Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 4

  “If you score a square of space near the water,” I suggested, “your traffic will tend to be better?”

  “Of course,” said Lorenzo. “When the sun actually dips into the water, tourists want to be right there on the edge, where they have the best view. Performers who’ve been around a long time don’t want the space to be portioned out according to who gets there early in the day to set up. They want a primo space reserved for them.” He sighed and crossed his hands neatly, reminding me of a big tuxedo housecat. “The newer people don’t like this.”

  “I see the potential problems snowballing,” Eric said. “I suspect that many of the performers are living on a shoestring, so tips matter a lot?”

  “You got it.” Lorenzo huffed. “There’s more. One of our other hot issues has to do with voting. When an important vote is about to be decided, some people have been salting the membership with new members who will vote the way they want them to. You can only imagine the ways the rules can be twisted.” He heaved another big sigh. “These people aren’t Harvard-educated, polite politicians. They’re street performers. Cagey. And ruthless.”

  Eric nodded, keeping his gaze on Lorenzo, concentrating with every cell. I could definitely see why his patients found his empathy compelling enough that they were willing to spill their toxic secrets to a complete stranger.

  “I’m not on the board or anything, but I try to stay involved, push for changes if they’re needed. My hope is that we keep everything transparent. Just like our government.” He grimaced. “Not that that’s been working out so well in Washington. Or even Tallahassee. But people don’t like that—me saying we have to establish meaningful rules and follow them, quit relying on backroom politics. Some of our performers who have been around the longest are starting to feel entitled, and that grates on the newer people. We all pay the same fees—well.” He stopped and frowned. “Some of us don’t pay at all.”

  “What do you mean, some don’t pay?”

  “Right now, you only pay if you’re selling something—a physical object like food or Tshirts or souvenirs. But that’s got to change. It’s all got to change. But if people are going to die over it …”

  “So you think Frontgate’s murder was related to what’s going on with this organization?” Eric asked.

  Lorenzo’s lower lip quivered—he looked exhausted and hopeless.

  I reached across the table to take his hand, which was moist and hot. And I suddenly felt like I was intruding on his privacy. I let go and tried to smile. “I wanted you to meet Eric because he was also wrongly accused of a murder. Of course he was innocent. But he learned some important lessons about the process.” I turned to Eric. “Could you give him some suggestions?”

  “Definitely,” said Eric, “if he’s interested.”

  I cut the fried green tomatoes into pie-shaped slices and slid a few bites onto each of our plates. Nobody but me was eating much—Lorenzo was too upset. And Eric was completely focusing on the other man.

  Lorenzo finally shrugged. “Advice is welcome. How could it make things worse?”

  Eric said, “When I first fell under suspicion, I didn’t tell the police everything I knew about the crime because I was trying to protect someone. It had to do with my obligation as a psychologist. The obligation that I felt to keep the secrets of a patient private. But I also thought I was protecting myself. I believed that keeping that secret would keep me out of trouble. Wrong. My judgment, I’m sorry to say, was not that great. In fact, it stunk.” He wrinkled his brow. “Maybe you have some of the same feelings about your clients.”

  “Of course I do,” said Lorenzo. “I’m helping people with heavy burdens. They’ve carried them around for years, some of them. And they’ve told no one until they come to my table. They are so desperate to unload the weight. To get some guidance. You may laugh, because I sit at a booth on the pier with crowds of tourists and crazy circus performers all around, while you sit in a fancy office with a waiting room full of expensive magazines and classical music. But my work is a big responsibility.” He clasped his hands over his heart. “I feel it here every day.”

  I was afraid to look at Eric, thinking that he might find Lorenzo’s parallel between tarot cards and psychotherapy ludicrous. But when I snuck a glance, his face was utterly serious. “Listen,” Eric said, “you have to tell the police whatever you know. This business of the artist performance committee or whatever—it sounds very complicated. And there are obviously sides being taken and I’m guessing maybe your side is not popular? And the fellow who attacked you last night—you should tell them your theories about that. Why has he singled you out? These are fringe people with histories of drugs and violence—some of them, anyway. They’re not your usual upstanding citizens. You have to be careful.”

  Lorenzo nodded.

  “Why are the cops coming after you?” Eric asked. “What exactly was your connection with the dead man?”

  Lorenzo swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and shook his head. “No connection, other than sharing the public space at Sunset.”

  I met Eric’s gaze and he lifted his eyebrows, as though he, too, thought Lorenzo was holding something back. “Who was Bart Frontgate?” Eric asked.

  “He was a juggler,” Lorenzo said stubbornly. “I only knew him in the context of our business connection.”

  “Then help us understand why the cops are after you.”

  Lorenzo’s shoulders lifted in a tight shrug.

  “Do you have a lawyer?” Eric asked. “You’re going to need one.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I’m going to be sick.” Lorenzo pushed to his feet and clattered away from our table. He crossed the porch and shot down the stairs. Within minutes, we watched him clop down Petronia Street and disappear into an alley.

  4

  “The only thing that makes a soufflé fall,” he was talking almost to himself, “is if it knows that you are afraid of it.”

  —Ruth Reichl, Delicious!

  Once it was clear that Lorenzo was not coming back (and how much more clear could he have been?), Eric and I did the best we could with all the food I’d ordered. The fried chicken with a thin crisp waffle and spicy maple syrup was my favorite, although Eric was crazy about the cheese grits and the kale salad.

  Finally he pushed away from the table. “Two hundred thousand calories later, I can’t eat another bite.”

  I called the waitress over and asked her to bring samples of her most popular desserts and wrap up the other leftovers so I could take them to Key Zest. Palamina didn’t strike me as a big eater, but Danielle was always happy to graze. And I could use some auxiliary opinions.

  “What do you think’s going on with your friend?” Eric asked after our server had whisked the plates away.

  “Like I said to Miss Gloria this morning, he’s a practicing Buddhist. He’s gentle and peaceful. I can’t believe he would murder another living being.”

  “But how well do you really know him?”

  All the food I’d eaten, in combination with Eric’s tough question, was making me feel a little queasy. “Not that well. But I knew you very well and you still kept secrets about a murder.”

  “That’s my point,” Eric replied. “There’s obviously something he isn’t able or willing to talk about. You don’t think he’d murder someone, but you never know what will happen when someone’s pushed hard.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see it. If one of the Sunset performers killed Frontgate, it’s more likely it was the crazy man who attacked Lorenzo last night. Now, there’s a guy who is capable of violence.”

  Eric frowned and tipped his head in the direction that Lorenzo had disappeared. “Bear with me here. Just for starters, is Lorenzo a local? If not, where did he come from? What do you know about his background?”

  “I don’t know too much. His name was Marvin growing up. Once he became an official tarot card reader, he decided that no one would want their cards read by a man named Marvin. Hence, Lore
nzo.” I snickered but then fell silent. Nothing about this situation was funny. “And I know that he visits friends in Connecticut in the summer when it’s the slow season down here. But I’ve never heard him talk about his family.”

  Eric’s face had grown very solemn. “And that’s the thing about this town,” he said. “Many folks end up here because they don’t fit in anywhere else. And so you have no idea whether they’re running from something or whether they just love this island.”

  “Really? That’s your theory? He’s running?”

  He flashed a lopsided grin. “Lots of times it’s something as simple as not wanting to grow up. But lots of folks don’t have normal families. Current company excepted, of course. There’s always the exception that proves the rule.”

  “Oh, I was definitely running from something, too,” I said. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, I had no idea where my life was going. I just knew I couldn’t spend the rest of it in my mother’s back bedroom.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Eric, “how is your mother?”

  “Of course you remember that Sam had surgery and Mom went up to see him through it?” My mother had come down to winter in Key West last December, and to everyone’s surprise—especially mine—had instantly landed a plum catering position. She flew north only to nurse her new fiancé, Sam, through his hip replacement. “The docs had Sam up and walking the evening they put in the new hip,” I said. “It’s kind of amazing what they make people do right after surgery. I’m sure in the old days he would’ve stayed in a hospital bed for a week.”

  “And suffered for it,” said Eric. The waitress brought two brown bags of leftovers, two kinds of dessert in plastic containers, and the bill.

  “Anyway,” I added, once she’d left with my credit card, “Mom wants to stay up north long enough to make sure Sam can fix himself a cup of soup or cup of coffee, and then she’ll be back down to finish her season at Small Chef at Large. Jennifer’s got her covered for three weeks, so there’s no hurry. Except that it’s fifteen degrees and snowing every other day in New Jersey.”

  Eric groaned. He’d come from my hometown, too, and he knew what winters were like. “I bet she can’t wait to get out of there. But for you, maybe it’s a smidgen of relief to have her out of town for a bit? She’s larger than life.”

  “No comment.” I grinned and took a bite of the key lime cake, which was both light and sharp, and then the fried blueberry pie. I jotted some notes in my phone.

  Eric glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. Don’t you get involved with this case, okay?”

  “Only if Lorenzo needs me.”

  Eric chewed on his lip. “Not loving that answer.”

  “Only if he’s flat-out desperate, and I’ll call the cops first, okay? Thanks for everything. I bet talking to you helped him a lot.” I kissed him on the cheek, gathered up my stuff, and followed him out into the perfect Key West day—a little sun, a little wind, a few clouds, and air that was as warm as bathwater. I zipped back to the Key Zest office feeling edgy and tired. Last night’s commission meeting had worn me out, and my worry about Lorenzo was piling on top of that.

  And now that I was closer to the office and unable to push the feeling aside, I realized that I wasn’t quite comfortable with Palamina Wells running the staff meetings while Wally was out of town. “Not quite comfortable” didn’t really describe what I was feeling. “Worried sick” was more like it.

  Oh, this first month with Palamina was definitely miles better than my time working for Ava Faulkner had been, with her nasty digs, impossible demands, and poorly disguised threats. But what if I couldn’t live up to Palamina’s expectations? I had never written for a New York City magazine, as she had for years. I felt less sophisticated in every way. Plus, Key Zest didn’t feel quite the same with her installed in Wally’s office and him Skyping on the computer screen—at least until his mom was stable. Eric would say I working myself up over nothing. I tried taking a couple deep breaths. Whoo-ha, whoo-ha.

  Then I remembered that Palamina had promised to make some changes in the decor, too. She insisted on doing this overnight, by herself—like we were hapless contestants in a desperate office makeover. Nothing that would cost a lot of money, she assured us, but a step above the fake palm trees and flowered chintz that we had been satisfied with before she came. How I hated familiar things changing.

  Most of all I wished that I’d had time to spit shine my opening paragraph on lunch. The last thing I wanted was to have her suspect that Wally had hired me only because he thought I was cute.

  I parked my scooter in the back lot and raced up the stairs, already fifteen minutes late. Paint fumes grew stronger as I approached the second-floor landing. Pushing open the door to the reception area, I was shocked by the bright yellow color of the walls. And then I noticed a series of large framed photographs behind Danielle’s desk. A plate of pink shrimp and a glass of wine on a table overlooking the ocean—Louie’s Backyard?—polydactyl cats lounging at the Ernest Hemingway Home, a rooster flapping his wings in front of the Little White House, and finally, the quotation “Leap and the net will appear” in elegant calligraphy, superimposed over two bright red butterflies.

  “Wow,” I said, a little stupefied by the changes. “It looks amazing.”

  “Hurry,” said Danielle, beckoning me to follow her into Wally’s office. “We’ve been waiting for you to start the meeting.”

  I hustled into the office and took my customary seat catty-corner to the desk that had been Wally’s. His familiar face was on Palamina’s oversized screen, and she was sitting in his chair. His back wall, on which he had thumbtacked our best articles from the past year, was now papered with textured burlap, and his prized ceramic flip-flop lamp had been replaced with two Asian-style table lamps made of arcing fish. Gone were the cascades of garish-colored beads from Fantasy Fest and New Year’s Eve, which had been looped on a couple of random nails on his walls. The room seemed neater and more elegant. And maybe a little bit sad.

  “Sorry I’m late; the brunch went slowly at Firefly. But I did bring leftovers.”

  I held up two brown bags, now unappealingly stained by grease and smelling to high heaven of cheese and onions.

  Palamina’s nose wrinkled slightly.

  “Let me stick those in the fridge for you,” Danielle said, snatching them out of my hands.

  “I’ve just taken Wally on a tour of our new look,” Palamina said with a grin, once Danielle was back in place.

  “All I can say is wow,” I said with an enthusiastic accent on the “wow,” knowing that anyone who knew me—as Wally and Danielle did—could see right through it. The changes looked glamorous and upscale and upbeat, too—none of which I was feeling.

  “Wow is right,” said Wally from the computer screen. “I didn’t realize how much we were in need of a makeover.”

  I squirmed and pasted a sickly smile on my face. I loved the way the look of our old office had evolved, a kitschy style that I thought suited Key Zest perfectly.

  “And,” Danielle added, pointing at me, “hold on to your hat, because we are no longer obligated or even encouraged to wear the yellow polyester Key Zest shirts! Palamina is thinking of ordering us these.” She tapped the page on a catalog spread open on the desk, which showed a flowing silk blouse with an asymmetrical hem and a low neckline. Still the yellow color that brought out the jaundice in my skin tone, but with the addition of a style guaranteed to keep me twitching to hide glimpses of brassiere and even breast.

  “A polyester Hawaiian shirt doesn’t do much for anyone,” said Palamina. “Do you think?”

  “Wow,” I said again, because I couldn’t think of anything else that wouldn’t be rude. Of course our team shirts were homely, but to me, they were like a badge and a blue polyester uniform were to a cop. They meant we belonged. They meant we were on the case, on the hunt for the best food—the best everything—in Key West. The brotherhood of Key Zest. “Wally’s going to look adorable in that,” I fin
ally added when it became clear that Palamina was waiting for my reaction.

  Palamina laughed. “Let’s get the meeting started. Bring us up to date on the floating restaurant.”

  “The commission meeting was wild,” I said. “Edel Waugh spoke up against the new place and tried to invoke the regulations of the Historic Architectural Review Commission and so on. But she was overruled because it’s a boat, not a building, so the present regulations don’t apply. They plan to reconsider the situation, but it sounds like they are likely to grandfather in the Mastins’ restaurant anyway.”

  Palamina’s forehead wrinkled up a little. “So, hmm, what are you thinking about for the angle of your story?”

  I felt my mouth sag open—I hadn’t thought for a minute about my angle. I pulled my jaw shut. “Actually, I hadn’t noodled that out yet. I had planned to go home and work on the piece last night, but right after that, Lorenzo was attacked right there in the meeting. And then there were contentious discussions about the Sunset Celebration at Mallory Square and the cemetery burglar. It was too tense to leave. And this morning I devoted to Firefly.” I had to stop blathering—to Palamina it must have sounded as though I was making excuses for doing a shoddy job.

  She nodded, looking thoughtful, and then turned to focus on Wally’s image on the computer screen. She tapped the tip of her pencil on the desk. “I don’t know what your policy has been in the past, but I’m kind of thinking Hayley should maintain her focus on the food angle, rather than get caught up in the town politics. I like the idea of Hayley’s brand being food and restaurants, sort of the Key West Pete Wells or Frank Bruni. And then you or I can cover politics as needed. Once you get back down here, of course.”

  “Sounds okay to me,” said Wally. “Okay with you, Hayley?”