“I can’t help it,” she said. “It’s a gift. I have a nose for sugar and fat.” Everyone laughed, except for Ava.
“Hayley Snow is our food critic,” Wally said. “She has a finely tuned palate and she’s a fabulous writer—a combination that doesn’t come along very often. And she’s flexible and fast. She can write about anything, not just food. She wrote a piece on the Hemingway cats last spring that made a major splash in the annual Sunshine State Awards for professional journalists—in their features division. Trust me, it’s difficult to break in there.”
“Thanks, boss,” I said, blushing. “I love my job.”
“What are you working on now?” asked the woodpecker woman.
“This morning I roughed out a review on Latitudes, an upscale restaurant on Sunset Key. Later today, I’m planning to visit Kojin, the noodle shop on Southard Street, which is more down-market but with amazing Vietnamese food. I try to alternate fancy places with street food so there’s something for everyone. My motto on reviews is tough but fair.”
Ava looked up from her iPad mini and snorted, but Wally was nodding so I kept going.
“I’m also doing some research on a piece about a new restaurant opening later this week. The chef was highly regarded in New York City, so it’s actually quite a coup to have her here.”
“What kind of food?” asked the suited man.
“She owned a restaurant in New York with her husband. The menu was cutting-edge—a mix of classical French and molecular gastronomy, but on steroids. I think that was her ex’s influence—he trained with Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz. He wanted to cook like them, only become more famous and land farther out there with his menu. In any case, now that she’s local, the chef is cooking food that’s a bit homier and with a Caribbean flair. It should be comfortable for folks who don’t necessarily want a fine-dining experience. Not everyone is interested in dishes that challenge them.”
The woodpecker lady smiled—I would have picked her for foie gras delivered in a steaming tube, but maybe she was mac and cheese all the way. I kept my gaze focused on her and continued to blab.
“In fact, I tried the spaghetti Bolognese that the chef made for her staff dinner, and, to my mind, it would rival the dish any Italian grandmother could prepare.” I saw instantly from the look on Ava’s face that I had stepped in it. How could I explain why I’d been eating dinner with Edel’s staff without coming across as supremely unprofessional?
A loud banging sounded on the outside office door and I thought for a moment that I was saved. Danielle hurried out to answer.
“I need to speak with Hayley Snow,” said a familiar deep voice. “I’m Detective Bransford from the Key West police.”
9
All the stories that had made me apprehensive about the restaurant business were true: the grueling hours, burns and cuts, screaming chefs, coming home greasy and stinking of fish. But I also acquired a skill that I had sorely lacked my entire life: I learned how to suck it up.
—Ivan Orkin, Ivan Ramen
The chatter died and all eyes turned to me. “Excuse me,” I said, and bolted out of Wally’s office. “What do you want?” I hissed at Bransford.
He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the gathering in the office. “Where can we talk privately?”
“My office.” Which was a cubicle, really—much closer quarters than would feel comfortable to be jammed up with him. But at least it had a door that closed—an advantage, given that my bosses and our potential investors were fifteen feet down the hall. Wally and the others gawked as we trooped by.
I pointed to the folding chair by my tiny window. The colored Christmas lights we’d installed last week blinked cheerfully, a blue, a red, and a green dolphin leaping in succession. Once Bransford sat, I perched on my desk and shut the door, feeling slightly claustrophobic. I could smell his aftershave—or shampoo, maybe?—a lime and coconut blend that I didn’t recognize. His ex-wife had probably chosen it to mark her territory. He, on the other hand, could probably smell my fear.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said.
“I was in a staff meeting. I didn’t have my phone with me because it was the kind of meeting that might make or break your job,” I added, pointing to the phone, which I’d left on the desk. I had a bad habit of reading e-mail and texting while half listening to Ava, which she despised. But that little bit of distraction kept me from wanting to leap out of my chair and strangle her. “What’s up?”
He sighed heavily. “As you may be aware, our arson investigators found a body in the shed behind the restaurant last night. At this point, although the investigation isn’t complete, the fire does not look accidental. And that suggests we may well be dealing with a murder.”
Which confirmed my worst fears. And then the real meaning of the news punched me a little harder. “My god, who was killed? What happened? How did they end up in the burning building?”
“I thought perhaps you could help us answer that. Ms. Waugh is down at the station right now, being questioned again. But I’d like to hear your side of things.”
He stared me down, like I was responsible for the uptick in Key West crime over the past twelve months. Which it did feel like sometimes, if I was completely honest.
“I wouldn’t say that I have a side,” I said softly, hoping he’d lower his volume too. Hoping Ava and company couldn’t hear the conversation through the flimsy hollow door.
Bransford frowned. “Let me say it another way. Why were you at the fire last night? And what is your relationship with Ms. Waugh?”
Breathe in, breathe out, I told myself. I hadn’t done a thing wrong, no matter how his questions made me feel.
“Edel asked me to help her watch over things at her restaurant a little. She seemed to be anticipating trouble during this opening. And she’d heard that I’m nosy.” I snorted with laughter, hoping he’d join me. Hoping that the tension would ease out of the room like a boiling pot removed from the burner. But he didn’t.
“Did you not consider reporting the trouble to the police before it got this serious?”
“That’s something you should ask her,” I huffed. “Were you thinking I should report every curdled cream sauce in every kitchen I visit? There’s a big difference between sabotaging a meal and setting fire to the restaurant and killing someone.”
I felt claustrophobic and physically uncomfortable perched on my desk, the corner pressing into my flesh. But it would be hard to adjust my position without bumping into Bransford. He was doing the man thing—spreading his knees as if anyone else in the room would accommodate him. Or maybe it was a police thing. Either way I felt crowded and sweaty. I grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk and wiped my face.
“How well do you know Ms. Waugh?” he asked, after a pause.
Which was actually a very good question. “I met her three days ago—that’s it. But I like her very much—even though she’s a bit prickly. And her food is amazing.” I tapped my fingers on the desk. “My mother ate at her restaurant in New York City many times. It’s hard to stand out in that city, and yet she and her husband managed to do it.”
“Her husband?” Bransford asked.
I gulped, wishing I could learn to filter my words before I blurted them out. “They’re no longer together. This is her solo restaurant. He’s not in Key West. As far as I know.”
“Tell me about the sabotage she claimed to be experiencing,” he said, with a special emphasis on “claimed.”
So I reviewed the two incidents that I’d witnessed, the ruined sauce and the peanut-oil substitution. Bransford’s eyebrows lifted.
“Let’s start with the sauce,” he said.
“I can tell that you think it’s not important, how her sauce tastes. But this is the basis for the restaurant’s signature seafood dish. That means tons of people order it—they want to experience the finest of what the chef has to offer.” I fell quiet for a minute, thinking how to best put this in words, especially to a man who didn’t care much
about what he ate. Food was fuel for him, that’s all. “And for Edel, the dish is a very personal extension of her. If the diners don’t like her tomato vodka sauce, they don’t like her.” My words trailed off. “At least I think that’s what she feels.”
“So, you don’t know her well. In fact, you hardly know her at all. And yet she wanted you to solve her problems. Did you ever think to ask ‘Why me?’ I mean, what is your stake in all this?” The eyes that had looked like the color of moss when we were dating looked more like pond algae right now. He despised this side of me—the urge to get involved in dangerous situations that weren’t my responsibility. Or, really, any of my business.
“She said she’d heard about me. How I was involved in other cases and solved some mysteries,” I finished weakly, feeling my lips quiver, not wanting to meet his eyes. I did not bother to add the part about being fearless to the point of stupid.
“I bet she heard,” he muttered. “Does the name Glenn Fredericks mean anything to you?”
“He’s her main sous-chef,” I said. “He’s the one who got yelled at about the ruined sauce. But why do you ask? Did he have something to do with the fire?”
Bransford ignored the question. “So, back to the sauce … In your professional opinion, who might be interested in ruining her food?”
“I only know who works for her. I have no idea if they’d want to torpedo her new place.”
“Names?” he asked.
I listed off all the folks I remembered from my evening at the Bistro—Glenn, Mary Pat, Rodrigo, Louann, Leo. And with regret I described the details of the arguments I’d overheard in Edel’s kitchen and her tendency to blow her top with her staff. “I had agreed to spend this evening at the restaurant, too,” I said. “What are the chances she’ll be allowed to open?”
“Not good,” he said. “Until we have more answers, the place is still considered a crime scene. She certainly won’t be using the back yard anytime soon.”
His expression softened a little. “I know you mean well, but you’re in way over your head. Did it ever occur to you to wonder why she didn’t call the police if she felt someone was threatening her restaurant or her food?”
“I asked that,” I said sharply. “I’m not an idiot.” I paused, waiting for confirmation that did not come. “She didn’t want bad press before opening night. You know how gossip spreads in this town.”
Bransford stood up. “Well she’s got bad press in spades now, doesn’t she?”
I smirked, remembering the headline. “Your press wasn’t that great either: Bransford Baffled—”
He cut me off, looking incensed. “This is not funny. A man was killed. And we had a near miss with the city’s diesel tanks, which are located right behind her restaurant. Can you imagine what might have happened if they’d caught fire?”
He towered over me—so close I started to hyperventilate. “No,” I squeaked. “But why are you asking me? I wasn’t there when the fire started. I only gave Edel a ride to the harbor because she was drunk.” Oh lord, I wished I hadn’t said that. “I mean, she wasn’t—”
“Let me tell you what would have happened: There would have been a massive explosion. Most of the buildings in Old Town are made of wood. Old and dry, seasoned like firewood. A big blaze could have wreaked havoc, like the Duval Street fire, before your time. The one and only reason it stopped burning was the fire reached the end of the block. Here? All the buildings and boats in the harbor could have been burned to rubble. Many casualties in terms of businesses and, more important, people.” His face was flushed and he was practically shouting.
Underneath his rant, I heard a tapping on the door. With a whoosh of relief, I pushed it open. Wally. And behind him, heads poking out from his office, the curious faces of the two investors.
“Is everything all right?” Wally asked, bracing himself, legs wide and fists on hips.
“The detective was just leaving.” I gestured to the hallway and Bransford stomped out, passing Wally’s office without acknowledging the audience.
“I’ll text you if I think of anything else,” I called. The door slammed shut behind him.
I tried to smile reassuringly at Wally. “This was about the fire at the Bight last night.”
“He’s a bully,” Wally said, frowning. “I don’t like to see him push you around like that.”
“You may be right, but I’m okay,” I said, and nodded my thanks. “Someone died. He’s doing his job. And he was mortified by the headline in this morning’s paper.”
“Still,” he said as he started down the hall to his office. “I don’t like him.” He turned around again. “I wonder whether this is about something else entirely. Maybe he wants to get back together with you.”
I blushed and hissed and waved his suggestion away. Then I sank into the chair where Bransford had been sitting, still feeling shaky. And a little weirded out, as I noticed the body heat that had seeped into my battered leather chair. Bransford was right about one thing: Last night could have been far worse than I’d imagined. I jotted down the names of the workers in Edel’s kitchen and ran my finger over the list, wondering if there might be one who’d be willing to talk about what he or she had noticed over the past few weeks.
The phone rang and Mom’s name came up on the screen. “Jennifer from Small Chef just phoned. Two of her workers called in sick for the Christmas luncheon at the Truman Little White House. Any chance you’d be willing to help? The pay is decent and we’d have a ball. I know you were going to Edel’s place, but it doesn’t look like they’ll be opening. And, to tell the truth, I’m in a panic. Do you know anyone else who might help? It’s my first gig and I’m in over my head.”
Like mother, like daughter, I thought. “Sure. What time and where?”
10
Food meant love and comfort and even peace in my family. Quite natural that I’d crave something good to eat when I felt a little sad or angry, or like now, a lot of both.
—Lucy Burdette, Murder with Ganache
I waited for Ava and the visitors to clear out before packing up my stuff. Not a good time to look like a slacker. So I tweaked the Latitudes review and shot it off to Wally, who would edit for content, and Danielle, who was deadly with fact-checking and spelling mistakes. Then I would have one more chance to polish until it gleamed.
Once I heard Ava and company leave, I grabbed my backpack and stuck my head in Wally’s office on the way out. “You look a little shell-shocked,” I said. “Thanks for sticking up for me with Bransford.”
“I can’t stand that guy,” he said. “He acts like he has it in for you. But I don’t think he’s come to terms with your relationship being over. How else would you explain that intensity? Unless he’s just an ass, which is certainly possible.”
I grinned. “We never really had a relationship. It’s more like a love-hate thing, with the hate part much more prominent than the love,” I said, and smiled again. Then, seeing the sick look on Wally’s face, wished I hadn’t mentioned love. Change the subject, Hayley. “What’s with these investors?”
Danielle popped out from behind her desk in the reception area and walked over to stand behind me.
“I’m sure you heard some of it,” he said. “Ava wants to go big with the magazine. And I can’t say she’s all wrong. The town is thriving. Real estate has gone crazy. The arts scene has never been so strong.” He scowled and ran his fingers through his hair so it stood up like somebody’s overgrown Bermuda grass lawn. “Even if Edel Waugh’s restaurant never takes off, just the fact that she came down from New York to try something here means a lot. We’re not just a sloppy little backwater anymore. But, Hayley”—he looked at me—“it’s not often that I agree with that detective, but I agree about this: You need to step back from the Bistro.”
“But—”
“But nothing. That assignment has been canceled. Take the rest of the day off. We’ll see you tonight at the parade.”
“But who are these people?” Daniel
le asked. “If they’re friends of Ava’s, they’re probably not friends of ours.”
Wally sighed. “One of the hardest things about starting a small company is knowing when to sell, when to let some new people in. The owner of a start-up is by definition overinvested in the company. Of course I think Key Zest is great. And I think you’re both great, too. Amazing, really. But this may be an offer that’s too good to refuse.”
“So, they are not really investors. They want to buy us out,” I said. Realizing as I said it that there was no us.
“They aren’t giving me a lot of choice,” he said. “If I don’t agree to sell, Ava’s going to leave and team up with them, anyway—”
“Yes!” Danielle yelped, pumping her fist.
Wally’s face twitched into a small, pale smile. “The trouble is, if I don’t go along with them, she plans to start a new style magazine, something they could back. And they have unlimited funds. And lots of big ideas. They could squeeze us out in a heartbeat.” He sighed and dropped his head against his chair back. “I have to admit that turning over the day-to-day headaches to someone else has its appeal. Then I could concentrate on the editorial side of things, the side that I’m good at.”
“Will we lose our jobs?” Danielle asked. Her lip quivered and her eyes looked shiny, as if she might cry.
“Not on my watch,” said Wally, but without much conviction.
Now that I was paying attention, I could see the exhaustion in his eyes; I thought about how much his mom’s struggle with cancer must have drained him. How much fight did he have left for our magazine? Maybe it was the end of an era. A short era, in my case. Things turned over quickly in this town—go big or go home.
But home to what? My mother’s spare bedroom?
Definitely not. I loved living on this island. I loved eating and writing and helping people choose where to spend their money and finding new places to try. I loved the palm trees and the blue, blue water and the rhythm of the seasons, from steamy summer to stormy fall to glorious, sunny winter and tourist-crowded spring. I looked the three of us over, in our silly matching yellow shirts. I loved both of them, too. I had to get out before I started to blubber.
Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 7
