Killer Takeout
PRAISE FOR THE NATIONAL BESTSELLING KEY WEST FOOD CRITIC MYSTERIES
“Food, fun, and felonies. What more could a reader ask for?”
—New York Times bestselling author Lorna Barrett
“What fun! Lucy Burdette writes evocatively about Key West and food—a winning combination. I can’t wait for the next entry in this charming series.”
—New York Times bestselling author Diane Mott Davidson
“[For] gourmets who enjoy a little mayhem with their munchies.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sprightly and suspenseful, Murder with Ganache has a unique piquancy. Like a gourmet meal, it will leave you wanting more.”
—Fort Myers Florida Weekly
“A fine plot, a delightful heroine, a wealth of food—and all the charm and craziness of Key West.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“One crazy adventure ride… . Lucy Burdette does not disappoint.”
—MyShelf.com
“Burdette … [is] as skillful at spinning a yarn as her protagonist is at baking pastries. And unmasking killers.”
—The Florida Book Review
“Enough to satisfy both casual readers and cozy fans alike, though be forewarned: You’ll be left craving more.”
—Examiner.com
“The characters remain as fresh as the breeze off the ocean, as does the plot.”
—The Mystery Reader
Other Key West Food Critic Mysteries by Lucy Burdette
Book 1: An Appetite for Murder
Book 2: Death in Four Courses
Book 3: Topped Chef
Book 4: Murder with Ganache
Book 5: Death with All the Trimmings
Book 6: Fatal Reservations
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Roberta Isleib, 2016
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eBook ISBN 9780698192010
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.
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Contents
Praise for the National Bestselling Key West Food Critic Mysteries
Other Key West Food Critic Mysteries by Lucy Burdette
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Recipes
About the Author
This book is dedicated to the memory of my extraordinary, indomitable mother-in-law, Dorothy Lindsay Brady
And for John, always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a lonely job, so it means the world to have friends. My talented blog sisters, the Jungle Red Writers, Hallie Ephron, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Deborah Crombie, Rhys Bowen, Julia Spencer-Fleming, and Susan Elia MacNeal are always in the background, willing to lend moral and actual support whenever needed. Thanks also to wonderful writers Krista Davis and Daryl Wood Gerber, and the members of our Delicious Mysteries fan group and the Cake and Dagger Club. In fact, thank you to every reader and fan—I love writing for you!
Lots of folks made great suggestions about names in this book. Thanks to Celia Warren Fowler for the name of the truck, Beach Eats. Thanks to Denise Terry, Jane Fricker, Rhys Bowen, Jim Benn, Randy Thompson, Michelle Palmer, Scott Haas, Tammy Haussler Cantrell, Susan Soerens DeGraef, Kate Flora, and Katfish Karash for amazing suggestions for the name of Grant’s new restaurant. They were so good that I figured out a way to use them all. Thanks for local details from Christy Haussler, and face-painting ideas from Jennifer Montgomery. I’m grateful for medical brainstorming about the murder from Dr. Molly Brady. Thanks to Linda Remer and Kathy and Vince Melendy, who gave donations to the Florida Keys SPCA and allowed their pets’ names to be used in this book. Welcome, Dinkels and Jack, and welcome back, Schnootie!
I named the hurricane bearing down on the island in this book Margaret, in honor of Margaret Brady, my sister-in-law who died too young last summer. I hope that she would have taken this as a compliment to her energy and independence.
Thanks to my amazing Key West pals, especially Steve Torrence, Leigh Pujado, and Ron Augustine. Love you guys!
Angelo Pompano and Chris Falcone, I marvel at your steadfast friendship. Thank you.
Thanks to my persistent and optimistic agent, Paige Wheeler, to Sandy Harding (who is gone but not forgotten: her fingerprints are all over this series—for the good), to Katherine Pelz, who picked up the job of editing without missing a beat, to Danielle Dill and all the folks at Penguin Random House who ushered this book to life.
And thanks to my family, especially my talented writing sister, Susan Cerulean, and my darling husband, John Brady.
Lucy Burdette
October 27, 2015
1
Sometimes in life, all you need is a little hope, a lot of courage, and—oh yes—butter.
—Beth Harbison, When in Doubt, Add Butter
Resident islanders couldn’t remember a hotter Key West summer. Not only hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, they agreed, but hot enough to crisp bacon too. So far, the advent of fall was bringing no relief. Today’s temperature registered ninety-three degrees and climbing—fierce-hot for October, with the humidity dense like steam from my grandmother’s kettle. And the local news anchor promised it would get hotter as the week continued, along with the party on Duval Street.
Me? I’d rather eat canned sardines from China than march down Key West’s Duval Street wearing not much more than body paint. But one hundred thousand out-of-town revelers didn’t agree. They were arriving on the island this week to do just that—or watch it happen—during Fant
asy Fest, the celebration taking place during the ten days leading up to Halloween, including a slew of adult-themed costume parties culminating in a massive and rowdy parade.
Worst of all, the Weather Channel was tracking the path of a tropical storm in the eastern Caribbean. They had already begun to mutter semihysterical recommendations: Visitors should prepare to head up the Keys to the mainland and take refuge in a safer area. But based on the crowds I’d seen, no one was listening. These hordes weren’t leaving until the event was over. Besides, with a four-hour drive to Miami on a good traffic day, getting all those people out would be like trying to squeeze ketchup back into a bottle. Might as well party.
*
Since no right-minded local resident would attempt to get near a restaurant this week, I had fewer food critic duties at my workplace, the style magazine Key Zest. I was looking forward to covering some of the tamer Fantasy Fest events for the magazine, including the zombie bike ride, the locals’ parade, and a pet masquerade contest. And maybe the tutu party, if I could convince any of my pals to go with me. Since restaurants are my beat, I’d also promised my bosses an article on reliable takeout food. My personal mission statement goes like this: I refuse to accept or condone subpar tourist trap food. If you take the time to look, you can find pearls of deliciousness anywhere, maybe even find killer takeout.
If that didn’t keep me busy enough, my own mother, Janet Snow, and Sam, her fiancé, were arriving for the week to visit with my dear friend Connie’s new baby, and then get themselves hitched on the beach. The food for their reception had still not been nailed down.
And finally, in a weak moment, I’d allowed Miss Gloria, my geriatric houseboat-mate, to talk me into being trained as a Fantasy Fest parade ambassador. Our job would be to help patrol the sidewalks, which would be lined with costumed and tipsy revelers scrambling for the colored glass bead necklaces thrown off the floats.
“If we aren’t going to go to the foam party, or the Adam and Eve bash, or the Tighty Whitey Party, we should at least attend the parade,” Miss Gloria said.
I closed my eyes to ward off the image of my elderly friend at any of those events.
“And if we’re working as ambassadors, we’ll be stationed inside the crowd control barricades. We’ll have the best seat in the house. Get it? Seat.” She broke into helpless giggles.
At the time, the idea seemed palatable. Barely.
*
I parked my scooter in front of the Custom House Museum and Miss Gloria and I forded through the early sunset crowds on the pier along the water. These were viewers seeking front row positions for Sunset and for the zany Sunset performers, who were already warming up in their prescribed spots. As we passed by, we waved at the cat man arranging his cages of trained house cats, and paused to watch Snorkel the potbellied pig practice his bowling. Ahead, a man dressed in a battered rice paddy coolie hat, a long-sleeved lavender shirt, and black pants was setting up a card table. Lorenzo, my tarot card–reading pal. His face glistened in the fierce rays of afternoon sun, and he had damp circles of a deeper purple under each arm.
“Hayley Snow and Miss Gloria—my two favorite ladies. Did you come for a reading?” he asked after we’d greeted one another. “I would have brought the cards to your houseboat. Anything to get away from this madness.” He fanned his face with his hand.
“No, actually, we’re headed for the Fantasy Fest parade ambassador training,” said Miss Gloria.
Lorenzo’s mouth fell open as he first looked at me—on the small side, but plump like a baby leg of lamb, as my father used to say. And then his gaze swept over Miss Gloria—a true runt, and scaring the far side of eighty years old besides. His dubious expression suggested that we were not the kind of volunteers that the organization had envisioned when they put out the call for people to help hold back the crazy crowds during the biggest parade on the island.
“Do you attend any of the Fantasy Fest events?” Miss Gloria asked him.
“No! I crawl as far away as I can. By Tuesday the brassieres are off, by Friday these people are totally naked. It’s horrifying,” he said, clasping his arms to his chest. “What I ought to do is get out of town. The closest most of these folks come to understanding tarot is Rocky and Bullwinkle asking the spirit rock to talk.”
He began to chant and Miss Gloria joined him: “‘Eenie meenie chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak.’”
“‘Are they friendly?’” Miss Gloria asked, and they both cackled with laughter. “You’re probably too young to have watched the show,” she said to me.
“Stop it, I watched Rocky for hours on TV Land. We’re going to be late,” I said, smiling and tapping my watch. And to Lorenzo: “We’ll see you soon, okay?”
By the time we located the Grand Cayman room in the Pier House Resort, the room was almost full and the meeting had started. A tall young woman with long brown hair was stationed at the podium. The only two seats left open were first-row, front and center. She waited while the two of us trooped up the aisle and sat down. She reintroduced herself—Stephanie—and then resumed talking.
“As I was saying,” she said, waving for the chatter to die down in the crowd, “if you see unattended packages, alert an officer. Please don’t announce that they are suspicious—we don’t need a stampede on top of everything else. Public works employees will be emptying trash cans during the parade.” She blew out a breath of air. “I don’t need to tell you this I’m sure, but full nudity is not permitted in public.”
“Oh drat,” called a woman from the back, to a ripple of laughter. “Are bosoms okay?”
“Only if they are painted,” said Stephanie, her face deadpan, but a bit of impatience in her voice. She went on to discuss the finer issues of crowd control and safety, parade pacing, and closing gaps between the floats.
Managing this event sounded like an awful lot to expect from a bunch of greenhorn volunteers whose only props would be official yellow T-shirts.
“Talk to the float drivers,” she said. “Have fun and show a pleasant attitude. Talk to the bystanders in your section and get to know them a bit. We know you wouldn’t volunteer if you weren’t outgoing. Give your peeps beads. It makes them happy.”
A woman behind us raised her hand. “Will we be issued rubber gloves?”
Stephanie made a face. “I don’t understand why you’d possibly need them. You shouldn’t be touching anything weird.”
She pointed to someone at the back of the room, and Lieutenant Steve Torrence strode forward. I felt an instant wash of relief, seeing his familiar face. Over the course of the last two years, he’d become our trusted friend. The world felt manageable when he was nearby.
“I like the orange tie,” Miss Gloria whispered. “Not so sure about the beard.”
“Good morning, everyone! Or I should say afternoon?” said Torrence. He laughed and twirled a finger around his ear. “That underscores my first point: As our ambassadors, we need you to be oriented to place and time, as many of our visitors will not be. Try to watch your beverage intake and remain in your right mind. You can join the party once the parade is over.”
He went on to describe what we should do if we saw a fire (dial 911, duh) or caught fire ourselves (drop and roll—good gravy!). “We’ll have police officers stationed all along the parade route, and undercover cops too. Any questions about who they are, ask them to show a badge. If you feel unsafe at any time, please contact an officer for help. We thank you for your time and hope you have fun.”
He gathered his phone and a pen that he’d set on the podium, then paused a moment. “One more thing—be aware that every year we have protesters come to Key West because they object to our parade. Key West wants this weekend to look like great fun—and to be fun. These people don’t have the same thing in mind.”
The radio clipped to his belt began to crackle, and then I heard the voice of my heartthrob, Detective Nathan Bransford, boom out: “Officer Torrence, report ASAP to The Bull and Whistle. Two of the Fa
ntasy Fest Queen candidates have gotten into a mean hen fight.”
2
Sympathy butters no parsnips.
—Mrs. Patmore, Downton Abbey
Leaving the scooter and Miss Gloria at the parking lot near the Custom House Museum, I sprinted the few blocks to The Bull and Whistle Bar—an open-air establishment featuring live entertainment and the clothing-optional Garden of Eden bar upstairs. (And for the record, no one I knew had darkened the door of that second-floor bar—including me.)
Although not everyone in the Key West Police Department would agree, I’m not a naturally nosy person. But I’ve come uncomfortably close to more than a normal person’s share of murders, so I worry when I hear about violence. Especially when one of my friends or relatives might be involved—in this instance, Danielle Kamen, our sometimes dizzy but always lovable receptionist at Key Zest, who had been freshly crowned queen of this year’s Fantasy Fest.
Danielle had been so happy to run for Fantasy Fest Queen, an honorary position that benefits the AIDS Help charity. The fact that she is shapely and blond and beautiful did not hurt her chances. But the contest is no beauty pageant: The winners for king and queen are chosen according to the money they raise during the eight weeks leading up to the festival. In the final tense moments at the Coronation Ball, the winners are determined according to their fund-raising total, including number of votes bought at the party.
Danielle had thrown herself into planning events and fund-raising with the same enthusiasm that Julia Child applied when whisking her sauces on television. She seemed to love the idea of wearing beautiful costumes, attending multiple parties, and donating a big wad of cash at the end. She had shown not one bit of the reticence that I would have felt about calling and e-mailing friends and acquaintances to ask for their support. And last night, her diligence had paid off when she went home with the coveted sash and crown.