Fatal Reservations : A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9780698192003) Page 5

  Pretty clear that she didn’t think I could handle hard news, because I hadn’t produced an “angle.” But what was I going to do, pitch a fit about covering fluff? “Sure,” I said. “But rest assured that I can write about anything. What I mean is, I’m capable of writing on any subject.”

  Palamina gave a brisk nod. “If it sounds okay to the rest of you, I took the liberty of making a reservation at For Goodness’ Sake for Hayley for dinner tomorrow. While the other news organizations are waiting to see what shakes out with the regulations, we’ll get the jump on what the meals are like. Table for four at seven thirty under the name Wells. I have a date with Commissioner Greenleigh for drinks tonight. I bet I can get something quotable from her on the zoning controversy.”

  We spent another fifteen minutes in the meeting—a record short length for Key Zest. I did miss the usual chitchat and gossip, but each time we veered in that direction, Palamina briskly steered us back to work. Within those fifteen minutes, she’d admired and approved my lunch article’s title and slashed the lead to a stylish two sentences that would get necks snapping. Or salivary glands watering or eyeballs popping, whatever. Once Wally had signed off the conference call, I said, “How did he look to you? Don’t you think he looked pale?”

  “But he sounded strong,” Danielle said. “I think work is good for him, something to keep him occupied that isn’t sad.”

  “Agreed,” said Palamina. Then she turned to me. “So you’ve got Firefly in the bag; do you think you can get two more lunches in and have the article to me by Tuesday? Actually Monday would be even better, so I have time to edit.”

  “Of course.” I gathered up my papers and computer and slunk down the hall to my cubicle, which had not yet been decorated in the world-according-to-Palamina style. I phoned Wally as soon as I’d shut the door.

  “I didn’t get a chance to find out how you’re doing,” I said.

  “We’re doing well,” he said. “Mom’s feeling better and I may even get down to Key West for part of the weekend.”

  “Fabulous!” I said. “Can’t wait to see you. Let me know when you get here.” And then I touched my toe in the water: “That Palamina is a whirling dervish, isn’t she?”

  “A breath of fresh air,” Wally said. “Nothing negative about her. It takes a weight off me to know she’s quite capable of handling things until I get back full-time.”

  Which hadn’t exactly been my experience—not this morning, anyway. In the past, her fringe of red hair and striped leggings had reminded me of a friendly woodpecker. But this morning? A vulture, a crow, a starling: She’d scared me to death.

  After making reservations at two other restaurants, I hunkered down at my computer to pull my notes about Firefly together. I was deep into a digression about the merits of Southern comfort food in a world that seemed to embrace nonfat everything when my phone rang. Torrence’s name flashed onto the screen.

  We exchanged greetings, and I complimented him on his performance at the city commission meeting. “These days, it must not be easy for cops to sound competent without coming off as arrogant,” I said. “But you managed it. And it didn’t seem like you were going to strangle any of the crazy questioners, either. Even though the meeting dragged on forever. And what was with the nut case who attacked Lorenzo?”

  He laughed. “Plenty of practice. Listen, I have a question about your friend. Would it be convenient if I swung by the office and we chatted for a couple of minutes?”

  I let that sit for a second. Would it be convenient? Not at all. I had a new boss who was watching my every move. “How about I grab something for a late lunch and bring it down to the police station?” I wasn’t hungry in the slightest, but if he was, I’d gladly sacrifice my waistline to keep him out of the office. “Anything you’re craving?”

  “You got me,” he said.

  “You’re easy to get.” I snickered. “What is it?”

  “I drove by the Old Town Bakery this morning and they had a special sandwich on their chalkboard. Italian with ham, soppressata, basil pesto, fontina, spinach, and tomato. On one of their homemade French bread loaves. Doesn’t that sound like heaven?”

  “Absolutely. Dessert?” I asked.

  “I’m on a diet,” he said, his voice halting and mournful. “I have to tap everything I eat into this smartphone app that adds the calories up on the spot. I think I’m already over the limit for today.”

  “So the chocolate OMG brownie?”

  He groaned.

  5

  Their tree is full this year, the fruit thud on the roof all night, but he doesn’t like this varietal; they taste like old butter.

  —Diana Abu-Jaber, Birds of Paradise

  I drove up to the pink stucco Key West Police Department with yet one more fragrant bag of food, thinking that I’d visited this place over the past year and a half more often than a normal person should. How could it be, I wondered, that I knew so many people accused of murder? And how would I manage to squeeze information from Torrence without ratting out Lorenzo? Not that he’d really told me anything incriminating, but he sure was acting guilty.

  The person manning the security camera and the station’s locked front door must have recognized me: I was buzzed inside without even picking up the phone. I made my way down the left-hand hall to Torrence’s office and tapped on his door.

  “I’ll be right there. Just chill a minute, okay?” he answered, his words muffled.

  It was more like five minutes, but then the door banged open and instead of Lieutenant Torrence, I faced a bristling wall of testosterone: Detective Bransford. In white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, a burr of whiskers on his face and tie askew, he looked like an escapee from GQ—ready to be photographed for an article on messy looks that ooze sex appeal. I tried to play chicken, seeing who would speak first, but I caved within fifteen seconds.

  “Hello,” I said in a reedy voice that barely sounded like me. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “You know, the song?” I warbled the line this time, still reedy, but now off-key, too.

  But Bransford didn’t crack a smile. Maybe his mother hadn’t tried to relive her childhood by sitting him through dozens of reruns of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, the way mine had. Or maybe he’d sprung full formed from someone’s forehead, like Athena had from Zeus. All head, no heart.

  Last year, we’d dabbled with dating. But then his ex-wife materialized and persuaded him to try their marriage again. As my mother liked to say, why would I want a man who didn’t want me? But every time I’d seen him since, the air between us had crackled with unexplored tension. Before I could stop myself, my gaze dropped to his left hand, empty except for a fine line of pale skin where his wedding ring had been. His eyes followed mine.

  “I brought Torrence for lunch,” I stammered nonsensically, feeling completely embarrassed. “I mean lunch for Torrence. You know how hungry that man gets. His blood sugar dips down and he turns into a grouch. It’s a public service I’m doing—”

  “Things didn’t work out with my wife,” Bransford said, tapping his ringless finger. “She hoped things would be different, but they weren’t.” He grunted out a mirthless laugh. “People don’t change, you know? If all the evidence points to one truth, only a fool ignores that. You might want desperately for something to be a certain way because you’re soft on someone. But that doesn’t change how life is. Right?”

  How could I possibly answer that? In truth, I sort of believed what he was saying, but that didn’t mean I liked it. Eric wouldn’t agree—he said people could change, if they wanted to work at it hard enough. But why was Bransford telling me this, anyway? I squeezed my hands into fists and kept my silence.

  “I’m certain that Lieutenant Torrence will cover this in your discussion,” he finally added, lips barely moving but mustache undulating. “We know that Lorenzo is a close acquaintance of yours.”

  I interrupted him, my voice flat and d
efinite. “A friend.”

  “A friend of yours,” Bransford corrected himself. “But if he gets in touch with you or if you hear anything that might explain his absence, it’s absolutely urgent that you let us know.”

  “His absence?” I asked.

  “He’s not at his home, and he’s not answering our calls.”

  I nodded, worried to hear this but not surprised. “I don’t know a thing about that,” I said, which in the technical, narrow context of his question was true.

  He frowned. “People are often not what they seem. And they don’t often change for the better. Keep that in mind when you get the overpowering urge to defend your friend Lorenzo.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Evidence doesn’t lie, Hayley. Understood?”

  “I know you believe that. I’m not sure I do.” I gave a snappy salute, slipped past him into Torrence’s office, and shut the door behind me, leaving him out in the hall.

  “Oh, we’ll both pay for that,” said Torrence, barely suppressing a grin.

  I rubbed a hand over my eyes, feeling suddenly like I might cry. “What’s up with that crabby bastard?” I asked, a little more fiercely than I felt.

  Torrence sighed and waved me to the chair across from him. “There’s a lot of pressure on this department right now, Hayley. You saw some of it at the meeting last night. People are not feeling all warm and fuzzy about police departments in general. And they’re freaked out by the burglaries of the homes around the cemetery.” He shook his head, frowning. “You can imagine the hysterical calls we’re getting about this latest death. Which is why I need to talk to you about Lorenzo.”

  “He wouldn’t kill someone,” I said.

  “Hayley—”

  “It’s not right for you guys to pin a murder on Lorenzo because the department feels pressured. Without a shred of evidence, as far as I can tell.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared straight at him.

  Torrence looked at me, fingering the dimple on his chin. “I’ll tell you what I can, if you can agree you’ll stay out of it. And share anything that you know or that you hear bearing on the investigation. Deal?”

  “Okay.” I collapsed into the chair, dropping the lunch on his desk.

  “The dead man, Bart Frontgate, was a juggler at the Sunset Celebration. He was the only performer to use flaming barbecue forks with actual chunks of meat on them.” He grimaced. “He even fed some of the spectators after the spectacle. Which would not comply with any public health guidelines, I assure you. You’ve seen his act, I’m certain. What did you think?”

  “I never stayed through the whole thing.” I paused for a minute, thinking about why. Because lord knows, I’d spent hours watching other performers, including the Cat Man, who worked his felines through their paces across high wires and through flaming hoops. And I loved Snorkel the Pig’s show, too. Not that a Vietnamese potbellied pig has that many tricks up his proverbial sleeve, but the pig bowling act made me laugh every time. So why didn’t I care for Frontgate?

  “It bothered me how he bullied the crowd for money,” I finally said. “I know they all have to make a living, but if you put on a good show or have something to offer, people fight to give tips when it’s over. Frontgate made me feel as though I was personally going to cheat him if I didn’t drop money in his bucket. I totally get performers giving the audience a little nudge at the end of the show, but harassing us all the way through? Not cool.”

  “I can see that,” said Torrence. “But not everyone agreed. He was one of the biggest draws at Sunset.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t only his personality that I disliked,” I added. “Probably anyone juggling on a high wire would make me nervous. Never mind that the utensils he was lobbing around were on fire.”

  “Aha! That’s how I feel when you get involved with police work,” said Torrence. “Like you’re on a high wire tossing flaming objects with not one nanosecond of training or experience.” He reached into the paper bag and took out the sandwiches.

  “I got the French dip, too,” I said. “I already ate a big brunch but I thought I might get hungry by the time I got here. Not so much.” I picked up half a sandwich, nibbled, then put it down again. Two meals within twenty-four hours where I’d lost my appetite—not like me. Not like me at all. At least I’d managed to choke down the brunch—I wasn’t in danger of wasting away. “Back to Lorenzo …”

  “Lorenzo and Frontgate squared off about the problems with the Mallory Square committee, from what we’ve heard,” Torrence said. “People have mentioned a lot of angry exchanges. You know there’s a Webcam on Mallory Square, right? We’re reviewing the tapes for confirmation right now.”

  My heart plummeted. Lorenzo had told Eric and me he had no relationship with Frontgate. “Speaking of angry, what was the deal with Louis the palm-hat guy, who attacked Lorenzo? He looked like the sort of character who would kill someone. He tried it last night right in the official business meeting, with a hundred witnesses.”

  Torrence huffed a big sigh. “Probably Lorenzo didn’t mean to kill Bart. Probably they had an altercation and Frontgate threatened him and maybe Lorenzo was trying to protect himself and he lost control.” He wiped his lips on a napkin. “But you know the drill—things will go a lot easier if he turns himself in. Then we have a chance to sort out the facts.”

  “Sure.” I flashed a compliant but fake smile. The longer we talked, the clearer it became that Lorenzo was in their sights. And that Louis was not. “But you wouldn’t arrest a guy just because he didn’t like the victim. Even if the victim is irritating as hell, most folks’ default response would not be murder. A lot of people probably couldn’t stand Frontgate. How did he die, anyway?”

  Torrence groaned with exasperation. “The autopsy results aren’t in yet, but he had puncture wounds in his chest and his neck, consistent with a fine boning knife. Or even the tines of a big fork.”

  I shuddered, trying to shut out a horrible mental picture of Bart’s death. “And this relates to Lorenzo how?”

  “You know that Lorenzo brings his table and lamp and all that tarot stuff to the Sunset Celebration? Then he sets up and decorates the table with a special cloth.”

  I nodded again, not liking the way this was going. Feeling the contents of my stomach grinding.

  “We found one of Frontgate’s forks wrapped up in the tablecloth that your friend uses to cover his table—the dark blue one with the stars and the moon on it,” he added. “It’s very distinctive.”

  “Where? Where did you find it? Did you have a search warrant?”

  His eyes widened. “Police Procedure 101: We don’t need a warrant to search for a murder weapon with probable cause.”

  “But where did you find it? Why did you look there?”

  Torrence smiled, regret on his face. He wasn’t going to tell me anything else.

  “Anyone could’ve planted a fork in his tablecloth,” I said, but a pit was opening up in my gut.

  Torrence said, “People could have, but why would they?”

  “The hat guy—he hates Lorenzo. You saw it. He probably tried to set him up.”

  “Why, Hayley? What sense does that make?”

  “If he’s trying to shift the blame to Lorenzo, it makes perfect sense. He figures the cops would be dumb enough to fall for something that obvious—”

  My phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message. I took a quick glance. Lorenzo. Can u take care of Lola a few days? Won’t come in and I have 2 go. Food etc inside.

  I could feel the heat rushing from my neck and flooding across my cheeks—the redheads’ dead-giveaway scourge.

  “Something wrong?” Torrence asked, his eyes all wide again.

  “Big-time boy troubles,” I stammered as I sprang up, flipping a dismissive wave. “Got to run.”

  *

  I left Torrence with the lion’s share of the lunch, including the Oh My God brownie, with its central lake of rich chocolate pudding. It was his problem if he ate the whole
thing and spoiled his diet. Out in the parking lot, I texted Lorenzo. R U ok?

  I waited a couple of minutes but heard nothing back. Even though I’d sort of promised Torrence that I’d stay out of the case, how could I not support my friend? Lorenzo had absolutely come through for me every time something in my life looked bleak. He’d offered free readings when I needed them and advice on everything from murder to my love life. Which sometimes felt like the same thing.

  So I took a left out of the back entrance of the KWPD parking lot and buzzed over to New Town. Lorenzo’s cottage is a small concrete-block structure about fifty yards from a man-made canal that feeds eventually into the Gulf. This neighborhood had been hit hard by the double-whammy storm surge of flooding during Hurricane Wilma. Since then, most all of the damage had been repaired, though some folks who’d lived through it retained the high-water markers on their walls and foundations. Badges of courage, I supposed.

  Lorenzo had built a Zen garden around his home, with a wash of small white rocks taking the place of grass. The rocks were punctuated by short, spiky palmettos and tropical bushes and trees, including sea grapes, shortleaf figs, and an autograph tree, the totally cool plant I’d seen in the botanical garden with actual autographs inscribed on its smooth green leaves. People scribbled on those leaves as if they were writing on the wall of a public bathroom stall. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. So I walked around the back of the house to look for signs of activity. In the backyard, gorgeous avocado, mango, and banana trees were bursting with life. But no lights were on, no windows cracked, no air conditioner humming, no evidence of Lorenzo. He was really gone.

  I tapped on the back door, then called his cell phone. Nothing. A small white cat with brown patches around her ears and a brown tail crept out of the bushes and began to wind around my legs. She purred and uttered breathy cries like a worried baby. I scooped her up, remembering my friend’s recent joy about adopting a kitten.

  “Daddy will come home soon,” I said, and rubbed my nose in her fur.

  “Marvin loved that cat,” said a gravelly voice from the next yard over, startling me half out of my mind. A woman with bleached blond hair and black roots leaned over the fence separating her front yard from Lorenzo’s—hers green and weedy in comparison to his orderly pebbles. Why was she talking in the past tense, as if he was dead—or maybe gone for good?