An Appetite for Murder (19 page)

Tucking the review into a manila envelope and then safely under Connie’s yellow slicker, I hurried out to Eric’s car and headed up Southard Street, the windshield wipers flapping briskly. I parked behind the
Key Zest
office, skipped over the gathering puddles, and vaulted up the stairs to the office. The same girl in the same palm-­tree-­studded shirt I’d seen earlier in the week manned the front desk. I peeled off the dripping yellow raincoat and hung it on a peg on the wall.

I shouldn’t assume she remembered who I was. “Adrienne, I’m Hayley Snow. We met the other day. I was so excited about making the cut for the food critic position that I decided to deliver my last selection in person.”

Fresh out of folksy B.O’s Fish Wagon, I flashed a big old country-­style grin, plunked the envelope on her desk, and waited for any sign of encouragement.

“Yes, I remember.” She extracted my page from its protective cover, glanced over it, fluffed up her highlighted hair, and finally smiled. Then she leaned toward me to whisper: “I’m not allowed to say this officially, but I loved your little palm tree rating thing.”

Her voice skipped back to its normal register. “Of course, Sally—­she’s the other contender—­she’s done restaurant criticism before, so naturally her writing is more polished,” she continued. “And she reviewed the big three in town, so it’s hard to compare with takeout. Or breakfast at Pepe’s. Or heaven forbid, B.O.’s.” She tucked my review back into the envelope. “But no offense—­
chacun à son goût
, as they say in Paris.” She shrugged her shoulders, the palm-­tree silk shirt rustling. “Anyway, lots of luck.”

“Thanks,” I said, my stomach plummeting. I wondered which “big three” my rival had targeted—­probably Louie’s Backyard. Maybe Michael’s Steakhouse? Azur? Pisces? Places I couldn’t have afforded to set foot in. Nor could a lot of the folks who visited this town. I squeezed my hands into fists and tried to push down my disappointment. Might as well at least try to fish for some information, since a job offer was looking bleak.

“How are things going without Kristen? This must be an awfully difficult transition.” I cringed inside at my awkward segue, but how do you slide gracefully from food criticism to murder?

She blinked heavily mascaraed eyelashes to contain the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. “I’ve never known anyone who died,” she said. “Certainly never anyone . . . ​you know . . .” She carved a tear from her cheek with one long fingernail. “I keep thinking about her biting into that pie. And then taking another bite, and another, until she got sick. She loved all her sweets. But key lime pie especially. I swear I don’t know how she stayed so thin.”

“I didn’t know her that well,” I said apologetically.

A worried look crossed her face like a scudding cloud.

“But please know that I had nothing to do with that pie. Nothing.” Did she believe me? “Of course my ex-­boyfriend did, but that’s another story. I mean, he knew
her well, not that he had something to do with the pie,” I hurried to add.

She wound her hair around one fist and squinted, tapping a lacquered nail on the desk. “Kristen and I were not separated at birth either, if you get my drift. Wally’s a hundred times easier to deal with as a boss.”

“How did they get along?” I asked.

“Not good. He may look young and hip, but he’s old-­school,” she said. “She didn’t think there was a thing wrong with advertisers paying to have their restaurant or their store or their spa or whatever reviewed.”

“That’s not a review,” I said. “That’s advertising.”

“That’s what Wally said. He wanted all of our articles to be unsolicited so there wouldn’t be any bias.”

“Hard to argue with that.”

“Oh, but she did. ‘Isn’t every piece of writing filtered through the writer’s mind?’ ” She let go of her hair and shook it out. “Oh my gosh, she said that a thousand times if she said it once. She thought as long as the food critic went out in disguise, like Ruth Reichl used to for the
New York Times
, there wouldn’t be a bias problem. It was not at all clear who was going to win that argument,” Adrienne added. “But only one of them was going to be left standing. And I would not have put money on Wally.”

I drew my lower lip over the upper and nodded, trying to look empathetic. “Do you think they’ll go forward with the Easter Island restaurant? The one Kristen was working on?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “The change in zoning was
going to be such an ugly fight. I can’t imagine who else but Kristen would have the guts to take it on.”

Just then the door burst open and Wally dashed in from the hall, shaking off delicately like a damp cat. He looped his worn yellow raincoat onto the peg next to mine.

I sprang to my feet, sure I looked guilty of pumping confidential information from his staff. And Adrienne looked equally guilty about spilling office secrets to me.

“Hayley came by with her last review,” the secretary explained. “It’s very cute.” She winked at me and waggled her fingers: Go for it.

I cringed, certain that “cute” was not what they were going for at
Key Zest
. I stammered through my spiel about how I was so excited to be in the running that I brought the piece over myself. Admitting that I had complicated computer problems and didn’t trust my ­e-­mail would not be reassuring to a prospective boss.

“I know you’re busy. I didn’t mean to take up—”

“Come in,” he said as he started across the room to his office. “I only have a minute.” I trailed behind him, thanking him profusely for considering me and apologizing for any trouble and trying to keep from yammering myself right out of a job.

Honestly, to see him seated at his computer, wearing his tropical shirt and black glasses, it was hard to imagine this man baking a poisoned pie and delivering it to his co-­worker. Wouldn’t it have been much easier to hash things out with her? Or, if the relationship was truly in tatters, quit and start another kind of magazine? Murder was an awfully big step.

“We like what you’ve done so far,” he said as I handed over the fish wagon review. “It’s going to be a hard decision and we appreciate your producing another review without much notice. On a Saturday. We’re a small office, so each of our staff has to be ready to pitch in until an issue is completed. Frankly, we’ve had enough drama in the past three months for a lifetime.”

I managed to resist telling him I’d never finished a paper on time in my entire academic history. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—­I cared too much and that tied me in knots.

“I am definitely a team player,” I squeaked. “I love working with people. And animals. Not that that pertains to this job, but I’m just saying . . .” I could see his eyes darting to his computer screen, probably desperate to tackle his inbox.

“Good. If you don’t have any questions, we’ll be in touch.”

As I bolted out of the office and down the stairs, feeling like a bumbling fool, my phone rang.
ATTORNEY RICHARD KANE
came up on the screen, title and all. My hands started to sweat just like Pavlov would have predicted. I dashed through the rain, flung myself into Eric’s car, and managed to peep out hello.

“Miss Snow, this is your attorney calling. Richard Kane. Unfortunately, so far we have not found any witnesses that could verify your whereabouts on the morning the murder took place. A dead end.”

All the fried food I’d sampled at B.O’s threatened to surface. “You’re giving up? I swear I was right there on the boat all morning. Surely someone—”

“Naturally my man will continue looking, but I did
wonder if you’d remembered any facts that we haven’t already covered. Any phone calls you made that morning? A trip to the dry cleaners or the gym perhaps?”

“I didn’t go anywhere. I was working. I called my friend Eric about four times, because he was talking me through my article. But I can’t see how that will help. I was on my cell phone so I could have made those calls from anywhere. And besides, who’s going to believe an alibi from one of my closest friends? For God’s sake, Eric used to babysit me when I was a kid. He’s known me forever.”

There was a long silence that left me wondering whether he’d hung up.

“There have been some other developments you should probably know about,” I said. “My neighbor who lives a couple doors down was attacked last night. And our boat was ransacked and robbed—­my computer was taken.”

“Was your neighbor a busybody? Would she be likely to accost a stranger and instigate a conflagration?” he asked.

Did he purposely try to sound pompous and offensive, even to his own clients?

“She’s a sweet little lady who loves life on the marina,” I said stiffly. “If she spotted a stranger on our finger, she might go over to introduce herself. That’s all.” Then I remembered what Mrs. Dubisson had said about seeing a homeless person with a backpack, and with some misgivings, I reported that conversation.

“We always look at the homeless first,” he said. “It’s a simple fact of life in this town.”

“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think? Assuming they’re criminals because they don’t have a place to live?”

“In my experience—­and I’ve been in practice for many years on this island—­homelessness equals addiction. The crimes you’re describing at your marina are the sine qua non of an alcoholic or a crack addict. Smash, grab, and then dump the goods with the pawnbroker—­God help whoever might get in their way. And then, bingo, they have booze for a night or a week or whatever. Though a five-­year-­old computer wouldn’t bring much. Maybe one night’s high.” He gave a self-­congratulatory laugh, as if he knew it all.

Whatever else might have been wrong with my new lawyer, he was a first-­class bigot. Certainly not a supporter of the Key West motto: “One Human Family.”

“Are the cops looking at any other suspects?” I asked.

“Not that they’ve mentioned. You are in the unfortunate position of having a decent motive and no alibi. And you’re a cook with more than a passing knowledge of key lime pie.”

“I’m not really a cook; I’m a writer.”

“The police won’t be dissecting your job history,” said Kane. “They’re looking for a killer.”

He severed the call, leaving me feeling helpless and slightly frantic. It sounded as though he was starting to believe that I was guilty. And not looking very hard for information that would knock me off the list of suspects. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to think of a plan. At least I could find out where my father got this bozo’s name.

I called my father’s home number. Allison answered.
“Your dad’s gone out jogging. How are things working out with the new attorney?”

“That’s exactly why I’m calling,” I said. “Did he come highly recommended? Because not only does he have a miserable personality; he doesn’t seem to believe that I’m innocent.”

“A disadvantage in a defense lawyer,” said Allison. “Though I don’t suppose it’s absolutely necessary. In any case, I’m not sure who your father called for the reference—­it all happened so fast. You should definitely find someone else if he’s not taking care of you. Can Chad be helpful?”

“Not at all,” I said. “He’s not speaking to me at the moment.”

“I’m sorry. He seemed like a nice enough guy when we met him. I really did like him.”

The four of us had had coffee the night before Chad flew home from his visit to New Jersey. Chad had charmed both Allison and my dad with his lighthearted stories about practicing law in Key West, like the custody fight over the thirty-­pound parrot who cursed at visitors. In retrospect, I realized how unusual it was for him to agree to meet my parents. Not to mention conducting himself with such warmth. The guy I thought I followed to Key West turned out to be a very different man once I got there.

Allison broke through my thoughts. “I wonder if he finally picked up on your desperation and that scared him and made him retreat.”

“My desperation?” This was not an attractive
description, and I had to admit I was floored to hear it from Allison.

“I mean about getting away from home, getting out in the world. No offense, honey, but probably everyone except your dad noticed.”

“Sheesh,” I said. “Next time you notice something that big, let me know, okay?”

“Will do,” she said. “Tell me more about what happened to the poor woman who was murdered. What kind of poison was used?”

“Only a chemist,” I said with a laugh, “would ask that question. It was a pie, which was a disgusting green color.” I described my knife at the police station, covered in green goop. “Obviously, it was fast-­acting, because she was dead in a matter of hours. That’s all I know.”

“So you don’t know what her symptoms were or the time line—”

“Oh Lord, no.” A wave of malaise washed over me.

“The cook couldn’t have used something bitter,” she said, “or the victim would have stopped eating after one mouthful—­maybe even spit it out. Something with no taste would work best. Let me think about that and I’ll call you back.”

“The cook!” I said. “I’ve been assuming that the person who baked the pie was the one who added the poison. But maybe the murderer added it after the fact.”

“Like the Tylenol fiasco,” she said.

After a few more minutes’ chatting, I hung up, feeling the slightest bit better—­my stepmother and I were bonding over poisons. But on the downside, my lawyer
seemed to be basing my defense on the hope that the cops would eke out a confession from a homeless person. Motive, lack of alibi, and a passion for food and cooking—­that’s what I had going against me. Even with that damning trio and the alleged sighting of me near Chad’s condo the morning of the murder, I still had trouble grasping why I made such an appealing suspect. How often did a dumped lover actually kill the new girlfriend?

My thoughts circled back to the way I’d felt after finding Chad with Kristen. Yes, I’d been outraged for a few hours. But after that first shock, I was more embarrassed and disappointed than anything. Not murderous. But someone was furious enough with Kristen to actually kill her. I couldn’t help thinking of Henri Stentzel and how angry she’d looked at the meeting about Easter Island. And how odd her first reaction to Kristen’s death had been.