Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (9 page)

Danielle finished his sentence. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

Why—at this point in history—do we need a “Best Female Chef” special designation? As if they are curiosities?

—
Anthony Bourdain on Twitter

I jingled through the crowds that had flocked to the harbor, trying to enjoy the party atmosphere and the twinkling holiday lights wound along the railings of the docks and in the shop windows and on the masts and sails and booms of boats. Only Edel’s restaurant was dark, still reeking of charred wood. An official-looking paper from the state fire marshal had been pasted to the front door, informing potential customers that the establishment would be closed until further notice. I hoped that my mother had walked a different route with Edel to Turtle Kraals. The sight of her restaurant—boarded up instead of bursting with opening-night excitement as had been planned—was utterly depressing. And I wasn’t the one watching my reputation and money sink into the depths of the harbor. If I felt a little discouraged tonight, imagine how it would feel to be Edel. How desperately she would be wishing for things
to work out, especially if she’d been circling the drain in New York City before she came south.

I passed the pile of lobster pots stacked into the shape of an enormous Christmas tree and reached the Turtle Kraals restaurant, only yards from the dock where we’d landed in Ray’s motorboat with my injured stepbrother last spring. Standing at the entrance to the restaurant, I scanned the buzzing crowd, searching for my family. Sam stood up and waved from the corner near one of the windows open to the harbor.

“The parade was wonderful this year,” said Miss Gloria when I reached their table.

“Just charming!” said my mother, as I took the only empty seat in between Cassie and Joe. “Key West at Christmas is simply magical. I can’t think of anyplace else in the world I’d rather be. And your outfit is adorable.”

“Thanks. Doesn’t rank high in comfort, however.” I grimaced and adjusted the skirt, which was seriously annoying by now—both the scratchy fabric and the big safety pin cut into my waistline, reminding me there was a little more flesh than I’d like there to be. “I’d like to loosen the waistband, but I’d lose the whole dang thing altogether.”

The waitress swung by long enough for me to order a Key West pale ale and a second platter of steamed shrimp. The first order had been decimated to a pile of shells and bay leaves by my family.

Mom lowered her voice and leaned in. “We were just discussing Edel’s fire. The cops still don’t have a bead on who did it. And they refuse to release the name of the person who died.” She patted Edel’s hand and then touched her flushed cheek. “It’s very hard to live with this much uncertainty.”

“It may be a matter of informing the next of kin
first,” said Sam. “No one wants to read about the death of their loved one in the local paper.”

“You’re totally right,” said Mom. “They need to do things in the right order.”

“So, there had been incidents in the kitchen before the fire,” Cassie said to Edel. “Tell us again about what happened.”

Edel’s gaze swung over to me, glowering.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shared a few things with my family. They know how to keep a secret.” Which they didn’t.

Mom nodded with encouragement.

Edel slumped, her elbow on the sticky table, her chin in her hand. “Several of the recipes in the bible had been changed.” She looked exhausted, the skin under her eyes dark like the color of an approaching thunderstorm. “I know you’re going to ask which ones, but they won’t let me into the damn kitchen so I can’t tell you a lot more. I’ve been so tired and so upset, it’s hard to think straight.”

Cassie sat up, suddenly attentive. “You must have had a gut reaction when you saw the desecration of your recipes. And, chances are, remembering that reaction, those feelings, will bring back the memory of what was destroyed.”

Sheer gobbledegook, I thought unkindly.

But Edel appeared to be buying it—studying Cassie’s face and nodding. “It wasn’t an old standby, like the spaghetti Bolognese. That I could make in my sleep. And, besides, I would rarely think of serving that to paying customers.”

“They would find it worth every penny,” I inserted.

She gave a distracted smile, then focused back on Cassie. “I think it had more to do with temperature.” Her face lit up. “Like the stir-fried spring vegetables on
cheesy polenta. What makes that dish completely special is the Parmesan crisps.”

My mother moaned with pleasure. “If only we could have a few bites of that now.”

“Instead of four hundred degrees, the recipe called for four hundred seventy-five,” Edel said. “Which would have baked the crisps to cinders before the chef even thought to check on them. Of course, someone not so familiar with the recipe . . .”

“Someone in a hurry, as restaurant chefs so often are,” Cassie added, “might not notice before it was too late.”

Edel grinned. “You really understand food. Thank you.”

I had to pinch myself to keep from saying something crusty. After talking with Eric on the golf course, I realized that my feelings had to do with old memories. And that Cassie had probably matured—and hopefully I had, too. But, honestly, my cousin understood nothing about food and cooking. Even her own husband had admitted yesterday that the sole dish she knew how to make was hot dog casserole, in which the secret ingredients were ketchup and canned beans.

“And then there was doctoring of the sauce,” Edel continued. “Hayley was there for that.” Her gaze flickered over to me. “All the regular staff were there. Same with the canola caper. The peanut oil switcheroo.” She barked a mirthless laugh.

“So, you’re thinking one of the staff members might have been behind those things,” Joe said. “Someone who knew his way around the kitchen. The fire, too?”

“Torching my restaurant takes this vendetta to another level altogether,” said Edel.

“You should try not to take it personally,” Cassie said. “I’ve learned the hard way that people who try to
take down other people do so because of their own issues, and because their envy poisons them. It has nothing to do with who
you
are.”

Edel nodded sadly.

“I remember the back door to the kitchen was open both of the days I visited,” I said, picturing my view from the perch on the stool. “It was hot in there.”

“Goes with the territory,” Edel said. “That’s why we have those big fans running all the time. No air conditioner in the world could run hard enough to cool the kitchen, so I keep the screen door open so we can breathe. And, besides, the dishwashers are running in and out with sacks of trash. And half the workers are smokers.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s Grand Central Station in that back courtyard and the alley.”

“But would you notice if someone you didn’t recognize slipped into the kitchen?” Cassie asked.

“I’d like to think I would,” Edel said. “But I spend time in the dining room, too. It’s also my job to schmooze with the diners.” She sighed heavily. “Frankly, I’d much rather think the arsonist was someone I didn’t know. Not someone close to me. Someone who knows how much this restaurant means to me but who tried to destroy it anyway? That would break my heart.”

My mother put an arm around her shoulders.

The waitress delivered my beer and the basket of steaming shrimp. Suddenly starving, I reached for the top shrimp and began to peel away the skin. I dunked it into the spicy cocktail sauce and popped the whole thing in my mouth. Across the table mom’s eyes widened, and I glanced over my left shoulder, still chewing.

Wally had gotten up from a table at the other end of the bar and he was heading toward us. Seated at the table behind him were Ava and the two investors. The
woman, still dressed in her woodpecker attire, waved at me. The man, who had changed out of his suit into khaki shorts and a loud red-and-green Hawaiian shirt, did not. Wally stopped beside me; his hand brushed the back of my head and rested for a moment on my neck. This felt like the kind of intimate gesture that went along with two people who were involved. Cassie raised her eyebrows. I flushed.

“So nice to see you all,” he said, grinning around the table.

“Come over here and give me a hug,” said Mom. She popped out of her seat and folded him in close, then held him out at arm’s length, her hands gripping his shoulders. “How in the world are you? And how is your mother?”

“She’s holding her own, and thanks for asking.” He patted her arms and took a step back. “We finished the third round of chemotherapy and we won’t have to return to the doctor for a while. She’ll go in for tests after the holidays, so she’s trying to enjoy life and not think too much about the future. So it’s a respite.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a hearty handshake. “We’re glad you’re still standing.”

Wally nodded, and glanced around the table at the others.

“This is my niece Cassie and her husband, Joe. You must know Edel Waugh.” Mom pointed at the chef.

Wally’s eyes widened and he forced a smile. “So nice to meet all of you. I’d better get back to my group.” His fingers brushed my neck again, but this time the contact didn’t feel so friendly. “Hayley, could I speak with you for a minute?”

I stood up and followed him a few steps away.

“Not such a good idea to be out with her,” he
whispered through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t look right.” He jerked his head toward Ava.

“It wasn’t planned,” I shot back. “My folks met Edel on the parade route and invited her for a drink. I had no idea she’d be here. And how was I to know we’d see you?” I swallowed, feeling furious with Ava and disappointed in him. To be honest, I felt more than disappointed. I was angry with him, too. What had happened to the boss who’d go to the mats for his employees if that was needed? What happened to the man I thought would be my boyfriend? All of that, gone up in smoke like Edel’s restaurant.

“I went online and noticed that you’ve given me no more assignments,” I said. “It looks an awful lot like you’re rolling over and allowing us to get fired. It’s not like you,” I added. “At least have the courtesy to tell us the truth so we can look for other jobs. So we can look out for ourselves.”

Wally groaned. “I’m dancing as fast as I can. Right now I don’t have that much leverage. You need to do your part, too, try not to antagonize her every time you cross her path.” With a grim expression on his face, he started back to Ava’s table.

I wheeled around and returned to my family, my appetite evaporated. It was going to be impossible to pretend that everything was fine. I needed to get out.

Edel stood up. “I’m going to walk over to the restaurant and see if there’s any news. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll let me into my own place.” She grimaced and then reached to shake my mother’s hand. But my mother ignored the hand and hugged her instead. “Thanks for inviting me. Turns out I’m not much in the mood for a party,” Edel said, once she’d pulled away.

“I’ll walk over with Edel,” I told Mom and the rest of the gang. “I’ll catch you guys tomorrow.”

Then I marched out after her, glaring in the direction of Wally’s table. Whether he approved or not, I refused to have my actions dictated by Ava. Nor was I going to sit in this restaurant and pretend Ava wasn’t there, discussing my future with my boss. The anxiety generated by the whole scene was turning my neck into a concrete pillar. And my heart along with it.

Rage as clear and clean as grain alcohol poured through her, burning everything unnecessary away.

—Barbara O’Neal,
The All You Can Dream Buffet

Edel and I wove through the throngs of holiday celebrants crowding the docks and walkways along the harbor. Drunken, naughty-worded versions of Christmas carols drifted out from the bars, and the lights on the boats shimmered on the water. As we approached the Bistro on the Bight, its windows black, Edel grew ghostly pale, her eyes looking even sadder than they had in Turtle Kraals. The darkness must have reminded her, if she needed reminding, how much business she was losing this week by not being allowed to open. She had a grim look on her face and a slump to her shoulders. The official notice was still taped to the front door.

“I’m going to look in back,” she said.

I trailed along after her, the smell of wet, charred wood getting stronger as we approached the rear patio.

Several lengths of crime-scene tape flapped from the
blackened remains of Edel’s fence and storage shed. But a path of sorts had been cleared to the back door.

Edel pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. “I’m going in,” she said. “I need to see what’s what inside.”

“Wait until they give you a formal nod,” I warned her. “I’ve had too many run-ins with this police department.” I bit my lip—how did I say this delicately? Nothing came to mind. “They’re a little bit, well . . . Neanderthal in their approach to solving crimes. Or should I say thickheaded and clumsy?” Which wasn’t exactly fair or accurate. But I couldn’t think of another way to slow her down.

I laughed, but Edel shook her head and marched toward the back door. She paused to take a deep breath, then inserted a key into the lock and disappeared inside. I backed away into the alley’s shadows to keep an eye out for trouble.

Minutes later, I heard a loud argument between a man and a woman on the dock in front of the restaurant, followed by a big splash. Rubbernecking had become an instinct for me lately. I dashed down the alley. By the time I reached the water, a large man was scrambling up a ladder attached to the pier, sopping wet and laughing. The woman who had apparently shoved him was laughing, too. They staggered off in the direction of Duval Street, clutching each other and howling, their argument forgotten.

But then down Edel’s alley, a siren whooped. I hurried toward the noise. Two police cars had pulled into the alley leading to her restaurant, their blue lights flashing. I arrived just in time to see the cops tumble out of the car with their guns drawn.

“Get out of here,” one yelled at me, a short, stocky woman with short black hair and intense brown eyes. “Police! Get back!” She waved me away as they
sidestepped toward the back door and plastered themselves flat to either side.

“This is the Key West Police,” she shouted, toeing the door open and pointing the gun inside. “Come out with your hands up.”

A third cruiser raced up the alley and a burly cop I did not recognize burst out of his car and barreled across the patio to join the others. Within moments Edel stumbled out of her restaurant, her hands on her head and her eyes wild. A fourth car surged up to the scene, this one unmarked. Lieutenant Torrence was driving and Detective Bransford rode shotgun.

Bransford leaped out of the car. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s only Edel Waugh. She owns the place,” I piped up from my corner in the shadows.

Bransford whirled around. “What the hell? What are you doing here?”

My knees felt wobbly and my heart rate soared. “This is a terrible mistake. She didn’t do anything wrong,” I began to explain. “She didn’t break in; she has a key. You have to understand that this is the busiest time of the year and this restaurant is her livelihood. She needed to find out what shape her kitchen was in. How much damage has been done with the beef and fish and all that, because it will affect her ability to open.”

“A man has died in a fire that was purposely set,” said Bransford, his eyes narrowing to slits. “We closed off access to the property because it’s a damn crime scene. And she wants to look over her ground beef?” He spat on the ground and spun away.

Edel was steered to the nearest cruiser and instructed to put her hands on the roof. The female officer patted her down. “Clear,” said the officer in a curt voice. Then
she opened the back door of the cruiser and prodded Edel to take a seat.

“Are you ready to talk?” Bransford asked.

“I’ve been cooperating with everything so far.” Edel scowled, clenching her hands into fists. “Perhaps there’s a better question. Like, can’t you and your people solve a simple crime so the rest of us can return to work?” Edel stood up and crossed her arms over her chest, which didn’t do much to dispel the impression that it was one small woman against the big fierce Key West Police force.

“Where were you between noon and eight o’clock Monday afternoon?” Bransford asked.

“She was in the Latitudes bar on Sunset Key in the evening,” I pitched in. She needed someone, anyone, to stick up for her. “You can ask any member of my family. We all saw her there.”

Bransford turned around to stare. “I don’t recall asking you anything,” he said.

He pivoted back to Edel. “Does the name Juan Carlos Alonso mean anything to you?”

“I wish it didn’t,” Edel said, her face tightening and her lips quivering. “I’m certain you’re already aware that he’s my ex.”

I stared dumbly. “Your husband was killed in the fire?” I asked.

Edel refused to meet my eyes.

“Have you known all along that the victim was your husband?” I couldn’t believe I’d spent this much time with her, trying to support her, and she’d held back this crucial, critical, astonishing, disturbing piece of information.

“No, I did not,” she squawked.

Bransford repeated, “Where were you Monday afternoon?”

The air seemed to leak out of Edel like runny frosting from a pastry bag. She slumped into the cruiser’s open door, collapsing onto the battered black upholstery, her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved as though she were weeping. But then she straightened up and looked him square in the face.

“I was here. Getting ready for the opening on Tuesday.”

“I’d like you to come down to the station for a chat.”

Edel said nothing, but angled her legs back into the cruiser. The lady cop slammed the door shut and got into the passenger’s side of the vehicle and they backed away. Bransford and Torrence headed to their car.

“This isn’t your business, Hayley,” Torrence said over his shoulder. “You need to stay out of it.”

So much for having a sympathetic friend with an inside track.

I started the long walk back to my scooter, which I’d left at Bayview Park before the parade, trying to puzzle out what could have happened yesterday. Could Edel really have torched her own restaurant and killed her ex? That seemed to be the working theory of the KWPD. The possibility made me feel physically ill—it was too much to keep to myself.

Several blocks from the tennis courts, I called my mother. “The cops just took Edel off.” I explained the rest of what had happened. “The thing is, she didn’t even put up a fight. She hardly looked surprised.” I tried to picture the expression on her face after Bransford mentioned her husband’s name. “More like she’d been waiting for them to figure this out and track her down.”

My mother was silent for a moment—not her natural state. “In truth, we really don’t know her all that well. We like her. And we love her food. But I suppose
anything could have happened. Maybe she was way underwater financially and this was the only way she saw out.”

“Roasting her ex was going to solve her money problems?” I asked, my voice squeaking into soprano range with outrage.

“You’re right, honey. That sounds ridiculous. But people don’t always think clearly when they’re stressed. Eric or Joe could tell you that.” She covered her end of the phone and spoke to someone, then came back on the line. “We’re headed back to the Truman Annex for Christmas cookies and tea. Want to swing by?”

“No, thanks. I’ll see you soon.” I hung up, wishing I didn’t rely on her so much. And feeling dissatisfied with the conversation, but not sure what I’d wanted her reaction to be, either. It boiled down to this: As furious as I’d been with Chad Lutz after he’d humiliated me and thrown me out, would I have burned him up? No way. I might have felt like it, but I’d have never followed through. What kind of woman would? I hated to think too much about the gruesome details. Honestly, I couldn’t relate to that much rage. This was the kind of incident that had I seen the headline in the newspaper, I would have skipped right over it.

I finally reached my scooter and drove the rest of the way home to Tarpon Pier. The lights had been doused in Miss Gloria’s bedroom, though our strings of Martha Stewart’s best low-wattage white lights blinked cheerfully across our roofline.

I glanced up the finger, hoping for a nightcap and someone to share it with. Connie and Ray waved from the top deck of their houseboat. So I dropped off my helmet and backpack on our boat, grabbed a half bottle of white wine from our refrigerator, and went up the dock to join them.

“Mind if I come up for a few minutes?” I called.

“Come on. We haven’t seen you in ages.”

I bounded up the inside stairway and out to the deck. My friends were sprawled in low beach chairs, surrounded by the potted banana trees that Ray was trying to cultivate. They were drinking beer and holding hands—their own slice of paradise.

“You look kind of dragged out,” Connie said. “Rough day?”

I sank down onto a weathered teak bench and poured myself a glass of wine. “I’ve been spending some time with the chef-owner of that new restaurant that’s supposed to open on the bight.”

“The one hit by the fire,” Ray said, nodding. “I biked by the place. It could have been much worse than it was. Most of those buildings along the harbor are wood. Plus all those boats with gas tanks . . .”

“Were they able to identify the victim?” Connie asked.

I swallowed hard and grimaced. “Apparently it was Edel’s husband. Though actually, he was her ex. Judging by the way the cops were treating her tonight, I’d say they think she was responsible.”

Ray rubbed his fingers across his chin and took a swig of his pale ale. “She burned down her own restaurant to kill him?”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it? Unless she killed him and then attempted to hide the evidence.” I tried to put myself in her place, imagine how I’d feel if I’d killed a man I used to love. Maybe even still did. Horrified. Shocked. Sickened. Scared witless. And terrified of getting caught. “I suppose if you were desperate about what you’d done, setting a fire could seem like a solution. On the other hand, she’s also desperate about her restaurant succeeding—and the fire and the death are definitely not advancing that cause.”

“Desperate?” Connie asked.

I nodded. “And driven.”

Ray shifted taller in his low chair and dropped Connie’s hand. “This is not to excuse someone hurting anyone, or especially not murdering someone, but . . . Key West is a hard place to be as an artist. And I imagine that goes for chefs and restaurants, too.” He began to peel the label off his bottle, the expression on his face stony.

“The town appears so artsy and low-key and easygoing. And welcoming. Of course, the idea of getting away from an icy winter and plying your art in paradise is practically irresistible.” He tapped two fingers on his lips and frowned, looking over the deck railing to the headlights blurring by on North Roosevelt Boulevard, aka Route 1.

The only way in to paradise. And out, too—should your dreams get busted, I could imagine him thinking. And I knew exactly how scary that thought felt.

He glanced back at us. “But underneath the surface, the competition is incredible. The established artists are trying to beat back the newer artists and they’re all trying to hold their tiny bit of ground so the visiting muckety-mucks careening down from New York City don’t push them out of the spotlight.”

Connie took his hand again and squeezed. I sipped my wine and nodded sympathetically. I hadn’t heard a lot about Ray’s painting career lately. He’d made a big splash at the Gallery on Greene last spring, but no new shows since then. He hadn’t shared anything much when I’d asked how things were going, so I’d been afraid to push.

“Why are you involved with her?” Connie asked.

“She asked for my help.”

“Why you?”

I shrugged. That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? I finished my drink, said good night, and trotted back down the finger to my houseboat, feeling bone tired but not sleepy. Going to bed would be an exercise in futility. Instead I booted up my laptop and curled on the couch with Evinrude draped over my hip. I typed in the names of Edel and her ex in the Google search bar. Several headlines popped up—reviews of their New York City restaurants, largely glowing, and, farther down, a headline from last summer in the Page Six section of the
New York Post
.

J
UAN
C
ARLOS
A
LONSO
P
ARTIES
AT
P
OP
-
U
P
R
ESTAURAN
T
IN
B
ROOKLYN
.

The first paragraph read:
Juan Carlos Alonso doesn’t appear to be pining for his partner and soon-to-be-ex-wife, Edel Waugh. He was photographed in the after-hours pop-up restaurant, Munchies, with singer/songwriter Hazel Hernandez. Hernandez is best known for hiking up her skirt and twerking à la Miley Cyrus during her appearance on the TV cooking reality show Topped Chef. She was eliminated from the chef competition after her performance. Alonso and Waugh have filed for divorce and are alleged to be in a bitter contest over ownership of their flagship restaurant
.

All of which, considering the source, I needed to take with a grain of salt. I typed in both of their names again, but this time adding “divorce” to the search terms. I clicked on the next article, a month after the first, which proclaimed that Edel and Juan Carlos were in a bitter custody fight over their brand as well as their restaurants.