Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (23 page)

Ever since reading Elinor Lipman’s novel
The View from Penthouse B
, I’ve had the urge to bake Scarlett O’Hara cupcakes, like one of her characters did. But what exactly is a Scarlett O’Hara cupcake? A red velvet base seemed like a shoo-in. But what kind of icing would show Scarlett’s sass? Ginger? Peach? Chocolate ganache? Lemon? Cinnamon? Jalapeño? I settled on a raspberry cream cheese frosting. These may not be authentic, but they taste wonderful and they are showstoppers, too.

CUPCAKE INGREDIENTS

2
¹
/
₄
cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1
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/
₂
teaspoons baking soda

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teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons white vinegar

1 cup milk

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

2 large eggs

2 tablespoons cocoa powder

2 tablespoons red food coloring (one 1-ounce bottle)

12 tablespoons unsalted butter (1
¹
/
₂
sticks)

1
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/
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cups granulated sugar

To make the cupcakes:

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Place 20 to 22 cupcake liners in two cupcake pans.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.

In a large glass measuring cup, make a buttermilk mixture by adding the vinegar to the milk. Let it sit for
about ten minutes. Whisk the buttermilk with the vanilla and eggs.

In a small bowl, mix the cocoa with the food coloring until they form a smooth paste.

In a medium bowl, beat the butter and sugar together until fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down the bowl as necessary. Add 1/3 of the flour mixture and beat on medium-low speed until just incorporated, about 30 seconds. Add half of the buttermilk mixture and beat on low speed until combined, about 30 seconds. Repeat with half of the remaining flour mixture, the remaining buttermilk mixture, and the other half of the flour mixture. Add the cocoa mixture and beat on medium speed until completely incorporated, about 30 seconds. Do not overbeat.

Distribute the batter into the cupcake pans and bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 18 to 22 minutes. Allow the cupcakes to cool for 10 minutes, then remove the cupcakes to a wire rack to cool completely.

FROSTING INGREDIENTS

1 stick unsalted butter, softened

8 ounces cream cheese, softened

1 cup confectioners’ sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 pinch salt

About 40 raspberries

To make the frosting:

Beat the butter and cream cheese together until smooth. Beat in the sugar and then the vanilla. Set aside the
20 best raspberries, and beat the remainder into the frosting.

Frost the cupcakes and decorate each with a raspberry. Refrigerate the cupcakes if you aren’t serving them right away.

1 medium onion, chopped

1 small green pepper, chopped

Olive oil

6–8 best-quality hot dogs, sliced into rounds*

1 (28-ounce) can B&M Baked Beans

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

3 tablespoons barbecue sauce or ketchup

2 tablespoons molasses or brown sugar

Worcestershire sauce

Sauté the onions and pepper in a small amount of olive oil. Set aside.

Sauté the hot-dog slices until brown. Remove and discard the pork fat from the baked beans. Mix the baked beans with the hot dogs, onion, and pepper. Add the mustard, barbecue sauce or ketchup, molasses or brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce to taste. Mix and pour into a greased 9 x 11 inch casserole. Bake at 350°F until bubbly.

You should probably serve this with something green.

*Use your judgment on “best-quality hot dogs.”

VEGETABLE INGREDIENTS

3 carrots

2 radishes

1 small white onion

A big handful of snow peas

1 cup broccolini or broccoli florets (or asparagus, fiddleheads, or green beans)

To make the vegetables:

Clean all the veggies and cut them into bite-sized pieces. Set aside.

PARMESAN CRISPS INGREDIENTS

2 oz. fresh Parmesan, grated (use a block of cheese, not the stuff in a green container)

To make the Parmesan crisps:

Heat the oven to 400°F. Grate the Parmesan using the large holes of a grater. Cover a cookie sheet with parchment paper and grease the paper, or use a SILPAT liner on the cookie sheet. Drop the grated cheese into small mounds, about 1 tablespoon each, leaving an inch or more of space between them. Bake at 400°F for 4 to 5 minutes, watching carefully so they don’t burn. At first the cheese will melt and bubble; then it will gradually turn golden. Take them out FAST!

CHEESY POLENTA INGREDIENTS

2 cups chicken broth

1 cup water

1 cup cornmeal grits or polenta

1 cup cheddar cheese, grated

2 tablespoons butter

To make the cheesy polenta:

Bring the water and the broth to a boil, and slowly add the grits or polenta. Reduce to low heat and simmer about
¹
/
₂
hour, whisking often to keep lumps from forming and to keep it from sticking to the pan. (Take care, because the grits will pop and can burn the chef.) Mix in the cheese and butter, and set aside.

Quickly stir-fry the vegetables in olive oil until tender but still crisp. Serve them on the hot polenta, garnished with Parmesan wafers.

This recipe makes a lot of sauce—enough for a generous dinner and then some to freeze for another night of pleasure. I like to put it all together on one day, and finish simmering the next.

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, minced (about 1 cup)

1
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/
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cups carrots, minced (about 6 carrots, can be done in a food processor)

2 large cloves garlic, minced

1 pound lean ground beef

³
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pound ground pork

¹
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cup red wine

¹
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cup white wine

2 (28-ounce) cans whole tomatoes

1 (6-ounce) can tomato paste

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teaspoon dried oregano

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teaspoon dried basil

1 cup milk

Heat the olive oil in a large stockpot over medium heat. Sauté the onions and carrots in the oil for about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 30 seconds more. Scrape the vegetables out of the pot onto a plate. In the same pot, brown the beef and pork, breaking up the meat into crumbles. Drain the fat. Add the veggies back into the pot with the drained meat. Add the wine and cook this down a little. Add the tomatoes, breaking them up in the pot as you stir. (I like to make sure little hunks of skin are not left on the fruit before I add them to the pot, but you be the judge of whether skins in the sauce will annoy you.)

Add the tomato paste and the herbs and stir. Stir in the milk. Simmer about two hours, until the alcohol has evaporated and the flavors have blended.

Serve the sauce over the pasta of your choice with freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and a green vegetable on the side.

1 part pomegranate juice

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part orange liqueur (Susan likes the spiciness of Créole Shrubb)

3 parts sparkling wine (or ginger ale)

Lemon twist, pomegranate seeds, and raspberries, for garnish

Mix the first three ingredients. Serve over ice and garnish with a lemon twist, pomegranate seeds, and raspberries.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! A calorie alert has been issued for this recipe. You should not go in with the idea that a Key Lime Parfait is a light dessert because of the citrus.

Also be forewarned that although key limes have a lovely flavor, they are small and a bit of a nuisance to juice. Be patient—it might take a pound of key limes to produce the juice you need.

5 whole graham crackers, crushed (about 1 cup)

2 tablespoons melted butter

1 tablespoon brown sugar

2 cups heavy or whipping cream

¹
/
₄
cup powered sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk

¹
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cup key lime juice

Key lime zest

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Crush the graham crackers by sealing them in a ziplock bag and rolling them with a rolling pin. Mix the crumbs with the melted butter and brown sugar. Spread the mixture on a foil-covered baking sheet and bake for ten minutes or until golden. Let it cool, then break it into crumbs again.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whip the cream with the powdered sugar and vanilla until soft peaks form. Set half of the cream mixture aside for the topping.

Mix the condensed milk with the lime juice. The citrus will cause the milk to thicken. Gently fold in one cup of the whipped cream.

Set out eight parfait or martini glasses. Reserve a couple tablespoons of the crumbs for topping. Layer some of the baked crumbs into each glass, then add some of the key lime mixture. Repeat. When you have distributed all the ingredients, top with dollops of whipped cream and sprinkle with reserved crumbs and some zested lime if you want a stronger citrus flavor.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next
Key West Food Critic Mystery,

coming in summer 2015 from Obsidian.

The first time Miss Gloria almost died, she came out of the hospital rigid with fear.

The second time, just before Christmas, she came out fighting. In spite of having been jammed into a small space for hours, with hands and feet bound and mouth taped shut, she was determined to embrace life with all the risks that entailed. For weeks she’d brushed off my concerns about conserving her energy, going out alone at night, and piloting her enormous Buick around the island instead of calling a cab. Good gravy, wasn’t she almost eighty-one years old? And, besides that, she could barely see over the steering wheel.

I took a deep breath and lowered my voice so the entire marina wouldn’t hear us squabbling on the deck of her houseboat. “Your sons will have conniptions if they hear you’re driving again,” I said. “Lots of things can go wrong. The traffic is terrible this time of year—”

“When you look at it without your blinders on, Hayley Snow,” she said, “isn’t life just one big series of close calls? We all have to go sometime,” she added with an impish tilt to her head. “And I’ve realized that I don’t want to go feeling any regrets. And I’d
definitely regret spending the rest of my life acting like a scared old lady.” She grinned and patted my hand. “My training shift at the cemetery starts at three. You’re coming for a tour at four so I can practice, right? How about we compromise and you’ll drive me home? That way you can walk over to the cemetery, burn off a few calories, and earn points with your gym trainer,” she finished with a sly wink.

I sighed and nodded my agreement. I’d been had and we both knew it.

She hurried down the dock to her metallic green car and I buried myself in my work in order to avoid watching the big sedan back and fill. When she’d extracted the vehicle from its tight parking space, she pulled across the Palm Avenue traffic, tires squealing and horn blaring.

I plugged my ears and tried not to look. I had my own problem to attend to: roughing out a plan for my latest restaurant-review roundup, tentatively called “Paradise Lunched.” My new boss, Palamina Wells, was a lot more hands-on than any of us working at
Key Zest
had expected when she assumed half ownership of the magazine in January.

“I’ll back off once I get a handle on things,” she told us in a staff meeting yesterday. “In the meantime, let’s work on making our lead paragraphs truly memorable. Think tweetable, think Buzzfeed-able, think Instagram envy. Let’s make them irresistibly viral, okay?”

Irresistibly viral felt like a lot to ask from an article on lunch.

At three thirty I put my overworked, underperforming first paragraph aside and told the cats I’d be back in an hour, lord willing that Miss Gloria allowed me to drive home. If the lord didn’t will that, I couldn’t promise anything.

By the time I fast-walked from Houseboat Row to the Frances Street entrance of the cemetery, I was sweaty and hot, which meant my face had to be its most unattractive tomato red. I took a selfie on my phone and texted it to my trainer, Leigh, as proof of my aerobic exertion. She had been on the money last week when she pointed out that my fitness program had lots of room for improvement. “Increasing zero miles per week walking to any positive integer would be good,” she’d said, snapping her iPad shut with a flourish.

The Key West cemetery sits in the center of the island, where it was moved after the hurricane of 1846 washed the graves and bodies into the Atlantic Ocean. Because of our high water table, most of the burials are now handled in aboveground crypts, which makes for an interesting and spooky landscape. That—along with some interesting inhabitants—makes the cemetery one of the biggest tourist attractions on the island.

I’d put off agreeing to this tour for as long as I could. It’s not that cemeteries scare me exactly. It’s that the idea of people dying makes me sad. People like Miss Gloria, who’s probably closer to that transition than most of the people I know. And I love her like a grandmother, only more so, because she’s a friend, too, without the baggage that family can bring. And now here she was, training to be a volunteer guide at the cemetery, where it would be all dead people, all the time.

She was waiting for me at the gate, positively vibrating with excitement. “How much time do we have?” she asked. “I’ve learned so much. I’d like to tell you all of it.”

I laughed. “I have to be at the city commission meeting by six, and I dare not be late. And I definitely need something to eat before—the commissioners have a reputation for running hot and late. So, let’s say half an hour?”

She straightened her shoulders, the serious expression on her lined face not a match for her cheerful yellow sweatshirt, which featured sweet bunnies nibbling on flowers. “In that case, maybe we’ll start in the Catholic part of the cemetery, since it’s closest.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The hinge at the left temple, still held together with silver duct tape, caught on a clump of white hair. She had gotten the lens replaced after it was crushed in the scuffle last December, but she refused to spring for new frames. “I like old things,” she laughed. “They go with me.” She waved me forward. “So, we’ll start on the right. Then we can work our way around the edges and I won’t forget where we left off.”

“How long are the tours you’ll be giving once you’re finished with your training?” I mopped my face with my sleeve and paused in the scanty shade of a coconut palm.

“It depends if it’s a special event. In that case I could be here two hours. But most tourists don’t have that kind of attention span. They want to see the gravestone that says ‘I told you I was sick.’ And maybe the double murder–suicide grave.”

“The double murder–suicide?”

“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “He shot her and then killed himself. And the poor woman is stuck in the same grave site with him for eternity. What’s up with that?”

“Somebody with a sick sense of humor made that decision,” I said. “Though Eric always says you never know what’s going on in a marriage unless you’re living in that space. I guess it’s possible that she drove him to it.” My childhood friend Eric is a psychologist and, besides that, the most sensible man I know.

She cleared her throat and started to speak in a serious
public-radio kind of voice. “Okay, in this right-hand corner that runs along Frances and Angela streets, you will find the Catholic cemetery.” Miss Gloria wove through the mossy stones, pointing out the plot for the Gato family, prominent in cigar-manufacturing days, the English family plot honoring the first African-American man elected to the city commission, and a gravestone reading D
EVOTED
F
AN OF
S
IN
GER
J
ULIO
I
GLESIAS.

She adjusted her damaged glasses again. “I hope you’ll find something more personal to say than that when my time comes.”

“Definitely,” I said. “‘Miss Gloria, spark plug, wonderful roommate, and mother of fabulous sons.’ Let’s see, that’s too wordy. How about, ‘She was up for anything’?” Then I glanced at my watch, hoping to change the subject. “It looks like we have time for one more.”

“Oh, I have to show you this one, then,” she said, and led me to the grave of Mario Sanchez, an artist who had recorded scenes of early Key West in his folk-art woodcut paintings. “His artwork’s shot up in value. Can you imagine, I had the chance to buy some of his pieces twenty years ago?” she said. “But my husband thought two hundred dollars was out of our price range.” She looked up at the sky and shook her fist. “Honey, you weren’t right about everything. Those pieces are selling for close to a hundred grand now.”

Then she hustled up ahead of me. “Here’s one more. Isn’t it amazing? Their monument looks like a wedding cake. But apparently these two families were feuding. Maybe they bought the plot before they started to fight? But, anyway, now they’re stuck next to each other for eternity, with only this metal-spike fence to separate them.”

As we headed out of the graveyard to her car, Miss Gloria darted ahead of me so she could slide into the
driver’s seat. She waved me to the passenger’s side. “Since I’m thinking of driving more often, maybe it’s a good idea if you check out my technique.”

Crossing my fingers behind my back, I got into the car and fastened my seat belt. Then I gripped the handle above the door with my right hand and the seat with my left. She looked over at me and laughed.

“I swear it won’t be that bad.” She put the key in the ignition, turned on the car, and revved up the big engine. We jolted away from the curb on Olivia Street and headed up toward White. Cars, bicycles, and scooters roared by in both directions. The town definitely felt busier than usual, but with Miss Gloria at the wheel, all my senses were heightened. She turned on the radio and scooched up the volume so I could barely hear myself worry.

“I’m going to take a right here,” she yelled over the Beach Boys singing “Fun, Fun, Fun.” “Because I’m afraid turning left will make you too anxious.”

“You could be right,” I said with a pained smile.

She drove the few blocks from White to Truman without incident and pulled into the left-turn lane. “See, now,” she said, craning her neck around to look at me. “I’m putting on my directional signal. And my hearing is perfectly good, so I’m not going to leave it on after I turn, like the other old people do.” She cackled out loud, but I kept looking straight forward through the windshield, praying she’d get the message and do the same.

“Green arrow!” Miss Gloria sang out, more to herself than to me. She piloted the Buick like a boxy Carnival Cruise ship from the left-turn lane onto Truman Avenue and lurched across the intersection to the right lane. “What are you working on today?” she asked.

I tried to ungrit my teeth and relax my jaw. “It’s an article on lunch,” I said. “I’m planning to include Firefly, and maybe Azur and the Café.”

“What about Edel’s bistro?” she asked. “Aren’t they serving lunch?”

“Everyone knows Edel and I are well acquainted after all that publicity,” I said. “I’m going to give her place a rest for a couple months.” Edel Waugh had opened a bistro on the Old Town harbor last December. A fire and a murder had almost tanked the restaurant. I’d been a little too involved to be considered a disinterested party. “Besides, she’s gotten so popular lately, it’s hard to get a table.”

“Jesus lord!” Miss Gloria yelped, and leaned on the horn as an unmarked police car cut in front of us. She slammed on the brakes and rolled down her window. “Where did you get your license—Kmart?”

“That’s a cop car,” I muttered. “Roll up the damn window and keep driving.”

“I don’t care who it is. He’s driving like a horny high school student late for his date.”

I goggled at her in amazement. As we reached the intersection of Truman and Palm Avenue, where another left turn led to our marina, I noticed the flashing of blue lights from the water.

“The cops,” said Miss Gloria. “Let’s pull over and see what’s happening.”

Before I could protest, she had hurtled up onto the sidewalk, thrown the car into park, and scrambled out. A tangle of orange construction webbing floated in the brackish water closest to the new roadway, dotted with assorted trash and a lump of something bigger. Three or four policemen stood on the sidewalk, looking down, seeming to discuss how to get the whole mess
ashore. One of them glanced up and then hurried toward us, scowling.

“Get back in the car and keep moving, ladies. This isn’t a sideshow. And you’re blocking traffic, ma’am.”

“Let’s go,” I said, herding Miss Gloria to our sedan. “You can watch them from the back deck with the binoculars.”

“I swear, Hayley,” she said, turning to look again, “I think they’ve snagged a
body.”