In a weak moment, I’d allowed Miss Gloria, my geriatric houseboat-mate, to talk me into being trained as a Fantasy Fest parade ambassador. Our job would be to help patrol the sidewalks, which would be lined with costumed and tipsy revelers scrambling for the colored-glass-bead necklaces thrown off the floats.
“If we aren’t going to go to the foam party or the Adam and Eve bash or the Tighty Whitey Party, we should at least attend the parade,” Miss Gloria had said.
I closed my eyes to ward off the image of my elderly friend at any of those events.
“And if we’re working as ambassadors, we’ll be stationed inside the crowd-control barricades. We’ll have the best seat in the house. Get it? Seat.” She’d broken into helpless giggles.
At the time, the idea had seemed palatable. Barely.
I parked my scooter in front of the Custom House Museum, and Miss Gloria and I forded through the early-sunset crowds on the pier along the water. These were viewers seeking front-row positions for Sunset and for the zany Sunset performers, who were already warming up in their prescribed spots. As we passed by, we waved at the cat man arranging his cages of trained housecats and paused to watch Snorkel the potbellied pig practice his bowling. Ahead, a man dressed in a battered rice paddy coolie hat, a long-sleeved lavender shirt, and black pants was setting up a card table. Lorenzo, my tarot card–reading pal. His face glistened in the fierce rays of afternoon sun, and he had damp circles of a deeper purple under each arm.
“Did you come for a reading?” he asked after we’d greeted one another. “I would have brought the cards to your houseboat. Anything to get away from this madness.” He fanned his face with his hand.
“No, actually, we’re headed for the Fantasy Fest parade ambassador training,” said Miss Gloria.
Lorenzo’s mouth fell open as he first looked at me—on the small side, but plump like a baby leg of lamb, as my father used to say. And then his gaze swept over Miss Gloria—a true runt and scaring the far side of eighty years old besides. His dubious expression suggested that we were not the kind of volunteers that the organization had envisioned when they put out the call for people to help hold back the crazy crowds during the biggest parade on the island.
“Do you attend any of the Fantasy Fest events?” Miss Gloria asked him.
“No! I crawl as far away as I can. By Tuesday the brassieres are off, and by Friday these people are totally naked. It’s horrifying,” he said, clasping his arms to his chest. “What I ought to do is get out of town. The closest most of these folks come to understanding the tarot is Rocky and Bullwinkle asking the spirit rock to talk.”
He began to chant and Miss Gloria joined him: “‘Eenie meenie chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak.’”
“‘Are they friendly?’” Miss Gloria asked, and they both cackled with laughter. “You’re probably too young to have watched the show,” she said to me.
“Stop it. I watched Rocky for hours on TV Land. We’re going to be late,” I said, smiling and tapping my watch. And to Lorenzo: “We’ll see you soon, okay?”
By the time we located the Grand Cayman room in the Pier House resort, the room was almost full and the meeting had started. A tall young woman with long brown hair was stationed at the podium. The only two seats left open were in the first row, front and center. She waited while the two of us trooped up the aisle and sat down. She reintroduced herself—Stephanie—and then resumed talking.
“As I was saying,” she said, waving for the chatter to die down in the crowd, “if you see unattended packages, alert an officer. Please don’t announce that they are suspicious—we don’t need a stampede on top of everything else. Public works employees will be emptying trash cans during the parade.” She blew out a breath of air. “I don’t need to tell you this, I’m sure, but full nudity is not permitted in public.”
“Oh, drat,” called a woman from the back, to a ripple of laughter. “Are bosoms okay?”
“Only if they are painted,” said Stephanie, her face deadpan, but with a bit of impatience in her voice. She went on to discuss the finer issues of crowd control and safety, parade pacing, and closing gaps between the floats.
Managing this event sounded like an awful lot to expect from a bunch of greenhorn volunteers whose only props would be official yellow Tshirts.
“Talk to the float drivers,” she said. “Have fun and show a pleasant attitude. Talk to the bystanders in your section and get to know them a bit. We know you wouldn’t have volunteered if you weren’t outgoing. Give your peeps beads. It makes them happy.”
A woman behind us raised her hand. “Will we be issued rubber gloves?”
Stephanie made a face. “I don’t understand why you’d possibly need them. You shouldn’t be touching anything weird.”
She pointed to someone at the back of the room, and Lieutenant Steve Torrence strode forward. I felt an instant wash of relief, seeing his familiar face. Over the course of the last two years, he’d become our trusted friend. The world felt manageable when he was nearby.
“I like the orange tie,” Miss Gloria whispered. “Not so sure about the beard.”
“Good morning, everyone! Or I should say afternoon,” said Torrence. He laughed and twirled a finger around his ear. “That underscores my first point: As our ambassadors, we need you to be oriented to place and time, as many of our visitors will not be. Try to watch your beverage intake and remain in your right mind. You can join the party once the parade is over.”
He went on to describe what we should do if we saw a fire (dial 911, duh) or caught fire ourselves (drop and roll—good gravy!). “We’ll have police officers stationed all along the parade route, and undercover cops, too. Any questions about who they are, ask them to show a badge. If you feel unsafe at any time, please contact an officer for help. We thank you for your time and hope you have fun.”
He gathered his phone and a pen that he’d set on the podium, then paused a moment. “One more thing, be aware that every year we have protesters come to Key West because they object to our parade. Key West wants this weekend to look like great fun—and to be fun. These people don’t have the same thing in mind.”
The radio clipped to his belt began to crackle, and then I heard the voice of my heartthrob, Detective Nathan Bransford, boom out: “Officer Torrence, report ASAP to the Bull and Whistle. Two of the Fantasy Fest Queen candidates have gotten into a mean hen fight.”
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Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 25
