Fatal Reservations (3 page)

“We’ll read about it in the paper in the morning,” I said as I carried plates of food out from the galley. “Dinner’s ready.”

We moved a couple of tomato plants off the bench facing the water and sat down to eat. I’d made the green sauce yesterday using a rare cache of tomatillos that I’d snagged at the Restaurant Store’s monthly Artisan Market last Sunday. After rolling flour tortillas around shredded chicken, onions, peppers, cheese, and sour cream, I dredged them in the sauce and baked them until they bubbled. We’d liked them so well, we considered consuming the entire 13 by 9 inch pan between the two of us. In one sitting. Reason had finally prevailed when I remembered my feeble attempt to diet—or at least eat smart—and, a few beats later, the fact that I wouldn’t have time to cook tonight.

“This is just as good as it was last night, maybe even better,” said Miss Gloria after a few bites.

“I love cooking for an appreciative audience,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.

Miss Gloria picked up the binoculars and took another look at the scene down the road. Then she gasped and sprang up to point. “It
is
a body!”

I balanced my plate on my knees and grabbed the binoculars to focus on the melee. Several cops had dropped over the railing into the brackish water and
were now wet up to their waists. Working together, they snagged a tangle of the orange plastic left over from the Roosevelt Boulevard construction and pulled it toward the road. They heaved the whole mess onto the concrete, including what appeared to be a body, bloated and sodden. A lady detective in a black pantsuit with a turquoise shirt moved forward to snap photos.

I put the fork down on the plate and handed the binoculars back to Miss Gloria. “I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to wrap my supper up for after the meeting.” I gestured at the knot of cops and gawkers. “Don’t go down there, promise?” She sighed and nodded.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, I climbed the very steep steps to the Old City Hall building, an imposing redbrick structure with ornate black railings and a bell tower. For a hundred years, the city commission has been meeting here on Greene Street, a half block from Hemingway’s favorite watering hole, Sloppy Joe’s, and the chaos of Duval Street. I doubted that visitors had any idea how much city business was conducted while they swilled beer and shouted out choruses of Buffet’s “Margaritaville” and Kenny Chesney’s Key West theme song, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems.”

The hall was cavernous, handsome, and clearly designed to differentiate the commissioners and city staff from any interested onlookers. A text from Wally, my boss and sort-of boyfriend, buzzed in, which reminded me to turn off the ringer on my cell phone.

Let me know outcome tomorrow? Mom’s chemo today brutal. I’m going to watch a marathon of Breaking Bad and then crash. See you a.m. @ staff meeting.

As my relationship with Wally took a turn for the
better over the last couple of months, his mother’s health had taken a turn for the worse. In that sense, our new half owner, Palamina Wells, had been a godsend. She was smart enough to step right in and run the day-to-day nitty-gritty details of
Key Zest
while Wally took care of his mom. She was also smart enough to recognize the attraction between me and Wally and to remove me from reporting directly to him, so we could see where this love train might take us.

I pulled my lizard brain away from that happy thought, deflecting a few niggling concerns in my executive-function lobe that things with him hadn’t moved along as quickly as I’d expected—or hoped. I grabbed an aisle seat on the left side of the hall. If by lucky chance the floating-restaurant discussion came up early, I’d be able to slip out. The truth is, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than attend a Key West city commission meeting. But since food was my beat and since the new floating restaurant on the historic harbor was an item of interest, both Palamina and Wally agreed that I needed to be there to report on the controversy.

For a tiny place, Key West has had a remarkable string of entrepreneurs descend on the island, looking to make their fortunes on
the next best thing
. In the 1800s, it was wreckers scavenging the reefs to make their livelihoods on someone else’s misfortune. Following them came the spongers and the turtle harvesters, who moved on after the populations in question were decimated. And then the drug trade. And after that, the gay pride people. In the almost year and a half since I’d moved here from New Jersey, it had been all about the tourists. And high-end real estate. There are big bucks to be made on this island. Which means some
entrepreneurs spend a lot of time figuring out how to game the system—how to avoid running their plans through the gimlet-eyed gauntlet of the Historical Architectural Review Commission, for example. Or how to duck city taxes and regulations while raking in the most money.

In the foodie world, the latest brouhaha over the past six months had been about food trucks. Should these mobile food vendors be allowed to operate in the city? Should our commissioners and planners get busy crafting an ordinance that would control where they parked, their hours, their size, their signage, their proximity to other restaurants? Or do nothing? The administration seesawed back and forth on these issues, its fluid stances all duly reflected with varying amounts of hysteria in the newspapers. So it didn’t surprise me at all that a floating restaurant would attract the same scrutiny.

Up on the dais behind a wooden railing, the six city commissioners plus the mayor and a smattering of Key West city staff filed into position. The commissioners took seats in large brown leather chairs behind a wooden desk, with carved wooden signs identifying each of them. The mayor called the meeting to order, the clerk called the roll, and a Navy chaplain offered a short prayer, followed by the Pledge of Allegiance.

Onlookers continued to stream into the room as the mayor ran through the items on tonight’s docket. Anything that invited comments from the public was removed from the regular agenda so it could be brought up for discussion later. I followed along on my written copy—the floating restaurant, a dispute among the Mallory Square street performers, and a police report on the burglaries in the vicinity of the cemetery were all removed for comments and discussions. Then the
mayor gave out commendations to the Boys and Girls Club for their prizewinning float in the Hometown Holiday Parade, and the latest class of Key West Ambassadors was congratulated and installed.

Edel Waugh, the chef/owner at the Bistro on the Bight, entered through the main door, blinked to get her bearings, then clopped up to the podium to pick up an agenda and sign her name as a speaker. Then she hurried down the side aisle and took a seat in the row ahead of me. Had she seen me and chosen to sit by herself anyway? We’d worked out some, but not all, of our prickly feelings after the death and fire at her restaurant last December.

I assumed she was here to comment on the floating restaurant, which had been docked only a hundred yards down harbor from her bistro. I tapped on her shoulder and whispered, “Are you planning to speak?”

She gave a curt nod. The clerk read the description of the agenda item. “Ordinance of the City of Key West Florida . . . granting grandfather status to Edwin and Olivia Mastin’s request for zoning variance to operate their floating restaurant, For Goodness’ Sake, until further notice.” Then the clerk added, “A petition in support of the variance is attached, signed by one hundred residents. A petition protesting the variance has also been attached, with seventeen signatures. Ms. Edel Waugh will be the first to comment.”

Edel scrambled out of her seat and hurried to the podium at the front left of the room. She barely reached the microphone, and I had to strain to hear her introduction. The city clerk lumbered over to lower the mic so she could be heard. Edel nodded her thanks, placed her notes down, and looked at the commissioners.

“You’ve probably read my name in the newspaper
in connection with the fire this past December. Bistro on the Bight is my new restaurant and I’m extremely grateful for the local support which allowed me to open the bistro and proceed with renewed vigor after the tragedy.” The smile on Edel’s face faded away and her cheeks flooded pink. “The proposed floating restaurant lies approximately a hundred yards west of my place, even closer to the restaurants Schooner Wharf and Turtle Kraals. My hope is that city officials will consider matters of fairness when they approach this zoning request.” Edel breathed deeply and patted her dark curls.

“We all live together in this small space—newcomers, old guard, visitors—all of us. I don’t need to tell you that our island occupies less than ten square miles.” She fixed her gaze on each of the commissioners in turn. “As you folks know better than most anyone else on this coral rock, the rules and regulations that the city establishes make life here not only bearable, but beautiful.” She flashed her most charming and grateful smile.

“When I applied for the lease last year for my restaurant on the old harbor and then plans for the renovations, I had to show my design to the Historical Architectural Review Commission. There were many
discussions
.”

She made air quotes with her fingers and then barked a tight laugh. A smattering of the audience and two commissioners laughed along with her.

“I had to demonstrate that my building would meet the standards of the committee, that it would fit in with other historic structures in Key West. As many business owners and homeowners in the town have done, I spent a lot more time and money than I’d planned to
during renovation in order to comply with these regulations.” She sighed. “This is the cost of doing business in Key West, and I determined that it was worth it.”

A light began to flash, indicating that Edel’s time limit for commenting was approaching. Her voice grew louder.

“The question of the floating restaurant raises a question of fairness.”

Two ladies down the row from me had begun to rustle. “She already said that,” said a woman in blue jeans. “She seems to think she’s the only business in Key West.”

“A hundred yards from some of the busiest streets in the city, should one restaurant be allowed to bypass the city’s regulations?” Edel went on, her voice taut with outrage. “Dismiss regulations about appearance and noise levels and the environment? I, for one, don’t think so. People warned me that I’d run into a Bubba system in Key West, but I chose not to believe them.”

I was surprised to hear her mention Bubbas, the so-called old-boys network that some folks believe dominate city politics behind the scenes. This was a little like complaining about communists in Cuba. You had to be careful because you never really knew to whom you were speaking.

“Excuse me, Miss Waugh,” the clerk began, but Edel barreled over her.

“I don’t mind competition; in fact, I welcome it. Competition helps every chef cook better. In the restaurant business, it helps us stay on our game to have someone else nipping at our heels.” She banged a fist on the podium, causing several of the commissioners to startle. “But what’s not fair is restaurants that don’t have to pay the same taxes or jump through the city
ordinance hoops with the Historic Architectural Review Commission or the Planning and Zoning Department. Restaurants that have been allowed to open without all the permits in place—”

The city clerk cut her off again and a police officer escorted her away from the podium.

Next, Edwin Mastin, the owner of the floating restaurant, was announced. A solid man with a sunburned face, wearing a green Hawaiian shirt over a small potbelly, approached the dais. I was surprised to recognize him as the proprietor of another restaurant in town—one of the busiest and most lucrative on the island, if not the highest level of gastronomy. He swung around and fixed an angry gaze on Edel.

“Thank you, Miss Waugh. I’m a little surprised to hear you say you welcome competition, because in our view, you appear to be doing as much as you can to destroy it.” He turned back to the commissioners, raised his shoulders and then lowered them with a loud exhalation, and finally smiled. “As you know, I’ve lived in Key West my entire life. I am not a newcomer intent on walking on the backs of other businesses in order to succeed. I own two other restaurants and am in full compliance with all city regulations. In this case, For Goodness’ Sake is not a building; it’s a boat. It’s not covered by the regulations of the Historic Architectural Review Commission, as much as Miss Waugh might wish that it were.” He cleared his throat, ran his fingers through his bushy hair. “Should the commission determine that regulations should be written for floating restaurants, we will certainly comply with them. Thank you for the opportunity to speak.” He stepped away from the podium well before the warning light flashed,
which honestly left him looking organized and competent, and Edel, long-winded and a little hysterical.

“Thank you,” said the mayor. “Are there any other remarks?” He took a few questions about the size of the boat (one hundred feet) and the number of customers it could seat (forty) and allowed several other attendees to comment in support of Mastin’s new project. “Thank you for all that. The commissioners will take this input into account and revisit the matter at our next meeting.”

“Damn it,” Edel muttered. “I should have known they wouldn’t do anything about this.” She collected her papers, grabbed her sweater from the seat back, and swept out of the room.

As she went out, a man with a very tan face wearing a pith helmet woven from palm fronds staggered in. He stumbled across the area in front of the commissioners, mumbling loudly, and then scribbled his name on the docket and collapsed into a front-row seat. I’d seen him regularly on Duval Street accosting visitors and badgering them into buying his hats. But right now the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention.

Too many times this past year, we’d heard in the news that citizens and professionals had not paid enough attention to the warning signs of people who seemed a little off—who later turned out to be violent. And people died as a result. I’d seen no metal detector at the entrance to the door. Other than the officer who had escorted Edel away from the microphone, I hadn’t noticed a police presence in the room. I glanced around and felt relieved to spot my friend Lieutenant Torrence standing against the back wall, his eyes narrowed and focused on the man in the palm-frond hat.