“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said. “She isn’t on the premises.”
Mom appeared at my side. “I know exactly where she’s staying. I took her home yesterday after lunch and she showed me her room. They upgraded her to the most magnificent view. Not that you could do any better than your houseboat,” she said to me. She reached over and tucked my bra strap under the neckline of my shirt. “My daughter lives right on the water—it’s so soothing,” she explained to Dustin. “I slept like a baby. Never even heard the squall that blew through.”
“Mom,” I said, gripping her elbow. “He’s not in the mood to hear about my living arrangements or your sleeping experience. He’s worried about Yoshe missing her solo reading and ruining the day.”
“You’re right,” she said, and smiled at Dustin. “I was just trying to say that I know where she’s staying. If you’d like, I can run down the street and tap on her door. She probably overslept.”
I whooshed out a breath. In case anyone wondered where I got my nosy streak, they could see it in its full genetic expression right here. “You can hardly run down the street and get back in ten minutes,” I said.
“Go!” said Dustin, ignoring me and giving her a little shove. “Call on my cell if there are any issues at all. If she’s not coming, I’ll have to do some damn fancy dancing.” He recited his phone number and then Yoshe’s too. I punched them both into my contacts directory as Mom bustled off through the crowd.
I followed her outside, not sure who I was more annoyed with, Mom for butting in where she didn’t belong, or Dustin for taking advantage of her.
“Come on,” I told her. “My scooter’s right around the corner. I’ll run you over.”
She hesitated for a minute—she had never approved of the idea of me riding a motorcycle, even though a scooter was about as far from a motorcycle as Jonah’s childhood chop suey would have been from one of Yoshe’s Asian noodle recipes. But curiosity and her Good Samaritan streak overrode her nervousness. We walked quickly to the side street where I’d left the bike, and I fastened the helmet on Mom. “Just keep your feet up on these little footrests and hold on tight.”
She slung her leg over the body of the bike and clamped me around the waist.
I twisted around to look at her and grinned. “I gotta be able to breathe, Mom.”
We sailed the length of Whitehead Street past Hemingway’s house to the Southernmost Point on the island and in the continental U.S., marked by an enormous black-, yellow-, and red-striped buoy. At almost any hour of any day, you could find tourists lined up to get their photos taken at the closest point from the U.S. to Cuba. Ninety miles, the sign said. Even today, with the wind whipping the waves so they crashed against the break wall and sprayed the buoy and the people, a queue of visitors in vacation clothes too cool for the weather jostled for position.
“We’ll make sure to get this shot before you leave on Tuesday,” I hollered over my shoulder to Mom.
We stopped in front of Yoshe’s bed-and-breakfast, two blocks past the Southernmost Point on South Street, exactly overlooking the private South Beach and not so private Atlantic Ocean. I parked the scooter on the sidewalk outside the three-story yellow Victorian home with white gingerbread trim and a green-and-white-striped awning. Mom staggered off the back of the bike, removed the helmet, and shook out her curls. She had to shout to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks next to the beach.
“That was kind of fun.”
I smiled and followed her into the building, decorated with white wicker furniture and miniature palm trees. A wall of wooden cubbies holding mail and metal keys hung behind the reception desk. And an old-fashioned copper bell and a collection of tourist destination pamphlets sat on the polished pine counter.
“Hello!” Mom called, but no one appeared. She rang the bell: still no answer. I peered over the counter into the office behind the cubbies. A computer screen flashed on a cluttered desk, but there was no one working.
We looked at each other. Mom shrugged and darted up the sweeping staircase, me trotting behind. We were both panting a little by the time we got to the third floor.
“Down here.” Mom took a right-hand turn and walked briskly to the room at the far south end of the hallway.
“This is it,” said Mom, tapping on the whitewashed wood. We listened. Dead quiet inside. She pressed her ear against the door and then tapped again. Nothing.
I took a turn, rapping loudly. “Miss King? Yoshe?” I pulled the phone out of my pocket. “Let’s try calling.” I dialed the number that Dustin had given us. Through the wooden door, we could hear the answering echo of her phone.
“That’s just odd,” Mom said. “If we walk around the side of the building, we may be able to see up to her balcony and then try to wave her down. Her porch overlooks the rocks right in front of the water. She could be out there having coffee or doing yoga and not be able to hear a thing. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who has to be in reach of her phone every instant.”
“Like me, you mean,” I said, feeling a prickle of irritation.
“Your generation is different from ours,” Mom said over her shoulder. “We like to focus on the people we’re spending time with, not the ones we might imagine are having more fun. Wherever else they might be.”
I ground my teeth and tried to breathe evenly—one long, slow breath in, one seething whistle out. Sometimes Mom had a way of couching her criticisms and suggestions so gently you could hardly notice them. Other times, especially when she was stressed or a little bit anxious (like now), subtle as a meat mallet.
I followed her back down the stairs and along the red brick path that led around the side of the building. Mom pointed to Yoshe’s third-floor, far-corner room. I climbed onto the low cement wall surrounding the grounds to get a better sight line. A heart-wrenching shriek nearly made me fall; I turned quickly to see my mother stagger back off the wall and crumple to a heap on the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong? Mom, are you okay?”
“That’s her,” she wailed, pointing to a messy pink-and-white pile on the rocks below Yoshe’s balcony. A big wave sloshed against the boulders, drenching the colorful rags with salt water.
“Don’t panic. That can’t be Yoshe,” I said, crouching down next to her and gripping her hands, and then helping her to her feet. I brushed off the sand sticking to her black trousers. “We probably crossed paths on the way over here. I’m sure she’s up onstage at the conference talking about her childhood in China and how she carries those memories into every recipe. Competing like mad with the Thai lady we just heard and furious to get upstaged.” I smiled, aware I was babbling but hoping it was in the most soothing way. I smoothed her hair. “There’s no reason for her to be on those rocks.”
“That’s the exact outfit she showed me yesterday,” said my mother, wrapping her arms around her torso. Her teeth began to chatter. “Pink and white. She said she was so tired of everyone wearing black—she wanted to stand out for this reading, look young and fresh. I swear it’s her, Hayley.” She burst into more weeping and sank back to the pavement. I looked around for someone to flag down—in this town you were rarely alone. But now, when I needed help most, there was no one.
“I’ll go take a look. If I signal to you, call 911. In fact, call them right now anyway and tell them what’s going on. Or Bransford. He’s in my contacts list.” I pressed my phone into her palm. Detective Bransford was going to love being called out because my mom saw a pile of pastel rags on the beach, but better safe than sorry.
“Oh, please be careful,” my mother croaked. “I’d feel so awful if she was in trouble and we did nothing. But it’s not worth you getting hurt too.”
I hopped over the retaining wall and began to crawl hand over hand across the rocks, which were more damp and slippery than they had looked from a safe distance. I crept a little closer, just near enough for the pale face and dark hair to materialize against the pink clothing. Yes, Yoshe. And her ne
ck was crooked at an unnatural angle. An enormous gray gull glided in and settled on the rock next to her head.
“Get away, you stupid bird!” I hollered, imagining him pecking at her. Not wanting to imagine where he’d start. I waved my hands until he flew off. “Call the cops!” I screeched back at Mom, gripping the slick coral beneath me. “Better let Dustin know too.”
10
It’s so beautifully arranged on the plate—you know someone’s fingers have been all over it.
—Julia Child
Within half an hour, the block was thick with police cars, emergency vehicles and personnel, and a fire engine. My mother and I had been stashed in the backseat of one of the patrol cars, with its engine running and the heater blasting. We’d been asked to stick around until they secured the area and had time to question us about our gruesome discovery. My hands and pants were stained green by the crawl across the rocks, and Mom was doing her best to clean my palms with a spit-dampened tissue. It gave her something to do other than stare at the scene outside the cruiser, so I didn’t object.
A rap on the window caused us both to startle. A tall woman carrying a bamboo tray of steaming mugs and a plate of cookies motioned for us to open the door. Gripping her collar closed and breathing hard, Mom tapped on the window until the officer standing guard nearby unlocked our door.
“I’m Reba Reston, the manager here,” the woman said, pointing to the bed-and-breakfast. “I thought you might be able to use these. This is such terrible news about Ms. King.” Then she handed us each a cup of peppermint tea and slid the cookies onto the seat beside me.
Chocolate chip. Homemade or from a package? Without thinking, I picked one up to nibble. Homemade. The tiniest bit dry, though just about anything would taste like sawdust right at this moment.
“We appreciate your concern,” I said automatically.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help,” said Reba, wringing her hands. “I was in the back office answering phone calls and confirming bookings, and before that was breakfast, so I never heard anything out of order. And then I had just gone to the restroom when you ladies arrived. Such a terrible thing to happen. Do you suppose she was a drinker?”
Mom sputtered, nearly choking on her first sip of tea. She swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders. “We have no idea what happened. Whatever gave you the idea that Miss King was a drinker?”
“Just that it wouldn’t be easy to topple off that balcony. They designed it chest-high on purpose even though some of our guests complained that it ruined their sight line when they were seated in the deck chairs. But of course, it was most important to avoid exactly this kind of thing.” She wrung her hands again. “Maybe if you were really, really drunk you could do it,” she mused. “Or intent on doing yourself in.”
The thought came to mind that she was positioning herself to defend her establishment against possible lawsuits.
“I wouldn’t have pegged her for either,” Mom said. “A drinker or a suicide. And besides, if you truly wanted to do yourself in, there must be better ways. You could count on breaking some bones—that’s about it. Unless she dove headfirst….” My mother shuddered.
A cop approached, talking into his phone. He motioned Reba away from the cruiser and slammed our door shut. She melted back into a small crowd that had gathered like vultures circling roadkill. We both sniffled a little, watching through the cruiser’s windows as the paramedics reached Yoshe’s body. After the police photographer finished taking pictures, they loaded the body onto a stretcher, silent like an old movie. Behind them, the sun slid out from its cover of wispy clouds, and the water slapped happily against the breakwater. Two policemen stayed behind, searching the area around the rocks, where the body had been. One pointed up at her balcony, where a third man was studying the railing. I put my arm around my mother, who couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
“I’m betting that woman was just trying to cover her behind,” I said.
“This makes no sense,” she said. “Yoshe was so excited about reading from her memoir. And there’s no way she’d get drunk in the morning anyway. I’m not a dietician or a psychologist, but she was a health nut. She told me all about it when I walked her home yesterday. Why bother to eat right if you’re thinking about killing yourself anyway? And she prided herself on taking the stairs. That’s why she specifically asked for a room on the third floor. Though the view wasn’t bad either.”
“She looked like she was in good shape,” I said.
“You have to take care of yourself as you sled through middle age—that’s what she told me,” said Mom. “She said Sigrid thinks those extra pounds will never catch up with her.”
I pictured her lumbering across the stage without much grace. “They already are.”
Mom sighed. “I got the idea that she’d been nagging Sigrid about her weight. Which I don’t think you’d do with someone you barely knew. Would you? Did you notice at La Crêperie she tried to steer her toward a salad?”
“I noticed. It didn’t work. In fact, it backfired.”
Mom snuffled and blew her nose into a clean tissue. “Yoshe was most of the way through another cookbook. Asian-style flavors like her others, but this was going to be home cooking. She traveled around China, collecting ideas from local chefs and grandmothers and the remnants of her own family. It sounded so good. And now I’ll never have access to those recipes.”
“Mom, the publisher will make certain it gets finished. She’s a big moneymaker for them. People are crazy about authentic family connections—especially these days when the world is in such turmoil. The publisher would no more let her recipes languish than if they found a long-buried manuscript of Julia Child’s.”
But I knew the tears were about something else altogether—the shock of losing someone she so admired and had begun to know personally. The absolute horror of finding someone dead. Two people in the span of three days in my case.
I was distracted from those morbid thoughts by the arrival of Detective Bransford. He appeared rumpled and tired, as though he’d been shorted in the sleep department the night before. But not unattractive. In fact, his unfinished appearance made him seem a little more vulnerable. Almost human. Like he could use a hug. Which made me realize that as bad as finding a body was for us, maybe it was worse for him. Because he was ultimately responsible for protecting his island and the people on it. And things were going horribly in that department.
The cop who’d been talking on his phone gestured at us. “They’re in the back of my cruiser,” he told Bransford, loud enough for us to hear through the window.
The detective came over, opened the door, and peered in, frowning. “Hayley, Mrs. Snow.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re here. I hardly know where to start.”
“Isn’t it just awful?” Mom asked. “She was such a talented cook and writer. It’s a terrible loss to the food community. Even ordinary cooks who wouldn’t otherwise have had the nerve to try an Asian recipe adored her. She helped make foreign food accessible.”
“I don’t think that’s what he means,” I said, taking Mom’s hand, my kind feelings toward Bransford ebbing away. “I think he’s finding it hard to believe that we’ve discovered a second dead person within the span of three days.”
“It does pique my curiosity,” the detective said. “Suppose we begin with why you happened to end up here.”
“We were doing Dustin Fredericks a favor,” Mom said. “Yoshe didn’t show up for her panel and I knew where she was staying, so I volunteered to pop over and knock on her door. Only she wasn’t in her room. And then we thought maybe she was snoozing out on her deck or running through a few rounds of the sun salutation and didn’t hear us. And so we came out here. And that’s when I spotted her.” Mom’s composure cracked and she began to cry. I scowled at the detective, who ignored me.
“And how did you happen to know where her room was?”
My mother explained that she’d walked her home the day before
after having a lovely lunch on Petronia Street. She started to describe the dishes we’d sampled, but he cut her off.
“Would you say you were the last one to see her alive?”
“I couldn’t say that and be sure it was true,” Mom said, pressing both hands to her chest. “Though no one at the conference remembered seeing her this morning. I imagine your pathology experts would be able to pinpoint when she died. Don’t you think?” Before he could answer she continued. “We certainly don’t think she threw herself over the railing. The manager wonders if she was drinking, but again, your people could be the judge of that should you decide an autopsy is in order. Which in this case, I imagine, would be a slam dunk.”
“Was the door open when you arrived? Unlocked?” asked the detective, who seemed a little flustered by losing control of his interview to my mother.
“We didn’t try the door,” I said. “We were not interested in breaking in. We only wanted to remind her she was due at the conference.”
“Something different for you,” said Bransford.
“No need to be snippy,” said Mom. “We’re all a little tense. It’s been a terrible morning.”
At that moment, Dustin Fredericks roared up on his scooter, no helmet, thin hair wispy in the wind. He weaved through the crowd around our cruiser and wobbled to a stop, looking distraught. Like a man who saw his livelihood ebbing away, I thought suddenly. His face paled as he saw the stretcher bobbing over the rocks, Yoshe’s body draped in a silver blanket.
“What the devil?”
“It’s definitely Yoshe King,” Mom said sadly. “We found her on the rocks below her balcony.” She turned back to the detective. “It occurs to me that if I were wondering whether someone pushed her over that railing, the question that naturally comes before that is whom she would have let in the door.”
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 10
