Chapter Seventeen
“A writer’s personality is revealed by her connection to food,” said Olivia. “Some people are feeders and some are withholders.”
—Lucy Burdette, Death in Four Courses
I heard Sam announce to the guests outside on the lawn that the dinner was about to be served in the dining room. He ushered them in the front door and into the space where Jimmy Carter once hosted dinner with his family, where Harry Truman must have eaten many times with his wife and daughter and, more frequently, his cabinet along with members of the press. I filled the crystal water glasses on the table from a green pitcher on the sideboard. At that point, I realized there were five empty chairs.
“Should I take up the place settings so it isn’t so obvious we’re missing people?” I asked Bill in a whisper.
“There’s no point in trying to hide it,” he said. “Everyone’s well aware.” He didn’t have to add another word because his face said it all—the big crescendo of the weekend was flatlining.
As my mother chatted and showed people to their seats and asked them about their preference for red or white wine, I went back in the kitchen to help Sam and Officer Tim plate the food. First we settled several slices of the roast on the dishes, then topped this with a spoonful of onions, soft enough to almost melt into the meat. Miss Gloria added a scoop of white rice followed by the black beans and then the perfectly sweet roasted bananas.
Sam picked up two of the plates to carry out to the dining room as my mother came springing back through the door.
“Easy,” he said. “We almost had a casualty here.”
My mother brushed past him and turned to me. “Isabella Diaz wants you to sit at the table during dinner. Since Rusty’s wife didn’t show up, along with the four Cuban people, there are too many men and five empty seats. She says it’s terribly awkward and her husband is in a terrible mood, and Bill thinks it’s a good idea too.” She had a pleading look on her face. “We can handle everything from here. Please, whatever it takes to make this a success, we need to do it.”
“It would make more sense for Miss Gloria to go,” I said. “She probably needs the rest and she’s a lot more lively than I am.”
“I don’t need any rest,” my roommate said. “You keep saying that and it might get on my last nerve.”
“Besides—” Sam shrugged. “If she asked for you, you should be the one to go.”
“I’ll be keeping a close eye on everything if you’re worried about getting into trouble,” the policeman said.
“But I’m not dressed for a party.” I gestured at the spotted apron and plucked at my hair, which had frizzed to an auburn nimbus in the usual Key West humidity. “The other women are all dressed up. And on top of that, it would be too weird. I’m one of the servers; they are the honored guests.”
I looked at the faces around me, all three of them hopeful. And thought about how much more I might hear actually sitting at the table than ferrying dishes in and out of the kitchen. “Okay.” I pulled the apron over my head, folded it, and set it on the table.
“Here, take a seat for a minute,” said my mother. “We’ll jazz you up a little bit.”
I slumped into the chair that she was patting. She took off her own string of pearls and fastened them around my neck. Miss Gloria hurried over with a hairbrush and my mother’s makeup bag, and they buffed me up with blush and a swipe of lip gloss. Then my mother brushed my hair and tied it back away from my face with the green ribbon she’d had in her own hair.
“As good as gold,” said Miss Gloria, grinning.
I took a big breath in and pushed through the swinging door to the dining room. All the diners turned to look at me.
“Hayley, we’re so delighted you could join us!” exclaimed Mrs. Diaz. “I need someone to chat recipes with, and these fellows are simply not foodies. And Miss Sebek is busy talking fishing with the men. Leaving me in this wasteland devoid of female niceties.”
She flashed another bright smile, and I slid into the empty seat next to Turner and across from her. Then I shook out the folded napkin that was at my place and bared my teeth into an answering smile.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said.
“At least this way, we know the food isn’t poisoned,” said Turner. He winked.
“Funny guy,” I muttered under my breath.
Sam and my mother emerged from the kitchen with the last few plates, and Sam circled around the table, filling the wine glasses that had been quickly emptied. “Bon appétit,” said my mother. “Oh my goodness, I should have learned how to say that in Spanish! But we hope you enjoy your dinner.”
“Gracias,” said the mayor’s wife. “You could say buen apetito or buen provecho.”
They hurried back through the door leading to the kitchen, and I yearned to follow them. For a few moments I heard mostly the clinking of silverware against plates and the gurgling of wine.
“The roast pork is phenomenal,” said Eric from his perch at the end of the table. “Are you willing to share the recipe?”
“I’m betting it’s marinated in our traditional sour orange juice with plenty of garlic,” said the mayor’s wife.
I nodded. “We’ve had such fun this weekend trying traditional Cuban recipes.”
“When I visited Havana last year,” said Turner, “the food choices seemed to be quite limited. I suspect that the government rations have had a distinctly and deliberately negative effect. Don’t you think so, Mayor Diaz?”
What in the world was wrong with this man? Certainly, he was drinking, but so was everyone else at the table. Did that explain his behavior, or was he deliberately trying to be rude and offensive? If so, to what purpose? Fortunately, Bob was seated at the other end of the table, as he would have had heart failure if he’d heard.
“So what was your favorite part of Key West?” Eric asked, noticing the Havana mayor’s red face. “In some ways it must feel familiar, and in other ways, quite foreign.”
“Here’s hoping it was Hemingway’s house,” said Rusty, raising his wine glass in a toast and then draining the last bit. All the guests turned to the mayor, waiting for his answer.
Dana took a sip of her wine and then said, “While he’s thinking this over, may I be candid here?” She didn’t wait long enough to allow anyone to say no. “I absolutely adore the cats at the Hemingway Home and find the man and his romantic escapades endlessly fascinating. But I don’t enjoy reading his books.”
She’d said this loudly enough to suck the wind from the room. As far as I knew, people in Key West and Havana did not criticize the master’s writing. If they didn’t care for it, they kept that opinion to themselves.
“Take The Old Man and the Sea, which I read last week because of this conference and because, after all, he did win the Nobel prize for it. Isn’t it the writers’ mantra that you’re supposed to show rather than tell? But he goes all blah, blah, blah, telling us the old man is simple, but too simple to know he’s humble, and so on. Doesn’t that break all the conventions of good writing?”
I hadn’t read this book—though I wasn’t about to admit it. It hadn’t come up in college, where I’d been most interested in culinary subjects. And lately, I’d been too busy with Key Zest and helping my mother get ready for the weekend to do any extra reading. The closest I’d come to The Old Man and the Sea was visiting the Custom House Museum, where Hemingway’s words were inscribed on the walls leading up to the second floor, showcased along with wonderful pen-and-ink sketches by Guy Harvey based on that very book.
“Maybe you have to be a man to love Hemingway,” said Rusty. “All the macho posturing about war and bullfighting—testosterone helps with that.” He rapped his fists on his chest like a big gorilla.
Mrs. Diaz laughed. “I loved The Old Man and the Sea. I don’t know what that says about my hormone levels.” She beamed at her husband. “Anyway, you asked about our favorite part of Key West. I did a bit of walking this afternoon. I adored the little nei
ghborhoods with the wood homes decorated with gingerbread trim. Some of the woodwork is astonishingly intricate. And then all your little bursts of tropical foliage—those remind me of home. When I was finally able to drag my husband away from his work”—she patted his arm—“he admired your quaint harbor.”
“What kinds of fish do the Cuban people love most?” Dana asked. “Here on this island, I would say yellowtail and grouper are prized for eating. I wonder how different it is in Havana?”
There was a dead silence for a few moments, and I wondered what land mine she had stepped on this time.
“The Cubans aren’t allowed to go fishing,” said Turner.
There was more pained silence in the group. I could imagine that the Castro government had preferred to limit access to boats so that people wouldn’t use them to run for America. I could also imagine that the cost of power boats and fancy sport-fishing gear would be prohibitive for regular citizens. But why, why, why bring this all up at a dinner party planned around the concept of opening doors and cementing neighborly relations? I tried to focus on remembering every detail of the back-and-forth rather than on how uncomfortable I was feeling.
“I’m sure they eat fish,” Eric said calmly. “Cuba is an island.”
Finally Mrs. Diaz spoke up again. “If I might correct Mr. Markham’s statement a bit, it’s that the Cuban people don’t ordinarily have the financial resources for sport fishing. But you will definitely see our countrymen fishing from the breakwaters and jetties right in the city.”
Bill added, “I imagine that’s one of the aspects of life that will change as the country slowly embraces commerce. I can understand why the authorities didn’t much like people owning boats when emigration was such a powerful force. Now that the agreement between the countries has changed and the wet-foot, dry-foot law is no longer a factor, I should think access to boats will open up. Am I wrong?”
The image of those heartrending chugs at the botanical garden sprang to my mind again.
“Enough!” said Mayor Diaz. He threw his napkin on the table and pushed his chair away. “Enough about all the problems and deprivations of the Cuban people, and how you do this and that better. I’m finished here.” He threw a steely look at his wife, her horrified face and her sparkly sequins suddenly stark in the overhead light.
She glanced around the table, her expression apologetic. “I’m afraid we will be leaving.” She came around the table, put her hand on my shoulder, and smiled. “I’m so sad that we will miss your mojito cake. I’m certain it will be devastatingly delicious, and I will regret its absence for the rest of my life. And finally I shall write my memoir: The Middle-Aged Woman and the Cake, by Isabella Diaz. It will be my fish that got away. Oh dear, that was a terribly awkward joke. I’m so sorry about all of this. Buenos noches.”
They swept out of the room, past the Secret Service booth where the police officers had been stationed during the meal. I could hear the mayor’s angry Spanish all the way outside.
Bob pushed away from the table and leapt up, then barreled down to my end. “What is the matter with you people?” Sweat popped out on his forehead and he wiped it away with his sleeve. “Are you deliberately trying to sabotage all the groundwork we’ve laid for months and months? And do you not realize how important the connection is between us and their country?”
“No disrespect intended,” said Rusty, “But I don’t believe Mayor Diaz had any intention of working with us. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who pocketed the gold medal on Friday.”
Bob sputtered as he turned to Rusty, his spittle spraying onto me. “Are you mad?” He turned back to Eric. “You’re the expert; have these people gone mad?”
Now Eric got to his feet and held his hands out in a calming gesture. “Let’s everyone take a few slow and deep breaths,” he suggested in his most soothing therapist voice. I knew it well from the times he’d used it on me when I was barely clinging to the cliff of sanity. “Maybe we can salvage something from this evening if we all work together.”
“Why in the world do you think the mayor would have pocketed a medal that already belonged to his country in the first place?” Turner asked Rusty. “In what universe does that make any sense? I was a little hard on him, I admit. But I finally got tired of his Eeyore grumbling. I didn’t hear one word about any projects that might have benefited our town.”
Dana said, “I believe you shot yourself in the foot, my friend. Making some deals about common fishing grounds where the grouper and yellowtail still roam, that would have been amazing. And how about permission to study their coral reef? That could have benefited all of us. Have you not read the news about reefs dying everywhere? One third of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef is bleached white, for heaven’s sake.”
Turner gave her a dismissive wave. “He was never going to lobby for anything that gave the U.S. any special access to something belonging to Cuba. I doubt very much that he even has the power to make changes. That’s not how it works in his country. This whole event was a waste of time and money.”
I thought he had a point, though bluntly and rather cruelly stated.
“Do you think Harry Truman settled everything in a weekend?” asked Bob, his words rising into an outraged squeak.
He stormed out of the dining room toward the stairs leading to the bedroom area where his office was located. Eric and Bill exchanged more horrified glances, excused themselves, and bolted after him.
I returned to the kitchen, where the others were carefully tipping slices of my amazing cake onto individual plates garnished with more mint. “Hold the dessert. There is no way to sweeten up that crowd. What few there are left.”
“What’s happened?” Officer Tim asked, stepping away from the cake to peer into the dining room.
“It’s over,” I said, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen chairs.
My mother began to cry. Sam hugged her and tried to comfort her, while I reported in a hoarse whisper on the conversations that had culminated in the mayor exiting with his wife.
“Sounds like those men were behaving like horse’s asses,” Miss Gloria said. “Though why would the mayor steal something that already belonged to his country?”
“That’s exactly what Turner wondered.” I dragged a finger through the whipped cream on the nearest piece of cake.
“Maybe because the medal was in the custody of the Catholic Church rather than the government, where he might have felt it belonged,” Sam mused. “So this whole weekend could have been excellent cover to steal it back.”
“And what if he was afraid he’d be found out and was looking for an excuse to cut out as soon as possible?” I asked. “Maybe that would explain why he’s been such a sourpuss.” I turned to our undercover cop. “Better text Torrence and let him know that the mayor shouldn’t be allowed to leave the country until his belongings are searched. Yikes! That’s going to go over like a sack of three-day-old dead bait fish.”
Chapter Eighteen
Restaurant reviewing is a parade of the extraordinary, a half-dozen special-occasion meals each week. You hear a hundred explanations of how to order, smile your thanks at a thousand amuse bouches, read a million back-of-the-menu culinary manifestos. I texted to my boyfriend on my way from the office to review a dinner: I’m so tired of fois gras. He replied: Read back to yourself what you just typed. You can have too much of a good thing.
—Helen Rosner, “On Chicken Tenders,” Guernica, June 2015
I woke up the next morning to a cacophony of barking, hissing, and the shrieks of a child. Based on the scent of coffee and fishy cat food along with the cheerful note on the counter, I deduced that Miss Gloria was already fully caffeinated, had fed the kitties, and had gone off on her senior citizen walk with Mrs. Dubisson. Feeling instantly guilty about having canceled my appointments with Leigh at the gym this week, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went outside to investigate the morning ruckus and prepare to summarize my impressions of the night before
for Torrence.
On the deck of their houseboat, Mrs. Renhart’s two elderly cats were circling around her old Schnauzer, growling and hissing. The dog crouched low, barking furiously. A few feet away on the wooden catwalk, my friend Connie’s baby was pointing and laughing from her perch on her mother’s back.
“Good morning,” Connie called. “I hope we didn’t wake you. We’re on our way to the playground, but we couldn’t pass up the show.”
“I had to get up anyway—I have two articles to turn in by the end of the day.”
“How was the conference?” She peered more closely at my face. “You look a little tired.”
“Honestly? I’m exhausted.” I hopped up onto the wooden catwalk, gave my friend a hug, and kissed the baby’s pudgy hand. She smiled and gurgled and kicked her legs in reply. “Catering is not for the faint of heart. Especially when we lost three of my mother’s workers the first evening. And the wrap-up dinner party last night was an unmitigated disaster.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Poor Janet. This was a big deal for her. Did the police figure out who was responsible for that murder?”
“As far as I know, they haven’t even narrowed the field.” I had the urge to tell her everything, which I usually did. But for once I imagined that the KWPD would appreciate some discretion. Though I could hint, right? “Unfortunately, the Cuban visitors are flying home today. Though I suppose that if one of them was a serious suspect, they’d be detained. Imagine the international chaos that could cause!”
The baby grunted and fussed and struggled to get out of the carrier that Connie had strapped to her back. “Let’s have a drink tomorrow and you can tell me everything,” Connie said. “I’ll get Ray to babysit. He’s been out so much, between painting commissions and working on his new studio, that I’m due for some adult time.”
“Come here,” I said, “we’ve got some nice rosé. And my mother was lamenting last night that she’d overestimated the hors d’oeuvres we needed for the party. She cooked for forty instead of twelve. You won’t believe her empanadas. And she and Miss Gloria will want to see you, too.”
Death on the Menu Page 13