Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (19 page)

As I’d wagered, the doors to the building were open and the bookstore inside was buzzing with panelists and customers. Sigrid sailed by like a steamship on a billowing wave of flowered cotton and positioned herself near the stacks of her last two books, which seemed almost as tall as they had the day before. Her eyes were rimmed in red and she’d bitten most of her orange lipstick off except for a flaky patch on the top lip. I followed her over to the books, plucked a copy of
Dark Sweden
off the pile, and handed it to her.

“Could you sign this for my stepmother?” I asked. “Her name is Allison and her birthday is coming up. She’s not much of a cook—don’t say I said that—but she loves to eat. And I think her father’s side of the family hails from Sweden, so this will be perfect.”

Sigrid scrawled
Happy birthday, Allison
on the title page along with her name and handed the book back to me.

“What a disappointing weekend,” I said.

“Dreadful, discouraging, disastrous, dispiriting,” she said, although she sounded more furious than discouraged or any of those other
D
words.

“I hope the book sales are going well anyway,” I said, touching my palm to the teetering pile.

Sigrid’s plump cheeks flushed a terrible red. “A mere trickle. You can’t expect to sell merchandise if the customers are prevented from attending the panels and getting to know the authors. If only Dustin could be privy to the things I’m hearing this morning. If only he was interested! People are incensed about the cancellation of the morning sessions. Do you know how much
they paid to come to this conference? Do you know how much time and energy it took each of us to get to this godforsaken island? I could have been home writing. My agent has been badgering me for weeks to finish up the proposal for a new novel.” She stopped to take a breath and pat her face with a tissue. “Did you say you were a writer?”

“Journalist,” I said. “Food writing and restaurant criticism. I imagine fiction must be so much harder.”

“It’s getting worse and worse,” she said. “The publishers are in sheer, babbling panic about how to maintain their grip on the industry while every talentless wannabe scrambles to publish their so-called literature directly to the Web. Agents are foaming about their financial interests too. Mine informed me on Friday that unless the numbers pick up soon on
Dark Sweden
, she will find it ‘challenging’ to sell any others, at least for a decent and livable advance.”

A tiny white-haired woman approached us timidly from the side. “Miss Gustafson, may I get you to sign this book for my sister?”

Sigrid grabbed the book from the woman’s hands, radiating an enormous, phony grin. “Absolutely delighted. What is your mother’s name?”

“Sister,” the woman peeped.

Best wishes, Sister—hope you enjoy the read!
Sigrid wrote.

I muttered, “Good luck” and backed away to give her space with her fan. I felt no closer to knowing her secrets—if she had any. She seemed to wear her feelings on her sleeve and have no problem expressing
them, even to total strangers. Once the other woman left, I moved in closer again.

“You may not remember,” I started, “but we were both in the ladies’ room around the time that Jonah Barrows was killed. Do you remember seeing anyone else leaving the area when you did?” Watching her eyes narrow, I added, “I’m sure the police have asked you already, but one of my friends has been implicated in the murder….”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said in a low voice that invited no further questions. “Many of us were not particularly fond of Jonah, but that doesn’t mean we’d kill him. I’m trying to make the best of a grim situation here. We all are. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.” She whirled around, nearly taking out two women nearby who were perusing cookbooks. “I’m Sigrid Gustafson,” she told them as they regained their balance. “I write Nordic culinary novels. May I show you my latest?” She pressed the copy she was holding into the hands of the closest woman.

As I left the makeshift bookstore, I spotted Dustin on his cell phone near the entrance to the auditorium. He too must be feeling fragile because of the terrible turns his conference had taken this weekend. If I pushed him a little, might he spew more about Jonah’s murder than he’d been willing to share previously? I ticked off a list of questions in my mind and hurried across the room.

“No, it would not be convenient,” he was saying to the person on the other end of the line as I approached. “We have a closing luncheon to endure and then the tribute to our fallen warriors. And the bookstore is
open the rest of the afternoon. You can call tomorrow and we’ll make an appointment like normal people do.”

“Excuse me,” I said as he ended the call. “Hayley Snow. With
Key Zest
?” I added in case he was too scattered and frazzled to remember me. “I’m finishing up my profile on Jonah Barrows and had a few last-minute questions. I realize that you must have a personal connection to all these folks, but it seems like you might have been particularly close to Jonah?”

“Jonah is killing me,” he said grimly. “Stone-cold dead and he’s still managing to ruin my life.”

“I heard from one source that there is some question about whether your contract will be renewed for next year.”

“What source?” he demanded, his face closed and wary.

I squirmed, wondering what I could say. The investigative reporter identity did not suit me very well. “The Realtor Cory Held mentioned—”

“That woman is a liar!”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Now I recognize your name. You’re not a real writer—you were the one who was stalking Jonah. And now you’re starting with me. Are you intent on executing a Key West version of
Fatal Attraction
?”

I backed away from him, speechless, and retreated to the bathroom to wash my face and do some emergency deep breathing. In Dustin’s anger and panic, he’d hit my neurotic sweet spot: a pervasive sense of insecurity about my competence as a food writer. The sense
that I’d never belong in this company. I blotted my face dry, trying to convince myself that his comments said a lot more about his state of mind than about me.

I hurried down Duval Street toward the Oldest House Museum. The closing lunch was taking place in the backyard of this cozy 1829 home, a white clapboard eyebrow house with black shutters and a lovely front porch, only missing the rocking chairs. Most people walked right by this little patch of history without noticing it—it didn’t call attention to itself amid the sidewalk salespeople hawking two-for-one drinks, or T-shirts, or rides on a Jet Ski or a sunset cruise. But the garden behind the house was a true gem—another secluded oasis of tropical plantings and brick walkways.

I’d agreed to meet Mom there by twelve thirty so we wouldn’t fall too far back in the line of ravenous diners. Our experience the first night had taught us that those late to the party had better be prepared to eat lightly. I trotted along the queue that already stretched two blocks, embarrassed about my altercation with Dustin and bursting to describe my conversation with Sigrid to my mother. And to apologize about the alimony comment. But she was neither in the line nor waiting at either entrance.

I talked my way past the volunteer guarding the gate by explaining that my mom sometimes got a little flustered and misplaced herself. In the backyard, food workers in white aprons tweaked the buffet—a gorgeous display of salad, soup, bread, and an entire
double table groaning with cookies, heavy on the chocolate. But no sign of my mother. I slunk by the dessert table and palmed one macaroon. I nibbled the cookie on the way out—strands of toasted coconut drenched in dark chocolate. Definitely swoon-worthy. Half a block down the line, I spotted Olivia Nethercut, bright with animation as she chatted with several carefully coiffed women in pastel suits.

“Hi-ho, Hayley,” she said with a friendly wave.

Which seemed to offer an opportunity to get a little information. I ratcheted up my energy to mirror hers. “Good morning. It was fantastic to visit with you last night. I learn so much chatting with more experienced writers. And the idea of your foundation is brilliant.”

We talked a little about the food at Louie’s Backyard—she had been mad for the duck, done rare, exactly to her preference, while I most enjoyed the gnocchi. Which could start to explain why she was so slender and I was trending toward pleasantly plump. When the timing seemed right, I added, “After we changed seats last night, I heard something Sigrid said about a franchise that Jonah Barrows was trying to get started.”

“Oh, the pseudo Margaritaville,” she said. “I suspect with Yoshe and Jonah gone and Dustin’s future in jeopardy, it won’t get off the ground. It was a ludicrous idea anyway. Didn’t they realize that Jimmy Buffett’s people had already done that?” She touched her fingers to my wrist. “Don’t tell me you were interested in investing?”

“Not investing per se,” I said, thinking my savings wouldn’t be worth one share of one dinner at this point. And wondering how I could get her to say more about
Dustin. “More looking for foodie news. For my beat.” I grinned. “What did they have in mind for the restaurants?”

“An imitation of Margaritaville, modeled on the restaurant up on Duval. Their plan called for serving cheeseburgers, shrimp, key lime pie, conch fritters, margaritas, of course—and playing Jimmy Buffett tunes round the clock. Dustin thought the tropical island thing might take off. They have Hard Rock Café in Key West. Why not paradise in Peoria?”

“Sounds like a good concept,” I said. “One that would be popular with the general public.” I wouldn’t be caught dead eating at a place like that, but I was definitely a food snob when it came to chain restaurants.

“The majority of Americans don’t care whether their food is better. They care whether it’s familiar. So in that sense, the concept was a winner. But when you get artsy types involved in business endeavors, you can be sure the financial statements are not their strong suits. And in the end I believe the biggest concern was the possibility of a lawsuit. The Margaritaville name is very closely protected. Jonah couldn’t get past that.”

“Jonah was worried?”

She gave a dismissive flick of one wrist. “He was utterly conservative. He didn’t seem to realize that some members of his foodie tribe don’t have the kind of income stream he did. They aren’t all in demand as keynote speakers and authors.”

The lunch line began to inch forward.

“Oh, by the way, I did manage to reach the sculpted
detective and persuade him that dinner with me this evening should be on his docket,” Olivia added. She grinned and plumped her bangs. “Not that it took too much persuasion. He suggested Michael’s. Is that a place you’d recommend for a date with a macho guy?”

I opened my mouth to say something pleasant, but nothing came out. Michael’s was one of the more expensive restaurants on the island. No water view, but a sweet outside dining courtyard and amazing steaks, flown in daily from Chicago. Traditional and romantic—perfect for a date. I didn’t have any claim on Bransford—he could see whomever he wanted. But that fact didn’t shield me from feeling swamped by a wash of disappointment and envy. I licked my lips and tried again. “I bet you’ll have a lovely time. He’ll be happy there—no surprises on the menu, so he’ll be able to concentrate on the conversation. Not always his strong point.”

I backed away, mustering a weak smile, and continued down the block looking for my mother. With still no sign of her, I tried her cell again, which rolled right over to her voice mail. I left a brief message, circled around the grounds again, and then called home to Miss Gloria.

“Have you seen Mom? We said we’d meet for lunch at twelve thirty, but she isn’t here. I wonder if she got mixed up on the time.”

“No,” Miss Gloria said. “When she got home from the library, she showered and dressed. She was very excited about the lunch and looking forward to copping a few more autographs and photos. She made
some phone calls, including to that Sam, her boyfriend back in New Jersey. He sounds like a winner, doesn’t he? Did you know that he’s a venture capitalist? He must be loaded because he invited her to go on a Mediterranean cruise this summer. Separate cabins, of course.” Miss Gloria giggled.

“That sounds nice, even if a little early for their relationship,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like a killjoy old fart. “But where is she now? What time did she leave the houseboat?”

“Around eleven, I’d say. Yes, eleven. Because I’d gone down to put some clothes in the washing machine and I had to look at the clock to remind myself to move things over to the dryer. You know how people blow a gasket if you don’t take your stuff out the minute the machine stops spinning. She’d gone to the library to do her research, but of course this being Sunday morning, it was closed. Let’s see now … She told me she was going to have tea with a lady at the bed-and-breakfast where the dead writer stayed.”

“Tea? You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” Miss Gloria said. “As sure as I can be about anything these days. I’m going to miss her so much. Do you think there’s a chance she’d stay on? We could set up bunk beds in your room.”

I swallowed, reaching for words that would sound polite but firm. “Bunk beds?”

Miss Gloria snickered. “Joke. I got you on that one. But I will miss her.”

“Me too,” I said.

“You two are a lot alike,” said Miss Gloria. “I never
had a daughter. Only sons. But if I had, I’d want her to be like you. I’d want a relationship like the one you two have.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a little teary. Our relationship had certainly hit its bumpy patches over the years, but I wouldn’t trade my mother for anyone. “Did it seem like she was mad at me?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that. And she didn’t say so.”

I hung up, considering the possibilities. Mom had had a wreck on her scooter on the way back across the island. She’d taken a tour of Hemingway’s house and lost track of time. Or she was still visiting over a cup of Earl Grey with the manager of the B&B. That last seemed the most likely and the least histrionic. So with a sigh of regret over missing out on the steaming bowls of chowder, I left the grounds, trotted back to the office to fetch my scooter, and drove across town.