—Enrique Fernandez, Cortadito
I’d missed two calls from my mother while we were at the police station, so I dialed her back as soon as we got to our boat. “Everything okay?”
“We’ll see tonight,” she said grimly.
Not an encouraging sign.
“How is the roast coming along?”
“We decided to do the cooking on site,” she said. “It seems like too much of a risk to cook it here, drag it over there, and then warm it up. You know people freak out if they see pink, but on the other hand, it’s so easy to overcook a pork roast. How about your cakes?”
“Almost ready for their close-ups,” I said. “I baked the layers earlier and I’m about to whip the cream. Did you need something, or were you calling to chat?”
“Can you drive over in Miss Gloria’s boat?” she asked. “It will save Sam the trouble of coming back up the island to pick you up.” By boat, I knew she meant my roommate’s vast, old Buick, with a front seat more comfortable than most people’s living room sofas.
I agreed we would meet them at the Little White House at five and spent the next forty-five minutes finishing the dessert. So far, the cakes looked stunning—the layers of yellow infused with rum-mint syrup, mounded with whipped cream, and decorated with slices of lime. A few sprigs of mint would be the crowning touch. I walked out to our tiny back deck and chose the best-looking leaves from Miss Gloria’s little herb garden. These I rinsed and artfully arranged around the limes. Then I fed the cats, changed back into my black-and-white server uniform, and woke Miss Gloria up from her nap. “Time to get ready, Sleeping Beauty,” I said.
My mother had loaned me two BPA-free cake carriers, and I carefully fit in the cakes and covered them up. I scraped the last of the whipped cream into another container and wrapped up a few extra limes and mint leaves in case of dings or nicks. We loaded ourselves and our gear into Miss Gloria’s Buick. Fortunately for my nerves, she hadn’t taken this vehicle out by herself too often lately—only on occasional trips to lead one of her cemetery tours, or when it was her turn to be designated driver for her ladies’ lunch group. Like a mom who doesn’t want her teenager driving too soon, I’d learned to be liberal about offering rides.
Tonight’s dinner was planned for a smaller crowd without surprise entertainment or outside guests, which we all desperately hoped would mean less stress than the opening gala. I dreaded revisiting the space where Gabriel had died, but hopefully a happy and successful event would banish the ghosts. Bill had told me weeks ago that the intent of this final evening was to cement any gains that the two sides had made. From what I’d been able to glean at the botanical gardens this morning, the gains were minimal. The evening might be short.
We parked on Emma Street and carried the cakes across the lawn to the back entrance of the Little White House. As we walked, I noticed at least four Key West Police Department vehicles and the officers I assumed must have come from them, along with a few residents of the nearby condos and gardeners working on the property next to the Little White House. Some, if not all, must be the undercover security that Torrence had mentioned.
Once inside, the comforting smells of delicious things cooking helped distract me from the door to the closet at the end of the storage hallway where Gabriel had been found stabbed to death. “Just don’t look,” I warned Miss Gloria, though I doubted there was really anything to see other than the remnants of yellow crime scene tape. And what was the point of warning her? Neither of us was the sort to avoid trouble. I concentrated on the scent of roasting pork to get my mind off the murder.
My mother had marinated the meat overnight in the traditional Cuban mojo-style sauce. The authentic base for this marinade was sour orange juice, which she had replaced with easier-to-find orange juice and lime to get a similar effect. Judging by the powerful and delicious scent of roasting garlic, cumin, and oregano, I suspected the dish was probably reaching its crunchy crescendo about now. The plan was to make the white rice on site and heat up the black beans. The only other ingredient we had to prepare in the kitchen was fried plantains, which did not travel well.
We bustled into the kitchen, each carrying a mojito cake. Sam took Miss Gloria’s container and set it on the table. It was hard not to remember working right here with Maria and Irena on Friday before tragedy struck. We had felt so hopeful and excited about the weekend. Sam’s eyes met mine, and I imagined he was thinking the same thing. He looked tired. I doubted he’d had this kind of life in mind for himself before he met the whirlwind that is my mother. As far as I knew, he’d had no experience with cooking beyond heating up his own takeout meals during his single years.
“Everything good here?” I asked.
“You can smell your mother’s fabulous roast for yourself,” he said as he took the cake I’d been carrying and laid it on the table next to the first. “Let me make some room in the refrigerator and we’ll get these put away. The beans are simmering and the rice maker is set to run at six o’clock, and your mom is in the dining room setting the table. We’ve decided to bake bananas instead of frying plantains.” He pointed to two Pyrex dishes filled with halved bananas, lying in some kind of sauce. “Butter, brown sugar, lime juice, and rum,” he explained, anticipating my question. “It’s not authentic, but the fruit they sent us from the wholesaler was unacceptable. And I convinced your mother we simply don’t have time to go running around to the supermarkets all over the island.”
“Smart man.” I crossed the kitchen and removed the cover from the enormous pot of black beans. I could tease out the smells of onions and green peppers, ingredients central to my mother’s Cuban-inspired recipe. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I asked, “Is she holding up okay?”
He forced a grin. “You know her, she doesn’t stay down for long. Even if this weekend is declared a national disaster, we’ve learned a lot.” He ran his fingers through his hair and lowered his own voice. “Things such as not bidding on enormous jobs that involve tending and carrying forward the relationship between historically hostile nations. Maybe cater a few five-year-old birthday celebrations?”
Miss Gloria and I laughed and he joined in, too. My mother was the type to be all in or all out. No way was she going to settle for providing punch and cookies to children’s birthday parties. I pushed through the swinging door that led to the pantry and, from there, into the dining room. I was still in awe that we would be serving dinner at the exact table that had been used by Presidents Truman, Kennedy, Carter, and Clinton, as well as Secretary of State Colin Powell.
“How does it look?” my mother asked, glancing up from fussing over her table arrangements. She had chosen bright-red placemats and white linen napkins that echoed the colors of the white chairs with their red-patterned seat cushions. The centerpieces bristled with flowers and the flags of the United States, Cuba, and the Conch Republic of Key West. “Anthurium for hospitality and abundance, alstroemeria for prosperity, fortune, and friendship, and blue iris for hope.”
“It looks amazing, and it smells that good, too. You’ve thought of everything.” I picked up one of the white china plates to admire the line drawings of the building that danced around the rim.
“Can you imagine that Harry Truman and his family actually ate off those very plates? I had to beg for permission to use them, so don’t drop one,” she warned. “Wasn’t that funeral just so sad? I can’t honestly say I’m sorry that we had to leave early.”
“It was brutal,” I agreed, settling the plate back on the table. “And Maria and her mother are in despair. She said police have been to her house twice asking whether her brother stole the gold medal and stashed it somewhere. She’s begging me to find out what I can about what happened because the police seem mystified. So if you hear anything funny tonight…” And that reminded me that I needed to keep an eye on Turner Markham—and make mental notes about who he was watching. Because I was pretty sure he had a murder suspect in mind, one that he wasn’t willing to share with me.
&
nbsp; “The problem is,” I added, “everyone I talk to is acting suspicious. About something.”
“I imagine we’ll be way too busy to snoop—even you. We’re all set in here,” said my mother, perching her hands on her hips. “Now for the hors d’oeuvres.”
As we returned to the kitchen, Sam was explaining the night’s menu to a tall man wearing black pants, a white shirt, and an apron hanging from his neck and tied at the waist, like the rest of us. “We’ll be serving the appetizers out on the front lawn,” Sam explained as he pulled a tray of baked picadillo empanadas out of the oven.
“What’s in the filling?” asked the man.
“Beef, onions, garlic, tomatoes, raisins, olives, spices, like that,” Sam said. He turned to us and introduced Officer Tim Boyd.
“That will be plain Tim tonight,” the man reminded us. “And I’m instructed to stay in the kitchen and do any scut work you need so I can be close by if needed.”
“Scut work? Ha!” Miss Gloria pointed to the mountain of dirty pots, pans, and dishes that had already accumulated in the sink. She winked at him. “Game for starting there?”
“Whatever’s needed,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling back at her.
Miss Gloria finished arranging a tray of Cuban sandwich–inspired skewers—composed of squares of Swiss cheese, ham, and little chunks of dill pickle—on a flowered plate.
“What you can’t see is a tiny dab of mustard between the cheese and the ham,” Sam explained to Tim. “All made easy through the magic of a sous-chef such as myself.”
“I thought you promised to make these simple,” I said, turning to my mother.
“I made the filling for the empanadas last week and stuck it in the freezer,” she said with a sheepish smile. “All we had to do was roll out the cornmeal crust and stuff the little devils this morning. Since you were making dessert, how else was I going to fill our time?”
“Next time, try a nap,” I said. “Or a few hours at the beach? Or even read a good mystery?”
We heard the chatter of arriving guests outside on the lawn. “Show’s starting,” said Sam. “Man your stations!”
Miss Gloria and I each took a tray and headed out to the yard, where the dinner guests had begun to gather under the big tent. A trio of musicians was playing soft Cuban music. A hot flash of memory swept over me, the excitement and drama and finally fear from the Friday night event returning to me in a rush. I made a beeline for Eric and Bill, thinking Eric’s calm demeanor would have a good impact on my nerves. Before I could reach them, Bob ducked in, grabbed Bill by the arm, and drew him away.
“What’s going on?” I asked as I offered Eric the platter of steaming empanadas.
He shrugged. “They’ve been texting all day, so I don’t know what could be new. In a nutshell, they were hoping the murder would be solved and all questions put to rest, but nothing appears to be happening. And the Cuban delegation is very withdrawn—in fact, everyone canceled except the mayor and his wife. I don’t know what finally got to them, whether it was the chugs or the protesters or the murder or some combination. But if they weren’t already scheduled to leave in the morning, I’m pretty sure they would be checking out early.” He bit into the little meat pie and exclaimed with delight. “Oh wow, these are outstanding! I particularly love the saltiness of the green olives next to the sweetness of the raisins.”
“Thanks, but no credit due to me this time. My mother and Sam made them. What’s he most worried about?” I asked, tipping my chin at Bill, who was deep in conversation with a very animated Bob.
“The murder first and foremost, of course. But then, in the fallout from the first night, any goodwill between the Key Westers and the Havana people seems to have evaporated. And all of that stains the Little White House’s reputation. The police are cranky too, but I suppose you have an inside track into that.” He wiped his lips with a Little White House cocktail napkin and reached for a second empanada.
I cracked a grin. “I do and they are. What do you think was at stake for this conference, besides reputation?”
“On Friday night, Bob thought he had a couple of big donors to the foundation on the line, but they appear to have fallen through. You’ve been reading the paper?”
I nodded.
“They need a big win tonight—some kind of agreement with the Havana folks about something—something they can point to in order to say, ‘See what a great asset the Little White House can be.’”
Behind Eric, I could see my mother twirling her finger—Circulate! “Enjoy the night; the boss is calling,” I said, and headed toward the Havana mayor and his friendly wife, Isabella, with whom I’d chatted earlier this morning. She was wearing a sparkly, formfitting sunflower yellow–and–black dress that highlighted her dark hair and eyes.
“Buenos noches,” I said as I approached. “You look gorgeous! Tonight we’ve prepared empanadas stuffed with picadillo.” I held my tray out along with a fistful of napkins.
“Oh, they look amazing,” Isabella said, and turned to her husband. “Aren’t these your favorites?”
He smiled politely but without warmth, and answered in accented English, “No, thank you. My mother’s pastries were so flaky and crisp that I promised myself I would never attempt to compare. This could only turn out poorly for the competition.”
What does a caterer answer to that? I couldn’t think of a thing. “I hope you were able to take in a little more of our island today.”
“I walked up and down Duval Street. My husband had to work,” Isabella said.
“I hope you will excuse me,” he said, pecking his wife on the cheek but not looking at me. We both watched him stride toward the men’s restroom.
“Don’t worry, I understand,” I said, anticipating her embarrassment at his rudeness. “I’ve come to realize that some people visiting Key West adore it as much as we do, and others don’t get it at all. I’m afraid your husband may be one of the latter.”
She took a sip of her wine. “This trip has been very complicated for him. You must realize that not everyone in Cuba is in favor of this conference. And he is feeling a lot of pressure because he chose to come anyway. And then the stolen medal and that poor man dying. It’s a bit much. All the other members of our group canceled from this dinner, but I insisted we attend. Maybe that was an error, but I apologize for his rudeness.”
“Please—”
She cut me off and glanced at her husband’s retreating form. “I spent a year in Miami as a high school exchange student, so I know how fraught this whole subject can be from either side. He finds it hard to see it more than one way. He can only imagine what another country wants from Cuba, rather than what we could exchange for mutual benefit.”
“I wondered how your English came to be so excellent,” I said. “What might your husband think our country wants?”
“That’s a tough one,” she said, fingering one delicate pearl earring. “The Cuban people would like some of what Americans take for granted—access to the Internet, ability to run and own businesses, higher wages, freedom to visit their relations in the U.S. And to import whatever they want from America, whether it’s soap operas or televisions. Our government, I believe, is afraid that your country wants to control ours, in exchange for loosening trade restrictions.”
“We’ve had a difficult relationship, so I can see why the trust would be missing,” I said. Just then I caught my mother’s eye. She whirled a finger in the air again, probably irked that every stop I made turned into a major conversation. “Excuse me, I need to get back to work. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you inside.”
As I passed hors d’oeuvres to the other people gathered under the small tent in the side yard, I tried to listen to their conversations without getting drawn in. Bob, who was appearing progressively more disheveled as the weekend drew to its finish, was earnestly imploring Mayor Diaz to listen to or do something. Bill was talking to Rusty from the Hemingway Home, and both of them looked unhappy. And, from the volume of
Rusty’s voice, I suspected that he had already downed a few cocktails. If I hadn’t run out of empanadas, I would have hovered closer. Around the fringes of the group, several uniformed police officers lurked, adding another edge to the gathering.
I took my tray back into the kitchen, which was empty. I could hear Sam in the dining room, explaining the seating arrangements to Officer Tim. Since there was a slight lull in the action, I went down the hall to the storage area that housed the closet where Gabriel’s body had been found. What could have happened between killer and victim that would result in such an ugly and violent outcome? It was unlikely that anything would have been overlooked by the heavy security presence the other night, but I needed to see for myself.
I eased the door open and flipped on the light switch. Then I closed the door behind me and began to sort through the stuff on the shelves. At the bottom were cans of paint, most half empty; I assumed these were used to touch up rooms at the house. Further up I found paint rollers, tubes of caulk, plastic trash bags, rolls of paper towels, lightbulbs, bathroom cleaner, and an orange hazard cone. I searched quickly behind all of the items, thinking of how expensive it must to be to maintain a historic building like this one. The door flew open behind me and I stifled a scream.
Rusty Hodgdon stood outside the door looking perplexed. “I’m sorry, I thought this was the men’s room.”
I gawked at him and stammered, “I was looking for the rum bottles my stepfather said he stashed here the other day. I have a feeling the officers searching the premises might have impounded them.”
He laughed and peered around. “We have a room very similar to this at the Hemingway Home—all the flotsam and jetsam of the work behind the scenes. Off to find the loo.”
He staggered a little, and I wondered if he was pretending or was actually that tipsy. Could he really have thought this was the men’s room, or was he looking for something, too? He’d shown a lot of interest in that precious, missing gold medal. Which might make him very dangerous. I felt a chill course from the top of my spine to my coccyx.
Death on the Menu Page 12
