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

by Lucy Burdette

  “Who?” my mother asked. “To whom did you say that?”

  “Pretty much everyone in the back of the house was there.” I sighed. “Plus, certainly my friends at Key Zest know. And Miss Gloria. And that means everyone at Tarpon Pier heard about it, too. There’s just no way to narrow it down.”

  My mother wrung her hands, her eyes a little tearful. “I am so, so sorry I ever said anything to her about what a good detective you are. This is all my fault, I know it—I’ve put you in danger.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mom pressed the GO button on Jennifer’s monstrous KitchenAid mixer. I turned the machine back off, feeling stunned and confused. “You’d better explain.”

  She dabbed at a splatter of batter on the counter. “Edel mentioned she was having some trouble in her kitchen. And I said how perceptive you were and how you’d helped solve some other cases.”

  “When did you have this conversation? Why were you even talking to her?”

  My mother put a hand to her cheek. “Because we invested in her new place. Or Sam did, anyway. You know how I’ve always loved her food. And I was so excited to hear about the bistro, and then Sam had the idea of backing her.”

  “So that’s why she keeps calling me,” I said, hardly knowing what to feel about this new information. Like the kaleidoscope I’d had as a child, the knob had been turned and all the events of the past few days looked different.

  “It doesn’t really change anything,” Mom said. “She respects you for you. I’m just sorry I dragged you into a dangerous situation.” She turned the mixer back on.

  While the oversized beaters mixed the batter, Mom began to drop cupcake liners into a row of pans on the counter. When the liners were all in place, she turned off the mixer and parked her hands on her hips. “I think we should call Lorenzo and see if he has time to give you a tarot card reading. I can’t get away right now, but I’ll tell him you want to meet him for coffee or lunch.”

  I could have argued but what was the point? Besides, talking with Lorenzo almost always calmed me down. I rely on him when the going gets tough. Mom loves him, too. For me, absorbing his measured words works like yoga or tai chi or meditation—or even psychotherapy—does for other folks.

  Mom got off her phone after a short conversation. “He’s going to meet you at the Coffee Plantation on Caroline Street in half an hour. I promised him the snack of his choice.” She kissed my cheek. “Go ahead, honey—it’s my treat.” She pressed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into my palm. “I’ve got to stay here and finish the cupcakes. And for the love of Pete, be careful!” She pushed me toward the door. “And call me right away to tell me what he said.”

  I motored across the island to the coffee shop on Caroline, a little white clapboard house with green shutters. Lorenzo hadn’t arrived yet, so I dropped my backpack at a table on the porch and went in to order. Inside, brightly colored walls were hung with cheerful local and Cuban paintings. Books from local artists were displayed around the room. I approached the counter and asked for a latte. The almond cake dusted with powdered sugar sang to me, so I ordered a slice of that, too.

  “A friend will be joining me shortly—I’m treating,” I told the clerk.

  Back outside, I sat at the table overlooking the street, determined not to process my mother’s confession until I’d fortified myself with caffeine and sugar. Despite the fame rendered to it by a popular Jimmy Buffet tune, Caroline Street, with its busy traffic and the construction of a new hotel a block away, did not afford the quietest respite on the island. But it was a great spot to watch the world go by.

  Did it really matter, I wondered, that Sam and my mother were backing Edel’s restaurant? I was glad for her that she had them in her corner. But I felt silly, thinking she’d called me for help because of my reputation both as a food critic and a puzzle solver when, in fact, the whole thing had been set up by my mother.

  Ten minutes later, Lorenzo took the seat beside me, carrying a cup of tea and a slice of pie. His dark hair curled like mine in the humidity, and he wore Harry Potter–style round glasses and red clogs. I felt instantly calmer in his presence.

  “I was hoping you weren’t on a diet,” I said, pointing at his plate.

  “The cards say, ‘Never pass up key lime pie,’” he told me as he swallowed the first creamy bite and rolled his eyes with ecstasy.

  We chatted for a few minutes about the politics of the street performers at Mallory Square and their difficult negotiations with the city about a new lease. I wasn’t the only person struggling with a crazy workplace.

  “I got worried this week when we cruised through Sunset at Mallory Square with Mom’s guests and you weren’t there. There was another tarot card reader where you usually sit,” I said, lifting my eyebrows. “Is she your new competition?”

  “It all depends,” he said. “Do you want a performance? Or a reading?” He placed his deck of cards on the little table between us.

  “A reading. Definitely. No drama.” I began to shuffle the cards. “I’ve got enough of that in my own life.”

  He smiled warmly and dealt out three cards. A look of alarm crossed his face, erased as quickly as it had appeared. “Hmm.” He leaned across the table to take my hand. “We’ll get to these cards. But I sense danger for someone close to you. Possibly a woman. Someone needs to keep her channels open—she may not be able to see things clearly. Does this sound right?”

  “Not exactly, but I’ll think about it.” Besides me getting shot at, Edel, of course, sprang to mind. Had someone been targeting her personally when the fire was set? None of the other women in my life were in any physical danger. Emotional danger, though, that was always a possibility.

  “Stay open to your senses, okay?” he said.

  I nodded, feeling the light-as-air almond cake churn in my stomach as I glanced down again at my cards. The Tower for the past, the Eight of Swords for the present, and the Page of Wands for the future. Upside down.

  “Let’s take the present first, the Eight of Swords. You’ve drawn this before, remember?”

  Too well. I disliked the message then and I didn’t like it any better now.

  “It’s hard work to change,” he said, “when you feel trapped by a situation. But no one can rescue you from said situation, whether it’s real or whether it’s something in your head.”

  Who in the world used the phrase “said situation” in normal conversation? I knew I was getting scared and cranky when I started critiquing his way of speaking. But I tried to set aside the negative internal chatter and really listen.

  “If you are feeling powerless, it may be time to question your assumptions. Get ready to open yourself to change. To new possibilities. Remove the block and the energy can flow.”

  He tapped my third card with two fingers—the card that had been dealt out upside down. The drawing was of a handsome golden man carrying a large staff or walking stick that sprouted leaves at its tip. Buff, I would have said, if it had been a live man instead of a drawing. The figure gazed off into the distant mountains on the card. “Page of Wands,” Lorenzo said.

  “He’s cute, isn’t he?” I quirked a smile, trying not to show how on edge I was feeling.

  “I see a lot of craziness, maybe at work. But maybe at home?” He cocked his head and studied me. “You’ll suffer if you don’t articulate your thoughts—if you try to protect other peoples’ feelings at the expense of your own.” He placed his hand over mine, squeezed gently, and then shifted his attention to the first card in my sequence.

  The Tower. Too many times I had drawn the Tower and I disliked the news that it trumpeted every time. “Any chance you could remove this from the deck next time I come?”

  He shook his head. “There’s change ahead. Upheaval. You may feel trapped by feelings and emotions that no longer serve your current purpose,” he said. “You may feel that you’re out of control, but this will help you evaluate the ways you feel trapped. Don’t let yourself remain in t
he position of refusing to see the truth.”

  There were so many ways I was feeling stuck and out of control—my job, my love life, just to mention two. Lorenzo paused, still studying the cards. But it seemed as though they had given him all they had to say. And I needed to do some serious thinking, alone.

  “How are you aside from the Mallory Square business?” I asked Lorenzo.

  “I’m good,” he said. “I’m busy. I’m feeling calm and centered.”

  “I’m glad someone is,” I said.

  “Just remember, there are two worlds—a world of love and a world of fear. You choose where you want to live, okay?”

  We chatted a bit about holiday plans while I finished my coffee and the half slice of cake that I had planned to take home to Miss Gloria. She wouldn’t miss it if I didn’t mention it. Sometimes hearing about the future demanded more sugar.

  We gathered our trash and stood up. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said, thinking he’d held back on something terrible during my short reading. I suppose I needed to know. “Why?”

  He pointed to my shirtsleeve. “Is that blood?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Just a scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

  I grinned and hugged him good-bye and hurried off. Once balanced on my scooter, I called my mother.

  “Everything looks fine to him,” I said. “No problems, nothing out of the ordinary. Change is coming, of course. See the truth; don’t stay stuck.”

  “Change?” Mom asked.

  I added quickly: “I drew the Tower in my past position.”

  Mom groaned. “The Tower again?”

  “I’m not worried about it,” I said. “Neither is Lorenzo. Listen, I wish you’d told me about Sam investing in Edel’s place. I would have handled that just fine. Just as Sam can handle your career if you two get married. Each of us is stronger than we think we are.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “Anyway, I’m exhausted. I’m going home to the boat to take a short nap before I have to leave for Edel’s place tonight. Try not to worry, because I’ll be fine. I’ll take no chances. You’ve got plenty to manage on your side. Be nice to Sam, whatever you tell him.”

  “Of course,” she said, her voice a little distant. “I’ll talk to you later or tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  Loud noises banged, coming from behind the fence surrounding the construction site in back of the Coffee Plantation. I glanced over, noticing how the rooftops of the new hotel could have offered an excellent staging platform for the shooter as he studied the harbor, looking for his target.

  28

  He had seen a girl with a sandwich in her hand and fallen in love with the part of her that made sense to him, that fit the particular story he knew how to read.

  —Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art

  of Mixing

  I grabbed a quick nap and then played with Evinrude for half an hour, throwing his KITTY CAN’T COPE catnip sack over and over until he tired of the game. He had been acting standoffish in the face of my recent absences from the houseboat, and I knew too well that an angry cat could wreak some ugly vengeance. Finally I took a shower, washed my hair, and enlisted Miss Gloria to rebandage my wound.

  “It’s healing quickly,” she said, when all the dressings had been removed. I winced as she patted antibiotic cream on the wound with a sterile pad. “Are you sure you’re up for going back to Edel’s kitchen?”

  “Are you kidding? This could be my only chance ever to see the New York Times restaurant critic in action.” Miss Gloria doesn’t usually go all parental-worried on me, but obviously this incident had thrown her, too.

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  “I definitely told her,” I said. I did not add that she’d wormed it out of me only because the bandage was leaking. And that she’d spilled her own secret about backing Edel’s new restaurant.

  Miss Gloria tried one more time to persuade me to relax at home, abandon my station at Edel’s bistro tonight, and forget about the conflict at Key Zest. But part of growing up meant figuring out when a little mothering became too much. And how to mother myself.

  “How did Janet seem?” Miss Gloria asked.

  “Jennifer’s got her so busy,” I said, “that she doesn’t have much time for anything else, even worrying. And that includes Sam and his proposal.”

  “Lucky for me,” said Miss Gloria, “I never had to go through a divorce. I imagine that changes your faith about marriages being happily ever after.”

  “It sure did a number on my mother,” I said as I unrolled my shirtsleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “So, you’re planning a quiet night?”

  Miss Gloria laughed, a lovely silver tinkle. “As quiet as I can manage with that crazy schnauzer for a neighbor. I’m going to watch the sunset out here with the kitty cats and have a teeny-tiny glass of wine, and then eat some of your leftover stew and watch TV. This time of year is so hectic, at my age I have to watch getting overexcited and overtired.”

  “At your age?” I said with a big grin. “You have more energy than most of the people I know that are my age. You’re a role model for all of us.”

  I gave her a one-armed hug; grabbed my phone, my helmet, and a notebook; and headed out to the scooter. Only when I was halfway down Southard Street did I remember that I had not taken any anti-inflammatories or painkillers. The prescription stuff would have made me fuzzy and woozy. But a couple of ibuprofen might help get me through the night. I veered right on Simonton Street and pulled my scooter onto its stand in the lot next to Fausto’s Food Palace.

  The wide glass doors slid open as I approached the store and I ducked inside. A collection of tourists and locals were busy shopping for their night meal. As the only true grocery store left in Old Town after the demise of the Waterfront Market, Fausto’s does a good business. In fact, if I’m not baking, I’ve been known to peruse their dessert counter for treats home baked by Chef Jeffrey Smiley. I hurried down the aisle displaying toiletries and over-the-counter medications and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen. At the far end of the row, I saw my cousin Cassie, her husband, Joe, and poor hung-out-to-dry Sam standing by the meat counter. I went over to greet them.

  “We wondered when we would see you next,” Joe said. “How was the lighted boat parade? Cassie and I started over last night, but once we got to Greene Street the crowds were so thick. We couldn’t see much so we opted for gelato from Duetto and then saw the end of the parade from Mallory Square with your mother. Not your boat, though.”

  “There were some gorgeous entries,” I said, working to keep my voice light. “We couldn’t provide much competition in a little motorboat, even though Connie and Ray went all out with their lights. And you were right, it was hectic. We cut out early, too.”

  They would hear soon enough from my mother about the shooting. I preferred not to rehash the incident at the meat counter, where half the island’s locals might be listening.

  Sam added, “We’re having to fend for ourselves tonight, so Joe’s offered to make his beef stew. I’m springing for the wine. They carry a lovely selection right here. Imagine finding a French rosé in downtown Key West.” He held out a gorgeous bottle of pale pink wine.

  “And I am in charge of dessert.” Cassie grinned and showed me a clear plastic container that held half a key lime pie and a large chunk of coconut cream layer cake.

  “Those two are definitely my favorites,” I said. “It didn’t take you long to catch on.”

  “Can you join us?” Sam asked.

  “Oh that sounds so good. And so relaxing. But I told Edel I’d be there tonight for her opening.”

  “Was there news about Edel’s husband?” asked Sam.

  “Nothing on that,” I said. “But supposedly the critic from the New York Times food section is coming to review her restaurant tonight. They’re all very excited and that helps a little bit with the sadness.”
<
br />   Sam gave me a big hug, squeezing my sore arm, and I tried not to wince. “Maybe that restaurant critic can take a few tips from you. I think you’re the best writer in the business.” He pulled me a few steps away from the others. “Have you heard anything from your mother?” he asked in a low voice.

  I cleared my throat, wondering how much to say. “I checked in with her at Jennifer Cornell’s kitchen.” I toyed with my small gold hoop earring. “Here’s what I think: be patient. Give her some space. You know it’s not you, Sam,” I said, grabbing his elbow and giving it a little shake. “She’s got some things to work out in her own brain. You’re the best thing to come along in her life in a long time—she knows that, but she’s scared.”

  Joe accepted the package of beef tips that the butcher handed over the counter, and he and Cassie came over to join us.

  “Did you ever follow up with that Mary Pat person?” Joe asked.

  “The one whose name came up on your handsome detective’s phone,” Cassie added.

  Why did every member of my family persist in referring to him as “my” detective?

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I’m glad you reminded me.” I blew them a round of air kisses and retreated to the checkout, grabbing a Coke from the cooler nearest the cash register—for the caffeine and the sugar and to swallow my pills.

  29

  And lobes of dismal-flavored sea urchin served over thick lardo and heavy toast were just dreadful: the eighth band after Nirvana to write loud-soft-loud music and call it new.

  —Sam Sifton, “Imperial No. Nine,” New York Times

  Over at the harbor, Edel’s kitchen was buzzing like a video on fast forward. I imagined it would be hard to slow down and sleep after a night at this pace. People say that becoming a chef requires a complete shift in biorhythms. And a shift in social life, too. While we customers in the front of the house are unwinding from our hectic days and enjoying the wonderful food, the cooks in back are working at peak velocity. When we’re tumbling into bed after a great meal, the kitchen staff is hitting the town to unwind.

  I melted into a corner by the desk and bookshelf where Edel planned her recipes and menus and paid her bills, to be out of the way of the workers. And to have enough space to observe how they were working together. I wished I could tease out the stress of opening night from the strain of the recent tragedy—and the possibility that someone was trying to hide his involvement in several very serious crimes.