An Appetite for Murder (8 page)

“Miss Snow, would you explain why you were trespassing in Mr. Lutz’s apartment?” he asked.

Choosing the right words so I wouldn’t be lying, I told him how it wasn’t exactly trespassing, as I worked part-­
time for my friend and today was one of my shifts and Chad’s apartment was the third one I’d cleaned today. I pointed to the box of supplies.

“That’s the bottom line,” I said. “But besides that, Chad kept some very important objects that were mine when we broke up, and I have to be honest, I did think I might find them while I was cleaning.” I explained about the missing knives and the family heirloom recipes. “My mother begged me to copy them before leaving home,” I added, “but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. They mean so much to her—­and to me—­there was no reason why he should refuse to give them back. No reason at all.” I tapped my fingers on the detective’s desk for emphasis. Twice.

And then I told the smallest stretcher: how there’d been a misunderstanding over which apartments Connie wanted me to clean. Chad’s place was definitely on today’s schedule and since I knew exactly what his quirks were, I figured she would want me to do his too. I didn’t think it would hurt to look around for my stuff while I was there cleaning.

“So you came to the apartment to remove some of his belongings.”

“That’s not fair!” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “It was my stuff and I’d asked him several times to return it.” I straightened my shoulders and tried to look professional. “But the point is, I was doing a job for Connie.”

“You must have been aware that this was a crime scene?”

“Look, this is Wednesday, the day he wanted his place cleaned. Obviously, if it had been marked off, I never would have gone in,” I said. “But there was no signage, no yellow crime tape, nothing. Just some leftover fingerprint dust once I got inside. I would have thought Chad would be grateful that I was going to clean that mess up.” Which wasn’t true—­I never expected Chad would be happy. I hoped he wouldn’t find out.

The detective shook his head and asked one of the officers to bring Connie into the room. As she entered, I flashed her the most pitiful pleading look I could muster. She took the seat across from me.

“Miss Arp, Miss Snow says she was working for you and that’s why she was in Mr. Lutz’s apartment. Care to comment on that?”

She stared at me for the longest time and then nodded. “She’s telling the truth. She does work for me and Chad Lutz was on today’s schedule.”

Phew.

The detective shifted his gaze back to me.

“Mr. Lutz said you were savaging the papers on his desk when—”

“I was dusting!” I threw my hands up in outrage—­and Chad said
I
had a tendency to be histrionic—­and then pointed to Officer Torrence. “Ask these guys. Didn’t I have a feather duster in my hand when you burst in?”

The cop nodded. “She had the duster in one hand and the knife in the other.”

Bransford stared at me again, then turned to thank Connie for coming in. “You’re free to go.” She picked up
her carton of cleaning supplies and started for the door without looking at me.

“See you back at the ranch!” I called to her retreating form. She didn’t answer.

The detective pulled the newspaper from his pocket, smoothed it out on the table, and tapped my byline. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us about this?”

“Just that it might be a long time before I have a craving for key lime pie?” I tried. No one smiled. “The timing was not fortuitous,” I said. “But you can ask the editor at the paper. That piece was in the queue for almost a month—I sent it in even before Chad and I broke up. I wrote it on spec and there was no guarantee they were going to publish it, never mind when. But it’s not like I wrote it last week and then got the bright idea to poison Chad’s new girlfriend.” I stopped to take a deep breath. “Why aren’t you looking at him?”

He ignored my question. “I thought your editor was the deceased Kristen Faulkner.”

“She was the co-­owner of the magazine I hope to work for—­a different entity from the local newspaper,” I said stiffly.

He made me hash through another series of questions about my aspirations to become the food critic at Kristen’s magazine and her aspirations to win my boyfriend. And I did my best to explain why these connections were unrelated to the murder.

“Where does your job stand in relation to Ms. Faulkner’s death?”

“That’s a darn good question. Look,” I said, trying to
sound reasonable. “You’ve seen the security down at the Truman Annex. How would I even get into Chad’s apartment to poison Kristen?”

Officer Torrence took a step forward and deposited Connie’s key ring on the table, the same keys I’d dropped on the floor in Chad’s place. “Exhibit one.”

I should have thought of the keys before asking the damning question. I could only hope they’d believe I was too dumb to pull off a murder.

When I was finally dismissed, I found Connie had left for home without me. So I phoned Eric and asked if he could swing by to give me a ride back to the Truman Annex to collect my bike. It wouldn’t have hurt me one bit to walk the twenty minutes across the island, but I needed the company.

When he pulled up in his Mustang convertible painted with scenes of sea life, I almost burst into tears—­I was that relieved to see him. I slid into the passenger seat and began filling him in on the day’s debacle. Sniffling all the way through, of course. I’d cried more over the past two days than I had in years. I didn’t like it one bit. As we drove past Voltaire’s bookstore on the corner of Eaton, my mother called.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and cheerful. “Eric and I were just headed out for a drink.” I waved crossed fingers at Eric.

“You sound a little funny, Hayley,” she said. “Are you coming down with a cold?”

This time my problems were too close to the surface to contain and I spilled out most of the story. Including
the bit about the poisoned pie and my article, because what was the point of holding anything back now?

“Come home,” Mom said. “I’ve got your room ready. I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed tonight. And make some cookies. It’s almost Thanksgiving anyway. Everyone’s hiring holiday help. You can probably get your job back at the bookstore—­just for the time being while you figure out the next step.”

She’d always been big on my coming home while I identified the next direction my life should take. She’ll be saying the same thing when she’s ninety and I’m seventy and I’m mad at my husband because he forgot to take out the trash. If I ever snagged a husband. Prospects looked dim right now.

“I can’t come home. I’ve been told not to leave the island,” I said. Better to tell her that than try to explain what a complete loser I felt like at the moment. And how landing this food critic job and figuring out a way to stay in town was the only path I could see to resuscitate my battered self-­esteem. And how I’d watched her struggle with her own self-­confidence my entire life because she didn’t have a focus outside of me and Dad. And food. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Eric double-­parked alongside my scooter and shifted into neutral.

“I guess she’s right,” I told him. “There’s not much point in hanging around here, really.”

Eric just looked at me. “At what point did your mother give up on her life?” he asked finally. “Even younger than you, right?”

I started to protest. “Maybe she didn’t give up. Maybe it was totally the right thing for her to become a housewife and mother. Not everyone can be a rock star. And to tell you the truth, she was a rock star as a parent.” I blinked and squared my shoulders.

He gave me the inscrutable shrink look that means he believes I’m copping out.

“I know. I know. I have to figure out whether the universe is telling me to pack up and go home, or whether it’s just the voice of my neurotic inner child, clamoring for a life path that’s a little easier.”

He busted out laughing. “That’s not the way I would have put it, but you definitely got the concept.”

My phone chirped again and the number from my father’s office flashed onto the screen. I heaved a dramatic sigh and accepted the call.

“Hayley Catherine,” he said. “Your mother informed me that you’ve been arrested.”

“I wasn’t arrested, Dad. There was a small misunderstanding and I was invited down to the police station to straighten things out.” I screwed up my face and stuck my tongue out at Eric, who was rolling his eyes at my description.

“I agree with your mother this time,” he continued. “It’s time to come home and get a real job. You’re wasting your talents and your education down there. Do you need money for a lawyer? Or a ticket home?”

I assured him that things were under control and that I’d seriously consider his input and, yes, let him know the instant I needed legal advice. Because his nightmare was having someone in his family choose an attorney
based on an ad in the Yellow Pages and then end up in jail for half a lifetime after they were too dumb to use his connections. I hadn’t bothered to tell him that no one my age would even think to search the Yellow Pages.

“What’s up with that?” I asked Eric once I’d hung up. “Don’t you find it odd that my mother would call my father and tell him all my problems when they’ve been divorced for years and maybe spoken five times in the interim?”

“They obviously still have a strong connection,” he said. “More separation issues you could explore in therapy.” He flashed a double eyebrow raise for emphasis.

I got out of the car and slammed the door. “Thanks for the lift.”

Connie had already gone upstairs by the time I got home. But Ray’s bicycle wasn’t chained outside and the light was on in her room. Probably a good time for a heartfelt, double-­knee-­down, beg-­for-­mercy apology. I stumped up the stairs, Evinrude padding behind, and tapped on her door.

“Connie?” I tapped again when she didn’t answer. “Can I come in for a sec?”

I took her “mmmrf” as a yes and opened the door. She was in bed reading a book I’d loaned her—­
My Life in France
by Julia Child. I adored that book—­Julia had fallen in love with Paris and French food the way I had with Key West. And it took her a long time to find the right man too, which gave me hope.

I sucked in a breath and smiled at Connie. “I’m so sorry about everything. I just want you to know that I
would have cleaned that apartment so well you could have served supper to my stepmother on his floor. And that’s saying something.” I chuckled, longing for her to lose the disapproving expression and join me laughing. But she didn’t.

“I appreciate that, but Chad already called and canceled my contract. And trust me, once the word gets out, that will be the end of any referrals from the Truman Annex.”

I started to protest—­no one would take his word for it, and she had plenty of references from around town—­but Connie broke through.

“You should have heard his voice, Hayley. Stone cold. I worked my butt off during this trial period with him, dusting underneath every stupid artifact and spit-­shining the tiles in all three bathrooms, and now it’s all over.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which stuck up like the stand of wheat grass I’d planted for the cat so he wouldn’t miss going outside. “Counting that income, I was just about breaking even. And now?” She shrugged her shoulders and tried to hold in her tears. “I could lose the boat and everything I’ve worked for.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “With this whole breakup thing and now the murder—­I’m just not thinking right.”

“I appreciate that. But I don’t think you understand how hard it is to make a living on this island. Up until a couple of months ago, before you came down, I was working nights tending bar and cleaning during the day. Most people can’t afford to live here unless they do the same thing.” She wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her flannel pajama top. “But I love it here, Hayley. This is my
home. I don’t want to have to start over somewhere else. My father isn’t dying to take me in either; nor would I consider that an option.” Another direct hit scored on my soft spot: I needed to grow up.

After more apologies and a stiff hug, I lugged Evinrude back downstairs and collapsed on my bed. Hard to see how things could get much worse. I’d ruined my best college friend’s business and possibly our friendship along with it. I hadn’t been thinking about anything but what I needed. Of course I knew how much she wanted Chad’s business, and if I’d paid a little more attention, I’d have realized what my going there might cost her.

“Hayley?” Connie’s voice floated down the stairs from her room, sounding worried. I bolted back up the stairs.

“What’s wrong?

“Ray’s friend Matthew, the one who publishes
Key Zest
? Ray happened to ask him how it was going with the food critic applications—­he says your name is no longer on the list.”

“Not on the list? But I definitely made the cut. They called last week to tell me.”

Connie’s eyes widened. “That’s all I know. Sounds like you might want to stop over there tomorrow, straighten things out. If you’re planning to stay on the island.”

I couldn’t tell if she was rooting for me to stay or leave. My phone was buzzing as I slumped back into my room. Not too many people I’d want to talk to, but I went over to look, just in case. Eric.

“Checking in to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ve been better,” I said. “I’m such a jerk. Connie’s
so mad about the scene in Chad’s apartment and I really can’t blame her. And she just told me she heard my name’s no longer on the application list for the food critic job at
Key Zest
.” I lay down on my bed, curling around Evinrude’s vibrating frame. “Wow, I can’t even believe this. Maybe the universe is telling me it’s time to get out. But I’d love to make lunch for you before I go. How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Kristen’s funeral,” he said.

“They won’t be holding a pew for me.”

“But I’m going,” he said.

“You’re going? Good Lord, why?”

“Her family’s lived in Key West forever. I served on the board of trustees of the library with her mother for ten years. And . . .”

“And?”