An Appetite for Murder (12 page)

“We met in Miami years ago,” she said with a tepid squeeze back.

Which honestly made it sound like it didn’t matter too much to her one way or the other whether Kristen was dead. So now I wondered if death in the larger sense of the word had sent her into a Niagara Falls’ worth of tears. Or was she possibly one of Eric’s patients—­the kind that gets so attached to him that a sighting of him in the real world reduces them to gelatin?

“Eric’s a great guy,” I tried next. “And an excellent psychologist. I’d go to him myself if we weren’t old friends from way back.” I barked a short laugh. “And don’t think I haven’t tried to talk him out of holding that line.”

She smiled politely, as if she had no idea what I was blathering on about. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe she wasn’t his patient after all, but I’d certainly never find out from him. Probably not her either, the way this one-­sided conversation was going. But it got me wandering down another blind thought alley: What was the confidential connection that had brought
Eric
to that funeral?

I tried one last tack. “It’s spooky that they haven’t solved the murder yet, don’t you think?”

“It’s only a matter of time,” she said firmly. “What have you heard?”

“Not all that much,” I admitted. “Can you think of
anyone from her Miami days who might have had it in for her?”

She shook her head. “These things are always about money. And right now, there’s no bigger pot than Easter Island.”

“I suppose there are people who can pass up free guacamole, but they’re either allergic to avocado or too joyless to live.”

—­Frank Bruni

As I hiked down the dock with my packages, I spotted Connie and Ray lounging on our houseboat’s top deck, drinking wine. Connie had switched on the white lights that outlined the roof of the boat and they glittered jauntily in the gathering dusk.

“I come bearing gifts!” I called up, my voice wobbling with the hopefulness of a wagging tail on a bad dog.

“Get yourself a glass of wine and come join us,” said Connie. “Better bring a sweater.”

Encouraged by her friendliness, I went into the galley, arranged the cheese ball and bagel chips on a pretty flowered plate, and poured myself a half glass of white wine. It was almost six o’clock after all, and my earlier
Prosecco buzz had definitely worn off. Not that I’d really enjoyed it anyway, between the stress of the funeral, the fight with Chad, and another disturbing reading from Lorenzo. I hiked up the spiraled stairs to the second floor, Evinrude trotting behind me. He liked happy hour as much as the next cat.

“What a day,” I said as I came out of Connie’s bedroom onto the deck. I slid the snacks onto a small table between my friends and collapsed into a beach chair across from them. The cat hopped onto my lap and I fed him a tiny taste of cheese. He purred with pleasure. I waved at the Renharts who were out on their top deck too, enjoying Budweiser from cans and Lay’s potato chips from an oversized bag.

“Beautiful night,” I called over to the next boat.

“Paradise,” said Mr. Renhart, as he popped the top on a tall can of beer and dropped his hand onto his wife’s thigh.

“I’m sorry I was hard on you last night,” Connie said in a soft voice. “Somehow this will all work out.” She leaned over and squeezed my wrist. “Did you go to Kristen’s funeral?”

“Me and most of the citizens of Key West and Miami,” I said, lowering my voice so I wouldn’t blast my gossip to the neighbors. “I can’t quite figure out why she was so popular.”

“Her family’s lived here forever,” said Ray. “They own a ton of property, including Easter Island and half of Sunset Key.”

Sunset Key is another small island just off the harbor, this one fully developed and inhabited by wealthy folks.
This here-­but-­not-­here arrangement gives them the full benefit of the climate and allows an occasional escape into the town’s funky party scene, without requiring a full commitment. Half of Sunset Key had to add up to big, big bucks.

“The clerk in Cole’s Peace thinks Easter Island was behind the murder,” I said. “I suppose it would be worth a ton too, if you had the money to develop it.”

“Absolutely,” Ray said. “And a lot of residents are not in favor of it.”

“Oh!” I said, turning to face Ray. “I’d almost forgotten. I ran by
Key Zest
this morning and thank God I did. Kristen had erased me from the list of job applicants. She told Wally—­the editor—­that I’d withdrawn my application. So I really, really appreciate your tip.”

“You’re welcome,” said Ray. “A shot from the grave.”

“That’s so mean-­spirited,” Connie said. “You’d think you stole her boyfriend, not the other way around.”

“Which reminds me of something else. Kristen’s sister, Ava, gave the most appalling eulogy. One of the many things she said was that Chad had hooked up with her briefly before he went out with Kristen.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” said Connie.

“How did he ever have time to fit her in? Where did Chad even meet her?” Ray asked. He spread a chunk of cheese ball onto a bagel crisp and leaned back into his chair. “Did he know her before he got together with you? I can’t imagine moving that quickly.” He grinned at Connie. “It takes me a while to warm up to a woman.”

“It takes a while for you to figure out when a girl is interested,” she said,
touching his knee where the skin and a few blond hairs showed through the hole in his jeans. Connie had lurked in his studio for weeks and had bought two paintings she could ill afford before he finally asked her out for coffee.

She laughed and turned her attention back to me. “You didn’t know Chad that well either when you decided to move here.”

I felt a warm rush of blood spread from my chest right up through the roots of my hair. I was not proud of jumping into Chad’s life and his home so quickly.

“He moved even faster with Kristen,” I said, choosing to ignore my impulsiveness and focus on him. “Of course I never asked him where he met her or how they had the chance to connect. I was too shocked and too busy screaming at him once I found them in bed.”

I glanced over at the next houseboat, where the Renharts had moved to their bottom deck and were now grilling. Sausages, from the smell of it. My stomach rumbled. Maybe they were the big plump Italian kind that was hand-­stuffed behind the meat counter at Fausto’s Market. And maybe the Renharts had peppers roasting too.
Focus, Hayley
.

“Don’t most affairs happen after the primary relationship’s gone stale?” I asked. “If Chad and I went stale in under two months, that must be a record.” My eyes welled up with tears even though I really wanted to be done crying over that rat.

Connie rubbed my shoulder and then fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and handed it to me. “I’ve dated guys for shorter times than that.”

“But you didn’t travel the length of the country to move in with them,” I moaned. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Don’t you think he might have known
her
before he met
you
?” asked Ray.

“Of course he knew her. Everybody knows everybody in this town,” Connie said.

“But what if you interrupted something,” Ray said. “Or Kristen thought you came between them. That would explain a little better why she didn’t like you.”

“Despised me,” I said glumly. “But he certainly never mentioned her.”

“Of course he wouldn’t talk to you about her. What was the funeral like?” Connie asked. “Was Chad there?”

So I described the scene at the reception—­the big turnout of chefs and foodie types and how Henri Stentzel had reason to dislike Kristen too, according to Porter anyway. And how Chad had yelled at me with the cops watching. And then how Eric had rescued the poor sobbing female from Cole’s Peace just before I left. “If I was in charge of the murder case, I’d see plenty of avenues to explore.”

“Luckily, you’re a food critic, not a detective,” said Connie firmly. “So are your pieces ready to go off to
Key Zest
?”

I glugged the last inch of my wine and heaved myself out of the low-­slung beach chair. This was my last chance to choose the reviews I would be sending over to Wally and polish them until they shined: Only a fool would squander it. “I’m headed to the computer right this minute.”

After a quick stop in the kitchen to feed Evinrude
and pour myself a glass of sparkling water, I retreated to my cubicle and booted up the computer. While I was waiting, I made the bed, changed into sweats, and put away all the outfits I’d gone through this morning trying to find one that would span job interview to funeral.

With nothing else to distract me, I plunked down at the desk and mulled over my article choices. In the beginning, I’d thought it would make a stronger application packet to include two traditional restaurant reviews and one that was slightly offbeat. But both the brown-­bag piece on Bad Boy Burrito and the breakfast article I’d sketched out this morning fell into the funky category. The Seven Fish and Blue Heaven reviews should be the anchors for my application. In fact, I’d already written a jazzy introduction to Blue Heaven, discussing the pleasures and concerns of sharing a meal with live chickens. Unfortunately, since Blue Heaven hadn’t catered Kristen’s reception, I was short on facts about their food.

That left me with one traditional restaurant review, one take-­out restaurant with gourmet-­quality Mexican food, and the scant beginning of an article on best breakfasts in Key West. And no time to research anything new. Kristen, I was certain, would have shredded an applicant like me in an instant. Would Wally be more tolerant?

I felt frozen, like I had a million times in college at eight or ten p.m. when a major paper was due the next day and I’d only just hit the library. “When in doubt, wait it out” used to be my motto. It hadn’t worked well then and it wouldn’t now either. I tried to visualize the
instructions that the applicants had been issued at the beginning of the process:
Show us your style
.

In a mini blast of inspiration, I thought of rating my reviews with cute little palm trees instead of the same dull stars used in the Michelin Guides and at the
New York Times
. One palm tree for fair, two for good, three for excellent, and no trees at all if the place was truly a dog. I wrote this up in an opening paragraph, then sat back, mired in the same problem.

My mind shifted to the Chad and Kristen conundrum. And Ava’s statement at the funeral reception that she too had hooked up with Chad. And it occurred to me that Deena—­Chad’s secretary—­would certainly know what their relationship had been like before he met me. Whether she would spill any secrets was another question altogether. We’d gotten to be pretty friendly right after I moved to Key West. A few times I’d even ended up having drinks with Deena instead of Chad when he was working too hard to entertain me. I checked my watch. She was probably still at work—­she often set aside Thursday nights to catch up on Chad’s paperwork.

Suddenly it felt like I couldn’t wait one more minute to find out what she knew about Chad and Kristen. And maybe she could explain too why Chad seemed so angry. About everything. I padded back out to the galley and poured another inch of wine into my glass—­liquid courage. Then I dialed her work number.

“Deena,” I said when she answered in her husky voice. “It’s Hayley Snow. Sorry to bother you at work.”

“No problem,” she said, but not like she meant it. “I was just wrapping things up.”

“I miss talking to you,” I said. “That’s one of the worst things about this stupid breakup.”

“I know,” she said. “Me too.” Her voice warmed a little, which gave me the guts to forge forward.

“I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position, but you know how painful these past few weeks have been. I’m trying to get some perspective.” And then, before she could tell me she had nothing to say and that her first loyalty had to be to her employer, I asked her how long he’d known Kristen.

There was a hefty silence. “I wondered when you’d get around to asking,” she said finally.

My heart plunged like an elevator on the fritz. “Get around to it?” I repeated in a dull voice. “Please tell me—­it can’t hurt anything now.” Could it?

She didn’t say anything, so I tried again. “Deena, please. You have to tell me. This isn’t just a case of being nosy. The police think I killed Kristen.”

She was still quiet. I could picture her thinking, tapping those long, red nails on her desk. How did she type with those talons anyway?

“Deena?”

“Kristen and Chad were pretty tight before he met you,” she said. “But I’m not going to say anything more on the phone. His phone. Jesus, Chad would kill me if he knew I was talking to you. And I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you at work. I’ll meet you anywhere—­just name it.”

“Tomorrow at the pier in front of the Truman Annex. I’ll be walking Ginger at five.”

I thanked her and hung up feeling utterly foolish. What a dupe I’d been. And a dope. I could just imagine the scene when Chad told Kristen that he’d gone north to visit his mother for a week and come back with a new girlfriend. No wonder Kristen couldn’t stand my guts. No wonder she’d expunged me from the
Key Zest
computer.

I shuffled back out to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. This news was going to require rethinking everything that had happened over the past two months. With a clear mind, if I could rustle one up.

I remembered the fool card that Lorenzo had dealt onto the card table. However he might have interpreted it, the meaning was clear to me.

“It is possible to imagine him having a small meal of minor critics for breakfast, as if they were kippers . . .”

—­Dwight Garner

I lingered in bed longer than I should have the next morning, partly because of the minor post-­Prosecco-­and-­white-­wine headache, but mostly because the day looked exhausting and I’d only been awake ten minutes. The conversation with Deena had left me feeling stupid and heavy. And having teetered on the edge of playing the clown yesterday at the reception, I dreaded talking to Eric. Besides, I’d have to admit what he suspected all along about my move to Key West to be with Chad.