“I’ll say.” I slid the platter of cheesy eggs onto the table between us, along with the bacon and a plate of biscuits.
“Is Miss Gloria joining us?” he asked.
I gestured at the article from the Key West Citizen that she’d taped to the refrigerator. “Even though the event last night went on forever, she’s already out walking with Mrs. Dubisson. Ever since she read that column by Leigh and Dan at WeBeFit last week explaining that seniors could extend their life expectancy by walking three times a week, she’s been out there every day.”
While he ate and I nibbled, I filled him in on the security, the protesters, the missing medal, and the horrendous discovery of the murder at the end of the night.
“A night filled with emotional swings and contrasts,” he said.
I nodded. “We were so thrilled about the president and Jimmy Buffett and Diana Nyad—it could hardly have been a more exciting trio. You should have seen Miss Gloria—she was positively vibrating. And then to have it all ruined.” I buttered a hot biscuit and slathered on a tablespoon of mango honey. “And even before that, passing the protesters at the gates reminded me that not everyone was happy about this conference.”
“People have very strong feelings about Cuba,” he said, rubbing Evinrude’s jowls as I cleared the table. Sparky made a flying leap, landed on Evinrude’s stomach, and began to rabbit-kick him. Lorenzo giggled as he watched them wrestle. “And they tend to forget that the people who are squeezed by all the political posturing are the Cubans themselves.”
After the breakfast dishes were cleared and stowed, he brought his cards out from his voluminous pant pocket. “Three cards okay?”
“You’re the best friend ever,” I said.
He shuffled the deck over and over and then set the stack of cards in front of him with both hands resting on them. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If I’d been a new customer sitting with him at his table on Mallory Square, he would have explained that this was a small meditation to clear his mind, to clear the path from the cards—and the energy with which I’d infuse them—to his brain and his heart. Often at that point, the visitors who had chosen to have their cards read as a lark began to sense that his gift was very real.
He asked me to cut the deck into three piles and then choose which one I wanted. This was by far the hardest part of a reading—what if my real cards were in the pile I failed to choose? Did other people actually feel a connection to one of their stacks? I was flying blind, as none of them ever called to me. These kinds of silly thoughts kept me busy while I was waiting for him to deal out my three.
The space between his eyebrows furrowed once the cards lay exposed on Miss Gloria’s burnished Formica table: the ten of swords, the two of swords, the two of cups. He rubbed a forefinger across his upper lip and cleared his throat.
I had never seen him take this long to read the meaning of any cards.
“At least it’s not the tower,” I said brightly.
“It’s not the tower,” he agreed, “but remember what I told you about the tower–”
“I know, but that card still freaks me out.” I hate seeing that card turned up, with its burning structure and people flinging themselves out the windows to their deaths. Lorenzo has assured me that it’s not as bad as it appears. It’s a card about learning that something we believed to be true is actually false. The true meaning has to do with facing the fact that things need to change. But change is hard, and I’m not famous for gracious transitions.
“The two of cups suggests love and friendship,” he said, pointing to my first card, containing figures of a man and a woman facing each other, holding large golden cups. A lion with wings hovered above them. “This relationship is built on passion and strength and a healthy attitude. Do you see the way the man and the woman are gazing into one another’s eyes? They have developed a strong understanding, are maybe even considering marriage.”
He quirked one eyebrow, waiting for me to comment.
“That’s a mystery to me,” I said with a grimace, my eyes cast down at the table, studying the card. He knew I was dating Nathan, and unlike some of my other friends, he had yet to reveal his feelings about the relationship. “You wouldn’t have guessed that from our interactions over the past couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to be married. And I think Nathan’s my guy. But I don’t want to leap into that for the sake of being married. For the sake of the wedding, if you know what I mean?” I looked back up at him and he nodded in agreement. “Right now, the whole idea of marriage kind of wigs me out. Like, I have no idea what makes one relationship work and another one tank.”
“You know more than you give yourself credit for,” he said as he touched the second card.
This one scared me, featuring as it did a set of swords stabbed into a prone man’s back. I shivered, flashing to the horrible sight of Maria stained with her brother’s blood. And how shocked she must have been when she found him. I couldn’t imagine what she must have seen and how she processed that horror.
“The ten of swords,” he said. “This can mean failed plans, loss, and defeat. Although so many swords might suggest that the negative tends to be overdramatized. The background of the card shows more optimism. Though the top is black, underneath the clouds are lifting and the sky is blue. Maybe the storm has passed? Maybe this night is over?”
“I don’t like it,” I said. “All I can think of is that knife stabbed into Gabriel.”
“Was it more than one?” Lorenzo asked, his hands moving to his chest, as if he could feel the pain of that moment. And perhaps he could.
“Only one. But that’s all it took,” I added. “Maybe this means the investigation will be wrapped up quickly?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But remember not to be too literal. I show you what’s there in the cards, and you discern the meaning.” He reached over to straighten the third card. This one was simpler in design, a large red heart with three swords plunged through it. In the background, there was nothing but gray. Clouds and rain. Even Lorenzo would have trouble brushing the gloom off this one.
“This card can be disquieting,” he admitted. “The three of swords. It can mean loss and pain, maybe a death or divorce?”
“I’m not even married yet!”
He barely smiled. “Rain, as you know, brings growth after the storm has finished.”
“You’re reaching for something positive so I don’t come unglued,” I said, imagining that maybe I’d left my real cards in one of the other two piles.
“No need for that,” he said. “Just keep your eyes open for darkness. I know you like to see the light, but be careful. And anyone could have told you that, based on what you’ve been through the past twenty-four hours.”
“And of course, Nathan did tell me.” I sighed and pushed the cards back across the table.
By the time Lorenzo left, I was not only exhausted from the night before but also nervous about his warning, worried about Bill’s mental health and my mother’s catering business, and fussing about who would take up the slack if Maria and Irena didn’t show up for the next catered event. And why would they, with such a painful, violent death in their family?
And all of that was probably covering my own anxiety about the worst of everything: coming so close to another tragic murder.
Chapter Ten
When I need to get away from it all, competing for a table is one of the main things I’m getting away from. That, and meals longer than a filibuster, and hearing that “chef” would like me to eat this particular taste in one bite while rubbing my stomach and patting my head.
—Pete Wells, “So Long, Menus; Hello, Pots and Pans,” The New York Times, August 19, 2015
The last thing I was interested in doing was eating a meal at the Cuban restaurant and writing the darned thing up. But both Palamina and Wally had been good about allowing me the time off during this high season weekend when our e-zine was most popular, so I wasn’t about to let them down. I’d
promised them both that I could handle everything—actually, not only promised, but made it sound as though this weekend would be a cakewalk. I’d laid it on thick as chocolate sour cream icing. So I had no choice but to eat fast and write faster.
El Siboney was located in a low-key residential area of Old Town, and from early morning to late at night, the restaurant filled the neighborhood with the smells of garlic, cumin, and roasted pork. They don’t take reservations, so in the busy high season, tourists lined up for dinner starting at five. I was hoping that showing up for an early lunch would help me bypass the wait that I didn’t have time for. The outside of the building was unassuming red brick, while the inside had the feel of a diner, with red vinyl tablecloths, yellow beadboard walls, furniture serving function over form, and tons of hot sauce.
I was seated quickly at a two-top, and ordered the traditional roast pork dinner that I hadn’t tried before. While I waited, I tried to keep my uneasiness about Lorenzo’s cards at bay by drafting the introduction for my Cuban food piece. One ugly, clunky sentence in, I could see this wasn’t going to happen.
The tarot reading wasn’t my only concern—just the latest in a long line of problems and questions. I was also feeling sad about Gabriel and Maria—who murdered him and why—plus worried sick for Bill, hoping the conference wouldn’t be canceled for my mother’s sake, and wondering who in the world would’ve stolen that gold medal. As I gazed into space, mind whirling, a slender woman with long dark hair and a T-shirt reading SUN, RUM, KEY LIME PIE led a group of tourists into the dining room and settled them at a large table against the wall. My friend Analise Smith from Key West Food Tours.
“You’ll be eating pork in mojo sauce with onions, served along with traditional Cuban side dishes. Mojo sauce is a classic Cuban marinade made of sour orange, oregano, cumin, garlic, and salt. Keep in mind that this is only the first stop of six,” she reminded her patrons, “so make sure you save some room for the rest of the samples. And also, save a little piece of Cuban bread for something I’ll show you after lunch. The bread is a particular staple of the Cuban people, and it’s made with lard.”
Several of the tourists groaned.
“Wait until you taste it,” she said with a laugh. “Lard might become your new favorite ingredient.” She left them distributing water from a plastic pitcher and slid into the chair across from me.
“What in the world went on last night at the conference?” she asked. “It’s all the talk of the island.” Analise’s mother was Cuban, so she would have had her finger on the pulse of that community.
“It was bad,” I said, and told her how Maria’s brother had been killed late in the evening, and about the popping noises that had sent the guests diving into the dirt. “We lost several trays of flan, too,” I said. “Sounds absurd, doesn’t it, that I would even think of that when a man died?”
“Sounds like you’re in shock,” Analise said.
I felt tears prick my eyes. Though I’d broken down the night before when the police had questioned me, I hadn’t allowed myself to truly feel how stressful the night had been since then. I’d tried to wall my reactions off and march forward as though life were normal. And convince myself that even if it wasn’t, I could handle whatever was thrown at me. “I think you’re right,” I said, sniffling and digging in my backpack for a tissue. I finally gave up and wiped my nose on a paper napkin.
“Though lord knows flan can cause a family feud on this island,” she added, once I’d composed myself.
I laughed. “I keep wondering if this was about something personal? Was there a personal relationship between Gabriel and some other person at the party that we knew nothing about? Or was the killer someone who disagreed violently with the idea of the conference? But then why kill Gabriel?”
“Plenty of people don’t approve of this weekend,” Analise admitted. “Not every Cuban-American who lives in Key West or Miami or anywhere in the U.S. feels good about improving the relationship between the countries. If your family lost a lot while fleeing Cuba, then the taste in your mouth could be very bitter.”
“Of course,” I said.
“The part about Hemingway’s gold medal gone missing, is that true?” Analise asked.
“Yes, that’s what sent yesterday off to a ghastly start. There were a lot of priceless Hemingway artifacts on display, including the medal he won for The Old Man and the Sea. It was stolen right out from under our eyes. Once that happened, the organizers were of course scrambling to locate it, and when they couldn’t, explain its absence away. But the Cuban delegation was outraged.” I made a face and heaved a big sigh. “We thought that had to be the low point of the evening, but then the murder was discovered at the very time Mr. Obama was onstage.”
Her eyes got wide. “Obama? So it’s true what I read in the Key West locals Facebook group this morning.”
Key West seems to run on the fuel of Facebook gossip, especially in the high winter season.
I nodded. “And Diana Nyad. And Jimmy Buffet. An amazing trifecta. Can you imagine what a coup it was to get them all together on that little patch of lawn?” I sighed again. “To have the night ruined was devastating on so many levels. Do you know Maria?”
“A little,” she said. “She’s a nice lady and devoted to her mother. Her brother too. I’ve tasted her magical flan. I believe it’s her grandmother’s recipe, brought over from the mother country. They guard it as though it was the family jewels.”
Just then, an efficient waitress delivered my food. “Gracias,” I said, inhaling the magical smells that rose from the hot food. “Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?” I asked Analise.
She nodded.
“Can I sit with you? Maybe you can help me translate if the Spanish overwhelms me.”
After agreeing to meet outside Our Lady of the Sea at nine forty-five the next morning, Analise returned to her tour group and I to my food. I snapped photos of the dish, then sampled citrusy roast pork, deep-fried plantains, and rice with black beans, trying to think of words that would describe how ordinary ingredients could come together in such a homey and delicious way.
I accepted the check as a text vibrated in from my mother. I didn’t need to hear the tone of voice to realize that she was stressed to the point of hysterical.
IRENA AND MARIA NO GO FOR TODAY. CAN YOU SPARE TIME TO HELP SET UP AT HEMINGWAY HOME?
BE THERE IN 20, I tapped back into my phone.
It wasn’t on my calendar, but I felt terrible about the way my mother’s first major job was going. And then I realized that if my friend Rusty Hodgdon was on guide duty today, I might be able to learn everything I would ever want to know about that missing gold medal. And more important, even the murder.
Chapter Eleven
He was drinking another of the frozen daiquiris with no sugar in it and as he lifted it, heavy and the glass frost-rimmed, he looked at the clear part below the frappéd top and it reminded him of the sea. The frappéd part of the drink was like the wake of a ship and the clear part was the way the water looked when the bow cut it when you were in shallow water over marl bottom. That was almost the exact color.
—Ernest Hemingway, Islands in the Stream
The Hemingway Home and Museum on Whitehead Street is one of the top tourist sites on the island. Hemingway lived in this home during the thirties with his second wife, Pauline. Even with the lines of visitors gawking at the house, the grounds, and the cats, this place still manages to bring my blood pressure down each time I step inside the brick walls that mark the perimeter of the property. Some of my reaction is due simply to the grace of the white painted home with its lime-green shutters and black metal railings, accompanied by a most inviting pool and surrounded with stunning tropical foliage. And some of it is the mob of polydactyls who live here, many-toed cats said to be descendants of Hemingway’s beloved first cat, Snow White.
Catering at the Hemingway Home takes place from the back gate on a side street so as not to interfere with the guests st
reaming through the main entrance. Mom’s new van was set up next to the gate, and behind that sat a rental truck loaded with chairs and tables. No cooking was allowed on the grounds, so I knew that the food my mother planned to serve would be assembled in her big kitchen, ready for a last-minute finish in the van. I parked my scooter across the street in view of the Key West lighthouse, which Hemingway reportedly used as a target on nights that he was staggering home drunk from Sloppy Joe’s bar. Then I headed back around to the side entrance. Mom came trotting toward me from the direction of the cat cemetery, her hair tied back with a green bandana, a fine sheen of sweat on her face, and no makeup. Her face lit up with gratitude when she saw me.
“Thank god you’re here. We’re so shorthanded. Irena said she could get here by five, but that leaves all the setup to us. If you know anyone who could pitch in with the cleanup tonight, they are hired sight unseen. Sam and some guy named Jorge are working on the tables right now.”
“Jorge?”
Mom grimaced and then smiled. “I have no clue where he even found him.”
“I’ll set up chairs then?”
My mother nodded. I grabbed a dolly, loaded it with white plastic folding chairs, and then rolled it through the grounds, past the little cat houses where new kittens and the more sensitive cats were housed during big events. Tourists were climbing the steep stairway that led to Hemingway’s writing studio, and I heard one of the guides, Rusty Hodgdon, tell them he’d be waiting on the other side to conclude the tour. I raised a finger to let him know I’d like to chat when he was finished.
I carried my load of chairs past the swimming pool to the big lawn where tonight’s party would take place. Sam and Jorge had already opened up three round tables and were wrestling the fourth into place. On one of them, two massive cats with extra toes on their front paws sprawled as if they were waiting for the action to begin. I rubbed one yellow-striped belly and scratched under the chin of a handsome gray guy.
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