I bought that and also a book called Cuba! Recipes and Stories From the Cuban Kitchen. This was a beautiful hardcover with pictures of food that kicked my salivary glands into high gear.
On the way out, I remembered that Nancy Klingener’s radio studio was right here in The Studios of Key West building. I decided to take a detour and chat with her about what she might have noticed at the tour of the chugs yesterday morning. Would that count as investigating, which Torrence had warned me not to do? More like chatting with a friend. And besides, if I learned something crucial to solving the murder, I could pass it right on to the police, along with any residual guilt.
I exited using the back door of the bookstore, walked through the main gallery of TSKW, paused to admire local Key West artist John Martini’s eccentric metal sculptures, and went up the stairs to the second floor. I knocked and popped my head through the open door. Nancy was working at a laptop on her desk, set to the side of her recording equipment. Gorgeous photographs of the island were displayed on the walls above her.
“Do you have a second?” I asked. When she nodded, I stepped inside and gawked at more photos hung on the other walls—birds, Key West nature, and local island color. “These are amazing,” I said. “A local photographer?”
“My husband,” she said with a proud smile. “What can I help you with?”
“Nice job on the front page reporting on the visit to see the chugs yesterday,” I said. “I thought you were mostly radio?”
“I am,” she said. “Though we do post our stories often to Facebook. And when the print media comes knocking, I don’t turn them away.” Her eyebrows drew together over the top of her glasses. “You were there too. What’s your angle? How are you involved?” she asked, not sounding suspicious or hostile, more matter-of-fact.
I hemmed and hawed. “It’s complicated.” I sighed. “It’s not sheer nosiness, though the police probably think so. The whole conference thing has turned out to be such a disaster, and honestly the investigation appears to have stalled. Gabriel’s family asked me to keep my eyes and ears open, as they don’t believe the authorities care much about the outcome. Maybe you heard about how badly last night’s dinner went?”
She shook her head; she hadn’t. So I filled her in on the infighting.
“So I wondered whether you noticed anything at the garden that I didn’t.”
Her eyebrows peaked again. “Like what?”
“Things like tension between the attendees. Or maybe you overheard comments? Anything that might shed some light on the murder. Or the theft of the medal.”
“Do you have a personal stake in all of this?” she asked.
I squirmed a little; I could see what made her a good reporter.
“My mother had the catering gig for the weekend. And my friend Bill Averyt is one of the organizers. So if the conference bombed, so goes my mother’s catering business and Bill’s livelihood. But most painful to me would be disappointing Gabriel’s family.” I perched on one of the chairs in front of her desk without being invited. At least she hadn’t thrown me out.
“Everybody’s at each other’s throats, but I can’t really find a personal connection between Gabriel and any of these people,” I continued. “I’m kind of stuck on the disappearance of the medal and whether and how that might intersect with him getting killed. They weren’t absolutely linear timewise, but in the same ballpark.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
“Did someone need money so badly that they were willing to grab that gold? Did Gabriel witness the theft, and that happenstance get him killed? And if so, how did the rest of us miss it?”
I paused to give her a chance to comment on my stream of ideas. And realized in the short moment of silence that if he died because he saw something he shouldn’t have seen, it could have been any of us stabbed to death in that kitchen. It might have been absolutely random. A case of there but for the grace of god … I felt absolutely leaden with fear. But wouldn’t any of us have reported the theft immediately? Maybe he didn’t have the time …
Her reply cut off my scary line of thinking. “This has to be off the record,” she said, “because I haven’t had the chance to poke around and find enough evidence to substantiate the rumor.” She stopped and waited for me to agree. After I nodded, she said, “I have heard rumors from several sources that the Little White House Foundation might be in some financial hot water. Expensive repairs to the building were needed this summer, rentals of the facility were down, and they spent too much on a couple of premier events.”
“So who would be on the hook for that?”
She shrugged her shoulders, took off her glasses, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate to even say this, because he’s a friend of mine. But Bob Wolz leads the charge over there. And don’t get me wrong, he’s done wonderful work as the executive director of the foundation. He has been very involved in restoration, as well as developing educational exhibits.”
“Aside from Hemingway Home, it’s my favorite place to visit on the island,” I said. “I learn something new about our history every time I take that little tour.”
Nancy tapped her fingers on her desk. “I admired his plans for this Havana/Key West conference. We are so close to Cuba that we definitely should have some connections. And we share common assets. And if we don’t share common problems now, we will in the future. Tourism, the environment, they were hitting all the right notes.”
Again she paused, waiting to see if I was following. “But?”
“But look at the way the opening night was presented. Did it need to be that lavish? I know they wanted to make a splash, but can you imagine what it cost to bring in Jimmy Buffett and President Obama? The line item for security alone must have been off the charts. I bet they were staggering numbers.”
“Yes. I had the distinct feeling there was a lot at stake here, and they felt they needed a big fuss to attract the right donors, now and in the future.”
She turned her laptop so we could both see the screen. “But here’s the thing. I do a fair amount of surfing through financial records filed by the nonprofits in our community. Because you never know where you might stumble across a story. An interested citizen can find a lot of fascinating information right there in plain sight.”
She clicked through a couple of screens until she reached the website of the Community Foundation of the Florida Keys, and from there to the Little White House Foundation, and from there she brought up a page filled with pie charts and a spreadsheet of numbers. Small numbers. Lots of them. “You should study this if you’re interested in the subject, as you seem to be. I can send you the link.”
“Wow. Looking at those might cause my brain to freeze,” I said with a chuckle. “My father has always been disgusted by my lack of mathematical skills. But I come by this honestly—directly from my mother.”
She began to get the glazed look on her face that suggested that, once again, I was yammering mindlessly. “Enough about me. Yes, please send it.” I recited my email address. “But it sounds like you were saying you noticed something off about the Little White House Foundation?”
“According to these numbers, in the red in a big way,” she said flatly. “In other words, more than a lot was likely riding on this fancy weekend. They were desperately in need of a big influx of cash.”
“Which does explain why Bob was so upset last night. But what’s the worst that could happen? We get a new executive director? Isn’t the White House itself listed on the historical registry, safe and sound?”
“Not so fast,” said Nancy. “The structure is protected, but maybe not the property surrounding it. Assuming that’s the case, what if a far-thinking developer gets the idea that he could lease or even buy the property and build more condos? You weren’t in town when Pritam Singh bought up all the land where the Truman Annex lies now. No one else had the vision to see what it could become. And now it might be the most desirable real estate on this island. And it made him a for
tune.”
I chewed my lip. “More condos in that location would go for a lot of money.”
She nodded slowly. “Boatloads of money. And a slick presentation could ensure people involved both with zoning and with the state that the Little White House would remain in position, untouched. I’m sure a case could be made that it might even be improved by the influx of cash. An historical site in the tropics takes oodles of cash to maintain.”
“It makes me sick to think about it, though,” I said. “No wonder Bill and Bob are so upset.”
I left the office confused about what this new insight could have to do with the murder. And more determined than ever to find out what had really happened this weekend. Perhaps a good start would be visiting every guest I didn’t really know from last night’s dinner. Since I was so close to Caroline Street, I decided to start at Dana Sebek’s dive shop.
Chapter Twenty
“Oh dear, no, I can’t possibly eat that,” she said, her voice gone dangerously sweet. Sweet as icebox pie. Sweet as sugar tea.
—Joshilyn Jackson, The Almost Sisters
Dana looked completely different than she had in the official meetings and parties throughout the conference. No sequins, no tulle, no flowery girl dresses. She wore tan hiking shorts, a crisp white T-shirt, and serious water sandals. As I came into the shop, she was helping a customer sort through shelves of masks and bins of snorkel fins.
“I’ll be with you in a few,” she told me with a friendly smile.
I wandered around the edges of the small shop, looking at flippers and masks and tanks and wetsuits. And then, since the chances of me going scuba diving were zero, I studied the photos on her wall. Most of them were underwater pictures of colorful coral reefs, tropical fish, and even the dreaded invasive lionfish. Another wall was covered with photos of Jimmy Buffett and his band, and his fans in bright tie-dyed shirts and funny hats featuring stuffed animals. She scared the heck out of me when she approached me from behind.
“You know, those spiny lobsters are absolutely delicious, by the way. We love the lionfish too, though it’s a harder sell because they’re so ugly.”
I pointed to the photo right in front of me, a happy-looking man who posed with a pack of dogs of various shapes and sizes. He wore a gray felt hat shaped like a shark and his T-shirt read IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE. “Who’s this character?” I asked.
“That’s my husband, Joe,” she said.
I looked at her with astonishment. “And these are all your dogs?
She laughed. “No way, he drives for Mobile Mutts. He picks up dogs that have been rescued all over Florida and delivers them to no-kill shelters or foster homes. He’s my hero. Though if I’d allow it, he’d move them all in.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you from a paying customer,” I said, gesturing at the man who appeared to have left without buying anything. “I came to ask you some questions about the conference.”
She nodded. “Not a problem. That fellow couldn’t find anything right with any of my equipment. I finally figured out that he’s been reading about all the weekend warriors who come down here to snorkel or dive and end up dying of heart attacks. It doesn’t happen that often, but of course it always makes the newspaper. Turns out, he never learned to swim.”
I shivered, imagining how terrifying it would be to go underwater with only a tank of air on my back and no confidence that I could make it back to the boat. “That would take the fun out of spending the day in the water.”
“Absolutely. So I referred him to our resident swimming lesson expert, Steven Callahan, and told him I’ll be here to sell him equipment and set up a trip when he’s ready. Steve didn’t learn to swim until late middle age—and he was afraid of the water. You should never overestimate the effects of fear on any situation. Our bodies are designed to react quickly to fear, flooding us with adrenaline, and that causes sweating, rapid heartbeat, weakness … And as a result, people tend to panic, as he knows well. So he understands what people are facing. He has a one hundred percent success rate with my hapless customers so far.” She had a good belly laugh—not laughing at her customer, but laughing with him.
All very interesting, but somehow I needed to get her to explain her presence at the conference. “I was curious about why you’re so interested in Cuba?” I figured if I asked a general question, she wouldn’t feel as though I was accusing her of anything.
She squinted, studying my face. “I thought I recognized you, even before you sat down with us last night. You were one of the caterers—the food was delicious.”
“Thanks,” I said. “My mother deserves most of the credit. She’s the chef, I’m just a minion. I’m actually a writer for Key Zest magazine, doing a background story on effects of Cuban culture on our island. That’s why I came to talk with you.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’d be happy to help with that. It’s so important that we make a connection with the Cuban people. You may know that they have the world’s only untouched coral reef. And this is because their government hasn’t allowed fishing and tourism and manufacturing to ruin it. My concern, and not only mine, is that if the wrong people weasel their way into that situation, that reef could be devastated.” She was shaking her finger and her voice had gotten loud. The freckles on her face popped into greater relief as her face flushed bright pink.
“Not only would it be a special place to visit, but we could learn so much about the way it’s been preserved. And that information could be critical to helping us understand what we can do to bring ours back. If that’s possible. It’s like the other treasures that might be opening up in Cuba—they can be protected or they can be decimated. The jury is out.”
“So you’re basically an environmentalist?”
She laughed again. “I’m not totally altruistic. I realized when this conference was first being proposed that if my shop could team up with some Cuban boats, we could offer amazing trips. Other water sports vendors in Key West were very interested in this kind of opportunity too.”
“So you were representing Key West boating and fishing types—I imagine there are a lot of them. Who did you have to lobby to get selected?”
She grimaced and crossed her muscular arms over her chest, studying me. “I suspect your mother went through a similar process—a proposal of interest with supporting references, including the green light from the Chamber of Commerce. I made it very plain that while I did have a dog in this fight, I could also speak for the other vendors.” She paused and leaned in closer. “I had another motive, though.”
Good gravy, what now?
“My husband and I are huge fans of Jimmy Buffett’s music. Parrot Heads through and through. You probably didn’t know because we keep these things quiet so that outsiders don’t rush him, but the local club had a meet and greet with Jimmy Friday night after the conference. Honest to gosh, it was a life list experience. And the only way I could be sure to get tickets was to be working at this conference. So I pushed hard to get accepted.”
She led me back to the checkout counter of the shop and pointed to a signed photograph that hung on the wall behind the cash register. Dana and her husband wore colorful hats with parrots on them, along with a James Bond–style tuxedo for him and a sequined sheath for her. Jimmy Buffett, the famous singer who’d gotten a huge career boost from his songs about Key West—and also put the city on the tourism map—had his arms around their shoulders.
Unless my bad-guy radar was completely off base, I thought she sounded sincere. “How did you feel the conference went overall?” I asked.
“You were there last night,” she said. “Very little good could come out of that. And the murder put a damper on everything.”
“Such a tragic situation,” I said. “Did you know Gabriel?”
She was quick to shake her head. “Have you heard anything about an arrest?”
“Nothing, other than what was in the paper this morning. And they like to keep up an optimistic front when there’s bee
n a tragedy. Understandably. I’m sure the police have already asked you, but you have a different perspective on the events than most people, as one of the attendees. Weren’t you there for the Little White House tour on the first day when people realized the medal was missing?”
She nodded, but her brown eyes narrowed. “Did you say that this interview was for a piece on Cuban influence on Key West? You seem very curious about the murder.”
What could I say? I explained my connection to Gabriel’s family, without mentioning what Irena had said this morning—that Maria seemed scared witless.
“I told his cousin I wouldn’t give up, so that brings me to you. Did you notice anything off? Someone who wasn’t acting the way you might have expected?”
She slid onto the stool that sat behind the checkout counter. “Naturally, there was tension right from the beginning. I’m sure you saw the protesters outside the Southard Street gates?”
I nodded my head yes, hoping she’d have more than general impressions. More descriptions of the police and Secret Service presence weren’t going to help me figure out what happened.
“Were you seated close to the back of the Little White House during dinner Friday night?” I hadn’t remembered seeing her near the kitchen or the restrooms, but the night was so chaotic and I’d been so caught up in dancing and waiting on tables and gawking at the celebrities that I must have missed many details.
She folded her arms over her chest again, for the first time looking uncomfortable. “To tell the truth, I was a little upset being seated practically on top of the restrooms. Though we did get served first and had excellent access to the bar, which I may have utilized a little too freely.” She grinned. “Throbbing headache all day Saturday. I was actually in the ladies’ room when all the hubbub erupted. I was shocked when I came rushing out and saw everyone on the ground.”
Death on the Menu Page 15