An Appetite for Murder (20 page)

I took out my phone and tapped in the Bad Boy Burrito Web site. They were closed on Sundays and Tuesdays, the day the pie had been delivered. So she couldn’t have had her work as an alibi.

I glanced at my watch—­quarter to two.

If I went home to change into something comfortable and then drove like crazy, I could get to Henri’s former restaurant in Miami Beach and interview the new chef before the dinner rush started. Henri’s friend Porter had told me that if I arrived by five, I could probably talk to Doug. Eric wouldn’t appreciate the extra miles on his car, but he’d understand once I explained that in order to get myself off the hook, I had to find someone else with a
motive. A real motive. My fancy lawyer wouldn’t approve of the outing either, but what was he doing for me?

And Detective Bransford had definitely told me not to leave town, and that was days ago, when I was just another well-­behaved citizen. But right now it felt like the only person totally in my corner was me. I put the key in the ignition and fired it up.

“To a hungry stomach, any drive can seem like forever.”

—­John Linn

Since I’d flown the friendly skies to Key West when I moved down in early October, the drive up the Florida Keys to Miami sounded adventurous and even romantic. But, in fact, with the rain steady, the windshield wipers sluggish, and the traffic heavy, it was the longest one hundred and twenty miles I’d ever driven. At some points along the way, the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf pressed in so close to the road from both sides, it was hard to imagine that people staked their property and their lives on such a fragile connection to the mainland. Through the wheezy blasts of the Mustang’s heater, I could smell the bloated fishy odor of a very low tide.

Finally I reached the narrowest stretch of island past Key Largo, the Atlantic Ocean visible ten feet to the right and the Gulf of Mexico ten feet to the left. Then
the two-­lane road lined with bright turquoise Jersey barriers spilled into the town of Homestead, where I picked up the highway and civilization. With the help of Eric’s GPS, I pulled into the parking lot of Hola on Miami Beach at twenty after five.

Inside, the restaurant looked perfectly nice, though maybe a little worn around the edges. I imagined that the frayed carpet and slightly faded upholstery would be less noticeable in the candlelight. The staff, dressed in black trousers and crisp white shirts, were busy setting up the tables, filling salt and pepper shakers, and folding napkins into sharp quarters for each place setting, in preparation for the Saturday-­night onslaught. After a few minutes, the maître d’, an officious man with black hair combed and shellacked like rows of young corn, noticed me at the host’s stand and hurried across the room. He took a moment to look me over, from red sneakers to blue jeans to the long-­sleeved Cat Man of Key West T-­shirt.

“Sorry, we don’t open until six. And we are fully booked until nine thirty. May I help you make a reservation for another night or recommend a place to get a drink?” he asked.

Thinking, I was sure, that I might prefer to come back on an evening when I was better dressed.

“Actually, I’m hoping to have a word with Doug Rod­riguez,” I said, flashing a phony smile. “I’m writing an article on Florida’s rising chefs and it’s going to press tomorrow and my editor tells me I have room to feature one more. Henri Stentzel—­the former owner here—­she said it would be a criminal oversight if I didn’t speak to Hola’s chef. Please.” I extracted a small notepad and pen
from my back pocket and tapped the pen on the podium for emphasis. “Ten minutes.”

“He’s preparing dinner,” the officious man said.

I rustled a twenty-­dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on the reservations book.

“Henri said that?” he asked, sliding the bill into his pocket.

I nodded my head vigorously and forced another hokey smile. “Really, I’ll hardly take any of his time.”

He wheeled away and came back shortly. “He says he can talk to you for a few minutes while he works.”

“Thank you so much!” I followed him down a narrow hallway, past the restrooms and their lingering scent of industrial cleanser, and through a swinging door into the clang and bustle of the kitchen. I sniffed the air, picking up the fragrant odors of sautéed onions, cilantro, and long-­simmered beef.

“Over there,” said the cornrowed receptionist, pointing across the room to the man at the stove.

Dodging past two women in white coats chopping piles of onion and garlic and a pastry chef painting layers of phyllo with butter, I approached the chef, who wore a white jacket that had probably started the shift pristine, chef’s pants dotted with dancing chili peppers and a few random splotches of sauce, and a tall, pleated white hat. His face had the pitted pizza look of untreated adolescent acne. He was sautéing something in a skillet.

“My gosh, it smells incredible in here!”

He gave me a brisk nod and adjusted the angle of his toque. “What magazine did you say you were writing for? Eduardo didn’t catch the name.”

“I didn’t tell him. But I’m Hayley Snow and I’ll be working for the new style magazine,
Key Zest
. What are you preparing tonight?”

He jiggled the frying pan—­sliced plantains?—­and frowned. “
Key Zest
? I haven’t heard of that.”

Rather than dig myself deeper into a pit of lies, I told him who I really was and spilled everything out, starting with how I’d driven three-­plus hours in the rain and ending with Kristen’s murder and my status as a suspect.

“I’m so sorry I fibbed to get in here, but I’m kind of desperate,” I said. “Actually, not kind of—­I am desperate.”

He picked up the frying pan and tossed the vegetables with an expert flick of the wrist. “So you’re not a journalist?”

“I am a journalist, but more or less freelance. I’m so sorry,” I added again, “but I never thought I’d get in to talk to you if I told the truth.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said and turned the flame off under his pan. “Leave some of those onions in bigger chunks,” he called to a woman chopping at the counter nearby. He wiped his hands on a towel, lifted the lid of an enormous pot on the back burner, and stirred the contents. A cloud of fragrant steam escaped. My stomach gurgled.

“Listen,” I said, “it’s not only that I’m in trouble. Henri’s a suspect too. And you are probably the only person who would understand the possible connection between Kristen’s death and Hola’s former chef. And if I could figure that out and pass it along, the cops can quit wasting their time and track the real murderer
down. I’m sure you knew Henri,” I said. “Porter said she hired you—­that she hand-­picked the entire kitchen staff.”

He knocked his spoon against the side of the pot, laid it on the counter, and frowned. After a minute, he looked back up at me and said: “We were shocked when we heard Kristen had been murdered.” He tipped his head to include the rest of the kitchen staff. “What do you need to know?”

I asked him about what had really happened between Kristen and Henri and what the story was with the previous chef’s departure. “Was it the money that drew him away? Was Kristen able to offer him more celebrity than what he might have found here? Or what?” I didn’t want to insult him by suggesting this slightly shabby restaurant didn’t look like a chef-­maker, especially when his food looked and smelled delicious.

“Let’s sit for a minute,” he said, and led me to a small table at the back of the kitchen. “You know that Henri and Robert—­that’s the chef—­were seeing each other, right?”

“I had no idea.”

Doug rapped his fist on the checkered tablecloth. “She had ten years on him and she was his boss, but still they fit together pretty well. Robert’s always been fiery, but Henri knew how to handle him. Even the times he got raving drunk and quit in the middle of the dinner rush—­and it happened more than once—­she was able to talk him into coming back before much damage was done. I think, in his heart, he knew how much he owed her, too.”

“So if they were a good fit personally and she helped him professionally, why did he leave?” I asked.

He sighed, took a red handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his face. “Working in a kitchen is brutal work. It’s hot, a lot of pressure, long hours. We all blow off steam at the end of the night by going to bars in other restaurants—­the ones that stay open later. The third shift, we call it. Some of us used to wake up in the morning just hoping we weren’t in jail.” He flashed a crooked smile. “Henri, being the owner, usually had to stay late to close up this place.” He gestured to the door leading to the dining room. “Used to be her place anyway. We started hanging at Kristen’s restaurant, the Blue Giraffe. She’d often be at the bar. And then, well”—­he shrugged—­“sparks started to fly between her and Robert.”

“Sparks?”

“Like raw meat hitting hot oil. You could literally smell the attraction between them. We all saw it coming, but who had the balls to warn Henri? So one night Henri finished up here in time to join us for a glass of wine. Only Robert wasn’t at the Blue Giraffe. He’d gone home with Kristen.”

“Was this before or after Kristen offered him the job on Easter Island?”

He shook his head. “Honestly, I doubt she’d have been that interested in Robert the man if he hadn’t been such a brilliant cook. She wanted Robert the chef. And she was going to use whatever she had to lure him over. But after that night, Henri gave him an ultimatum. And Robert never could resist a challenge. So he left with
Kristen for Key West. And the stuffing seemed to leak out of Henri. Soon after, she put the place up for sale and moved on herself.”

“I can’t even imagine how embarrassing that must have been, to have the whole staff witness him defecting.” I could imagine it really—­I’d been through something very similar. At least I hadn’t been humiliated in front of a dozen employees. “Would you say she was angry?” I asked. “Or more sad?”

“Angry at Kristen, sad about Robert. Very angry,” he added. “I was pissed off too—­we all were. We thought we were cresting a wave—­that this restaurant was going to open doors to our future. We’d heard rumors that the food critic at the
Miami Herald
had us in his sights.”

“But you’re the head chef now, right? Couldn’t that still happen for you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He shook his head in disgust and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “But the damage was done with Robert’s name off the masthead and then Henri selling the place. No one wants to spotlight a restaurant in terrible flux.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “And you might have noticed that the new owner isn’t so particular about keeping the place up. Or sometimes even buying the best ingredients. Though I fight for that.” He sighed. “Your dinner is only as good as what goes into it.”

I thanked him for talking to me and wished him luck. Then I couldn’t help it—­I asked him about tonight’s dinner specials. He grinned for the first time since I’d come in.

“The special tonight is
Costilla de carne
, braised short
ribs served on a chili and cumin puree. On the side, a medley of sweet corn and poblano peppers. And those fried plantains.”

By the end of his description, I was drooling like a dog in front of his supper dish.

“Would you like to try it?”

“I’d love to.” He got up from the table and returned with a glass of merlot and a plate of his stew. He turned to go back to work, but then paused a couple steps away. “Call me if you find out what happened to Kristen.” I nodded. “Or if you have any more questions. Bon appétit.”

“Thanks for everything,” I said.

The meat absolutely melted off the bone and the corn accompaniment was fresh and bright. And the clanking of pots, clattering of knives, sizzling of meat, and cheerful banter of the sous-­chefs were better than any background music I could have chosen.

When I’d sopped up every drop with the last quarter of a buttery corn meal biscuit, I wiped my mouth and returned to the stove to thank him.

“I’m almost a food critic,” I said. “I’ll find out if I got the job this week. But if I reviewed your restaurant, I’d be raving.”

I didn’t say that if he was this good, his top chef, Robert, must have been amazing. Kristen wouldn’t have gone after someone average for the restaurant she planned to open. He had to be great.

And maybe not only in the kitchen either.

“The tricky part about being omnivores is that we are always in danger of poisoning ourselves.”

—­Jeffrey Steingarten

The rain had picked up again by the time I got back to Eric’s car. I rustled through his CDs and selected Rosanne Cash singing her famous father’s list of essential country tunes.

“I’m growing tired of the big-­city lights,” Rosanne began. Me too—­enough of Miami. After almost two months in Key West, I liked the feeling of coziness and containment on the island and I loved being always near the water.

I drove south on the highway and back to Route One, rolling Doug’s rant over in my mind. It had never occurred to me that the thing Henri and Kristen had in common was a man. I knew they had shared a male chef, of course. But the man part hadn’t registered. I thought
about Doug’s description of Kristen’s relationship with Robert—­like raw flesh crackling in hot oil. Didn’t sound like something you could sustain over the long-­term. Or would want to.

And I wondered why Henri would choose to move to Key West, where she knew her ex-­lover had settled in with Kristen. Although he hadn’t really settled in with Kristen because Kristen was seeing Chad for the second time around. The time line for all this drama was extremely confusing—­a fast game of musical beds that I hadn’t even realized I was playing.

I made good time right up until I hit the turquoise-­lined two-­lane bridge leading over the water to Key Largo. Then the rain began to pour down in torrents and the darkness closed in on me like a too-­warm blanket. I had to drive slowly, peering yards ahead to stay on the road. The emergence of Shell World or an occasional boat yard or even a gentleman’s club brought a little light and relief from the long, stressful ride. My shoulders tightened to cords and a headache pulsed across the back of my neck and coursed up to my temples. I considered stopping at the Winn Dixie in Tavernier to use their facilities and buy some aspirin, but convinced myself I could make it home fine if I pushed on nice and steady.