Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE KEY WEST FOOD CRITIC MYSTERIES

  Death with All the Trimmings

  “Like a spiked glass of eggnog or s’mores over a cold night’s cozy fire, Death with All the Trimmings is a holiday treat that any book lover should be pleased to find stuffed in their stocking or neatly wrapped beneath the tree.”

  —The Florida Book Review

  “A contemporary comedy of manners sprinkled with gastronomical glitter, delectable danger, and goodwill … delightful.”

  —Florida Weekly

  “Juicy, entertaining, and twisty … this is a perfect seasonal treat for readers who love both a turkey dinner and a good mystery.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “Sheer fun. The twists and turns keep the reader guessing until the very end, as Lucy Burdette serves up a spectacular mystery.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Murder with Ganache

  “Gourmets who enjoy a little mayhem with their munchies will welcome Burdette’s fourth Key West mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Sprightly and suspenseful … like a gourmet meal, it will leave you wanting more.”

  —Fort Myers Florida Weekly

  “One crazy adventure ride. This page-turner kept me up half the night.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “[Lucy Burdette] once again crafts a complicated mystery that incorporates delectable descriptions of Key West cuisine.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  Topped Chef

  “Burdette fills Topped Chef with a fine plot, a delightful heroine, a wealth of food—and all the charm and craziness of Key West. You’ll wish you could read it while sipping a mojito on the porch of a Conch cottage in mainland America’s southernmost community.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “In addition to a compelling murder mystery, readers are treated to a dose of spirited competition, a pinch of romantic intrigue, and a hearty portion of local flavor. It’s enough to satisfy both casual readers and cozy fans alike, though be forewarned: You’ll be left craving more.”

  —Examiner.com

  “The characters remain as fresh as the breeze off the ocean, as does the plot.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “The descriptions of the coastal cuisine, snappish and temperamental cheftestants, and drag queens all combine to make this a very well-written and tasty mystery, sure to please fans of food, reality shows, and mysteries.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  Death in Four Courses

  “Anyone who’s ever overpaid for a pretentious restaurant meal will relish this witty cozy.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Breezy as a warm Florida Keys day, Death in Four Courses is a fast-paced mystery that easily combines food and writing with an intricate plot to create an engaging mystery.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  An Appetite for Murder

  “What fun! Lucy Burdette writes evocatively about Key West and food—a winning combination. I can’t wait for the next entry in this charming series.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Diane Mott Davidson

  “Food, fun, and felonies. What more could a reader ask for?”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lorna Barrett

  “For a true taste of paradise, don’t miss An Appetite for Murder… . The victim may not be coming back for seconds, but readers certainly will!”

  —Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries and Manor House Mysteries

  “You’ll eat it up.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Not only does Burdette capture the physical and pastoral essence of Key West—she celebrates the food.”

  —The Florida Book Review

  “Hayley herself is delightful… . Readers will be happy to make her acquaintance and follow her through future adventures.”

  —Florida Weekly

  Other Key West Food Critic Mysteries

  by Lucy Burdette

  Book 1: An Appetite for Murder

  Book 2: Death in Four Courses

  Book 3: Topped Chef

  Book 4: Murder with Ganache

  Book 5: Death with All the Trimmings

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

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  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Roberta Isleib, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-698-19200-3

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Lucy Burdette

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Recipes

  Excerpt from KILLER TAKEOUT

  For Barbara Thomason, Donna Johnson, and Sheila Dolan, for their gifts of my furs, Yoda and Tonka

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like so many writers before me, I love my adopted hometown, Key West; it’s a pleasure to show you around. Most of the places and restaurants (and some of the people) mentioned really exist, though this story of course is fiction. And if Hayley is forced to give a bad review, I’ve made that restaurant up. Occasionally, I tweak geography or facts to suit my story.

  I would like to express great appreciation to Matthew Carroll from the Make Do and Mend band for permission to quote a wonderful line from their song “No Words.” I saw this line tattooed on a young man’s arm while waiting for a plane in the Mia
mi airport and knew it would become important in this book.

  Thank you to reader Sue Peterson, who strongly suggested that Hayley needed a challenge in her love life. Thanks to Jane Newhagen for the cemetery tour and for helpful information about digging up graves. She also fixed some factual errors—thank you, Jane! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

  I’m grateful to Jonathan Shapiro for legal advice on Lorenzo’s dilemma and to Dr. Doug Lyle and Michelle Clark for helpful information on body decomposition. Thank you to Barbara Ross for the clever name of the floating restaurant, For Goodness’ Sake, and to Hallie Ephron for help with back cover copy. Thanks to Ben Harrison for describing the spear gun, and to the Key West Ambassador program for introducing me to layers of the city I never knew existed.

  Thank you to Ron Augustine for sharing insights on tarot, though any mistakes Lorenzo makes are mine. Same goes for Steve Torrence, who helps out with police-procedure questions—boneheaded moves by characters in this book are not his responsibility.

  Thank you to my writer friends, who are always willing to lend a shoulder or an ear. Angelo Pompano and Chris Falcone ask all the right questions and are so steady in their willingness to read drafts and make comments and suggestions. Thank you! The women at Jungle Red Writers and Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen have become true and dear friends. Thank you! My sister, Susan Cerulean, was there at the beginning and is with me each step of the way. Thanks to every reader (I love you guys!) and to the libraries and bookstores that help them find my books.

  Thanks to Paige Wheeler and her folks at Creative Media Agency for helping me navigate this crazy publishing business. And thanks to the team of professionals at New American Library, who bring the books to life, especially Sandy Harding, whose editing is truly a gift.

  As always, thanks to my John. His loving support and good humor make all this possible!

  Lucy Burdette

  Key West, Florida

  February 22, 2015

  “What’s inside it?” asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

  “There’s cold chicken inside it,” replied the Rat briefly; “coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinsaladfrenchrollscressandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—”

  “O stop, stop,” cried the Mole in ecstasies: “This is too much!”

  —Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

  1

  Sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone.

  —Joseph Tropiano and Stanley Tucci, Big Night

  The first time Miss Gloria almost died, she came out of the hospital rigid with fear.

  The second time, just before Christmas, she came out fighting. In spite of having been jammed into a small space for hours, with hands and feet bound and mouth taped shut, she was determined to embrace life with all the risks that entailed. For weeks, she’d brushed off my concerns about conserving her energy, going out at night alone, and piloting her enormous Buick around the island instead of calling a cab. Good gravy, wasn’t she almost eighty-one years old? And besides that, she could barely see over the steering wheel.

  I took a deep breath and lowered my voice so the entire marina wouldn’t hear us squabbling on the deck of her houseboat. “Your sons will have conniptions if they hear you’re driving again,” I said. “Lots of things can go wrong—the traffic is terrible this time of year—”

  She gripped my wrist with her tiny fingers. “When you look at it without your blinders on, Hayley Snow,” she said, “isn’t life just one big series of close calls? We all have to go sometime,” she added with an impish tilt to her head. “And I’ve realized that I don’t want to go feeling any regrets. And I’d definitely regret spending the rest of my life acting like a scared old lady.” She grinned and patted my hand. “My training shift at the cemetery starts at three. You’re coming for a tour at four so I can practice, right? How about we compromise and you’ll drive me home? That way you can walk over to the cemetery, burn off a few calories, and earn points with your gym trainer,” she finished with a sly wink.

  I sighed and nodded my agreement. I’d been had and we both knew it.

  She hurried down the dock to her metallic green car and I buried myself in my work in order to avoid watching the big sedan back and fill. When she’d extracted the vehicle from its tight parking space, she careened across the Palm Avenue traffic, tires squealing and horn blaring.

  I plugged my ears and tried not to look. I had my own problem to attend to: roughing out a plan for my latest restaurant review roundup, tentatively called “Paradise Lunched.” My new boss, Palamina Wells, was turning out to be a lot more hands-on than any of us working at Key Zest had expected when she assumed half ownership of the magazine in January. Instead of the cheerleader I’d anticipated, she was watching me like a pastry chef eyes salted caramel. Like I might turn on her at any moment.

  “I know I’m giving a lot of suggestions right now. I’ll back off once I get a handle on things,” she’d told us in a staff meeting yesterday. “In the meantime, let’s work on making our lead paragraphs truly memorable. Think tweetable, think Buzzfeedable, think Instagram envy. Let’s make them irresistibly viral, okay?”

  Irresistibly viral felt like a lot to ask from an article on lunch.

  At three thirty I put my overworked, underperforming first paragraph aside and told the cats I’d be back in an hour, lord willing that Miss Gloria allowed me to drive home. If the lord didn’t will that, I couldn’t promise anything.

  By the time I fast-walked from Houseboat Row to the Frances Street entrance of the cemetery, I was sweaty and hot, which meant my face had to be its most unattractive tomato red. I took a selfie on my phone and texted it to my trainer, Leigh, as proof of my aerobic exertion. She had been on the money last week when she pointed out that my fitness program had lots of room for improvement. “Increasing your walking from zero miles per week to any positive number would be good,” she’d said, snapping her iPad shut with a flourish.

  The Key West Cemetery sits in the center of the island on its highest point, where it was moved after the hurricane of 1846 washed the graves and bodies into the Atlantic Ocean. Because of the tight space on this island, many of the burials are now handled in aboveground crypts—which makes for an interesting and spooky landscape. That—along with some interesting inhabitants—makes the cemetery one of the biggest tourist attractions on the island.

  I’d put off agreeing to this tour for as long as I could. It’s not that cemeteries scare me exactly. It’s that the idea of people dying makes me sad, especially people like Miss Gloria, who’s probably closer to that transition than most of the people I know. I love her like a grandmother, only more so, because she’s a friend, so our relationship is free from the baggage that family relationships can hold. And now here she was, training to be a volunteer guide at the cemetery, where the radio station would play all dead people, all the time.

  She was waiting for me at the gate, positively vibrating with excitement. “How much time do we have?” she asked. “I’ve learned so much, I’d like to tell you all of it.”

  I laughed. “I have to be at the city commission meeting by six o’clock sharp. And I definitely need something to eat before—the commissioners have a reputation for running hot and late. So let’s say half an hour?”

  She straightened her shoulders, the serious expression on her lined face at odds with her cheerful yellow sweatshirt, which featured sweet bunnies nibbling on flowers. “In that case, maybe we’ll start in the Catholic part of the cemetery, since it’s closest.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The hinge at the left temple, still held together with silver duct tape, caught on a clump of white hair. She had gotten the lens replaced after it was crushed in the scuffle last December, but she refused to spring for new frames. “I like old things,” she’d said, laughing. “They go with me.”

  She waved me forward. “So we’ll start on the right. Then we can work our way around the edges and I won’t forget where we left off.”

&nbs
p; “How long are the tours you’ll be giving once you’re finished with your training?” I mopped my face with my sleeve and paused in the scanty shade of a coconut palm.

  “It depends if it’s a special event. In that case, I could be here two hours. But most tourists don’t have that kind of attention span. They want to see the gravestone that says, ‘I told you I was sick.’ And maybe the double-murder-suicide grave.”

  “The double-murder-suicide?”

  “Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “He shot her and then killed himself. And the poor woman is stuck in the same grave site with him for eternity. What’s up with that?”

  “Somebody with a sick sense of humor made that decision,” I said. “Though Eric always says you never know what’s going on in a marriage unless you’re living in that space. I guess it’s possible that she drove him to it?” My childhood friend Eric is a psychologist and, besides that, the most sensible man I know.

  She cleared her throat and started to speak in a serious public-radio kind of voice. “Okay, in this right-hand corner that runs along Frances and Angela streets you will find the Catholic cemetery.” Miss Gloria wove through the mossy stones, pointing out the plot for the Gato family, prominent in cigar-manufacturing days; the English family plot, honoring school principal James English and his father, Nelson, Key West’s first and only African American postmaster; and a gravestone reading DEVOTED FAN OF SINGER JULIO IGLESIAS.

  She adjusted her damaged glasses again. “I hope you’ll find something more personal to say than that when my time comes.”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Miss Gloria, spark plug, wonderful roommate, and mother of fabulous sons. But that’s too wordy. How about—‘She was up for anything’?”