Killer Takeout

by Lucy Burdette

  By the time he finished with the miniature service, and my mother and Sam had pledged to stick with each other through life’s stormy and calm periods, and we’d pledged to support them, Miss Gloria and my mother and I were in tears. Then came a huge bang and a ripping noise and the lights flickered and the power went dead with finality and we were left in the dark; left with only the noise of the wind and our own ragged breathing.

  29

  Somebody give me a cheeseburger!

  —“Living in the USA,” Steve Miller Band

  Nathan had hold of one of my hands and my mom had the other and Evinrude was pressed close to my stomach. The small space had begun to stink like fear. I was certain the roof was gone and we were next. Instead, the gusts seemed to die down a little and the banging of the door in the apartment’s inner hallway slowed to a gentle tap.

  Finally Bransford spoke up. “I’m going to take a look outside and see what’s happening,” he said.

  “The rest of you stay right here,” said Torrence.

  But the other two men scrambled to their feet as well and followed the cops out to the living room, allowing a swath of light into the close quarters of the closet. The cats bolted out after him.

  “Honest to gosh,” Sam hollered back down the hall. “I think the storm’s moved away. I even see a little patch of blue.”

  Miss Gloria and my mother and I hurried out to the living room to have a look. The palm trees were still blowing like mad, and most of the flowers in the fancy condominium landscaping and the landscaping of the time-share next door had been ripped off the bushes. It looked like a sea of bare stalks, like a cornfield after the harvest. A single Jet Ski had been blown onto the sidewalk and slammed against the metal fence.

  “We need to get back to work,” said Bransford, and Torrence nodded his agreement. “I’d feel a lot better if you all would stay inside.”

  “How long?” Miss Gloria asked. “I can’t imagine Chad wants us to move in, even as excellent company as we are.” Bransford gave her his trademark glare.

  “We’ll try,” I said with a shrug of the shoulders, not meeting the two sets of worried eyes. “We’ll wait until it calms down.”

  “I’d hate for you to make it through the worst of the storm and then get taken out by a coconut,” Bransford said.

  I crossed the room and kissed him on the lips, and he gathered me in tightly and then let go. “We’ll be okay,” I said, gripping his biceps and looking deep into his eyes. “I’m glad you were here. Really glad.”

  “Hey,” said Chad, once our police friends had clomped down the stairwell, “I think congratulations are in order. And I happen to have champagne in the refrigerator. It could be weeks before we’ll get power back, so we might as well drink it.”

  “Why not?” Miss Gloria said. “We have a lot to celebrate. We’re still alive, for one, and our two dear friends tied the noose—err, knot!”

  We all laughed like crazy people and Chad popped the cork and poured the sparkling liquid into his best blue wineglasses—the ones he’d preferred strongly that I not use when Evinrude and I were in residence. And then we toasted my mother and Sam and watched the wind and the whitecaps in the harbor until the champagne was gone.

  “I wonder if it’s safe to go out?” Sam asked.

  “Honey,” said my mother, “the officers suggested we stay inside.”

  “For the rest of our lives?” Sam asked.

  Miss Gloria giggled. “Suppose we see what they’re saying on the radio?”

  Chad retrieved the emergency weather radio from his big closet and tuned in the local news station. A disembodied voice reported that the storm had blown off to the east and appeared to be heading east of Miami and out to sea. The whole mess had been downgraded, with winds now blowing at category one levels. We slapped our palms together in a team cheer, and laughed giddily at having escaped the worst. In a few minutes, when the blue sky started to break through the clouds in big patches, we went outside to look around.

  Chad led us through the private garden that belonged to the condominium, where the sidewalks were now carpeted with pink bougainvillea petals and plastic bags and coffee cups. The whitewashed stucco walls of his building were also spattered with leaves and mulch and one unlucky seagull, and even a fish. He unlocked the gate that released us out to the world.

  It was totally strange to see the slips empty along the Westin pier, which would normally be bustling with all kinds of boats. At this time of evening, there would have been Jet Skiers landing after a day of hard macho bouncing, sunset cruises getting ready to board, and good-sized fishing boats chugging in, along with the occasional yacht. I wondered how long it would be before the big cruise ships docked here again. I pushed away a needle of worry about Miss Gloria’s houseboat—whether it would be habitable. Whether it would be there at all. And where we’d possibly stay if it wasn’t. And what would happen to Miss Gloria if her home was gone. I could bounce back—I knew that—but, good gravy, she was eighty-one.

  But wasn’t the important thing that we’d survived without a scratch on us, when honestly it had looked for a while as though we were burned toast? I put one arm around my mother’s waist and the other around Miss Gloria’s shoulders and tried to shake off the gloom.

  A few other hardy/foolish residents began to emerge as we walked down Caroline Street to look at the condition of the town. Power lines hung loose from the poles, and some of the foliage was stripped from the trees, but I swore I smelled the enticing odor of grilled seafood that had to be coming from Garbo’s Grill. My stomach rumbled in response.

  “Let’s go in,” my mother said when we reached the patio where the food truck was usually located. “I’m starving and I bet my brand-new husband is too.” She beamed up at Sam.

  Sure enough, the truck was open for business, the courtyard bustling. We walked to the back of the patio, which was crowded with storm survivors, some seated at metal tables, some standing in line, all telling their stories, giddy with relief at having dodged the big one. In the background, generators roared to life.

  Chef Eli called out from his spot at the counter in the truck. “Folks, we’ve got to eat up what’s going to go bad. So anyone who needs a meal is welcome to get in line. Who knows how long the electricity will be out? In the meantime, it’s all for one and one for all. We have a tip jar out—if you can afford the money, you’re welcome to pay. If not, dinner’s on us. If anyone would like to help wait on tables or even bus, let us know. No previous experience required.” A wave of laughter twittered through the crowd.

  “Why don’t you guys get a table,” I suggested, “and one of you wait in line? I’m going to see how I can help while we’re waiting.” I went around to the back end of the truck and identified myself as willing.

  “From food critic to busgirl? That’s quite a promotion,” said Eli’s wife, Kenna, who was slapping condiments on burrito skins and passing them to the grill. She grinned. “Too bad your killer takeout article came out just as we’re having to give everything away.”

  “The goodwill is bound to carry over,” I said. “Food karma is a powerful thing.”

  She handed me a plastic bag and I began to circle the patio and pick up trash. Catfish Kohls was helping too, busy carrying trays of food out to the people waiting at the tables. My trainer, Leigh, was also on duty, ferrying supplies from the small closet at the back of the property to the truck.

  “Don’t think this counts as your aerobics for the day,” she joked. “I’ll let you know when the power’s back on at WeBeFit,” she added. “For now, Dan’s decreed all our sessions should be canceled. Too darn hot inside the gym.”

  As I worked, chatting with the customers and other volunteers, a sense of camaraderie emerged. No one complained about having to wait. No one said a peep about their requested dish being sold out. One good thing about this hurricane scare: We were simply grateful that we, and our wonderful island paradise, had survived.

  I took a few pictures
of the scene. As a couple of service bars miraculously emerged on my phone, I posted my best picture to Instagram. I looped quickly through the feed on my account—amazing how badly I’d needed a hit of social media after only a few hours in the dark.

  Then I flicked over to Druckman’s feed and scrolled backward. My attention caught on a zombie bike ride photo that I hadn’t noticed earlier in the week. Caryn Druckman was front and center, reaching for a pastel-colored drink in a paper cup offered by a zombie waitress who held the tray up over her shoulder and avoided jostling from the crowd in an astonishing display of acrobatic balance. The Beach Eats truck was in the background. And with a jolt, I realized that Mrs. Renhart had not been yelling at me to take a photo and post it to Instagram as they chugged away; she’d wanted me to look at Druckman’s Instagram.

  The server’s tray was empty. There was only one drink left in the photo, and it was being delivered directly to Druckman.

  I glanced over at Catfish as she glanced at me, noticing me study the phone and then look back up at her. The sunlight broke through the leaves of the palm above us, dappling Kat’s skin, reminding me of the zebra stripes. I remembered how Seymour had insisted that someone served them mixed drinks, probably a knockoff Pusser’s Painkiller based on his description of tasting coconut, pineapple, and rum. And then I recalled that Catfish had insisted the truck had served no alcoholic beverages at all.

  Why had she lied?

  Was she protecting someone? Did she know the person who had made the drinks, one of them possibly poisoned?

  Grant—that’s who was in the chef’s position. And then I realized that their relationship had felt way more charged than just employer/employee, the times I’d seen them together. And however Druckman had been involved, Grant had so much to lose, buying a restaurant with a reputation for iffy food and questionable hygiene.

  My gaze met Kat’s as the pieces of information in my mind clicked into place. She dropped the tray on the nearest metal table, vaulted over the short chain-link fence that marked the property, and began to run. I didn’t think I could catch up with her, and besides, Bransford and Torrence would kill me. So I texted them both. Grant Monsarrat is your murderer. Catfish Kohls just took off down the alley behind Garbo’s Grill. Toward Smokin’ Tuna. She’s gone to warn him—or that’s my guess.

  “What’s going on?” asked my mother as I rushed up to their table, dropping my garbage bag at her feet.

  “I’m pretty sure I figured out who killed Caryn Druckman. And Catfish just bolted down that alley toward where he’s probably hiding out.” I pointed. “I’m going to try to follow her. Could you run back and grab the car and meet me over at the Paradise Pub?” I asked Sam. “Dollars to doughnuts, that’s where she’ll end up.”

  “Don’t—” my mother started.

  “I won’t do anything foolish—we just survived a big hurricane. I’m not going to get wiped out by a crazy man. Text me when you’re on the way?”

  Sam took off back toward the Truman Annex, and my mother and Miss Gloria trucked behind me, hands clutching the mango hot dogs that had just been delivered. No one in her right mind would leave a mango hot dog behind.

  30

  “A writer’s personality is revealed by her connection to food,” said Olivia. “Some people are feeders and some are withholders.”

  —Lucy Burdette, Death in Four Courses

  In the time I decided not to try hopping the fence but rather to go around out through the usual entrance, I spotted Catfish loading onto a scooter. She revved the engine and blasted off toward Front Street. I broke into a trot, hearing my mother and Miss Gloria huffing behind me.

  “Wait for Sam to pick you up!” I hollered over my shoulder. All we needed was a heart attack in the family while chasing down a possible accessory to murder. There wouldn’t be a paramedic available for miles.

  I turned up Greene Street and picked up the pace, heading for the Paradise Pub, which was the only place I figured she would go—probably to warn Grant. When I was almost to the restaurant, a black-and-white cruiser with lights flashing sped by me and pulled into the back parking lot where I’d seen the kittens yesterday.

  I felt sad about having gotten it wrong with the chef. I’d really liked him—and liked his food too, once he got away from the overly fried stuff. He hadn’t looked or sounded like a murderer, but as Torrence had told me more than once, not all bad guys wear black patches over their eyes and have hooks instead of hands.

  Two officers with guns drawn crouched on either side of the back door to Grant’s kitchen. “Freeze, Key West police!” they shouted as they flung the door open. A blast of gunfire repelled them back into the parking lot. One of them spotted me and waved me furiously away from the scene. I ducked behind the Dumpster just as Miss Gloria came huffing into the lot.

  “Get over here now,” I yelped. I’d been scolded often enough for muddling in dangerous situations. I was even beginning to think the cops were right—leave the tough stuff for the trained professionals. When she got close enough, I grabbed her hand and reeled her in beside me.

  More cops arrived in cruisers with sirens howling. Two uniformed officers and Lieutenant Torrence leaped out of the first car. I could hear an echoing siren that could have been police stationing themselves at the front door. Torrence edged over to the open door, the two uniforms following him with their guns drawn. They started into the kitchen, but fell back out at the sound of a gun firing.

  He pulled a phone out of his back pocket and dialed. “Catfish? It’s Lieutenant Torrence. I’d like to talk this out so no one gets hurt.” He turned toward the restaurant so we could hear only snatches of intense conversation. Then Torrence backed away, a look of worry and disgust on his face. He strode over to my place behind the Dumpster. “She hung up on me. She wants to talk to a woman. I told her none of our female officers are available so she said she wants to talk to you.”

  “She wants to talk to me? About what?”

  He looked even more disgusted. “I would never ever do this, but our hostage negotiators are tied up at the jail. A couple of the inmates escaped when the power went out.” He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. His radio crackled, and Bransford’s voice came over the airwaves.

  Torrence explained that Catfish might consider coming out and setting her hostage free, but only if she could talk to me first.

  “Catfish has a hostage?” I asked. “I thought it was Grant in there—”

  “What the hell?” Bransford tinny voice blasted out of Torrence’s phone. “Tell me one reason why that is a good idea. Since when do we start putting our civilians in danger because a murderer requests it?”

  “One of our officers was able to look in the high window on the side of the building. She’s got the chef tied up with a knife to his throat,” Torrence said grimly. “As well as Danielle Kamen. And she’s got a gun and has proven she’ll use it.”

  I squeaked with dismay at the thought of my friend in danger.

  “She insists she’ll only talk to a woman officer,” Torrence continued.

  “Hayley’s not an officer,” said Bransford, dismissing me instantly.

  “Then who else have you got?” asked Torrence. “We’ve called around. As far as I can tell, there’s not a female officer on the island right now.”

  There was more back and forth about where the women police were (nowhere close), where the cops with guns would be stationed, and how my safety would be assured: I was only to talk to her from the safety of my position behind the Dumpster.

  “I don’t like it. Hayley, how do you feel about this?” asked Bransford. His voice sounded strained and angry.

  Shocked, stunned, terrified—those were the words that came to mind. And sick about Grant and especially Danielle in danger. What if I said something stupid and someone got shot? “I’ll do what I need to,” I said. “If it will save Danielle and Grant, I’m happy to try.”

  “I don’t like it either,” said Torrence. “But
from what I saw in there, we send officers in and two people die for sure. If the SWAT team was available, of course we’d use them.

  “Just be smart and ask questions in a nonthreatening way,” said Torrence. “Talk to her, but don’t try to be a hero. Start with some reassurance. Ask if she has what she needs in there. And whether everyone is okay. And then ask what we can do so this ends as a win-win. Don’t worry about what’s possible, just get her talking.” He dialed the phone and handed it to me.

  “Catfish? It’s Hayley Snow. Are you all right in there? The lieutenant said you’d like to talk to me, and I’d love to talk to you. See if we can figure a way to get you and Grant out safely.”

  “Lost cause,” she said. “And Danielle’s going down too.”

  Danielle screamed, a horrible burbling sound full of desperation and fear.

  “Danielle?” Miss Gloria pushed past me, darted up to the kitchen door, and disappeared inside. “You let that girl go right now. She never did anything to you,” she yelled as a ring of cops circled closer with guns drawn.

  “I’m going in after her,” I said to no one in particular. “She needs me.” I hurtled past the cops and burst into the back door.

  The kitchen, which had looked so cheerful and welcoming on my last visit, had a gloomy feel this time. A pile of dirty pots and pans spilled out of the sink. The floor was sticky with something spilled, and there was a funky odor coming from the trash can.

  “Catfish? Catfish, are you here? It’s Hayley. Is Miss Gloria okay? Please let’s talk this out so no one gets hurt.”

  “Are they crazy sending you in here?” she growled, her voice coming from the big pantry on the far side of the kitchen.

  “I’m coming over there,” I said, pressing the quaver out of my voice. “Don’t shoot anyone.”

  I moved closer to the pantry and peeped into the opening. Catfish had the gun trained on Miss Gloria, who sat against the wall, looking small and scared. A beam of light from the high window above the shelves fell on her face. Her face looked older, worn, and wrinkled. Grant was slumped into a corner underneath the shelf containing canned goods. His arms and hands were taped behind him and he was taped at the ankles too. A large swath of silver duct tape had been slapped across his lips. His eyes were wide, frightened, and pleading.