—Pete Wells, “Celebrating the Sweet Science of Brisket,” The New York Times, March 15, 2017
Before zipping up the island to Houseboat Row, I decided to check in at the office. As the food critic for Key Zest style magazine, I was responsible for restaurant reviews, along with the occasional feature on island activities. This week, I had promised to review local Cuban cuisine and also write a piece on the influence of Cuba on our island. I sighed. Nothing like biting off more than I could chew to impress the boss.
Although impressing Palamina was definitely less stressful than during the period I’d been dating the other boss, Wally, while working for him. I would have to be careful what I said about the morning so as not to give Wally the idea I planned to get involved with helping Bill find the missing medal. He would remind me that I was a food critic, not an investigative reporter. This was partly why Wally and I had always been a bad idea. Nathan might try to discourage me from running into danger, but he never questioned my passion. Oh boy, did he ever understand passion.
Wally and me, on the other hand, had had as many sparks between us as a fizzled campfire surrounded by disappointed Girl Scouts with cold s’mores. It was a case of two people who liked each other fine, so why shouldn’t something more work? In other words, a disaster right off the blocks. Even so, these days he looked a little wistful when I mentioned plans with Nathan. But the chemistry hadn’t been there with us, and both of us had figured this out—eventually. Sometimes it takes a good rap on the head when you’re as stubborn as I am.
I parked my scooter in the lot behind Preferred Properties Realty and dashed up the stairs to the second floor Key Zest office. My pal Danielle was working at the computer in the reception area, if you could call this tiny space anything more than a bulge in the hallway. On the near corner of her desk, she had arranged a plate of assorted doughnuts from the Glazed Donuts shop next to Tropic Cinema. Honestly, no one other than me was usually tempted by them, except for the occasional visitor. She’d gotten in the habit of delivering the leftovers to the police department at the end of the day—insurance, she called it, for my shenanigans. I suspected she was sweet on one of the men in blue polyester. (“And polyester in the tropics? Really?” my friend Torrence often wondered. “What knucklehead further up the food chain made that ridiculous decision?”)
“I was hoping you’d show up,” Danielle said, waving at the plate of treats. “How’s everything going at the Little White House?”
“Very exciting and a ton of work,” I said, biting into a pillowy glazed and rolling my eyes in appropriate ecstasy. “As heavy as the security is, you would think we were getting ready for a conference of world leaders. Have you ever seen the gates at Southard Street closed and locked?”
Danielle shook her head. She was younger than me but had been born and raised on this island. Conchs, the true locals called themselves. Not to be confused with freshwater conchs, aka people who had lived in Key West for more than seven years. Miss Gloria, for example, was the freshwater variety, despite her fondness for referring to herself as a barnacle.
Wally and Palamina, my two bosses, came out of their office to join the chat.
“How’s the conference so far?” Wally asked.
“Nothing official has started,” I said. “But they’re already squabbling.” I explained the fight between Mayor Diaz and Turner Markham over the placement of prized objects in the display cases and the planned tour of Cuban chugs. I was considering whether to tell them about the possibly missing medal when Palamina spoke up.
“I’m a little surprised Markham is at the helm on this one,” she said. “For the sake of appearance, shouldn’t it be our mayor?”
“That’s a good point. I was so engrossed in the moment, I didn’t think to question that. Maybe he’s coming tonight?”
“Keep an eye on it,” said Wally. “Sometimes the mayor sends a commissioner when the controversy that might be generated is not something he wants to take on.”
“Will do,” I said, feeling a little bit as though I’d already missed the story’s hook. Buried the lede, as Palamina would have put it. “Anyway, the food is going to be amazing, and we are all over the moon about Diana Nyad.”
“Will you still have time to do your Cuban color pieces?” Palamina asked.
“I’m not on KP duty tomorrow morning,” I said, “so my plan is to grab a quick early lunch at El Siboney. Their food is pretty straightforward, so it won’t take a lot of time to write up. And I possibly can nip by Frita’s Cuban Burgers,” I added, sensing a lack of enthusiasm from Palamina about a review of one single Cuban restaurant when my roundtable articles comparing several eateries were clearly more popular. “I shouldn’t have any problem with the Cuban influence on Key West culture bit, as both of my mother’s hired sous-chefs have roots in Cuba.” I grinned, hoping I exuded confidence. Out loud, the schedule did sound grueling. And on top of that, I now seemed to be in charge of nosing around for the scent of town politics.
“You’ll let us know if it’s too much?” Palamina tapped one flake of loose doughnut glaze on the plate with her forefinger and touched it to her tongue as I swallowed the last incredible bit of my doughnut. Which totally explained why she was tiny enough to wear leggings and shape-hugging tops, while I … was not.
“You look worried,” said Wally. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
“No, I swear I’m fine with the work. I am a little worried, but that’s because of what happened just before I left.” I broke down and spilled the news about the missing gold medal, and how I’d been grilled before I was allowed to leave, and how all that was making the weekend feel even more fraught with potential minefields. “We’re hoping it will magically be back in place for the evening’s festivities.”
“It’s a super big deal that Cuba allowed that gold medal out of the country,” Wally said. “Did you know that it’s been secreted away in a convent near Santiago de Cuba in the south of the country? Hemingway wanted to give it to the people of Cuba to honor the setting of his prizewinning novel, but he didn’t want Batista getting hold of it. So he gave it to the Catholic Church for safekeeping. Hardly anyone has seen it since then, never mind it visiting a strange country.”
“No wonder Bill was in despair at first and the Cuban dignitaries were enraged,” I said. My anxiety was shooting higher and higher talking to Wally. I needed to get back over there and support my mother. “I’m pretty sure they’ll find it in time for tonight’s party. I’ll keep you posted.”
I grabbed my backpack and helmet and trotted out to my scooter. The day felt a little warmer than yesterday, and less breezy—perfect for a dinner al fresco. Assuming the whole thing was still on. I buzzed over to U.S. 1, then up the island to the busy corner where Houseboat Row floated. The boats facing the highway caught more noise and tourist gawking than Miss Gloria’s location, which always felt too good to be true. But the familiar form of my realtor friend Cory Held in our parking lot made me think that our luck might be running thin.
I parked my scooter, pulled it onto its stand, and waved her down. “Another showing?” I asked.
She nodded. “Everything in this town is selling briskly. Once that hurricane rolled over us last fall with hardly any structural damage, people have the idea we’re invincible. That kind of thinking may not be smart on the customer end, but it sure is good for business.”
I was almost afraid to ask. But more afraid not to. “And the boat next door?”
“Lots of interest, but nothing firm. You know I’ll let you know, as soon as I can. And I’m reminding all prospective buyers that it’s a family neighborhood, not a party boat.”
“We appreciate that,” I said as I hopped onto the finger leading to the boats. Miss Gloria was perched on her lounge chair on our tiny deck, dressed in a collared white shirt and black sweat pants with sporty satin stripes running down the length of her hips and legs. Where did she even find these things? She had left a shoebox on my chaise. The cats were tucke
d under her arms, depositing gray and black fur, I was sure. She looked adorable—and glum.
“Did she tell you anything?” She pointed at Cory’s receding car.
“Nothing happening yet. We’ll hope for the best.”
“Why was she here by herself?” she asked. “What kind of showing doesn’t involve a buyer? That’s what I can’t figure out.”
“We have no control over it, not a whit,” I said, kissing the top of her head, her white hair warm from the afternoon sun. “I’m going to wash my face and change clothes and then I’ll be ready.” Both cats trotted into the houseboat after me. “Didn’t she feed you?” I asked, ruffling the gorgeous gray “M” on Evinrude’s head and then wiggling my fingers at Sparky. He pounced and I gave them each a trio of tuna-flavored cat treats. “More to come later,” I promised.
“I bought something for you,” Miss Gloria said when I came back outside in my own white shirt and black cropped pants.
Quivering with delight and excitement, she pointed to the shoebox. I opened it up. A pair of sneakers carpeted in black sequins was nestled in the pink tissue paper. Now I noticed she had the same shoes on, only in her china-doll size.
“I know your mother said no sequined dolphins, but she didn’t ban sequins altogether. And these I couldn’t resist—Zappos had a big sale. And don’t they look comfy?”
“They’re perfect,” I said, slipping them on and tying them quickly. I executed a little hop-step to watch them glint in the sun. “Don’t forget your helmet and your driver’s license. They’re triple-checking everyone at the Southard Street gate.”
Chapter Six
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.
—Harry S. Truman
We scooted down the island and came to a standstill on Southard Street a block from the entrance to the Truman Annex. The small group of protesting women in white clothing had mushroomed to quadruple its size, joined by more people carrying signs.
KEY WEST, DON’T CODDLE THE CUBAN GOVERNMENT! shouted one sign.
DON’T SUPPORT OPPRESSION! proclaimed another.
On the other side of the street, I read THANK YOU KEY WEST FOR OPENING DOORS! The two sets of protesters were exchanging chants, shouting across the road. “¡Cuba para todos!” and “¡Cuba sera libre!” drowned out by “Let Cuba join the world!” and “Set my people free!”
A few of the anti-conference protesters surged toward us. I could feel Ms. Gloria tensing up on her seat behind me. She gripped my midsection and began to breathe faster. But then several Key West police officers materialized and pushed the people away from the gate. We submitted to another examination by the businesslike police dog and his handler and were waved inside. I spotted our friend Lieutenant Torrence parked along Emma Street. I veered over to check in.
“I’ve never seen security like this,” I said, shouting over the rough idle of the bike.
“Geez,” Miss Gloria added, “you’d think I was the Queen of England.”
Torrence laughed, but his eyes were serious. “It’s something, isn’t it?” he said, revealing nothing.
Which made me even more curious, because he was usually more willing to share news about our island, or at least hint. “This isn’t about Diana Nyad, is it? Are you expecting some kind of trouble with the protest?”
“Have a great night,” he said with a strained grin, and waved us on.
I parked my scooter in a tiny space behind an adjoining brick building, and we hustled across the private drive to the Little White House grounds. A man dressed in a dark suit and wearing an earpiece stopped us at the flags. He checked our licenses again, then marked us off on a list of names. The woman stationed with him searched through my backpack and Miss Gloria’s fanny pack and then asked us to stand with arms and legs open while she waved a metal-detecting wand.
“Geez Louise,” said Miss Gloria, once we’d put ourselves back together. “Who’s hot stuff tonight?”
The lawn around the Little White House was already a beehive of activity. The party had begun early. A few guests were milling around the cocktail tables, drinks in hand. Bartenders in white shirts with black bow ties were busy mixing mojitos, rum and Cokes, and daiquiris, and distributing wine and beer to the less adventurous guests. As we passed the first of three bars, I could smell crushed mint leaves and lime zest.
“Mojitos, my favorite,” I said, imagining how pleasant it would be to attend the party rather than work the crowd. On the other hand, we had an inside track to all the excitement. And I’d already had the chance to see the tensions between some of the attendees that would never be shown in public. For a curious cat like me, our vantage point was unbeatable. Miss Gloria was vibrating with excitement as well. One mojito and she would have been looking for a Barcalounger. Or maybe, knowing her, dancing on the tables.
“Who could be coming who would rate this kind of security?” I asked.
“President Obama,” Miss Gloria said with a wide grin.
She was a major fan of the past president and, even more so, his wife. She craved seeing one of them in person—the way that toast yearned for jam, that hot biscuits called for butter, that peach pie pined for vanilla ice cream. His appearance here seemed unlikely, although not impossible. Harry Truman aside, the Little White House has hosted plenty of political celebrities over the years, including Jimmy Carter, Bill and Hillary Clinton, and John F. Kennedy. Since Mr. Obama had played a major role in thawing frosty relations between the United States and Cuba during his last years in office, it seemed possible that he’d want to be involved in how the relationship between the two countries might unfold.
But wouldn’t the security challenges be insurmountable?
The band began to warm up on the stage, delivering blasts from a trio of glorious trumpeters wearing fedoras and crooning from a sexy Cuban man in a white suit and cowboy hat. I felt as though I’d been dropped into the Buena Vista Social Club in old Havana. Miss Gloria swished her hips in a rhythm I hadn’t known she possessed.
We trotted into the kitchen where my mother, looking frazzled, arranged platters of hors d’oeuvres for us to ferry out to the guests. She handed me a plate of skewered chorizo and cheddar cubes glazed with guava jelly and gave Miss Gloria a plate of ham croquetas, freshly turned out of the hot oil that Irena managed on the stove.
“Circulate!” she instructed us as she slipped a stack of cocktail napkins engraved with a line drawing of the Little White House into our fingers. “And then come for more. On your way back, please check the veggie-and-cheese table and make sure everything looks neat and appetizing?”
My first stop was the trio of men I’d seen arguing over the chugs earlier that afternoon: Havana mayor Diaz, Turner Markham, and Bob Wolz. They were standing a bit back from the party crowd. Though dressed for a party—Bob with a bow tie, Markham in a stunning rose-colored silk shirt, and Diaz in another crisp, white guayabera—they clearly weren’t absorbing the happy vibes, nor reflecting any out. Bob made a face that looked to me like an SOS, meaning they needed a little cheerful hospitality—maybe even an intervention.
“Hola!” I said, flashing my brightest smile. “Bienvenidos a Key West!” I described the delicacies on my tray, but only Bob reached for a skewer and a napkin. The other two remained standing stiffly with arms crossed over their chests.
“Have a wonderful evening,” I said brightly, which had no salutary effect at all. I moved on to the next set of guests. By the time my tray had been emptied three times, the party was in full swing, the hum of the crowd growing louder and more joyous.
Once the lawn was buzzing with guests and conversation, Bob bounded up the few steps to the stage, and the band quit playing. I paused for a moment with my empty tray. “We are thrilled beyond words to be hosting this first-ever conference between Havana and Key West,” he said. “Harry Truman would be so proud.” The crowd applauded. “Please enjoy the music and the hors d’oeuvres and we’ll be back to you with our program shortly.”
&n
bsp; The singer, a slender, dark-haired man, jumped off the stage, reached for my hand, and pulled me out to the dance floor. Salsa and rumba were definitely not my thing, but he was so graceful that I felt like I was floating through the steps. I wished Nathan were watching—it wouldn’t hurt to have him see me twirling with another man, my sequined feet sparkling. Commissioner Markham was dancing too—with a young blonde woman who looked half his age. He was an excellent dancer, making the footwork look effortless and his partner sexy and smooth.
As I dipped and whirled, I saw Sam gesturing furiously from the White House. I thanked my partner and excused myself, picked up the empty tray I’d abandoned on a cocktail table, and ran to the kitchen. My mother’s hair had escaped her headband and frizzed to an auburn halo. And she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. Was the stress of the evening to come too much for her? “He grabbed me and I got caught up in the moment. I won’t go anywhere near the dance floor the rest of the night.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “Everyone is so tense. The gold medal hasn’t turned up and poor Bill is sick about it, inventing ideas about where it might be and reassuring the Cuban dignitaries. Or trying anyway. Meanwhile, Maria’s brother is a no-show. She’s beside herself with worry.” She pointed to a back corner of the storage area, where Maria was crouched on a short stool, weeping. “Irena has no idea why he isn’t here, or so they say.” She lowered her voice. “She looks like she knows something terrible, doesn’t she? But whatever the reason, I have no one to wait on Maria’s tables or take Gabriel’s place bussing.”
Irena came up to us, wringing her hands.
“What on earth is going on?” I asked.
“It’s only a matter of time before they pin the theft of that medal on Gabriel,” she said. “Maria is convinced of it.”
Death on the Menu Page 4
