I pushed my mind away from Cheryl Lynn as I finished painting the pastry, then loaded in layers of crushed nuts and sugar and painted more buttery layers on top. At last I cut the finished baklava into triangles and put the pan in the oven to bake. I had a little time to work before it would emerge, all crisped up, ready to get doused with honey.
I sat down in front of my laptop and thought about the cemetery again and started to jot some notes. No one likes the idea of vanishing after they die, gone and forgotten. People want to be remembered and have their names mentioned, and maybe even have their graves tended by generations in the future. I sat back from the keyboard. Was this the sort of musing that would please Palamina? Maybe I should instead write something about inequality in Key West, how working people who serve the tourists and wealthier residents have trouble affording a place to live. Was this a new trend? I thought a visit to the cemetery would tell me no. Because there, etched in marble and granite and sometimes cement, lay the wealthy neighborhoods, the gated communities, the Jewish and Catholic ghettos, the sacrificial war veterans, and finally, the tiny drawers for the impoverished and the homeless.
The timer in the kitchen dinged and all three cats led the way to the stove. I pulled the fragrant baklava out of the oven and poured honey over the top until it appeared saturated. Then I noodled around the kitchen cleaning up and finally carved out a chunk of the pastry for Connie and Ray. All three cats followed me up the finger to deliver the treat.
“Come on board,” Connie yelled from the top deck. “Your mom’s on the phone giving me baby and pregnancy advice.”
“Cats okay?” Evinrude had lived on this houseboat when we first moved to the island, and he still considered it part of his territory.
“Bring ’em on.”
I deposited her baklava on the kitchen counter but then realized she’d probably want to sample it immediately. So I went up the stairs to the outside deck. Evinrude bounded up ahead of the other cats and wound himself in and out of Connie’s legs, with a silent meow for emphasis.
“I missed you too, buddy,” she said, rubbing his cheeks and tracing the dark M-shaped stripe on his forehead. She rubbed his jowls until his whiskers puffed out and he collapsed beside her, his purr engine rumbling. Then she turned her attention to Sparky, admiring his shiny coat and wafting her hand along his back and his tail. Only then did she focus on Lola, wiggling her fingers to entice the shy white kitty closer. She was kind that way, always paying attention to the people and animals around her. How lucky her baby would be to have her as a mother. And how happy her own mom would have been to see this moment. My eyes stung with a few tears and I fought to keep them in.
“Take a load off,” she said to me, gesturing to the low beach chair beside her. She positioned the iPad so I could see my mother’s face.
“Hi, honey. Were your ears burning?” Mom asked. “We were just wondering what was up with Wally.”
“Zero,” I said, forcing a cheerful voice. “From now on, we’ve decided it’s strictly business. And friends, of course. It’s for the best—he’s got his hands full. And it’s better for my job this way.”
My mother went speechless, her lips still moving but nothing coming out.
Connie stared at me and I could feel my lower lip starting to tremble.
“Don’t tell me he had the nerve to dump you,” she demanded.
“I guess you could put it that way. I think his mother’s illness—”
“Is that the baklava?” Connie interrupted, pointing at my package. I nodded and handed it over. She unfolded the foil and showed the glistening pastry to my mother.
“Gorgeous,” Mom said. “Your layers are beautiful. And I love the pistachios sprinkled on top. Wish I could taste it.”
Connie nibbled on a piece and rolled her eyes to signal her overwhelming approval. “As far as Wally is concerned,” she said, licking the honey off one of her fingers, “don’t get me started. He’s treated you like crap for months, holding you at arm’s length like you were an enemy, not a girlfriend. I don’t care what problems you’re facing; if you’re in a relationship with someone, you talk about those issues. His mother is sick and he doesn’t seem to want your support. Why doesn’t he lean on you? Borrow your shoulder, your ear, take your advice on all that’s going on? He doesn’t share much about his work dreams, either. And how come he isn’t trying to drag you into the sack all the time?”
“Living with Miss Gloria makes it tough,” I stammered, blushing, feeling a little sick to my stomach as the truth of Connie’s rant began to sink in and take visceral hold.
“He’s emotionally stunted—that’s why!” she almost shouted.
From her position on the iPad screen, my mother nodded thoughtfully. “This just occurred to me, Hayley, and I wouldn’t say this except Connie’s already opened the dam.”
Connie clapped a hand over her mouth. “I overdid it, didn’t I?”
Mom beamed. “Pregnant ladies get a pass for almost everything. Anyway, I think Wally is like your father in some ways. He’s solid and dependable, but he lacks passion. And his default position seems to be criticism rather than praise. Even if he changes his mind and begs for you to come back, I worry that he’s never going to adore you for who you are.”
“In other words, you’d be settling for a lifetime of mediocrity if you choose him,” said Connie.
“I can’t very well choose him, because I’ve been dumped.” I rolled out of my low beach chair and pushed up to stand. “I need to go make dinner. Eric’s coming.”
25
By then, she and Rob had developed a relationship that was perfectly nice, but it was like that dreadful carob chocolate. As soon as you tasted it, you knew that it was just a wrong, sad imitation.
—Liane Moriarty,
The Husband’s Secret
I returned to my houseboat and by rote began to assemble the spinach-walnut pesto. I hated what Connie had said about my relationship with Wally, but I couldn’t find a way to dismiss it, either. It was discouraging to abandon hopes and dreams that I had nurtured with time and energy. On the other hand, if it wasn’t going anywhere—and this one obviously wasn’t—I’d only waste more time if I obsessed about it. Or even more useless, tried to talk Wally back into connecting with me.
I dumped a clove of garlic into my Cuisinart and chopped it up. Next I added a cup of walnuts and ground those together, feeling unexpected satisfaction in the pulverization of the ingredients. Then I added chunks of fresh Parmesan cheese and crunched that in with the nut mixture, followed by a dollop of good olive oil, and the spinach. The pesto smelled absolutely fragrant and delicious, and just the idea of a plate of pasta doused in this sauce started to make me feel better. And Eric’s advice on the Lorenzo situation was bound to help, too. I had begun feeding fresh basil leaves into the food processor when a text came in. Eric.
Rain check? So sorry. I am pining for your pasta. But one of my clients needs emergency session. Speak tomorrow? XO Eric.
I couldn’t help feeling instantly blue. But I washed the lettuce and sliced radishes and avocado and Miss Gloria’s tiny grape tomatoes, and then mixed up a balsamic vinaigrette, as I had promised Eric. Why should the menu be dumbed down because I was the only one eating? When the pasta was cooked al dente and the piquant pesto stirred in, I loaded a plate full and retreated to the small back deck to eat. An evening breeze had kicked up the water in our little harbor so the houseboat rocked gently and the ropes and cleats clanked from the Renharts’ boat next door. A flock of black skimmers soared above me, headed for the concrete piling where they liked to congregate, away from the human madness.
As I ate, I tried to imagine how Bart Frontgate had ended up sloshing in the sloppy water near Route One. Had he actually been boating in the dark? And if so, who had been with him? Was he taken by force or was he out fishing with someone he knew and trusted? For that matter, was he boating at all that night? Maybe he’d been murdered on land and then his body dumped into the h
arbor. To sleep with the fishes, as Mario Puzo might say. I was beginning to freak myself out, but for Lorenzo’s sake, I forced myself to forge forward.
When I was finished with dinner, I studied the notes I’d taken so far on Lorenzo’s troubles and the two deaths that had occurred this week. Lorenzo had dealt out several surprises, including the fact that he’d been abandoned as a child and then adopted and the fact that he’d known Cheryl Lynn a lot longer than he’d told me. But he was still the man I’d come to know and love and trust—I felt that in my heart. Didn’t I? It was not that I didn’t know Lorenzo; it was that I still didn’t know Bart. Or Cheryl Lynn. Or why they’d been killed. Or who did it. I flipped through the photos I’d taken at the high school. Were the two deaths really connected? Did the answers lie in their past? If that was true, then the why and the who, I had a feeling, might be back in the pages of that yearbook.
I texted Officer Ryan and told him I had a question.
Fire away, he texted right back.
Is there a teacher at the high school who’s been there for twenty years plus, who might remember the kids from those days?
Try Debo Dingler. Nice lady. About the right time frame. Take care.
I texted the teacher at the number Officer Ryan gave me but got no answer. With an hour and a half to go before the seven thirty meeting at the Old City Hall, I decided to pay a visit to the man who designed and made the special forks for Bart Frontgate. I left a note for Miss Gloria about the leftover pesto pasta and begged her to hold off on the baklava for a couple of hours to let the honey soak the layers completely. Probably a lost cause, but who really cared? Any woman in her eighties deserved to eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. Then I buzzed over to Roosevelt Boulevard and hooked a right on White Street to the address that had come up when I Googled the Harrison Gallery, the home of fine art—and hand-hewn spear guns? It seemed an odd combination.
I wandered into the gallery, a small space showing modern artwork made of burnished wood, coral rock, and polished stones, displayed against white walls. I was admiring a stunning carved wooden bowl when a man in weathered jeans with a salt-and-pepper beard and a friendly face emerged from a door at the back.
“I’m looking for the fellow who makes the spear guns,” I said, glancing around the room again. “I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”
“That’s my son,” he said, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled. “He’s not in right now, but I could take a stab at answering your questions.” He grinned even wider. “Take a stab—get it? That’s spear gun humor. Come on, we have some of his work on display in the back room.”
I followed him across the gallery, down two steps, and through the office to a space that opened to a workshop on one side and an artist’s studio on the other. On the workshop side, a handful of carved wooden spear guns hung on the wall.
“They are works of art,” I said, and he grinned again.
“The smaller ones are made of Cuban mahogany, found right here in Key West,” he said, pointing to the closest gun. “For the bigger ones, he uses teak, because it can be sanded down and oiled. And it’s closed cell.”
I nodded, though I was baffled. “Closed cell?”
“It doesn’t absorb water. You’ve probably noticed how often teak is used on decks and on boats. And it looks great, too, and it weathers better than any other wood.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, “I can see why you’d include them in your gallery.” The sharp metal tips at the ends of wooden cylinders gave me the shivers. I could imagine the flash of the steel piercing the silver sheen of a big fish. And then I couldn’t stop the image of a teak-handled fork piercing Bart Frontgate’s body from sliding into my brain.
He picked up one of the teak guns and handed it to me. Lighter than I’d expected. “Each one of these puppies is weight neutral,” he added. “That’s why it doesn’t feel heavy or awkward.”
I nodded my encouragement in order to hear more about the guns, though I had the idea if I got this man going, I’d be in for a long visit. I ran my hand along the length of the gun and fitted my fingers around the handle.
“Don’t shoot the damn thing,” he yelped, and I handed it back in a hurry. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You can’t shoot these things on land—they’ll bite you back so hard.” He settled the gun onto the wall rack, wiped his hands on his jeans. “What I mean by weight neutral is he puts the weights inside to make sure the thing is balanced correctly. And then when you shoot them underwater, they go right to the target and you barely feel the kickback.”
“They’re very handsome,” I repeated, taking a step away.
“So you’re a fisherwoman? Or shopping for a boyfriend? I’m Ben Harrison, by the way,” the man added, reaching a hand out to me. I shook it, noticing the calluses on his fingertips. A musician, I suspected.
“Truth is, I’m not interested in the guns. I’m curious about the special forks your son made for Bart Frontgate.”
“Uh-huh.” He paused, no longer smiling, waiting for me to explain my curiosity.
“I’m a good friend of the man who’s implicated in Bart’s murder. I’m grasping at straws at this point. But I can’t bear the idea of him going to jail, because I’m certain he didn’t do it. And he wouldn’t survive jail. He’s an unusual fellow. Sensitive and sweet. That’s it, really,” I finished with a sniffle. “I thought if I came to talk with your son, he might have some insight into Bart’s enemies or what he was up to, something. Anything, really. It sounds stupid now that I say it out loud.”
“I’ll help if I can. My son’s not the kind of guy who usually manufactures barbecue forks,” he said in his slow drawl.
“But he was willing to make an exception because?”
“Because Frontgate needed something perfectly balanced for his juggling act and he could see my son would produce the right instrument. They spent hours talking about how high he would throw them and testing the weights and so on. He could not afford to have them spraying out into the crowds, incinerating the tourists’ polyester Hawaiian shirts.”
“Were they friends?” I asked. “How did Bart even find your son? What was their relationship like?”
“Word of mouth, I guess. I don’t believe they’d ever met. And if it was anything other than all business, I didn’t hear about it. They did have one disagreement. My boy told Frontgate if he was going to put chunks of meat on these custom-made forks and set them on fire, he might as well just buy cheap Chinese-made junk from Kmart.”
“Good point,” I said, laughing.
“But Frontgate buttered him all up, said you do the best work around here, blah, blah, blah, and that’s what I need. I met the guy once while he was in the shop—quite a smooth operator. And in the end, Frontgate paid him well enough that he couldn’t afford to turn the work away.”
“But after Bart was stabbed to death last week,” I said, “I imagine that’s the only set of three juggling forks your son will ever make.”
“Probably so,” said Ben, “though he made two sets of three.”
“Two sets of three?” I asked dumbly. “Did someone else order them, or did Frontgate use both sets?”
“Frontgate wanted a backup. He originally wanted to order just one extra fork, just in case he lost one or it got bent or something. But my kid convinced him he’d be better off with an extra set, so the weights would be just right.” He scratched his beard. “What difference does it make whether there are more than three forks out in the world?”
“Frontgate’s body was found in the water. If—and this is a big if—he was killed in a boat, why would the murderer bring the murder weapon back to shore where the cops could find it? Why not throw it overboard? What if someone other than the murderer threw a fork in the Dumpster?”
“Good point there,” said Ben.
“I need to call the police and let them know about the two sets of forks,” I said. “It might make a difference.”
“Of course, do wha
t you need to do.” Ben shook his head sadly. “I’m only sorry my son’s work had anything to do with Frontgate’s death.”
I thanked him for his time and returned to my scooter and punched Torrence’s speed dial on my phone. When he answered, I said, “I’m wondering whether you actually found blood on the fork that was wrapped in Lorenzo’s cloth. And if you did, are you certain it wasn’t from the meat Frontgate used in his act? All this time I’ve been struggling with why in the world the murder implement ended up in that Dumpster if the man was murdered on the water.”
“That’s easy,” said Torrence. “Lorenzo killed the man, panicked, and hid the evidence.”
“But why?”
“The why is easy,” Torrence said. “They’d been feuding for a year. Probably longer. They despised each other.”
“That’s lame,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything else. “Lorenzo doesn’t own a boat, so how would he get him out to sea to kill him?”
Torrence sighed. “You may have noticed there is a plethora of boats on this island. Your stepbrother managed to purloin a personal watercraft within hours of arriving in the city. Remember?”
I remembered—it was a low, low point in our family history. “I thought you’d want to know that Frontgate had two sets of those special forks made by a man who works out of the Harrison art gallery. I’m not sure how it figures into the case, but I’m sure your crackerjack team of detectives will know what to do with the information.”
“Honestly, Hayley, we are looking at everything and everyone. Unfortunately, the evidence still points to Lorenzo,” said Torrence, his voice a little sweeter. “We all misjudge people sometimes. It’s not only you, Hayley.”
Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 21
