy along the way.
“Don’t worry,” he added with a little grin. “I know I usually keep vampire hours, but this morning I was up anyway.”
“You give me cold chills when you do that,” I said. “I knew you could read cards, but I didn’t know you could read my mind. If I need to block you out of some secrets, I’m going to have to get one of those lead dental aprons to wear over my head.”
“Wouldn’t work on me and you.” He chuckled and adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses to sit further up on his nose. Evinrude sprang onto the banquette, strutted over to Lorenzo, and began to butt his hand with his head. “I can’t read your mind, but I do know you pretty well.”
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