Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (2 page)

Revenge is like serving cold cuts.

—Tony Soprano

As you might expect from our island’s near-Caribbean status, Key West restaurants tend to be casual, with wide-plank floors, doors thrown open to the outdoors, and waiters with tattoos, cutoffs, and weathered faces. Bistro on the Bight had not adopted this trend. The designers had set the eatery apart with clean, spare decor heavy on stainless steel, copper trim, and leather. Orchids bloomed purple and pink on every table, and I noticed no funky odors—almost unavoidable in a humid climate when a place had been around awhile. I jotted a few notes on my phone and waved to the server, who emerged from the swinging door that I figured must lead to the kitchen. He was clean-shaven, dressed in a full-body white apron with all black underneath, as though he might have just flown in from New York City. Black is not big on this island.

“I have an appointment with Ms. Waugh. I’m Hayley Snow.”

“The chef is expecting you,” the server said, and led
me to a table for two in the far corner of the room, near the kitchen. “Can I bring you a beverage?”

“No, thanks,” I said, pointing to the BPA-free water bottle clipped to the side of my backpack. I was still swimming from a second glass of my mother’s Arnold Palmer—half lemonade, half iced tea, and one of the drinks in the running for her southern Christmas party menu. “I’d love to look at the menu while I’m waiting, though.”

He crossed the room to the hostess stand and returned with a crisp linen folder.

“She’ll be with you shortly.”

As he exited through the swinging door, I heard a voice from the kitchen, feminine yet husky with intensity: “This is not rocket science. You need to prepare it exactly as I showed you yesterday. Our customers don’t want a new adventure every time they order a dish—they want what they loved last time and the time before. Exactly as the recipe is written. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Chef,” chorused a few voices.

I began to peruse the pristine pages of the menu and was immediately drawn to the shrimp salad with fennel and orange and a roasted chicken served with pommes aligot, a recipe featuring potatoes mashed with heavy cream, garlic, and cheese. My mouth began to water even though I’d just eaten.

The kitchen door swung open again, banging against the pickled wood trim on the wall. A petite woman with a pink face, rosebud lips, and a mass of black curls escaping from her toque barreled over to my table. She thrust her hand at me, and when I took it, squeezed mine like a lemon pinched in a vise.

“Edel Waugh,” she said. “You must be Ms. Snow. I appreciate you taking the time to write the feature.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I said. “Please call me Hayley. I have some questions prepared, if that’s okay.” I tried to hold my voice steady and not show how nervous I felt—of course she would expect me to come with questions. Besides, I had the sense that this small, fierce woman would roll right over me if I didn’t take the lead. She nodded, sat down across from me, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You developed a very successful restaurant in New York. Why not stick with what you’ve already got humming? Why Key West?”

She flashed a quick grin, rubbed a finger over her chin, which had a spot of something on it—grease? Gravy? Though I couldn’t think of any dish I’d seen in her repertoire that involved gravy. Which seemed a shame, really. My stomach gave a little rumble of agreement.

“New York is fabulous in December—the lights, the crowds, the festivity. January and February? Dead. I’m an ambitious person,” she said, rapping her fist on the table, which bobbled a little from the force of the impact. A frown crossed her face and she snapped her fingers and called for the waiter who’d greeted me. “Leo?” He trotted across the room. “As soon as Ms. Snow and I are finished, you need to look at this table,” she told him, rocking it for emphasis. “Our diners should not have to endure an unsteady eating surface.” He backed away with a sheepish look on his face, and she returned her attention to me.

“Truth is, as in many arenas, a female chef has to work harder than a man to get to the top levels. The work is brutal—long hours, heavy lifting, staffing issues, money problems. Of course, male chefs have those challenges, too, but women are assumed to be less creative than men, less driven, less than men in
actually any way you can imagine. But I don’t buy that.”

She stared me down.

“As I’m quite sure you know, the New York restaurant was developed with my ex-husband. This is my chance to prove that my food and my restaurant are equal to anything a male chef might invent.” Her eyes blazed with intensity.

Who would dare consider her less than a man?

“I have gathered some information to share with you that you might do well to read before you write your piece. Menus, of course, but also my training manuals for kitchen and front-of-house staff.” She pushed a folder across the table. “Let’s go for a spin around the kitchen—assuming you’re interested?”

“Of course.”

She whisked me through the gleaming kitchen, which smelled amazing—onions frying, sauce simmering, chicken roasting—and introduced me to a few of the staff: the head sous-chef, two line cooks, the pastry chef, even a dishwasher. They all struck me as professional, if a bit harried. In each case, Edel’s staff tightened visibly under the glare of her examination, almost flinching as she approached. There was no question about who would be in charge of the dishes coming out of this kitchen. She would be watching every detail from the amuse-bouche to the cleanliness of the glassware to the size of the carrot chunks in the stew to the herb sprigs garnishing the dinner plates.

After we’d finished the tour, Chef Edel walked me out through the restaurant to the dock along the water. “Before you write anything up, I’d like you to come back, spend a few hours in the kitchen. I think you’ll understand what we’re trying to do here in a way you
can’t by listening to me talk—or even the brief visit we just had.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Honestly? I’m not quite sure that Key West will be able to appreciate my kind of food—the islanders may be too provincial. I mean that literally and figuratively,” she added.

I gaped at her, unsure what I could possibly say. Maybe she didn’t realize that a large chunk of this population came from points north, including her own New York City. It was a peculiar blind spot, to say the least.

“How would tomorrow around four p.m. work in your schedule? We are treating tomorrow night as our soft opening. I’d like you to join us for our staff dinner before the restaurant opens.”

I agreed without checking my phone because nothing felt more pressing than the opportunity to watch this whirlwind chef in action.

“There’s a reason I asked for you to write this piece,” she said.

She’d asked for me? I thought my boss had come up with the idea.

“What’s that?”

She fidgeted, gazing over the horizon for a moment—the first time I’d noticed her looking insecure about anything—then swung those intense brown eyes back to me. “Some things have started to go a little wrong.”

Now I was really puzzled. And curious. Surely she wasn’t looking for my culinary expertise. I’m an accomplished home cook, but certainly no gourmet chef—my tweaks on her recipes could not be welcome. “What kinds of things?”

“Recipes altered. Things gone missing. Like that. I could use another pair of eyes. I’ll discuss it with you
after dinner service tomorrow. The soft opening is less than twenty-four hours away and my staff is acting as though they’ve never set foot in a professional kitchen.”

“I’d love to help if I can. But why me?”

“I’ve heard about you. You’ve gotten involved with other mysteries on this island. People say you’re good with puzzles. And fearless. To the point of being a little stupid.”

Which struck me almost dumb, for the second time that day. If she was trying to butter me up, her technique needed honing in a way I was certain her knives did not.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
 . . .

—Mel Tormé and Robert Wells

Although it had been Ava Faulkner’s idea for
Key Zest
to have a presence in the Hometown Holiday Parade, which helps mark the launch of the Christmas season, I wasn’t surprised that she turned the actual work over to the rest of us. Wally managed to scrounge a banged-up golf cart with three bench seats for the base of the float, and we’d been brainstorming ideas for the past couple of weeks by e-mail. Santa . . . elves . . . key lime pie . . . palm trees . . . margaritas . . . key deer . . . At the last go-round, we were basically nowhere. Pretty much the only part we had nailed down was that Wally would dress as Santa, Danielle and I as elves. We’d blocked out late this afternoon and this evening to firm up a theme and begin production, as the parade date was caroming in our direction.

Parades are big business on this island. The granddaddy of them all, Fantasy Fest, takes place during the week leading up to Halloween and features a different theme each year. And lots of costumes, which in Key
West means the skimpier, the better—right down to body paint only. In the presence of an excellent paint job, it might take the onlooker five minutes to realize she’s staring at a stranger’s bare breasts. Maybe painted to simulate Mickey Mouse or an antique car or a bunch of grapes, but bare all the same.

Fortunately, dressing as an elf would not involve exposing a lot of skin.

I parked my scooter at the back of a conch house in New Town, where one of Wally’s pals let him store the cart for the week leading up to the parade. The sounds of Bruce Springsteen crooning “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” wafted out from the stand-alone garage. Lights twinkled inside and I heard Danielle singing harmony to Bruce’s baritone. My heart was pounding a nervous rat-tat-tat-tat. It felt like forever since I’d really talked with Wally and even longer since we’d spent any time alone. Last spring all signs pointed to the possibility that love was about to blossom. But then his mom’s stage-four cancer was diagnosed. Understandably, the other concerns in his life fell away to the shadows. He’d been working from her home in Delray Beach for months and months while she suffered through surgery and chemotherapy. Her health seemed to be on a slight uptick—at least in the short run—so he’d taken the opportunity to come back down to Key West for the holidays. I’d watched this progression once already when my friend Connie’s mother died during our freshman year in college. Losing your mother too soon—watching her waste away in pain—was just about the worst experience I could imagine.

I pulled in a big breath of balmy air, arranged a cheery smile, and headed in. Wally was wiring two dashing reindeer that looked like stolen lawn ornaments to the front of the golf cart. A sign hanging from
the deer’s necks proclaimed them to be carrying Santa and his cutie pies.

“Santa and his cutie pies?” I yelped over Bruce’s song.

“Danielle thought of it.” Wally, wearing a faded green T-shirt and worn jeans that showed a little flash of thigh through the thinnest places, hopped off the cart, slung an arm around my shoulder, and pecked my cheek. I hugged him hard. He looked and felt thinner than he had last time I’d seen him. Danielle turned down the volume so we could talk normally.

“Do you get it?” Danielle asked, pointing to the cart. “Do you see? The rest of the cart will look like a giant key lime pie when we’re finished.” She had laid out another sheet of thin plywood and blocked out in bright paint
TO SAMPLE THE BEST OF THE ISLA
ND
,
VISIT
K
EY
Z
EST
.
She was in the process of tacking white lights to the cursive lettering that spelled out
Key Zest
. But my attention leaped to her costume: a Santa hat, black leggings, and a bikini top constructed out of red faux fur outlined in more blinking white lights. The outfit made the most of her considerable assets.

“Hayley, wait until you see this,” she said, demonstrating how the blinking
Key Zest
sign would hang from the cart’s roof. “The most important thing is lots of lights—and we put together a sound track that has all the best foodie Christmas carols on it.” She began to warble “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” She grabbed my hands. “Do you know how to dance swing? I was thinking we would pop out of the pie whenever the parade slows down and then dance! Maybe toss out candy canes?”

I eased my fingers from her grip and backed away. “This all sounds great. Sort of. But please don’t tell me you want me to wear that.” I pointed at her fuzzy, blinking brassiere. “An elf costume is bad enough . . .”

“Come on, it’s cute. It’s Key West. Skimpy costumes are the norm. And it will draw attention to our float.”

“Believe me, you don’t want the kind of attention I would draw.”

Wally crossed the garage and tousled my hair, a big grin on his face. “She’s pulling your leg. She figured once you saw what she had on, the striped tights and red elf skirt would start to look good.” They both started to laugh.

“So I’m modest,” I said. “I’m from New Jersey.” Which only made them laugh harder.

I began to help Danielle tack lights to the wooden board, and then duct tape swirls of lights on the body of the cart. Finally the whining of Wally’s band saw wound down.

“Did you get a chance to meet the new chef at the Bight?” Wally asked.

“Did I ever,” I said. “She’s as tough as my grandmother’s cast-iron frying pan. But I liked her. In fact, she’s invited me to have the family meal with the staff tomorrow and then spend a couple hours in the kitchen. It’s their soft opening.”

“Do your best work,” Wally said, “because Ava fought me tooth and nail about assigning this to you.”

“I’m your food critic. Who else was going to write it?” I asked, indignant. I spend a lot of time feeling indignant when it comes to Ava Faulkner.

Danielle piped up, “She said, and I quote, ‘
We have half a dozen new restaurants debuting in Key West every season. Let’s concentrate on the ones that make it, not waste space on some damn fancy-pants New Yorker who wants to make a big splash by dragging her old ideas to a new location
.’” She wagged a finger and pinched her lips in an excellent imitation of my nemesis. Except for the gorgeous cleavage, which Ava lacks.

I sighed. “She’s such a pain. Do you think anyone would notice if we fed her rat poison?”

“Maybe something a little more subtle, considering that her sister was murdered,” Danielle said, and grimaced. “Besides, rat poison makes an awful big mess. And how would we get it into her? She hardly eats anything and she certainly wouldn’t eat something you cooked.”

“So true.” We worked a few minutes in silence, attaching the gigantic pie shell to the sides of the cart and installing the blinking K
EY
Z
EST
sign on top.

“Why do you suppose Edel Waugh wanted to open a restaurant in this town?” Danielle wondered, when we stopped for a break.

“You know, I asked her that question, but she never really answered. Other than talking about how grim New York is in January. And she did say this was her chance to prove herself separate from her ex-husband.”

“All the biggest chefs want to expand their domains,” Wally said. “It’s like a McDonald’s franchise, only different. And much, much better. Design a menu and a concept that diners love, then set up another one just like it, somewhere else. Double the reservations, double the money, double the name recognition. People want familiar yet fresh. In this case, New York food with Key West flair.”

“But you can’t cook in two kitchens at once,” Danielle said.

“I don’t know how much she cooks at this point—she’s the grand director and idea woman. But imagine training the staff in two places—that must be a major headache,” I said. “Making sure the dishes are the same whether you order them in New York City or Key West. Maybe that’s why she was yelling at the staff.”

Danielle looked at her watch. “Oh shoot, I have to
run home and get changed. My date is picking me up in an hour.”

“Why don’t you wear what you have on?” I said. “You’d sure make a big impression.”

She grinned and blew me a kiss, then gathered her things, turned off the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and trotted away. That left Wally and me alone in the shadows of the garage, now lit only by the twinkling of a thousand little white fairy lights. He switched on the Christmas music soundtrack, which began to play “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and started around the golf cart toward me. My heart thumped and skin tingled as I anticipated his embrace. Eight months since he’d declared he might have feelings for me and we still hadn’t figured out how to handle them in public. Or really in private, either. He reached for my hands and pulled me closer.

“Helloooo!” called a voice from the yard outside. The dreaded Ava Faulkner. We sprang apart and Wally yanked the chain of the overhead light, shocking the room with the sharp brightness of the bare bulb. I busied myself cleaning up scraps of wood and paintbrushes and hammers so Ava wouldn’t see what I was certain was my tomato-red face.

Wally began to yammer about the design of the float and explain how the elves would come bursting out of the pie to distribute candy canes emblazoned with the
Key Zest
Web address. Ava looked unimpressed.

“I didn’t even think to ask,” he added, eyebrows lofting. “Would you like to be an elf, too?”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, a look of horror on her face. She turned to me. “Could you excuse us? We have some business to discuss.”

This was vintage Ava—humiliating the minions by treating them like children or undervalued underlings.
But there would be nothing to gain by confronting her or refusing to leave, so I scurried to collect my backpack and helmet. “See you tomorrow,” I said to Wally. Outside, I paused in the shadows by the open window to catch my breath. Which suddenly made eavesdropping irresistible.

“You wanted to talk?” Wally was saying.

“I’m not happy with how things are going,” Ava said. “I’m sorry that your mother has been ill. And I’ve been willing to tolerate your absence over this period of months—but it was with the understanding that you would be sure the business was covered.”

“I have made sure,” Wally said in a firm voice. “I’ve said this every time you and I have talked. Hayley and Danielle have been handling the day-to-day issues and we have been in touch by e-mail and phone daily. I’m doing the best I can, considering that my mother is dying.”

I would not have been that polite. I would have melted into a blubbering, outraged puddle.

“As I mentioned, I am sorry about your mother,” said Ava, “but I beg to differ. Very little has been handled. Our subscription numbers have stagnated. I’ve picked up several phone messages from potential advertisers who have not been contacted—they are offering us easy money, and we can’t be bothered to follow up. But worse than that is a lack of editorial direction.”

I peered through the window into the garage. Wally had sagged against the workbench on the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his glasses pushed up to his forehead so that even from a distance the sadness in his eyes was clear. I wanted to rush in and hug him, and then lambast Ava for her insensitivity, which would only make things worse. Then I realized that if his job was in trouble, so was mine. Over and over, he’d
protected me from her misplaced wrath. If he was going to be squeezed out, I was a goner, too.

“Do tell me about the problem with editorial direction,” he said in a quiet voice.

Ava gave a quick nod. “I know I mentioned the piece about Bistro on the Bight. If Hayley Snow”—I flinched at the sound of my name barked from her scornful lips—“is supposed to be a food critic, then how can she possibly spend time in this woman’s kitchen and write a puff piece on this supposedly up-and-coming chef and retain any scrap of impartiality? Can’t you see that every restaurant on the island will be demanding equal treatment? And then every reader will assume that the chef has been greasing the skids to earn what is not a review but essentially a monstrous advertisement?”

“I don’t agree,” Wally said. “You’ve been saying for months that we need articles with more depth, more heft. Profiling new business owners is part of that. And Hayley is a consummate professional. She will not cross lines, nor will she produce a so-called puff piece.” He pushed away from the bench and stood up taller. “What are your other concerns?”

Ava huffed and stalked around the golf cart to slap her bag on the workbench. “I’ve made a list,” she said, as she pulled her iPad mini from the satchel.

I’d heard enough. Hell would be paid if I got caught listening in on her harangue. Besides, her insensitivity made me sick to my stomach.

One thing was certain: the more she insisted I should not interview Edel Waugh, the more determined I was to continue.