Fatal Reservations (20 page)

I had no idea what might be going on with Wally, but at least I could keep my i’s dotted and t’s crossed on the business side of things. Palamina had said she wanted photos, so she’d get them. Still, it seemed wrong to wait for her stamp of approval on every idea
I had. This regime wasn’t turning out to be that much of an improvement on the last.

Edwin Mastin texted me right back with a resounding
yes
. The truth is, most people in the business of selling something are desperate for publicity. I thought of an old advertising slogan: “Even bad publicity is good publicity.” Or was it the best publicity is bad publicity? It didn’t matter: He was eager to talk to me and maybe I could slip a few questions in about how well he knew the Gates family and Bart’s history on the island while I was at it.

He was waiting for me on the dock in front of For Goodness’ Sake, along with his wife. I snapped a few photos so I wouldn’t be caught in a lie about the purpose of my visit. “Good morning,” I called brightly.

“And it is a beauty.” Edwin grinned. “But then it’s almost always a good morning on this island.” He pointed to three chairs set up on the deck with a primo view of the harbor, facing toward Edel’s restaurant, the Bistro on the Bight. “I thought we should take advantage of the weather and chat out here.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve joined you,” said Olivia in a wistful voice.

“Of course not,” I said.

We took our places and Edwin signaled for a man in a long white apron to bring us coffee—café con leche in white china cups with anchors drawn in the foam, and a small bowl of brown sugar cubes.

“Such a wonderful setting and such service,” I said, tipping my face toward the sun. “This is almost too pretty to drink.” I dropped two cubes in my coffee, stirred, and took a sip. “That’s delicious. Thank you.”

“So how did you like your meal the other night?” Edwin asked after a few minutes of small talk. He
reached over to put a firm hand on my elbow. “And don’t feel you have to sugarcoat it. We know we have things to work on.”

Olivia nodded gravely. “We want this place to be the best it can be.”

I hemmed a little, then decided honesty was best. “First let me say I’m not a huge fan of Japanese food. I’m afraid I was ruined by years at the local Japanese steakhouse—anything too authentic seems odd. And I’ll say that in the review and talk about how I try not to let my personal preferences color my opinions.”

Edwin shook his head with a wry smile and took his wife’s hand, her long, delicate fingers disappearing into his meaty fist. “But that’s not really possible, is it?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said, smiling at her. “We loved the burger; that was probably our favorite. Not so crazy about the bento box.”

“We’re taking that off the menu,” she said. “Though we’ve had experience with authentic Japanese food, we shouldn’t overreach.”

“People don’t necessarily visit Key West to have their palates stretched,” said Edwin. “But we figured we’d start casting the net wide and then close in on the choices that people enjoyed most.”

I nodded, though if I’d had a restaurant, I would have done it the other way around—start smaller, with perfectly executed dishes, and then try some more experimental food. But it wasn’t my place. So I went on to describe the dishes we enjoyed, and which others, not so much. Edwin jotted a few phrases into his phone as I talked. This was not normal food-critic protocol, discussing a review ahead of time with the owners. Far from it—it probably bordered on unprofessional. But
this wasn’t a normal situation, either. Lorenzo was in jail, accused of murder. And I would go to whatever lengths it took to help clear his name.

“I was walking through the cemetery the other day,” I said, looking at Edwin, “and I could see that you’ve come from one of the original Key West families. So you probably have some perspective about the ups and downs on this island.”

“I don’t know about perspective,” he said. “But we sure have been here forever.”

“Forever,” Olivia echoed. “Sometimes I think it’s past time we left—started somewhere fresh.”

“Sounds like you have a question?” Edwin asked.

“One of my friends is implicated in the Bart Frontgate matter. I wondered if you had any thoughts about what happened or why Bart was killed.”

Edwin plucked at his shirt, scraping off a splatter of something that resembled mustard. He looked up and smiled. “Sorry. I was helping the chef this morning and I should’ve put on an apron.”

“I tell him that every time,” said Olivia fondly, brushing at his collar. “But does he ever listen?”

“Frontgate has always been an enigma,” Edwin said. “He wanted to be a star, but he never wanted to really work through channels.” He rubbed his chin, gazing across the water. “I don’t think he realized that he’d never achieve rock-star status as a street performer at Sunset.” He looked back at me. “You probably know he insisted on that primo spot on the square.”

I nodded. “I saw the memorial after they found his body in the water—with all the notes and flowers. Although by yesterday, already a new set of performers had taken over his section.”

“It’s valuable real estate. All real estate is valuable
by definition on an island. Because it’s finite. I bet we’ve got more real estate agents per square inch than anyplace else in America. All squabbling over the same high-end homes. Why should it be different with performers?”

“Or restaurants,” I said, my eyebrows arcing.

“Touché.” He laughed.

“But as you were saying,” I said.

“He was not a nice man,” said Olivia.

Edwin patted her back. “Agreed. As I was saying, he was a robber, really. I heard from my friend Rick—the guy who performs with Snorkel the Pig—that he put in an order for a Vietnamese potbelly himself. That’s the best example I have. He sees how someone else is succeeding and tries to snatch it away from them. Or saw, I should say. The whole thing is very sad. But what else could you expect from a group of people who teeter on the edge of sanity?”

Which seemed a little harsh from one local to another, but why would I expect them all to pull together? “Enough about Bart. Last thing I wanted to ask was about the process of getting approval for a floating restaurant. I’ve seen quite a few articles protesting the food trucks, but not so much publicity about your concept.”

“Her highness excepted,” Olivia said, ducking her chin at Edel’s place across the harbor. “We haven’t gotten complaints because we’ve worked hard at doing everything by the book. Health inspections, workers’ compensation—all that good stuff.”

“The only thing we’ve skirted—and I can say this to you because it’s not a secret—is the Historical Architecture Review Board,” Edwin said as he shrugged. “Ms.
Waugh would have skipped that, too, if there had been any way to work it out.”

After I wrapped things up with the Mastins, I motored over to the
Key Zest
office. Only Danielle had arrived, which surprised me.

“Wally and Palamina had a business coffee this morning with the chamber of commerce,” she informed me. “But they’ll be back by ten for the meeting.”

I grabbed a glazed doughnut from the platter on her desk and went down to my office nook to work. I tweaked the rough draft of “Paradise Lunched,” summarizing the food from my visit to Firefly—which seemed like weeks ago—and yesterday’s outing at Azur. Then I roughed in the section on the Vegetarian Café. I’d had lunch there with Lorenzo last week, so at least for this draft version, I could visualize and write up a few of the dishes we’d actually eaten. The bartender and the waitress had been so happy to see Lorenzo. They delivered extra artichokes on his pizza and a plate of sweet potato fries on the house. The memory made me heavy with sadness, rather than hungry, as I might have expected.

After finishing that work, I e-mailed the whole thing to Wally and Palamina. Then I thought about what Mastin had said regarding Bart and the other performing artists living on the edge of reality. Key West is definitely a place of flux, and in flux tempers can rise. But considering what I’d heard from the Florida history librarian, hadn’t that always been so? Wasn’t there always some new group discovering paradise and wanting to grasp it and keep it for themselves?

Twenty minutes later, my shoulders tensed reflexively as I heard Wally and Palamina come in. And then Danielle called down the hall to say the meeting was
starting. I joined them in Wally’s office, which appeared to be the office of both Wally and Palamina at this point. WallyandPalamina: one word, like a wedding couple’s Web site. I pushed away a flicker of jealousy. The two of them were positively bubbling about the chamber of commerce meeting.

“I don’t know why we never thought of this before,” said Wally. He smiled at Palamina. “Brilliant idea: They loved us.”

“They did love us,” she agreed. “Because they are all about celebrating the city of Key West and drawing in new people, and so are we.” She raised her hands over her head and waved them from side to side. “Wheeee!” Then she cleared her throat. “But back to business. Hayley, tell us about your articles for this week’s issue.”

“I’m just about finished with ‘Paradise Lunched,’ which by the way is a brilliant title; thank you,” I told Palamina. Buttering her up couldn’t hurt. Right? She certainly liked it when Wally called her brilliant. “I sent you the draft. If I have time, I’ll make one more stop at the Vegetarian Café, although I could practically recite what’s on the menu without going.” I grinned at Wally, who’d eaten there with me more than once. His return smile was barely there. “And I’ve made good progress on For Goodness’ Sake. In fact, I stopped by for an impromptu visit this morning just to chat with the owners about what it’s like setting up a floating restaurant.” I paused and bit my lip. “I kind of had to tell them about what I’m putting in the review, but that won’t change what I was going to say. Not much, anyway.”

“Hmm,” said Palamina, nibbling on her own lip. “That’s not what Paul Woolston would do, I don’t think.”

The restaurant critic for the
New York Times
. Invoking his name in a critical comment gave it much more heft than it would have otherwise.

She wrinkled her forehead and looked at Wally. “Do you feel it’s okay to run it if she’s contaminated the facts?”

“I don’t think ‘contaminated’ is quite fair or accurate,” I protested.

“It will be fine,” Wally said. “Hayley has good judgment in these things, and if we don’t like it there’s always a red pencil.”

They snickered together and went on with the agenda, Wally and Palamina clicking through the bullet points. Even Danielle was full of ideas. She’d been working on the e-zine’s Pinterest boards and was especially proud of one called “Key West, the Character.”

“Take lots of photos when you’re out doing research,” Palamina told me. “Danielle can use some help in this area.” I nodded and scribbled a note to myself. Team player. Buck up, cheer up, and take pix. WallyPalaminaDanielleHayley. I’d be all over it.

“You’re so quiet, Hayley,” said Danielle. “Everything okay?”

“Stomach’s a little queasy after last night. Probably got a bad clam.”

“Where did you eat?” Her carefully shaped brows drew together with concern.

“It’s a metaphor,” I said, and smiled with hearty reassurance. “I’ll be fine.”

When the meeting had concluded, everyone full of excitement except perhaps for me, Danielle excused herself to run to a doctor’s appointment, and Palamina hurried off for her meeting with one of the city commissioners.

“Could I have a word with you?” Wally asked as I started toward my office cubby.

“Sure,” I said, and sat back down in the chair where Palamina had been sitting. My chair, before she came on board.

He got up and closed the door behind me. “I’d like to put something out there. It’s not written in stone, but I thought I should tell you where I am.”

My stomach clenched up and I knotted my hands together, trying to keep a neutral expression. Something rotten was coming. “Sure, I always want to hear what you’re thinking.”

He nodded and tweaked his lips into something resembling a smile. “I think we should call off the personal relationship between us right now. Concentrate on business.”

“Oh my god,” I burst out before I could think. “Are you seeing Palamina?”

“Oh, Hayley.” He reached across the desk and took my hands and squeezed. “Of course I’m not seeing anyone else. Certainly not Palamina. That’s not it at all.” He sat back in his chair. “I just feel like now is not the time for us.
Key Zest
could really be on the cusp of something special. I feel more excited about our magazine than I ever have. And I want you to be part of the team. And I don’t think our relationship and
Key Zest
can work together. Surely you see it, too?”

How could I answer? I obviously couldn’t beg him
to reconsider and not drop me like a steaming spud. And besides, all the things between us that we hadn’t addressed were flashing through my mind. His mother sick, mine very much alive and needy. My job hanging on Palamina’s approval, his secure. And the balance of power that could never be quite right between us, with me as employee and him as boss. And the heat between us fading like a tableside flambé.

And, I had to admit, I loved him as a boss: funny, insightful, brimming with new angles and appreciation for my work and my humor. As a boyfriend, he hadn’t really stepped up.

“I see it,” I said. “I’m just sad about it. That’s all.” And then I got up and walked out.

18

You can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn’t make them biscuits.

—Traditional Southern saying

Walking down the short hall to my office, I could hardly catch my breath. I snatched up my backpack and hurried down the stairs, fast enough that my friend Cory in the real estate office below couldn’t flag me down for a chat. As I ran, I thought about where I might go and not run into a bunch of people I knew, and then be forced to make pleasant chitchat about anything at all.