“Uh-huh.” I was about to tell her that even if I saw Bransford this week, the chances of our discussing her intentions toward the dead woman were minuscule, when I heard Danielle come into the office. Then came Wally’s whistle, calling the meeting to order. “Gotta go,” I said, and hung up quickly.
Danielle looked worse than I’d ever seen her. Blond hair uncombed and greasy, bags gray like ashes under her eyes, and worst of all, a pair of faded, stained, aqua-colored sweatpants that I wouldn’t have worn in my own bedroom. Not that I was looking my best either at this very moment, but Danielle prided herself on her grooming. Adorable outfits, perfect makeup, and not a hair out of place—she’d gotten only more meticulous running for queen. She was blathering apologies to Palamina about her tardiness as I came into her office.
“Are you feeling any better?” I asked as I took a seat, wiggling my eyebrows as a signal to slow down. I put both hands on my upper chest and demonstrated taking a huge breath, my shoulders rising and then releasing along with the air I’d taken in.
Danielle took a shallow breath that I doubted would help one bit. “Not really. A little. I’ll survive. We have a lot to do today, right?”
“Correct.” Palamina drummed long purple fingernails on her desk. “I’ve written my piece on the press conference, though they didn’t give us much to work with. And done a follow-up call with Lieutenant Torrence.” She glanced at me. “I don’t know how you get anything out of him. With me, he was closed up like a sick oyster.”
I bit my lip to keep from snickering out loud. He would not appreciate that description, though he’d probably admit he hated getting grilled about police matters by outsider journalists desperate for headlines. “Lots of chocolate,” I said. “That’s the best way to grease his skids.”
Wally winked behind her back. “Next time, maybe put Hayley on it. She’s been massaging her relationship with the PD since she arrived on the island. It’s like everything around here. You’re not considered ‘local’ until you’ve been here a couple of decades.”
“Massaging?” I grimaced. “That’s an unfortunate description. How about refining or improving or developing? Sheesh.” I took my own shallow breath. “On the food front, I should have the takeout piece ready later today. Chef Grant made me an amazing breakfast sandwich this morning, and I have the section on Garbo’s Grill ready to roll. And I finished the zombie bike ride piece yesterday. It’s short because of the tragedy, okay? It didn’t seem right that that story should make a big splash right now.”
Palamina nodded, looked at the list on her iPad and then back at me. “And you’re attending and reporting on the pet masquerade this evening. Can you get that to me before nine-ish?”
“Um, sure.” I’d forgotten all about that, but I knew my mother would be happy to attend, and probably Sam too.
“Wally’s finishing up with our advertisers, so that’s under control. Danielle, I’d like to have you work on the layout today so we can make sure it’s good to go in the morning.”
“I’ll do that, no problem,” said Danielle. “And I’m so sorry about being late.” Her eyes were glassy and her lips quivered like tomato aspic.
Palamina’s eyes narrowed and she stared Danielle down. “Speaking of the press conference, I heard a few rumors that you might be a suspect. Do I need to point out how crucial it is that you keep the rest of us apprised? We can’t afford a conflict of interest if we’re reporting on the story. Not even a whiff.”
“Look,” I said, “if Danielle was a serious suspect, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be in the county jail. And your concern would be a moot point.”
Wally nodded. “And who is going to put the e-zine together if we send Danielle home? I completely trust that she’ll let us know what we need to know.” He put his hand on Danielle’s shoulder and stared back at Palamina.
“Okay. That’s all I’ve got for now,” said Palamina after a minute of silence.
“Come on back to my office,” I said to Danielle. “I’ll show you what I have for photos so you have a general idea for the layout.” Which she didn’t need—she could lay out a magazine issue in her sleep, but I was afraid she’d melt down in the front office if I didn’t do an intervention.
She trailed me down the hallway and burst into tears once I’d shut my door behind us. “What in the world did Bransford think was on your costume?” I hissed.
“Honest to gosh, they think I killed that woman,” she sniffled. “If I had any idea that this stupid contest would end up getting me involved in a murder case, I never would have signed up. No matter how much money I raised for AIDS Help.”
“Did he actually say you are a suspect? Because like I said to Palamina, if they really had any decent evidence, you wouldn’t be sitting here looking like yesterday’s leftovers. You’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit.” I felt as though I needed to be definite and stern with her or she’d reel out of orbit and never come back. I handed her a tissue. She wiped her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ears.
“They keep making me go over the story, as if I’ll tell the truth the second, third, fourth, fifth time through. I told him everything I knew the first time around. Druckman was unpleasant to the point of cruel, but it never occurred to me to hurt her. And besides, I won that silly contest. Wouldn’t it make more sense to knock her off if I’d been desperate for the crown, but she’d won, and I could then step in and take over?” Danielle sat up and straightened her shoulders. “And besides that, how the heck was I going to kill the woman when I was at the front of the bike parade? What, did I poison her and spill the substance on my outfit? Are they stupid?”
“Not so much stupid. Dogged,” I said. “That’s more like it. And you could have given her some kind of long-acting poison and then moved on past her.”
Suddenly she focused on me, looking me up and down as if noticing my appearance for the first time. “It’s like it’s casual Friday around here. Or sloppy Friday, anyway. Except for the big boss.”
I laughed. “We both look like something the garbage men left behind. Next stop for me is the houseboat to take a shower.”
“What am I going to do about this murder suspect business?” she asked, her face getting pink and her lower lip quivering. “You can say everything you want about how their questions are standard procedure, but you didn’t see the look in your boyfriend’s eyes when they put my stuff in the evidence bag. He thinks I did it. And I really, really need your help.” Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill over.
I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Look, first of all, you should talk to a lawyer. Call Eric; he can tell you who to use. And then you’ve got to pull yourself together and set up the magazine. Go on about your business as usual. I’ll get my article to you ASAP. And then I’m going to talk to Seymour and see if he noticed anything the day of the bike ride.” A sudden thought struck me. “Aren’t you supposed to reign over the pet masquerade contest tonight?”
Now the tears gushed down her cheeks. “I don’t think I can handle any more publicity,” she said. “If Palamina’s heard rumors—and, trust me, no one tells her anything—imagine what’s really circulating around town.”
I squeezed her shoulders again. “You can do this. Think sticks and stones. Get your work done, and then go home and get beautiful. I’ll meet you at the Casa Marina at five. My mother wanted to go anyway. We’ll figure it out, okay?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Okay?” I asked again. “It will look a lot worse if you don’t show up.”
17
We say grace and then we Instagram and then we eat.
—Overheard in a cupcake shop in Adelaide, Australia
As I parked my scooter in the Tarpon Pier lot, a gust of wind blew up, nearly knocking it over. I set the kickstand, glancing at the sky. Except for the super-humidity, it looked like a perfect day. Blue sky, light breeze, with only the occasional gust. On the far eastern horizon I did spot a small mass of gray clouds.
&nb
sp; Hearing the unexpected roar of a big boat engine up our finger, I broke into a trot. As I reached our houseboat, I saw where the noise was coming from. The Renharts’ boat was now connected to a small tug, smaller than the size of their home. The lines securing the houseboat had been untied from the dock. As the tug backed away, churning the water behind it and spewing clouds of black diesel, their houseboat pulled out of its slip.
Mrs. Renhart was out on the deck in a lawn chair clutching the elderly black cat. Dinkels, I thought was its name. Schnootie the schnauzer ran back and forth across the deck barking like a maniac. Jack, the long-haired gray cat, peered out of the galley window, probably wondering what the heck he’d gotten into.
“We’ll see you next week, after the storm passes through,” Mrs. Renhart yelled over the noise of the engine and the schnauzer. “I think he’s overreacting, but Mr. Renhart insisted.” She buried her face in the cat’s fur. “Be safe,” she called out.
“We will!” I hollered back. “See you in a couple of days, I hope.”
The engine revved up louder, and she shouted something else that I couldn’t make out clearly, but it sounded like Instagram. I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the boat, then posted this to my Instagram account, adding the tags #goodneighbors and #roadtrip and #KeyWest in the text box. And then I tagged her account. Whether Mr. Renhart was right or wrong about the storm, the sight of their boat steaming toward the cut that would release them from the safe confines of the Garrison Bight to the Gulf of Mexico freaked me out. What if the big one was really coming?
Connie emerged from the cabin of their boat with baby Clare perched in a carrier on her back. Clare gurgled and smiled. “Say hi to Auntie Hayley,” Connie said in a singsong voice and waggled the baby’s hand into a wave. “She’s the one who gave you those sweet Babar books, signed by the author himself. And you can touch the pages when you turn twenty-one. Wearing gloves.”
I burst out laughing. “They aren’t that valuable. Maybe if they had been signed by the original de Brunhoff. Can you believe that the Renharts have bolted out of town?”
Connie’s face fell. “I was just coming down to tell you. We’re leaving too.”
Then I noticed that all her gorgeous tropical plants—including the mini lime tree and an old fig she was desperately protective of—had been moved off their deck.
“Ray thinks I’m crazy,” she said. Then shrugged. “It’s just nothing’s the same with a baby. I can’t bear the thought of taking a risk that might put her in danger. So we’ve rented a condo in Orlando for a couple of days. We’ll see Disney. I’ve never been to Harry Potter World in Universal Studios. And this way, when Clare agitates to visit Mickey Mouse because all the other kids are going, I can tell her she’s already been. And I’ll have pictures to prove it.”
She looked as if she was going to cry, so I pulled her into a hug. “I understand; life feels different with a baby to protect.”
“Ray’s going to tie some extra lines on the boat and we’re packing up some things—mostly hers.” She patted Clare’s plump little arm. “And we’ll call you along the way. The condo has two bedrooms,” she added. “You’d be welcome.”
“Hmmm, two cats, Miss Gloria, my mother, Sam, and me, all in one bedroom? I think we’ll take our chances. But keep me posted and I’ll do the same.” I hugged her again and kissed the baby’s forehead, then returned to my home.
Inside our boat, Miss Gloria had the Weather Channel running, the volume jacked up high. “Too many variables still exist for us to be able to accurately predict how strong Tropical Storm Margaret may get or whether it will become a hurricane,” said the weatherman. “Florida residents and visitors should continue to monitor local news for further instructions, ensure disaster supply kits are fully stocked, and prepare to evacuate in the event that the intensity of the storm increases.”
“You’ve been through a lot more storm scares than I have,” I said. “Do you think it’s time to clear out?”
“Mr. Renhart is no sailor, I know that much,” she said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t judge by his choices.”
“Wonder why he paid for a tug?” I said. “Surely his houseboat has a motor.”
“It might take him a year to get to Fort Myers that way. A tug’s a lot more powerful. I just hope he had the sense to hire someone who knows what he’s doing. Supposing they get out to sea and the storm changes direction and, instead of coming here, it bears down on them right where they’re headed? There would be not so much as a splinter of that houseboat left over. And to take his wife and those poor animals on the boat while it’s towed? And all the money he’s spending? I think he’s crazy. Completely bonkers. We’re right as rain right here.”
I nodded, feeling somewhat reassured, and fired up my computer. First I checked my messages and my social media feeds. Mrs. Renhart’s houseboat already had seven likes on Instagram. I thought she would be pleased with that early response.
I polished the opening of my takeout article, added Grant’s breakfast sandwich, and decided the whole thing looked a little thin. I called my mother. “You guys are going to the pet masquerade affair tonight, right? Might you want to try out the Polish food place on White Street? I need another venue for my takeout piece. I don’t know what they’re serving at the pet event, but in case it’s only dog biscuits, we’d be fortified.”
My mother laughed like mad and went to ask Sam. “We could both use a lighthearted night,” she said when back on the phone. “Sam says I’m driving him to drink, trying cakes. Chef Martha from Louie’s says we can bring in whatever we want. But Sam says you make a better cake than anything we’ve tasted so far, and he’s beginning to think—again—that I’m sublimating my fears about getting married.”
“Are you?” I asked. And then before she could answer, I added: “And I know this is where I should be silent and let you talk, but if you let this guy get away, you’ll be sorry for the rest of your life. And so will I.”
My mother heaved a great big sigh. “I know you’re right, honey. I’ve only got a few mini jitters.”
We made a plan to meet at the Pierogi Polish Market on White Street at four o’clock, and I went inside to take a shower. Still no message or call from Bransford. When would I find a man as nice and straightforward as my mother’s Sam? I hoped I wasn’t headed for a series of bad choices that were still related to emotional baggage that I thought I’d shed after first Chad and then Wally dumped me.
Once I was dressed and ready, I had a quick snack of a tiny sliver of strawberry cake and sat down to make a list of what I’d learned about the murder. Maybe if I got organized, I could figure out whether there were things I’d overlooked. Danielle clearly wasn’t capable of doing this by herself. I divided this into two sections, What I Knew and What I Didn’t Know.
—WIK. Caryn Druckman was an unpleasant, pushy woman who desperately wanted to win the position of Fantasy Fest Queen. WIDK. But why did it matter quite so much? Why was she willing to get into public fisticuffs with Danielle?
—WIK. The person painted with amateur zebra stripes was somehow of interest to the police. Or had been earlier. Which led me to the next point …
—WIDK. If Druckman had been murdered by poison, was it something she ate or drank at the zombie party? If so, how did the poisoner manage to target only her? And was it possible that Danielle was meant to die? And why did Danielle’s relatives care quite so much about her winning the crown? And why in the world were the cops interested in her zombie costume?
I was relieved when my alarm went off, telling me it was time for supper, and pets and their owners dressed in silly costumes.
18
Chefs and avid eaters scorned anything that might qualify as health food, which by the standards of the time included any vegetable cooked without bacon.
But as Freud knew, repressed urges find ways of bobbing to the surface again.
—Pete Wells, “Performing a Healthy Twist in Tight Quarters,” The New York Times, July 2
9, 2015
My mother and Sam were waiting on the wide covered porch of the two-storied home that serves as the customer service area of the delicatessen. Two enormous menus were posted on the outside wall next to the sash windows of the old house.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mom said. “The longer we stand in front of the menu, the more this guy wants to order.” She put her arm around Sam’s waist and smiled up at him, patting the slight round of his belly at the same time. So sweet together, the two of them.
After a quick consultation on their suggestions, I ordered potato cheese pierogi, another order of the dumplings stuffed with meat, and a third set with a sauerkraut filling. Then I added a side of beet salad, a kielbasa sandwich, and a last-minute addition of hunter’s stew.
“You could feed the whole island with that order,” Sam said, and sat on a wooden bench on the porch, the only seating available for eating “in.” He winked at my mother. “See, I’m not the only person who orders big. I’ll wait here and watch the world go by while you girls look around in the shop.”
My mother and I went into the little market to peruse their merchandise. We drooled over colorful jars of pickles, beets, chocolate, cookies, spices, and other items identified only in Polish, and then studied the meat counter that showcased pounds and pounds of glistening sausages, pork chops, and chickens so fresh they looked as though they’d just wandered off the street. When we returned to the porch, Sam was sipping a Polish beer.
“This is kind of a relief after spending the afternoon on Duval Street,” he said. “Not nearly so frenetic.”
“What’s new in your world?” Mom asked me.
Where should I start? “Danielle is upset because the cops came to question her again.”
Killer Takeout Page 12
