Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 3

  “Are you going to rent him a scooter?” Mom asked. She turned to address Allison. “I had sooooo much fun on mine when I visited Hayley in January.”

  “No!” said Allison and I in unison. Had my mother lost her mind completely? Since when did you set loose a fifteen-year-old boy without a driver’s license on a scooter during spring break?

  “How about if I take him to Margaritaville for a cheeseburger in paradise?” my dad asked. “And you ladies go get something more civilized?”

  “You’re a darling man,” said Allison. She laid a hand on his cheek and smiled. “Sold.”

  He tipped his head, got to his feet, and lumbered out to break the news to Rory.

  This was a thoughtful gesture from my father, offering to take an antsy teenager off our hands. But as I led the two mothers out the door, nearly dizzy with the force fields stretching between them, it occurred to me that having lunch with these two must have seemed even worse.

  “Tell him that it’s Jimmy Buffett’s restaurant,” I called after Dad. “And if he doesn’t bite, the Hard Rock Cafe is a little farther down Duval Street on the north side. Teenagers love that place.”

  He grimaced and waved his fingers over his shoulder. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “We rented a car, so I’ll be happy to drive,” said my mother. She signaled for the parking valet, a good-looking young guy in creased khaki shorts and a blue Casa Marina polo shirt that brought out the yellow flecks in his brown eyes. When he arrived, she dangled the keys in front of him. “My other car is a Porsche,” she teased. “So sorry about the Kia.”

  He looked surprised, then laughed and trotted away to fetch her rental.

  “So,” I said brightly, swiveling my gaze between the mothers. “What shall we have for lunch?”

  “Could we eat somewhere on the water?” Allison asked. Her eyes lit up. “This might seem a little ghoulish, but I’d love to see the harbor where that poor fellow was hanged earlier this year. I’m so proud of you for solving the case.”

  “It wasn’t all my doing,” I said, trying to sound modest.

  “A little ghoulish?” my mother muttered. “You choose, Hayley; you’re the one who knows the local food.”

  “We can try something on the harbor,” I said. “I haven’t eaten many meals over there, so I can’t personally guarantee what you’ll get. But this way you’ll have a chance to see the other side of the island.”

  The valet drove the car up and hopped out, ushering my mother into the driver’s seat. He shook her hand, angling for a big tip at the end of the stay, I suspected. “I’m James. Do you need any restaurant recommendations?”

  “Oh no,” Mom said. “My daughter is a food critic.”

  “Nice!” he said, as I cringed. “Where are you eating?”

  “Somewhere over by the harbor,” Allison told him.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you ladies during your stay.”

  Allison climbed into the backseat of the rental car. “I love this hotel,” she said, sinking into the used-car-smelly upholstery with a happy sigh. “It’s so pleasant to have people waiting on us for once. I don’t care what your father says about the cost.”

  Mom whisked us across town and we parked in the metered lot adjacent to the Cuban Coffee Queen. As we strolled along the catwalk that hugged the perimeter of the harbor, I pointed out the highlights—the party boats for sunset cruisers and daytime snorkelers, the windowless concrete building rumored to be Jimmy Buffet’s recording studio, Kermit’s Key West Key Lime Pie Shoppe, and the dock where Sam Rizzoli’s boat had been tied up when he met his maker. We paused to watch two tortoiseshell cats gobble fish heads tossed from a boat to the dock by a swarthy sea captain.

  “You ladies interested in deep-sea fishing? I have one morning open this week.” He smiled, teeth white against his deep tan.

  “Absolutely not,” said Allison, backing away from the water. “I get deathly seasick on even the stillest of days.”

  “That sounds like so much fun, but we’re here for a wedding,” Mom explained. “Maybe another time.”

  Then I described the dining options, four different restaurant/bars with views of the water. I hadn’t reviewed any of these waterfront eateries yet—they struck me as the kind of places that catered to tourists, focusing more on rustic quaintness, view, and lots of booze, than food. Or sanitation. Against my better instincts, my stepmother chose the restaurant smack closest to the harbor. On the plus side, the windows and doors had been thrown wide open to make the most of the water view and the soothing sounds of lapping wavelets.

  Inside, a large U-shaped bar dominated the room, surrounded by wooden booths. A powerful smell of industrial cleaner infused the air, barely covering the fishiness underneath. Allison chose a booth near the back of the room and slid onto the bench facing out. I sat across from her and gestured to my mother to take the seat next to Allison. This way I could look at both of them at once without playing favorites. As we got settled, several pigeons flew in through the doorway and began to peck around the legs of the tables. My mother wrinkled her nose and leaped out of the booth to shoo the birds away.

  “Roosters are one thing,” she said, brushing her hands off on her slacks as she returned to the booth. “But pigeons? They’re filthy!”

  “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I said cheerfully. “Just pretend you’re in New York City and the pigeons won’t bother you. What’s the soup of the day?” I asked the waitress who’d approached us and slapped three menus on the table.

  “Lobster bisque,” she said with an automatic smile. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

  “Iced tea for me,” I said.

  “Coffee with skim milk,” said Allison. She picked up the container of sugar packets that sat next to the salt and pepper. “And some skinny sugar. Either yellow or pink is fine.”

  Mom tucked a loose curl behind her ear and touched a finger to her lips. “We’re in Key West. Don’t you think we should celebrate? How about a toast to Connie? A toast to lovers everywhere?” Allison and I stared at her. “Looks like these ladies aren’t ready to party, but I’ll have a glass of white wine,” my mother told the waitress sweetly. “Pinot Grigio if you have it.”

  Once the server returned with our drinks, we all three ordered the lobster bisque, my mother and I with a house salad on the side and Allison, the Caesar. I could imagine what my mother was thinking: She orders skim milk and skinny sugar and then a salad loaded with fat?

  “It will be so nice to get reacquainted with Rory,” I said, after the waitress gathered the menus and headed toward the kitchen. I fished an ancient wedge of lemon out of my tea, deciding that the desiccated citrus would not improve the beverage. And who knew what microbes might be clinging to that peel? “I can’t remember the last time I spent more than a few hours with him.”

  “Two years ago,” said Allison flatly. “That’s the last time I had you both for Christmas.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I think I gave him a Harry Potter book and his tastes ran more to graphic horror novels. So he decided to come down at the last minute?”

  “At this age, no teenager wants to go on vacation with his parents,” Allison said. “Rory hears the words ‘family vacation,’ and his input channel shuts down. But when he finally seemed to understand that we were coming to Key West, he got interested. And I’m grateful for some extra time with him, even if it’s a little stressful.”

  Her voice ached with a longing that made me feel tearful. I missed him too, that adorable, cherub-faced kid with blond ringlets who used to follow me everywhere. I’d wanted to hate him when I heard my father was marrying a woman with a kid, but he was too cute. And he worshipped me without reservation. Having an older stepsister had lost its luster when he approached double digits.

  “Hayley said he’s going to a military academy in the fall, right?” Mom asked.

  “Correct,” said Allison, a blank e
xpression on her face now.

  “I imagine a boy in his teens must be a special challenge,” Mom added. “Hayley and I had our moments.” She reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “But thank goodness she never lapsed into anything truly awful when she was a teenager.”

  I blinked my eyes in warning. Sore subject for my stepmother. Obviously. I’d love to know more about what was going on with Rory, but I’d never ask in front of my mother. I scrambled for a subject that would take the heat off Allison. “You didn’t care for me running away to Key West with a guy I barely knew,” I said to Mom.

  “And I was right on that one, don’t you think?” Mom said. “Chad was a loser—I could tell from his shifty eyes and clammy handshake the first time we met.”

  I heaved a big dramatic sigh. “You were right again, Mom. He was a loser. Though I personally didn’t notice the clammy handshake.”

  “Yes, but how much handshaking did you do?” Mom asked. We both giggled.

  “But the outcome is a dream come true,” Allison said wistfully. “You seem to love it here. You’ve had a real adventure starting over. You’ve blossomed, Hayley, I can see it.”

  “Thanks. I’m having a ball.” No point in mentioning my troubles at Key Zest. They’d both be vibrating with worry and spilling over with advice.

  “I’m going to run out and get a copy of the Citizen,” Mom said. “That’s the local paper,” she explained to Allison as she slid out of the booth. “It’s a real hoot.”

  “I hope Rory enjoys this week,” I said to my stepmother once Mom was gone. “I remember that age—I remember I was a piece of work then, too. Let me know if I can help.”

  Allison sighed, started to say something, but bit her lip and stopped. “You’ve done enough. Thanks for finding him a place to stay. Your father was not happy about any of this.”

  I patted her hand. “You’re welcome.”

  We watched out of the window as my mother crossed the dock and headed for a metal newspaper box on the corner. When she returned, she smoothed the paper out on the table and turned to the second page.

  “This is my favorite part. They call it the ‘Citizen’s Voice.’”

  Hard to say whether my mother was simply making pleasant conversation or showing off about her knowledge of Key West with another insider explanation directed at Allison.

  She began to read aloud. “Mallory Square has become a seedy flea market. Bubbas are not to blame. I’m a Bubba and I approve this message.”

  She looked up and smiled and then continued with the next blurb: “This caller is warning everyone that Bubbas are trying to get rid of Mallory Square. Mallory Square is no longer a Sunset Celebration. It looks more like a flea market every day.”

  “What’s a Bubba?” Allison asked.

  “Part of the old boys’ network, right, Hayley?”

  I nodded. “And Mallory Square is where the cruise ships come in. There’s a party every night to watch the sun go down. We’ll make sure you see it before the end of the week.”

  “And have a visit with our friend Lorenzo,” said Mom. “Have you ever had your cards read?”

  She knew darned well that Allison was a diehard scientist. If it couldn’t be proven with the scientific method, she didn’t believe it. Mom turned her attention back to the paper and read an item from the crime report page:

  Owner of controversial emerald cache reports theft. An amateur treasure hunter who claimed to have discovered a cache of uncut emeralds on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico off Key West and then filed a motion to have his alleged booty certified as court-validated sunken treasure, has reported a theft from his yacht.

  “That sounds complicated,” my mother said as she turned the page. “Oh look at this, Hayley: They’re advertising for fortune-tellers to join a psychic fair at the BottleCap Lounge Friday night. Too bad we’ll be busy with last-minute wedding stuff. That sounds like a blast.”

  Allison looked at her as though she spoke a different language, something Slavic or Arabic, with a new set of letters maybe. Totally incomprehensible.

  “Look here,” my mother said, tapping the right-hand page of the paper. “Your friend Officer Torrence got a promotion to lieutenant. He’s going to be the Criminal Investigations Unit Commander now.” She squinted at the picture and then passed the paper to Allison. “That’s him with the chief and Hayley’s old boyfriend Nate.”

  “We didn’t go out long enough to warrant calling him a boyfriend,” I said.

  Mom ignored me and took the paper back to read aloud. “The newly promoted lieutenant says that two of the major problems the Key West police face are vagrancy and prescription pill abuse. ‘We are actively working to manage them both.’”

  “Geez, Hayley,” Mom said, “he’s got his hands full.”

  The bleep of an incoming text message buzzed and we all reached for our phones. The sound had come from mine, a text from Jai Somers, the director of the local teenage drop-in center, Project Lighthouse. We’d met at the gym a couple of months ago and become fast friends while lifting weights and sweating laps on the treadmill.

  One of our travelers is missing since yesterday. Mariah. Barely five feet, with blond dreadlocks and a red heart tattooed on her shoulder. If anyone sees her, let her know we’d love to hear from her?

  Mom widened her eyes, curious.

  “That was from a friend who works with homeless teens. One of the street kids is missing. They come and go, so it’s hard to know when to get worried. But everyone’s a little jumpy since the remains of a body were found last week in an abandoned shed. We all suspect it was a homeless kid. And Jai wouldn’t be texting us if she wasn’t concerned.”

  Then Allison’s phone beeped.

  “Shoot,” Allison said as she scanned the message on her screen. “It’s Jim. They gobbled their cheeseburgers in record time, and now your father doesn’t know what to do with Rory.”

  “Do you think he’d enjoy the butterfly conservatory?” asked my mother.

  “It’s so peaceful in there,” I said. “He might like it.”

  “Only if they issue him a flyswatter,” Allison said.

  Mom looked shocked, then started to laugh. Which got me laughing too, and then Allison followed.

  “Is he interested in history at all?” I asked, once I caught my breath.

  Allison shook her head. “Bor-ing.”

  There went my two best and standard sightseeing suggestions: the Little White House and the Custom House Museum.

  “How about pirates and their treasure?”

  Allison pursed her lips. “Maybe. He definitely likes money. He talked about it all the way down—what kind of job he could get that would earn him a wad of cash fast. He’s not interested in minimum wage, my son.”

  “Tell Dad to try Mel Fisher’s museum. If all else fails, there’s a Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum at this end of Duval.”

  “Jim would die before he set foot in there.” Allison snickered and texted my father back as the waitress arrived with our lunch. I studied the orange-colored soup, then stirred it up and let the thin liquid tip back off my spoon. No sign of lobster, at least in my bowl.

  “This soup is very salty,” my mother said after taking her first bite. “And I like salt.”

  I sipped from my spoon and had to agree.

  “Maybe you should call the server over and let her know,” Mom said.

  “You should talk to the chef directly,” Allison said. “I doubt that young woman would pass anything on. I don’t get the feeling she’s very interested in our dining experience.”

  My mother nodded vigorously. This might be the only thing they agreed on during the entire week.

  I sighed, weighing the pros and cons of speaking up, thinking of the last time I’d filed a negative review and how closely on its heels a murder had followed. Not that there had been any true connection between the two events, but it still felt that way. “They don’t want advice from me. Besides, I’m not on duty today. I had no pl
ans to review anything except cupcakes. I’d rather let it go.”

  My mother raised her eyebrows and nibbled at her lettuce. “The salad’s not too good either. I’m lucky I thought to order a glass of wine. The alcohol will blunt the trauma.” She snickered, replaced the fork on her plate, and turned her focus from the lunch to Allison.

  “So Rory doesn’t spend much time with you and Jim? I don’t think I could have stood that much separation from Hayley.”

  Allison blinked. “You make the choices that you think are right for your child. And sometimes they are right for him and not necessarily for you.” She looked away, then slurped another spoonful of the salty soup, her eyes moist.

  “Take it down a notch, Mom,” I warned quietly. My mother wasn’t usually this pushy. On the other hand, how many times had I been alone with her and Allison? How many times had they sat next to each other and shared a meal? Maybe never. It probably felt as uncomfortable to them as it did to me.

  The waitress floated back over to our table. “How’s everything here, ladies? Can I get you anything else? Dessert? A slice of our world-famous key lime pie?”

  Allison tapped her fingers on the table and gave the girl a tight smile. “You know, this soup is very salty. Almost too salty to eat. We all agree. I bet the chef will want to know.”

  “Oh yes, definitely, I will tell him,” said the server with a silly grin. She cleared away our plates and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Not a chance in hell she’ll say anything,” I said.

  “How are things going with your Wally?” Mom asked.

  “There is no ‘my Wally,’” I snapped, then forced a smile, determined to stamp out my smoldering irritation. If I started getting annoyed at everything anyone said this early in the week, I wouldn’t survive until the wedding. “You know he’s my boss.”

  “But he’s so adorable,” my mother said. She turned to Allison. “He’s got this cute little butt and the nerdiest glasses. And he insists that everyone in the office wear yellow shirts with little palm trees on them. Can you imagine, Hayley in yellow?”

  “Hayley looks good in everything,” Allison said. “Will I get to meet him?”