Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  “Excuse me,” I said when there was a break in the chatter. “I’m looking for my brother. He stands about so high”—I reached eight inches above my five foot four—“and he’s got strawberry blond hair and kind of a peach fuzz on his chin. He was wearing jeans—a little faded, but still presentable, no holes or anything—and a white T-shirt that said Purple Moan on the back.” I remembered the details because Allison had told me how they’d fought over him dressing up for the party. She lost.

  “What is she, some kind of retard?” one of the alcohol-sodden boys asked, glancing at me.

  “Oh, dude, I love that group,” said another of the boys. He got up and began to stagger around the circle, crooning: “‘When the sun drops low and your life does too, baby, I just want to be close to you …’” He thrust his hips suggestively at one of the girls.

  “Be nice,” said the girl next to him, tugging at his shirt, trying to get him to sit. She glowed absolutely red with sunburn in the light of their small Coleman lantern, except for two narrow white lines where the straps of her yellow bikini must have shifted. “I didn’t notice anyone like that,” she said to me. And then giggled and pulled the blanket around her shoulders and leaned into her boyfriend’s chest. “But we haven’t exactly been looking either.”

  I thanked them (for nothing) and backed away, trying not to think of all the ways Rory might have found to get in trouble. On Duval Street. With kids like these. Like anywhere in the world, there were drugs and underage drinking and Lord knows what else if you knew what to look for. What fifteen-year-old boy wouldn’t be looking? Why in the world had I thought it was okay to send him off into the darkness? Oscillating between annoyed and worried, I texted him yet another time. When nothing came back, I tried calling.

  “Rory, this is Hayley. I’m waiting for you at Salute! You were supposed to be here”—I stopped to check my watch—“an hour ago. Call me.”

  Nothing.

  I debated whether to wait beside the darkened restaurant or cruise on my scooter along the path I’d marked out for him on my iPhone map of Key West. I was uncomfortable about standing around alone outside Salute!, not to mention freezing. And getting madder by the minute. Cruising the street seemed like a more useful option—at least I’d be doing something. I dashed to my scooter and started it up.

  Duval Street stretches across the island from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico, starting at the Southernmost House and ending near Mallory Square. Each block has its own personality, from the drag bars and cabarets toward the south to the hard-drinking tourist destinations, such as Sloppy Joe’s and the Bull and Whistle, at the north end. I doubted that Rory would have the nerve to sample the drag scene, even if he made it past a bouncer. Lots of first-time visitors didn’t venture into the 801 Bourbon or Aqua nightclubs, finding the gussied-up drag queens a little intimidating. Not that teenage boys would even think to go into a drag bar. But on the other hand, what did I really know about the kid and what he might be interested in? My memories were pretty much located back in the days when he’d been addicted to LEGO and Where’s Waldo? and then Star Trek.

  The street was electric with spring break crowds and the noise level seemed twice as loud as usual. There was a lot of yelling and cheering—at what?—and low-cut halters and skirts short even by Key West standards. All this despite the fact that the temperature must have dropped fifteen degrees in the last hour—and I was freezing. I was probably only five or six years older than a lot of these kids, but it might as well have been twenty.

  I putt-putted along even more slowly than the pedicabs, risking the cursing of impatient motorists and stopping whenever I saw a friendly face to ask if they’d seen my stepbrother. This might have gone better if I’d had a photo on my phone, but no way would I risk a full-blown panic by texting Allison to send me one. I parked my scooter on Applerouth Lane and threaded through the crowd until I reached Willie T’s, an open-air bar where a rock-and-roll band played Rolling Stones music with a country twang. I searched the premises, thinking Rory might have found the roof papered in dollar bills and the young crowd appealing. The band wasn’t half bad and I might have stayed longer if I hadn’t felt so worried and annoyed. I trudged to the west end of Duval, stopping in at the Bull and Whistle, whose Elvis impersonator had a rowdier audience, a little older than that at Willie T’s or the Hard Rock Cafe. I couldn’t picture Rory here. And he would have been too embarrassed to go upstairs where the sign proclaimed clothing to be optional.

  By twelve thirty I’d covered the entire street and come up empty. I swung back around to get my scooter and make a second circuit along the road that hugged the beach, but I found no sign of him there either. Now I started to worry in earnest.

  Catching sight of two cops deep in conversation with three drunk boys, I thought of calling my newly promoted friend at the police department, Lieutenant Torrence. Either he’d be asleep or he’d be working. One way or the other, I thought I could count on his sympathy. I thumbed through my contacts until I located his cell phone, then punched in the number. Good sign—he answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, it’s Hayley Snow. So sorry to call this late. I hope I didn’t wake you.” I rushed on because whether I had or I hadn’t, I couldn’t think of another option. “My stepbrother arrived in town today and he’s disappeared. On the island less than twelve hours and already gone missing. I’m checking in on the off chance there’s been a report of any kids in trouble.”

  Torrence laughed. “During spring break? Kids in trouble is our middle name. What does he look like?”

  I described his appearance and where we’d last seen him and what he might be interested in—girls and beer and loud music. “I know that’s not very helpful.” I caught a breath, trying not to whimper.

  “You know kids wander off a lot around here and parents panic and it almost always ends up being a false alarm,” he said in a soothing voice. “Is there a particular reason you’d expect him to be in trouble, other than his sex and age?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that,” I said. “Over the past few years, he’s mostly lived with his father, so I rarely see him. I gather he’s being shipped off to military school, but I don’t know what he’s done to deserve that. Or I should say, whether he’s done something …”

  “Where are you?” Torrence asked. “I could call one of my officers on duty and let you ride around with him for a little bit. It might be easier to spot him from the car. And when he turns up, we’ll have the officer put the fear of god in him by making him ride in the back of the cruiser in handcuffs.” He laughed so I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. “Half an hour back there and he’ll act like an angel for the rest of the weekend.”

  I thanked him profusely and he arranged for a cop to pick me up on Virginia Street outside Eric and Bill’s cottage in the Bahama Village. A few minutes later, a police car glided to a stop. I opened the front door and slid into the passenger seat. “Thank you so much for this,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Hayley Snow.”

  “Officer Ryan,” he said, shaking hands over the computer, large mug of coffee, and thick red book of Florida statutes that sat between us. He had intense blue eyes, short hair gelled so it stood up in half-inch peaks, a cute dimple in his chin, and coffee-scented breath. Then I twitched my nose, assaulted by faint odors of vomit and pine-scented cleaner that wafted from the backseat, even closed off as it was with a Plexiglas shield.

  “Yup,” said Officer Ryan when he saw my grimace. “You’ll get used to it. Gotta love the spring break crowd. I’ve already carted two people to the jail tonight and written out Marchman papers on them.”

  “Marchman papers?”

  “That gives them eight hours to sleep it off in jail without legal charges being filed. Trust me when I tell you that puke is the least of our worries in some of those cases.”

  He tapped on his computer and a list of addresses and incidents came up on the screen. “I need to head over to the Custom House and
do a quick sweep for vagrants; then we’ll ride along that end of Duval Street. What does your brother look like?”

  I described Rory again and explained how he’d left Salute! several hours earlier, but failed to return as we’d agreed. And then because he was so sympathetic, I gave him the CliffsNotes version of all the family drama that had rolled out over the first day of their visit.

  “So you’re the last man left standing,” he said with a smile. “Not that you’re a man. Not at all.” He grinned as we reached the distinctive redbrick building that housed the Custom House. “Back in a jiff,” he said, hopping out of the vehicle with his flashlight in hand. “I have to make sure no one’s sleeping here.”

  Was he flirting with me? I was too tired to figure it out and way too tired to do anything about it. But with my mother’s voice in the back of my mind—you should always be ready, Hayley, because you’ll never know when and where Mr. Right might turn up—I slicked on some lip gloss just in case, and then watched Officer Ryan circle the wraparound porch and emerge from the shadows on the other side of the building. When he returned to the vehicle, he reported in to the dispatcher and we set off across Duval Street again, the radio crackling every few minutes with word of trouble or police action in other quadrants of the city. I kept my gaze pinned on the sidewalks, hoping to catch a glimpse of my stepbrother among the partying spring breakers.

  As we reached Truman Street, the dispatcher reported a possible grand theft by the old harbor. “Ten-four, on the way,” Officer Ryan said, then skidded into a U-turn and raced back toward Greene Street. On the computer screen, a more detailed report of the complaint flashed up. According to its owner, a Jet Ski had been taken by two teenagers.

  “BOLO for a young man with blond hair and jeans and a white shirt and a girl with dreadlocks and pink shorts,” the dispatcher said before the sound faded away.

  “Ten-four,” said Officer Ryan as my whole body stiffened.

  “That’s what he was wearing,” I said, my stomach grinding. “And he was obsessed with Jet Skis. He was so mad when no one agreed to take him riding.” I skipped ahead in my mind to the worst-case scenario: How would I ever tell Allison her precious son had landed in jail?

  “Don’t panic,” said the cop. “There have to be a couple hundred blond boys in jeans in this town right now. Maybe even thousands.”

  He whooped the siren to move a gaggle of tourists out of the road and we lurched to a stop at the bight.

  6

  Centers should resemble creamy custard and not be rubbery. Tarts are done when an inserted toothpick (like a good alibi) stands up on its own.

  —Cleo Coyle,

  Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen

  The wind gusted through the boats moored in the old harbor, causing the masts to clank and sway. Officer Ryan parked the cruiser near the Conch Republic restaurant, and we hustled down the finger of the dock where another policeman was conferring with a civilian. They stood looking at a slip in between two fishing boats. One Jet Ski had been pulled onto a little floating platform and tied up. Next to that, a sawed-off rope tied to nothing trailed into the sheen of oil that topped the murky water.

  “What’s the situation?” Officer Ryan asked.

  “This man saw a girl this afternoon walking along the docks. Thin, dreadlocks, a blue fleece,” said the other policeman, pointing to a small, wizened man wearing a faded Yankees cap and a wool fisherman’s sweater.

  “You saw the girl and what about her stood out?” Officer Ryan asked the man.

  “First of all, she had on the shortest pair of pink shorts I’ve ever seen.” He smirked but the policemen glared back at him. “She was sitting on the dock with her legs hanging over, like she was going to drop down onto one of my skis,” the man continued. “I should have called the cops right then instead of chasing her off myself. This is the third time this month one of those damn kids have ripped off private property in this neighborhood. You people need to keep better watch.”

  Officer Ryan nodded sympathetically, which seemed to make the fisherman madder.

  “Personally, I’m sick to death of these little bastards,” said the old man. He coughed right at me, expelling a gasp of breath stale with garlic and beer. “They can’t be bothered to stay home and finish school or get a job. Their damn parents didn’t teach them the difference between right and wrong. And then this town coddles them like welcome guests. Of course they’re going to help themselves if they see something they want. And then you’re surprised when they take advantage.” He hawked up some phlegm and spit it onto the dock near my feet.

  I took a step back and Officer Ryan cut off his rant. “Did you actually see this girl with the dreadlocks on the Jet Ski tonight?”

  “I was sleeping below in my cabin.” The man gestured at the nearest boat, which had a handwritten sign advertising good rates on fishing expeditions and Jet Ski rentals. It was hard to imagine his cabin being much bigger than a coffin and difficult to believe that, out of all the captains in the harbor, anyone would choose this disheveled, querulous man to lead their vacation expedition.

  “Then I heard the motor start up. I knew it was mine because she coughs and misses when you start her cold. But by the time I got my pants on and got up the ladder, she was gone.” He waved a hand out toward the channel. “There was a boy riding on the back. At least I think it was a boy.”

  “What did he look like?” Officer Ryan asked.

  “Some kind of jeans, white shirt. Hair to his neck like a hippie,” the old man said. “And none too clean-looking either. Never saw nothing but his back, tearing off across the harbor with my property.”

  “Plain white shirt?” asked the cop. “Short sleeves or long?”

  “Short, something written on the back. Like the name of a rock band. Yeah, something no reasonable person ever heard of, and certainly wouldn’t want to listen to.” He chortled at his own humor.

  I felt sick to my stomach. The description was vague, but everything about it matched Rory. Though where he would have picked up this girl and why he would have helped steal a Jet Ski were beyond me.

  “Wouldn’t they need a key?” I asked. “How would they start the machine?”

  “The motor on this one was giving me fits,” the man said, casting an angry look at me, as if I had no business doubting his story. “I’d fooled around with it, but I couldn’t fix the damn thing. So I called for a mechanic to come and take a look. He said he’d be by later this week so I left the safety key there on the floor of the watercraft below the instrument panel.” He pointed to a small compartment on the second Jet Ski jammed with old ropes, a faded pink flip-flop with the toe-hold blown out, and a couple of empty beer cans. “In case I was off the water when he came by.”

  “We’ll find them,” Officer Ryan said. “We’ve alerted the Coast Guard too. Once it gets light enough to see, they’ll be out looking.” They exchanged phone numbers, Ryan advised him to call if he saw or heard anything more, and I followed him off the dock. Back inside the cruiser, he turned off the blue lights and scanned his computer screen.

  “What now?” I asked, feeling both revved up and exhausted.

  “There’s not much we can do in the middle of the night. The Coast Guard will be looking and the police boat will be out in the morning too. I’d suggest you go on home and get some rest. We’ll put on a full-court press tomorrow.” He looked at my face, which must have shown my despair. “The thing is,” he added gently, “we don’t even know if the kid on the Jet Ski was your brother. Maybe he’s gone home in the meantime and tucked himself into bed. Kids disappear all the time in this town. Usually they show up once they’ve slept the fun off.”

  I looked at my phone. No missed calls. No text messages.

  “What would you do?” I asked. “Should I tell my stepmother now that he’s missing?”

  He ran his hand over the hedgehog peaks of his hair and took a sip of coffee. “I can’t answer that one for you. He’s not been gone long enough to be offici
ally missing. We’ll be looking for him though, I’ll make sure of that. And I’ll let you know the instant we hear anything.”

  Which didn’t really answer my question.

  “Understand, there’s not a thing she could do, except stay up all night and worry herself sick.”

  I nodded, pressing my fingers to my cheekbones and hoping I wouldn’t cry.

  “But you make the call. If it was my kid, I’d probably want to know. At least after another hour or two went by.” He tapped his palm on the steering wheel. “Not that I have any. Kids, I mean. Not even close.” He grinned, showing two dimples that matched the one on his chin, and pulled away from the curb.

  Officer Ryan dropped me back at Eric and Bill’s place on Virginia Street where I’d left my scooter. Lights glowed from the living room window and on the front porch, which looked cozy and inviting with its matching red-cushioned rocking chairs and the graceful fronds of tropical foliage. Somehow this peaceful scene gave me a tiny bit of hope that Rory had come in late, maybe drunk or stoned, but safe. As soon as I rattled the key in the door, I heard the resident dogs yapping frantically. At the same time that I pushed the door open, Bill appeared, wearing striped flannel pajamas, his hair standing up in a series of sleep-induced cowlicks.

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “Rory?” He shook his head and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I was hoping you were him. Eric went on to bed because he has a long day tomorrow. I said I’d stay up and read the kid the riot act. Come on in.”

  He took my arm and led me to the back of their house, which opened out to their eating porch, and beyond that, the hot tub and garden. Tonight, because of the encroaching chill, the glass doors had been pulled shut. I sank into the nearest couch, feeling hopeless and beat.

  “What happened?”

  I told him how I’d searched Duval Street and checked back at the beach and then called Torrence. “A Jet Ski was stolen from a slip on the harbor. A nice cop gave me a ride over there. Unfortunately, the description of one of the thieves matches Rory.” I closed my eyes, pressed a hand to my forehead. “I can’t decide whether to call Allison or let her sleep.”