I tapped my fingers furiously on the coffee table. The computer was up and running. I’d already looked through Mom’s photo stream. As worried as I was feeling, it didn’t seem like that much of a stretch to check her e-mail. I found the Gmail icon in her sidebar, clicked on it, and typed in her password: HayleyMills. A string of messages came up on the screen. I scrolled down until I reached the ones that she had opened earlier today, including one from the new boyfriend, Sam. About your inquiry, the subject line read.
Greetings from the frozen tundra of New Jersey! Sorry to hear about the trouble at your conference but delighted that you are savoring your time with your daughter. She sounds lovely and I look forward to meeting her! If she’s anything like you, I know I will enjoy her.
You asked for my thoughts about what it might take to obtain financing for a fast food restaurant franchise. Does the founding chef/owner have a connection to Key West food? An impeccable reputation and hopefully name recognition, at least in the food world if not the general public? I would certainly ask those questions. But most important of all would be personal business finances. Impeccable records for any projects in progress or in the past—essential.
And I checked the status of the food foundation in my charity rating guide. They have not provided their annual report or their audited financial statements as requested and they appear to have a rather high percentage of donations spent on fund-raising versus their charitable activities.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table. Incoming call from my mother. I snatched it up and pressed Accept. “Mom, where the heck have you been?”
She spoke in a low, raspy voice, almost whispering so I could barely make out the words. “Followed her….tall building … near the harbor.” And then the connection went dead.
22
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
—Mario Puzo, The Godfather
I tried calling her number again but got shunted straight to her voice mail. I left a rather screechy message:
“Mom, I’m worried. Call me!”
Strands of panic unspooled as I imagined with more and more certainty that my mother had followed the killer—or someone she thought was the killer—somewhere. I gulped some air to try to calm myself down, searching for something positive to cling to. The only good news I could come up with was Lorenzo’s reading. In Mom’s cards, he had uncovered no devils, no death, no tower, no bad news whatsoever. And his interpretation was one hundred percent upbeat and entirely benign. She had to be okay.
Not so with my reading, in which the tower had appeared front and center—a tumbling free fall with no safety net. My teeth began to chatter, as a gruesome run of possibilities flashed through my brain like a slide show on steroids.
Think, Hayley.
I was pretty sure she’d said “tall building.” There weren’t many of them in Key West. But it still could take hours to drive around aimlessly, searching their grounds for the dang pink scooter. Silly, fruitless idea, but what else did I have?
Then I thought of Cory Held. She knew the real estate on the island like her backyard. I hurtled the length of the dock, leaped onto my scooter and screeched down Southard Street, and pulled the bike up onto its stand. Then I ran into the real estate office and pounded on Cory’s door, brooding over how to impress on her that my mother was in danger without revealing that my instincts were based on a seven-word phone call and a tarot card reading.
“Come in!” she called, and looked up from her computer as I burst into the office. “You’re working some long hours today.” Then she took a second look. “What’s wrong? You don’t look good.”
My lips quivered, all my reasonable ideas about how to approach her evaporating. “My mother’s missing,” I said. “And I’m almost sure this is related to the two murders this weekend. She called me, but she got cut off.” I described the few words I’d been able to make out. “She’s in danger—I know it.”
“I’ll call the police,” Cory said firmly. “I know the chief quite well. I sold him a home on Frances Street this summer.” She reached for her cell phone and began to thumb through her directory.
“The cops know,” I said. “I was over at the station earlier. I hoped you might be able to help me think about the tall buildings in town. Anything near the water.”
“Near the water?” she said, looking puzzled. Looking like she suspected I’d lost my marbles.
I just nodded, rather than try to explain. “Please.”
She shrugged and sat back in her chair. “The lighthouse would be most obvious. I’m sure you’ve seen it—on Whitehead Street across from Hemingway’s home.”
“But on a Sunday afternoon, that would be open to the public, right?”
Cory nodded.
“So there wouldn’t be anywhere to hide. What else?”
She began to scribble a list on a pad of paper. “Here’s what comes to mind. The Beach Club Condos on Atlantic Boulevard along the ocean—in fact, there are a number of multistory condos and apartments and a couple of hotels on Atlantic. Then La Concha Hotel on Duval Street—I’m sure you know that one, though it’s a little ways inland. And the Steamplant Condominiums down by the ferry docks. Maybe the former Waterfront Market building? That’s right on the harbor—it’s painted with sea life murals. You can’t miss it.”
I felt a sizzle of recognition at the mention of the Waterfront Market—this would be exactly the kind of abandoned building where someone could disappear. “Is it being used for anything now?”
Cory shook her head and frowned. “They’ve had trouble finding a tenant. Though there’s a rumor about a brewery.” She ripped the paper off the pad and pushed the list across the desk. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Chief Barnes?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m going to buzz around town just once and see if she turns up.” I waved the paper. “Thanks for this.”
“Call if you need me.” She handed me a business card, which I stuffed into my back pocket as I hurried out of the office. I would start with the former Waterfront Market grocery store, which according to Cory had been empty for several years. Minutes later, I pulled up in front of the hulking concrete building, located in between B.O.’s Fishwagon and the harbor. The fine scent of fried fish and grilled hamburgers and onions drifted over from the restaurant, causing me a sharp pang of hunger. I zipped through the parking lot, looking for Mom’s scooter, but found nothing.
The Waterfront Market had been constructed three stories high of concrete, with no windows other than the double glass doors at the entrance. But the exterior was painted with über-life-sized colorful renderings of undersea scenes—leaping porpoises, lurking sharks, slapping skates, all topped with a colorful sunset just below the flat roof. Despite its cheerful exterior, the building was abandoned and spooky—the perfect place to stash a prisoner.
I parked my bike, dashed up the steps, and peered through the glass doors. Only the ghostly bones of shelving and checkout counters remained from what I’d heard had been the best place on the island to buy organic goods, fish, meat, and produce before the store went belly-up. I dropped to a crouch, looking for new footprints in the thick coating of dust on the floor, but spotted no signs of recent activity.
Circling around to the rear of the building, I tiptoed along the alley behind the market until I reached the Dumpsters, which still smelled faintly of old fish and rotted garbage. A figure wrapped in a blue plastic tarp was tucked behind the last bin. My pulse began to pound furiously and I could hardly breathe. Should I call the cops right now? I couldn’t stand to wait. My hands clammy with perspiration and my heart leaping in my chest, I edged closer. If this turned out to be my mother’s body, how would I bear it? But I had to know.
Using a dried palm frond so I wouldn’t contaminate the scene, I eased back a flap of the blue plastic, exposing the face of a weathered-looking man with a scruffy beard. He opened one watery gray eye and blinked. “What the hell?”
“So sorry,” I said, d
ropping the tarp over his face and backpedaling to the parking lot. The abrupt surge and retreat of adrenaline left me weak and damp. I perched on my scooter for a few minutes to catch my breath and regroup.
The next nearest building on Cory’s list would be the luxury Steamplant Condominiums near the ferry docks. I zipped up Caroline Street, seriously tempted to refuel at the Cuban Coffee Queen. But if Mom was in danger, I couldn’t afford to waste precious minutes. As I drew closer to the docks, a huge ferry disgorged a mob of passengers—day-trippers and weekend visitors from Fort Myers. I paused by the gate, searching the crowd for the familiar face of my mother. No luck. When the crowd had thinned, carried away in taxis and pedicabs, or pulling their wheeled luggage behind them, I crossed the street to the Steamplant Condominiums.
These condos had been developed in a gorgeous old art deco building tucked between the school bus depot and some new fair housing apartments. I’d seen several real estate open houses listed lately in the Citizen, touting big price reductions. Sales must be slumping.
Of a dozen parking spaces around the building, only two were occupied, one by a sports car wrapped in a protective tarp like the homeless man I’d disturbed earlier. And the other by a blue truck with rolls of carpet stashed in the bed. But then I spotted a glint of pink metal in the bushes at the far end of the complex. My heart drummed faster and my hands slicked up again as I trotted over to check it out. A pink scooter identical to the one my mother had rented had fallen over into the sea grapes near the back wall.
I combed my fingers through my hair, trying to formulate a story and gather myself into something presentable—something more publicly acceptable than a crazed, fortune-teller-driven madwoman with a misplaced relative. Then I circled the building, leaning hard on the doorbells to each condominium. Through the glass doors, I could see the elaborate designs in the tiled floors and enormous frescoes on the walls. But the bells echoed in each empty foyer. No one answered.
I thumbed through my iPhone for recent contacts until I found Dustin’s number, which he’d given me yesterday to keep him informed as Mom and I set out in search of Yoshe. On the second ring he barked, “Who is this?”
“It’s Hayley Snow,” I said, my voice high and tight. “I need you to tell me if one of the speakers from the food writing conference is staying at the Steamplant Condominium complex. This is not negotiable,” I added. “My mother is missing and I’m afraid she’s being held hostage by the person who killed Jonah and possibly even Yoshe. I found her pink scooter in the shrubbery.”
“Ridiculous,” said Dustin. “She—”
I cut him dead. “Don’t even start. If something happens to my mother and you failed to tell me what you know, I swear I’ll make sure you never work at a literary conference again. I swear I’ll e-mail every person on your board of directors and tell them you refused to help a dying woman.” An empty threat if I’d ever made one, but I had no leverage other than histrionics.
After a long pause, Dustin said, “We did have some local folks offer to put a few of our guests up for the weekend. Let me think.” In the background, I could hear the hum of voices in the bookstore and the clang of the cash register. “Olivia Nethercut was invited to stay in one of those apartments by a patron who has her place up for sale. The patron was besotted with Olivia’s books, and also a very generous donor to Olivia’s foundation. That’s all I can think of.”
Olivia? Of course. I’d run into her in the ladies’ restroom right around the time Jonah’s murder occurred. But I’d never thought of her seriously as a suspect—she acted normal enough. And Sigrid had been there at the same time. And I’d been too starstruck to question her integrity. And maybe this new theory was totally off base; maybe my mother was just visiting with her, gathering her thoughts about the conference personalities and looking for ways to explain Jonah’s murder.
“Could you phone the apartment owner for me?” I begged. “It’s possible that she was involved in the murders this weekend.”
“That’s completely absurd,” Dustin said. “What am I supposed to say to her? Did Miss Nethercut happen to hide any bodies in your condominium? Obviously, Olivia Nethercut has nothing to do with your mother’s whereabouts.”
“What about the pink scooter that I found abandoned in the bushes?”
“How many of those do you think there are in this town?”
He was right. In fact, the man who’d rented Mom’s scooter had told her he’d had a run on pink. Dustin hung up before I could ask anything else.
Then I flashed on Cory Held’s postcard lying on Miss Gloria’s kitchen counter, and scrounged in my pockets until I found her business card. Chances were if I said Dustin wouldn’t help me, she’d be on my side in an instant. So I called her, trying to sound calm and authoritative and not like I was in a full-blown mental-patient panic.
“I found my mother’s scooter,” I said when she answered. “At the Steamplant Condos. Does the name Olivia Nethercut mean anything to you? She’s supposed to be staying at one of these condos and it’s on the market.”
Cory put me on hold while she paged through her notes. I paced over to the pink scooter while I waited, this time noticing that the pink helmet Mom rented along with it was buried farther back in the bushes. “Let’s go!” I muttered.
Finally she came back on the line. “Jean Nee has a guest from the conference staying at her place this weekend, but we were told absolutely no showings while she’s here.”
“It wouldn’t be a showing, technically,” I said. “Could you possibly get me in? If we don’t see any sign of my mother, I swear I’ll call the cops. Again.”
23
Every card in the deck is about progress toward a happy end.
—Jane Stern
I paced the premises until Cory drove up in her ice blue BMW and hopped out, holding a large ring of keys. “This afternoon, I only, have access to one of the townhomes out of the nineteen in this complex,” she said in a cheerful voice. “I can definitely make appointments for some of the others that are on the market, if you decide you like the location. I just need a little bit of notice to contact the listing agents.” And then under her breath she added, “I could lose my license over this.”
I grabbed the hand without the keys and squeezed. “Thank you so much for helping.”
“This unit is not officially on the market,” Cory said in her normal voice, “but I have a pocket listing, so I’m authorized to show it to interested buyers. If you won’t need this much space, the lofts, of course, have smaller footprints. But they all have the same floor-to-ceiling windows and amazing views from the rooftop terraces. And hot tubs besides, with wiring for your future outdoor kitchen.”
I started to protest that I wasn’t in the market for a luxury condominium at all, but she winked and smiled, and I shut up.
“Each unit has its own elevator from the secure garage and this foyer,” she said as we walked into an enormous space tiled in pale marble with a rectangular black inset.
“What is this used for?” I asked, my eyes goggling, though I was in no mood to really appreciate the grandeur.
She shrugged and said, “It makes a sumptuous entrance, doesn’t it?” Her heels clacked on the shiny floor as she headed toward the elevator. “This particular condominium townhome is almost five thousand square feet with three bedrooms, three and a half baths. The owner is having her hip replaced in New York and we don’t expect her back in town for several weeks at least. Although she was entertaining a few guests over this period of time, she’s very eager to talk with serious prospects. Shall we start at the top and work down?”
“Do we have to take the elevator?” I asked, palms suddenly damp all over again. “I’m not good with them. A little quirk passed down in my genetic code.” No need to tell her that a ride on a Macy’s elevator was the setting for my mother’s one and only breakdown when I was a kid. It happened just after my father moved out and I’d gone shopping with her that morning; I’d never forget her
sinking to her knees and scratching at the elevator door, keening with terror.
“It’s a quick trip,” Cory said briskly. “Brand-new mechanicals. Each home has its own elevator.”
She herded me into the compartment and as we rode to the top floor, she chatted about the cherrywood floors, the Travertine marble, the granite countertops in the laundry room, and the fourteen-foot ceilings. All of which helped distract me from the fact that I was riding in a tiny silver box, not much bigger than one of the family crypts in the local cemetery.
The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open to the rooftop—more a plaza than a deck. Spread out before us was an astonishing 360-degree view of the island, boats bobbing in the harbor on the right and a sea of palm trees and roofs to the left. One quick turnaround showed the space to be empty except for a grouping of teak lounge chairs, a covered hot tub, and an expensive-looking grill. I approached the hot tub, feeling anxious, and stood there a few minutes. Finally I lifted the lid and peeked under, terrified that I’d see my mother’s body bobbed about by the pulsing jets.
But the spa contained only water. I patted my chest and took some shallow breaths.
“All set?” Cory asked, looking concerned.
“All set.” I mustered a smile.
Back on the elevator, we rode down one floor, my muscles knotting with each second that passed. If my hunch was off the mark, and my mother wasn’t here, we were wasting time that she might need. And I was absolutely blank about what to try next.
“Yoo-hoo. Anyone home?” Cory called as we stepped out of the car into the hallway. No answer.
Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 20
