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

  Bill sat beside me, patted my knee. “Chances are he shows up here any minute now and you would have worried her for nothing. Don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “Okay if I wait for him? I think I’ll set my iPhone alarm for an hour. If he hasn’t come in by then, I’ll have to wake them.”

  “Of course.” He got up and disappeared into the guest room, returning with a pillow and a crocheted afghan in shades of purple. “Tap on the door if you need us.”

  I texted Torrence about what had happened and asked him to call me the minute he heard anything. Then I snuggled into the couch to close my eyes for fifteen minutes.

  • • •

  I woke as a few rays of gray light filtered in from the back porch—bright enough to bring me out of my scrambled dreams, but by no means actual sun. I could smell the welcome aroma of coffee brewing and the sound of Eric and Bill’s dogs lapping water and gobbling morning kibbles. The memory of last night’s search took shape in my mind, and I sat up abruptly. Crap. I’d slept right through my alarm. Toby, a brown Yorkie, shot across the room, caromed onto my lap, and began licking my chin.

  “Good morning,” Eric said, grinning. “Would you like coffee with your doggie kisses?” He carried a large mug over from the kitchen and set it on the coffee table in front of me.

  “He didn’t come in, did he?”

  Eric shook his head.

  I groaned and picked up my phone and quickly thumbed through the new alerts. Still no texts or calls or e-mails from Rory. And nothing from Torrence either. I set my mug back down and pushed the tangled hair out of my eyes and the dog from my lap. “I have to go tell them.”

  • • •

  I buzzed off on my scooter, a borrowed fleece pulled over my party dress, and the pashmina wrapped around my neck. I took one last lap down the length of Duval Street, where men with leaf blowers blew trash into the streets, trailed by stumpy street-cleaning machines that lumbered along the curbs, spraying water on the dirty pavement and gobbling up detritus from the previous night’s parties. The only other signs of life were dog walkers, joggers, and a few homeless folks who’d already made their early journey from the overnight shelter on Stock Island into town. Or from whatever nook they’d found where they could curl up for the night.

  No sign of Rory, but I hadn’t really expected to find him. I rode over to Casa Marina, parked the bike, and finger-combed my hair, trying to figure out how to frame the news. “Your son is missing, possibly involved in a burglary,” sounded just plain harsh. I left my scooter, glad that I didn’t have to chitchat with the overfriendly valet, and went inside.

  Though I’d hoped they were sleeping in so I could put off the bad news a little longer, Allison and my father sat at a table facing the water with newspapers, a laptop, cups of coffee, and a plate of croissants covering the space between them. Allison smiled, looking rested and refreshed. But her smile faded when she took in my appearance.

  “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong?”

  I explained what had happened the night before, including my trip up and down Duval and the scene at the harbor. I chose the best of Officer Ryan’s reassuring words, and shaded them even further toward “this happens all the time” and “I’m sure he’ll show up.”

  “Oh my god,” Allison said, tears filling her eyes. “Rutherford is going to kill me.”

  “When that boy turns up, I will personally wring his neck,” my father said through clenched teeth.

  “That isn’t helpful,” said Allison. “You have no idea who might have snatched him or whether he’s hurt or—”

  He patted her hand and tried a lame joke. “No criminal in the world is going to want a teenage boy.”

  “Oh my god, Hayley, why didn’t you wake me right away?”

  I was in the middle of explaining how I’d searched the entire downtown and planned to wait just another hour but then slept through my alarm when my mother and Sam emerged from the lobby, headed to the breakfast room. When they spotted me, they changed course and started over to Allison’s table.

  “What’s going on?” my mother asked. “It looks as though someone died.”

  Avoiding Allison’s stricken face, I gave another brief synopsis of Rory’s disappearance. My mother’s lips curved downward and I could imagine the worst of what might be running through her mind.

  What kind of mother goes to bed in a strange city without knowing where her child is? And then lurking not too far underneath: What kind of mother loses custody of her kid in the first place?

  “I think we should go directly to the police station,” said my father. He folded the newspaper he’d been reading, pushed his chair back, and helped Allison to her feet.

  “I’ll drive you,” said my mother. “Hayley, should you call ahead and let them know we’re coming?”

  “There’s no need for all of you to drag along,” my father said. “Enjoy your time here.”

  “We insist,” said my mother, taking Sam’s hand. “I have the car, and I know my way around town. We’re not going to enjoy anything until we help you sort this out.”

  My father put two fingers in his mouth and whistled as soon we stepped out of the hotel. The valet approached slowly, wearing sunglasses and looking tired, as though he’d spent the night on the town too.

  “We’re in a hurry,” my father said in a gruff voice, jingling the keys. “Our son is in some trouble.”

  “Of course,” said the valet, squaring his shoulders. “What happened?”

  “Could you just get the damn car?” my father said.

  The valet saluted and trotted off to retrieve it.

  7

  She assimilated her grief by cooking her way through her husband’s favorite recipes, extruding the sadness into the pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, the coq au vin, the beef stew with beer and onions …

  —Lucy Burdette, Topped Chef

  Mom’s little red Kia followed me to the police station located on Roosevelt Boulevard, directly above Bayview Park with its half acre of tennis courts, which were already busy with early-morning players. Over the hum of my motor, I could hear the thwack of ball against racket. The ten-minute ride gave me plenty of time to flog myself for how I’d handled the night before. Not that I thought waking Allison a couple of hours earlier would have resulted in a different outcome, but it felt awful to see her so desperate and angry. But if I’d discouraged Allison from allowing Rory to go off on his own, things would have turned out differently for sure. He might have dampened the party atmosphere with his surliness, but at least he’d have been safe.

  I parked my scooter next to one of the brand-new (and often maligned as extravagant and unnecessary) police cars and trotted across the open-air vestibule, past the nonworking fountain tiled in pastels. A flock of chickens, heavy on the roosters, pecked in the weedy garden near the front door. One rooster puffed up and let out a forceful cock-a-doodle-doo that caused Allison to startle and shriek.

  “He’s warning you to stay away from his girls,” I said, forcing a smile, then picked up the phone receiver attached to the station wall.

  “This is Hayley Snow,” I said to the woman who answered. “We’re here to talk with someone about a missing boy? And a Jet Ski,” I added because they’d know the truth anyway so why try to sugarcoat it?

  “I’ll send someone over to let you in,” the receptionist said. “And I’ll let Detective Bransford know you’re on the way up.”

  My heart sank. Just our luck to draw Bransford for this interview. Back in January, we’d briefly flirted with dating but nothing much had come of it. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since he’d come to tell me he was reuniting with his ex. Though he didn’t exactly say reuniting, that was the way I heard it. And the way it looked from an outsider’s perspective—the way the sparks had flown the last two times I’d seen them together.

  Within minutes, Officer Ryan let us in through the front door, looking tired. “Sorry to see you again so soon. Your brother never turned up?” he asked
.

  I shook my head and explained to Allison that Officer Ryan had helped me look for Rory the night before.

  “And you’re still on duty?” Mom asked. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a warm smile. “I had some paperwork to finish up. When I heard you all were coming in, I wanted to stay and see if I could be of assistance.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Allison said in a whisper.

  We followed him down the hallway, around to the back where the elevator was located. My mother nudged me as we walked. “He’s cute,” she mouthed.

  I rolled my eyes. Nothing would thwart Mom’s drive to make me a match. “The police department is set up like a big square,” I explained, just to break the silence, “with offices and interview rooms outside of the square and a state-of-the-art gym inside.” I ushered them into the elevator, and Officer Ryan pressed the button for the second floor. We waited, facing the door, our worried expressions reflected in the stainless steel.

  “We’ll be talking with Detective Bransford,” I said, continuing to try to make some kind of lame conversation.

  “Nate?” My mother wrinkled her forehead. “How—”

  “Detective Bransford,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze as the door slid open. “Please don’t call him Nate while we’re here.”

  She held her hands up. “Fine, honey. Whatever you say.”

  Bransford was standing in the hall outside his office, dressed in sharply pressed khaki pants and a crisp white shirt, not slightly rumpled as I was used to seeing him. Maybe his wife, Trudy, enjoyed ironing. Yet another way I came up short.

  “Hayley Snow and her family to see you,” said Officer Ryan to the detective.

  I waved my fingers in greeting. “These are my parents,” I said. “My father, Jim Snow, and his wife, Allison. You remember my mother, Janet, and this is her friend Sam Cooper.”

  “So nice to see you,” Mom said brightly, but then frowned. “Though not under these circumstances, of course.”

  Bransford shook hands all around and led us to a conference room located at the front of the building. Officer Ryan followed us in, closed the door, and stood at attention just inside. “Officer Ryan will be assisting with the interviews,” Bransford said.

  “We so appreciate that, Officer,” Mom said brightly. “It’s been a long night for you.”

  He nodded and smiled, flashing those killer dimples again—at least one of us could manage to be gracious. We took seats, Mom and Sam on one side of the table, Dad and Allison on the other, leaving me the seat at the end where I could not avoid looking at Bransford. Where I could not avoid noticing his green eyes and full lips without appearing to be a shifty-eyed criminal.

  Bransford looked around the table, making eye contact with each one of us in turn. “Let’s talk about your son. Your son, right?” he asked Allison with an encouraging smile.

  She nodded and sniffled. “Rory.”

  “Rory,” he said, jotting the name on a yellow pad in front of him. “Is his last name Snow also?”

  “Michaels.”

  He wrote that down too. “Does Rory know anyone in Key West?”

  “No one,” said Allison. “Other than Hayley, of course. And Jim, my husband, knows her friend Connie. Besides that, no one. None of us had ever set foot on the island before yesterday.”

  “Except for me,” said my mother, and then blushed and ducked her chin. “But you knew that.”

  Bransford nodded. “So, as far as you are aware, Rory had no contacts here prior to his arrival.” Allison shook her head. He tapped his pen on the notepad, rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Tell me how the day went yesterday, everything you can remember. Don’t try to sift anything out. You never know what detail might help us find him.”

  Allison sniffled again and reached for my father’s hand. “Nothing was unusual.” She described the trip down from New Jersey, with the stopover and plane change in Miami. Then she cataloged the rest of the day—Rory’s outing with my father, the naps they took, Connie’s party. And then how she’d allowed him to go over to Duval Street, with a curfew of course.

  “Is he an outgoing youngster?” asked Bransford. “Would you expect him to make friends quickly?”

  Allison hesitated, looked over at my father. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Though he’s been mostly living with his biological father for the last couple of years. Actually, away at boarding school more than anything. So I see him during vacations and some of the holidays.” Her eyes watered and she patted her face with a crumpled tissue. “I’m saying maybe I don’t know him as well as I should.”

  My father stroked Allison’s hand and turned to stare at Bransford. “He’s a typical teenage boy. He wasn’t too happy about vacationing with his family, and he most definitely was not interested in wedding activities. Though I would say he seemed excited about the idea of seeing this town. When he heard we were headed to Key West, he quit fighting us about coming. In fact, it was quite a turnaround.”

  “He was eager to see Hayley, too.” Allison managed a smile in my direction. “It had been a while since he’d visited with his sister.”

  I flashed an automatic smile back. That sounded more like a wish than a reality. We were step-siblings, and not close ones, not lately.

  “So the last time you saw him was at the party. Did he converse with anyone before that? On the trip down or at the hotel?” Bransford asked.

  “Wasn’t he talking to a man when he got off the plane from Miami? The puddle-jumper? Do you remember?” my father asked Allison.

  “I was so excited to finally be here,” she said. “And the weather was so pretty yesterday. We’ve had an awful winter, with tons of snow. So I was thrilled with the temperature and the sun. Everything was perfect, not cloudy and cool, the way it is this morning. And then we saw that taxi driver with the parrot on his shoulder …” Allison hiccuped into a sob. “I didn’t take the time to listen to him.”

  “But you noticed something,” Bransford prompted my father.

  “He mentioned the man from the plane when I took him to lunch,” my father said, sounding more definite. “Someone who lives here in town was seated next to him on the trip down from Miami. I think he works at a hotel on Duval Street. Or was it a bar? He was encouraging Rory to drop by. Why in the world would you ask a young boy to visit a bar? Don’t you think he would recognize that the kid was way underage?” Dad scowled. “But I didn’t pay too much attention because then Rory started badgering me about the Jet Ski thing.”

  “The Jet Ski thing?” asked Bransford, sitting a little taller.

  “He wanted to rent a Jet Ski,” I explained. “I told him he couldn’t go alone and that I’d take him if time allowed. But our week’s pretty well booked, what with Connie’s wedding and Ray’s show at the Gallery on Greene.”

  Bransford nodded and scribbled. “So he talked with someone on the plane. We don’t know who, except he might work at a bar. Anything else?”

  “Rory and I visited the Mel Fisher Museum yesterday after lunch,” said my father. He lifted his shoulders to his ears and let them go with a big sigh. “Then he napped all afternoon until it was time to go to the party. He was so bored at the shower. He kept badgering us about leaving—he was driving us crazy. So Allison agreed to let him explore Duval Street on his own.”

  “I suggested it. I thought it would be fine,” I said, feeling the weight of that decision settle heavily into my chest, narrowing my breath to a whistle. “He swore he’d be back by eleven.”

  “But then he was late, and we were all so tired,” Allison said. “Hayley offered to wait for him and make sure he got to Eric and Bill’s house, where he’s supposed to be sleeping. You know the rest.” A tear spilled from her eye and zigzagged down her cheek.

  “Is it possible that he went to speak with the man he met on the plane?” Bransford asked.

  “I have no idea,” Allison admitted, looking at my father. “I didn’t realize that he�
��d met anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t say he met someone,” my father said stiffly. “They chatted on the plane ride. That’s it.”

  Bransford turned to look at Sam and my mother. “Anything you noticed?”

  My mother tapped a finger on her lips. “I don’t know Rory that well. We’ve met a couple of times over the years since Allison and Jim were married. He was such a darling little boy with those strawberry blond curls. He still has them—I bet the girls are crazy for those.” She grinned and shook her head. “But yesterday, he seemed, well, keyed up. He had trouble sitting still. Wouldn’t you say, Hayley?”

  I shrugged. “Yes, he seemed antsy. But not like crystal meth antsy, if you get what I’m saying.”

  Allison looked at me, her expression horrified. “But he never—”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Has he been in trouble before this?” Bransford asked. “Drugs? Alcohol? Theft?”

  “Look here,” my father blustered, “we don’t know that he’s in trouble now.”

  “But he is missing,” Bransford said. “And a witness has placed him on a stolen Jet Ski.”

  Allison began to cry.

  “Would his father have any information about his whereabouts?” Bransford asked. “I assume you’ve been in touch.”

  Now Allison looked like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. There was an awkward silence. My father said coldly: “We felt there was no reason to alarm him until we had some real facts.”

  “I’d like that contact information,” Bransford said.

  “Rutherford Michaels,” Allison said. She took her phone from her purse, scrolled through the contacts, and then rattled off his phone number. “That’s actually Rory’s name too—he’s Rutherford the second. But hates that name, and he’s never used it.”

  Which surprised me—I’d never heard he had another name. But apparently there was plenty I didn’t know about my own family. I’d met Rory’s dad once, at Rory’s matriculation into boarding school at the beginning of sixth grade. It had been a grim day for all of us. Rory was furious about being sent away, so it had been hard to sort out whether his father’s coldness was basic to his personality or a stoic shield from his son’s rage.