Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (4 page)

“I’m going to run out and get a copy of the
Citizen
,” Mom said. “That’s the local paper,” she explained to Allison as she slid out of the booth. “It’s a real hoot.”

“I hope Rory enjoys this week,” I said to my stepmother once Mom was gone. “I remember that age—I remember I was a piece of work then, too. Let me know if I can help.”

Allison sighed, started to say something, but bit her lip and stopped. “You’ve done enough. Thanks for finding him a place to stay. Your father was not happy about any of this.”

I patted her hand. “You’re welcome.”

We watched out of the window as my mother crossed the dock and headed for a metal newspaper box on the corner. When she returned, she smoothed the paper out on the table and turned to the second page.

“This is my favorite part. They call it the ‘Citizen’s Voice.’”

Hard to say whether my mother was simply making pleasant conversation or showing off about her knowledge of Key West with another insider explanation directed at Allison.

She began to read aloud. “
Mallory Square has become a seedy flea market. Bubbas are not to blame. I’m a Bubba and I approve this message.
”

She looked up and smiled and then continued with the next blurb: “
This caller is warning everyone that Bubbas are trying to get rid of Mallory Square. Mallory Square is no longer a Sunset Celebration. It looks more like a flea market every day.
”

“What’s a Bubba?” Allison asked.

“Part of the old boys’ network, right, Hayley?”

I nodded. “And Mallory Square is where the cruise ships come in. There’s a party every night to watch the sun go down. We’ll make sure you see it before the end of the week.”

“And have a visit with our friend Lorenzo,” said Mom. “Have you ever had your cards read?”

She knew darned well that Allison was a diehard scientist. If it couldn’t be proven with the scientific method, she didn’t believe it. Mom turned her attention back to the paper and read an item from the crime report page:

Owner of controversial emerald cache reports theft. An amateur treasure hunter who claimed to have discovered a cache of uncut emeralds on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico off Key West and then filed a motion to have his alleged booty certified as court-validated sunken treasure, has reported a theft from his yacht.

“That sounds complicated,” my mother said as she turned the page. “Oh look at this, Hayley: They’re advertising for fortune-tellers to join a psychic fair at the BottleCap Lounge Friday night. Too bad we’ll be busy with last-minute wedding stuff. That sounds like a blast.”

Allison looked at her as though she spoke a different language, something Slavic or Arabic, with a new set of letters maybe. Totally incomprehensible.

“Look here,” my mother said, tapping the right-hand page of the paper. “Your friend Officer Torrence got a promotion to lieutenant. He’s going to be the Criminal Investigations Unit Commander now.” She squinted at the picture and then passed the paper to Allison. “That’s him with the chief and Hayley’s old boyfriend Nate.”

“We didn’t go out long enough to warrant calling him a boyfriend,” I said.

Mom ignored me and took the paper back to read aloud. “The newly promoted lieutenant says that two of the major problems the Key West police face are vagrancy and prescription pill abuse. ‘We are actively working to manage them both.’”

“Geez, Hayley,” Mom said, “he’s got his hands full.”

The bleep of an incoming text message buzzed and we all reached for our phones. The sound had come from mine, a text from Jai Somers, the director of the local teenage drop-in center, Project Lighthouse. We’d met at the gym a couple of months ago and become fast friends while lifting weights and sweating laps on the treadmill.

One of our travelers is missing since yesterday. Mariah. Barely five feet, with blond dreadlocks and a red heart tattooed on her shoulder. If anyone sees her, let her know we’d love to hear from her?

Mom widened her eyes, curious.

“That was from a friend who works with homeless teens. One of the street kids is missing. They come and go, so it’s hard to know when to get worried. But everyone’s a little jumpy since the remains of a body were found last week in an abandoned shed. We all suspect it was a homeless kid. And Jai wouldn’t be texting us if she wasn’t concerned.”

Then Allison’s phone beeped.

“Shoot,” Allison said as she scanned the message on her screen. “It’s Jim. They gobbled their cheeseburgers in record time, and now your father doesn’t know what to do with Rory.”

“Do you think he’d enjoy the butterfly conservatory?” asked my mother.

“It’s so peaceful in there,” I said. “He might like it.”

“Only if they issue him a flyswatter,” Allison said.

Mom looked shocked, then started to laugh. Which got me laughing too, and then Allison followed.

“Is he interested in history at all?” I asked, once I caught my breath.

Allison shook her head. “Bor-ing.”

There went my two best and standard sightseeing suggestions: the Little White House and the Custom House Museum.

“How about pirates and their treasure?”

Allison pursed her lips. “Maybe. He definitely likes money. He talked about it all the way down—what kind of job he could get that would earn him a wad of cash fast. He’s not interested in minimum wage, my son.”

“Tell Dad to try Mel Fisher’s museum. If all else fails, there’s a Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum at this end of Duval.”

“Jim would die before he set foot in there.” Allison snickered and texted my father back as the waitress arrived with our lunch. I studied the orange-colored soup, then stirred it up and let the thin liquid tip back off my spoon. No sign of lobster, at least in my bowl.

“This soup is very salty,” my mother said after taking her first bite. “And I like salt.”

I sipped from my spoon and had to agree.

“Maybe you should call the server over and let her know,” Mom said.

“You should talk to the chef directly,” Allison said. “I doubt that young woman would pass anything on. I don’t get the feeling she’s very interested in our dining experience.”

My mother nodded vigorously. This might be the only thing they agreed on during the entire week.

I sighed, weighing the pros and cons of speaking up, thinking of the last time I’d filed a negative review and how closely on its heels a murder had followed. Not that there had been any true connection between the two events, but it still felt that way. “They don’t want advice from me. Besides, I’m not on duty today. I had no plans to review anything except cupcakes. I’d rather let it go.”

My mother raised her eyebrows and nibbled at her lettuce. “The salad’s not too good either. I’m lucky I thought to order a glass of wine. The alcohol will blunt the trauma.” She snickered, replaced the fork on her plate, and turned her focus from the lunch to Allison.

“So Rory doesn’t spend much time with you and Jim? I don’t think I could have stood that much separation from Hayley.”

Allison blinked. “You make the choices that you think are right for your child. And sometimes they are right for him and not necessarily for you.” She looked away, then slurped another spoonful of the salty soup, her eyes moist.

“Take it down a notch, Mom,” I warned quietly. My mother wasn’t usually this pushy. On the other hand, how many times had I been alone with her and Allison? How many times had they sat next to each other and shared a meal? Maybe never. It probably felt as uncomfortable to them as it did to me.

The waitress floated back over to our table. “How’s everything here, ladies? Can I get you anything else? Dessert? A slice of our world-famous key lime pie?”

Allison tapped her fingers on the table and gave the girl a tight smile. “You know, this soup is very salty. Almost too salty to eat. We all agree. I bet the chef will want to know.”

“Oh yes, definitely, I will tell him,” said the server with a silly grin. She cleared away our plates and headed back to the kitchen.

“Not a chance in hell she’ll say anything,” I said.

“How are things going with your Wally?” Mom asked.

“There is no ‘my Wally,’” I snapped, then forced a smile, determined to stamp out my smoldering irritation. If I started getting annoyed at everything anyone said this early in the week, I wouldn’t survive until the wedding. “You know he’s my boss.”

“But he’s so adorable,” my mother said. She turned to Allison. “He’s got this cute little butt and the nerdiest glasses. And he insists that everyone in the office wear yellow shirts with little palm trees on them. Can you imagine, Hayley in yellow?”

“Hayley looks good in everything,” Allison said. “Will I get to meet him?”

I shrugged, trying to block out the image of my mother noticing—and then commenting upon—my boss’s butt, and signaled to the waitress for the check.

“Is Connie still happy with her dress?” Mom asked me. She pivoted back to face Allison without waiting for an answer. “I swear, she tried on every gown in Miami. She started out saying she’d find something in the secondhand shop, and then I reminded her she might end up with a dress that was a product of divorce without even knowing the story behind it. What kind of bad luck would that be? So we persuaded her to at least look at the J.Crew line.”

“J.Crew makes wedding dresses?” Allison asked.

“They have cute things for bridesmaids and some simple bridal gowns. But then”—Mom leaned forward, elbows on the table and eyes shining—“once we got her into a full-length gown, her eyes got all starry.” She drank the last of her wine and sighed with satisfaction. “My theory is that in her heart, every girl wants a fairy-princess-style dress, but not every girl can carry off wearing one. And not every girl believes she deserves to wear one.”

“And not every girl can afford it,” said Allison.

Mom waved that comment off. “It’s so hard for Connie not to have her mother around at a time like this. So I insisted on paying for it,” she said. “It’s the least I could do.”

“You mean my husband paid for it,” Allison said, aka my father, aka my mother’s ex, the prior source of her alimony.

“Party’s over,” I said, slapping the newspaper on the table. I slid out of the booth and headed for the door.

She cracked two eggs into the bowl with a one-handed flourish and began to beat them with the fury of a half-crazed thug.

—Bob Spitz

I escorted the mothers back across the island, and we pulled under the portico at Casa Marina. The valet who’d helped us earlier trotted over to open my mother’s door and take her keys.

“I hope you ladies had an excellent lunch,” he said with a grin.

“Actually, it wasn’t very good,” said my mother.

“Possibly the worst lobster bisque I’ve ever eaten,” Allison added.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Next time let me offer you some suggestions.”

Restaurant recommendations from the valet parking staff? I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Though to be fair, his choices couldn’t have been much worse than what we’d endured. By the time I’d said my good-byes and retrieved my scooter, it was close to four p.m. and I was emotionally fried. I zipped back to houseboat row, taking a series of one-way back streets to avoid the traffic funneled over from the long-standing and utterly annoying construction on Roosevelt Boulevard. I hoisted the scooter onto its stand and trotted up the dock to Miss Gloria’s boat.

My roommate had set up her card table, swathed in a blue-checked tablecloth, on the front deck. The surface was covered with plates of cupcakes, each plate labeled with a sticky note about the provenance of the goodies. The bride- and groom-to-be, Connie and Ray, were slouched in lawn chairs, covered in crumbs and icing. Miss Gloria had really come through collecting baked goods from across the island.

“Ahoy, Hayley!” she said. “You’re just in time for the crescendo.”

“We saved a little bit of each so you can try them all,” said Connie. “None of them measures up to yours, but if we have to get them made, these are our favorites.” She pointed to a plate covered in plastic wrap. “I’m afraid we’ve got cupcake fatigue. Except for Miss Gloria, who’s on a super sugar high.”

Miss Gloria grinned. “Hey, how did it go today? I’m so excited to meet the rest of your family.”

I grimaced and sank into the fourth deck chair. “They’re all yours. That is, if they don’t tear each other to shreds by the time we get to the party.”

“That bad?” Connie looked sympathetic. “At times like this, I don’t miss having a family.”

But as soon as she said the words, her face fell, which instantly made me feel bad. Even her attempt at a smile couldn’t hide the sadness in her eyes. Maybe she was just tired. Planning a wedding—even something on the simple side of the scale from elopement to Bridezilla—could feel stressful and overwhelming.

“You’ll have a family by the end of the week,” said Ray. “Actually, no. You’re mine already.” He picked up her hand and squeezed her fingers and then kissed them.

My family might drive me nuts, but they were my
family
. For better or worse. Any one of them would stand up for me if I was in trouble, as often as I needed it. Remembering that, I might manage to be more patient and sympathetic this week.

“I guess they weren’t completely terrible,” I admitted. “But Mom needled Allison all through lunch. I didn’t expect that—it’s not like her. I finally had to ask her to back off.”

“Maybe she’s having a hard time sharing you with her rival.”

“Maybe. Not that they really are rivals—not for me anyway. I guess I’ll have to work harder not to show any favoritism.”

“Or give your mother just a smidge more attention,” Miss Gloria advised.

I groaned.

“We need to get dressed for the shower.” Connie flashed a lopsided grin and pointed at the plate they’d saved for me. “The coconut from Fausto’s is out of this world, though we think the icing is on the sweet side. I liked the key lime from Key West Cakes, but in the end, Ray prefers the sticky buns from the Old Town Bakery.”

“Sticky buns at a wedding reception—that’s a new one.” Miss Gloria chortled.

“None of them are as good as your key lime cupcakes though,” Ray said.

“If only Schnootie and Evinrude hadn’t trashed so many of them. If only I had time to bake all the replacements,” I said with a sigh. “We’ll see. We still have a couple days. Maybe Mom can help me. You guys go ahead and get ready for the party. I’ll clean up here when I’m finished tasting.”

Once they had gone and Miss Gloria was in the shower, I began to sample the remnants of each of the cupcakes, making notes about texture and icing and color for the “Sweet Break with a Cupcake” article due tomorrow. Then I photographed the untouched sample cupcakes they’d saved as I requested, and worked on the all-important first line. Of course every word counted in a short review, but the first line carried the most weight of all. That—along with mouthwatering photos that weren’t fuzzy or amateurish—had to draw readers in and make them want more. Because god knew Ava Faulkner was checking the stats to see how many seconds subscribers spent perusing my articles. She was poised like a prep chef with a new knife to lop me off the
Key Zest
masthead at the first sign of weakness.

Does it seem to you as it does to me that the world is in the grips of cupcake mania?
I wrote.
As if reducing the size of a cake and slathering it with colorful icing will persuade a diner to overlook dry texture or a lack of flavor. However, Key West cake lovers can rejoice! There are several bakeries that serve delightful cupcakes, and your roving
Key Zest
food critic has sacrificed herself to bring you this report.

I sat back in my chair and rolled my shoulders backward and forward to wring out some tension. The sun was dropping low on the horizon, and the waves had picked up just enough to set the boat gently rocking. I’d have given Evinrude—my firstborn—to stay home and sip a glass of wine on the deck of our houseboat. Alone.

The cat trotted past me tail hoisted high, looking outraged, as though he understood exactly what I was thinking. “Not really,” I told him. “Just kidding. I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

I carried the leftovers into the galley, scraped the remains into the trash, and rinsed the plates. Then I finished cleaning up the mess I’d left this morning. Living in the tropics, on the water, we had to be scrupulously careful about crumbs that might attract ants, roaches, and other undesirable houseguests.

I hopped into the shower when Miss Gloria was finished, then worked some hair product through my curls and pulled on the dress my roommate had insisted on ironing for me, pressing the wrinkles away from each of the rhinestones that studded the front of the navy blue sundress. Then I glanced in the mirror, fearing that I looked like a teenager. Or like I was trying to look like a teenager. Which was exactly how I felt with my family in town. Pressing down a sense of dread, I went out to the living area. Miss Gloria emerged from her cabin, smiling shyly.

“How do I look?” She twirled in a small circle, displaying her white cabled sweater, pink-and-white patterned skirt, and pink sneakers, the same shade as the flowers in her skirt. She’d braided her white hair and piled it on top of her head. It was possibly the first time I’d seen her out of a sweatsuit.

“Beautiful,” I said, clapping my hands. “Perfect! You could model for Lilly Pulitzer.”

“Geriatric division.” She giggled. “Lilly’s company would have to start a whole new line of clothes for us old ladies.” She stopped twirling, staggered a little, then peered at me. “You look so pretty. Will Wally be at the party?”

“Not you too!” I groaned. “You’ve been talking to Mom. Just to be clear, he’s my boss, not my boyfriend.”

“I can’t wait to see Janet,” she said, ignoring my protest. “Talking on Skype just isn’t the same.” She grabbed her helmet and followed me out to the end of the dock, where my scooter waited. Springing onto the back, she seemed eighteen rather than eighty.

We buzzed across the island and parked alongside the beach. Since the restaurant faced southeast, the sun had pretty much disappeared from our view. Even so, the fairy lights that wound around the windows and the porch of Salute! made the place glow with a golden light. A steel guitar and fiddle played in the background—the sound of Ray’s school buddies who, for a wedding gift, had offered their music at all the events. Their notes blended with the rhythmic crashing of the waves on sand—even I could imagine relaxing. Then I heard a peal of laughter I’d recognize anywhere—Mom. We rounded the corner to the restaurant and spotted her holding forth to a cluster of family and friends, a flute of champagne in one hand and Sam’s hand in her other. Wally and Danielle stood directly in front of her, both laughing. What were the chances she could stay away from the subject of my love life? Not good.

I squared my shoulders and marched into the fray, guiding Miss Gloria ahead of me like a perky little human shield.

“Gloria!” Mom shrieked.

“Janet!” Miss Gloria shrieked back. Mom passed her drink off to Sam and they barreled into each other’s arms.

“They’re so sweet,” Connie said, coming up from behind to hand me a flute of champagne. I grinned and nodded. They were.

I turned to Wally. “Please accept my blanket apology for anything inappropriate my mother might say this entire week.”

He ducked his head and adjusted his glasses. “I like her. And you look pretty tonight. I’m not used to seeing you all dressed up.”

I blushed and stammered out a thank-you. “You look nice too. I’m not used to seeing you in anything other than yellow. Come meet the other side of my family.” I drew him over to the far side of the porch and introduced him to Allison and my father. They immediately fell into a discussion about the prospects of the Yankees in the coming baseball season. Sipping my champagne, I slipped away to chat with Connie’s friends from Paradise Cleaning and a couple of Ray’s artist buddies, and finally began to unwind.

As we’d planned last week, at six thirty my father tapped a spoon on his water glass and the chatter died away. He beckoned Ray and Connie forward. Connie sparkled in a pale blue strapless silk dress, her hair curling softly almost to her ears, and her eyes shining.

“I’d like to propose a toast to a young lady who feels like a daughter to me.” He smiled over at Connie, who looked as though she might dissolve into tears. When I graduated from college, Dad had planned a two-week whirlwind trip around Europe and to my surprise, he’d insisted on including Connie. They’d bonded over café au lait, Wiener schnitzel, and hiking. Not bonded the way a mother and daughter do, but bonded all the same.

“When a person finds his or her soul mate,” Dad continued, “it is truly something to celebrate.” His voice trembled just a hair and he lifted Allison’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “And it appears that these young people have done just that. Young man”—he turned to face Ray—“you’d better treat her well or you’ll have me to answer to.” He clapped him on the shoulder and the tipsy crowd tittered. “Here’s to Connie and Ray, living happily ever after.”

The guests erupted into applause. I struggled to recover from the shock of hearing my father waxing romantic. I was sure my mother was equally surprised; she wore a frozen smile, which I suspected was related to the public naming of Allison as his soul mate. Much as she loved her new life, she had never wanted to get divorced and his desertion—and later remarriage—still rankled.

I slipped through the friends gathered around the bride and groom and circled an arm around my mother’s shoulders. “He’s finally growing into himself, don’t you think?” I asked.

“I’m speechless,” she said.

“But you and Sam seem like a much better match. He’s quite darling, and he’s so devoted to you.” I leaned over to kiss her cheek and she smiled.

Suddenly, a look of astonishment and joy flooded Connie’s face. I turned to see what she saw. A tall man, with dark hair except for the white at his temples, stood in the doorway, his gaze searching the guests.

“Dad!” Connie yelped. She dropped Ray’s hand and sprinted forward to hug her father. He picked her up and twirled her like a girl.

His voice boomed over the cocktail chatter. “I’m sorry to be late. That damn puddle-jumper from Miami actually waited for an incoming passenger. What don’t they understand about a scheduled departure?”

“Get used to it down here. We’re on island time.” Connie laughed and beckoned Ray over. “This is my fiancé. Ray, meet my father, Keith Arp.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Arp,” Ray said, and shook his hand.

“Call me Keith,” Connie’s father insisted. “It looks like the party has started without me. I may be late, but I hope I’m in time to toast my princess.” He waved down a passing waiter. “Champagne all around.” When he’d received a glass, he tapped the rim with a fork. “I’d like to propose a toast to my gorgeous daughter. I don’t know this young man well—yet.” A few of the guests chuckled. “But I know her taste is impeccable. And besides, he’ll have me to answer to should he fail to treat her like the princess she is. To Connie and Ray.” He raised his glass and then clinked his with Connie’s and took a sip.

“Connie and Ray,” the crowd echoed.

I was too stunned by his sudden appearance and the repetition of the toast my father had given only minutes earlier to do anything but murmur along with them.

Just then, my stepbrother, Rory, muscled his way through the crowd to approach my stepmother, who was standing nearby. He was wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in this morning—faded jeans and the white T-shirt with
PURPLE MOAN
written across the back in script, dripping with purple blood. Who or what the heck was
Purple Moan
? Allison reached out to smooth a curl off his forehead but he jerked away from her touch.