Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE KEY WEST FOOD CRITIC MYSTERY SERIES

  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

  “Topped Chef is three courses of cozy—romance, humor, and mystery—that will leave you satisfied yet looking forward to another serving.”

  —The Florida Book Review

  “What’s most fun with this loony crew is Ms. Burdette’s pitch-perfect parody of food talk, as made familiar on Chopped and other popular food programs, where judges and competitors try to top each in their descriptions of preparations, styles, successes, and failures. Sweet and savory, Topped Chef captures Key West’s sensory enchantment, and Ms. Burdette’s bubbly protagonist is once again the main ingredient in a surefire recipe.”

  —Florida Weekly

  “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

  “[A] yummy sequel to An Appetite for Murder… . 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. Lucy Burdette is skilled at creating interesting characters who are very real and familiar… . Lots of food talk, a tropical setting, and a hunky detective provide the perfect backdrop for the second Hayley Snow mystery.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “This book was a quick, fun read that held my attention from the beginning… . I will eagerly await other releases in the Key West Food Critic series!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  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

  “When her ex-boyfriend’s new lover, the co-owner of Key Zest magazine, is found dead, Hayley Snow, wannabe food critic, is the first in line on the list of suspects. 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. Lucy Burdette’s first Key West Food Critic mystery combines a lush, tropical setting, a mysterious murder, and plenty of quirky characters. The victim may not be coming back for seconds, but readers certainly will!”

  —Julie Hyzy, national bestselling author of the White House Chef mysteries and the Manor House mysteries

  “Burdette laces An Appetite for Murder with a clever plot, a determined if occasionally ditzy heroine, and a wealth of local color about Key West and its inhabitants. You’ll eat it up.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Florida has long been one of the best backdrops for crime novels—from John MacDonald to Carl Hiaasen—and Burdette’s sense of place and her ability to empathize with a wide strata of Key West locals and visitors bode well for this new series.”

  —Connecticut Post

  “An excellent sense of place and the occasional humorous outburst aren’t the only things An Appetite for Murder has going for it, though: There is a solid mystery within its pages… . Not only does Burdette capture the physical and pastoral essence of Key West—she celebrates the food… . Although you might want to skip the key lime pie, don’t skip An Appetite for Murder. Let’s hope it is just an appetizer and there will be a feast of Food Critic mysteries to follow.”

  —The Florida Book Review

  “Burdette cleverly combines the insuperable Key West location with the always irresistible hook, food… . Hayley is a vibrant young character to watch, and she writes scrumptious food reviews as well.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Hayley herself is delightful. Exuberant and naive, rocking back and forth between bravado and insecurity, excitable and given to motormouth nervousness, she’s a quick study who has a lot to learn. I’m sure that many 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

  MURDER WITH GANACHE

  A Key West Food Critic Mystery

  Lucy Burdette

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  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, 2014

  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 978-1-101-63603-9

  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 page

  Dedication

  Chapter 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

  Recipes

  Excerpt from the next Key West Food Critic Mystery

  For Steve Torrence and Jai Somers,

  who carry their light to dark places

  AC
KNOWLEDGMENTS

  I love writing the Key West Food Critic Mysteries, and I’m extremely grateful for the many folks who help me along the way. My friends in the writing community, especially the women at Jungle Red Writers and Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen, make the hard parts fun. Special thanks go to Leslie Karst for the title; Yvonne Sparling for brainstorming plot and character details; Ang Pompano and Chris Falcone, who read every word (often more than once); Jeff Chanton and John Brady for the trip around the island; Donna Vanderveen for introducing me to the Hemingway cats; Susan Hubbard and Hallie Ephron for reading drafts and talking things over; Leslie Budewitz for legal expertise; Mary Pat Maloney for the flyswatter; Pat Kerens for the chocolate ganache bars; Jennifer Cornell for tips on catering and the wedding menu; Dr. Molly Brady and Micah Mazzacane for medical details; Killer Character readers for foodie quotes; and Mo Walsh for Purple Moan. (Is that a brilliant name or what?) Thank you to Linda Remer for her donation to the SPCA for the use of Schnootie’s name and character. More of Schnootie to come in the next book… .

  As I wrote Murder with Ganache, Steve Torrence shared his advice on police procedure and introduced me to the fabulous Key West Citizen’s Police Academy—but he should not be blamed for the quirks of his character or any mistakes, which are entirely mine. Thank you to Detective Janeth Calvert for patiently answering questions, and ditto to Officer Dennis Ryan, who took me on a night shift ride-along. (Steve, you needn’t tell them I insisted on being home by eleven.) Thank you also to Jai Somers, with great admiration for her work with homeless teens.

  Thank you to Lucy’s Street Team for their enthusiasm and dedication. Special thanks to Peter and Sally Shapiro, for the same. John Brady and Susan Cerulean are not only family, but the best supporters a writer could wish for.

  Paige Wheeler at Folio Literary plucked me from the slush pile thirteen years ago and has been my champion ever since. Thank you, Paige! And thank you to Sandy Harding, fabulous editor, who takes utterly seriously her mission to make every book better than the draft I submitted. And thanks to the rest of the team at Penguin/New American Library, who bring the book to life and send it out into the world. (That’s you, Kayleigh Clark!) Artists Griesback and Martucci—I am crazy about these covers.

  Readers, librarians, and booksellers: If I could, I’d thank you each by name. Without you, the rest wouldn’t matter.

  Worth every damn bit of sacrifice

  To get a cheeseburger in paradise

  —Jimmy Buffett

  1

  I’m in an open relationship with salt and butter.

  —Michele Catalano

  Faster than a speeding KitchenAid mixer, I scraped the freshly squeezed lime juice and lime zest into the bowl and beat the batter to a creamy pale green. Inside the oven, the first set of cupcakes rose gracefully, releasing their sweet-and-sour citrus fragrance into the tiny galley of our houseboat.

  Then my cell phone bleated: Jim Snow, aka Dad.

  My father isn’t big on phone conversations. My father isn’t big on conversations, period. Clients, he has to butter up because he needs something from them. But I could count on the fingers of one hand the times we’d chatted since my near arrest for murder last fall.

  So when his name flashed on the screen, I set down the whisk, abandoning the “do not answer” policy I’d adopted in order to survive the week leading up to my best friend Connie’s wedding. Something had to be wrong.

  “Hi, Dad, what’s up?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful, when wary was what I felt.

  “Good news, Hayley Catherine Snow!” he said, with the faux heartiness he reserved for business associates. And using my full name, which he reserved for times I’d gotten into trouble. “The whole family’s coming to the wedding.”

  I whooshed out a breath of relief—he was just lagging a beat and a half behind his wife. “I know. Allison RSVP’d weeks ago. You’re all set with a corner suite at the Casa Marina. You’ll love everything but the bill.” My stepmother, Allison, was organized to a fault. She had to be, as a chemist. Though why that didn’t translate into an ability to follow a simple recipe was beyond me. Hopeless in the kitchen, my mom called her, when she couldn’t restrain herself from an edgy comment.

  The oven timer began to ding. I donned a red silicone mitten, pulled the cupcakes out, and slid them onto the stovetop.

  “The whole family,” my father repeated. “Rory’s coming too.”

  “Rory’s coming?”

  My fifteen-year-old stepbrother. To be honest, I was already stressed about the upcoming week, visualizing how I might handle the family dynamics between my mother and her new boyfriend, whom I hadn’t met except on Skype, and my father and stepmother. Not to mention juggling a high-strung bride while baking two hundred cupcakes for her wedding reception. And attending her husband-to-be’s first-ever art reception.

  Rory had been adorable as a toddler. As a teen? Not so much.

  A surly, pimply adolescent boy would not, in any way, be an asset.

  “I was hoping you could find him a place to sleep,” my dad continued. “Otherwise he’ll end up on the couch in our sitting room.” His voice rolled out ominously like the music from Jaws. I was pretty certain he didn’t care much for Rory in his current iteration either—only he didn’t have the luxury of saying so.

  “I don’t think I can, Dad. You guys are arriving today. It’s spring break. The hotels in Key West have been sold out for months. I might be able to get a bead on a bunk in a youth hostel. But between us, I think that’s asking for trouble. You don’t know what kind of roommates he’d get or what they might be into.”

  He cleared his throat. “Might there be room on your houseboat? I know he’d love to have some special time with you.”

  “No can do,” I said briskly. Rory and I hadn’t lived together enough to bond quite like sister and brother. After my parents’ divorce, I spent only alternate weekends and Wednesdays with Dad. And the weekends dwindled further once he remarried and moved two towns away. Rory and I had never shared a room, or a tent, or, for that matter, a mother.

  “Think Airstream trailer on the high seas. The smallest model. Between me, Miss Gloria, two cats, wedding favors, and hundreds of cupcakes, we don’t have room to spit.” Was I being uncharitable? I looked around at the common spaces of our tiny houseboat, the counters in the galley covered with cupcakes, cupcake batter, zested limes, dirty pots and pans, and Evinrude, my gray tiger cat, eyeing it all from a stool beside the stove.

  My father fell silent, which made me feel awful.

  “What about Eric Altman? Didn’t your mother stay in his guest room in January?”

  I groaned. How did he even know this? When I moved down to Key West from New Jersey last fall, I’d assured my old friend Eric I would only ask this kind of favor in case of emergency. He’d insisted on hosting mom, because she’d been so kind to him when he was a troubled teen. It wasn’t fair to foist Rory on him.

  But then I pictured messy, grumpy Rory camped out on our single couch not five feet from the room where I’d be desperate to sleep. This was definitely an emergency.

  At exactly that moment, I heard a burst of excited yapping outside on the dock. A black blur tore across our deck into the living area and through the galley, followed by a barking gray schnauzer. Miss Gloria’s black kitten, Sparky, launched himself up onto the stool beside the stove, chasing Evinrude onto the counter. The slavering dog yipped at the cats, who were now safely out of reach. The animal leaped higher, nipping at their paws. They sprinted across the two trays of pale green cupcakes that were waiting for icing, tipping them up perpendicular to the counter. The cupcakes crashed onto the floor and splattered into a million pieces.

  “Shoo!” I shrieked.

  I waved my arm at the schnauzer, knocking into the bowl of green batter, which rocked and then tilted, dumping its contents down the front of the stove.

  “Gotta go right now,” I said to my father. “I’ll ask Eric.”

  I hung up th
e phone and lunged for the cats. Evinrude slipped through my fingers and vanished down the hall after Sparky.

  “Et tu Brute?” I yelled after him.

  2

  And somewhere, a soufflé has just fallen.

  —Charlotte Druckman

  I grabbed the dog by the collar and marched her out onto the deck. Mrs. Renhart, our next-door neighbor, jumped off her boat and hurried down the dock to collect her. She gathered the animal up and began to nuzzle its neck.

  “Oh Schnootie,” she crooned, “where did you disappear to? Were you chasing kitties, you wicked little beastie?” She broke into a wide smile—the biggest I’d ever seen on her face. “Hayley, this is our new doggie. We just picked her up at the pound this morning. Isn’t she precious?”

  “Cute,” I said, gritting my teeth, trying to twist my lips back into a smile. I briefly considered describing the carnage the dog had created. But what would be the point? And my own animal was just as guilty. “You might want to keep her on a leash until she gets better acquainted with the cats.”

  “Good idea,” Mrs. Renhart said as she headed back to her boat, the dog in her arms. “Schnootie was a little lamb,” she sang, cradling the animal like a baby.

  I swept up the bits of cupcake which had scattered like exploded shrapnel, mourning their perfect texture and delicate green color. As I dumped them into the trash, Evinrude peered around the corner into the kitchen, his gray ears and white whiskers twitching.

  “Bad kitty,” I said. “You’re supposed to be helping, not making things worse.”

  He trotted over and wound his lithe striped body in figure eights around my legs, purring as loudly as the engine that had given him his name. I scooped him up and rubbed my cheek on his head, then set him back down on the banquette against the wall of our little galley kitchen. My smartphone buzzed, clattering across the kitchen table, onto the floor, and into the key lime cupcake batter.