Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 2

  Staff meeting at noon, the flashing text on the screen read.

  I groaned, snatched up the phone, and wiped it down. My boss, Wally, had been crystal clear about how at the staff meeting I needed to be ready to pitch story ideas for the next few issues of the magazine.

  “We need more structure,” he said. “We’re getting bigger, with a bigger audience. They expect us to act like professionals and produce a professional product. We can’t continue with an editorial calendar that consists of ‘oh crap, we have an issue coming out Wednesday, what can we write?’”

  Danielle, his administrative assistant, had giggled. But Wally glared back at her, looking fierce and serious. I was willing to bet the scolding stemmed from his co-owner’s pressure. Ava Faulkner had despised me ever since her sister’s murder last fall. Even after I was cleared of all suspicions, the slate wiped clean, the real murderer jailed, she still despised me. Whenever we met on the street (and since Key West is a small town, crossing paths is inevitable), she looked right past me, her thin lips drawn to grim lines, her eyes the frosty color of Arctic ice floes. If we’d been the only survivors on the island, she’d still have acted as though I didn’t exist. She blazed with a hatred based on a small but piercing connection in our past, and that memory festered inside her like an infected puncture wound.

  Eric, my friend since childhood and a clinical psychologist, liked to remind me that her toxicity was eating at her more than it scalded me. I should ignore her. Challenging advice.

  I zipped down the hall to change into my Key Zest uniform—a yellow shirt decorated with little palm trees, a pair of clean jeans, and red high-top sneakers—all the while hunting through the scattered snatches of ideas in my head to come up with a pitch. But the only thing that came to mind was the ruined cupcakes.

  Cupcakes! Why not kill two birds with one stone by pitching a story on wedding desserts? At the same time, I could pick up samples for Connie and Ray to try in case replacing all these ruined cupcakes became impossible. I had no time to waste, with the wedding only four days away. The thought made my heart rate gallop with anxiety.

  I Googled wedding cakes Key West and came up with a list of possibilities that I tapped into my smartphone: Key West Cakes, Amazing Cakes and Creations, and my old standbys for cupcakes and cookies, the Coles Peace Bakery, the Old Town Bakery, and the bakery department in the Fausto’s supermarket. How would I ever have time to do all this? I texted Connie. Cats destroyed cupcakes. Don’t panic. I have a plan! Meet me at the houseboat later this afternoon to taste cakes? Then I packed up six of the lime cupcakes that had survived the onslaught of the cats as bribes for the staff meeting. Even Ava Faulkner might weaken when she saw these beauties.

  Finally, I scribbled a note for my roommate, Miss Gloria. “Had a CAT-astrophe in the kitchen, will clean up later. Could you possibly pick up cupcakes for me?” I pinned the list of bakeries to the fridge with a Fast Buck Freddy’s magnet, yet one more Key West shopping landmark that had bitten the dust since I’d arrived in town. It was not that easy to make a living here, whether you were a restaurant owner, owner of an upscale souvenir shop, or especially, a writer. I jogged down our finger of the dock to the parking lot where my silver scooter was parked, and bungeed the box of goodies into the basket behind my seat. Then I slid my helmet on, revved up the little engine, lifted the bike off its kickstand, and chugged over the Palm Avenue hill that led into town.

  Once I got to our office, the attic “suite” above Preferred Properties Real Estate on Southard, I dashed up the stairs, stopping at the door to finger-comb my curls and take a calming breath. Which didn’t do much for me, especially once I pushed the door open and heard the not so dulcet tones of Ava Faulkner, already ensconced in Wally’s office. Danielle, sitting at the front desk, rolled her eyes and tapped her watch.

  “Better hurry,” she whispered.

  I glanced at the clock—only two minutes late. But late was late in Ava’s book, and I should know better. After stuffing the cupcakes into the minifridge, I swung around the corner into Wally’s office.

  “Morning, everyone,” I said, my voice quavering with faux cheeriness—I was my father’s daughter after all. I slid onto the metal chair close to Wally and pulled a pen and paper and my phone out of my backpack. Danielle appeared at the door, poised to take notes too.

  “Nice of you to join us,” said Ava, tossing a strand of pale golden hair over her shoulder but keeping her gaze pinned on Wally.

  “We were about to start with the editorial calendar,” he said, tapping a finger on his computer keyboard. He read off the notes on his screen. “Off the Beaten Track—How to Avoid the Spring Break Crowds.”

  “Is that even possible?” I asked and then laughed.

  No one joined me.

  “That subject’s been done by every publication on the island,” Ava said.

  “How about ‘Key Zest Dishes on Cats—Hemingway’s Other Legacy’?” Wally tried. “Everyone talks about his writing, but not about the cats. And there’s been that whole controversy about increasing the height of the fence and whether the cats should be allowed off the property.”

  “I heard that story on NPR!” Danielle exclaimed.

  “Imagine the great photos we could take to go along with the text,” Wally added, his head bobbing.

  Ava shrugged. “It’s a little goofy, but fine.”

  Wally jotted my name beside the new article’s title. I could only hope he didn’t need the draft this week. “I’ll let Hayley speak to the food features.” He nodded at me.

  “I’ll be reviewing 915,” I said, mentioning a casual restaurant at the far end of Duval, almost at the Atlantic Ocean. “Small plates, reasonable prices, a comfortable window on the Duval Street zaniness.”

  “I don’t want small plates for this issue,” said Ava, again looking at Wally. “Especially from a restaurant that’s been here since the stone ages. What else have you got?”

  “I’ve been meaning to try Paseo,” I said. “It’s Caribbean food—on Eaton Street where Paradise Cafe used to be?”

  She sighed and rolled her shoulders away from her ears, which I took as a yes—the closest thing to enthusiasm I would get from her.

  “And maybe I can pull together a sidebar about breakfast on the go. I had the most amazing sticky bun from the Old Town Bakery this week.”

  “OMG—those are heavenly!” Danielle said.

  Ava delivered her a look that would have melted a weaker woman to a puddle of caramel.

  “Let’s go with the sidebar. What else?” Wally asked briskly.

  “My bigger feature will be a review of wedding cakes. I was thinking I could include a couple of bakeries plus Fausto’s, Coles Peace—the regulars. Kind of focusing on how you can pull together a gorgeous pièce de résistance even if you’ve decided to get married at the last minute.”

  Ava laid her silver pen on Wally’s desk, her perfectly painted lips curling in disgust. “Wedding cakes in March? You’d have to be insane to plan a Key West wedding in March. The island is thick with spring breakers. The streets are disgusting by morning. I won’t even mention what I saw puddled on Duval on my way over. No one in her right mind would choose that for the biggest day of her life. And no one would be interested in reading a piece like that.” She slapped her notepad on the desk next to the silver pen. “Unacceptable.”

  I felt my neck and face flush a deep, hot red. My mother and I share the reddish curls and pale skin of her Irish grandmother—and it’s never pretty when we get mad or embarrassed. Now I was both. Wally’s lower lip twitched. He couldn’t side with me directly—he’d spent too much capital simply insisting that I remain on staff.

  “If you don’t like weddings, let’s brainstorm,” he said. “What do you think of when you think spring break? I think beer. Wet T-shirt contests. Portable meals on the cheap. Battle of the bands.”

  I glanced over at Danielle, who hovered in the doorway, where Ava couldn’t see her. “Wet T-shirt contests?” s
he mouthed, twirling a finger around the side of her head. “He’s lost his marbles.”

  Then I thought of all the samples Miss Gloria was collecting this afternoon and scratched a note on a scrap of paper. “Excuse me a second,” I said to Wally. “I’ll be right back.”

  Out in the hallway, I passed the note to Danielle. Then I grabbed the cupcakes from the minifridge and arranged them quickly on a white plate that Danielle used for occasional snacks and various celebrations. They looked gorgeous—cream cheese frosting the pale green color of early-summer leaves with a sprinkle of lime zest on top. I delivered the goodies to Danielle and motioned to her to slide the plate onto Wally’s desk, in between him and the fire-breathing dragon. Then I returned to the office and took my seat again.

  “How about ‘Take a Sweet Break with a Cupcake: Find the Best of the Island’?” Danielle read off the note I’d given to her.

  Any idea would have a better chance of surviving coming from her mouth than mine. She passed out napkins with dancing hearts on them, left over from our Valentine’s Day party. Which had been a tad morose since we’d had to produce a whole magazine issue aimed at lovers when none of the three of us currently had one.

  Wally’s face brightened. “Everything could be key lime. Or maybe some coconut thrown in. That makes the piece obviously tropical and Key West–y for the tourists, but Hayley would of course hit places that aren’t on the tourists’ radar.”

  He peeled the paper liner off the cupcake nearest to him and took a bite. “These are amazing. Where did they come from?”

  “Fausto’s,” I lied. Ava would never eat something I’d baked. She’d be certain I’d laced it with poison. Or a purgative. And by god, that was tempting.

  She picked up a knife from the plate, cut one of the cupcakes in half and then in quarters. She dipped a finger into the frosting and nibbled. “Hmm, pretty good. Though I like mine a little sweeter.”

  She’d probably prefer the icing on a chain supermarket bakery cake, chock full of artery-clogging trans fat and overloaded with powdered sugar. I managed to force a smile and say nothing.

  A few minutes later we’d agreed on a list of articles including breakfast on the go, the Hemingway cats, Paseo, and the spring break cupcake roundup—all due at the end of this week. Although how in the world I would manage that with my family arriving this afternoon … and Connie’s wedding … I couldn’t begin to imagine. A tiny bubble of hysteria rose up my throat.

  “One more thing,” Ava said, laying her palm flat on the folder in her lap. “We’re way over budget on the meals and entertainment line. This month, I want that number cut in half.”

  “I can explain that,” I said. “I like to try to visit each place I’m reviewing three times—twice is my minimum.” I leaned forward, grinning foolishly, and tried to meet her eyes. “I feel like I give the establishments a fair shot that way.”

  Ava looked at Wally. “We don’t have the funds for multiple visits. If your restaurant critic needs to eat three dinners to make up her mind about whether the food is any good, I’d suggest you advertise for a new employee. Besides,” she added as she slid her papers and her iPad mini into a purple leather case, “a restaurant should always be on its game. After all, if a customer has a lousy meal somewhere once, chances are they aren’t going back.” Now she smiled as my grin faded. “And besides that, negative reviews are good for our traffic. Conflict brings in readers. Even novice journalists know that.”

  My jaw dropped in disbelief. How could I count the ways she was wrong? This time, I couldn’t keep quiet.

  “What if the line cook broke his arm that night? Or the dishwasher quit midshift? Or the shipment of avocados came in black? Or the steak gray?” I took a deep breath, channeling the yoga that I never seemed to have time to do. “Ruth Reichl used to visit places six times before she wrote a review.”

  “Ruth Reichl was the food critic for the New York Times. And the editor of Gourmet magazine. And the writer of umpteen bestselling books. You’re no Ruth Reichl—not even close,” Ava snapped, then focused back on Wally. “Bottom line is, if we don’t have the money, we can’t spend it.”

  Then she stood up and stalked off, leaving a cloud of cloying perfume in the office and a sour taste in my mouth.

  Wally sighed and reached for a second cupcake, refusing to meet my eyes. “All I can say is we have to pick our battles. At least we got the okay on the cupcake gig, right?”

  “And the cats!” Danielle peeled the paper liner away from her treat and began to lick the icing all the way around its circumference. “I can’t stand that woman, though. She makes me so tense. I feel like a wet dishrag every time she leaves.”

  I wolfed down a second cupcake, too, which I knew I’d regret as soon as I’d finished. It was hard enough to keep my weight in check as a food critic—anxiety eating was a habit I couldn’t afford. Danielle wasn’t the only one who didn’t do tension well. And between handling the details of the wedding and managing the various factions of my family, I was facing an entire week of eggshell-walking.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text, this time from my stepmother, Allison. Which meant my relatives must have arrived on the island. The cupcakes in my stomach growled and whirred.

  FYI, Hayley, Allison’s text read, Rory is dying to ride one of those Jet Ski things. Do you think that’s a good idea?

  Of course it wasn’t a good idea. Teenagers and speed—what could be worse? Teenagers and speed and alcohol maybe. But what was I supposed to do about it? I wasn’t his mother. I eyed the remaining cupcake, but heaved a sigh, wiped my lips, and texted her back.

  Can you interest him in fishing? Or paddleboarding? Preferably something not involving a motor.

  Then I headed out to face the music.

  3

  Although sometimes a chicken breast really is just a chicken breast, it doesn’t take Freud to see that food is a relatively literal standin for parental nourishment.

  —George Howe Colt

  Casa Marina Resort sits on the southern edge of the island, its sumptuous grounds and elegant Spanish mission–style buildings sprawled along the Atlantic Ocean like a voluptuous sunbathing woman. I parked my scooter in the lot reserved for two-wheeled vehicles, removed my helmet, and fluffed my hair.

  Was it Freud who said “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”? Or maybe Anna Karenina, who definitely had her finger on the pulse of unhappiness. I loved each member of my family individually—the way I loved both vanilla and chocolate. But taken together, in the same hotel, sharing my attention over the weekend, they promised to morph into a marbled batter of familial drama. Ugh. Marble was my least favorite flavor in all the world of cakes. Pushing away a cloud of dread, I took a deep breath and plunged into the lobby, immediately drawn to a grand vista of the ocean on the outside. Reflecting pools, outdoor dining tables, palm trees, and a bar by the water promised heaven to the customers waiting to check in. I took a calming breath and forced my attention back inside.

  Even if I hadn’t instantly recognized my mom’s auburn hair and my stepmother’s yellow-blond, the tension between them would have given them away. Mom and her boyfriend, Sam, sat holding hands on one oatmeal-colored couch in the far corner of the enormous lobby, my father and Allison on the settee catty-corner to them. No friendly body language connected them at all. My stepbrother—or a gawky half-grown-up, shaggy-haired version of the boy I hadn’t seen in months and months—paced out on the patio that overlooked the water, earbuds in his ears, thumbs working furiously on his cell phone’s keyboard.

  “Hayley!” Mom squealed, and leaped up to meet me, dragging Sam along in her wake. “We are so thrilled to be here. Isn’t the weather just delicious?”

  She hugged me hard and then tugged her boyfriend forward. If “boyfriend” could decently describe any man past fifty.

  “I know you two have met on Skype, but here we all are in the flesh.” She clapped her hands together and waited for
us to embrace. We exchanged stiff hugs and back-pats, and then I excused myself and hurried over to greet Dad and Allison.

  “So glad you made it without any problems. How are your rooms?”

  “Exquisite,” called my mother, though I hadn’t addressed the question to her.

  “Overpriced and overdone,” muttered Dad.

  And they were off …

  Allison flashed a tired smile. “You look great, Hayley. Have you lost a little weight?”

  “You’re an angel,” I whispered, and gave her a hug. She had wrestled with an extra twenty pounds since I’d known her—she understood exactly how hard it was to scrape them off.

  “What’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

  “Connie and I have planned cocktails on the beach and then the bridal shower and dinner at Salute!, but that won’t start until five thirty. If you’re not otherwise engaged, I’d love to take you to lunch,” I said, checking my watch. It was a little late for lunch, but going to a restaurant would eat up some time. And I was always hungry, especially under stress.

  My mom piped up. “Sam has some work to do—he’s got a big trial coming up at the end of the month, so it was hard to get away.” She glanced up at him, batted her lashes, and grinned. “I had to promise I wouldn’t get mad if he spends half his island time on that silly computer.” He leaned down to kiss her, and I couldn’t help looking away. Although I wouldn’t say I actively missed my latest boyfriend candidate, Detective Nathan Bransford, it was a tiny bit hard to have my mother’s love life going better than mine.

  “Lunch sounds great,” said Allison, who, on closer inspection, appeared exhausted and exasperated. Her gaze followed her son’s path as he paced back and forth across the patio outside the double doors, his phone now pasted to his ear. “But poor Rory is dying to see the island, so I’ll have to pass.”