A Deadly Feast

by Lucy Burdette

  I gathered up my stuff and started out the front door just as Eden and Bill were coming in. I explained that I’d stopped by to chat with Martha.

  “We’re really worried about her,” Bill said without my prompting. He repeated the same story Martha had told me about the terrible-tasting pie.

  “How long have you known her? I’m imagining a while, given how important she is to your business.”

  “We thought we’d checked everything out,” Eden said. She looked at her husband. “Let me restate that. We had checked carefully. Since we are new to town and since we were trying something very different and sinking our retirement funds into the venture, we wanted to hire someone completely reliable.”

  She paused again, fingering the lace on her collar. “I feel funny talking about her like this. Years of working as a shrink, you know? All that training in confidentiality doesn’t just leave you if you move on to something else.”

  “I know,” I said. “Eric is the same way. He’s very careful about talking out of school.” I tugged on the gold hoop in my earlobe. “The difference here is that she asked me to look into this situation.”

  They exchanged another glance and then both nodded.

  “I’m not suggesting in any way that Martha put something into her own food,” I said. “What could she possibly gain from that? I feel like I need every bit of background that might help me understand what happened. You checked references when you hired her, right?”

  “Absolutely. Both places where she worked previously couldn’t say enough good things about her. I gathered she’d had an issue with drinking at one point, but everyone said she hasn’t touched a drop in years. Honestly, her work here has been magical. People love the food and they adore her teaching. When we schedule the class where she takes people out fishing and then brings them back to cook the fresh catch? Those sell out almost before we get them listed. Honestly, this has all grown way beyond our expectations.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the same thing I hear from everyone. Looking at this from another angle, it seems to me that what you noticed about her state of mind could be important to what happened the other day.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, I should have known something wasn’t right because the key lime starter looked a little funny—cloudy, almost shiny. And yet, Martha’s made the recipe, what, a thousand times?” Bill asked his wife.

  “Something like that. She joked that we could pass it off as salted key lime pie, but obviously it was a no go. Even our salted caramel–loving customers would have spit that out.” Eden ran her fingers through her curls. “But anyone who’s a little distracted could make that mistake, no?”

  “Maybe,” Bill said.

  “Possibly,” I repeated. When I’d made cooking errors because I’d been in a hurry or distracted by something personal, they had tended to run in the opposite direction—leaving things out, like sugar or baking powder, rather than tripling the amount. Although even for a professional chef, wouldn’t it be easy enough to read three teaspoons and use tablespoons by mistake, or something along those lines?

  “Was it only the amount of salt that tasted different? Or could it have been a different kind of sea salt—something that might have tasted metallic? I know Chef Paul Orchard likes to use local salt in some of his dishes. He collects it himself on the beach.”

  “I don’t think that was it,” Bill said. “It tasted like someone had dumped in triple or even quadruple the amount of salt that her recipe calls for. It wasn’t a minor glitch.”

  “Just supposing that someone did tamper with her mini pies, how could they go about doing it? Does she make everything on the premises?” I asked.

  “Oh, definitely,” said Eden. “The health department would never allow food to be cooked elsewhere. They have to examine our kitchens and make sure they’re up to snuff.”

  “So then it would have to be someone coming into the store from outside,” I suggested.

  They looked at each other again, their faces mirroring dismay.

  “How would a person gain access to her food? I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t notice someone entering the front door and going into the back room.”

  “Certainly not on an ordinary day,” Bill said. “We don’t depend on foot traffic for our business so much as the folks who come for specific events.”

  “Those times can get a little crazy,” Eden agreed, “so it’s possible that during a wine-tasting event, for example, someone could slip into the storage area and the back kitchen.”

  “Can anyone access this back area from the outside without a key?”

  “I certainly hope not,” Bill said. “We keep that back door bolted so no one surprises us while we’re in the storefront. Though I suppose if the perpetrator was also a locksmith, all bets would be off.”

  “This is really scaring me,” Eden said. “Are you working for the police? Did you agree to investigate? Is this official?”

  I gulped. Nathan would absolutely kill me if he heard this conversation. “I wouldn’t call it investigating, but I did agree to Martha’s request that I continue to look around and ask questions as I visit the other venues. I’m not at all affiliated with the police department.”

  Looking at the concern on their faces, I now realized how truly devastating the possible poisoning would be for their business, as well as to Chef Martha’s reputation. “I’ll let Martha know if I discover anything. And if I don’t, she’s agreed to talk with the cops.”

  Chapter Twelve

  But the goal of the arts, culinary or otherwise, is not to increase our comfort. That is the goal of an easy chair.

  —Jeffrey Steingarten, The Man Who Ate Everything

  Since both of the other places I’d planned to visit this morning were within easy walking distance, I decided to leave my scooter where it was parked. On the way to Bagatelle, my mind spun and swirled around the conversations I’d had in the cooking store. Clearly Martha feared someone from her past and believed they had tampered with her lime juice mixture. On the other hand, Bill and Eden seem to have settled on another explanation for the salty juice: a mistake caused by a distracted chef.

  If Martha was right, how did this person get into the back room unnoticed, and why? Yes, someone attending an event could have slipped in, but it seemed like a risky proposition. Had one of them accidentally left the back door open while taking out the trash or bringing in supplies? Despite how it might have been accomplished, spiking the lime juice seemed like a shotgun approach to wreaking havoc on a chef.

  Once I got home, I planned to hit Google hard, looking for any relevant threads in Martha’s history, along with facts about the woman who had died and her husband. Better to be overprepared with too much information than to miss an important clue.

  Bagatelle restaurant was located on the busier end of Duval Street near Sloppy Joe’s Bar, and still had the appearance of an old two-story conch house, with its double porches and carved gingerbread trim. Fans were positioned every few yards on the ceiling, rotating in lazy circles to circulate air over the diners. On the food tour, we had been guided up the stairs to the second floor and seated at a table near the back of the room. So I took the same route.

  The wooden floors felt authentic, the uneven slats lending the impression that I was visiting an old sea captain’s home. Floor-to-ceiling French doors stretched along the front and sides of the building. On nice days, they could be opened so diners would feel steeped in the atmosphere of Key West, while remaining far enough removed from the Duval Street hubbub to enjoy their meal in relative peace.

  I approached the bar and asked whether the waiter who had delivered our food during the tour was working and available for a quick chat. Caroline, a tall woman with a long blonde braid, came over to the table where I waited, looking concerned. “I’m the manager, but I help with special events like your group tour as well. Was there a problem with the service? Or the food?”

  “Oh, not at all,” I said, patting her hand
. “We had a wonderful stop here. But you may have heard that one of the guests fell ill at the end of our tour and has since passed away.”

  She gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, no, I hadn’t heard. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s why I came to talk with you. I’m hoping to find out what you remember about our visit. I’m trying to pinpoint what exactly happened before she took ill. I’m not looking for something in particular, just anything you might have noticed about that stop.” This sounded like a wild-goose chase as the words left my mouth, and I suspected nothing would come of it. “And I understand absolutely that a lot of people come through the restaurant, so you might not have these details impressed in your mind. Especially you being the manager too.” I smiled with reassurance; at least I hoped it came across that way. “Maybe we could start with what you served and what the reaction has been from customers in the past?”

  Caroline reached back to smooth her braid and then straightened her service apron. “The chef and I chose our lobster mac and cheese to serve to the tours because it’s our signature dish, and quite a showstopper. Were you able to try it?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said. “And it was fantastic. In fact, my roommate got so enamored with my description that she talked me into making it for us last night. I don’t think my rendition came very close to how fabulous your dish was, unfortunately.”

  “I’d be happy to get you a bowl for lunch,” she said. “Something to tide you over while we chat?”

  I was tempted. But if I ate this for lunch, every calorie I’d worked so hard to burn off in the gym would be replaced—and more. “Thanks so much for the generous offer,” I said, “but having eaten two helpings for dinner last night, and with Thanksgiving coming later this week, I think I’ll be sticking with salad and fruit. Anything stand out in your mind from our visit?”

  She perched on the stool next to mine and fell quiet for a moment. “People who come on these tours tend to be omnivorous eaters. And Analise makes clear that allergies and preferences can’t be individually accommodated because this is a group tour. So folks know that going in.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “They aren’t choosing which dishes to order, as they would if they were going out to dinner.”

  “And often there’s not much left on the plate after we serve our mac and cheese. Most frequently we get nothing but empty dishes on the return trip. But one member of your group took a little taste and then pushed her bowl away. That sticks out in my mind, because I remember joking with our chef when I brought the plates back to the kitchen. I teased him that the only reason that plate was even half empty was because the woman foisted her leftovers off on her husband. Chef takes pride in those empty dishes. He wondered if maybe she had a seafood allergy? Or lactose intolerance? Or was she one of those people who thinks pasta is the invention of the devil? We both laughed at that. And then he tasted her food himself to be sure there wasn’t something wrong with it.”

  “And was there?”

  She shook her head no.

  That sounded like Audrey, but I had to be sure. “What did she look like?” I asked.

  Caroline described a middle-aged woman who dressed like a tourist in light-colored, loose clothing.

  “That was Audrey. Did she look well when you saw her?”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t say. All of you seemed to be having a blast, and we love Analise to pieces, so we’re always happy to welcome her group. More often than not, people come back for a whole meal after they’ve sampled the lobster mac.”

  I rustled in my backpack for my phone. “That reminds me. While I’m here, I’m also writing an article for Key Zest and would love to hear what goes into that dish. As long as your chef wouldn’t go ballistic for sharing his state secrets … Do you use local lobster or import it from New England? And how many kinds of cheese?”

  “Florida lobster tails and three cheeses—sharp cheddar, Gruyère, and Havarti or sometimes Parmesan. And don’t skimp on the butter or use skim milk in the sauce.”

  “Believe me, my roommate was watching me like a hawk,” I said. “I put in half the stick of butter and about a ton of cheese. Clogged arteries be damned!” I gathered my things together and started to leave.

  “Wait,” she called. “One other thing.” I turned around and walked back. “There was another couple with you. They didn’t say a lot, but the man—looking back I would say he was watching her.”

  “Watching Audrey? Worried about her? Or something else?”

  “More like tracking her reactions, waiting for her to say something, maybe? Watching what she ate?” She shook her head briskly. “Now I feel like I’m making things up. I so hate hearing that she died when that looked like such a happy day.”

  I left Bagatelle and walked the few blocks on Duval to Caroline Street, realizing my interview technique was a little clunky. Once I’d introduced the news of a dead customer, quite naturally my interviewee would become defensive. At the next place, I decided, I would start with the food.

  A block south of Duval, I reached the little Airstream that housed Garbo’s Grill. A line had already formed at the open window in the trailer and I could smell the heavenly scent of grilling meat and fish. I was tempted to fall right into the queue and order myself one of their unbelievable hamburgers. Or perhaps the mango hot dog wrapped in bacon. Or Korean spiced beef tacos. But I knew I needed to get the information I had come for and get the heck out without succumbing to temptation. I needed to face my fruit salad head on.

  I did not recognize either of the people working in the trailer, but I popped my head in the side door and called out a cheery hello. I explained that I was there to follow up for a Key Zest article about the food tour and asked a few questions about their fish tacos. The woman closest to the door stopped work to chat, offering the names of some of the spices they used and emphasizing that fresh and local fish and shrimp were absolutely key.

  I wrote all this down, and finally mentioned that one of the food tour attendees had fallen ill and died after the event. “I’m following up on that, asking if anyone saw something a little off. The authorities are still trying to figure out what happened. It’s so sad.” And then I stopped, forcing myself to leave a silent space that she could fill.

  “Good lord,” the woman said, her face flushing pink. She glanced over at her coworker, who had paused to listen. “Honestly, we didn’t notice a thing wrong with your group. You were sitting at one of the tables, right?” She pointed to the round metal tables that lined the path from the street to the trailer.

  I nodded.

  “We can’t see much from back here. And everyone got the same dish, so if one of you got sick from our food, all of you would have, right? And we are super, uber careful with hygiene, because food poisoning can destroy a business in an instant.” She hurried on before I had a chance to answer her question. “We make everything here except for the prep of the sauces and such—the health department insists that happens in a kitchen. So we share space with some other mobile eateries.”

  “You share a kitchen?” I asked. Thinking that if the kitchen was as busy as it sounded, anyone could slip something untoward into someone else’s food and probably not be noticed.

  “You should really be talking to the owners,” she said, a dismayed look crossing her face. “They are excruciatingly careful about cleanliness and fresh food. We’ve heard no reports of anyone taking ill.”

  Back out on the sidewalk, I realized that I needed to check in with Analise about whether there was any further news about the cause of Audrey’s death. I would also ask for the names of the remaining customers on the tour. I didn’t remember one of the others watching Audrey eat, as Caroline at Bagatelle had mentioned, but I hadn’t been focused on them either. Audrey had been chatty and loud throughout most of the morning, so it seemed possible that the quieter customers might have been feeling annoyed. But it was also possible that Caroline’s memory was disto
rted. This was a subject for a call, not a text, as the more I learned, the faster I thought we needed answers. As soon as I got out on the street, I dialed my friend’s number.

  “Can you send me the names of the other two people who took your tour with Audrey and Marcel?” I asked.

  “What are you going to do with them?” She paused. “I feel a little uncomfortable passing out my customers’ names.”

  I sighed. This was getting more and more complex, bordering on ridiculous. “I’m still looking at things off the record as you and Martha requested. However—and I’m telling you this confidentially—there was another incident at the cooking store.”

  I explained about the salty, cloudy key lime pies, and how Martha believed someone was sabotaging her. Though her bosses were not so sure. “I talked with the owner at Eaton Street Seafood Market yesterday—he doesn’t remember seeing or hearing anything strange during our visit. Today I visited Bagatelle and Garbo’s, but I wanted to do some nosing around on your end, too. Maybe it will become obvious if one of the other customers knew Martha or could possibly have had a reason for sabotaging her work. Or for that matter, knew Audrey herself.”

  Analise remained silent.

  “Has anyone else asked you for those names?”

  “No, and I’m sorry to be weird, but it doesn’t seem right to give them out. Isn’t there an expectation of privacy when you sign up for an activity like this?”

  I felt another zip of annoyance, thinking this was only a food tour after all, not a financial transaction. Or someone smuggling drugs or other contraband. I couldn’t help sounding snippy.