A Deadly Feast

by Lucy Burdette

  “But really, let’s be serious,” said Steve. “I always like to start with a question about what each person is most afraid of in their future married life. What might happen that could jeopardize your relationship? You two will be in a special club, even more problematic than ordinary couples”—he directed this at me—“because you’re marrying a police officer.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, taking a big gulp of air, and then reaching for Nathan’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Mine is easy: I know this guy doesn’t like to talk about what’s going on in his work life.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Like I’m on the other side of a big border wall with no chance of scaling it. No handholds, no footholds, nothing. He thinks I can’t understand, or something.”

  “Exactly,” said Torrence, glancing at Nathan. “Maybe now would be a good time to try to explain to her some of your feelings about this.”

  Nathan shifted in his seat, pulled his hand out of my grip, and looked his friend square in the face. “I’m not sure what there is to say about it. It’s hard for someone who doesn’t work as a police officer to understand what we face. And I want to protect her from the ugliness.”

  Torrence said, “Try telling her a little more about what you think and feel about the ugliness and the danger. Talk to her, not me,” he added gently.

  Nathan sighed, shifting to face me again. “I could be in harm’s way on a daily basis. We never know what we’ll run up against during a given shift. If I told you every time I thought something bad might happen, you’d be on an emotional roller coaster. I know how worried you get about things and how you talk to your people, and then how your mother and Miss Gloria worry along with you. A police officer has to be aware of all the risks and problems but can’t get caught up with every little blip of danger. We can’t always be worrying, because that takes away from our ability to notice things and have sharp reactions.” He looked over at Torrence and shrugged his shoulders, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I can see I’m not explaining this very well.”

  “Oh, I understand what you’re saying,” I said, my voice a little snippy. “You’re saying I can’t handle it.” I could feel my dander rising along with the color in my face. Nathan was getting mad, too.

  “I’m not sure that’s the exact translation,” Torrence said. “Say it again,” he suggested to Nathan. “Try another way.”

  Nathan nodded, looking down at his clenched fists. “Every day as an officer is a crapshoot. Even in my position. People get drunk, people get angry, and some people are just plain criminals. And if all this isn’t handled perfectly—and even if it is sometimes—we get the blame for it. I don’t think it’s fair to come home and dump all of that on you.” He ran his hands over his face. “And you’re marrying into this. There’s always a chance that something could happen to you too. You know that happened in my previous marriage.”

  “Yes, but that was unusual. And maybe her reactions were different than mine would be. Maybe I could have outsmarted the bad guy. And maybe you’ve changed, learned something from those mistakes.” My lips quirked into a grin, but I knew my eyes were hopeful.

  He smiled back. “I’m always learning things with you. But that wasn’t the only reason we fell apart. I was so angry afterwards, thinking about how she could have been hurt by that psycho. And I felt so guilty. It wasn’t fair that he would take out something he held against me on her.” He sighed. “Don’t you see, you mean everything to me now. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” This time he reached across the table to take my hands.

  “I feel the same about you,” I said softly, looking into his eyes and wondering if I’d ever felt happier.

  “On the other side of this marrying-a-cop problem, I also worry that you fling yourself into situations where you’re over your head.”

  The waitress arrived with our food and slid the plates onto the table. “Burger rare, special Caesar, and BLT. Enjoy your lunch!”

  “We will,” Torrence told her, and then added to me and Nathan, “I have a good feeling about the two of you. Remember, Nathan, Hayley is a people person. She can’t help feeling sympathetic and getting involved when her friends are in trouble.”

  “Listening to her friends and not butting into investigations are two separate things,” Nathan said. “I appreciate your thoughts and your insights, Hayley, I do. But I hate when you go further and put yourself in danger.”

  “I think I get that,” I said, trying not to react too strongly to his use of the words butting into. This was hard work. “And I hope I’m getting better at it. Remember at the Little White House last winter? I didn’t go meet up with the killer and mention it later. I called you ahead of time. That’s progress, right?”

  “Keep talking and you’re going to be fine,” said Torrence. “You’ve made a good start here, but my friend is right”—he pointed his fork at Nathan—“marrying a police officer brings an unusual set of stressors.”

  I took one of Nathan’s fries and dipped it into a pool of ketchup. “What tips do you offer to couples you don’t think are going to make it? Or can’t you tell?”

  “Lots of times it’s fairly obvious,” he said with a laugh. “Say the groom sleeps with the maid of honor the night before the wedding. Or maybe it’s crystal clear that the bride has spent lots of energy on the wedding. And the groom couldn’t care less. Like that. Bad start to a life together. And sometimes I can even see it in their vows.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “We don’t have those ready yet. Could we just borrow the winning script?”

  Torrence said, “I’d make a fortune if I had one of those!” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back.” He looked at me. “You and I are meeting at Fort Zachary Taylor tomorrow afternoon to go over the ceremony blocking, right?”

  “Right. And thanks for traveling the extra mile.”

  “There’s one other thing we need to talk about for the ceremony—and I need both of you to weigh in on this. Do you want God or no God? Or I can do God light if that’s what you prefer.”

  I looked across the table at Nathan, who shrugged and said, “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  What did that mean? He didn’t care? He didn’t want to say? We’d have to talk about it later. I’d been raised as a casual Presbyterian, so I wasn’t even quite sure what I believed. Though surely there was something out there bigger than us …

  I winked at Torrence. “You heard us try to talk about hard issues. I think adding God wouldn’t hurt us a bit.”

  Chapter Six

  Sandy thought Anna still sounded angry. He had a picture in his head of a pan of soup standing on the Rayburn and ready to boil over.

  —Ann Cleeves, Red Bones

  As soon as I’d gotten back to the houseboat and settled onto the deck with my laptop, Analise phoned. “I’m so sorry about your customer,” I said, sitting up straight and closing the computer. “I heard she didn’t make it.”

  “This is my worst nightmare,” she said. “I’m responsible for these people while they’re on my watch, and I absolutely failed.”

  I opened my mouth to try to reassure her, but she barreled on.

  “It’s the truth and there isn’t much you can say to soften the blow. But that’s not why I called. Chef Martha wants to talk with you. I think she believes that someone wanted to sabotage her new success with Isle Cook Key West, and poisoning her food seems like a great way to go about it.”

  Thinking of the conversation I’d just had with Nathan and Steve, I stated the obvious, trying for firm but kind. “She should talk to the police. There’s really nothing I can do.”

  “Of course I told her exactly that,” Analise said. “She absolutely won’t. I don’t know why, but she won’t. And it’s not as if she’s a flighty woman who makes wacky decisions. Maybe you could just stop over there and chat with her and try to encourage her yourself? You’re the one with all the insider contacts at the police
department. You could tell her how nice they are and welcoming of citizen input. And cute.”

  She laughed and then added, “Honestly, Hayley, I wouldn’t ask you this if I didn’t think she had a good reason to be worried. And an equally good reason not to speak with the authorities. And don’t ask me what that would be, because she wouldn’t tell me. You’re the closest I can come to helping her.”

  I felt my urge to help someone in obvious distress overcome my urge to stay out of what was really not my business. Maybe I could persuade her to speak with Nathan. Or better still, Steve. She would like him the instant she met him. He had a very grounded way about him, a good sense of humor, and lots of common sense. And empathy. It would be very hard for anyone to see him as threatening. Though to be fair, I’d never been in a situation with him where he’d had to use force. Maybe his police hackles rose up like an angry dog’s when called for.

  “OK, I’ll talk with her.”

  “Great. Do you have time today? She’s working this afternoon prepping for a class. It’s something about side dishes for Thanksgiving and wine pairings. She said you could stop in any time before five.”

  * * *

  I parked my scooter near the Custom House, a handsome brick building with a metal roof designed for handling a snow dump that would certainly never fall on Key West. I walked two blocks to the cooking store, located on the second floor of a plain-looking building that included other shops. Though it was in the middle of everything—near Mallory Square, the Mel Fisher museum, and Duval Street—it was not easily findable.

  Chef Martha was working at the chopping block set up on the wide island separating the shop from the professional kitchen. I recognized her from her former stint as chef at the Café at Louie’s. Upstairs from Louie’s Backyard, the Café features a more casual version of food than the downstairs restaurant, though both overlook the ocean. There as here, her cooking skills had been on full display for customers. I wondered what that said about her personality.

  Most chefs work at the back of the house in cramped, hot, greasy spaces that diners never see. And they have little interaction with their customers, apart from an occasional appearance or command performance tableside. This kind of arrangement felt much more personal—and probably required more self-control too, as in no cussing, no yelling at the staff, no making fun of customers who demand outrageous changes to the chef’s menu. She was a wiry woman, a little taller than me but thin and muscular, vibrating with energy, and covered in tattoos. She was chopping vegetables at a rate I’d seen only on TV cooking shows. I was afraid to interrupt her for fear she might startle and lose a finger.

  When she paused to wipe her hands, I approached the counter.

  She gave a wave and a smile so brittle I thought it might crack her face. “Hayley, right? I’m so grateful that you agreed to come. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A tipple of wine? A key lime pie?” She gestured at the large glass-fronted refrigerator, where one of the shelves was filled with the mini pies in small canning jars that we had been offered on the food tour.

  Was she joking? To be honest, I was surprised to see those on display. If the mini pies had been a suspected cause of that woman’s death, wouldn’t the police have confiscated all of this? Or wouldn’t Martha or the owners have thrown them out? Or removed them from the menu altogether? In any case, no way was I going to sample one. “Maybe just some water?”

  “Sure thing. Have a seat right there at the counter and I’ll come around and join you.” She filled a large glass with water, ice, and lemon, slid it across the counter to me, and came to sit down, her fingers worrying the coffee cup she brought with her.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s up?” I asked. “I know you were upset about what happened with the food tour. Gosh, it was awful.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you concerned that the customer got sick with something you fed her?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, her eyes cast down to study the coffee.

  I mentally pinched myself. I knew a better interview technique was to shut up and let the person talk rather than yammering on and feeding them half-baked possibilities that could obscure the truth. But I flashed on the conversation I’d just had with Nathan and Steve, and how I’d promised at the end that I’d try not to get involved where I shouldn’t be.

  “Listen, I feel like I have to say this. Analise mentioned that you don’t want to talk to the police. But if you think you’re in danger or if you know something about what might be a crime, they are the ones to help you. I can introduce you to a truly kind officer who I really trust.”

  She pinched her lips together and shook her head. “I can’t talk to the cops.” Her eyes were pleading now.

  “Can you talk about why not?” I asked, working to stay patient and understand her point of view.

  “Imagine that you did something in your life that was so awful you don’t want anyone ever to know.”

  Now I was seriously curious. She motioned for me to close my eyes and think. So I did. I had some super-embarrassing incidents come to mind (like the time my belongings were dumped out on the curb in front of my ex’s fancy condominium), and some other moments where maybe my best judgment hadn’t been on display. But I thought of nothing so bad that I’d die if it became public. I opened my eyes.

  “And this awful something, that you may or may not have done, are you thinking it might be related to this woman’s death?” I stopped and waited. And waited.

  “It’s complicated,” she said finally. “And it’s going to sound ridiculous. I think it’s possible that woman died because of me. I think someone I used to know is trying to hurt me, and this is the way that he went about it. The trouble being, of course, that he hurt everyone else involved and killed that poor woman—who was here on vacation, for god’s sake.”

  “You mean something happened with your food and this hypothetical person was involved?” I was having a lot of trouble wrapping my mind around this. How could someone she knew from her past get into the kitchen and sabotage her key lime pies? And her pie was the only thing we’d eaten here. “You’re saying someone you used to know came into your kitchen with the intent of getting you implicated in a murder?”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I knew it would sound ridiculous. I can only say it’s someone that I’d hoped I had left behind. Someone who didn’t get free of some ugliness and didn’t want to see me escape out of it either. I don’t know how they contaminated my food.” She looked as though she was struggling hard not to cry. And she did not seem to be the sort of woman who cried often.

  “Did you recognize anyone from the tour?”

  “I was only with you guys for a minute, remember? This is a super-busy week, so I only got a glimpse of your group.” She gestured at the ingredients scattered over her counters.

  “So it could be someone who lives in Key West?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know where they are now. But you know you can live in this town a long time and never run into someone you know who also lives here.”

  I felt like I was playing twenty questions and not getting much out of it. “I don’t see how I’m the person who can help with this—”

  She cut me off. “Could you just talk with the people at the other venues and see if anyone noticed something off about the woman or any of the other customers? I know that you’re good at observing and putting pieces together; lots of people have mentioned you. And besides, you have a perfectly good reason for interviewing people. You are planning on writing an article about the seafood tour, right?”

  She had me there, but I still balked. “I can go about my work and maybe ask a few questions along the way. But if I don’t find anything out and you really feel that you know something about how this woman died, will you promise me you’ll talk to the police?”

  She broke out in a sweat, glanced at the front door where a couple was coming in, and wiped her face with a clean towel lying on the count
er. Without answering my question, she wheeled around and disappeared from the room through a back door next to an enormous wine rack.

  I gathered up my empty notebook and unused pen and tucked them into my backpack. I recognized the people who had come in as the owners of this kitchen store, Eden and Bill Brown. I’d read an article about them recently in the Key West Citizen. They were both psychologists who’d retired to Key West to launch a new life and a new business, hiring Martha as head chef.

  They began to unload bags of merchandise at the checkout counter near the front door. Both of them looked slightly worried, as well they should. If Martha was in trouble, their business would be too. She was conducting most of the cooking classes they offered, and probably setting up the guest chef slots as well. She was the ridge beam that supported their roof.

  I thought they might respond more openly if I mentioned a connection with my pal Eric, also a clinical psychologist. So we’d have two degrees of separation rather than six. I walked over and introduced myself. “I’m a friend of Eric Altman—he’s also a psychologist here in town.”

  “Eric’s a darling man,” Eden said. “Good for him that he’s still out in the trenches. We loved our work with patients back in Ohio, but we love this change, too.” She looked a little puzzled—obviously I wouldn’t have come here to discuss Eric.

  “I was here for the food tour yesterday,” I said, wondering how much else to say. Would Martha have mentioned her suspicion about a personal vendetta to her bosses? I had no idea how much she trusted them and took them into her confidence. Considering that she’d bolted soon after they’d arrived, maybe not so much. So I didn’t feel right repeating what she’d told me. But I didn’t figure I’d get anything out of them without offering something first.

  “Martha of course is concerned about the woman who died. If the cause of death ends up being food related, I know this would be terrible for you as well.”

  “She’s quite naturally anxious,” Eden said, in a no-nonsense voice. “We all feel dreadful about the poor woman who took sick, but Martha is taking it personally. We love that about her—she’s absolutely serious about her cooking, while at the same time she makes everything fun for her students. And even with all that going on, our kitchens are spotless.”