I laughed and came over to hug her once Mom let her go. “That’s so Ray. I’m happy for you—you landed a keeper.”
She hugged me back. “Thanks. He says I’m worth a big whopping diamond, and if his paintings ever catch on, that’s what I’ll get.” I felt the tiniest twinge of envy, wondering if I’d ever find a guy who loved me the way Ray adored Connie.
“If there’s any way I can help at all,” my mother said. “With the wedding or anything. This is such a happy time, but it must be hard without your mother.”
Connie nodded, her eyes bright with tears. Her mom had died of breast cancer when we were college roommates. We didn’t talk much about the empty space her mother’s death had left in her life, but I could imagine how lonely it would feel not to be able to share a moment like this. Which made me appreciate Mom even more. In spite of my intermittent urges to wring her neck.
“You haven’t told us anything about your date last night,” Connie said to me.
“He’s pretty much impossible,” I said.
“You haven’t given him much of a chance,” Mom protested. “He’s a traditional kind of guy—like your father was. For heaven’s sake, let him pay the check once in a while. Or maybe if you feed him dinner instead of going out all the time—that’s how I won your dad over.”
I choked back my first response, which was that Mom wasn’t perhaps the very best person to give advice on this topic. Dad’s parting words when I was ten were burned into my brain like a chop steak seared in a hot cast-iron pan. I had crouched on the landing above the living room, listening to them argue.
“Life isn’t all about dinner parties and recipes, Janet,” he’d said. “I always thought you’d find a career, develop your intellect and your interests. Not stay home permanently as a housewife.” His lips had curled in mild disgust. “We have nothing in common anymore.”
“We have Hayley,” Mom answered, and then begged him to give her another chance. But ten years of an unfulfilling marriage were enough for my father. He hadn’t wanted a stay-at-home wife. He’d expected my mom to challenge him—and herself—and contribute to the household. Once it became clear that his picture of marriage would not materialize, he wanted to move on while they were still young and had prospects of meeting someone more compatible. Soon after they split, he had met someone.
My mother spent the first few weeks without him in the local hospital’s psychiatry unit. No wonder I’d always felt like he could manage life without me in its center, but her? Unlikely. The highlight of Mom’s life seemed to be talking to me on Sunday evenings. We chatted a lot more often than that, but on Sundays Mom settled in her living room with a cup of tea and the phone to catch up on everything. Everything.
“Men are different animals,” said Miss Gloria, interrupting my thoughts. “They need a lot more support than we do. And compliments too. And the funny thing is, they don’t even realize it.” She clucked her tongue and set her empty glass on the table. “My Harry always thought he was looking after me, but in truth, it’s a good thing he went first.” She told a story about a time she’d been laid up after her son’s birth. Harry had flooded the laundry room and then started a fire in the oven when he’d tried to bake a casserole in a plastic container. “Three trucks responded and all those big fire department lugs came tromping through my kitchen. I knew I had to get up and take over or the house would be destroyed.”
I was embarrassed to realize I hadn’t imagined Miss Gloria as anything other than a senior citizen. Spunky, yes, but elderly all the same. I’d filed her away in the old lady slot in my mind, not thinking she’d been my age once, with big hopes and dreams for her life and her family.
“You should start dating someone, Janet,” Connie said.
“Whoa!” I said. “Ding, ding, ding. Major off-limits conversation alert!”
“Hayley’s father was one in a lifetime,” Mom said, sipping her wine and smiling at me. Then a funny expression crossed her face, which I took to mean subject closed.
“Awww,” said Miss Gloria. “That’s so romantic.”
And slightly pathetic, I thought, realizing yet one more time why establishing my career felt so important. A girl shouldn’t rely on a man to give her life meaning. “Soup’s on,” I said.
We moved to the card table we’d set up in Miss Gloria’s tiny galley. She’d covered the table with an old lace tablecloth, faded blue linen napkins, and the remnants of her good china. Mom ladled the stew over bowls of rice while I retrieved the cornmeal-cheddar scones I’d taken from the freezer and warmed in the oven. I took just a small taste of everything. At this point, I would have preferred to stay home, but I’d paid dearly for the special seven-course dinner offering at Louie’s Backyard. If I didn’t write it up, there would be no turning in the receipt to Key Zest and no restaurant review. And no insider buzz about the conference—or the murders—from the other diners.
Connie and Miss Gloria proclaimed the stew and the biscuits delicious.
“Better with fresh okra, if you can get it,” Mom said. “If you make this for your new husband, take care the sausage isn’t so strong it overwhelms the rest of the ingredients.” She waggled a finger at Connie and grinned. “I’ll write out some of my recipes for your trousseau. Never mind the fancy underwear.”
“How was the conference today?” Connie asked.
Mom and I exchanged glances. “Not great,” we said at the same time. The sickening vision of Yoshe King’s body splayed out on the boulders, drenched in seawater, rushed to mind. I sighed, and described our discovery.
“That’s horrible!” said Miss Gloria, then added, “Why didn’t you tell us right away?”
“There’s nothing to be done about it now,” said my mother. “I suppose we were resting from the day.” Connie leaned over and gave her a quick hug.
“Who’s killing the food critics of Key West? Wasn’t that a movie?” By now Miss Gloria sounded a little tipsy—I was sure her son would not approve.
“We shouldn’t assume the two deaths are related,” I said, standing up to clear the table and make room for Miss Gloria’s wiggly mold and a plate of cookies. “Or even that she was murdered.”
“If someone didn’t kill her, what happened?” asked Connie when I returned with bowls and spoons. I took a tiny taste of the mold to be polite.
“Delicious,” I told Miss Gloria with a smile. “The lady at her bed-and-breakfast wondered if she was a big drinker,” I said. “It’s possible that she got up on the railing for some reason and then slipped and fell. Or it could have been a suicide.”
“Is there any evidence for those possibilities?” Connie asked. “Sounds unlikely that she’d climb up on the railing, doesn’t it?”
“And she didn’t seem sad to me,” Mom said. “She was a marvelous chef and writer—at the height of her career.”
“So different on the outside from Jonah Barrows.” I described the highlights of what I’d read in his memoir earlier today—the rough upbringing, the lovers, the rivals, his sharp opinions about everything.
“They both had difficult upbringings, but for different reasons. Yoshe’s parents emigrated from China,” Mom said. “She took the legacy of that hard life, the heart of her Chinese family, and parlayed it into something truly memorable and universal.”
I got up to clear the table, stacking the bowls and carrying them to the sink.
“Don’t you have a dinner to get to?” Connie asked. “I’ll help with the dishes.”
“Never you mind. You’ll have enough of that as a married lady.” Mom stood up and squeezed her shoulders. “What are you wearing?” she asked me, her eyes lighting up like this might finally be the moment I’d emerge from my unfashionable cave and snag a husband myself.
“Basic black,” I said.
“At least borrow my chunky turquoise necklace,” she called after me as I disappeared into my—our—bedroom. “It will give your outfit a focal point.” As though she were an interior designer and I were the empty
room.
My phone rang as I was getting ready. Bill. “Have you talked any more to Eric?” he asked after a halfhearted stab at pleasantries.
“I tried,” I said, pulling a black T-shirt over my head and shaking out my hair. “Did he tell you I dropped by his office this morning?”
“He’s saying nothing,” Bill said.
I put my cell on speakerphone so I could fasten my earrings and apply a little mascara.
“He came home and took the dog out. I’d made a special dinner, but he hardly ate a thing. Said he had another, quote, migraine and went to bed in the guest room. But when I was at the dog park earlier today, one of the other small dog owners told me there’s a rumor circulating that Eric may have been the last person to see Jonah alive.”
“Who would even know enough to say that?”
“You don’t really need facts to make wild guesses on the Coconut Telegraph,” Bill said. “But why won’t he talk to me about any of this?”
It was hard to know how to reassure him because Eric’s behavior was so far out of character. “Call me the minute you hear anything,” I told him. “We’re here for you.” I made a smooching noise and signed off.
I kissed Mom and Connie and Miss Gloria and gathered my helmet, purse, and a little notebook. I needed to keep my eye on my career ball and not get entirely distracted by the world going to pieces around me. Connie followed me out to the dock.
“I hope you’re okay with me and Ray,” she said shyly. Since Chad dumped me last fall, she’d heard me moan about my single state as a slew of our college friends announced sequential engagements over the holidays.
“Of course I am!” I flung my arms around her. “I couldn’t be happier.”
She grinned, looking mischievous. “’Cause I want you to be my maid of honor. It’ll be a small wedding and very casual,” she added quickly. “Flip-flops on the beach at Fort Zachary Taylor Park.”
“Phew,” I said. “No pouffy pink bridesmaid gown that makes my butt look like an anvil? It would be an honor.”
She started up the finger toward her houseboat and then came a few steps back. “I heard something from Ray about Bransford. He heard it from one of the other artists at the Studios of Key West. It might explain why you’re finding him a little prickly. I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to know.”
I nodded, my heart sinking. He had another girlfriend? A wife? A man friend? “Definitely. Secrets are toxic.” Per Eric, who was now apparently keeping a whopper.
“Bransford was married when he started out as a rookie cop in Miami. They had a particularly ugly divorce—they had to go to court to get it resolved.”
“That’s brutal. Who was the unreasonable party?”
Connie shrugged. “Unclear. After that, he moved down here to the island. Ray suspects he’s never really gotten close to a woman since. So be forewarned.”
Another mantra from Eric: All of us are wounded somehow in the course of our lives. But some of us are better than others at licking those wounds and rebounding.
13
Who goes after her lover with a paring knife? She was completely unbalanced. She did teach me how to cook.
—Allegra Goodman
Connie’s news about Detective Bransford’s disastrous romantic past swirled through my brain as I raced across the island, late for the fancy foodie dinner. How did a person establish a normal relationship after a lousy divorce? My own father had managed it, my mother not so much. Where did you find the optimism to start over? Was I the first woman Bransford considered dating since he split from his ex?
More likely, seeing as how he was handsome, accomplished, and single, he’d made other forays. And maybe gotten derailed by his memories and the knowledge of what could be lost, and how much he had paid emotionally by getting close. Maybe like my father, he was resigned to paying alimony for life. Which I had to admit had always bothered me a little about my mother.
Or maybe I was overreading everything. Maybe the whole theory was bull-hooey.
As I approached the ocean side of the island, I could hear the waves rolling in, and the grace notes above that—tinkling glasses and laughing guests. Louie’s Backyard appeared down the block, a pink-sided building with white trim and white lights wound around the small property’s palm trees. I parked, removed my helmet, finger-combed my hair, and then went inside, feeling flutters of anxiety about the night ahead.
A slender hostess with almond-shaped eyes and a deep tan directed me up the stairs to the outside deck. The second floor opened over the restaurant below, which was dotted with green umbrellas, its weathered wooden furniture packed with diners. To the right of the bottom floor, a woman with three black dogs threw tennis balls into the dark sea off a tiny beach. I could hear the splash as the dogs burst through the surface of the water and then barely make out the black dots of their heads as they swam. I’d seen this view before, but still it was glorious—one hundred eighty degrees of Atlantic Ocean. The lights of the White Street Pier sparkled off in the distance, marking the sad terrain of the AIDS memorial. Key West had been hit hard by that pandemic.
Five tables seating eight had been laid out perpendicular to the water. As the wind died down to a whisper, the voices eddied louder. I picked out the deep bass of Dustin Fredericks, Olivia Nethercut’s husky alto, and Sigrid’s piercing soprano. There was no way to judge how much these folks tended to drink at a social gathering, but most of the dinner party appeared to be on their way to sloshed. And maybe to be fair, the drinking was a by-product of two deaths in one weekend. Certainly my head was throbbing with all I’d seen and heard.
A black-haired waiter offered me a flute of champagne and I floated to the nearest group of guests, none of whom I knew. It didn’t take long to realize that two writers were dominating the conversation, still playing to their conference audience, telling funny stories about food in their lives. But the anecdotes felt brittle and flat and the attention of the listeners was drifting.
I moved on to another cluster of guests, including Olivia and Sigrid, where the talk was all about Yoshe’s death. It sounded like many of them had squirmed under Bransford’s crime-fighting microscope today. His questions seemed to have centered on whether her friends and associates would have described her as depressed or morose. Did she have any personal problems they were aware of? In other words, did she take her own life?
A tall blond woman clinked a fork against her water glass and asked us to take our seats. I found my place in the middle of the second table, identified by a name tag written in fancy calligraphy. Olivia Nethercut took the seat beside me, offering a quick smile that gave the impression she still had no idea who I was. Dustin remained standing as the blonde clanged her glass again.
“I’m pleased to introduce Christine Russell, who will be your hostess this evening,” he explained. “We are delighted that you chose to partake in one of our special dinners. I wish I could stay because the menu looks incredible.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, duty calls and I must make appearances at the other dinners taking place around the town tonight. Bon appétit!”
“Thank you,” Christine said as he left the room. “We’ll be enjoying a pairing of wine with each course of dinner. These wines hail from the Dennis Jensen Vineyard, down the road from Solvang, California, a town most famous for the movie Sideways. After tonight, I trust you’ll remember our wines rather than the movie.” She waited for the polite laughter from the guests to die down. “I’ll describe each of them as the night progresses, leaving time to answer any of the questions I’ve neglected to cover.”
I groaned inside. I could listen to descriptions of food forever, but someone droning on about how long a wine sat in a cherry-flavored oak barrel shaped like a mushroom bored me to weeping.
“Boring,” said Olivia, snorting softly. She unfolded a white napkin edged in white crochet and spread it across her purple pants.
“I’m Hayley Snow. We met in Santiago’s Bodega?” I said, not wanting to go through the em
barrassment of having her fail to recognize me. Again.
“Of course,” she said, vague recognition finally crossing her face. “I’m so upset about the news of poor Yoshe—my synapses just aren’t firing clearly. One day we’re having a lovely time visiting a tropical island and the next—two of my colleagues are dead.” She chopped a finger across her neck, shiny pink nails flashing, nearly knocking over my wineglass at the finish. “I can hardly think or talk about anything else.”
“Horrible,” I agreed, noticing her struggle to keep her lips from quivering. “Did you know her well?”
“All of us food writers are on the speaking engagement circuit together,” she said.
“There’s a food writers’ circuit?” I asked.
Olivia nodded. “A group of us were at the Greenbrier last fall—not Jonah, of course—he would have been too big for something like that.” She made air quotes with her fingers around “too big.” “I had the most heavenly spa treatment involving a salt rub and a big hose. But anyway, don’t let me drone on about that silliness. The point is, we know one another. As much as you can know someone from watching them yakking onstage or drinking coffee in the greenroom before an event or wine in the bar after.”
She paused. Maybe realizing her description was on the harsh side?
“Yoshe was an exceptionally talented cook and writer. Not in the realm of Julia Child or Jonah Barrows, but definitely top tier. It would seem she had a lot to live for, but one never really knows….” She cocked her head. “I haven’t seen you around much.”
“I’m very new to this business,” I admitted. “I was hired as Key Zest’s food critic right before the holidays, so I’m still getting up to speed. It’s been amazing to spend the weekend with all of you guys.” I swallowed my last half inch of champagne, hoping I wasn’t chattering stupidly with anxiety and especially wishing I’d quit mentioning my neophyte status.
“So you didn’t know Miss King?”
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 12
