Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (3 page)

“What if the line cook broke his arm that night? Or the dishwasher quit midshift? Or the shipment of avocados came in black? Or the steak gray?” I took a deep breath, channeling the yoga that I never seemed to have time to do. “Ruth Reichl used to visit places six times before she wrote a review.”

“Ruth Reichl was the food critic for the
New York Times
. And the editor of
Gourmet
magazine. And the writer of umpteen bestselling books. You’re no Ruth Reichl—not even close,” Ava snapped, then focused back on Wally. “Bottom line is, if we don’t have the money, we can’t spend it.”

Then she stood up and stalked off, leaving a cloud of cloying perfume in the office and a sour taste in my mouth.

Wally sighed and reached for a second cupcake, refusing to meet my eyes. “All I can say is we have to pick our battles. At least we got the okay on the cupcake gig, right?”

“And the cats!” Danielle peeled the paper liner away from her treat and began to lick the icing all the way around its circumference. “I can’t stand that woman, though. She makes me so tense. I feel like a wet dishrag every time she leaves.”

I wolfed down a second cupcake, too, which I knew I’d regret as soon as I’d finished. It was hard enough to keep my weight in check as a food critic—anxiety eating was a habit I couldn’t afford. Danielle wasn’t the only one who didn’t do tension well. And between handling the details of the wedding and managing the various factions of my family, I was facing an entire week of eggshell-walking.

My phone buzzed with an incoming text, this time from my stepmother, Allison. Which meant my relatives must have arrived on the island. The cupcakes in my stomach growled and whirred.

FYI, Hayley,
Allison’s text read,
Rory is dying to ride one of those Jet Ski things. Do you think that’s a good idea?

Of course it wasn’t a good idea. Teenagers and speed—what could be worse? Teenagers and speed and alcohol maybe. But what was I supposed to do about it? I wasn’t his mother. I eyed the remaining cupcake, but heaved a sigh, wiped my lips, and texted her back.

Can you interest him in fishing? Or paddleboarding? Preferably something not involving a motor.

Then I headed out to face the music.

Although sometimes a chicken breast really is just a chicken breast, it doesn’t take Freud to see that food is a relatively literal stand-in for parental nourishment.

—George Howe Colt

Casa Marina Resort sits on the southern edge of the island, its sumptuous grounds and elegant Spanish mission–style buildings sprawled along the Atlantic Ocean like a voluptuous sunbathing woman. I parked my scooter in the lot reserved for two-wheeled vehicles, removed my helmet, and fluffed my hair.

Was it Freud who said “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”? Or maybe Anna Karenina, who definitely had her finger on the pulse of unhappiness. I loved each member of my family individually—the way I loved both vanilla and chocolate. But taken together, in the same hotel, sharing my attention over the weekend, they promised to morph into a marbled batter of familial drama. Ugh. Marble was my least favorite flavor in all the world of cakes. Pushing away a cloud of dread, I took a deep breath and plunged into the lobby, immediately drawn to a grand vista of the ocean on the outside. Reflecting pools, outdoor dining tables, palm trees, and a bar by the water promised heaven to the customers waiting to check in. I took a calming breath and forced my attention back inside.

Even if I hadn’t instantly recognized my mom’s auburn hair and my stepmother’s yellow-blond, the tension between them would have given them away. Mom and her boyfriend, Sam, sat holding hands on one oatmeal-colored couch in the far corner of the enormous lobby, my father and Allison on the settee catty-corner to them. No friendly body language connected them at all. My stepbrother—or a gawky half-grown-up, shaggy-haired version of the boy I hadn’t seen in months and months—paced out on the patio that overlooked the water, earbuds in his ears, thumbs working furiously on his cell phone’s keyboard.

“Hayley!” Mom squealed, and leaped up to meet me, dragging Sam along in her wake. “We are so thrilled to be here. Isn’t the weather just delicious?”

She hugged me hard and then tugged her boyfriend forward. If “boyfriend” could decently describe any man past fifty.

“I know you two have met on Skype, but here we all are in the flesh.” She clapped her hands together and waited for us to embrace. We exchanged stiff hugs and back-pats, and then I excused myself and hurried over to greet Dad and Allison.

“So glad you made it without any problems. How are your rooms?”

“Exquisite,” called my mother, though I hadn’t addressed the question to her.

“Overpriced and overdone,” muttered Dad.

And they were off . . .

Allison flashed a tired smile. “You look great, Hayley. Have you lost a little weight?”

“You’re an angel,” I whispered, and gave her a hug. She had wrestled with an extra twenty pounds since I’d known her—she understood exactly how hard it was to scrape them off.

“What’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

“Connie and I have planned cocktails on the beach and then the bridal shower and dinner at Salute!, but that won’t start until five thirty. If you’re not otherwise engaged, I’d love to take you to lunch,” I said, checking my watch. It was a little late for lunch, but going to a restaurant would eat up some time. And I was always hungry, especially under stress.

My mom piped up. “Sam has some work to do—he’s got a big trial coming up at the end of the month, so it was hard to get away.” She glanced up at him, batted her lashes, and grinned. “I had to promise I wouldn’t get mad if he spends half his island time on that silly computer.” He leaned down to kiss her, and I couldn’t help looking away. Although I wouldn’t say I actively missed my latest boyfriend candidate, Detective Nathan Bransford, it was a tiny bit hard to have my mother’s love life going better than mine.

“Lunch sounds great,” said Allison, who, on closer inspection, appeared exhausted and exasperated. Her gaze followed her son’s path as he paced back and forth across the patio outside the double doors, his phone now pasted to his ear. “But poor Rory is dying to see the island, so I’ll have to pass.”

“Are you going to rent him a scooter?” Mom asked. She turned to address Allison. “I had sooooo much fun on mine when I visited Hayley in January.”

“No!” said Allison and I in unison. Had my mother lost her mind completely? Since when did you set loose a fifteen-year-old boy without a driver’s license on a scooter during spring break?

“How about if I take him to Margaritaville for a cheeseburger in paradise?” my dad asked. “And you ladies go get something more civilized?”

“You’re a darling man,” said Allison. She laid a hand on his cheek and smiled. “Sold.”

He tipped his head, got to his feet, and lumbered out to break the news to Rory.

This was a thoughtful gesture from my father, offering to take an antsy teenager off our hands. But as I led the two mothers out the door, nearly dizzy with the force fields stretching between them, it occurred to me that having lunch with these two must have seemed even worse.

“Tell him that it’s Jimmy Buffett’s restaurant,” I called after Dad. “And if he doesn’t bite, the Hard Rock Cafe is a little farther down Duval Street on the north side. Teenagers love that place.”

He grimaced and waved his fingers over his shoulder. “I’ll figure it out.”

“We rented a car, so I’ll be happy to drive,” said my mother. She signaled for the parking valet, a good-looking young guy in creased khaki shorts and a blue Casa Marina polo shirt that brought out the yellow flecks in his brown eyes. When he arrived, she dangled the keys in front of him. “My other car is a Porsche,” she teased. “So sorry about the Kia.”

He looked surprised, then laughed and trotted away to fetch her rental.

“So,” I said brightly, swiveling my gaze between the mothers. “What shall we have for lunch?”

“Could we eat somewhere on the water?” Allison asked. Her eyes lit up. “This might seem a little ghoulish, but I’d love to see the harbor where that poor fellow was hanged earlier this year. I’m so proud of you for solving the case.”

“It wasn’t all my doing,” I said, trying to sound modest.

“A
little
ghoulish?” my mother muttered. “You choose, Hayley; you’re the one who knows the local food.”

“We can try something on the harbor,” I said. “I haven’t eaten many meals over there, so I can’t personally guarantee what you’ll get. But this way you’ll have a chance to see the other side of the island.”

The valet drove the car up and hopped out, ushering my mother into the driver’s seat. He shook her hand, angling for a big tip at the end of the stay, I suspected. “I’m James. Do you need any restaurant recommendations?”

“Oh no,” Mom said. “My daughter is a food critic.”

“Nice!” he said, as I cringed. “Where are you eating?”

“Somewhere over by the harbor,” Allison told him.

“Excellent,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you ladies during your stay.”

Allison climbed into the backseat of the rental car. “I love this hotel,” she said, sinking into the used-car-smelly upholstery with a happy sigh. “It’s so pleasant to have people waiting on us for once. I don’t care what your father says about the cost.”

Mom whisked us across town and we parked in the metered lot adjacent to the Cuban Coffee Queen. As we strolled along the catwalk that hugged the perimeter of the harbor, I pointed out the highlights—the party boats for sunset cruisers and daytime snorkelers, the windowless concrete building rumored to be Jimmy Buffet’s recording studio, Kermit’s Key West Key Lime Pie Shoppe, and the dock where Sam Rizzoli’s boat had been tied up when he met his maker. We paused to watch two tortoiseshell cats gobble fish heads tossed from a boat to the dock by a swarthy sea captain.

“You ladies interested in deep-sea fishing? I have one morning open this week.” He smiled, teeth white against his deep tan.

“Absolutely not,” said Allison, backing away from the water. “I get deathly seasick on even the stillest of days.”

“That sounds like so much fun, but we’re here for a wedding,” Mom explained. “Maybe another time.”

Then I described the dining options, four different restaurant/bars with views of the water. I hadn’t reviewed any of these waterfront eateries yet—they struck me as the kind of places that catered to tourists, focusing more on rustic quaintness, view, and lots of booze, than food. Or sanitation. Against my better instincts, my stepmother chose the restaurant smack closest to the harbor. On the plus side, the windows and doors had been thrown wide open to make the most of the water view and the soothing sounds of lapping wavelets.

Inside, a large U-shaped bar dominated the room, surrounded by wooden booths. A powerful smell of industrial cleaner infused the air, barely covering the fishiness underneath. Allison chose a booth near the back of the room and slid onto the bench facing out. I sat across from her and gestured to my mother to take the seat next to Allison. This way I could look at both of them at once without playing favorites. As we got settled, several pigeons flew in through the doorway and began to peck around the legs of the tables. My mother wrinkled her nose and leaped out of the booth to shoo the birds away.

“Roosters are one thing,” she said, brushing her hands off on her slacks as she returned to the booth. “But pigeons? They’re filthy!”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I said cheerfully. “Just pretend you’re in New York City and the pigeons won’t bother you. What’s the soup of the day?” I asked the waitress who’d approached us and slapped three menus on the table.

“Lobster bisque,” she said with an automatic smile. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

“Iced tea for me,” I said.

“Coffee with skim milk,” said Allison. She picked up the container of sugar packets that sat next to the salt and pepper. “And some skinny sugar. Either yellow or pink is fine.”

Mom tucked a loose curl behind her ear and touched a finger to her lips. “We’re in Key West. Don’t you think we should celebrate? How about a toast to Connie? A toast to lovers everywhere?” Allison and I stared at her. “Looks like these ladies aren’t ready to party, but I’ll have a glass of white wine,” my mother told the waitress sweetly. “Pinot Grigio if you have it.”

Once the server returned with our drinks, we all three ordered the lobster bisque, my mother and I with a house salad on the side and Allison, the Caesar. I could imagine what my mother was thinking:
She orders skim milk and skinny sugar and then a salad loaded with fat?

“It will be so nice to get reacquainted with Rory,” I said, after the waitress gathered the menus and headed toward the kitchen. I fished an ancient wedge of lemon out of my tea, deciding that the desiccated citrus would not improve the beverage. And who knew what microbes might be clinging to that peel? “I can’t remember the last time I spent more than a few hours with him.”

“Two years ago,” said Allison flatly. “That’s the last time I had you both for Christmas.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I think I gave him a Harry Potter book and his tastes ran more to graphic horror novels. So he decided to come down at the last minute?”

“At this age, no teenager wants to go on vacation with his parents,” Allison said. “Rory hears the words ‘family vacation,’ and his input channel shuts down. But when he finally seemed to understand that we were coming to Key West, he got interested. And I’m grateful for some extra time with him, even if it’s a little stressful.”

Her voice ached with a longing that made me feel tearful. I missed him too, that adorable, cherub-faced kid with blond ringlets who used to follow me everywhere. I’d wanted to hate him when I heard my father was marrying a woman with a kid, but he was too cute. And he worshipped me without reservation. Having an older stepsister had lost its luster when he approached double digits.

“Hayley said he’s going to a military academy in the fall, right?” Mom asked.

“Correct,” said Allison, a blank expression on her face now.

“I imagine a boy in his teens must be a special challenge,” Mom added. “Hayley and I had our moments.” She reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “But thank goodness she never lapsed into anything truly awful when she was a teenager.”

I blinked my eyes in warning. Sore subject for my stepmother. Obviously. I’d love to know more about what was going on with Rory, but I’d never ask in front of my mother. I scrambled for a subject that would take the heat off Allison. “You didn’t care for me running away to Key West with a guy I barely knew,” I said to Mom.

“And I was right on that one, don’t you think?” Mom said. “Chad was a loser—I could tell from his shifty eyes and clammy handshake the first time we met.”

I heaved a big dramatic sigh. “You were right again, Mom. He was a loser. Though I personally didn’t notice the clammy handshake.”

“Yes, but how much hand-shaking did you do?” Mom asked. We both giggled.

“But the outcome is a dream come true,” Allison said wistfully. “You seem to love it here. You’ve had a real adventure starting over. You’ve blossomed, Hayley, I can see it.”

“Thanks. I’m having a ball.” No point in mentioning my troubles at
Key Zest
. They’d both be vibrating with worry and spilling over with advice.