Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (16 page)

If someone had been watching the parade from there, he might have also seen the shooter.

I was not one to turn down a second dinner, as you could never be quite sure when the next good one would be served.

—Piper Kerman,
Orange Is the
New Black

I retraced my steps along the dock, headed away from the Schooner Wharf Bar. A set of rickety stairs clung to the side of the building, leading to the apartment whose windows I had noticed. I gazed up, trying to decide whether I should call the police or feel things out first. Pretty much the entire department had the idea I was a hysterical fruitcake at this point. Calling them with unlikely theories would not impress them further.

Besides, a light glimmered at a desk or bureau in the window overlooking the harbor. And possibly the shadow of a human being hovered in the window, too. Strike while the iron is hot. I heaved a big sigh and started up the stairs, clutching the weathered railing with my good hand. I paused at the top on a small landing ringed with potted herbs. I recognized a bushy rosemary plant, a
basil plant bursting with fragrant leaves and flowers, and possibly two varieties of thyme. The sort of person who grew herbs was likely to be kind, not scary. “Besides, time is not on your side,” I muttered, and rapped on the door.

After several long moments, I heard the tip-tap of approaching footsteps. A sixtyish woman swung open the door, blinking in the sudden light. She had hips that swooped into a wide pear shape, gorgeous curly graying hair, and an open face. She could have been Miss Gloria’s younger sister, only with a lot more meat on her bones. And that resemblance gave me the courage to blunder forward.

“Good afternoon. Or I guess I should say good morning,” I stammered, checking my watch. “You have a lovely view up here.”

She squinted and looked me over from top to bottom. “Do I know you? I’m not prepared to buy anything today.”

“Oh no,” I said, reaching to touch her elbow to try to reassure her. She took a step back. “I was involved with the lighted boat parade the other night, and I was just thinking what a beautiful place this must’ve been to watch the action.”

She nodded, the suspicion still clear on her face. So far I’d explained nothing.

“Spectacular. The rent’s too high and the appliances are on their last legs and it’s noisy at night, but when it comes to the view, this place has it nailed.”

She stopped talking, leaned against the door, and tucked a springing curl behind one ear. “What do you mean, you were involved with the lighted boat parade?”

“My friend Ray—he’s an artist—he decorated his little Boston Whaler, and I was along for ballast.”

She nodded, her blue eyes still narrowed.

“May I speak frankly?” I asked, and continued on before she could answer. “I was hit . . . I was hurt—” I squirmed, trying to think how to dance around this. Coming up with nothing but the bare facts. “I was shot at the other night on a boat right over there.” I pointed across the harbor to the approximate place where Ray’s motorboat had been idling, and then toward the mooring where an expensive-looking fishing boat called the
Happy Hooker
waited. Finally, I rolled up my shirtsleeve to show her the bandage. Blood had leaked through the dressing and stained the gauze. She gasped, her eyes widening. “I’m okay now. But the thing is, as I was walking along the dock I saw your place. And I had to wonder if maybe you saw something that the police hadn’t asked about yet. You said you were out on your deck last evening. Maybe you would’ve noticed something out of order. I know it was a crazy night and the crowds were incredible. And all those lights were flashing—like a discotheque, almost.”

She nodded again, squinting now as she took in my story. “I get a reduced rent here because it’s such a noisy corner. As you can imagine, it’s not easy to sleep until well after midnight. And then in the morning the early birds start trooping along the harbor and workers clean the boats and empty the trash. If I was the kind of woman who needed a lot of sleep, I’d be psychotic.” She grinned. “But you don’t want to know about my sleep apnea.” She thought for a few moments. “I watched the whole thing. A couple of my friends were here having a glass of wine and some cheese. We sat out on the balcony, enjoying this spectacular show. I’d say I saw just about everyone I know, and, of course, lots of folks I didn’t recognize.”

Her gaze lingered on my bandaged arm. “We did
see a boat race over to the far dock where the flashing blues were clustered. We wondered what was up. We figured someone had too much to drink, maybe even fell overboard.” She shrugged. “There are so many strangers in and out of this town, it’s hard to get too worked up about one more ambulance. One more tourist transported to the emergency room.” Her eyes met mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”

Of course she hadn’t known it was me. She didn’t know me. “Remember after that horrible bombing at the Boston Marathon? Remember how people recalled seeing those two men who left the backpacks—once they got over the shock of having survived the attack?”

She bit her lip. “I watched that whole thing unfold on television. My father spent some years living just outside Boston before he joined the military. Can you believe that kid was hiding in a boat in the backyard the whole time?”

I smiled with encouragement. “Think back to after you saw the blue lights—do you remember anyone running along the dock—away from the scene? Anyone who didn’t look as though they belonged? Anyone shady or suspicious?” Which was a silly question—half the population of the island looked shady and suspicious.

“No one running.” She shook her head.

“Okay, forget about the running part. If you could, just tell me who you might have seen. Maybe one of them would have some helpful information.”

“I did see the fellow who cleans the Fury party boats every morning. He came by. But he was drinking beer with his buddies. Nothing out of the ordinary. And then the fellow who guards the parking lot just down the way on Greene Street. You always know him by his monstrous dog. No one is going to try to get a free
parking space with those two watching over the lot.” She chuckled at her own humor.

“Any other folks that you recognized?” I prompted her, feeling rather hopeless. She unfortunately didn’t give the impression of someone who noticed details. She saw what she expected to see and that was her story.

She rubbed her chin, paced over to the window as if to reimagine the night’s activities, and then continued to free-associate. “And let’s see, Wes Singleton, who used to own the restaurant just up the block. He was here. I know he feels bad about that New York woman taking over the business that has been in his family forever. I see him a lot in the mornings, talking with Glenn.”

“Glenn?”

“Glenn Fredericks. He works at that new restaurant. Tall, handsome guy with white hair.” She blushed and patted her stomach. “He’s brought me a late-night snack twice. I can’t wait for that place to open. Do you think she’ll have the sense to offer a locals’ discount? Who does she think is going to keep the place afloat when all the tourists have gone after the high season?”

I shrugged, my heart welling with desperation. “She’s pretty business savvy. So no one was carrying a rifle with scope?”

“Sorry, no gun.” She smiled, but weakly, a little spooked by my intensity. “I’d follow up with those people. I don’t have anything else for you.”

She edged toward the door and I got the message. I thanked her and hurried down the stairs, trying to sort out the whole bunch of nothing she’d given me. Coffee. I needed coffee. The adrenaline I’d felt when I first woke up had ebbed to nearly nothing.

Half a dozen people were lined up ahead of me at the Cuban Coffee Queen, and I almost decided to skip the stop. Until I noticed that the second person in line was the previous owner of Edel’s restaurant. The man whom Miss Gloria’s “twin” said she often saw talking with one of Edel’s employees. He paid for his coffee and Cuban sandwich and carried the coffee to the bench underneath the pink blossoming bougainvillea to wait for his food. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket and lit one up.

While waiting to order, I studied the man’s face and dress, while pretending to be fascinated by the birds chirping among the pink flowers and trying not to look obvious. His skin was weathered, with the look of a man who spent a lot of time in the sun, perhaps on the sea. I paid for my con leche and walked over to take the seat beside him.

“Beautiful day in paradise,” I chirped, like one of those birds.

He slitted his eyes and glanced over. Was I for real?

“I have a feeling we’ve met here before.” I thrust my hand toward him. “You look so familiar. I’m Hayley Snow. I write for
Key Zest
and drink as much Cuban coffee as I can manage.”

He answered with half a smile but did not take my hand. “Wes Singleton,” he said.

“Oh you were the owner of the Fishing Hole,” I said. “I had a memorable meal there about eight months ago.” I wasn’t lying—I had had a meal there—memorable for the indigestion that followed.

“You surely won’t be having anymore,” he said, glaring at me now. “The powers that be decided that a local man struggling to make a living couldn’t pay as much in taxes and fees as a New York outsider. I’m sure
they figure an outsider can be more easily fleeced, being more stupid and gullible than we locals are. I guaran-damn-tee you that extra lease money goes right to line the commissioners’ pockets.”

“Your specialty was fried fish and shrimp, from what I remember,” I said. “And those amazing double cheesy fries.” Thinking it might calm him down a bit if I admired his food and his menu before I pursued his rage-filled rant about the local authorities.

“We made the food that people like to eat,” he blustered. “And not just the damn tourists, either. I had a crowd of locals who came every morning for breakfast—best damn biscuits and gravy in the state of Florida,” he said, smacking his lips.

My stomach growled and I wished I’d ordered a sandwich along with my coffee. Miss Gloria’s doughnuts had been delicious, but they weren’t holding me. “I love biscuits and gravy. As long as I don’t think too hard about the sausage grease where the gravy originated.” I laughed but he did not. “How was your restaurant doing?”

“It was doing just fine,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

The worker at the little window called out his name and he stomped over to retrieve his sandwich. Returning to the bench, he pulled it out of the brown paper wrapping and took a big bite. Ham, cheese, pickles, and mustard, from what I could see through his non–Emily Post–approved chewing. He swallowed, swiped a cheese-greased hand across his lips, and took a slug of his coffee.

“They told me with only a week, maybe two weeks’ notice, tops, that they were doubling the rent on the lease. Didn’t give me the time to do any research into a loan or anything. I went to one of those damn
commission meetings that Tuesday and spoke my piece.” His words picked up velocity. “And what do you think they said?”

I shrugged and widened my eyes to look interested. Actually I didn’t have to pretend because I definitely wanted to hear the story. Maybe Edel was having a similar kind of problem with the city government.

“They told me thank you very much and they appreciated my family’s contribution to the city of Key West over the years. And they were so sorry if my business had to fold, but a restaurant could expect some ups and downs.” A little froth of bubbles appeared in one corner of his mouth. “My family paid good money to the government of this island for the past fifty years. I was born in Miami and moved here when I was two years old so my father and grandfather could open this restaurant. They would turn over in their graves if they could see what that fancy la-di-da New York lady plans to serve . . .”

“So, they thanked you for your service to this city,” I said, wanting to get him back on track. “And what else?”

“And what else?” He slapped his leg with his free hand. “They said if I couldn’t find a way to pay the rent and the higher taxes, I should find another place for my restaurant. Where the hell would I find a place to put a new restaurant? Maybe Stock Island, where there are no customers to speak of? Or along Roosevelt Boulevard, where the construction has just about killed the businesses over the past two years?” He sucked in the last pull on his unfiltered cigarette, almost burning his fingers. Then he dropped the butt to join the others littered underneath the bench and ground it into the asphalt with his boot. “If I had only thought about setting a fire, then I could have rebuilt the place and drawn in
the crowd she’s pulling in.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, back toward Edel’s place.

“It’s tough to run a successful restaurant in this town,” I said in a soothing voice. “It’s hard anywhere, but especially on this island. Did any of your employees find jobs in the new place?”

“Glenn Fredericks,” he said. “He’s a wicked good cook. My main man. And now she’s got him working like a McDonald’s fry cook and she hangs over him every two minutes, correcting his technique. No wonder he’s pissed.”

The worker at the window called my name and I went to retrieve my coffee. I couldn’t think what else I could get out of this man—not without working him into a lethal frenzy. He had one story line that he believed was the truth and there was no moving him away from it. Plus he seemed to be accusing Edel herself of arson. What would she have gained from that? The smart thing to do would be to call my friend Lieutenant Torrence and suggest that the cops swing by for a chat with Glenn Fredericks.

“It was nice talking with you,” I said to the man. “How did you like the lighted boat parade last night?”

He looked puzzled. “I skip the tourist-driven hokey holiday crap,” he said.

As usual, it seemed, someone was lying.

[Rich Torrisi] went on: “That’s the biggest misconception of being a chef: If you’re not behind the stove, your restaurant’s worse.”

Or as Mr. [Mario] Carbone put it, “Do you think the C.E.O. of Bank of America is watching your checking account right now?”

—
Jeff Gordinier, “The Red Sauce Juggernaut,”
New York Times

As I walked back to the area where I had parked my scooter, a text from Wally flashed onto my screen.
If available, good idea to show face at Key Zest. ASAP. If you can spare the time.

I stuffed the phone into my pocket, feeling utterly annoyed. If I was available? Show my face? He acted as though I had been the one to choose unemployment, as if I couldn’t be bothered to dabble in my work. I loved this job. And I’d taken it deathly seriously from the moment I landed it.

I texted Edel, telling her I’d be back sometime after five. As I motored across the island to our office, I
wondered why Wally’s attitude had changed. Had Ava’s poison finally worked its way into his system? Why did he want me showing my face? I didn’t have any assignments—she’d taken them all away.

My phone buzzed again, telling me that I’d received a voice mail. I’d turned off the ringer while interviewing the lady down at the harbor and forgotten to turn it back on. Wally had called, then left a voice message and then the offending text message when I didn’t answer. I pulled over on Whitehead Street and, cringing, played the voice mail through.

“I’m having another meeting with the investors. You’re not invited—that’s not what I meant,” he had added quickly. “But I’m thinking it won’t hurt if you wander in. Or, take that back, walk in purposefully, as if you’re working even while things are on hold. Because you’re just that dedicated,” he added with a forced chuckle.

Which made me feel sick to my stomach. Because I was that dedicated. But Ava couldn’t see it and probably never would. I was beginning to wish I’d brought one of the painkillers that had been dispensed last night. Fuzzy edges might just help when facing my nemesis.

I drove the last few blocks, parked the scooter behind Preferred Properties Real Estate, and trotted up the stairs to our second-floor office. Through the clouded glass door, I could see the shadow of Danielle at the desk and hear the low rumble of voices from Wally’s office. I brushed my fingers over my curls, squared my shoulders, and walked in.

“Good morning,” said Danielle in a cheery voice, all while making a terrible face and pointing to Wally’s office. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The dreaded Ava is in session. With the investors. Did Wally tell you to come?”

I nodded. “What’s going on?”

She shrugged. “Negotiations of some kind. He didn’t want to tell me anything, at least not with her hanging over his shoulder.” She dropped her voice even lower. “I took the liberty of doing a little research.” She shoved a piece of white paper covered with block letters across the desk.
Did you know that Ava went to school with Palamina?

“She told me that,” I whispered. “Not Ava. Palamina. Ava wouldn’t share information with me if we were the last two rats on a sinking ship.”

Danielle laughed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth. But it was too late. The meeting had been interrupted by our hilarity. Wally stuck his head out of the office.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just girl talk,” Danielle said. “Hayley came in to catch up on some reviews. I was getting some snacks together for our guests.” She gestured toward a white platter that held a selection of cookies. Honest to god, they looked like Double Stuf Oreos, Chips Deluxe Chocolate Lovers cookies, and store-brand caramel coconut Tim Tam knockoffs. Okay, we don’t do cookies out of a package in this office—too much fat and sugar and not enough pleasure, except in a major emergency. This would count.

“Keep it down out there,” Wally said, adding a pained smile. He turned back to his office and Danielle stood, preparing to follow him with the cookies.

“Store-bought?” I mouthed to Danielle, pointing at the trans-fat-laden orbs.

She raised her eyebrows and giggled.

“Hayley,” Wally called over his shoulder, “would you mind joining us in fifteen minutes or so?”

I hurried down the hall to my writing nook and
spent the next fifteen minutes desperately trying to concentrate on the edits Wally had returned on the review of Latitudes, where I’d eaten with my family days earlier. It was hard to push away the memory of Edel’s despair, that night when she heard that her precious new restaurant was burning.

I tweaked my lead-in paragraph, which was all about the setting: the short ride across the harbor to Sunset Key on the private people ferry, the palm trees wrapped in Christmas lights, the flickering torches lining the path that lead to the restaurant, the aura of wealth and privilege. Then I moved on to the amazing, spicy, condiment-laden Bloody Mary—thinking I could use one of them before facing Ava.

I had just begun to polish the description of the French onion soup, which I remembered as delicious though perhaps not remarkable, and the coconut-encrusted Key West pink shrimp, when Wally’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“Hayley, could you join us?”

I swiped at the beads of sweat that had popped up across my upper lip and leaped up, slamming my knee against the desk on my way.

“Crap!” I hissed. And limped down the hall to Wally’s office. I paused for a moment outside his door, practiced a grin that I hoped wasn’t sickly, and stepped inside.

Wally said, “Of course you know Ava and Palamina and Marcus Baker. Hayley is our crackerjack staff writer. Have a seat,” he said, “and please help yourself to Danielle’s snacks.”

The last thing I wanted was one of those cookies—it would sit leaden in my stomach, oozing sugar and preservatives. But I reached for one, anyway, so as not to appear snobbish or ungrateful. Wally flashed a smile, tight as the rubber band around a bouquet of broccoli.

“We’re brainstorming ideas for the new Key Zest formula,” he said. “Marcus was wondering what kind of readership we have for the restaurant reviews. How many hits and particularly comments have you noticed?”

Marcus leaned forward, palms on his knees. “We’re wondering how often your reviews start a conversation. If we are to be involved in the new iteration of the magazine, it’s important that we have a way for readers to speak to us. That they feel like we’re inviting them to respond to what we write. It’s very easy for writers to become solipsistic.”

“Oh so easy,” said Ava.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to keep my gaze pinned on Marcus, away from Ava’s prune-lipped grimace. Sweat ran in runnels down my spine and I knew my face must have reddened. The Jersey tomato look, my father used to joke when my mother or I got mad and he wanted to defuse our fury. His ploy never worked.

“I would like to think my readers always feel part of the conversation,” I said. “I can’t tell you how many people stop me on the streets to thank me for my opinions. My theory on being a restaurant critic is that I spend my money testing food so they don’t have to waste theirs.” I turned to Wally. “We have comments enabled on the blog already, don’t we?”

“It’s not simply a matter of enabling comments,” said Marcus. “Periodicals that are successful these days are those that manage to develop a community around their product. So there should be an entire program of social media in place—a Facebook page, of course, for those trapped in the Stone Age.”

We all laughed, though at
Key Zest
we relied heavily on Facebook to drive traffic. Or at least we thought we
were driving traffic. Or we hoped. We’d certainly noticed fewer hits and more requests for post-boosting expenditures over the past year.

“And a Twitter feed,” said Palamina. “But you need to be a foodie and style leader, not just tweeting your own links. You can hold chats and develop your Google+ platform and Instagram, too. With teasers to your lead articles.”

“Pinterest, definitely,” said Marcus. “With some group boards. And Tumblr, maybe down the road.”

Palamina turned to look at me, her expressive, birdlike face drenched with sympathy. “You see,” she said, “our sense of
Key Zest
is that it needs a complete structural overhaul, not just a few cosmetic tweaks. If we are to invest in the organization, we don’t believe it will work to apply plaster to the cracks to disguise the weaknesses. We would propose taking apart the pieces of the structure that are faulty and rebuilding for the future. That, of course, will involve cost cutting, along with really sharpening the focus.”

“And, as Marcus said, figuring out the way to get the readers dedicated and involved,” Wally added.

“This also calls for a paid advertising program with food establishments in this town,” Ava inserted. “If the restaurants have paid for ads, they are by definition invested in our magazine.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying hard not to snap at her. She had brought up this possibility four or five times over the past year and each and every time it sounded dreadful. I waited for a moment to see if Wally would respond to her. But either he had lost his concentration or he had changed his mind and gone over to the dark side.

“May I say something in response?” I said, horrified that my voice squeaked as the words came out. “It
seems as though once you get restaurants paying to be featured or mentioned in the magazine, in exchange you have an obligation for a certain kind of review or coverage. The truth is sacrificed along the way. It’s hard for me to be comfortable with that.”

Ava put her hands out, palms facing to the ceiling, looking at the faces of Wally and the two investors. “You see what I’m trying to say. Our staff doesn’t think big picture. They think about the small square inch of work directly in front of them and their own little niggling concerns. Very difficult to run a thriving business like that.”

“You mean difficult to run a business with morals?” I snapped. Then I stood up and marched out.