Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 5

  “I’m not a tourist,” he said. “I’m not a sucker.”

  Allison frowned, then reached into her purse and handed him ten dollars. When she saw his displeased expression, she rustled back in her bag to find another twenty and gave that to him. “You need to be back by eleven so Eric and Bill can pick you up and take you to their home. They’ve gone out of their way to host you. Please don’t be late—it’s very rude.”

  “Fine.”

  “Is your phone on? Call or text me in half an hour and let me know where you are, okay?”

  “Mom,” he said. “I’ll be here by eleven.”

  “Text me when you’re on the way back,” she said. “Don’t go in any bars. Don’t accept any drinks.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Rory said, his voice defiant.

  “Those are the house rules,” said my father, stepping forward. “You can do it your mother’s way or you can settle in at this lovely shower with the rest of us fellows. Your choice.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll do something more fun for you,” Allison said.

  “Jet Skis?”

  “The ghost tour maybe, or the duck boat. Hayley says that’s more fun you’d ever think it could be when you see it rumble by.” She flashed a tremulous smile.

  “If you’re a dork or a baby,” he muttered.

  “Unfortunately the duck boat is defunct,” I said. “The city rescinded its license. But you’re not quite old enough to rent a Jet Ski by yourself. Can you imagine how much you’d hate riding with your mom or my dad?”

  He didn’t laugh, but at least looked at me. “How about if you take me?”

  Now I’d stepped in it. “No promises. I have a ton of work to do. And you know I’m Connie’s maid of honor. She’s my best friend in the world.”

  “Why bother with all this stuff?” he asked. “They’re only going to get divorced.”

  “Oh honey.” Allison reached out for his hand but he spun around and shambled down the street toward town. I hurried after him to show him a map of the island on my phone and mark off the way to Duval.

  “Thanks for trying to help, Hayley,” Allison said when I returned. “I’m a little bit at my wit’s end.”

  “He’ll come around,” I said. “A couple of years, and he’ll be back to his own sweet self.” I gave her an extra hug and we floated back to the party, where the servers were bringing out plates of Key West pink shrimp cocktails with a remoulade sauce and urging the partygoers to take seats on the indoor/outdoor patio.

  My mother came up beside me. “She let him go off on his own?” she asked with a frown, glancing at Rory’s disappearing form and then back to Allison.

  “I agreed with her,” I said. “In fact, I suggested it. He was losing his mind at this party. There’s no one within ten years of his age.”

  “I know you don’t like me to talk about them, but you wouldn’t believe what Linda Macy back home heard about him—her sister lives in their neighborhood and—”

  “Mom,” I said, issuing a warning glare. I could tell she was bursting to share some good gossip, and in truth, I would have liked to hear it. Linda Macy was not one for spreading unreliable or unkind rumors. But after sixteen years of living two separate lives with my father and mother, walking a tightrope between them, I’d learned that listening to critiques of the absent parent bordered on treason. Especially with my parents seated at the same table, as they were this evening.

  “I had no idea Connie’s father was coming,” Mom said, shifting gears and lowering her voice. “I thought they were estranged.”

  “Beats me. They were for a while,” I said, glancing over to one of the tables where Connie was introducing her father to some of our friends. Obviously, now was not the time to hash over those bleak days when Connie’s mother was dying. Her dad had moved out before she’d taken sick. After the diagnosis, her mother insisted the divorce was for the best. Who would want an ex-husband hanging around like a stray dog? What use was a man who wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere but beside a sickbed, when what you needed was a reliable, kind nurse?

  If Connie had gotten past all that and invited him back into her life, then I would too.

  “If she’s happy, so am I,” I said.

  My mother slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “You are the perfect maid of honor.” She kissed my cheek. “This place is cute, but a little funky,” she said, looking from the terrazzo-tiled floor to the walls painted yellow and purple and blue, to the blue oilcloth on the tables.

  “Yes, but the food is amazing,” I assured her. “And the owners love Connie and Ray, so the price was right.”

  I sat down with Connie and Ray and Wally and Danielle, sucked in a big breath, and swore off family drama for the rest of the night. After the shrimp and another course of seafood gumbo, a waiter slid a platter of yellow snapper sliders with tropical fruit salsa and another of hamburger sliders topped with blue cheese onto our table.

  “Congratulations,” Danielle said to Connie. “You’ve snared a good one.”

  “Truth or dare?” she continued, obviously a little tipsy. “Who else at this table almost got married?”

  “Does in my mind count?” I asked, but then clapped my hand over my mouth. “Forget I said that.”

  “I was engaged once,” Wally said. “But we never made it this far.”

  Danielle shrieked: “You? You were engaged? What in the world happened?”

  First Wally’s neck flushed red; then the color spread across chin, cheeks, and forehead like spilled tomato juice soaking into a paper towel.

  “It’s the champagne talking,” I said. “You don’t have to answer any of our questions.”

  He grinned at me and ducked his head. “But I blurted it out, so I guess I should play. I was dating a girl who was perfectly nice and quite pretty. And lots of fun, really. But when she asked me to marry her, I was floored. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and I couldn’t think how to say anything but yes. It took about six months for me to back myself out—luckily before we lost too much in deposits. Though I did lose a friendship.” He looked a little sad and definitely sheepish.

  Note to self: Do not ever, ever, ask this man out. Let him do the asking, if there was asking to be done. Which there probably wasn’t. I shut down that thought train and concentrated on the food. When Connie got up to go to the ladies’ room, I followed.

  “Are you having fun?” I asked, once we’d emerged from our stalls.

  “The best,” she said, leaning over the sink to slick gloss on her lips. “Thank you for all your help.”

  I met her eyes in the mirror. “I had no idea your father was coming.”

  “We’ve been texting,” she said, sounding a little defensive. “I didn’t want to say anything in case he couldn’t make it.” She flushed and tensed, as if I’d argue. “He’s changed. We’ve had some wonderful conversations. He really believed that Mom didn’t want him to come home when she got sick. He says he offered but she turned him down.”

  “That puts a different spin on things,” I said. “I’m happy for you. A girl’s father belongs at her wedding.” People could change and grow—I was a living, breathing example. Hopefully Keith had evolved from the man who left his family in a dark moment into a decent human being.

  When we returned to the table, the waiters had removed the empty dishes and delivered slabs of white cake frosted with pink icing and more champagne. I carried my dessert across the room to sit with my parents for a few minutes. Connie’s father was wedged in between my father and Sam. By now they looked like old friends, though I imagined the free-flowing champagne had helped here too. Keith Arp looked tan and fit in comparison to my father, who’d gotten a little pasty and pouchy over the winter.

  “You were right about this restaurant,” my mother said. “The food was delicious.”

  “Tell us about the Topped Chef contest,” Allison said. “That sounded like such fun—except for the murder, of course.”

  “Was a drag queen
really one of the contestants?” my father asked. “Can you kindly explain why in the world a man would dress up in women’s clothing?”

  It would take more than the half hour remaining in the party to explain that phenomenon to him. In truth, I could spend a lifetime yakking, and he’d still be confused.

  “That’s his job at night—he’s an entertainer, but he’s also a wonderful home cook,” I explained. “He told us that his very best recipes came from his grandmother’s kitchen.”

  “That makes total sense to me,” Mom said. “It’s so important to have a culture of food in the home. I don’t care whether it’s Portuguese or Chinese or North Dakotan. Kids need to understand how food connects the people in their lives and connects us to the world.” She leaned forward, both hands on the table. “Martha Hoover once said life develops around the kitchen table, and I think she’s right. Isn’t it wonderful that foodie people are finally getting their due?” She clapped her hands. “And I give a lot of credit to the TV cooking shows.”

  “That’s absurd,” Allison said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Celebrity chefs have become a way for narcissistic macho men to tell the rest of us we don’t have the skills to feed our families. So what if we don’t make everything from scratch? So what if we use a cake mix or serve macaroni with powdered orange cheese from a box? Some of us don’t like to cook. And some of us aren’t good at it.”

  “But everyone can learn,” said Mom.

  “Some of us are doing important things out in the world,” Allison snapped back. “If you ask me, life develops at work.”

  I flinched. This was a broadside hit at my mother, who’d only recently dabbled in starting a small catering business. Before that, she’d concentrated her considerable energy on an immaculate home, gourmet cooking, and me. Which had never been enough for my father. In his mind, she’d showed a lot of early career promise, like her film idol and my namesake, Hayley Mills. But then she’d flamed out royally.

  “Oh really?” my mother asked sweetly. “I would have said life develops in bed.” She reached over, picked up her boyfriend’s hand, and kissed it.

  I felt a rush of color flood my pale Irish skin. “Too much information!” I begged, and then lowered my voice. “Can’t you two try to play nicely? This is Connie’s moment.”

  5

  Because the meat is seldom pricked during cooking, the fat accumulates, sizzling and bubbling. Slice, and the drama unfolds. Think of a bursting water pipe. Better yet, imagine a Brahman bull exploding from the gate at a rodeo.

  —Alan Richman

  A couple minutes before eleven, my good friend Eric pulled up alongside the restaurant in his Conch car, a vintage Mustang painted with coconut palm trees and parrots and fish and mermaids by a local artist. The same car I’d wrecked last fall. Lucky for me, the damage to the car was mostly covered by insurance. And the artist, Rick Worth, had restored the painting to better than new, adding a red iguana that Eric adored. Eric cranked down the window, and I hurried over to greet him.

  “We could have used a shrink in there,” I said. “First, Connie’s long-lost father shows up. Now the mothers are at each other’s throats. That makes two times today I’ve had to throw in the penalty flag and insist they change the subject.”

  “They haven’t really had the opportunity to spend time together over the years, have they?” Eric asked. “That makes for a stressful transition.” He glanced around me, looking for his teenage charge.

  “Rory hasn’t gotten back yet. Allison let him walk around town because he was bored to death,” I explained as I sent my third and tersest text message to the kid’s phone. A strong gust of wind whipped by, and I wrapped my pashmina tightly around my shoulders and shivered. “Feels like that weather front is really charging through. Why don’t you come in for a minute? I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  Back inside the restaurant, most of the guests had cleared out and the staff was busy wiping down tables and straightening the room. My two sets of parents were helping Connie and Ray gather up and pack the loot they’d received at the shower. When she spotted Eric, Mom dropped her armload of gifts on a nearby chair and rushed over to hug him.

  “My goodness, you look so much better than you did in January!” she said. Then her eyes bugged wide and she clapped her hand to her mouth. The last time Mom visited, Eric had been accused of murder and spent time in the county slammer in the company of a smattering of drunks and other miscreants. “That sounded awful, didn’t it?”

  Eric smiled and squeezed her hand. “I knew what you meant. The jailhouse look didn’t really suit me. Orange is definitely not on my color wheel.”

  She grabbed his wrist and tugged him across the room to introduce him to Sam, surging right past my father and Allison. Which gave the unfortunate impression that she was marking her turf. Again. Sam patted Eric on the back and shook his hand.

  “Janet has told me so much about you. I feel as though we’ve already met,” Sam said.

  “Look at all the loot Connie and Ray scored,” Mom exclaimed. She pointed to the set of saltwater fishing lures on the top of the pile of gifts Sam had been carrying.

  “This is not the kind of thing we registered for when we got married back in the stone age,” she said. “I was desperate for a full set of Revere cookware, the kind with the solid copper bottoms. And Egyptian cotton towels, monogrammed with my new initials. And sterling silver in the Chantilly pattern with an ornate ‘S’ on the handles.” She turned to my father. “Remember those days, Jim? You probably don’t.”

  “Oh me too,” cried Miss Gloria, clapping her hands and saving all of us from an awkward divorced-parents moment. “I knew I was really grown-up when the silver arrived with my married-lady initials engraved on every piece.”

  “Your mom loved the Battenburg lace tablecloth from Aunt Minnie,” said Connie’s dad. “She said it went perfectly with our good china. Even though we only had one setting.”

  Connie laughed along with the rest of us and then cupped Ray’s jaw in her palm and reached up on tippy-toes to kiss his chin. “He’s worth every silver spoon I have to sacrifice in exchange for his fishing doodads.”

  Then she introduced her father to Eric. The two men shook hands.

  “I hope you enjoy your visit,” said Eric. “Where are you staying?”

  Connie and Ray exchanged a glance.

  Ray said to Keith: “If it’s okay with you, I have a foldout couch in my living room. It’s got your name on it. We can call around tomorrow for a hotel room.”

  Keith nodded. “Perfect. I’ll enjoy a little extra time getting to know my son-in-law.”

  Then I introduced Eric to Allison, explaining that we were old neighborhood friends from back home and that he was the good sport who’d agreed to put Rory up in his guest bedroom. More like had his arm twisted by me after I had mine twisted by my father, but I didn’t put it that way.

  “I’m so sorry to hold you up like this when you’ve been so kind to take him in,” Allison said to Eric. “He swore he’d be back right at eleven.” She looked flattened, like she might be ready to weep, she was so tired.

  Now that I was paying attention, I noticed that all four of the parents seemed bushed from the full day’s activities. And Eric, I knew, had an early patient appointment in the morning. And besides, I was the one who’d persuaded Allison to let Rory go.

  “How about all of you go home and I’ll wait for Rory?” I suggested, and then turned to Eric. “If you wouldn’t mind dropping Miss Gloria off back at the boat. I have the key to your house.” I jangled my key ring and smiled confidently. “I’ll scoop the kid up when he gets here and tuck him in. He probably stopped to listen to some music on the strip and lost track of time.”

  “But what if he’s in trouble?” Allison asked, her worried gaze flickering from my father’s frown back to me. “I should stay.” She rubbed a hand across her face, smudging the gray eyeshadow that echoed the half-moons under her eyes.

  “You look exh
austed,” my dad said. “Let Hayley take care of this.”

  “That’s not really fair—she has plenty to do this week,” Allison said.

  “Hayley can handle it,” said Eric. “We’ll be up awhile and will make sure Rory gets settled in the guest room. Do you have plans in the morning? We can wake him up and feed him breakfast. Or let him sleep.”

  “Thank you.” Allison’s shoulders slumped with relief. “You’re so kind. Let him sleep in. Maybe he’ll wake up on the right side of the bed tomorrow. Thanks so much. I could kill that kid about now.” She smiled at Eric and then me. “If you really don’t mind.”

  I hugged her and then my father and Eric and Miss Gloria and shooed them off into the chilly darkness. My mother and Sam came out of the restaurant loaded with the last of the gifts. “We’re going to run these over to Connie’s place. Sam can’t wait to see houseboat row. Do we have plans tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you and we’ll see what everyone feels like, okay? I promised to help with Ray’s show at the gallery, if he needs me. And I have to spend some time writing. Other than that? Free bird.” I pecked her on the cheek and waved at Sam before either of them could comment on the rudeness of Rory’s tardiness.

  I paced down to the water a hundred yards from the restaurant, where the breeze had picked up to something that more resembled wind, stirring the ocean into an inky chop. A group of kids swathed in blankets were huddled in a gazebo located between Salute! and the water, laughing and drinking in the pale circle of light thrown by a lantern. I headed over, thinking of the warning that Jai, the director of the homeless teen drop-in center, gave to all her new kids: “You can nap on the beach or anywhere in daytime, but not with a blanket and pillow. That’s considered camping. And that isn’t welcome in this town.”

  Maybe these kids hadn’t gotten the message. Or more likely, they didn’t care. I edged closer. Judging from the expensive-looking bathing suits and board shorts under the blankets, I guessed that this was a group of spring breakers. And based on the decibel level and profanity in their conversation, they appeared to have spent most of the day hitting the hops.