Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (29 page)

Read on for a sneak peek at the next

Key West Food Critic Mystery.

Coming in May 2013 from Obsidian.

Evinrude woke me from a sound sleep, first with his rumbling purr and then with a gentle but persistent tapping of paw to cheek. I blinked my eyes open—the bedside clock read six fifteen. I hissed softly at his gray striped face. “I love you dearly, but you’re a monster,” I told him as I rolled out of bed. “Spoiled rotten cat flesh.”

Tail hoisted high, he trotted out of the room ahead of me, meowing loudly. Miss Gloria’s lithe black cat, Sparky, intercepted him before he reached the food bowls lined up in the corner of the tiny galley of our houseboat. He sprang onto Evinrude’s back and wrestled him to the floor. While they boxed and nipped at each other, I poured a ration of kibble into each bowl, refreshed their water, and then staggered onto the deck to check out the morning.

The plum-colored night sky was shifting to pink to make room for the day, which looked as though it might turn out “glorious and whimsical,” as
the
Key West Citizen
had promised. A quartet of wind chimes tinkled lightly from the boats down the finger. Had there been a stiff wind or the first spitting drops of a cold rain, I’d have gone directly back to bed. But on a morning like this, there was no excuse to avoid the dreaded exercise I’d prescribed for myself.

Twice in the past ten days, I’d lured myself out of bed to go jogging before work, with the promise of a thick, sweet
café con leche
from the Cuban Coffee Queen as a reward on the way home. In addition to adding heft to my résumé, my position as food critic for
Key Zest
had added a bit to my waistline over the past months; I was anxious to reverse the trend. And besides that, the Key West Food and Wine Festival loomed this week—it promised a series of tasting sessions that could ruin the most stalwart dieter. Which I was definitely not.

And most pressing of all, my first real date with Detective Nate Bransford had been rescheduled for this evening. (The night my mother joined us for dinner hardly counted as a romantic encounter.) So it wasn’t hard to convince myself today should be the third session—not that jogging two miles would magically transform my figure from jiggles to muscles, but I had to start somewhere. And maybe it would help work out the predate jitters too.

I hurried back inside, replaced my pajamas with baggy running shorts, red sneakers, and a T-shirt that said “Dinner is ready when the smoke alarm goes off.” I’d bought the shirt for Christmas for my stepmother—who, while a brilliant chemist, was famous in our
family for her overcooked roasts and burned soup—but lost my nerve before sending it. Why jostle a relationship that had recently settled into a pleasant détente?

I tucked my phone into my pocket and dashed off a note to my roommate, Miss Gloria, who lets me live on board her houseboat in exchange for errands like grocery shopping (which I adore anyway) and sending occasional reports on her mental and physical condition to her son in Michigan. I stand between her and a slot in an old-age home—and I take my responsibility seriously.

I wrote:
Jogging—ugh! Call me if you want a coffee.

Then I hopped off our deck, tottered along the dock, and started grinding up the Palm Avenue hill toward the Old Town section of Key West. There aren’t many changes in elevation in this town, so I was just as happy to get this challenge over with early on. I puffed past the U.S. Naval Air Station’s multistory building—
Fly Navy—
and then by the pale pink-and-green cement-block apartments for enlisted folks and their families. I finally chugged around the curve onto Eaton Street, my lungs burning and my thighs cramping into complaining masses. I picked up my pace, pushing harder because I smelled bacon: The Coles Peace Bakery called to me like a siren to Ulysses. Stopping for an unscheduled bacon and cheese toast on crispy Cuban bread would devastate my new resolutions.

As I hooked right on Grinnell, heading toward the boardwalk that wound along the historic seaport area, I tried to distract myself by thinking about my tasks for the day. There’d be e-mails to answer, as the biweekly
issue of
Key Zest
, our fledgling Key West style magazine, hit in-boxes today. And I was in charge of responding to the usual flurry of complaints and compliments. For the first time in my short career, I’d had to face writing a negative review. This was bound to come sooner or later. Key West is a foodie paradise, but like Anywhere, USA, there are lousy meals to be had too. As a careful follower of the major newspaper restaurant critics, I’d read plenty of stories about critics suffering through horrendous dinners. Or worse yet, bouts of food poisoning. But hearing about it and living it were two different animals. Like you crouched down thinking you were going to pet a house cat and it turned out to be a skunk.

My second meal at Just Off Duval a couple nights earlier had started off well. The restaurant was located a half block from Duval Street with seating in a pleasant courtyard, far enough from the bustle of the town’s main party artery to mask the grit and noise. My friend Eric and I had ordered glasses of wine and settled onto the outdoor patio edged with feathery palm plants to enjoy our dinners. The night was warm enough for a sweater and the scent of roasting meat had my stomach doing anticipatory backflips. A half loaf of stale Italian bread and a pool of olive oil that tasted almost rancid gave the first sign the experience would be a downer. I jotted a few notes into my smartphone, agreeing with Eric: Any restaurant should be allowed a tiny misstep.

But then my chef’s special salad had been delivered: a small pile of lettuce dog-paddling in thick blue cheese dressing that screamed “emulsifier” and wore powerful overtones of the plastic bottle it must have been
squeezed from. On top of that were chunks of mealy pale pink tomatoes. Though the mashed potatoes that accompanied the main courses were creamy and rich, my thirty-eight-dollar fish smelled fishy and Eric’s forty-two-dollar steak was stringy. We didn’t have the nerve to order dessert. I hadn’t actually gotten ill, but my stomach had roiled for half the night in spite of the half roll of antacids I’d eaten. According to a text from Eric, who generally had an iron constitution, his gut still didn’t feel quite right as he and his partner drove to Miami for some much-needed R & R.

I had tried to wriggle out of writing it up. But there wasn’t time to substitute something else. And my boss, Wally, had specifically told me this restaurant should be included in the next issue of our magazine. But the words of former
New York Times
food critic Ruth Reichl kept churning through my mind: The more expensive the restaurant, the more damage a lousy review can do. And mine was definitely lousy, having started like this:

I shook the words out of my mind and staggered past the
Yankee Freedom
ship, which ferries tourists to the
Dry Tortugas for snorkeling expeditions most mornings. Then I paused on the boardwalk along the harbor to catch my breath. Several large sailboats leftover from the races the previous week still clanked in their slips alongside catamarans loaded with kayaks and sport fishing powerboats. The pink streaks in the sky had expanded like cotton candy, bringing enough light so I could make out the details of the early-morning activity. Nearby, a thin man in faded jeans with long hair and a bushy beard that reached to the middle of his chest sprayed the deck of one of the Sebago party boats with a high-pressure hose. The hair around his lips was stained yellow, as if he’d smoked a lifetime’s worth of cigarettes, and faded to white at the tip of his beard.

As I leaned against a wooden railing to stretch my calves, a bare-chested, red-haired man skidded around the corner, wearing a long black coat and a small American flag draped from his belt like a loincloth. He leaped onto the boat, pulled a knife out of his waistband, and, taking a fighter’s crouch, brandished it at the man with the hose.

Even under the pirate’s tricornered hat, I recognized him: Turtle, a chronically homeless man whose behavior fluctuated with the status of his mental illness. A couple of months ago, I would have backed away as fast as I could. But now I understood more: Since it was the end of the month, he’d probably run out of meds. And if the cops came, he’d end up in jail. Where he’d only get worse.

The bearded man spun around, growled, and pointed the hose at Turtle, who had begun to execute tai chi–like movements, waving the knife in shaky
figure eights. My adrenaline surged as I pictured a throat being slit right in front of my eyes.

“Listen, man,” the worker yelled, “get the hell out of here. You’re on private property. I’m calling the cops right now.” He sprayed Turtle’s legs, now wet to the knees.

“They can’t take what I ain’t got,” Turtle said, crouching lower and moving forward. “Avast, ye stinking pirates!” This was going to get ugly unless someone intervened.

“Turtle,” I called, “I’m going for coffee and a Cuban cheese toast. Can I get you one?”

His pale blue eyes darted from me to the white-haired man and back; the knife twitched in his fingers. Then he shrugged, shoved the weapon into a holster at his waist, and hopped off the boat. I took a shaky breath and led him around the block to the Cuban Coffee Queen, chattering mindlessly about the weather, my cat, anything to keep him focused in this world, not back in his crazy loop.

“Why don’t you wait here?” I suggested, pointing to a painted wooden bench. He sat, tugging his coat around his body and closing his eyes. He rocked back and forth, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm on his knees to a tune I couldn’t hear.

“Two large
café con leches
and a cheese toast, please,” I told the woman with dark hair and eyes who appeared at the window of the food stand. She took my money, and I stuffed two bucks in the tip jar while the milk steamed and shots of espresso drained into paper cups. Smelled like my kind of heaven. She buttered a slab of Cuban bread, slapped on a layer of cheese, and popped it into the grill press.

As soon as my order was ready, a police car pulled up and stopped next to the coffee stand. Officer Torrence—a cop who knew my business a little better than I’d prefer for a man I wasn’t dating—peered out of the cruiser. His eyes darted from the sodden homeless man to the breakfast in my hands. “Everything okay here?”

“Just dandy,” I said, forcing a smile. Turtle had tensed, looked ready to spring. My hands trembling, I walked over to deliver his coffee and sandwich. He took off, Torrence watching him as he booked it around the souvenir shop and back to the harbor.

“Where’s your scooter?” Officer Torrence asked.

“I jogged here this morning.”

“You want a ride?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

“No, thanks,” I said with a weak grin and waved him on. I was terrible at keeping secrets—the worst. He’d want to know everything about Turtle, and I’d find myself spilling the details of the altercation, and likely Turtle would still end up in jail. Besides, everyone on Tarpon Pier would notice me emerging from a black-and-white. I’d never hear the end of it. As I took my coffee and walked out to Caroline Street, a text message buzzed onto my phone.

My hands started to shake so hard, I almost dropped the phone. I flagged down a pink taxicab to carry me home.