A Deadly Feast Read online

  A Deadly Feast

  A KEY WEST FOOD CRITIC MYSTERY

  Lucy Burdette

  For my grandmother, Mary Lucille Burdette

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a million thanks to the real Martha Hubbard and Analise Smith for allowing me to use their names in this book, and for feeding me material that helped coax the story to life. As always, murders and criminal behavior are strictly fictional, even if the people and Key West places are real. Thanks also to Eden and Bill Brown for agreeing to become cameos in the book. They have retired from Isle Cook Key West, but Martha Hubbard and Daniel McCurdy will continue and expand their vision.

  Thanks as always to my other very real and very wonderful Key West friends, Steve Torrence, Renee Spencer and Chris Fogarty, Leigh Pujado, Ron Augustine aka Lorenzo, Eric and his adorable dogs Chester and Barkley, and Erik, Christie, JanMarie, and Allison from the MCC church. Thanks to Ruth McCarty, Tracy Green, and Tim Hallinan for helping me come up with the Buoys’ Club.

  Thank you to the folks at Crooked Lane Books for their fabulous editing, artwork, production, and general support of the Key West mysteries. I’m also grateful to my wonderful agent, Paige Wheeler. Enormous gratitude is due as always to Christine Falcone and Angelo Pompano, who read multiple very rough drafts and helped me shape that mess into a book.

  I consider myself so lucky to be part of the mystery writers and readers community. Special thanks are due to my friends and talented writers, the Jungle Red Writers, Hallie Ephron, Hank Ryan, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Rhys Bowen, Deborah Crombie, and Jenn McKinlay. They are my family! Thanks to all my readers—I love you guys—and to bookstores and libraries who carry these books out into the world. And finally, thanks to my precious family at home, especially John.

  Chapter One

  Pounding your table cloths on a rock in the river isn’t going to make it a better restaurant, you know? Get a linen service and call it a day.

  —Michelle Wildgen, Bread and Butter

  Sometimes it’s useful and, I might even say, absolutely necessary to be a control freak. But sometimes letting go of your death grip on life can result in a beautiful outcome. I was learning the truth of that second maxim during the period I’d been engaged to marry the love of my life, Detective Nathan Bransford. He, after all, had been the one to buy the houseboat next to my roommate Miss Gloria’s place. And this wasn’t because he loved the idea of living in a floating trailer—he hates Houseboat Row, but he loves me, Hayley Snow. And he could see how much it mattered that I stay close to eighty-plus-year-old Miss Gloria, so she could remain in Key West without her sons wigging out. This was a gesture so extravagant, thoughtful, and downright sweet that it brought me and my women friends and relations to tears.

  Exhibit 1: Nathan releasing death grip = beautiful outcome.

  The houseboat renovation had started out just fine, with the contractor ripping out the appliances in the old kitchen and the fixtures in the bathroom, and a definite schedule in place to begin work on the rest of the demolition. But then Hurricane Irma blasted through in mid-September, and all bets were off. Every working stiff on the Keys and more from Miami and even further up the mainland were instantly absorbed in hurricane cleanup.

  Each time Nathan and I showed up for consultations and progress reports, the contractor canceled, and the tension between us escalated. And finally last Wednesday, it had all blown up into the biggest fight of our relationship. Afterward, I couldn’t have said exactly what the fight was about, though I was definitely stressed by my to-do list: my work as the food critic for the Key West style magazine, Key Zest, those ill-fated plans for the renovation of the houseboat next door, and the last-minute details of my marriage to Nathan. Truth be told, my life felt a bit like a stew made by a novice chef who’d strayed from the master recipe and begun throwing in random ingredients.

  Miss Gloria, with a long and happy marriage under her belt, suggested the argument might have been fed by a wellspring of anxiety about our upcoming wedding. Not the details so much as the whole idea of “’til death do us part.” Every bridal couple promises that, but only half of them make it to the finish line. I didn’t want to be one of the losers.

  The fight started out innocently enough, with me soliciting his opinion.

  Hayley: “Do you think we should put the double ovens against the far wall so the sink and counter will be open to the living area?”

  Although, looking back, this was a rhetorical question. Of course the ovens should go against the wall so they didn’t block the view or trap the chef. Truth of it was, I wanted him to feel involved, but I also wanted him to agree with what I’d already silently decided.

  Nathan, with a small frown: “Will you actually use two ovens, or is that a fad?”

  Hayley: “How long have you known me? And how many of my baked goods have you eaten?”

  After that exchange, to be brutally honest, things slid downhill fast and ugly. We stormed off to our respective corners and sulked for a day until I realized I’d started it and apologized by text. He was quick to accept half the blame.

  Enlisting my mother’s help to meet with the contractor to talk over my houseboat-to-be’s kitchen renovation had been Nathan’s brilliant idea. She and I had an appointment this afternoon at three PM, to be followed by Nathan’s and my final marriage counseling appointment at five. Neither of us wanted to show up at that second appointment so fresh from a second fight that the officiant counseled us to split up.

  Exhibit 2: Releasing death grip again = everybody happy.

  Meanwhile, the seafood walking tour I was taking, which had started at 10:30, was edging into the third hour. (I know, who eats shrimp at 10:30 in the morning? But my clever friend and our tour guide, Analise Smith, had maneuvered around this awkward pairing by scheduling the dessert stop first. And what soul wouldn’t be tempted by key lime pie in the morning?) My energy was starting to wane a bit, but maybe the beer tasting at the final stop would give me a boost. Though frankly, when had a glass of beer increased anyone’s energy? Never. More likely it would point me directly in the direction of a nap. Which I tried to convince myself would give my brain a chance to catch up with my stomach.

  The truth was, I couldn’t afford to take the time. I needed to do my sleeping at night in an orderly way, during the hours I’d allotted. And leaving the tour early wasn’t an option either. A piece on the venues we were visiting was my major contribution to this week’s issue of Key Zest.

  Right after my appointment with the contractor, Nathan and I were meeting at five with my good friend and his colleague at the police department, Steve Torrence, who would be officiating at our wedding. Torrence had been an ordained minister before attending the police academy and now had a thriving wedding officiant business on the side. That meeting absolutely couldn’t be delegated to my mother.

  Along with the four other foodie tourists, I followed our guide Analise into the Waterfront Brewery, which overlooked the historic Key West seaport. We had already made five stops, enjoying the authentic key lime pie in a small mason jar from Chef Martha at Isle Cook Key West, jalapeño- and cilantro-sprinkled fish tacos prepared in Garbo’s Grill’s adorable Airstream trailer, the richest lobster macaroni I’d ever tasted from Bagatelle, conch salad and smoked fish dip—island standards and always favorites at Lagerhead’s Beach Grill—and seawater-fresh Key West pink shrimp at the Eaton Street Seafood Market.

  Analise got us settled on wooden stools at a high round table and then thanked the group for coming on the tour. “My brother is getting married tonight and my to-do list is a mile long.” She winked at me. “Seems to be a big season for weddings. So I’ll excuse myself here. Thanks again for joining us. If you had a great time, please consider leaving a review on
TripAdvisor.” She shook hands with each of them, gave me a quick hug, and headed out through the wide-open doors to the docks.

  Once I’d finished writing down my thoughts and filling in some notes from the other stops on the tour, I scrolled through all those scribbles, trying to settle on what my angle would be for this piece. When nothing brilliant came to mind, I relaxed for a couple of minutes, observing my fellow diners.

  The group consisted of one couple, plus another man and woman who hadn’t said much to each other or the rest of us, so I assumed they were unrelated. Or if they had come together, maybe things had gone super-sour between them and now they weren’t speaking to each other. That was my nervous bride-mind talking. Based on their tans and casual clothing, I guessed them to be local residents.

  The couple did not pass the test my roommate and I had used to amuse ourselves back in college: do these two people “go together,” and how did they meet? Both perhaps in their late forties, the woman was dressed in slightly upscale tourist attire, linen capris and a flowing white shirt, while the man wore a black leather vest, chains on his belt, boots with multiple zippers, and well-worn jeans with holes at the knees that any stylish teen might have drooled over. He had a dark beard and sunglasses. Physically, they were not a match. But I guessed from the wedding rings that they were married, and from the way they held hands and shared food that they were devoted to each other. Maybe her more than him. And that brought my next thought—was it better to be the adored, or the adoring? These kinds of observations were especially interesting to me these days, with my marriage to Nathan approaching quickly.

  “You all live here, right?” asked the wife of the couple to the rest of us. “Where would you go if you had one night left to eat out?”

  “Audrey,” said her husband, a little shortly, “they don’t want to talk about food right now. We’re all stuffed to the gills.”

  To be kind, I said, “If you look on the back of the food tour brochure, they have a nice list of local restaurants. All of my favorites are there.”

  “But which is your true favorite?” she asked. “I never know whether to trust promotional material. I worked for the Minnesota Development Council, and we would have touted anything local as delicious. If they paid their dues, they were delicious.”

  The other woman—I thought she had introduced herself as Jean or Jan—piped up: “Partly it depends on what you’re in the mood for. And how hungry you are. You can order Key West pink shrimp anywhere on this island, and it’s almost always good. And how important is a view, and do you want a quiet, romantic atmosphere, or are you a little tired of each other and happy to join the party?”

  The two men laughed. I zoned out a little on the conversation because she had just given me an idea for my article’s opening. I would tell readers that sometimes you don’t have enough days to sample every restaurant on your list. Food tours are a good way to get an overview of island food, exactly the way I’d recommended that first-time visitors take the conch train tour around the island. OK, the idea was rough and not completely compelling, but I would polish it before I turned it in.

  Audrey’s voice was getting a little louder, and her face grew flushed as she leaned toward the second man and began to grill him. “Are you local here? Where would you go to dinner? Do you have a favorite restaurant?”

  He angled himself away from her like a hermit crab retreating; she was definitely starting to get on his nerves. She pressed him harder, pelting him with questions until he finally answered.

  “You can’t tell much by the restaurant’s name, because the chef—and probably he’s the only one in the place with a creative spark—could have quit the day before and then everything changes. It’s not the restaurant that matters, it’s who’s working in the kitchen.”

  “But do you read Yelp reviews? Or OpenTable? Often they’re up-to-date, so you get to hear if anyone had a bad meal lately. I hate not knowing what to choose. We have only one night left and it’s already freezing in Minneapolis, so I don’t want to waste a minute.”

  Thankfully, a cheerful waitress broke the woman’s escalating interrogation by delivering a flight of beer glasses to each of us. “These three will provide you tastes of the beer we brew right here on the premises.”

  I took sips of each and scribbled my preferences and reactions in my phone. I especially enjoyed the Crazy Lady blonde ale made with local honey, while the others preferred the more hoppy Lazy Way toasted IPA and the Island Life lager. Several televisions hung above the bar, blaring footage of sports events—hockey, basketball, and football—none of which I particularly cared about. My anxiety about my own to-do list was gathering steam. Time to nip into the restroom, then say good-bye to the group. I was unlikely to see any of them again, so I didn’t have to worry about seeming rude.

  After I’d washed my hands and reapplied lip gloss in the ladies’ room, I wended my way through the tall tables back to where the group sat. When I was only yards away, Audrey slumped. In slow motion, she slid down the rungs of her stool and collapsed in a heap, clutching her head.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked, running up to her.

  She let out a low moan.

  The man wearing the chains and the ratty jeans dropped to the floor next to his wife. “Audrey, Audrey can you hear me?” He shook her shoulder, and her head lolled over to the right and hit the wood floor with a disturbing thunk.

  “Is she ill?” the other woman asked.

  “Have you ever seen this before?” I asked her husband, hoping vaguely that she had low blood sugar or some other easily fixed ailment. I’d had a diabetic girlfriend in college who carried honey sticks in case of an emergency. Though how could anyone have low blood sugar after what we’d eaten?

  “Never!” the man said.

  “Then we need an ambulance.” I had my phone out and my thumb hitting 911 before I finished the sentence.

  Chapter Two

  Good baking, I’ve been told, comes from love, and treacly as that sounds, I find some truth in it. Good baking means being able to roll with setbacks and mistakes and ovens that for some reason run twenty degrees hot but only on Sundays, a metaphor so aligned with loving someone that it feels almost too obvious.

  —Geraldine DeRuiter, “I Made the Pizza Cinnamon Rolls From Mario Batali’s Sexual Misconduct Apology Letter,” Everywhereist.com

  After the paramedics—who double as firefighters in this town—had attended to Audrey, taking her vital signs and placing an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, they loaded her onto a stretcher and rolled her out to a waiting ambulance. I trotted the two blocks over to Southard Street, retrieved my scooter from behind the Key Zest office, and started home. What a dreadful way to end a beautiful day. I hoped she would have a speedy recovery. I texted Analise to let her know that one of her customers had taken ill and suggest that she might want to call the hospital later to see if they’d give her any information.

  I was relieved not to be responsible for follow-up, though the relief was mixed with guilt. When I’d mentioned to Nathan that I’d been feeling paranoid lately about all the bad luck that seemed to be happening around me, he’d suggested that I have a tendency to troll for trouble. He was smiling when he said it, but the comment still stung. This time, it was hard to see how the disturbing incident could be pinned on me.

  When I reached our houseboat on Tarpon Pier, I found the cats, my gray tiger Evinrude and Miss Gloria’s black Sparky, stalking a small lizard on the deck. Miss Gloria was on the telephone. She waved at me and smiled, pointing at her phone to indicate an important conversation in progress. I glanced over at the houseboat next door—Nathan’s boat now—ever hopeful that the latest in a series of contractors might have made an appearance and maybe actually gotten something done. But no such luck. The lights were out, and piles of mildewed shag carpet and random pieces of termite-infested wood remained on the deck. I dropped my backpack next to my lounge chair and headed inside to grab a glass of water.
r />   Miss Gloria had been clucking and exclaiming during the whole phone conversation. It was hard to tell who was in trouble and in what way, but I’d hear soon enough.

  Miss Gloria hung up and ran her fingers through her white hair until it stood up in little whipped-cream peaks. “You’re not going to believe this one,” she said.

  “Do tell.” I grinned. She’d tell me anyway, even if I didn’t ask.

  “You know how I’m supposed to cover the nine thirty–to–eleven thirty shift tomorrow at the Friends of the Library book sale, right?” The Friends of the Library organization raises funds to support the Key West Library, and Miss Gloria is a stalwart volunteer.

  “Right,” I said. “You and Mrs. Dubisson sit at the front table near the bake sale and sample all the cookies. You’ve got the winning record for selling canvas Friends’ totes and hard-cover mysteries to customers who thought they were done shopping.”

  She looked delighted. She loves when people pay attention to what she’s told them—and honestly, who doesn’t? “That’s it. But now, Marsha—she’s the president of the Friends’ board of directors—called, and they’re desperate for help setting up at seven thirty AM because the stomach flu appears to have felled half our volunteer force.” She shook her head. “Old folks. Sometimes they are just too fragile to rely on.”

  I looked up from my phone to see if she was kidding. People who don’t know my roommate well tend to dismiss her as a frail elderly woman. Before Miss Gloria roared into my life with more energy than most of my peers, I would have thought that too. Now she was positively vibrating and grinning like a monkey.

  “It’s not only the stomach flu—some of the committee members are fighting about shifts. No one wants to get up early enough to take the crack-of-dawn assignment. So I told her I would get there early, of course.” A guilty look crept over her face. “And I told her you would come too and that you were young and strong, and not afraid to work alongside the prisoners.”