Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 5

  “Iguanas,” said Eric. “Wait until you see them on the sixteenth green. It’s like they think that pond is their personal beach.”

  “Eric was telling me a little about the new restaurant on the harbor and how you’re trying to lend a hand to the chef,” said Joe to me, when they came off the green. “You know, Cassie was quite a sleuth back in the day.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call myself a sleuth,” I said.

  “What do you call a lady who solves four murders and counting?” Eric asked, and they both laughed. “The culinary Miss Marple.”

  “Not funny,” I said.

  “The Nancy Drew of the foodie set?”

  I made a slashing motion across my neck.

  Cassie really looked at me for the first time all day. “It’s not fun, finding the dead. But how can you look the other way? Sometimes the professionals who are supposed to be solving the crimes don’t care about these people as much as they should. And sometimes a person outside the criminal justice profession has a knack for noticing things that other folks don’t see.”

  “But in the end, all this murder stuff messed with her mind,” Joe said. “She even started to think I was after her.” He grinned.

  “Not funny,” Cassie said, a flash of anger in her eyes.

  Before I could thank her for understanding or ask about her experience, she stomped off toward the next tee. A flock of curlews took off in front of us, wailing a mournful cry.

  6

  A cook is a man with a can opener. A chef is an artist.

  —Georges Auguste Escoffier

  We filed onto the shuttle boat for Sunset Key at the dock outside the Westin resort. The night was perfect for dinner on the beach—warm, with a star-studded sky, and a breeze strong enough to ruffle hair but not to blow out candles.

  “What a glorious evening,” my mother said, and then to Cassie: “I’m so glad you’re here. Since your father refuses to leave California, I’d have to fly to the West Coast and make a tee time at his golf course in order to see him.” She squeezed Cassie’s hand and flashed a brilliant smile.

  “Apologies for him—he’s constitutionally unable to relax,” Cassie said with a grin. “My focus didn’t come from nowhere,” she added. “I’ll tell Dad you miss him.” A large yacht motored by and she clutched her stomach as our boat pitched in its wake.

  “Almost there!” my mother sang out. “Even people with the weakest stomachs can make it to Sunset Key. There’s nothing else like it near Key West—a ten-minute ride but you’ll feel as though you’re in another world.” She turned to Eric. “How was your golf game today?”

  “Great fun,” he said. “Cassie gave all of us tips and saved me about fifteen strokes around the green.” He refused to meet my eyes. No amount of tips would have helped me today. In fact, any minuscule natural talent I might have started the round with had been squeezed out by an accumulation of tension and resentment twenty minutes later.

  I flounced off the boat before the rest of the gang and trotted up the gangway toward the restaurant as fast as my tired legs could take me. This island is as manicured and sedate as Key West is noisy and raunchy. For Christmas, garlands of greenery studded with red bows and twinkling with tiny white lights had been looped around the handrails that bordered the ramp. Manufactured beauty is not usually my style, but the night was ideal for eating outside. And aside from the deck at Louie’s Backyard, Sunset Key has to be the most beautiful setting in the county.

  I stopped at the receptionist’s stand. “We have a reservation for eight. In the name of Snow?”

  The brunette behind the podium tapped on her computer screen, then nodded and smiled. “We saved a table as close to the water as you can be without getting your feet wet. Is the rest of your party here?”

  I smiled, jerked a thumb behind me, and rolled my eyes a little. “They’re coming—you can’t miss ’em.”

  As my gang clattered in, giddy and boisterous, I spotted a small woman with corkscrew curls and bright pink cheeks alone at the bar. Edel? I followed my group to the table.

  “Thank you so much,” my mother said to the hostess. “This is stunning. Now, let’s see. Joe should sit next to Sam and Bill so they can get acquainted. And Cassie right here in between me and Miss Gloria.” She patted the seat beside her with the best view of the open sea and the stars winking over the water. The torches around the edges of the patio flickered softly.

  “I think Edel Waugh is at the bar,” I muttered to my mother. “I’m going over to say hello. Order me a glass of Albariño or Sauvignon Blanc when the waitress comes around?”

  “See if she’ll come over and say hello,” Mom begged. “I’m dying to meet her.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll try.” I wove among the other tables and went inside. Edel was slumped on her stool, both elbows on the bar. Looking like maybe she didn’t want company. But too late, she had spotted me.

  “Beautiful night,” I said, patting her shoulder. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Monday,” said Edel. “We’re closed on Mondays,” she added. “Or we will be. Even though we haven’t officially opened, I needed a few hours off before the opening-night madness.”

  She picked up her empty highball glass and signaled the bartender. “Hit me again, Glenfiddich and soda. And something for my friend here, too.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t stay. I’m here with some friends and family—”

  “They’ll wait,” Edel said. “What will you have?” Before I could protest again or even answer, she turned to the bartender, a thin woman with a long black braid and perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Make her one of your Bloody Marys. Good vodka and kick-ass spicy.

  “Sorry about the big scene in the kitchen yesterday about the peanut oil,” she continued, swiveling back to me. “I warned you there has been some excitement. But I’m sorry I lost it.” She crooked a half smile.

  I nodded and climbed onto the stool. “Do you have any theories about what happened?”

  “Not really,” she said, her chin sinking to her palm. “I can’t imagine anyone—my ex-husband excepted—who has it in for me.” The bartender exchanged her empty glass for a full one, and Edel took a swig. Then she held her glass up and tapped it on the Bloody Mary that had been delivered to me. “Sláinte. To your health.”

  I sipped my drink, which was the right kind of spicy—just this side of singeing my throat as it went down. “You were right. This is delicious. Is your ex in town?”

  “He wouldn’t be caught dead in this backwater. Any place with a population under a million isn’t worth his bother.” She swigged an inch of Scotch, shook the glass until the ice cubes clattered, and then drank again. “I’m not worth his bother, either.”

  I thought of the discussion on the golf course earlier this afternoon and Cassie’s question about whether Edel had brought staff with her or hired them new from the Key West pool. “I know your head waiter, Leo, came down from New York. How about the other staff?” I asked. “Are they locals?”

  Edel sighed. “My sous-chef is from New York. I’ve worked with him for ages. Most of the others we found here.”

  “Would all of them have had access to the pantry?”

  “I suppose anyone could have come in early without getting noticed. As you saw, the place was a madhouse. We have to settle this,” Edel said, her words beginning to slur. “I cannot have negativity in my kitchen. I cannot have staff members who are against me—or even neutral. They need to be playing on the team, not hooting on the sidelines.” She plucked an ice cube from her glass and began to chew it. “I’m probably doomed. Somebody wants to ruin my business before it even takes off.”

  “Maybe it was an honest mistake,” I said, trying to sound a hopeful note. “But shouldn’t you call the cops if you really think it was sabotage?”

  Edel straightened on her barstool, her eyes glassy and her cheeks burning. “No cops. Period. I can’t risk bad press right now. This opening is too important. It’s hard e
nough to be a woman in this business—I don’t need press that paints me as hysterical and paranoid. It’s not like other businesses, where bad press is better than no press. Bad reviews here turn diners stone-cold. But you know that. You’ve done it to restaurants yourself.”

  I opened my mouth to defend myself. And say what? In the end, she was right. I hated writing negative reviews. Hated it. But as Wally reminded me, it was part of the job. If I didn’t have the stomach to tell the truth when it needed telling, my words would be worth nothing.

  My mother appeared on the other side of Edel, grinning from ear to ear. She thrust her hand out. “I’m Janet Snow, Hayley’s mother. I’m so thrilled to meet you in person. We trekked into the city from New Jersey for many special occasions at your restaurant. I can still taste your lobster thermidor.” She closed her eyes and patted her stomach, then clapped her hands together, startling both of us. “I simply can’t wait for Bistro on the Bight to open.”

  “Mom’s a foodie,” I told Edel apologetically. “She’s working for one of the local caterers for the season.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Edel, looking a little shell-shocked, which wasn’t unusual for a person hit by the whirlwind that is my mother. “Our menu here is not so classically French.”

  “You could prepare dog food and I bet it would be delicious,” Mom said, and then added to me: “Sorry to interrupt, but the natives are getting restless. And we didn’t dare order the main courses without you. Would you care to join us for dinner?” my mother asked Edel. “Absolutely my treat.”

  “Thanks, but no,” Edel said, as she slid off the stool. “I was on my way out.” She leaned over to whisper to me. “No cops. Will you come tomorrow?” Her eyes glittered. “I need someone looking out for me.”

  “I’ll be right over,” I told my mother, and gave her a gentle push back toward our table on the beach. I considered Edel’s request for a moment. Hadn’t I already crossed the line from food critic to amateur investigative reporter? Why act as though I was half in? Why ruin her dream to try to salvage my own neck? “What time?”

  “Four o’clock?” Once Edel had hugged me and staggered off, I returned to my tablemates. Seven sets of curious eyes stared at me.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Mom said finally, when I offered no explanation for my absence. “I chose some appetizers for the table. The lobster bisque—that’s their signature, so a must-try, the burrata cheese, the Sunset Key shrimp, the duo of tuna, and the beef carpaccio.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Sorry to hold things up.”

  “Is everything all right?” Mom asked.

  “I think it will be. She’s stressed out by her opening—putting a lot of pressure on herself.”

  “Did you see the article in the New York Times last week?” Mom asked. “All about whether women chefs are not getting the press they deserve. Some men claim they aren’t getting attention because they don’t deserve it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I snapped. “She’s a genius in the kitchen.”

  “And no press probably means fewer investors,” Eric said.

  “I’m sure she worries about that,” I said. “Besides wanting to cook and serve the best food ever, she’s got to keep the people backing her happy.”

  “It’s pretty much like that in the golf world, too,” Cassie said, straightening in her chair.

  “The prizes and the TV coverage for the men’s tour are much, much larger than those on the LPGA tour,” Joe added.

  “How’s life going out there?” Sam asked. He pantomimed a golf swing, holding his fork like a club.

  Cassie managed a smile. “I won’t complain. No matter how hard it is, tons of girls would give anything to take my place.”

  Joe took her hand and rotated her diamond ring around her finger. “She’s very modest. She won two tournaments this past season and tied for second and third in two others. But the rookies on the tour are younger and younger. And many come from Korea or Japan and barely speak English, though they’ve played all their lives. Things seem a lot different from when we began.”

  Cassie nodded and pulled her hand out of Joe’s grip. “I’ll say. The girls I started out with—Kate Golden, Donna Andrews, Lisa Hackney Hall—are retired for the most part. Poor Lisa fell apart for a while and lost her momentum when her mind took over her swing.” She looked around the table. “She had to work really hard to get it back. People wonder how hard it can be to swing a golf club.”

  “Plenty hard,” Joe said, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The tension in her shoulders gave way a little.

  “I suppose it’s challenging at the top of any profession,” Eric said. “Although not always as physical as golf.”

  “And all that traveling,” Sam said.

  “It’s got to be murder on the girls who want to start a family,” Mom added.

  Cassie said nothing. The waiter arrived with our appetizers and placed them in the center of the table. We began to sample them and I made notes as I ate. The house-made burrata was fresh and light—unlike any other mozzarella cheese I’d eaten in the Keys. As I took my first spoonful of rich bisque, I noticed a woman lurching through the other tables toward ours. Edel.

  “The Bistro’s on fire,” she said in a panicked whisper, holding up her phone and blasting me with a whoosh of alcohol-sodden breath. She definitely shouldn’t be driving.

  “Oh, honey, no!” said my mother, starting to rise out of her chair. “Can I—”

  “Let me handle it,” I told Mom. And to Edel: “I’ll run you over there. My scooter is parked right near the dock.” I stood up and turned to my mother. “Take some notes on the rest of the food?”

  Then Edel and I hurried toward the dock and its waiting tender.

  7

  Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!

  —Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

  The sound of sirens, the whoosh of a crackling fire, and the smell of charred wood overwhelmed us as I roared up Caroline Street toward the harbor, Edel clutching my waist. I took a quick right past the Key Lime Pie Factory, decorated like a gingerbread house for the holiday season, the words from the owner’s canned advertisement blaring from the television on the outside wall. A dull orange glow came into view and Edel’s breathing grew faster.

  “Oh god, please don’t let it burn down,” she moaned.

  A police car, lights flashing, was parked catty-corner across the street, and a uniformed officer waved us away. Edel sprang off the back of the scooter as soon as I rolled to a stop.

  “You can’t go down there, miss!” the cop yelled. But she dodged around him and kept running. He barked into the radio clipped to his shoulder—a rat-a-tat-tat of cursing and then something about the madwoman barreling toward the fire.

  I dragged the scooter onto its stand on the sidewalk near where the harbor’s lit Christmas tree had been constructed of ropes and buoys. When the officer turned to yell at some other tourists, I darted after Edel, down the dock that ran along Schooner Wharf and behind the old Waterfront Market. More police cruisers and several fire trucks were already on the scene, crowding as closely as they could to the alley leading to Edel’s restaurant. Beyond them, a circle of curious spectators tried to push even nearer. Smoke swirled thickly and I coughed and buried my nose in my sleeve. A burglar alarm howled intermittently.

  “Clear the area,” hollered a muscular man in a gray T-shirt and a police cap. “People, it’s not safe here.” He blocked the way of a tall man who tried to push past him. The man stumbled back, nearly falling over his golden retriever. Down the alley behind the restaurant, firemen in tan suits with orange stripes and yellow helmets wrestled with two enormous hoses, training fierce streams of water onto the fire. I heard the sizzle of water meeting flames, then saw a cloud of smoke and steam. Keeping my mouth and nose covered, I edged around the perimeter of the fire zone, looking for Edel. She wasn’t hard to spot, tussling with two of Key West’s finest.

>   “Ma’am, you can’t go any closer.” A burly cop stepped in front of Edel, then grabbed her wrist as she tried to duck around him. “You need to clear out.”

  “But it’s my restaurant,” she shouted.

  He shook his head and nudged her back. I wormed through the crowd to collect her and drew her back from the hot cinders and billows of smoke that eddied around the back of the restaurant. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched.

  “Listen. There’s nothing you can do to help,” I said. “You have to let them put it out.”

  My friend Lieutenant Steve Torrence materialized from the crowd and I waved him over.

  “This is Edel Waugh,” I told him, placing my hand on her shuddering back. “She’s the owner.”

  “I need to get in there,” she said, waving at the flames.

  He gripped her shoulders, his eyes comforting but hands firm. “It’s not safe to get closer. They’re very skillful—they will get the fire under control. Why don’t you ladies come with me and we’ll see what we can find out?” He raised an eyebrow at me and I looped my arm through Edel’s and half dragged her back to his cruiser. He settled the weeping chef in the passenger’s seat, handed her a bottle of water and a box of tissues, and went off to consult with one of the firemen. I couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t come out like pablum. Finally her sobs slowed to hiccups.

  Torrence returned some minutes later. “From what I can tell, I don’t believe there will be serious damage to the restaurant. The fire seems to have started in the trash in the alley behind the kitchen—possibly in your storage shed. Your fence around the patio is probably totaled and the shed is, practically speaking, destroyed, but the building itself should be fine.”

  She slumped against the headrest. “Oh thank god.” She took a deep breath and sank back, her eyelids fluttering closed. Then her eyes snapped open. “Who could have done this to me? I can’t fail. I just can’t.”