“To Grant,” I said. “I should go back and talk to him again.”
She looked puzzled.
“Grant Monsarrat. He’s the new owner of the pub, right? He was working at the food truck too.”
Christy dished up ice cream for the customer behind me, then returned to our conversation. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think Grant bought it. I could swear it was a woman.”
“I’m sure it’s him,” I said. “I talked with him and his girlfriend this morning. She’s already redecorating the front of the house, and they seem to have put a lot of money into the kitchen. The front of the house still looks a little shopworn, but I’m thrilled they’re starting with a clean kitchen.”
“Terrific,” she said. “I love to try new places.”
The people behind me in line had begun to grumble about how I was blocking the cart. “I’ll talk to you later,” I said. “Have a great night.”
I wandered past the man who plays guitar, and sings badly, and then sends his dog around to pick up tips and put them in a bucket. Not my idea of a skilled performer. A little farther along the pier, I waited for Lorenzo to finish up with his customer, a large woman in an orange shirt with a dachshund tucked under her arm. Sniffling into a Kleenex, she thanked him loudly and levered herself out of the chair.
I held up a finger to the woman a few feet away who seemed poised to take her place. “I just need to speak with him for a moment; I won’t take up much time.” I flashed her a quick smile. “I’m not asking for a reading, promise.”
“How are things?” he asked as I slid into his customer chair. “Did they find out who killed that woman?”
I shook my head. “And they keep circling around my poor friend like vultures on carrion. And then she collapsed at the pet masquerade earlier this evening. I left her in the ER.”
He frowned. “An attempt on her life?”
“Oh lordy, I sure hope not. How would someone think they could get away with trying to kill people so publicly?”
“People are strange,” he said, looking very sad. “I was going to call you in the morning anyway. I’m leaving the island tomorrow, taking Lola and heading north to Fort Myers.”
Lola was his white kitten. I’d gotten very fond of her last spring when he’d left her with us for safekeeping. I felt a lurch in my gut. “Are you sensing that something is going to happen that the rest of us don’t know about?”
He smiled. “Not unless you count sensing my mother nagging. She’s so worried about the path of the storm—she’s worked herself into hysterics. And you know this is not my favorite time of year on this island anyway.” He leaned in to whisper. “Most of these folks don’t really want to hear what’s in their future. Too scary. The rest of them wouldn’t recognize their unconscious if it hit them on the head. They are too busy medicating themselves with alcohol and who knows what else.”
He took my hand and squeezed. “Never mind the tarot cards in this case—pay attention to the weather reports. If the authorities tell you to leave, just do it. I stayed through one hurricane and it ripped the roof right off our house. The rain was pouring in, gushing down the dining room walls. I had no choice but to go up on a ladder and try to jury-rig some kind of cover to replace the roof. I ask you, do I look like the kind of man who’s experienced in home repair?” We both giggled.
I felt distraught at the idea of him leaving, but on the other hand, he looked at wits’ end. He was drenched in sweat, his hair curling like an old-fashioned permanent wave. And the people around us pulsed with a frenetic energy that could make the calmest person anxious. Which I imagined was even harder to take for a man so tuned in to the people he met. He absorbed a lot of anxiety from strangers, without much opportunity to discharge it.
“Keep me posted, okay?” I begged him.
*
When I finally reached home half an hour later, Miss Gloria was sweating on the back deck, eating ice cream out of the carton with Mrs. Dubisson, her best friend from down the finger, and our cats. She had two small bowls laid out on the ground, and our felines had finished licking the bottoms of the bowls and were now licking the cream off their whiskers.
“Ahoy there, matey,” Miss Gloria called out. “Permission to come aboard is granted!” Both of the women chuckled with a heartiness that made me suspect that they had had a teeny tiny tipple to go along with their dessert.
“I should get going,” said Mrs. Dubisson. “I’ve got a cutthroat mah-jongg match in the morning, and it doesn’t pay to be fuzzy-headed.” She blew us both a kiss and trundled off toward her boat.
“How was the masquerade party?” asked Miss Gloria after she’d returned from putting the ice cream away.
Obviously she hadn’t heard the latest—which was unusual, because her mah-jongg friends tended to text one another with island news that had barely broken.
“We left before the end,” I said, “after Danielle collapsed.” Then I filled her in on the events at the Casa Marina, our visit to the emergency room, and my conversations with Christy and Lorenzo. “He’s leaving town in the morning,” I said. “Do you still think it’s smart to stay? Where do you stand on that?”
“Standing firm against the onslaught of awesome offspring,” she said with an impish grin. “Let’s go look at the weather and see if there’s anything new.”
We each grabbed a cat and retreated to our tiny living room, where a small air conditioner was laboring to cool the space. She looked at me a little sheepishly. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind. I know you like to save the environment, but I doubted we could sleep in this oppressive heat.”
“Absolutely!”
We flipped on the local news and watched a piece on the zaniness of Duval Street, then an interview with the winner of the pet masquerade contest (the mop man with his Puli). Finally the microphone was turned over to the weather forecaster. She showed a graph that looked as though a dozen children with different colored crayons had been at work, and admitted that the path of this storm, dubbed Margaret, had been unusually difficult to track.
“How should we prepare for the possibility of a hurricane making landfall in Key West?” asked the anchor.
“We have asked our director of emergency management to speak to exactly that question,” said the forecaster.
The weathered but friendly face of a curly-haired woman with light blue eyes came on the screen. “Thank you for asking me to talk with your viewers today. There are some commonsense facts you should think through ahead of time. If a storm is headed in your direction, you need to know where you’re going if you’re not planning to stay at a shelter, especially for a category three storm or higher,” she said. “Best to have several options in mind, depending on the predicted path of the storm. Which of course can change more than once, depending on atmospheric and ocean conditions.” She gestured at the colored lines displayed behind her.
“Check to be sure you have cash, extra medication, water, batteries, canned food, and also food and water for your pets. By all means, enjoy the blue skies and fishing and diving and parades today, but keep in mind that it could all change tomorrow. If the storm ends up heading toward the island directly, all bets are off and we’ll be calling for a full evacuation.”
“That right there is a bunch of maybes and what-ifs. They are just trying to cover their patooties,” Miss Gloria said.
20
From my fellow bakers, those yeasty intellectuals, I learned about industry and cohesion and the moral obligation to be cheerful.
—James Parker, “Bookends,” The New York Times, November 9, 2014
I woke up the next morning feeling unaccountably gloomy. But after I lounged in bed a few extra minutes, stroking Evinrude, listening to the slosh of water under the boat, and thinking about the events of the last few days, I realized the feelings were not surprising at all. I was worried sick about Danielle. She had texted last night to report her release from the hospital, saying she’d call me in the morning. I glanced at my bedside c
lock. Six thirty a.m. was too early to bother her.
The storm worried me too. Lying in bed, I could tell that the chop in our bight felt heavier than it had yesterday. Connie and Ray and the baby had split for parts north. Lorenzo was leaving this morning, and the Renharts were gone. Was the whole island sinking? I reminded myself that the police and other emergency personnel did not want thousands of people to stay in Key West if it was in the storm’s bull’s-eye. They would tell us when it was really time to go. I rolled out of my bunk and laid out a plan.
First stop, Key Zest, where I’d finally finish the takeout article while the Polish food was fresh in my mind. Second stop, Seymour’s house. I was certain he’d remember more about the recent incidents when he wasn’t in the chokehold of Danielle’s distress. Third stop, Grant’s restaurant, Paradise Pub, where I’d press harder about what he and Catfish had seen at the zombie party.
I’d worry less if I kept myself busy. And maybe even resolve some of the questions that bothered me. The Bransford business involving the reappearance of his ex-wife? I could not fix that. I couldn’t even talk it over with him while our island was in chaos. So I’d have to push it to the back of my mind for now.
I made myself scrambled eggs whipped up with shredded cheddar and put a cottage oat biscuit in the toaster oven while the coffee brewed. Something told me this could be a long day, topped off by the tutu party tonight. Though with Connie and Ray and Danielle out of commission, my enthusiasm for another Fantasy Fest adventure was waning.
After breakfast, I zipped down the island to Key Zest. The streets were pleasantly clean and clear of zany party-goers, though the scent of beer lingered on. And the sun was already broiling and the air thick with humidity and utterly still. It felt steamy and heavy, as though we were on the verge of getting swallowed by something big. I vaulted upstairs to our office, hoping for some peaceful time to work alone.
Palamina’s light was on, and I heard the clack of her special wrist-saving keyboard. So much for time alone. I considered for a moment pretending I didn’t notice her and sneaking down the hall to my space. But she’d know I’d ignored her. She was like a bird, sleeping with half a brain active and one eye open.
“Good morning,” I called out in a chirpy voice, keeping my head down and hoping that she wouldn’t stop me.
“Hayley? Do you have a minute?”
I mustered a smile and turned back into her office. “Sure. What’s up?”
She pushed a pair of rhinestone-studded cat-eye reading glasses onto her head. “What in the world is going on with Danielle? I thought we’d cleared the air and made it obvious that we needed her here.”
I felt like hissing, like when the bad guy makes his first appearance in a movie, but I swallowed hard and said: “She was taken to the emergency room last night. She fell ill at the party at the Casa Marina.”
Palamina frowned, the skin between her brows furrowing. I thought again how she’d regret that habit ten years from now. Or so my mother would have said.
“When she signed on for this queen business, I was not informed that it meant she’d essentially quit working. During one of the busiest periods in Key West. Right when people are depending on us for smart reading, she bails out. I’ve texted her and left her several e-mails and heard nothing.”
A spike of rage shot through me. “Look,” I said. “No one is reading our pearls of wisdom this week. No one. They are either out on the streets partying or they are inside watching the Weather Channel.”
I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
“When you took over from Ava, we were all thrilled. You seemed to love our mission and, well”—I tapped my chest with one hand—“us. I was excited about your ideas for expanding the e-zine’s mission.” I stood up straighter and hugged my arms over my chest, trying to slow down and breathe. “Instead, you pick at us, criticize every idea we come up with and every piece we turn in. You hang over us like an osprey watching a school of bluefish.”
Her lips quirked as if she wanted to interrupt, but I kept talking.
“What’s going to happen here”—I rapped her desk hard with my knuckles—“is that we’ll all quit. I’d hate to do that, because our audience is building and I think we’re all getting better at both writing and marketing. And I love my job.” I stopped to suck in some air so I wouldn’t cry.
“Are you tendering your resignation, Hayley?” she asked just as Wally came into the room.
“What’s this about? Don’t tell me you’re leaving?” He looked genuinely stricken.
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll be looking soon if things keep going in this direction.” I turned back to glare at Palamina. “The heart of this magazine is your people. Us. We are the local voices that both draw in longtime residents and appeal to visitors. Readers don’t want opinions from people who swoop in for the weekend and act like they’ve discovered the place—they want ours. They want to hear from insiders, not outsiders.”
I dialed my voice volume down a little, realizing I was almost shouting. “Now I’m going to finish up my takeout article. I sent the face-painting bit over yesterday. And after that I’m taking the day off to think things over.”
I stormed down the hall to my nook as Wally began to lecture Palamina.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you,” he began. “You’re going to end up writing the magazine by yourself. We hardly pay them enough to take abuse. And they’re both amazing at what they do. I never thought I’d wish for the good old days when I was at the beck and call of Ava Faulkner… .”
Ordinarily I would’ve been grateful for Wally’s support, but this time I was so mad and so sure I was right that I wouldn’t have minded standing alone. And really, wasn’t he partly responsible for what was happening? Weren’t they supposed to be running the show together? Why didn’t he rein her in when she got out of control?
I shut the door firmly, verging on a slam. Not wanting to hear what she would tell Wally in response to his tirade—that Danielle was a flake and I an impetuous and immature hothead. I tried to calm myself, using the four-part yoga breathing that had kept Connie sane during her labor and delivery. Everything I’d said, I meant. But what employee manual would advise that it was a good idea to shriek at your boss?
When the breathing didn’t do much, I scrabbled through the mess on my desk until I came up with the notes from my last reading from Lorenzo. I’d drawn the Three of Swords, the Six of Wands, and the Hanged Man, reversed. The scribbles I could make out talked about broken contracts and how I wasn’t feeling much reward. That I might have to make a sacrifice, let something go, or give something up. Whoop-de-do. That could be applied to about every area of my life right now. He had advised me to ride the turbulence out. And as always, even if I hadn’t drawn the high priestess card—the guardian of the unconscious and the mystery of life—I should listen to my intuition and let that guide me.
So I texted Danielle.
Come in if you can. Palamina’s pretty close to the edge of stroking out this morning.
My phone rang with a local number I didn’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Hayley, it’s Mary, Danielle’s mother? So sorry to bother you, but I’m very worried.”
“Is she okay?” I asked. “Did the doctors find something new?”
No,” she said, “she’s physically fine and, so far, no sign of poisons or other toxic substances in the drug screen. So why did this happen? That’s what’s got me so concerned. She’s a young woman, healthy and lean. She doesn’t have high cholesterol or high blood pressure or any of that. It doesn’t make any sense that she collapsed for no reason.”
“Do you think it could be a reaction to stress?” I asked.
“But what does that mean? Last night the doctors did an EKG—they said her heart is fine. All her vital signs were OK.”
“An anxiety attack? Sometimes if someone gets anxious enough, they feel like they’re having a heart attack. And the more worried
they get, the more the symptoms mimic the physical effects.”
She ignored what I thought had been a reasonable hypothesis, and lowered her voice, as if someone was listening. “I think someone was out to kill my daughter in the first place. But they poisoned that Druckman woman by mistake.”
I hated to hear her put this into words, because deep down, I had a niggling worry about the same thing. Emotions had run so high during this event and the month leading up to it. Did Danielle have enemies that I couldn’t have imagined? Did she have dark secrets that she hadn’t let us know about? She always seemed so open and pure and innocent. But how reasonable was it that a killer would try to poison two people in two different public, very busy venues? Not at all reasonable. In my experience, murderers chose quiet places and definitive methods. But I would hear Danielle’s mother out, because maybe talking things over would calm her down.
I gave a heavy sigh. “Okay, you tell me. Who would want her dead?”
Danielle’s mother began to weep. “I don’t know! I don’t know! If only I hadn’t encouraged her to run for queen.”
Her sobs escalated to the point that she started to choke.
“Slow down,” I said. “Take a deep, deep breath.” I mimicked breathing in and out, in and out. “Is Danielle doing okay this morning? Do you think she’d like some company?”
“I texted her earlier. She is exhausted and resting. I don’t even know where to start to figure this out. How do you find a murderer among ten thousand tipsy people dressed as zombies?”
Danielle’s mom took a shuddering breath. She was a hot, hysterical mess, let’s face it. If anyone was going to make sense of all this—to figure out whether Danielle had really been a target, it had to be me.
“How about this—I’ll pay a visit to Seymour. He was right beside her during both of those events. I’m certain the cops have talked with him, but sometimes talking with a civilian is less threatening, you know? Maybe that will jog loose a memory about something he saw but doesn’t remember.”
Killer Takeout Page 14
