Death on the Menu

by Lucy Burdette

  From this side of the cut, I could see my ex’s condominium complex again, the same buildings that backed up to the Truman Little White House. A few lights had flickered on, but most of the apartments were still dark. I wished I were back in my berth, a purring cat stretched along my side. I drove along the edge of the foliage, one hand on my phone ready to punch 911 if needed, and headed down to the end of the pier, where the pass-through ended. This was definitely a fishing destination. When I first arrived on the island, I’d been astonished to see a man dressed as Elvis casting his line into the water.

  Why in the world would Maria have come out here in the pitch-dark? Something to do with her brother’s killer—that was the only reason I could imagine. Which made the urgency for me not to do something stupid more salient in my reptile brain. My heart began to pound harder and my mouth felt suddenly dry. I made it all the way to the end without seeing any sign of her, nor of any possible assailant. I crossed the last few yards of concrete to the water.

  Just on the other side of the jetty, where one of the water sports companies stored their standby Jet Skis, I spotted something bobbing in the water. Not something, someone. A glob of seaweed and assorted trash obscured the face, but the hair was coal black like Maria’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Come along inside … We’ll see if tea and buns can make the world a better place.

  —Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

  Maybe five minutes had passed since I’d dialed 911 and reported the presence of a body. I crouched behind a palm tree trunk along the edge of the concrete, listening to the splash of water on cement, listening for sirens over the chattering of my teeth, trying not to think about whether it really was Maria and whether she’d already drawn her last breath. And whether I was in danger now too if someone thought I knew too much.

  “A body?” the dispatcher had asked. “Are you sure it’s a body? Is this person alive or dead?”

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t get close enough to her to check this out. But I wasn’t feeling optimistic. Two police cars came screaming across the pier, followed by one of our fire department’s ambulances. It occurred to me that I should text Nathan now, rather than having him hear about this through the grapevine.

  DROWNING WOMAN. MURDER VICTIM’S SISTER. PAST THE INGHAM NAVY BIGHT. I’M HERE.

  “Where is she?” the cops yelled as they flung themselves out of their vehicles and I came out of my hiding place to meet them.

  I pointed.

  A young cop with a blond buzz cut hopped onto the fence separating the pier from the cut, where the woman floated. He propelled himself over, landing in a crouch, one foot on a Jet Ski and one in the water. He caught his balance and leaped to a paddleboat, closer to the woman. Another cop passed him what looked like a pool skimmer. He leaned over the water and nudged the woman closer.

  “I could be wrong, but I think she’s breathing,” he called as he pulled her closer. “Possible head injury. Bring the stretcher and the C-collar.” As he tipped her head out of the water, I saw a stream of seawater gush from her mouth. The other cop and the paramedics hoisted a stretcher over the fence and onto the paddleboat. They gently loaded her onto the stretcher, and the paramedic began to administer CPR.

  As they carried the stretcher over the fence, onto the pier, and into the ambulance, Nathan’s SUV pulled up alongside me. I felt an instant flood of relief mixed with the tiniest bit of trepidation. He sprang out of the vehicle and clasped my shoulders.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “Just shook up.”

  He didn’t say anything more, only hugged me hard and fast. Then he lifted his right eyebrow and leaned in to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

  He jogged over to chat with the officer, who was soaking wet from the waist down, as they watched Maria’s stretcher slide into the back of the ambulance. Once they’d closed the doors and sped away, Nathan returned to me.

  “You called this in.”

  I nodded.

  “And you found her by accident? You were out for a morning drive?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not exactly.” I explained how Irena had called me, and what her aunt believed that Maria might have said, and how we’d made this plan to take a quick survey of piers based on what Carmen had reported. “A total long shot. I never thought I would actually stumble across her. The plan was to call the cops as soon as we surveyed the possibilities and didn’t find her.” I shrugged, then wrapped my arms around my shoulders, as I was beginning to shiver.

  “And that’s it, you have no idea who made the phone call or what this is in reference to?”

  “No idea, although it’s hard not to make a connection between this and her brother’s murder. Right? Two people in the same family brutally attacked? It can’t be coincidence.” Based on the Weather Channel report I’d watched last night with Miss Gloria, it couldn’t have been much colder than seventy degrees. But it felt like thirty.

  When he noticed me shivering, Nathan gave me another quick hug, then held me at arm’s length, his hands on my shoulders. “We’ll need you to come down to the station and give us a statement. Do you have time for that later this morning?”

  I nodded.

  He pulled me close again, this time for long enough that I could feel the warmth of his body solid against mine. “I’m glad you’re okay. For now, I suggest you go home, take a hot shower and get a cup of coffee, and maybe a breakfast sandwich, extra bacon, extra crispy.”

  That made me smile, though his gaze was level and his tone flat.

  “Later on, we’ll talk about how you could have been killed by the same person who attacked her.” He walked back to the cut to talk to the other cops.

  But how could he not be annoyed? I would’ve been annoyed with me for taking a risk. On the other hand, if Maria did survive, it might be thanks to the fact that I’d arrived exactly when I did.

  When I reached my scooter, I texted Irena.

  FOUND HER. I THINK SHE’LL BE OKAY. TAKE CARMEN AND MEET THE POLICE AND EMTS AT THE HOSPITAL. I’M GOING TO RUN HOME THEN WILL JOIN YOU.

  Irena texted me back when I was warming my bones in the shower. Maria had been transferred to the ICU, and there was no point in showing up at the hospital now. If she was able to speak later or if they had some other news (darker, I assumed), I would be the first one she’d contact.

  I seesawed back and forth about whether staying home was the right thing to do when a woman’s life lay on the line. But I couldn’t help with that, plus, I had articles to write. A job to keep. Hovering around the waiting room pouring my anxiety into the stew of feelings that was already bubbling would not help anyone.

  I drove back to town, parked behind Preferred Properties, and trudged upstairs to Key Zest. Even early-bird Danielle was not in yet, so no coffee, no doughnuts. Then I remembered that she and Wally were presenting at the Chamber of Commerce open house and were not expected back until after lunch. I started the coffee maker and raided Danielle’s emergency snack drawer for a half sleeve of Oreo cookies. Coffee and cookies in hand, I shut my door, glanced over my sheaf of notes, and tried to plan an attack on the day.

  I worked for several hours formulating the draft of the article about the influence of Cuban culture on Key West. Without parroting the entire history of the two islands, I noodled over the contradictions between them. How Havana had started out as a glittering Camelot—a place for steamy nights and sultry music and tropical food, and how that had changed as the political regime changed and Cubans began to leave to escape oppressive government policies. How some saw Havana as a golden treasure winking with promise while others saw her as a fruit rotting from the inside out.

  I wrote about roast pork and flan and the best coffee in the world bridging the gap between those views—and carrying the memories of home for people yearning to revisit their homeland.

  All of this brought me circling back to Carmen and the tragedies of her family. It was hard not to sh
oot off on thought tangents. My mind kept returning to the political conflicts, including the passionate disagreement between a contingent of Cuban-Americans who felt that supporting their former country essentially resulted in feeding a wicked government, versus the people who believed and possibly lived the idea that punishing the government really punished her people. As far as I could tell, there was no single truth. The intractable knottiness of the problem—never mind what our own country’s politicians decided to do—left me feeling sick and sad.

  As I wrote, I grew hungrier and hungrier. The store-bought cookies were not enough to stem the tide. I should take a break, grab a bite. Who knew if I’d be needed later at the hospital, or when they’d want me at the police station? On the other hand, all of this was due tonight. I switched gears and looked over my notes for the Cuban food piece—skimpy at best. I had eaten at El Siboney and sampled a smattering of Cuban mix sandwiches. And those sandwiches and my recipe had now been written up in a separate article. Using that material twice would not earn me a coveted spot in Best Food Writing, nor the accolades of my bosses.

  Feeling guilty about writing a column mentioning only one real restaurant, lost about questions around Maria’s attack, and now officially starving, I had the bright idea of having a bite at Frita’s Cuban Burger Café. I could solve all my problems—or most of them—with one quick stop.

  * * *

  Located in the block of Southard just below Duval Street, Frita’s doesn’t look like much from the street. A prospective diner can order standing outside on the sidewalk or step inside. Dining options are sitting at one of the picnic-style tables outside by the grill or eating inside a cavelike room decorated with a dizzying array of Cuban artifacts and artwork. To taste a variety of things on the menu, I ordered the famous Frita’s Cuban burger, a mango, pineapple, and avocado salad with grilled shrimp, a chocolate milkshake, and a flan. Then I went inside to take a seat in the deserted dining area, soaking in the bright colors and mementos from Cuba—artwork, a painted coconut, a napkin holder shaped like a pair of pink flamingos.

  But the thought of the shimmering flan pulled me back to my sadness about Maria’s attack, especially since it had happened so soon after Gabriel’s death. Surely they were connected. So far, I hadn’t gotten much of a clue about people who might have wanted either or both of them gone. Carmen had suffered some great losses in her life; it didn’t seem fair that this was the way things might end for her daughter. I scrolled through some of the notes I’d taken on my phone, searching for something I could have overlooked.

  But before I got very far, a friendly woman with long dark hair delivered the food I’d ordered. The scent of grilled meat and spices wafted up from the first plate, a burger covered with shavings of irresistible crispy potato strings. I took a big bite out of the combination pork and beef burger seasoned with Spanish spices and slathered with Frita’s secret sauce. I needed to save room for the other items, but it was hard to stop once I got started. But then I took my first sip of chocolate milkshake and knew I’d be forced to face the food critic’s dilemma—how to avoid indigestion from overeating. Every dish I’d ordered was good enough to finish.

  I paused to look through the notes I’d made while attending the tour of the chugs at the botanical garden. I had taken photos, too. Some of the rickety homemade boats were starting to sink into the land, rusting out, returning to their original elements. I hesitated on the photo of one that had seemed better built than the others, with a teak floor that actually resembled a boat more than a floating piece of trash. Although the writing had faded almost to illegibility in the fierce South Florida sun, I remembered seeing the name yesterday. I zoomed in with my camera app. Miranda.

  The woman behind the counter, who also served as waitress, came over to check on my lunch.

  “Everything is incredibly delicious,” I told her. “I spent the past few days working the events at the Little White House, and I believe the stress alone burned through my week’s calorie allotment.”

  “Poor Gabriel,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “And I’m so sad about Maria. I hope she can pull out of this. Her mother must be devastated. She is a gentle soul with a lot of heartbreak in her history.”

  Obviously, news had traveled fast about the attack on Maria.

  “About that,” I said, “do you mind telling me about the heartbreak?”

  I’d asked this same question over and over of Irena, always getting the sense that she was holding something back. Maybe a stranger to me would say something new.

  “You probably know that Carmen and her son fled from Cuba during the sixties, leaving everything they owned behind?” I nodded. “She was pregnant with Maria. Her husband went into hiding, waiting for the break that would allow him to escape. And terribly afraid they would never let him go.” She let out a hiss of breath and wiped her eyes.

  “My mother tells the story of how the Cuban community got the news that he was crossing the Straits of Florida. But a terrible storm had been predicted, and no one understood why they launched their craft in that kind of weather. Two days later, the people here heard that a boat was headed for Fort Zachary Taylor, and everyone rushed down to the beach to welcome the sailors. Five men made it ashore; the other twenty had drowned on the second night, when the worst of the storm blew through. Carmen’s husband was one of them. His boat is still on display at the botanical garden.”

  “Was it called the Miranda, by any chance?” I asked, thinking of how I’d learned that both Gabriel and his father were shipwrights.

  She nodded. “His pet name for his wife was Carmen Miranda. All that to say that this talk about improving the U.S. relationship with the Cuban government has brought up a lot of hard memories. That country owes her.”

  A boisterous group of tourists came to the sidewalk window to order, and she excused herself to wait on them. I finished my lunch, took some photos of the room, and went outside. I simply couldn’t believe that Carmen and Irena had told me everything about their family’s tragedy. Irena must know something more. By now, I strongly suspected that the old loss would shed some light on the newer ones, if only I had all the puzzle pieces. I texted her to ask about Maria’s condition. And then told her I hoped to have a chance to talk with her. Her reply came in quickly.

  MARIA STABLE. LOTS OF RELATIVES AT THE HOSPITAL WITH MY AUNT, SO I CAME BACK TO WORK FOR A FEW HOURS.

  So I returned to the Cuban Coffee Queen, waited for a slow spot in the rush of customers, and then approached the counter.

  “I can’t believe they didn’t give you the day off.”

  “There was no one to cover this shift with Geoff, and he’s simply not capable of managing on his own. I’ll go back to the hospital when the owner gets here. They’ll let me know if she takes a turn for the worse. The show must go on. You know that’s true, especially on this island.”

  I didn’t believe the hearty cheeriness she was attempting to display.

  “Was Gabriel always angry about what happened to his father?”

  Irena took her time to answer. “The anger was there in the background, always. But it would bubble to the surface from time to time. I would definitely say that this Key West/Havana conference business churned everything up. For the whole family, but especially for him. And Carmen too,” she added, with a little lift to her brows.

  “I think there must be something more to this story, something you aren’t telling me,” I said. Flatly, as though this was a fact she couldn’t refute.

  Marius, the owner of the coffee shop, appeared behind the counter to tell Irena she could go. She thanked him, took off her Cuban Coffee Queen apron, folded it neatly, and stashed it on a low shelf near the souvenir ball caps. Then she came out of the shop to join me.

  As we walked toward the street, she said, “I’ve told you everything that I know. Which is not to say that I know everything.” She swiped her hand across her forehead. “My aunt might be ready to tell us the rest of it. Shall I meet you at the hospita
l?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Before the doorbell rang, Ivy had been regarding Norbert with a tenderness he had never known. He was serving her breakfast, and could not be sure if the love in her eyes was in fact for him, or for breakfast.

  —Keziah Frost, The Reluctant Fortune-Teller

  Fifteen minutes later, I arrived on Stock Island, zipped around the perimeter of the golf course, and approached the royal palm-lined drive leading to the white-and-blue stucco hospital. A pit of dread gathered in my stomach, which I imagined most customers and visitors felt, though for different reasons.

  I signed in for a guest pass and took the elevator to the third floor. As I approached the nurses’ station, I saw Irena leading her Aunt Carmen to a small waiting area and followed them in.

  “She’s holding a vigil by Maria’s bedside,” Irena told me softly. “But now that they’ve upgraded her condition to serious,” she added, “I assured her that’s it’s okay to leave the room so we can talk for a few minutes. Better for Maria not to hear something upsetting right now. Even if she’s not conscious, she might understand.”

  I nodded vigorously and sat on a green vinyl chair across from the two women. “It’s freezing in here,” I said, shivering. “Why do they always keep the temperature so low?” I wasn’t expecting an answer to my question, merely nattering to fill the silence.

  “Aunt Carmen.” Irena took both of her aunt’s hands and held them firmly. “It’s very important that you tell me everything now. We want to punish the man who killed your son and tried to kill Maria.” She repeated those words in Spanish.

  Tears seeped out of Carmen’s dark eyes and then she began to weep, gulping big noisy breaths of air. Irena rubbed her back until the sobs abated. Carmen reached into her skirt’s pocket for a white handkerchief and swabbed at her face. Then she began to speak in Spanish, her gaze cast down at the linoleum floor. Irena waited until the tumult of words had come to an end.