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

by Lucy Burdette

  Torrence motioned me a few steps away from the police car. “A friend of yours?”

  I nodded. “New friend. I’m writing a piece on the restaurant for Key Zest.” I paused, wondering how much to say. “She’ll kill me for this, but you should know she’s been worried about someone sabotaging her place.”

  His eyebrows drew together in one dark line. “What kind of sabotage? And who?”

  “She doesn’t know who. Things like changing the ingredients in her recipe bible.”

  Torrence looked puzzled.

  “That’s the book with instructions of everything they make in the restaurant. She’s a fiend for wanting everything to come out the same each time they make it.”

  “Oh you mean a cookbook.”

  “Sort of. A cookbook on steroids. With a lot of extra instructions and anal details.” I coughed as the wind gusted and thick, smoky air swirled around us. “And this might sound minor, but it’s actually even worse, because it’s dangerous: substituting peanut oil for canola. Which she only discovered when a diner’s throat swelled after he ate his salad.” I shrugged and looked down at the sidewalk. “She didn’t want any cops involved. She’s big on control. She likes to handle things herself.”

  “It’s a little late for that now,” he said, mopping his forehead with his sleeve. “What was she planning to do, run over with a garden hose and put the fire out herself? She should have told us. You should have told us. Someone could have been seriously injured. Or worse.” He stomped back to the cruiser.

  “Do you have any reason to believe this fire was not accidental?” he asked Edel.

  “Are we going to be able to open as planned?” she fired back without answering his question. She’d pulled herself together, looking fierce now instead of sad.

  “That is not our top priority,” he said. “But I very much doubt it.”

  Her face flooded a deep red and she leaned in as if she was about ready to light into him. I melted away to give them some space, lurking at the edge of the crime-scene tape that now blocked the alley.

  But what was I looking for? Shady characters carrying cans of gasoline? A familiar face from the restaurant, looking guilty?

  Three firefighters went running toward the ruins of Edel’s shed, shouting and waving. An ambulance tooted its horn in several mournful whoops, pushing through the crowds to the parking lot behind Edel’s place. Torrence’s radio crackled and he, too, ran down the alley, closer to the fire.

  “What’s wrong?” I yelled, trotting after him. He waved at me to back off.

  The wind shifted; sounds of a band singing Buffett music floated over from one of the party boats on the harbor. And over top of the music and the clanking of hoses and the crowd, a man’s voice yelled, “There’s someone in the remains of the storage shed. Make room for the stretcher.”

  Edel’s face went ash white.

  More men came running. A gurney pushed by two firefighters was whisked into the back yard of Edel’s restaurant and then out again, this time carrying a body wrapped in a silver space blanket.

  As the ambulance roared off with the gurney and the body, Torrence finally returned to where we waited near his cruiser.

  “Who was it?” Edel asked, her face pale and lips quivering.

  Torrence just stared at her and shook his head.

  “Can I go onto my property now?” she asked.

  “Certainly not,” he said. “They’re looking for hot spots. Besides, it’s considered a crime scene now—until we figure out exactly what happened. We’ll need you to come down to the police department in the morning for follow-up questions.”

  “Who was it?” I asked, feeling stupid with shock. And then: “Crime scene?”

  He shook his head again. “We don’t know yet.”

  “But were they all right?” Edel asked. She grabbed his arm as if to shake him.

  He detached himself from her grip. “Honestly, we’ll call you when we know something definite. Best thing you can do is go home and get some rest.”

  When it became absolutely clear that she wouldn’t be allowed onto her property, nor would the cops give us further information, I whisked her back to the Westin boat dock, where she’d take the shuttle boat back to her condo. My family and friends were just getting off the Sunset Key tender with a crowd of tipsy diners.

  “Is everything okay?” Mom called. “We were so worried when you didn’t text.”

  With a grim look on her face, Edel hurried past them onto the boat without speaking.

  “What in the world?” asked my mother, then turned to me, her forehead creased in puzzled furrows.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

  “You missed a great meal,” said Miss Gloria. “We packed some things up for you to try.” She pointed to a brown paper bag that Eric was carrying. Incredible odors of grilled meat and fried onions and ginger wafted up and I realized how ravenous I was.

  Mom took a step closer to me and sniffed. “You smell like smoke.” She brushed the hair away from my neck. “Come over to our place. You can eat something and tell us what happened.”

  “Do you mind?” I asked Miss Gloria.

  “The night is young,” she sang out with a smile.

  “We’re headed home,” said Eric. He leaned in to kiss my cheek. “The dogs have been waiting for hours and I have an early appointment. Call me tomorrow?”

  Within ten minutes, the rest of us were settled at my mother’s kitchen table. Mom set out a plate of emergency cookies and put water on for tea, and I prepared to work my way through the leftovers.

  “Eat first and make your notes,” Mom said. “Then you can tell us. No matter what else is going on in her life, a food critic has to eat.”

  I took a few bites, then felt a wave of nausea that left me weak. I couldn’t get the image of the body—wrapped in a silver blanket, lugged out of Edel’s back yard and shuttled into the ambulance—out of my mind.

  “The grouper was better piping hot,” Mom said. “But isn’t the texture of the coconut with the bok choy amazing? And I love the ginger-mango flavor—it’s subtle, but it pops.”

  I shrugged, tried to smile, put my fork down on the plate.

  “Tell us what happened,” Mom said. She brought a mug of Red Zinger tea laced with honey to the table and reached for my hand. “It must have been bad. The way Edel looked—and now you.”

  I described the scene when we arrived, and how the fire had finally been extinguished, and how, in the end, Torrence had reassured Edel that it looked as though the damage was contained to the alley behind the restaurant’s kitchen—the fence and the shed. “He wouldn’t let her go anywhere near it—too dangerous. It was a mob scene there—a blazing wall of testosterone. Every firefighter and cop on the island must have showed up. And all those gawkers wanting to get closer.”

  “But then what?” Mom asked.

  “Then they were checking to make sure the cinders were out and they found a body in the storage shed out back. Anyway, I’m almost certain the person was dead.”

  Miss Gloria gasped. “Oh good lordy, lord. Not again!”

  “Who was it?” Cassie asked.

  I pushed my hair out of my eyes. “If they knew, they certainly weren’t telling us.”

  “Had someone broken into the restaurant?” Joe asked.

  “The alarm was blaring and there were glass shards all over the alley, but I can’t be sure.” I looked around the table, at the people I could trust with most anything. I hoped. “Edel’s broken up, naturally.” I bit my lip, paused a few seconds. “She thinks someone has it in for her new restaurant.”

  “What do you mean?” Cassie asked.

  “Who, and why?” Mom asked, a beat later. “Does she think the fire and the death are related?”

  “Lordy, lordy,” said Miss Gloria. “That’s a rhubarb!”

  I shrugged. “If she knows who’s involved, she isn’t sharing it with me.”

  “Motives never really change.” Joe ticked off the
possibilities on his fingers. “Love, money, fear, greed, power. Does she think the attacks are personal? Or professional?”

  “She hasn’t said.”

  “To scare her? Or really do some damage?”

  I shrugged again; it was becoming clearer and clearer how little I did know. “And why hurt her business?”

  “Don’t underestimate her competitors,” Cassie said firmly. “Someone who’s surging to the top is always going to be envied by the people she’s barreled past. I can tell you from experience”—a look of sadness and anger crossed her face—“the envious can be vicious.”

  “Said from a woman who knows what it’s like to be on top,” Sam added with a grin.

  He loved Cassie already. And I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy myself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was out on the golf course with her by the end of the weekend. I wished I didn’t care, but he’d begun to feel like another father figure to me. Being an only child, I wasn’t the best at sharing.

  Especially with someone whose first impulse was to clobber the competition to a pulp. I excused myself to head for home, and Mom walked me and Miss Gloria to the door.

  “Have you spoken with Lorenzo lately?” she asked.

  My favorite and almost always reliable tarot card reader.

  I shook my head. “No. But I’m not sure I could face more bad news.”

  8

  I always think there’s something rather foreign about high spirits at breakfast.

  —Mr. Carson, Downton Abbey

  After spending more time than usual fixing my hair and planning my outfit (how much could a girl do with jeans and the yellow Key Zest shirt—who was I kidding?) in anticipation of seeing Wally, I went into work early the next morning. I needed time to write up the Latitudes review before Wally and Danielle arrived. Writing a review based on takeout leftovers and my family’s opinions was not a restaurant reviewer’s best practice, but I didn’t have the time or money to repeat the visit. Besides, I had bigger worries—like holding my job when my investigative-culinary-reporter piece had disintegrated into arson and a hysterical chef. And, worst of all, possibly murder.

  Our office copy of the Key West Citizen lay on the stoop, with a scary picture of Edel’s restaurant fire lighting up the night above the fold. I carried it upstairs, started a pot of coffee, and sat down to read.

  KEY WEST DETECTIVE NATHAN BRANSFORD BAFFLED BY APPARENT ARSON AT BISTRO ON THE BIGHT, the headline read. Below the fold was a photo of Bransford, crouched at the entrance to the alley leading to the restaurant, looking … hapless. He must have arrived after Edel and I had left. I’d had a very brief romance with the detective in question—long enough to realize that he was utterly obsessed with his image and intent on keeping it untarnished. He would go bananas when he saw this headline.

  I continued to read. No injuries had been reported. Which did not exactly match what we’d seen at the site. Did they have a reason to hide the discovery of the body? Or had the victim survived without injury? Considering the silver shroud I’d seen, I doubted that outcome.

  Investigators were looking for traces of accelerant, and any witnesses to the fire were asked to come forward. The state fire marshal would be consulted. An interview with the restaurant’s chef/owner, Edel Waugh, offered no comment on the fire, other than assuring future diners that she was pressing the police department to allow the restaurant to open as planned. On that, Bransford himself had no comment.

  I poured a cup of coffee, added milk and sugar, and retreated to my nook at the end of the hall to begin writing. Forty-five minutes later, I had the bones of the Latitudes piece roughed out, but my stomach was growling so loudly I could barely think.

  Then I Googled Edel Waugh’s restaurant, Arnica, in New York City’s East Village. The critics were divided into two camps: those who found the food to be inventive and delightful, and those who thought the restaurant tried too hard with its combination of cutting-edge and classically French food.

  I heard signs of life in the reception area and the coffeemaker began to gurgle again. Fingers and toes crossed that it was Danielle with doughnuts or pastries. She and I took turns launching, embracing, and abandoning diets, so we both welcomed the days when all good intentions failed.

  I came down the hallway sniffing. “Do I smell doughnuts?”

  Danielle grinned and flipped open the top of a big white box. “Right out of the deep fryer at the Glazed Donut. I figured Wally could use some cheering up. And you have never turned down fat, yeast, and sugar in the year I’ve known you.”

  I laughed, chose a plain glazed, and started to eat, savoring the sugary coating, nibbling the featherlight dough so it would last as long as possible. Hoping that way I wouldn’t be tempted to reach for a second.

  “And besides all that,” Danielle said, but this time with a frown that she smoothed away as quickly as it appeared, “Ava’s bringing in some possible investors this morning. I guess Wally forgot to tell you.”

  “Investors?” I grimaced. “I guess he did.”

  “Don’t feel left out,” Danielle said. “He’s so worried about taking time away from his mom that it’s been hard for him to focus. And Ava is pressuring him big-time about everything you can imagine.”

  As I popped the last bit of doughnut in my mouth and began to lick the sugary glaze off my fingers, Ava crashed into the office. Two people followed in her wake: a man in a gray suit, a starched white shirt, and a pink tie; and a woman with über-short, spiky red hair, high heels, and skintight black jeans. If she’d been a bird, she would have been a woodpecker.

  Ava glanced at Wally’s darkened window, the mini blinds still closed. She swung around to glare at Danielle. “He’s not in yet?”

  “He called. He’ll be here in fifteen,” Danielle chirped. “There’s a jam on Roosevelt—apparently two cars and a scooter got tangled up. You know that narrow place where the road drops off—”

  Ava tried to cut her off, but Danielle kept yakking.

  “I brought doughnuts,” she said to the two strangers. “And the coffee is fresh and hot. Let me get you settled in Wally’s office.” She flashed a two-dimple smile and they couldn’t help smiling back. “Follow me.”

  Ava trailed after them, a sour-persimmon expression on her face. In Wally’s office, Danielle flipped on the lights and set up the wooden TV trays that leaned against the wall. Then she brought in the doughnuts, arranged on a lacquered tray depicting a Winslow Homer seascape. “These are local—you actually watch them as they are lifted from the deep-fat fryer. The most adorable young couple owns the place. I chose some plain glazed, in case someone doesn’t like the fancy flavors,” she told the visitors. “But these others are key lime, chocolate, and a couple with maple frosting and candied bacon.”

  Bestowing another big smile on Ava’s guests, she hurried back out to the front room to fetch their coffee.

  “Let’s get started,” I heard Ava say, closing the blinds so we could no longer see into the office. I strained to hear the conversation. “Wally can catch up when he gets here. Our readership has exploded over the past six months,” she explained.

  Which I’d certainly never heard her say to me. Whenever I’d sat in staff meetings with Ava, she’d only complained about drooping numbers and receding shares of the marketplace.

  “I realize that it’s not fashionable to move from online to print,” she continued, “but this is an unusual community and we have an unusual opportunity. We get a population of visitors who would gladly pay for a classy guide to what’s what on the island.”

  “What’s your competition?” asked the woodpecker lady.

  “The Sunday living section of the local newspaper was dropped entirely this past year,” Ava said. “It was called Solares Hill, named after the highest point on the island. It turned out not to be such a high point after all.”

  “Which might be interpreted as the last gasp of print,” said the man in the suit.

  “I don’t think so,”
Ava said. I could picture her wagging a finger. She hates to be contradicted. “I think it points to a failure of their imagination. There are other weekly newsies, but not of the quality we intend to produce. Of course, we intend to make some changes in our staff. I can assure you that you’ll see a higher level of professionalism.”

  “How many staff do you have currently?”

  “Wally, myself, and two three-quarter timers. My vision is to hire three half-time people, which eliminates our obligation to provide benefits.”

  The woman murmured a question that I couldn’t make out.

  “Our staff has gotten lazy,” Ava said, and now I could picture the curl in her lip. “But imagine if we pruned the deadwood, leaving us with three part-time writers pitching ideas against each other. The creative juices would definitely surge.”

  I sank lower in my chair, wishing I could creep back to my office but afraid to draw Ava’s attention—and her ire. Danielle made monkey faces to try to cheer me up, aping Ava’s thin lips and overplucked brows.

  We heard quick steps on the stairs and Wally burst into the office.

  “Crap,” he said. “Traffic was a nightmare. Are they already here?”

  “Ava’s busy poisoning them,” Danielle said in a soft voice. “She’s pretty much already promised to fire us. We need you in there.” She placed a steaming mug in his hands and he marched into his office.

  “I’m Wally Beile. So sorry to hold you up. I want you to meet our other staff. If you stay around for the parade tonight, you’ll see them dressed as elves.” He stepped back out of his cubicle and motioned for us. “That’s one way of saying they are flexible and fun-loving, along with being supremely talented.”

  With a hand on each of our backs, he pushed us into the room. “Danielle is our administrative assistant. She’s the brains of the organization and she knows Key West in and out, as she’s lived here forever. She makes a mean cup of coffee and she has her finger on the pulse of the pastry business on the island.” He gestured at the plate of doughnuts, and Danielle waved.