Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (6 page)

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.

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 officially 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.”

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.