Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  I’m the food critic for the Key West style magazine Key Zest. It’s complicated because we have only four people on staff. One of them, the co-owner Ava Faulkner, despises me and would happily slash me from the masthead at the first opportunity. Next is Danielle, our administrative assistant, who manages all the online intricacies of the magazine and scrambles to keep the whole project from sinking under the weight of Ava’s negativity. And last but not least is my editor Wally Beile, who makes my heartstrings and other body parts twang in a most unprofessional way. Though with his own mother dying of cancer, I hadn’t seen much of him lately.

  Afraid I’d hurt my mother’s feelings, I sputtered a little more explanation. “I don’t think bringing my mother along on the interview would give the appearance that I know what I’m doing.”

  “That’s okay, honey,” she said, “I don’t have time, anyway. I’ll catch up with her another time.” Then she gripped my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I swear, Hayley Catherine Snow, I will not cramp your style while I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’m sure there’s room for two Snow women on this island.” I wasn’t sure, really, but I was going to try hard to make it work. Because the truth was, she had always been my biggest fan, and she was a lot of fun besides. And, let’s face it, utterly out of my control.

  She spun away, leading us into a spacious living room furnished with expensive rattan furniture, cushioned with pillows covered in pale linen fabric patterned with palm fronds. The kitchen was even more magnificent—a bright yellow-and-white-tiled space that included a six-burner gas range, two dishwashers, two ovens, a wine chiller, a bread warmer, and a center island topped in green granite that made me vibrate with envy.

  “You could throw one heck of a party here,” I said, as we followed my mother onto the back porch. White rattan chaise longues overlooked a perfect little dipping pool shaded by palm trees with an elegant waterfall at the far end.

  “Wait until you hear how many events Jennifer has me working,” Mom said. “She wants me in the kitchen a couple of days a week, of course, but she’s already put me in charge of two parties. I’m developing the menu for tomorrow—a Southern belle’s Christmas luncheon. I’m thinking curried chicken salad with grapes and pecans, and a green salad, and then for the ladies who don’t eschew carbs, big buttermilk biscuits and maybe Scarlett O’Hara cupcakes.”

  “Oh swoon,” said Miss Gloria. “No one in her right mind is going to eschew those carbs. What is a Scarlett O’Hara cupcake?”

  “It has to be red velvet, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Maybe with raspberry cream cheese frosting? That’s what I tried out this morning. We’ll see if you approve.” Mom led us to the table, which she’d set with shimmery gold place mats, tan polka-dot napkins, and white plates. A bright orange bird of paradise swooped from a clear glass vase at the center for contrast.

  “Watch out Martha Stewart,” Miss Gloria said with a cackle. “You are so clever. It already looks like you’ve lived here forever!”

  We loaded our plates in the kitchen and brought them out to the poolside table. Mom slid a platter of the pink-icing-slathered cupcakes in the center, to remind us to save room. I spread a thin layer of honeyed butter onto a warm biscuit, admiring the tiny flecks of green scallion in the dough, and then bit into it.

  “Oh my gosh, these are the best,” I said, and then tasted the chicken. “And the curry is exactly right—a little bite but not enough to put anyone off.”

  Miss Gloria only rolled her eyes and moaned with pleasure.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Mom said when we were halfway through lunch. “I almost forgot to tell you the other news. You remember my cousin Chuck? His daughter, Cassie, is a pro golfer. She and her husband are popping down to the island for a couple of days this week and I’ve insisted they stay with me. And weren’t you going to make a dinner reservation at Latitudes when Sam’s here this weekend? Would it be a problem to add two more people?”

  “Not really,” I said, though more people made it challenging to concentrate and harder to manage. “As long as they don’t mind me ordering and tasting their food.”

  Latitudes is the restaurant on Sunset Key, the small private island a stone’s throw from Mallory Square, at the very bottom of Key West. Dinner guests have to make a reservation well ahead and then take a water taxi to the island. For me, this dinner would be work more than pleasure, as I’d been assigned to review the restaurant for the next issue of Key Zest. I couldn’t afford to take a second trip over—I had to get what I needed in one visit.

  “I know they’ll get a kick out of a little window into your world,” Mom said. She bit into one of the cupcakes, sighed with satisfaction, and patted her lips with her napkin. “I also set up a tee time at the Key West golf course for Cassie and her husband, Joe, and Eric and you. I invited Eric because he and Joe are both psychologists so I figured they would hit it off. I know Eric played a little as a teenager. Your muscle memory doesn’t forget that kind of history, right?”

  This was crazy in so many ways that I was struck dumb. Well, almost dumb. “Back up a minute. I don’t play golf,” I managed to squeak, because I couldn’t say the things that really came to mind. Out loud. To my mother. In front of Miss G.

  Mom laughed, a silvery peal that meant she’d started marching down a path and would not be deviating from it. “How hard could it be? And, besides, Cassie’s a pro. I’m sure she’ll be happy to give you some pointers.”

  2

  Revenge is like serving cold cuts.

  —Tony Soprano

  As you might expect from our island’s near-Caribbean status, Key West restaurants tend to be casual, with wide-plank floors, doors thrown open to the outdoors, and waiters with tattoos, cutoffs, and weathered faces. Bistro on the Bight had not adopted this trend. The designers had set the eatery apart with clean, spare decor heavy on stainless steel, copper trim, and leather. Orchids bloomed purple and pink on every table, and I noticed no funky odors—almost unavoidable in a humid climate when a place had been around awhile. I jotted a few notes on my phone and waved to the server, who emerged from the swinging door that I figured must lead to the kitchen. He was clean-shaven, dressed in a full-body white apron with all black underneath, as though he might have just flown in from New York City. Black is not big on this island.

  “I have an appointment with Ms. Waugh. I’m Hayley Snow.”

  “The chef is expecting you,” the server said, and led me to a table for two in the far corner of the room, near the kitchen. “Can I bring you a beverage?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, pointing to the BPA-free water bottle clipped to the side of my backpack. I was still swimming from a second glass of my mother’s Arnold Palmer—half lemonade, half iced tea, and one of the drinks in the running for her southern Christmas party menu. “I’d love to look at the menu while I’m waiting, though.”

  He crossed the room to the hostess stand and returned with a crisp linen folder.

  “She’ll be with you shortly.”

  As he exited through the swinging door, I heard a voice from the kitchen, feminine yet husky with intensity: “This is not rocket science. You need to prepare it exactly as I showed you yesterday. Our customers don’t want a new adventure every time they order a dish—they want what they loved last time and the time before. Exactly as the recipe is written. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Chef,” chorused a few voices.

  I began to peruse the pristine pages of the menu and was immediately drawn to the shrimp salad with fennel and orange and a roasted chicken served with pommes aligot, a recipe featuring potatoes mashed with heavy cream, garlic, and cheese. My mouth began to water even though I’d just eaten.

  The kitchen door swung open again, banging against the pickled wood trim on the wall. A petite woman with a pink face, rosebud lips, and a mass of black curls escaping from her toque barreled over to my table. She thrust her hand at me, and when I took it, squeezed mine lik
e a lemon pinched in a vise.

  “Edel Waugh,” she said. “You must be Ms. Snow. I appreciate you taking the time to write the feature.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” I said. “Please call me Hayley. I have some questions prepared, if that’s okay.” I tried to hold my voice steady and not show how nervous I felt—of course she would expect me to come with questions. Besides, I had the sense that this small, fierce woman would roll right over me if I didn’t take the lead. She nodded, sat down across from me, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You developed a very successful restaurant in New York. Why not stick with what you’ve already got humming? Why Key West?”

  She flashed a quick grin, rubbed a finger over her chin, which had a spot of something on it—grease? Gravy? Though I couldn’t think of any dish I’d seen in her repertoire that involved gravy. Which seemed a shame, really. My stomach gave a little rumble of agreement.

  “New York is fabulous in December—the lights, the crowds, the festivity. January and February? Dead. I’m an ambitious person,” she said, rapping her fist on the table, which bobbled a little from the force of the impact. A frown crossed her face and she snapped her fingers and called for the waiter who’d greeted me. “Leo?” He trotted across the room. “As soon as Ms. Snow and I are finished, you need to look at this table,” she told him, rocking it for emphasis. “Our diners should not have to endure an unsteady eating surface.” He backed away with a sheepish look on his face, and she returned her attention to me.

  “Truth is, as in many arenas, a female chef has to work harder than a man to get to the top levels. The work is brutal—long hours, heavy lifting, staffing issues, money problems. Of course, male chefs have those challenges, too, but women are assumed to be less creative than men, less driven, less than men in actually any way you can imagine. But I don’t buy that.”

  She stared me down.

  “As I’m quite sure you know, the New York restaurant was developed with my ex-husband. This is my chance to prove that my food and my restaurant are equal to anything a male chef might invent.” Her eyes blazed with intensity.

  Who would dare consider her less than a man?

  “I have gathered some information to share with you that you might do well to read before you write your piece. Menus, of course, but also my training manuals for kitchen and front-of-house staff.” She pushed a folder across the table. “Let’s go for a spin around the kitchen—assuming you’re interested?”

  “Of course.”

  She whisked me through the gleaming kitchen, which smelled amazing—onions frying, sauce simmering, chicken roasting—and introduced me to a few of the staff: the head sous-chef, two line cooks, the pastry chef, even a dishwasher. They all struck me as professional, if a bit harried. In each case, Edel’s staff tightened visibly under the glare of her examination, almost flinching as she approached. There was no question about who would be in charge of the dishes coming out of this kitchen. She would be watching every detail from the amuse-bouche to the cleanliness of the glassware to the size of the carrot chunks in the stew to the herb sprigs garnishing the dinner plates.

  After we’d finished the tour, Chef Edel walked me out through the restaurant to the dock along the water. “Before you write anything up, I’d like you to come back, spend a few hours in the kitchen. I think you’ll understand what we’re trying to do here in a way you can’t by listening to me talk—or even the brief visit we just had.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Honestly? I’m not quite sure that Key West will be able to appreciate my kind of food—the islanders may be too provincial. I mean that literally and figuratively,” she added.

  I gaped at her, unsure what I could possibly say. Maybe she didn’t realize that a large chunk of this population came from points north, including her own New York City. It was a peculiar blind spot, to say the least.

  “How would tomorrow around four p.m. work in your schedule? We are treating tomorrow night as our soft opening. I’d like you to join us for our staff dinner before the restaurant opens.”

  I agreed without checking my phone because nothing felt more pressing than the opportunity to watch this whirlwind chef in action.

  “There’s a reason I asked for you to write this piece,” she said.

  She’d asked for me? I thought my boss had come up with the idea.

  “What’s that?”

  She fidgeted, gazing over the horizon for a moment—the first time I’d noticed her looking insecure about anything—then swung those intense brown eyes back to me. “Some things have started to go a little wrong.”

  Now I was really puzzled. And curious. Surely she wasn’t looking for my culinary expertise. I’m an accomplished home cook, but certainly no gourmet chef—my tweaks on her recipes could not be welcome. “What kinds of things?”

  “Recipes altered. Things gone missing. Like that. I could use another pair of eyes. I’ll discuss it with you after dinner service tomorrow. The soft opening is less than twenty-four hours away and my staff is acting as though they’ve never set foot in a professional kitchen.”

  “I’d love to help if I can. But why me?”

  “I’ve heard about you. You’ve gotten involved with other mysteries on this island. People say you’re good with puzzles. And fearless. To the point of being a little stupid.”

  Which struck me almost dumb, for the second time that day. If she was trying to butter me up, her technique needed honing in a way I was certain her knives did not.

  3

  Chestnuts roasting on an open fire …

  —Mel Tormé and Robert Wells

  Although it had been Ava Faulkner’s idea for Key Zest to have a presence in the Hometown Holiday Parade, which helps mark the launch of the Christmas season, I wasn’t surprised that she turned the actual work over to the rest of us. Wally managed to scrounge a banged-up golf cart with three bench seats for the base of the float, and we’d been brainstorming ideas for the past couple of weeks by e-mail. Santa … elves … key lime pie … palm trees … margaritas … key deer … At the last go-round, we were basically nowhere. Pretty much the only part we had nailed down was that Wally would dress as Santa, Danielle and I as elves. We’d blocked out late this afternoon and this evening to firm up a theme and begin production, as the parade date was caroming in our direction.

  Parades are big business on this island. The granddaddy of them all, Fantasy Fest, takes place during the week leading up to Halloween and features a different theme each year. And lots of costumes, which in Key West means the skimpier, the better—right down to body paint only. In the presence of an excellent paint job, it might take the onlooker five minutes to realize she’s staring at a stranger’s bare breasts. Maybe painted to simulate Mickey Mouse or an antique car or a bunch of grapes, but bare all the same.

  Fortunately, dressing as an elf would not involve exposing a lot of skin.

  I parked my scooter at the back of a conch house in New Town, where one of Wally’s pals let him store the cart for the week leading up to the parade. The sounds of Bruce Springsteen crooning “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” wafted out from the stand-alone garage. Lights twinkled inside and I heard Danielle singing harmony to Bruce’s baritone. My heart was pounding a nervous rat-tat-tat-tat. It felt like forever since I’d really talked with Wally and even longer since we’d spent any time alone. Last spring all signs pointed to the possibility that love was about to blossom. But then his mom’s stage-four cancer was diagnosed. Understandably, the other concerns in his life fell away to the shadows. He’d been working from her home in Delray Beach for months and months while she suffered through surgery and chemotherapy. Her health seemed to be on a slight uptick—at least in the short run—so he’d taken the opportunity to come back down to Key West for the holidays. I’d watched this progression once already when my friend Connie’s mother died during our freshman year in college. Losing your mother too soon—watching her waste away in pain—was just about the worst exp
erience I could imagine.

  I pulled in a big breath of balmy air, arranged a cheery smile, and headed in. Wally was wiring two dashing reindeer that looked like stolen lawn ornaments to the front of the golf cart. A sign hanging from the deer’s necks proclaimed them to be carrying Santa and his cutie pies.

  “Santa and his cutie pies?” I yelped over Bruce’s song.

  “Danielle thought of it.” Wally, wearing a faded green T-shirt and worn jeans that showed a little flash of thigh through the thinnest places, hopped off the cart, slung an arm around my shoulder, and pecked my cheek. I hugged him hard. He looked and felt thinner than he had last time I’d seen him. Danielle turned down the volume so we could talk normally.

  “Do you get it?” Danielle asked, pointing to the cart. “Do you see? The rest of the cart will look like a giant key lime pie when we’re finished.” She had laid out another sheet of thin plywood and blocked out in bright paint TO SAMPLE THE BEST OF THE ISLAND, VISIT KEY ZEST. She was in the process of tacking white lights to the cursive lettering that spelled out Key Zest. But my attention leaped to her costume: a Santa hat, black leggings, and a bikini top constructed out of red faux fur outlined in more blinking white lights. The outfit made the most of her considerable assets.

  “Hayley, wait until you see this,” she said, demonstrating how the blinking Key Zest sign would hang from the cart’s roof. “The most important thing is lots of lights—and we put together a sound track that has all the best foodie Christmas carols on it.” She began to warble “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” She grabbed my hands. “Do you know how to dance swing? I was thinking we would pop out of the pie whenever the parade slows down and then dance! Maybe toss out candy canes?”

  I eased my fingers from her grip and backed away. “This all sounds great. Sort of. But please don’t tell me you want me to wear that.” I pointed at her fuzzy, blinking brassiere. “An elf costume is bad enough …”

  “Come on, it’s cute. It’s Key West. Skimpy costumes are the norm. And it will draw attention to our float.”