A Deadly Feast

by Lucy Burdette

  The expression on her face grew instantly serious. “That was so tragic,” she said.

  I slid the article about Marcel out of my pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to her. “It’s gotten worse. Now the dead woman’s husband has been killed. I was hoping you’d have a few minutes to chat about what you might have noticed that morning.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and took the clipping to read it more carefully.

  “Did you know any either of them?” I asked.

  She handed the paper back. “No.”

  “How about the other guy on the tour with us?”

  She returned to the potatoes, pausing to grind in a few rounds of pepper. “You mean Zane. I sort of know him. He made a big splash when he opened his restaurant a couple years ago. I belong to a dinner club and we rotate choosing where to eat each Friday. They weren’t thrilled when I chose his place up the Keys. No one wants to drive home in the dark with a couple glasses of wine under their belt. You can bet the sheriff’s department is looking for that.” She chuckled. “So I became the designated driver. And also took lots of ribbing about his menu—charred this and beurre blanc that. Honestly, we should have stayed on Stock Island and ordered pizza. I believe Zane has been working at Matt’s on Stock Island since his restaurant went under.”

  “Looking back, did you get any sense that Marcel and Zane knew each other? Or whether Marcel knew Analise or Martha?” I was floundering in theories about the two deaths, none of which really added up.

  She wiped her wrist across her forehead, leaving a trail of flour like the tail of a shooting star. “I thought Audrey sounded super-forced—a little manic-y, you know? And Marcel seemed to be trying his best to tamp her down. Meanwhile, Zane watched all of this very, very carefully. I got the sense he was focused on Marcel. Of course, I was watching all of them, too.” She laughed. “It was equal-opportunity observation. At one point, I swear he was watching me watching Marcel.”

  I hadn’t noticed the watching details—I’d been too focused on my own work and distracted by the intensity of Audrey. But if what JanMarie had seen was accurate, either Zane was annoyed by Marcel and his too-bright wife or Zane knew Marcel. Or could it have been that Zane was Audrey’s boyfriend? Honestly, I hadn’t noticed any sparks between them—and I was tuned in to these things.

  JanMarie scraped the finished potatoes into a big serving dish and started back down the hall to the fellowship room. I followed with the stuffing and placed the bowl on the long table as instructed. A horde of cheerfully chatting volunteers picked up Styrofoam carryout trays and began to move down the line, filling each one with turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, and green beans. A small older woman with curly white hair sitting at the end of the table placed a dinner roll in each finished tray with a satisfied flourish. The dinner rolls looked like something from the supermarket, nothing fancy like Martha’s rosemary brown-butter masterpieces. But I suspected all of this food would be very welcome to the guests who received it.

  “I’d love to do a little piece on your Cooking with Love program for our magazine,” I said. Could this be one of the bigger stories that Palamina was hoping for—who on this island fed the needy and the homeless? And what did they fix? “Not today, of course.”

  “That would be fun,” JanMarie said. “We’re here every Saturday with different volunteer cooks in charge of the meal. They’re very good at choosing recipes based on what’s been donated and what will serve a crowd. We don’t make anything fancy, just good old-fashioned rib-sticking meals.”

  She gave me her phone number and email, and I promised to be in touch. Outside on the sidewalk, I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a text or email from Nathan. Nothing. Where in the world could he be?

  I drove back to Houseboat Row but felt too darn anxious to sit around by myself, worrying about all the possible dangers facing my guy. I considered taking the drive out to the next island north, Stock Island, where Zane was now working at Matt’s Stock Island restaurant. I fed the cats an extra Thanksgiving treat, hopped back on my scooter, and drove north.

  Stock Island has been having a bit of a resurgence, as land and rents are less expensive than anything that can be found in Key West. As a result, though the first streets off Route 1 have an industrial feel, the area further off the highway appears on the verge of thriving, as workshops and showrooms and restaurants have begun to relocate here. I wound through some of the streets until I reached the Atlantic side waterfront, where Matt’s Kitchen was located in the complex of a new resort on the harbor. The hotel had a modern, industrial decor that felt warmer and more inviting than it sounded. The restaurant included a large outdoor area with fire pits and dog-friendly tables, and inside, a rustic bar featuring tall, wooden communal tables. WRITE DRUNK, EDIT SOBER was written in huge type on the floor. Hemingway, no doubt.

  “Are you meeting someone?” the hostess asked. It often seemed that restaurants could not comprehend a single woman asking for a table to dine alone. Particularly, I guessed, on a big holiday.

  “I need to speak with Zane Ryan for just a few moments. I’m a food writer at Key Zest and wanted to talk to him about—well—food.”

  She looked dubious. “I’m certain he’s busy. This is not a great time. They are crazed in the kitchen, neck-deep in Brussels sprouts and bacon.” She glanced at the iPhone that rested on the hostess stand. “Our first Thanksgiving seating starts serving at noon.”

  “Five minutes?” I asked.

  She clacked across the wood floor in her platform heels and disappeared through the door next to the kitchen’s open window. Within a few minutes, she was back. “He says he can give you a minute.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, which was filled with spotless stainless-steel surfaces and appliances and busy workers in white coats. She gestured at Zane, who stood by an enormous double sink. He was dressed in chef’s whites, and his face looked gloomy and tired. I needed to think and talk fast.

  “So sorry to bother you during rush, but my impossible boss has me on a ridiculous deadline. I won’t keep you long. And please, keep chopping.” I grinned, motioned at the bin of vegetables in front of him, and began to rattle through my introduction.

  “I’m doing a piece on up-and-coming chefs and restaurants. You’ve probably noticed that some visitors to Key West are not interested anymore in accepting the same old fried fish on their plates. I’d heard that you were thinking of opening a pop-up restaurant out here on Stock Island. It will be very welcome. And I’d love to do a story on it. My angle would be following you as you build the concept from the ground up. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

  The suspicious look on his face faded a little. “I’m planning to call it the Hidden Kitchen.” He glanced around as if to be sure others weren’t listening in. “To start with, I’ll do dinners on my day off, which happens to be Monday, a day when a lot of restaurants in town are closed. So I’m hoping that will bring people in—even if it’s desperation at first.”

  “What style of food will you prepare?”

  He laughed and began to chop the pile of Brussels sprouts in half. “Whatever I feel like cooking. That’s my idea of how to keep things fresh; it’s always chef’s choice at the Hidden Kitchen. So you don’t come in and order this or that, you eat what I’m making. Like Mom when you were growing up, only the food will be a lot better. No gluey potatoes or overcooked, gray beef. I’ll be able to experiment with recipes and ingredients that would never go over in a restaurant like this.” Suddenly a flicker of recognition came over his face.

  “You were on the food tour where that lady died.”

  I nodded. “It was awful. Did you know her?”

  “No, I did not.” He frowned. “And though I may go to hell for speaking ill of the dead, she was a major pain. She never stopped talking, so it was hard to enjoy the day.”

  “She was a little annoying,” I said. “Why did you decide to take the tour?”

  “I’m always scanning fo
r ideas—what’s working, what’s falling flat … To be brutally honest, I didn’t learn too much that day. I’m hoping to get an ‘in crowd’ vibe going, so people will want to come because they don’t want to be left out. You don’t get that vibe by serving plain steamed shrimp, or doctored-up macaroni, or key lime pie.” He paused to scrape his sprouts into a large bowl. “Everyone’s still got a little bit of the gangly high school kid deep inside them, the kid who wants to belong, don’t you think?”

  A man in a tall chef’s hat called across the kitchen. “Ryan! Bacon! Now!”

  Zane scowled and rolled his eyes.

  “OK if I follow up by email?” I asked, and then jotted his address in my phone once he’d reluctantly nodded.

  I left the resort and drove home, thinking about what his personality was like—he was a planner, a take-charge guy with a lot of energy. He was not the kind of man who would be happy prepping vegetables in a resort hotel, taking orders barked out by a bossy chef. But somehow I got the sense he had the patience to bide his time as well.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go baste the turkey and hide the kitchen knives.

  —Mrs. Pascal, The House of Yes

  Once home, I whipped two pints of organic cream to peaks with a splash of almond extract. I ate a spoonful to stave off my hunger. By the time I took a quick shower and dressed in slimming black leggings and a flowered orange swing top that brought out the reddish glints in my hair in honor of Thanksgiving, I was running late.

  When I reached my mother’s house, Palamina had already arrived. She was helping in the kitchen, arranging the crudités with fish dip and crackers on a large ceramic platter. She wore one of Sam’s oversized aprons, her cheeks were pink, and her blonde hair had frizzed as the humidity in the room rose. She looked happier than I’d seen her in many months.

  “You made it!” Mom said. “Happy Thanksgiving. You look so cute. Where’s Nathan?”

  “I was hoping he beat me here. I’ve texted him all morning and haven’t heard a peep.” It was hard to keep the worry out of my voice.

  “He’s probably napping like Miss Gloria.”

  “Your roommate is so sweet,” Palamina said. “To be perfectly honest, I never understood why you were living with an eighty-year-old woman. But I get it now that I’ve met her. She’s adorable. And so is your mom.”

  My mother pecked her on the cheek and came over to give me a hug. “I’m sure he’s going to show. If he was up all night again, no wonder he wanted to sleep in.” She dropped her voice. “Did you read the story about the man they found in the dumpster? Do you suppose that’s the story he was working on?”

  I shrugged. “No idea. I tried to ask him last night and got nothing.” I wanted to tell her about my conversation with Martha this morning, and also the phone call from Miss Gloria’s jailbird friend, but it was downright rude to stand here whispering in front of my boss.

  “What can I do?” I asked, after sliding the whipped cream into the refrigerator. The doorbell rang, and out in the living room I heard Sam greeting my father, stepmother, and Rory.

  “Maybe best to help them get settled?” my mother asked, looking anxious. “Take a couple of bottles of champagne with you. We may need some extra lubrication.”

  “I’m so impressed that you and your husband are hosting your ex for Thanksgiving,” said Palamina to my mom. “It’s very modern, like a TV sitcom featuring a blended family solving their problems by cooking together.”

  “Oh lord, I hope not; that sounds unwatchable,” I said as I exited the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind me. I was relieved to see that Lorenzo had come in right behind my father’s family. He could help me grease the skids of the conversation, and if that didn’t work, exchange eye rolls with me. And gossip later.

  I introduced Sam to everyone, and stood back while Allison and my father chatted politely about how lovely the Truman Annex neighborhood was and how grateful they were to be invited to dinner. Sam took drink orders and urged everyone to move to the back porch for cocktail hour.

  “What did you guys do today?” I asked, looking at Rory, who’d spread out on a lounge chair.

  “He talked us into a little outing on one of the Danger boats,” said Allison. “I’ve never been snorkeling, and I’m not much of a sailor, it turns out.” She laughed. “Your father said he’s never seen me in that shade of green.”

  “But we guys loved it,” my father said, patting Rory’s shoulder. “Although I was surprised the water was so chilly. Even with a shorty wetsuit, I only lasted half an hour.”

  “I don’t swim unless it’s bath tub temperature,” said Lorenzo, wagging a finger. “My blood’s gotten thin living down here.”

  “I wonder how many of your customers will come looking for you tonight and be disappointed?” Allison asked. “It seems as though the town is quite busy. And Hayley said you’ve developed quite a following?”

  He nodded modestly. “People often return for second and third readings after they begin to understand how useful a little guidance and support can be.”

  I could see my father bursting to say something that would no doubt be rude. Fortunately, Palamina’s entrance onto the deck carrying the tray of vegetables and fish dip distracted him from voicing his opinion. I introduced her around, and then, as Sam served champagne and cranberry cocktails, I took a minute to slip into the bathroom to check for messages.

  Nothing. I texted Steve Torrence under the pretext of wishing him happy Thanksgiving. Which I meant, of course. But I also asked him if he’d seen Nathan. Or heard from him, or had any explanation about why he wasn’t at my mother’s place right now. I could feel my anxiety level surging again, so I ducked out of the powder room and into the kitchen to offer help to my mother and keep myself busy.

  Mom was mashing potatoes with butter, cream, and a handful of snipped chives from Miss Gloria’s houseboat herb garden. “Could you pull the bird out of the oven and tent it with foil?” she asked. She ticked off the remaining jobs on her fingers. “I’ll put the potatoes in the oven to stay warm. In about half an hour, Sam will slice the turkey, I’ll make the gravy, and we’ll reheat the pasta and the beans. What am I forgetting?”

  “Breathing,” I said. “That’s what you always tell me.” I slid the turkey onto the stovetop and put the yellow oven mitts aside. “Let’s go have a glass of wine and enjoy the company.” I grabbed a plate of hot-pepper jelly cheese puffs that she’d pulled from the bottom oven, and she followed with sausage balls and we marched out to the deck.

  As I passed the hors d’oeuvres around, Sam topped off drinks. He was taking his role as chief lubricator very seriously.

  “Where’s Nathan?” my father asked.

  “He should be here any minute,” I said, swallowing a big glug of champagne. “It’s getting chilly out here; should we move into the living room?” I bustled around, picking up plates and glasses and ignoring sympathetic looks from Allison.

  Once settled on the flowered couches inside, Allison said to Palamina, “Tell us about your magazine. Hayley is so thrilled to be working for you.”

  Palamina described Key Zest’s mission—to provide interesting commentary on local issues for local people, along with information for tourists that reflects the realities of island life, but also special people and places. And local problems. “We certainly don’t want to drive people away, but we want to present a more nuanced picture than the Chamber of Commerce might, for example.” She grinned and nodded to Sam, who was offering to freshen her cocktail.

  “What kinds of unusual pieces are you considering?” my father asked.

  “Hayley and I talked about her tackling trends in the food world.” She looked briefly in my direction. “I did a little research after you left the office on the most expensive culinary ingredients. One of them was gold. Can you imagine? Putting metal flakes in your food? All that glitters is not gold,” she added, slurring the s on glitters.

  “
She has me worried about our wedding cake,” I said with a laugh. “It will be frosted with buttercream and decorated with flowers. Not a sparkle to be found.”

  “I’m certain your cake will be divine,” Allison said. “Speaking of local problems, did you all read about the man they found in that dumpster last night? Did you know him?”

  My first instinct was to tell everything I knew. Luckily, Lorenzo shook his head and answered. “The name isn’t familiar. I suspect he was a tourist. People who frequent a place like that often find more trouble than they may have imagined. Though no one deserves an end like that.”

  “I despise the idea of women working there,” said Palamina. “We should do an exposé on that place.” She glanced at me, but I only shrugged. Nathan would have a cow if I got involved in investigating troubled businesses and police matters. And she was beginning to sound more than a little tipsy.

  Miss Gloria emerged from her nap in the bedroom upstairs, blinking like a mole in a sudden shaft of sunlight. Allison sprang up and ran over to greet her with a big hug, and they began to gab.

  “I’m going to see if Mom needs a hand,” I said to no one in particular, standing up and melting away.

  My mother was stationed at the stove, stirring a bubbling pan of gravy. Sam had finished slicing the turkey and was arranging it on a bright-yellow ceramic platter, white meat at one end, dark at the other. He’d had the idea of carving the bird in the kitchen so as not to flaunt his status as head of the family—this family, anyway—in front of my father.

  “How long should we wait?” Sam asked, glancing at me. “It’s already six thirty and we told them dinner would be at six.”

  A difficult conundrum for my mother, as she prized being an excellent hostess. The hors d’oeuvres trays were empty, and the group sipping cranberry cocktails in the living room was getting restless. And worst of all, she was known for her fluffy, perfectly seasoned potatoes. Tonight, her mashed potatoes were on the edge of turning to glue—a terrible sin for a Thanksgiving dinner.