Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (18 page)

We left the museum, blinking as we exited into the strong sunlight. “Before we do anything else,” said Dad, “I’d better check in with Allison.”

Allison answered on the first ring. I thought I could tell from the tone of her voice that nothing new had happened, nothing good anyway. My father turned away, murmuring into his phone. Then he snapped it shut and sighed.

“Rory’s mostly sleeping, so they haven’t gotten anything out of him. Besides, the docs are insisting he shouldn’t be pressured. Rutherford hired a big-shot lawyer, and we’ll be meeting with him this afternoon. And they’re moving him out of the ICU into a regular room.”

“There’s some good news,” I said, in a hearty voice.

My father grimaced. “I guess I’ll walk down and check out Sloppy Joe’s,” he said. “I’m sure it’s a dead end, but I don’t want to leave any possibility out there. Really, what are the chances he obtained a treasure map in the biggest tourist trap in town and then stole a Jet Ski to go hunting for it?” His shoulders slumped and he looked old and wiped out. “It’s much more likely that he was looking for money to score drugs. Right under my nose.”

“Don’t give up on him yet,” I said, even though I was closing in on the same terrible conclusion.

He nodded, but not like he meant it. “I’ll take a cab back to the hospital. You’ve got other things to do. And relatives to take care of.” He turned and slipped into the crowd of tourists that was streaming from the cruise ship dock behind the Custom House toward Duval.

To be honest, the treasure map theory sounded ridiculous. Rory was too old to believe in fairy tales. And for that matter, so were we. I returned to my scooter, feeling gloomy enough to eat everything in Key West. I yearned for a chicken burrito from Bad Boy Burrito with extra jalapeños and tomatillo salsa or a chocolate-and-strawberry crepe from La Crêperie or even one of my own lost key lime cupcakes. Instead, I nipped into the Courthouse Deli for two large café con leches and headed north to make another quick stop at Project Lighthouse. One of the Key West kids had told the cops that Rory and Mariah were fighting on the night they disappeared—maybe Jai had heard the details.

My mother splits the egg in half, and a string of pearls spills out. She drapes them between her fingers. My father mouths, “I’m sorry.” My mother shrugs her shoulders. She places me squarely in front of her like a shield.

All I want is candy, but there’s a bitterness I’m tasting.

—Anne Panning,
Butter

I parked my scooter just around the corner from Project Lighthouse, pleased that I’d thought to bring a Cuban coffee for Jai Somers. She had a hard enough job juggling all those troubled kids without having to drink colored swill when she needed a caffeine jolt. I downed the rest of my coffee and dumped the last inch of sugar-and-grounds sludge in the trash.

The bell tinkled as I entered the room. Jai looked up from her conversation with two kids at the computer. I pointed to the steaming cup and she smiled and pointed to the corner of the room that served as her office. I set the coffee on her desktop, scanning the room for the kids who’d been so angry with me earlier, and feeling relieved when I didn’t see them. After a minute, I perched on Jai’s chair, twirling slowly as I’d seen one of the kids do yesterday. As I rotated back around to the desk, my gaze fell on the messy stack of papers sprawling over the surface. Reading them would be rude and intrusive, the equivalent of eavesdropping on a private conversation. But the note on top, printed in block letters, might as well have been written in flashing neon.

“J—Mariah’s parents called. Will stop by before noon,” it read.

My heart banged faster. I’d thought of trying to call them to ask about their daughter and why she’d come to Key West. But how likely was I to get any kind of truth about why she’d run away? Not very. Why would they tell me, the sister of the kid who’d gotten her into trouble? Aside from that, no matter how fraught with difficulty their relationship with Mariah had become, they’d be in shock, mourning her death. I thought of Allison, what she’d been like before we found Rory alive. Every cell in her body pointed toward her missing son. If he had been killed, she would have been devastated. Emotionally finished. Certainly in no condition to talk to strangers about what had happened. Or to cut any slack to a kid who might have led him into lethal trouble.

Jai crossed the room, her bootheels clicking on the linoleum and the keys on her belt jangling like a prison warden’s.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, taking a swig of the coffee. “Ahhhhh. So much better than the swill we make here.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled and then tapped the paper on her desk. “Sorry to snoop, but I couldn’t help noticing that Mariah’s folks are stopping in. It was right on top.” I grimaced apologetically. “When are they coming?”

Jai frowned, put the coffee down, and rolled her neck in circles. “Mariah left a few things in one of the cubbies. They’ll pick them up after they visit the police station.” She looked at her watch. “Any minute now, really. And her mom wants to speak with Daisy and some of the other girls, thank them for being her friends.”

“Any chance I could talk with them while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine that they’ll want to see you.” She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “Imagine this: They are just coming from identifying their daughter’s body.”

“I can’t imagine that,” I said. And I really couldn’t. But I also couldn’t bear to see my stepbrother’s life ruined by this tragedy. He’d have enough baggage to carry with him, just knowing she’d died the night they were together. “But Rory loved her too. And she loved him. You know they won’t talk to me if I call them later. Heck, I wouldn’t talk to me either. How about if I just hang around and listen?”

“I don’t like it,” Jai said. “People count on me to be professional and keep their troubles confidential.”

“Allison thinks they are close to arresting Rory.” I was pleading now. “Or I would never ask.”

Finally she tucked a few strands of red hair into her ponytail and shrugged. “Okay. Maybe if you sit in the coat closet. You might as well make yourself useful and fold clothes while you wait. We’re sorting them by size and sex. I’ll count on your good judgment.”

Which wasn’t always perfect, I admitted to myself. And I was sure she wasn’t referring to categories of used clothes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning stay out of the conversation and keep anything you hear confidential.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you.”

I hurried over to the walk-in closet, just past the big couches near the front window. I found a folding chair leaning against cartons of supplies and set it up inside the alcove, then closed the door partway so I stayed in the shadows but could still see the room. While waiting, I flicked through my Facebook feed. A post from the Courthouse Deli bench was on top—a photo of spring breakers wearing green tank tops and Mardi Gras beads toasting the photographer with what looked like green beer. Which made me feel so sad, because two days ago, Mariah and Rory had been on that bench too—on top of their world. I stuffed the phone in my pocket and began to sort and fold jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters, all infused with a musty smell as though they’d spent months in someone’s damp basement or garage. I tried not to think of the creepy-crawlies that might be hiding in the folds of the clothing.

The bells on the door jingled and a couple came in—a big man in a gray suit and a woman wearing pearls and a sweater, too warm for the day. She had green eyes, like the girl we found floating in the mangroves. Only hers were clear rather than cloudy, and rimmed with red. Jai hurried over to greet them, shaking the man’s hand and hugging the woman, tenderly, as if she might shatter with the slightest pressure. She ushered them to the table at the center of the room, shooing away a girl working on a coloring book, and plied them with coffee in Styrofoam cups.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she told them as she took a seat facing the father. “Mariah was a beautiful girl. This must be so hard.”

Mariah’s mother stared at her, doe-eyed. “You can’t imagine.” Her husband frowned and fidgeted. “Van did not want to come here, but I needed the closure. Anything we can learn about our beautiful girl. And what happened . . .” Her eyes filled and she rustled in her purse for a tissue.

Jai nodded. “Anything I can do for you, I will.”

“Can you bring her back?” Mariah’s father leaned forward, both hands on the table. “Can you roll back time and make her understand that running away solves nothing? That her family only ever wanted what was best for her? Can you get rid of that stinking cur of a boyfriend who destroyed her and choked the life out of her?” Drops of spittle sprayed the table. I saw one land on Jai’s cheek and glisten there. But she didn’t pull back or wipe it off.

“Van,” Mariah’s mother said, patting his hand. “It’s not her fault. Ms. Somers is trying to help.”

He looked around at the messy piles of supplies, the nose-ringed, dreadlocked girl at the computer, the handwritten signs about the center’s rules posted on the door and walls, the group of disheveled teenagers sprawled on the couch and chairs. “My daughter didn’t belong here,” he spat out. “She was not homeless. She had parents who loved her.” His voice cracked and he bolted out of his chair and headed to the bathroom.

“He’s taking it so hard,” said Mariah’s mother in a soft voice. She pushed her coffee cup to the center of the table.

“Do you have a sense of what she was running from?” Jai asked.

In the hallway, just off the bathroom and the kitchenette, Mariah’s father stopped to answer his phone before returning to his wife’s side. “I’ll need the spreadsheet with those numbers this afternoon,” he said. “Then we’ll make our final offer by tonight.” He listened for a minute. “That’s right. Tomorrow is too late. Yes, I’ll be available for a conference call shortly.” He waited another minute, whisking through something on his screen, then stuffed the phone in a back pocket.

“I do believe that she was afraid of that boy,” said the mother in a quiet voice, barely loud enough for me to overhear. “He was a terrible influence. For the past few months, she’s hardly been home. And truant from school more days than she attended.”

“He was a very troubled kid,” Mariah’s father added as he sat down. “I believe he came from a broken home.”

“I can’t understand what was going through her mind,” said the mother. “My friends from the garden club would call and say they’d spotted her downtown hanging out with the worst kids. Do you think they don’t stick out like invasive weeds in a town like Princeton? All I could think was that she was trying to thumb her nose at us. But why?”

She swallowed a sob and skimmed her hand over her head, over the perfect golden pageboy. “I thought I’d die when she let her beautiful hair get all tangled.” She glanced at the girl by the computer, the messy swirl of dreadlocks snaking down her back. “Why do they think that’s attractive?” Her gaze flicked back to Jai, taking in the tattoo inside her left biceps—a large pirate skull with crossed cannons underneath—and a thick black rubber band with the “One Human Family” logo hanging on the opposite wrist. “Why do they destroy their beautiful bodies?”

Jai smiled. “Kids need to find ways to feel different from their parents. It’s part of growing up.”

Mariah’s mother shuddered. “We could have fixed her hair. But a tattoo is so permanent.”

“She was fine before that boy came around,” said Mariah’s father. “She was an A student. Not a slut or a bum, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jai kept a solicitous smile on her lips, but she had to be concluding—as I was—that this man was impossible to reach. She turned to Mariah’s mother. “Let me see if I can round up a few of the girls who knew her,” Jai said. “I’ll be right back.”

The further this conversation went, the lower my spirits sank. I no longer had the urge to try to meet Mariah’s parents, try to talk with them about why she left home. They had a story—featuring Rory Michaels as bad guy—and they were sticking to it. I slumped in my chair, feeling the metal hard against my butt. How long would I be stuck here before I could get back to the hospital to warn Allison and my dad about the storm bearing down on Rory? I kept busy by Googling Mariah’s father. He was a councilman for the borough of Princeton, and a lecturer in business and economics at the university. A man with a big reputation at stake, and probably an ego to match.

Jai herded three teenagers to the table, one of them Daisy. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Mathers,” Jai told the girls. “And these are a few of Mariah’s girlfriends.” Daisy began to weep. Mariah’s mother reached for her hands, her eyes wet too.

“I’m so sorry about Mariah,” the girl sobbed. “I loved her so much.”

Mr. Mathers folded his arms across his chest, his jaw set and his eyes hard.

“Do you know why my little girl went off with that boy?” asked Mariah’s mother.

The three girls fidgeted, exchanging glances.

“She needed money,” said Daisy after a long silence.

“But why did she need money?” the father asked. “We provided everything she would ever want. She had clothes and trips and toys and computers. What the hell was missing?”

Daisy shrugged, the tears sliding faster down her cheeks. The other girls weren’t much more help, sniffling and offering bits of advice about what Mariah wanted, one suggesting more minutes on her iPhone, another later curfews.

“She had to
earn
those things!” said Mr. Mathers in a loud voice. He stood up so quickly that his chair crashed backward to the tile floor, startling the girls and Mariah’s mother too. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he told her. “I’m done here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mariah’s mom also left Project Lighthouse, and the girls clattered out to the street soon after that. I waited until I was sure Mariah’s family would be gone, then slunk out of the closet, waved my thanks to Jai, and dashed down the block to retrieve my scooter. I was no nearer to understanding why Mariah had run off or why she was killed than when I’d started. I had the strong sense that Daisy knew more than she was saying, but either didn’t know how to put this into words or was protecting her friend. Or someone.

I roared off to the hospital, hoping Rory would be in condition to talk soon. We desperately needed to know his side of the story. The same receptionist in the main waiting area that I’d seen three times since yesterday manned the desk. This time, HIPAA privacy regulations be damned, she let me know she knew exactly who I was.

She broke into a wide smile. “They’ve moved him to a regular unit. Second floor.” She scribbled out a visitor pass and handed it over. “Before you know it, he’ll be discharged and right back to mischief.”

“Wonderful,” I said, “though we could do without any mischief for a while.”

I took the elevator to the second floor and started down the hall toward his room. A police officer I didn’t recognize was stationed outside.

“Family only,” he said.

“I’m his sister.”

“I’ll need to see your identification,” he said.

I showed him my pass and my driver’s license and poked my head inside the room. The bed by the door was empty, stripped down to its rubberized mattress. The TV blared and Rory lounged in the window-side bed, plumped up against a nest of pillows.

“How are you feeling?” I went over to his bedside and would have kissed his cheek if he hadn’t pulled away.