Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (8 page)

I didn’t dare mention how close I’d come to losing
every last recipe card in the box during the breakup with Chad Lutz last fall.

“Exactly!” said Yoshe. “I should have hired you to write the preface.”

Now Mom blushed and ducked her head.

“The food of my ancestors sucked,” said Sigrid with a big belly laugh. “That’s why I write fiction.”

The alarm on my phone beeped—almost two o’clock. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back for the afternoon sessions,” I said.

“I’m skipping the panels this afternoon,” said Sigrid. “We have a long night ahead. And there won’t be anything said that I haven’t already heard.”

Yoshe nodded in agreement.

“You go on,” Mom suggested to me. “I’ll make sure the ladies get dessert and help them find a cab to take them to their hotels. I can cover the bill and bring the receipt to you later.”

I flashed a grateful smile. As much as my mother had looked forward to every moment of this conference, precious private time with her cooking idol, Yoshe, would be even better. And Sigrid added to the raw entertainment value of the afternoon. I left them arguing over Nutella dessert crepes with bananas versus the more extravagant raspberry chocolate ganache red velvet, with Yoshe proposing maybe they should stick with herbal tea. Did she realize that her weight-conscious barbs hit home every time for Sigrid? I wondered as I walked away. Only the result seemed to be that Sigrid ordered more, not less, each time Yoshe mentioned calories. To give Yoshe the benefit of the doubt, maybe
they were a running commentary in her own head and she was merely giving them voice.

I jogged the few blocks to the San Carlos Institute, arriving slightly sweaty and a couple of minutes late. As the lights of the theater were already dimmed and the audience quiet, I slid into a seat in the back row. Floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains covered the diner set onstage. Dustin fought through them and announced the next speaker, Fritz Ewing, the culinary poet who had moderated the morning panel. Based on his earlier introduction, Fritz seemed to be best known for using food as metaphor for strong emotion. Most recently his focus had become protein. He approached the podium, shook Dustin’s hand, and launched into a monotone reading.

“Mutton, gray strands, like tough sinews of conversation with my ex,” he began. “Beefsteak, raw and tender flesh, calling a lover home. One I shall spit to the side of the plate, never to taste again. The other swallowed, joining enzymes in my belly…”

Feeling a little queasy, I sank lower in my chair and tried to block out the meat metaphors by reviewing the conversation we’d had over lunch. Neither of the women had seemed all that fond of Jonah, though there was a general admiration of his competence. The news of a failed relationship between Jonah and Dustin surprised me. As I’d learned the hard way last year when Kristen Faulkner was murdered and I landed on the hot seat, this derailed romantic connection would certainly make Dustin a person of interest in the eyes of the cops.

A few rows in front of me, Dustin stood, looking at the vibrating phone in his hand with some annoyance. He strode up the aisle toward the lobby. I slipped out behind him, trying madly to think of a way to ask about his relationship with Jonah. Before I could get his attention, two uniformed cops met him in the lobby and led him to the side of the room. I ducked into the cubby that served as the conference bookstore and pretended to browse the books nearest the door, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“I understand that you need to do your jobs,” Dustin was saying, his pleasant tone not quite covering the irritation underneath. “Could we possibly talk after the day’s panels are completed?”

I thumbed through a paperback copy of Sigrid’s latest novel, not able to make out the policeman’s reply.

“I have no idea what happened to the damn bird,” Dustin replied. “I can only tell you I had nothing to do with either hefting it or causing it to vanish.” Then he stalked back across the foyer and disappeared into the auditorium.

I returned Sigrid’s novel to the stack and headed out, exhausted by the day and anxious about the night to come.

If Key West can be said to have a ghetto, the walk down the blocks of Petronia Street from Duval Street to Santiago’s Bodega led us right through it. It was one thing to ride along this path in full daylight, in the back of a pedicab, as we had done this afternoon, another to march the same distance in the darkness.

Mom did her best to keep up a chipper smile as we passed along the drab blocks of small homes, yards littered with odd bits of trash and dour dark-skinned residents who looked as though they’d just as soon not have pale strangers tromping through their neighborhood.

“Maybe we should have had the detective pick us
up,” she said in a soft voice that let me know she was a little nervous even though she didn’t want to be.

I linked my arm through hers. “We’re perfectly safe and we’re almost there. And he was coming straight from work.”

Which was a tiny stretcher. In truth, I preferred to meet him at the restaurant on my own terms. I’d been looking forward to a date with Bransford for weeks, though after last night’s conversation I was filled with a greater percentage of dread than anticipation. And besides, having Mom along ensured that we wouldn’t be indulging in anything more thrilling than dinner.

Sparks had flown like the worst romantic cliché right from the first minute I laid eyes on Detective Bransford, despite inauspicious circumstances (me as his murder suspect). He asked me out the same day the real killer was arrested. But it took almost five weeks to find an evening that worked for both of us. I’d spent ten days visiting both my families in New Jersey before Christmas—ten days can start to feel like a life sentence under those conditions. But I’d figured one thing out for certain since my parents’ divorce: My time had to be divided equally between Mom’s house and Dad’s. On top of my family issues, the holidays, especially New Year’s Eve when Key West goes party-in-the-streets crazy, were stressful times for the police department.

All that to say anticipation made my heart race and my decision-making difficult—it took me a solid hour to figure out what to wear to this dinner. First I tried on the black swing dress that made me feel sexy but in just
the right girlish kind of way. Until I remembered he’d already seen me wear it to a funeral. Bad dating Karma. So I switched the dress out for my black jeans—a little snug at the current payload—and a light blue sweater that made more of my cleavage than actually existed. Mom’s and Eric’s enthusiastic responses had left me feeling that I’d made the right selection, even though my feet felt like I’d been walking on a bed of bamboo skewers in Connie’s borrowed patent leather stilettos. And the heel-strap rubbed exactly on the spot where my mother’s gift sandals had created a tender blister. All in all, a fashion-for-comfort blunder I would not repeat. Ever.

Detective Bransford was pacing outside Santiago’s. He stopped still when he saw us. “I would have been happy to pick you up,” he said, looking worried, glancing from Mom’s sandals to my heels and then into the darkness of the Petronia Street approach.

“I told you we should have asked him,” said Mom, reaching for his hand. “Oh my, he’s just as handsome as you said he was.”

He grinned foolishly and I felt myself turn the color of a roasted beet. “Detective Bransford, this is my mother, Janet Snow. Mom, Detective Bransford.”

“Nate, please.” He smiled again, flashing the killer cheek dimples that matched the cleft in his chin. “It’s an honor to meet you. And you’re just as lovely and youthful as Hayley described. You two could be sisters.”

I rolled my eyes, but Mom beamed, and he ushered us past the narrow porch with its handful of tables,
inside to the hostess station, a hand on each of our backs. The warmth of his touch sizzled like a blazing brand on mutton, as Fritz the meat poet might say. To keep my knees from buckling, I forced myself to focus on the restaurant decor—simple wooden chairs, white tablecloths, sponge-painted walls with a few big paintings for accents, and an orange ceiling for color.

“Where would you like to sit?” asked a tall woman in a tight dress.

“Inside, please,” I said, just as Nate said, “Outside.”

“Whatever the lady wants is fine with me,” said the detective to the hostess. He grinned at me. “Inside.”

She gathered a stack of menus and led us to the corner of the back room, which had a lively bar and marginal acoustics. I minced along after her and took the seat at the table against the wall so I could make mental notes about the restaurant’s ambience and clientele. I shucked off the offending high heels and rubbed one aching foot and then the other. Our drink orders—white wine sangria for me and Mom and a Key West Sunset Ale for Nate—were finally taken by a waiter so goofy and smiley I wondered if he’d been tippling something out in the back alley.

I glanced at the menu. “And could you put in orders for the trio of hummus, a spinach salad with strawberries, and the
bocconcini di
mozzarella while we’re waiting?” I asked. As soon as the waiter left, I listed off a few more of the tapas that I wanted to be sure we tried—including asparagus, spanakopita, seviche, saganaki, and grouper.

Nate looked down at his menu and then back up at me.
His eyes were the color of moss, only nothing soft and fuzzy about them right now. “I’m going to have the Roman meatballs, the potato croquettes, and the lamb patties,” he said. “Seems like you’ve already got the vegetable department covered.”

“Those are wonderful choices—I tried them the last time I was here,” I said, lowering my voice and smiling sweetly. “If it’s possible, I really do need you to branch out.” I’d warned both my mother and the detective ahead of time that I had a review agenda for this meal—apparently I should have been more clear because he didn’t look happy. Note to Hayley: Don’t expect a police detective to be the kind of man who enjoys ceding the lead. On anything. When the waiter returned, I made a big show of ordering the three dishes he’d mentioned and then added my choices.

“Oh, wow, man, you guys must really be hungry!” the waiter said.

“That we are.” I closed my menu and passed it to him. If Wally had a fit about the bill, I’d cover the excess. Somehow. Considering the unexpected lunches and the double pedicab bills I’d piled up earlier, I was already way over budget. How much madder could he get?

Soon after, the trio of hummus, the spinach pie, and the spinach salad with strawberries arrived. Mom served us each some salad and then picked up a triangle of pita bread that came with the hummus and sniffed it.

“Remember what Ruth Reichl said this afternoon? She can tell right away about a restaurant from trying
their bread.” She spread her corner of pita with a teaspoon of black olive tapenade, and nibbled. “Oh, Hayley, you have to taste this. It’s heaven,” she said, spearing another piece of pita and spreading it with the plain hummus. “This one has lots of lemon, I think. And I have a feeling they brush the bread with butter or olive oil and toast it—if it isn’t homemade. If I was reviewing this place, I’d be tempted to write that they have the best chickpea dip outside of Athens.”

I couldn’t help feeling the tiniest prick of annoyance. She’d said it better than I would have—and faster too.

“You’d be really good at this job,” I said, trying to cover my negative reaction with a wide grin. “But no offense, Mom, I have to figure out how to say things myself or I’ll be lost once you’ve gone back home.”

“Just trying to be helpful, dear,” she chirped. “Remember, I was a cook before you ate anything other than strained carrots.” I flashed her another tight smile as the waiter delivered the detective’s Roman meatballs and lamb patties.

“So you’re a food expert, just like your daughter,” Nathan said. “Me, I’m strictly meat, potatoes, and pasta.” He poked at the nest of angel hair holding the meatballs. “Though it tastes better if you just call it spaghetti. Want to try it?” he asked Mom.

“Definitely,” Mom said. “If you’ll try this lovely spinach pastry in exchange. That’s how I used to get Hayley to try new things—wrap them in dough or phyllo pastry. And it’s all paid off, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, Mom.” I cut off a corner of the spanakopita before she passed it across the table to him. Delicious
layers of buttery, crispy phyllo with a spinach-feta filling and a drizzle of white sauce zigzagging across the top. “Any developments with Jonah Barrows?” I asked the detective once I’d finished chewing. Anything to change the subject.

“Not worth mentioning,” he said, and then rubbed a hand across his chin, leaving a small streak of grease.

Mom touched her chin and raised her eyebrows at him. “Grease spot,” she said.

He wiped his face with his napkin. “You’re absolutely certain you saw no one leaving the area of the dipping pool last night after you found the victim?”

“Honestly, I told you everything I could think of, but I’ll try again.” I closed my eyes and pictured the sequence of events. “I went to the bathroom. That’s where I spoke with Olivia Nethercut. And I’m sure I told Officer Torrence that Sigrid Gustafson was there too. But they were both gone by the time I came out—I guess it might be worth talking to them if you haven’t already.” I opened my eyes and he nodded.

“We have.”

“Then I walked over to sit by the pool. Almost right away, I noticed something off.” I tried to keep the gruesome slide show from flashing through my head: Jonah’s sodden body bobbing in the lily pads, my feeble attempts at resuscitation, and all that followed after. Should I mention to him that I’d overheard a couple of his men grilling Dustin Fredericks about the bird statue at the conference this afternoon, in hopes that he’d tell me whether and where they’d found it? A waste of breath—he wouldn’t tell me any more than he had to.
And he’d be annoyed about my eavesdropping. I speared his remaining meatball and twirled a bit of pasta on the fork.