Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (6 page)

I always think there’s something rather foreign about high spirits at breakfast.

—
Mr. Carson,
Downton Abbey

After spending more time than usual fixing my hair and planning my outfit (how much could a girl do with jeans and the yellow
Key Zest
shirt—who was I kidding?) in anticipation of seeing Wally, I went into work early the next morning. I needed time to write up the Latitudes review before Wally and Danielle arrived. Writing a review based on takeout leftovers and my family’s opinions was not a restaurant reviewer’s best practice, but I didn’t have the time or money to repeat the visit. Besides, I had bigger worries—like holding my job when my investigative-culinary-reporter piece had disintegrated into arson and a hysterical chef. And, worst of all, possibly murder.

Our office copy of the
Key West Citizen
lay on the stoop, with a scary picture of Edel’s restaurant fire lighting up the night above the fold. I carried it upstairs, started a pot of coffee, and sat down to read.

K
EY
W
EST
D
ETECTIVE
N
ATHAN
B
RANSFORD
B
AFFLED
BY
A
PPARENT
A
RSON
AT
B
I
STRO
ON
THE
B
IGHT
,
the headline read. Below the fold was a photo of Bransford, crouched at the entrance to the alley leading to the restaurant, looking . . . hapless. He must have arrived after Edel and I had left. I’d had a very brief romance with the detective in question—long enough to realize that he was utterly obsessed with his image and intent on keeping it untarnished. He would go bananas when he saw this headline.

I continued to read. No injuries had been reported. Which did not exactly match what we’d seen at the site. Did they have a reason to hide the discovery of the body? Or had the victim survived without injury? Considering the silver shroud I’d seen, I doubted that outcome.

Investigators were looking for traces of accelerant, and any witnesses to the fire were asked to come forward. The state fire marshal would be consulted. An interview with the restaurant’s chef/owner, Edel Waugh, offered no comment on the fire, other than assuring future diners that she was pressing the police department to allow the restaurant to open as planned. On that, Bransford himself had no comment.

I poured a cup of coffee, added milk and sugar, and retreated to my nook at the end of the hall to begin writing. Forty-five minutes later, I had the bones of the Latitudes piece roughed out, but my stomach was growling so loudly I could barely think.

Then I Googled Edel Waugh’s restaurant, Arnica, in New York City’s East Village. The critics were divided into two camps: those who found the food to be inventive and delightful, and those who thought the restaurant tried too hard with its combination of cutting-edge and classically French food.

I heard signs of life in the reception area and the
coffeemaker began to gurgle again. Fingers and toes crossed that it was Danielle with doughnuts or pastries. She and I took turns launching, embracing, and abandoning diets, so we both welcomed the days when all good intentions failed.

I came down the hallway sniffing. “Do I smell doughnuts?”

Danielle grinned and flipped open the top of a big white box. “Right out of the deep fryer at the Glazed Donut. I figured Wally could use some cheering up. And you have never turned down fat, yeast, and sugar in the year I’ve known you.”

I laughed, chose a plain glazed, and started to eat, savoring the sugary coating, nibbling the featherlight dough so it would last as long as possible. Hoping that way I wouldn’t be tempted to reach for a second.

“And besides all that,” Danielle said, but this time with a frown that she smoothed away as quickly as it appeared, “Ava’s bringing in some possible investors this morning. I guess Wally forgot to tell you.”

“Investors?” I grimaced. “I guess he did.”

“Don’t feel left out,” Danielle said. “He’s so worried about taking time away from his mom that it’s been hard for him to focus. And Ava is pressuring him big-time about everything you can imagine.”

As I popped the last bit of doughnut in my mouth and began to lick the sugary glaze off my fingers, Ava crashed into the office. Two people followed in her wake: a man in a gray suit, a starched white shirt, and a pink tie; and a woman with über-short, spiky red hair, high heels, and skintight black jeans. If she’d been a bird, she would have been a woodpecker.

Ava glanced at Wally’s darkened window, the mini blinds still closed. She swung around to glare at Danielle. “He’s not in yet?”

“He called. He’ll be here in fifteen,” Danielle chirped. “There’s a jam on Roosevelt—apparently two cars and a scooter got tangled up. You know that narrow place where the road drops off—”

Ava tried to cut her off, but Danielle kept yakking.

“I brought doughnuts,” she said to the two strangers. “And the coffee is fresh and hot. Let me get you settled in Wally’s office.” She flashed a two-dimple smile and they couldn’t help smiling back. “Follow me.”

Ava trailed after them, a sour-persimmon expression on her face. In Wally’s office, Danielle flipped on the lights and set up the wooden TV trays that leaned against the wall. Then she brought in the doughnuts, arranged on a lacquered tray depicting a Winslow Homer seascape. “These are local—you actually watch them as they are lifted from the deep-fat fryer. The most adorable young couple owns the place. I chose some plain glazed, in case someone doesn’t like the fancy flavors,” she told the visitors. “But these others are key lime, chocolate, and a couple with maple frosting and candied bacon.”

Bestowing another big smile on Ava’s guests, she hurried back out to the front room to fetch their coffee.

“Let’s get started,” I heard Ava say, closing the blinds so we could no longer see into the office. I strained to hear the conversation. “Wally can catch up when he gets here. Our readership has exploded over the past six months,” she explained.

Which I’d certainly never heard her say to me. Whenever I’d sat in staff meetings with Ava, she’d only complained about drooping numbers and receding shares of the marketplace.

“I realize that it’s not fashionable to move from online to print,” she continued, “but this is an unusual
community and we have an unusual opportunity. We get a population of visitors who would gladly pay for a classy guide to what’s what on the island.”

“What’s your competition?” asked the woodpecker lady.

“The Sunday living section of the local newspaper was dropped entirely this past year,” Ava said. “It was called Solares Hill, named after the highest point on the island. It turned out not to be such a high point after all.”

“Which might be interpreted as the last gasp of print,” said the man in the suit.

“I don’t think so,” Ava said. I could picture her wagging a finger. She hates to be contradicted. “I think it points to a failure of their imagination. There are other weekly newsies, but not of the quality we intend to produce. Of course, we intend to make some changes in our staff. I can assure you that you’ll see a higher level of professionalism.”

“How many staff do you have currently?”

“Wally, myself, and two three-quarter timers. My vision is to hire three half-time people, which eliminates our obligation to provide benefits.”

The woman murmured a question that I couldn’t make out.

“Our staff has gotten lazy,” Ava said, and now I could picture the curl in her lip. “But imagine if we pruned the deadwood, leaving us with three part-time writers pitching ideas against each other. The creative juices would definitely surge.”

I sank lower in my chair, wishing I could creep back to my office but afraid to draw Ava’s attention—and her ire. Danielle made monkey faces to try to cheer me up, aping Ava’s thin lips and overplucked brows.

We heard quick steps on the stairs and Wally burst into the office.

“Crap,” he said. “Traffic was a nightmare. Are they already here?”

“Ava’s busy poisoning them,” Danielle said in a soft voice. “She’s pretty much already promised to fire us. We need you in there.” She placed a steaming mug in his hands and he marched into his office.

“I’m Wally Beile. So sorry to hold you up. I want you to meet our other staff. If you stay around for the parade tonight, you’ll see them dressed as elves.” He stepped back out of his cubicle and motioned for us. “That’s one way of saying they are flexible and fun-loving, along with being supremely talented.”

With a hand on each of our backs, he pushed us into the room. “Danielle is our administrative assistant. She’s the brains of the organization and she knows Key West in and out, as she’s lived here forever. She makes a mean cup of coffee and she has her finger on the pulse of the pastry business on the island.” He gestured at the plate of doughnuts, and Danielle waved.

“I can’t help it,” she said. “It’s a gift. I have a nose for sugar and fat.” Everyone laughed, except for Ava.

“Hayley Snow is our food critic,” Wally said. “She has a finely tuned palate and she’s a fabulous writer—a combination that doesn’t come along very often. And she’s flexible and fast. She can write about anything, not just food. She wrote a piece on the Hemingway cats last spring that made a major splash in the annual Sunshine State Awards for professional journalists—in their features division. Trust me, it’s difficult to break in there.”

“Thanks, boss,” I said, blushing. “I love my job.”

“What are you working on now?” asked the woodpecker woman.

“This morning I roughed out a review on Latitudes, an upscale restaurant on Sunset Key. Later today, I’m planning to visit Kojin, the noodle shop on Southard
Street, which is more down-market but with amazing Vietnamese food. I try to alternate fancy places with street food so there’s something for everyone. My motto on reviews is
tough but fair
.”

Ava looked up from her iPad mini and snorted, but Wally was nodding so I kept going.

“I’m also doing some research on a piece about a new restaurant opening later this week. The chef was highly regarded in New York City, so it’s actually quite a coup to have her here.”

“What kind of food?” asked the suited man.

“She owned a restaurant in New York with her husband. The menu was cutting-edge—a mix of classical French and molecular gastronomy, but on steroids. I think that was her ex’s influence—he trained with Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz. He wanted to cook like them, only become more famous and land farther out there with his menu. In any case, now that she’s local, the chef is cooking food that’s a bit homier and with a Caribbean flair. It should be comfortable for folks who don’t necessarily want a fine-dining experience. Not everyone is interested in dishes that challenge them.”

The woodpecker lady smiled—I would have picked her for foie gras delivered in a steaming tube, but maybe she was mac and cheese all the way. I kept my gaze focused on her and continued to blab.

“In fact, I tried the spaghetti Bolognese that the chef made for her staff dinner, and, to my mind, it would rival the dish any Italian grandmother could prepare.” I saw instantly from the look on Ava’s face that I had stepped in it. How could I explain why I’d been eating dinner with Edel’s staff without coming across as supremely unprofessional?

A loud banging sounded on the outside office door
and I thought for a moment that I was saved. Danielle hurried out to answer.

“I need to speak with Hayley Snow,” said a familiar deep voice. “I’m Detective Bransford from the Key West police.”

All the stories that had made me apprehensive about the restaurant business were true: the grueling hours, burns and cuts, screaming chefs, coming home greasy and stinking of fish. But I also acquired a skill that I had sorely lacked my entire life: I learned how to suck it up.

—
Ivan Orkin,
Ivan Ramen

The chatter died and all eyes turned to me. “Excuse me,” I said, and bolted out of Wally’s office. “What do you want?” I hissed at Bransford.

He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the gathering in the office. “Where can we talk privately?”

“My office.” Which was a cubicle, really—much closer quarters than would feel comfortable to be jammed up with him. But at least it had a door that closed—an advantage, given that my bosses and our potential investors were fifteen feet down the hall. Wally and the others gawked as we trooped by.

I pointed to the folding chair by my tiny window. The colored Christmas lights we’d installed last week
blinked cheerfully, a blue, a red, and a green dolphin leaping in succession. Once Bransford sat, I perched on my desk and shut the door, feeling slightly claustrophobic. I could smell his aftershave—or shampoo, maybe?—a lime and coconut blend that I didn’t recognize. His ex-wife had probably chosen it to mark her territory. He, on the other hand, could probably smell my fear.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said.

“I was in a staff meeting. I didn’t have my phone with me because it was the kind of meeting that might make or break your job,” I added, pointing to the phone, which I’d left on the desk. I had a bad habit of reading e-mail and texting while half listening to Ava, which she despised. But that little bit of distraction kept me from wanting to leap out of my chair and strangle her. “What’s up?”

He sighed heavily. “As you may be aware, our arson investigators found a body in the shed behind the restaurant last night. At this point, although the investigation isn’t complete, the fire does not look accidental. And that suggests we may well be dealing with a murder.”

Which confirmed my worst fears. And then the real meaning of the news punched me a little harder. “My god, who was killed? What happened? How did they end up in the burning building?”

“I thought perhaps you could help us answer that. Ms. Waugh is down at the station right now, being questioned again. But I’d like to hear your side of things.”

He stared me down, like I was responsible for the uptick in Key West crime over the past twelve months. Which it did feel like sometimes, if I was completely honest.

“I wouldn’t say that I have a side,” I said softly, hoping he’d lower his volume too. Hoping Ava and company couldn’t hear the conversation through the flimsy hollow door.

Bransford frowned. “Let me say it another way. Why were you at the fire last night? And what is your relationship with Ms. Waugh?”

Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself. I hadn’t done a thing wrong, no matter how his questions made me feel.

“Edel asked me to help her watch over things at her restaurant a little. She seemed to be anticipating trouble during this opening. And she’d heard that I’m nosy.” I snorted with laughter, hoping he’d join me. Hoping that the tension would ease out of the room like a boiling pot removed from the burner. But he didn’t.

“Did you not consider reporting the trouble to the police before it got this serious?”

“That’s something you should ask her,” I huffed. “Were you thinking I should report every curdled cream sauce in every kitchen I visit? There’s a big difference between sabotaging a meal and setting fire to the restaurant and killing someone.”

I felt claustrophobic and physically uncomfortable perched on my desk, the corner pressing into my flesh. But it would be hard to adjust my position without bumping into Bransford. He was doing the man thing—spreading his knees as if anyone else in the room would accommodate him. Or maybe it was a police thing. Either way I felt crowded and sweaty. I grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk and wiped my face.

“How well do you know Ms. Waugh?” he asked, after a pause.

Which was actually a very good question. “I met her
three days ago—that’s it. But I like her very much—even though she’s a bit prickly. And her food is amazing.” I tapped my fingers on the desk. “My mother ate at her restaurant in New York City many times. It’s hard to stand out in that city, and yet she and her husband managed to do it.”

“Her husband?” Bransford asked.

I gulped, wishing I could learn to filter my words before I blurted them out. “They’re no longer together. This is her solo restaurant. He’s not in Key West. As far as I know.”

“Tell me about the sabotage she claimed to be experiencing,” he said, with a special emphasis on “claimed.”

So I reviewed the two incidents that I’d witnessed, the ruined sauce and the peanut-oil substitution. Bransford’s eyebrows lifted.

“Let’s start with the sauce,” he said.

“I can tell that you think it’s not important, how her sauce tastes. But this is the basis for the restaurant’s signature seafood dish. That means tons of people order it—they want to experience the finest of what the chef has to offer.” I fell quiet for a minute, thinking how to best put this in words, especially to a man who didn’t care much about what he ate. Food was fuel for him, that’s all. “And for Edel, the dish is a very personal extension of her. If the diners don’t like her tomato vodka sauce, they don’t like her.” My words trailed off. “At least I think that’s what she feels.”

“So, you don’t know her well. In fact, you hardly know her at all. And yet she wanted you to solve her problems. Did you ever think to ask ‘Why me?’ I mean, what is your stake in all this?” The eyes that had looked like the color of moss when we were dating looked more like pond algae right now. He despised this side
of me—the urge to get involved in dangerous situations that weren’t my responsibility. Or, really, any of my business.

“She said she’d heard about me. How I was involved in other cases and solved some mysteries,” I finished weakly, feeling my lips quiver, not wanting to meet his eyes. I did not bother to add the part about being fearless to the point of stupid.

“I bet she heard,” he muttered. “Does the name Glenn Fredericks mean anything to you?”

“He’s her main sous-chef,” I said. “He’s the one who got yelled at about the ruined sauce. But why do you ask? Did he have something to do with the fire?”

Bransford ignored the question. “So, back to the sauce . . . In your professional opinion, who might be interested in ruining her food?”

“I only know who works for her. I have no idea if they’d want to torpedo her new place.”

“Names?” he asked.

I listed off all the folks I remembered from my evening at the Bistro—Glenn, Mary Pat, Rodrigo, Louann, Leo. And with regret I described the details of the arguments I’d overheard in Edel’s kitchen and her tendency to blow her top with her staff. “I had agreed to spend this evening at the restaurant, too,” I said. “What are the chances she’ll be allowed to open?”

“Not good,” he said. “Until we have more answers, the place is still considered a crime scene. She certainly won’t be using the back yard anytime soon.”

His expression softened a little. “I know you mean well, but you’re in way over your head. Did it ever occur to you to wonder why she didn’t call the police if she felt someone was threatening her restaurant or her food?”

“I asked that,” I said sharply. “I’m not an idiot.” I paused, waiting for confirmation that did not come.
“She didn’t want bad press before opening night. You know how gossip spreads in this town.”

Bransford stood up. “Well she’s got bad press in spades now, doesn’t she?”

I smirked, remembering the headline. “Your press wasn’t that great either: Bransford Baffled—”

He cut me off, looking incensed. “This is not funny. A man was killed. And we had a near miss with the city’s diesel tanks, which are located right behind her restaurant. Can you imagine what might have happened if they’d caught fire?”

He towered over me—so close I started to hyperventilate. “No,” I squeaked. “But why are you asking me? I wasn’t there when the fire started. I only gave Edel a ride to the harbor because she was drunk.” Oh lord, I wished I hadn’t said that. “I mean, she wasn’t—”

“Let me tell you what would have happened: There would have been a massive explosion. Most of the buildings in Old Town are made of wood. Old and dry, seasoned like firewood. A big blaze could have wreaked havoc, like the Duval Street fire, before your time. The one and only reason it stopped burning was the fire reached the end of the block. Here? All the buildings and boats in the harbor could have been burned to rubble. Many casualties in terms of businesses and, more important, people.” His face was flushed and he was practically shouting.

Underneath his rant, I heard a tapping on the door. With a whoosh of relief, I pushed it open. Wally. And behind him, heads poking out from his office, the curious faces of the two investors.

“Is everything all right?” Wally asked, bracing himself, legs wide and fists on hips.

“The detective was just leaving.” I gestured to the hallway and Bransford stomped out, passing Wally’s office without acknowledging the audience.

“I’ll text you if I think of anything else,” I called. The door slammed shut behind him.

I tried to smile reassuringly at Wally. “This was about the fire at the Bight last night.”

“He’s a bully,” Wally said, frowning. “I don’t like to see him push you around like that.”

“You may be right, but I’m okay,” I said, and nodded my thanks. “Someone died. He’s doing his job. And he was mortified by the headline in this morning’s paper.”

“Still,” he said as he started down the hall to his office. “I don’t like him.” He turned around again. “I wonder whether this is about something else entirely. Maybe he wants to get back together with you.”

I blushed and hissed and waved his suggestion away. Then I sank into the chair where Bransford had been sitting, still feeling shaky. And a little weirded out, as I noticed the body heat that had seeped into my battered leather chair. Bransford was right about one thing: Last night could have been far worse than I’d imagined. I jotted down the names of the workers in Edel’s kitchen and ran my finger over the list, wondering if there might be one who’d be willing to talk about what he or she had noticed over the past few weeks.

The phone rang and Mom’s name came up on the screen. “Jennifer from Small Chef just phoned. Two of her workers called in sick for the Christmas luncheon at the Truman Little White House. Any chance you’d be willing to help? The pay is decent and we’d have a ball. I know you were going to Edel’s place, but it doesn’t look like they’ll be opening. And, to tell the truth, I’m in a panic. Do you know anyone else who might help? It’s my first gig and I’m in over my head.”

Like mother, like daughter, I thought. “Sure. What time and where?”