“Snow,” I said, with an automatic smile. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Other people before Bart made terrible mistakes and bounced back,” she told him. “Who would’ve thought Senator Kennedy could go from Chappaquiddick to the Senate? And President Clinton, he fell into a ridiculous scandal and came out more popular than ever.”
Mr. Gates squared his shoulders, as though she might have convinced him of this truth.
“No telling what Bart might have done, had he been given the chance,” I said wagging my head sadly. The woman nodded with me.
Mr. Gates picked up the glass of beer that he’d set on the bar when he greeted me. The bartender had filled it to the brim while we talked. “The hard truth was, Bart never could own up to his mistakes. How in the world was he supposed to move beyond them?”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s cruel. He would have gotten around to that,” she said. “The way those others did.”
I was trying to figure out how to ask what Bart’s mistake had been, when the woman grabbed her husband’s arm, murmuring her thanks, and pulled him away to greet some other mourners.
“How did that go?” Eric asked when I returned to his position against the wall.
I made a face and held my hand up, fingers an inch apart. “Bart’s mother seems to be under the impression that their son was just this close to leaving a legacy like President Clinton or Senator Kennedy. His father’s not so sure.”
*
By the time we got back to Houseboat Row, starving and worn as thin as a strand of angel hair pasta, I could smell the garlicky-tomato scent of my spaghetti sauce wafting all the way up the finger. Miss Gloria met us on the deck and announced that she’d been fielding texts from her mah jong friends ever since we’d left. News had spread like full-moon floodwaters through Key West that another death had occurred, this one in the cemetery. The residents who lived in that section of Old Town were frantic, and the police department had received hundreds of anxious calls.
“There’s a special meeting called for seven thirty tomorrow night at the Old City Hall,” she said. “Everyone will be there. The city commissioners will be in attendance along with the police chief and other officers. Of course they want to reassure the citizens,” added Miss Gloria. “But I don’t see how that’s going to happen unless they’ve got the real murderer behind bars. My friends are hysterical—and they are sturdy old ladies.”
“I guess we’ll have to attend that meeting,” I said with a sigh. “But where’s Lorenzo? How’s he holding up? Is he resting?”
“They picked him up about half an hour after you left,” said Miss Gloria, her gaze not meeting mine. “I didn’t see the point of calling you, because his lawyer was here and said he had to go. There wasn’t a darned thing you could have done. Apparently the evidence against him is mounting.”
22
The long-cherished deposit of ancient schmutz—a spongy mess that you can use day after day and even decade after decade, and whose exigencies you, as a baker, basically can’t escape—is called, no kidding, “the mother.”
—Adam Gopnik, “Bread and Women,” The New Yorker
In the morning, I felt logy from the pile of spaghetti I’d inhaled the night before and discouraged about Lorenzo being taken back to jail. I lay in bed for fifteen minutes trying to piece together what might have happened between Cheryl Lynn and Bart, and how Lorenzo could have been involved. I’d Googled the song that Cheryl Lynn had tattooed on her shoulder—snatches of the melody kept running through my mind. It was a hard-driving rock song about early death, blank stares, yearning for something you can’t have, shame, emptiness, and regrets. Definitely not something a happy person would want to ink onto her body. But I’d already gotten the idea from talking to Snorkel’s dad and Lorenzo, too, that Cheryl Lynn had been a troubled person.
I finally forced myself out of bed, took a quick shower, and left the houseboat to head toward Key Zest. As I fastened my helmet on, my phone rang. It was a Key West number but not one that I recognized. Even though it seemed an unlikely possibility, I couldn’t help feeling a surge of hope: Lorenzo had been sprung and needed a ride home.
I pulled the helmet back off and pressed accept. “Hello?” I said eagerly.
“Hayley Snow? This is Olivia.”
“Olivia?” My hopefulness sagged like a pricked popover. I didn’t know an Olivia and I wasn’t in the mood for fending off telemarketers.
“Olivia Mastin,” she said. “Edwin’s wife. From the floating restaurant? I wonder if you would have time for coffee sometime this afternoon.”
“I’ve got an awfully busy day lined up.”
“Please,” she begged. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t crucial. I know you don’t owe me a thing. But—”
She started to sniffle and my curiosity spiked, along with a little bit of sympathy. Besides, more caffeine and sugar could only help the way I felt this morning.
“I’m on my way to work, but I could meet you right now for fifteen minutes—”
“That’s great,” she said, cutting me off before I even finished. “Somewhere downtown?”
“Let’s say the Glazed Donut in ten minutes.”
I left my scooter parked in the lot behind Key Zest and walked the few blocks over to Eaton Street. The Glazed Donut shop sits directly next to the Tropic Cinema, although their clientele doesn’t much overlap. Doughnuts in the morning, movies in the evening. I took a seat at the back of the shop after purchasing the doughnut that sang loudest to me, the blood orange bull’s-eye doughnut, and a cup of strong Cuban coffee. I bit into the pastry, savoring the tang of the marmalade and an unexpected pocket of orange-scented cream.
Mrs. Mastin hurried in just minutes later, grabbed a coffee, and came over to join me. “Hayley, I really appreciate you meeting with me. I know it was sudden, but I didn’t know what else to do.” She took a sip of coffee and a moment to regroup, then removed her sunglasses and put them on the table. “Poor Edwin has had such a shock with Cheryl Lynn.” Her eyes were glassy with tears that she tried to hold back. And I noticed that they looked puffy and red, as if she’d done a lot of crying.
“I’m very sorry. She was close to your family?”
“Like another daughter,” she said. “I understand you were one of the people who found her.”
“Yes.” I answered with a definiteness that did not invite further questions. The last thing I wanted to do was describe my version of what it had been like to find Cheryl Lynn’s remains in the crypt. I didn’t want to etch that visual deeper into my brain, nor would she want to hear it.
“Well, anyway,” she said, her gaze searching my face, “that’s not why I called you. I wanted to talk about your review of For Goodness’ Sake. I wonder if you might consider visiting for another meal at our place? On the house, of course.”
“I—”
“I’m just afraid that any review less than a rave would put Edwin under.” She smoothed a silver curl into her blue headband and waited, a hopeful expression on her face.
I nibbled at the sugar-crusted outer edges of my doughnut, wondering exactly how to phrase the bad news.
“We know the locally sourced seaweed was reaching,” she said, adding a forced snicker. “We can do so much better if we stick to the island basics.”
“The thing is,” I said, wiping my fingers on a napkin, “the review is essentially written. I have to turn it in this morning at the staff meeting. We have a new strict boss who wants everything early. And in fact, this one is already late.”
She burst into ragged sobs and I felt my resistance ebbing.
“I can ask,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “but I’m almost sure the answer will be no.”
She grabbed my hand and wrung it. “Thank you so much. Thank you.”
I stood up, crumpled the napkin, and stuffed it into the coffee cup. “Who is Cheryl’s family? Do they live on the island?”
Mrs. Mastin shook her head. “I believe her p
arents have been deceased for a long time, poor thing. She’s been floating around Key West forever, a lost soul.”
“Will there be a service?”
Mrs. Mastin shrugged. “I really have no idea. If you check her profile on Facebook, you might find something there.”
Which I found bizarre. If she and her husband had been so close to Cheryl Lynn, why in the world wouldn’t she know this? I glanced at my watch. “I’m late to my meeting. I’m sorry about your troubles.” I left the doughnut store and trotted back over to the Key Zest office. As I vaulted up the stairs, I could hear Wally and Palamina bantering in their shared office. Was it my imagination, or did he seem happier since he dumped me?
I tapped on Wally’s door and stepped inside.
Palamina glanced at her wrist, decorated with an oversized Minnie Mouse watch. Then she managed a smile. “Now we can officially start the meeting. We’ve been talking about a new weekly feature. A locals’-eye view of something on the island.”
Wally cut in. “We realize that lots of local publications write about Key West food and music and events. Of course we’ll continue with that, but we want to step our content up.”
Palamina said, “And not just the content. We want the writing to be stunning, too.”
First she wanted Buzzfeedable. Now she wanted stunning?
“Then we’re thinking of doing a weekly podcast using Google Hangouts that we’ll connect with our Facebook page. So readers can match up the personalities with the stories.”
My immediate reaction was to wonder how long it would take to lose the ten pounds I’d packed on over the holidays and never managed to shake.
“Danielle had the idea of writing about tropical gardening,” Palamina said, her voice approving.
“And don’t forget beauty,” said Danielle. “In other words, I’ll sample the various spas around the island to check out facials and massages.” She grinned and patted her cheek.
“Clever girl,” I said.
“Any thoughts about what you could add?” Palamina asked me. “Besides your food beat, of course. But not local politics. Wally and I will cover the hard stuff.”
Another zinger. Somehow I had to convince her I wasn’t an idiot. I creaked through the recesses of my brain like an old Rolodex, with the three of them watching and waiting. “What about a story on the cemetery?” I asked, spilling out the first real thought that came to mind.
“The cemetery?” Palamina asked.
“I’m thinking about the history layered in there. And the way you can get a sense of Key West over the years by looking at the neighborhoods in the graveyard and different styles of stones. And all those complex relationships …”
Wally and Palamina exchanged a glance, and then Wally said, “Sounds like it’s worth a try. Just nothing too grim.”
“Deep, though,” added Palamina.
“Deep but not grim,” I repeated. “Anything else?”
Palamina glanced at the list on her laptop. “You have your story on For Goodness’ Sake ready this morning?”
“One note on that,” I said. “I’m kind of thinking we might want to visit the restaurant again before I tweak the review one last time.”
Palamina narrowed her eyes and tapped her lip with a pencil. “Why?” she asked. “Do you feel we didn’t cover all the bases? Seems to me like we tried most of the items on the menu.”
I hemmed and stuttered a little more and finally spit it out. “Mrs. Mastin lobbied me for another visit. Her husband was so distressed about the dead girl we found in the cemetery. He’s feeling that loss so deeply and she’s concerned that a bad review would finish him off. She says they’ll pay for the second meal. They realize that they need to simplify the menu.” I widened my eyes, trying to look hopeful, when even to me the explanation sounded lame.
Dead silence for a moment.
“I hate to be blunt,” said Palamina, “but that seems like a terrible idea. A terrible precedent to set.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “I recall that Ava wanted to accept advertising from restaurants in Key Zest in exchange for reviews. And I know you struggled with her on this, how much to allow the restaurant owners and chefs to influence your stories.”
She waited until I nodded my agreement.
“And you were right to push back on Ava and maintain your independence as a critic,” she said. “We have to try to stay autonomous and transparent, as much as that’s possible in a small town.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “I felt bad for her; that’s all. I was letting my heart lead the way when I said I’d ask at this morning’s meeting.” Which I probably shouldn’t have said, as it implied that Palamina had no heart.
When the meeting was finally over I slunk back to my office cubby and e-mailed the story on For Goodness’ Sake to Palamina and Wally. Feeling utterly glum—and lonely, too—I texted Miss Gloria to say I’d pick her up and take her to lunch. She texted me right back.
Rain check? Plans with the ladies.
Even my elderly roommate had more going on than I did.
Next I called Lieutenant Torrence. “I’ve heard that things are looking bad for Lorenzo,” I said. “Is there anything new?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“I don’t believe he has it in his heart to kill someone. Certainly not a second person.”
“We can’t operate on hunches,” said Torrence quietly. “No matter how well-meaning they are.”
Dead end there. With lunch with Miss Gloria out of the question, the only thing I could think to do was work. I would write a brilliant article on the cemetery neighborhoods. I had to show Palamina—and Wally, too—that I belonged permanently on the staff of Key Zest. And that I could handle any subject under any deadline pressure they might throw at me.
And maybe while I was at it, I could find something in that cemetery that we’d all overlooked. Something that might spring Lorenzo from jail—permanently.
23
Meat keeps cooking when you take it off the flame; my mother could turn herself off in an instant.
—Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There
Will Be Apricots
I puttered slowly across Grinnell Street and took a right turn on Angela, which runs along the west side of the cemetery. Two houses over, I spotted two older folks on their porch, rocking in rocking chairs and sipping drinks. Their home, a gorgeous eyebrow design built to keep out the hot sun and trap the sea breezes, was half a block from the cemetery entrance and only a stone’s throw from Cheryl Lynn’s place. I stopped, not exactly sure what I could extract from them—or what I even wanted. But if they spent a lot of time watching the world go by, who knows what they might have seen?
“Terrible business at our cemetery lately,” I called to them. “I’m doing a story on the situation and wondered if you wouldn’t mind chatting with me for a bit.”
“Not at all,” said the woman in a cultured English accent. “Come up and sit with us. I’m Maureen and this is Brian.”
I parked the scooter and scurried up the stairs. “Your home and garden are lovely.” I gestured at the stone walkway and manicured plants and a turquoise metal sculpture that I recognized as a John Martini critter, half bird, half fish.
“You’ll have to excuse our drinking so early in the day,” Maureen said. “But since the murder we don’t feel comfortable sitting out at night anymore, so we’re starting early.” She giggled. “Besides, our granddaughter sent us a monthly subscription to craft beers. I never drank a beer in my life before this. But we have to make a dent in these before the next shipment arrives.”
She grinned at her husband, who appeared to be drinking a Budweiser. “He doesn’t care much for them,” she added with a laugh, “but this chocolate-flavored beer has me hooked. Can I get you one?”
“No, thanks,” I said, wondering whether to query them about the cemetery’s history or the latest murder. She’d already mentioned the murder, so I went with that. “I work for Key Zest magazine. We’re doing a story about crim
e in the city. I thought our readers would like to hear from residents about the psychological effects of the recent crime wave on the neighborhood.”
“The burglaries have had us all at sixes and sevens for months, but the murder takes the cake,” Brian said. “You can’t rule out that it was a vigilante killing.”
“A vigilante killing?”
“I’m saying someone might have figured out who the thief was. Someone who was really dratted tired of being afraid. And who then decided to take matters into their own darn hands.”
“Watch your language, Brian, darling,” his wife piped up. “We are all so very tired of someone sneaking into our houses and stealing things right off our nightstands while we sleep.” Maureen shivered and took another sip of beer. “I’ve had trouble dropping off to sleep lately, just thinking of someone breaking in.”
“But on the other hand, blaming the burglaries on a dead girl wraps things up a little too neatly, maybe, eh?” Brian said.
“We have seen a man hanging around this area lately,” said Maureen in a hoarse whisper. “Visiting that dead girl’s home. We were the ones who tipped off the cops.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, a cloud of dread clogging my throat.
“Tall,” she said glancing at her husband for confirmation. He nodded. “With dark curly or wavy hair.”
“And glasses,” he added. “And the waist on his pants up a little higher than most people wear these days.”
The description was a dead ringer for Lorenzo. I gulped and tried to focus on the rest of what she was saying, rather than the miasma of doubt and fear that enveloped me.
“Maybe he was a friend of the woman,” I said. “Maybe they were socializing, like normal people. Maybe he had nothing to do with her death.”
“Maybe,” said Brian. “But we felt we needed to tell the police, let them figure out the facts.”
“We moved here,” Maureen said, “because everyone told us the neighbors were so quiet at the cemetery.” They both snickered—a joke they’d enjoyed before. “Hasn’t turned out to be that way, though.”
I declined another offer of the chocolate beer, then stood up and said my good-byes. I drove the last half block to the cemetery, parked, and entered through the black metal gate. I wandered up the main drag to the plot where we’d found Cheryl Lynn, drawn like a fly to a rotten carcass. Who was she really?
Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 19
