“Mojitos are my favorite!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air in excitement. “I’ve never had the cake, only the drink.” Her husband took a few fast steps ahead of us and began to chat with one of his colleagues.
“Your husband doesn’t seem so happy this morning,” I said, pasting a more serious expression on my face and gesturing at the chugs. “I imagine this history is difficult to witness.”
“He didn’t want to come,” she said, lowering her voice so I could hardly hear. “But I told him he must keep his eyes open and listen. America has a lot to teach us if we only choose to learn.”
“And I’m equally certain we can learn things from you as well,” I said politely. And I meant it. America should be open to learning from any other country, no matter how small, or impoverished, or nondemocratic. “Isn’t that the point of the weekend?”
“Has there been any word on the poor man who was killed the other night?” she asked.
“Nothing official,” I said. “You were there at the party, I assume. I understand they’re having difficulty identifying the assailant—the night was so special but also so chaotic.”
She tipped her head and placed a hand on her cheek. “Someone wanted to sabotage—”
Her words were cut off by a protester outside the garden gates, who began to shout through a megaphone.
“This so-called cultural exchange is not bridging the gap between Cuba and Key West. This event supports the false notion that the current authoritarian regime is opening its doors to new ideas and new artists. We reject that fantasy! We are all putting blinders on regarding the vicious acts of the government in place now, and overlooking justice.”
I noticed that Nancy Klingener, a reporter for the local National Public Radio station, had joined the group. She turned toward the protester with her camera and portable microphone.
Both Bill and Bob looked as though they were ready to crumble. The weekend was bringing out the worst of the tension between these two sides. But did this have anything to do with Gabriel’s murder? Or the stolen medal?
We’d come to the end of the chug display, and Bill hastened to wrap up the tour with a quick reminder about tonight’s dinner at the Little White House. I left the grounds determined not to let my chance to find out what had happened to poor Gabriel drift by me. Later on, when I got a moment, if that ever happened, I would call Nancy. As a reporter observing from outside the conflicts, she probably had a lot of insight into the stakes resting on this weekend.
Chapter Fourteen
The sad thing about all the Cuban food I eat outside Cuba is precisely that: it’s outside Cuba.
—Enrique Fernandez, Cortadito
I barely had time to hurtle back to the houseboat, take a shower, and change my clothes for the service. I tried talking Miss Gloria into staying home and resting, but she’d have none of it. As I dressed for the funeral, changing out of the shorts I’d worn to the botanical garden, I began to think about Gabriel. Truth: I had no idea who he’d been as a person, a human being. How had he felt about the country he’d come from? Had he been an activist? Or had he fallen in love with his new country and forgotten the pain of the old?
As for Maria, I knew only a bit more. She was the mistress of flan, of course. And devoted to her family. The funeral service might answer some of my questions, though you could hardly take remarks made at such a time at face value. No one ever said “He was a lousy father, tight with both praise and money,” or “He cheated at golf,” or “He drank away too much of his paycheck.”
When Miss Gloria was ready, we hopped back on the scooter and zipped over to the church.
“I don’t want people staying home for my funeral—that’s why I go,” she said as we dismounted. “It’s an important ritual of life, like it or not. Although I don’t think I really want a funeral; I’d prefer a party. Although if there’s going to be a party, I’d hate to miss it.” She paused for a minute, puzzling over this contradiction.
“So let’s have a major party celebrating you when this crazy Cuban event is over,” I said, hugging her shoulders. “And let’s not talk about death and funerals. Because you’re not allowed to die anytime soon. I’d be lost without you and you know it.”
She nodded solemnly and shook her white curls out of the helmet I’d bought for her after the first few times we’d tag-teamed on my scooter. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re safely married. And not soon after that either, because no telling what a hash you could make of that kind of commitment without me around to advise you.” She snickered.
“I’m not that bad,” I said, starting toward the parking lot. “We’ll be late.”
Gabriel’s funeral was being held at Saint Mary Star of the Sea, the large Catholic Church on Truman Avenue. Outside the Catholic community, the church is perhaps best known for the grotto that contains statues of Our Lady of Lourdes and Bernadette. Fashioned out of natural island rock, the grotto was designed by one of the nuns in the early 1900s to protect Key West from major hurricanes. When storms threaten, residents gather here to light candles and say prayers. I had been known to do this myself. Last year it had worked. Just barely.
We met up with Analise on the front steps and joined the line of people trickling into the church. After picking up prayer cards printed with Gabriel’s photo and the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish on the back, we took seats midway up the center aisle. The vaulted arches and high ceiling lent an airy sense to the sanctuary, which was exaggerated when the double doors lining both sides of the sanctuary were open, as they were today.
Two priests in white robes presided over the funeral mass, leading us through traditional Old Testament and New Testament readings, followed by the presentation of the gifts by Irena and two teenagers I did not recognize. After prayers, communion, and hymns, Irena came forward again to offer words of remembrance.
“I will be saying most of this in Spanish,” she said, “as that is my family’s native language.” She offered a small smile, glanced at the paper on the podium, and began to speak.
Analise translated in a whisper: “To my cousin, everything was family. Family was everything. He was devoted to his sister, and his mother, Carmen, my own mother’s beloved sister.”
Irena’s voice caught, and she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue clutched in her left hand. She took a deep breath and looked at Maria and her mother, huddled in the first pew. “In fact, he never started his own family, as he felt his primary meaning in life was to be found right in front of him.”
A wailing rose from the family pew; I couldn’t tell whether it was Maria or her mother or some other bereaved female. Miss Gloria was sniffling too and dug around in her fanny pack to find another Kleenex.
“He was strong like a bull, always available to carry someone else’s load. He was also an excellent cook. I’d put his picadillo up against that of any chef. He did not attempt to make flan, though he adored his mother’s recipe and had been known to finish a tray of custard off on his own. He was also a talented carpenter. He loved his adopted country, while respecting the traditions and history of the country in which he was born.”
Her voice broke again, and it took several moments for her to gather herself and finish. “He would have done anything for the happiness of his mother. He would be heartbroken to see her sadness on this day of mourning.”
“That was a tough one,” said Miss Gloria when we were back out in the sunlight. “A son should never go before his mama.”
We followed Analise to the garden beside the grotto where the family would be accepting condolences. I was not surprised to see several Key West police detectives, probably friends of Nathan’s, in plainclothes. If Gabriel’s murder had been solved, I figured we would have heard about it. Nothing stays secret long in our little town.
We waited in the warm sun to pay our respects to Maria and her family. My mother and Sam had been seated some rows ahead of us in the church, but I knew they had to hurry off to work on tonight’s mea
l. So I was the family representative. No matter how painful it might be to express condolences and be flooded with the agony of the bereft mourners, it would have been worse, far worse, to be in their shoes. We shuffled ahead, and I tried to think of words that might bring comfort.
“You know, there’s really not a darn thing anybody can say at a moment like this,” said Miss Gloria. “I’ve been through it, and it just hurts like heck. But when people show up at the service, it’s like you can spread the pain for a moment—you get a little lift of the burden from your shoulders to theirs.”
I looked at her in amazement. “You are like the Yoda of senior citizens, you know that, right? Sometimes you channel me the same way that Lorenzo does. It’s a little spooky.”
She tucked her hand under my elbow and squeezed, with a smile I could only describe as mystical. She trailed Analise through the receiving line of mourners. When my turn came, I took both of Maria’s hands in mine, unable to keep the tears from running down my face upon seeing hers. “I’m so, so sorry.”
She nodded quickly. And then glanced at her mother, a wisp of a woman swathed in a shapeless black dress and lace shawl. “This is my mother, Carmen,” Maria said.
Then she leaned over to whisper, “Have you learned anything?”
I felt my face flush, and I gulped and stammered. “You know I’m not a police officer, right?
She gripped my hands harder, and her tears came faster too. “Please help us. The police have been over to our house twice, asking where Gabriel might have hidden the medal. They don’t seem to care that he’s dead, only that he be blamed for stealing.”
A memory from the first day of the conference flashed through my mind: Maria saying that Gabriel would be accused for the disappearance of the prize.
“Why in the world do they think he was responsible for the theft?” I asked her. She bit her lip and shook her head. “If you want me to help, I have to know the truth. Is there any chance that he took it?”
But Maria just bawled. And her relatives and friends began gathering around, glaring at me with daggers of death. Her cousin, Irena, took my elbow and led me a few yards away.
“You have to understand that in these times, no one in authority cares about the truth if one of the parties is brown and even possibly illegal. We can’t talk here. Come by the downtown Cuban Coffee Queen tomorrow and I’ll answer whatever I can. I’m working from eight to three. I’ll try to find out more from Maria, okay?”
“Please, please,” Maria moaned as I started to walk away. “Closure is the only thing that might help my mother right now. It’s not right that a mother’s son should go first. It’s not bearable.”
I could only nod in agreement. I also wondered again how in the world the missing gold medal fit into his death. Or were they completely separate matters? The police didn’t seem to think so. I met up with Miss Gloria in the grotto, where we said our good-byes to Analise and began trudging back to the scooter, feeling drained and light-headed. A text buzzed in. Nathan.
HEARD YOU WERE AT MR. GONZALEZ’S FUNERAL MASS. STAYING OUT OF TROUBLE?
I felt instantly guilty, and then outraged. REALLY? I texted back.
“Already he knows that?” asked Miss Gloria, peering over my shoulder. “What, does he have a mole watching you?”
I ignored the question. I didn’t like the text, but I wasn’t ready to explore my reaction in public. “We promised Torrence we’d stop by the police department, but I’m feeling weak. And ravenous.”
“Café con leche and a Cuban mix?” she asked, eyes sparkling. She’d been helping me work through a list of restaurants that claimed to serve the best of these specialties. We’d already enjoyed the sandwiches at Cole’s Peace, the Courthouse Deli, 5 Brothers, and Ana’s. Sandy’s Café on White Street was next on our list.
You could eat Cuban sandwiches (aka Cuban mix, aka Cubanos) every day for a year in Key West and still not scratch the surface of all the varieties available. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but they are common menu items. Today, Sandy’s Café would work beautifully because it was on the way home and the coffee was powerful and delicious and the Cuban sandwiches authentic. I had tried making these sandwiches at home on the houseboat, but they had never quite tasted the same. What could be so tricky? Roast pork, ham, Swiss cheese, pickles, and yellow mustard, all layered on soft white Cuban bread. The secret must come in the grilling. Maybe the seasoning of a grill used for years’ worth of sandwiches. My mouth began to water thinking about it.
Sandy’s Café was more or less an open-air bar on White Street. Customers ordered at the counter and then sat at a barstool under the red-and-white-striped awning. I ordered two café con leches and a Cuban mix to share, then went to join Miss Gloria on a stool at the end of the bar.
“I’m wiped out and it’s not even noon,” she said.
“So you’ll take a nap,” I said. I wanted one too, but with the day I had scheduled, prospects were dim. “I have the very definite impression that Maria knows something about her brother’s murder that she isn’t saying.”
Miss Gloria nodded. “You couldn’t very well press her for details at the funeral. Don’t you think they would tell the police if they had important information, though?”
“They don’t seem to believe the police would give them a fair shake. But what are they afraid of? They can’t deport him; he’s already dead. And obviously the man didn’t stab himself. Is there someone else in the family they’re protecting from something?”
“Speaking of almost family, what’s up with your Nathan?” my roommate asked. “I’d hate to find out later that he was one of those secretly controlling men who locked you away in a room, and once it’s too late to save you, all the relatives and close friends report to the cops and the TV reporters that they had no idea this was happening.”
I huffed and fidgeted with my napkin, wishing the food was already here so I could distract her from the conversation. “Obviously he doesn’t have me locked in a room, because I’m right here with you. He doesn’t want me to get hurt, that’s all.” Or so I hoped, putting the best possible face on it. My name was called and I scrambled off the stool to pick up our order.
We sipped scalding, milky, sweet coffee as I unwrapped the sandwich from its wax-paper cover. The tangy smell of the pickles wafted up in combination with the sweet mustard. Yellow mustard has gotten a bad foodie rap over the last ten years, with diners fleeing in droves to specialty condiments. But I’d learned to stay away from any establishment using fancy French mustard, at least on this sandwich.
I spotted Turner Markham at the end of the line of lunch customers at the counter. Should I flat out ask him what he knew about the murder? Generally Key West commissioners expect to be approached in this town. They don’t hide away like congress people ducking town halls for their constituents. And he would’ve seen me this morning at the chug tour, and also at the opening event, though that had been a madhouse, so he couldn’t be blamed for not noticing my presence. And sometimes the help blends into the wallpaper. Possibly he would remember me as the person who’d thrown a tray of flan on his shirt. Should I offer to pay his dry-cleaning bill? Not that it had been my fault, but it might be a good segue.
I balled up our trash, slid off the stool, and moved closer to him. “Turner? I’m Hayley Snow. I live on Houseboat Row. I wanted to apologize again for ruining your shirt with our dessert the other night.”
It took him a minute to figure out what I was talking about. “Not your fault,” he said, adding his trademark, winning smile. “We were all taken by surprise.”
Dropping my trash in the receptacle near him, I said, “It was such a tragic ending to a fabulous event. Have you heard whether the murderer has been arrested? We’re all kind of nervous about someone so vicious being out on the loose.”
“Listen,” he said, touching a hand to my back and smiling with reassurance. “We have an excellent police department in this town, and they are doing their job.”
“You must know I can’t talk about any details of an investigation with civilians,” he said, his smile beginning to fade. “Gossip has never helped police work.”
I tried another tack. “Have the authorities recovered the gold medal?”
He shook his head with a curt no, a super-annoyed expression creeping onto his face. I wasn’t surprised—notwithstanding his comment about gossip, the way the coconut telegraph operates in this town, I would have known if the news had changed. And this weekend was probably wearing him out—he wanted these problems solved as much as the rest of us did.
On the other hand, why was he so testy?
Chapter Fifteen
Food was her finest expression of love, not unlike sex, yet longer lasting and more abundant.
—Jacqueline Sheehan, The Tiger in the House
The only positive thing about our impending visit to the police station was that it was close to Houseboat Row, so not out of our way. I was feeling both wired and exhausted. Honestly, Miss Gloria looked even worse. I had one scary moment on the ride over from Sandy’s when her grip on my waist lightened and I was afraid she was dropping off the back of the scooter.
We approached the front door, and I picked up the phone that hung on the outside wall under the portico to speak with the dispatcher. “Hayley Snow and Miss Gloria here to see Lieutenant Torrence. I think it’s him we’re supposed to see. It’s follow-up about the murder at the Little White House.”
“I’ll buzz you in. Come down the hallway to the left.”
We heard a cacophony of barking when we stepped inside the building. Torrence met us about halfway down the hall and walked back with us to his office. His little dogs Zeus and Apollo danced along by his ankles. “It’s ‘take your dog to work’ day,” he explained again, slightly sheepish. “I didn’t think I could handle both at once, and it turns out I was right.”
Death on the Menu Page 10
