Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (14 page)

I don’t LIKE food—
I LOVE it. And if I don’t love it, I don’t SWALLOW.

—Anton Ego

Not far from Sloppy Joe’s Bar, where the tourists flock to soak up some liquid Hemingway, the Gallery on Greene looks on the outside like any other smallish storefront in Key West. Well, minus the T-shirts splashed with gross slogans. But inside, the two-story space holds hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of art, from the carved and painted wood folk art of Cuban-born Mario Sanchez to the splashy tropical palettes of local celebrity painter Peter Vey.

As the door closed behind me, I searched the milling crowd for Ray and then his parents. On my scooter ride over, Ray had texted me, asking if I’d keep an eye out for his folks if he got tied up with admirers.

I know things are a big mess but will you help with my folks?
Don’t think they’ve ever set foot in an art gallery
, he’d said.
You’ll recognize them, trust me
.

If I couldn’t help paste his bride and their wedding plans back together, at least I could try to help his family feel comfortable.

I took a quick tour around the edges of the room to see the work by Ray and three other artists. Though the subjects of Ray’s paintings were everyday scenes, almost nondescript, his colors were luminous, as if every painting was bathed in the glow of a sunset. I claimed no artistic expertise, but his work looked much more professional than the cartoonish sea creatures, fussy tropical flowers, and faux-impressionist palm trees of the other artists.

I spotted Ray in the far back of the gallery, surrounded by fans. His parents stood in the center of the room, near a trio of wooden park benches and elaborate boat models. As Ray had promised, they were not hard to pick out—Ray’s clear blue eyes came right from his mother and the sharp nose and chin directly from his dad. But rather than Key West casual like most of the other guests, they were wearing what was probably their Sunday best, a blue suit for Ray’s father, and for his mother, a ruffled blouse and gray wool skirt that fell in that no-style zone just below her knees. Clutching plastic cups of white wine, they looked bewildered, or stunned.

I hurried over. “You have to be Ray’s folks,” I said. “He looks exactly like both of you. I’m Hayley Snow.” I shook hands with Ray’s father and hugged his mom.

“You’re the maid of honor,” said Ray’s mother, laying a papery hand on my cheek, her face lighting up. “Raymond has told us so much about you. I’m Alice, and this is Charles. Thank you for all you’ve done to help with the wedding.”

Obviously, they hadn’t been informed that the wedding was canceled. Maid of honor or not, I doubted it was my job to break this to them. My mother and Sam worked their way through the crowd and I introduced them to Ray’s parents, feeling relieved to have reinforcements.

“I hope Ray told you—we’d love to have you over for some supper back at my houseboat when you’re done here,” I said. “Mom and I made a simple dinner, but enough for an army. You must be hungry and exhausted. I’m never eager to go out to eat after a long day of traveling.”

“It was a long day,” Ray’s dad, Charles, admitted. “Three different planes starting at six a.m. this morning, and the last one so small the captain asked how much we weighed before we were allowed to board.”

“Can you imagine?” asked Alice. “I so badly wanted to fib, but what if the plane crashed because I’d shaved ten pounds off my number?”

“Or fifteen,” said Charles with a sly smile. She slapped his hand and laughed with the rest of us.

“What’s the weather like in Idaho Falls?” asked Sam.

“Oh, it’s been a long winter,” said Alice. “And no sign of spring yet. More snow flurries all week and temperatures in the thirties.”

“Not much better in New Jersey,” said Sam with a rueful grin. “Even the crocuses are waiting for better weather.”

“Alice and Charles were just thanking us for helping with the wedding,” I said to Mom, lifting my eyebrows in an SOS. If she wanted to inform them the party was over before it really got started, I’d be happy to let her. Not that it was her job either, but Ray didn’t appear to be handling anything directly. Knowing him, he’d be too embarrassed to tell his family.

I excused myself and left my mother giving them directions to houseboat row, hoping that she’d figure out some gentle way to break the news, or enough of it that they wouldn’t be blindsided by the disappointment barreling in their direction. I threaded through the browsers and schmoozers to the back left corner where Ray’s paintings were displayed.

Ray hadn’t lived on the island all his life—he wasn’t a saltwater Conch, in other words. But he’d made friends—lots of them—over the last ten years. And they were all here to celebrate his success. A few of the partiers, dressed in green shirts and beads, had obviously wandered in from a very early Saint Patrick’s Day celebration on Duval Street. Others, as I could tell by the orange dots the gallery owner was sticking to the identifying labels next to the paintings, were serious buyers. And Ray’s paintings were going faster than those of the other three artists sharing the opening. From a distance, the colors drew the viewers in. Up close, they could only marvel at how he’d managed to find the beauty in such homely street scenes.

As I drew nearer, I could hear an older couple offering effusive congratulations. Nance Frank, the owner of the gallery, tapped Ray on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can I pull you away for a minute? The Swifts would like their picture taken with you and the painting they purchased.”

“Wow,” said Ray as he passed me. “This feels really strange. Now I know what it’s like when a musician hits the big time. Or something like that, anyway.” He dropped his voice. “Have you seen Connie?”

“Not yet. Did she say she was coming?”

He shook his head, looking like a kicked dog. “We haven’t spoken since this morning. She won’t take my calls.”

I trailed behind them to the bench where the editor of a tabloid called
Conch Color
was stationed. Photos were snapped, hands shaken, all while Ray’s parents looked on. When they were finished and Ray had been swept away to speak to another buyer, I introduced them to Nance Frank, the gallery owner.

“How are you feeling?” she asked Ray’s parents. “You must be so proud.”

“Oh we are,” said his mom.

“I just keep asking, how in the world did this happen?” asked Charles, looking utterly bewildered. “Raymond never studied art. He liked to draw cartoons as a boy, but we didn’t encourage that because we saw no future in it. How was he going to earn a living?”

Alice nodded in agreement. “We really hoped he’d take over the hardware store. We’ve never been artsy kind of people.”

Charles pursed his lips and took her hand.

“But we’re so happy for him,” she added quickly. “Just puzzled, that’s all.”

“He’s the real deal. Every once in a while we come across an artist who’s self-taught.” Nance grinned and brushed blond bangs out of her eyes. “I get one thousand submissions a month from artists who hope I’ll represent them in this gallery. But your son has something special; his colors are radiant. I saw it right away. He reminds me of a young Peter Vey.” She swung around to eyeball the gallery. “Lovely to meet you two. Will you excuse me? I think we’ve got a buying frenzy over there.”

As she hurried off, Charles mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief. “I hate to sound like a hick, but who the heck is Peter Vey?”

“He’s a local artist,” I told them. “Possibly the most successful painter in the Keys.”

Alice’s gaze swept the room, past the knot of people clustered near Ray’s paintings, over to the bar, and then back to the door. “But where is Connie?” she asked. “I can’t tell you how happy we are to have her joining our family. We already love her like a daughter.”

Her words gave me a serious heart pang. They may have been the only people in the room who didn’t know. I nodded foolishly and watched Ray disappear into the throng of well-wishers. I excused myself and wormed through the crowd to my mother, who was chatting with one of the other artists.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered. “He obviously hasn’t told them she canceled the wedding.”

My mother straightened her shoulders. “Well, it isn’t going to go away, is it? And it certainly isn’t fair to have a stranger tell them.” She linked her arm with mine, and we marched over to Ray’s parents.

“Let’s get out of here, get you off your feet and some food in your stomachs,” she told them. “I know Ray will be a while, but Sam and I will be happy to drive you over to Hayley’s and then back to Casa Marina after you’ve had something to eat.”

I arrived at houseboat row before the others. Connie emerged from the laundry as I parked my scooter. She hurried away, her plastic basket of clean clothes on her hip, past my home on the way up the finger to hers.

“Connie!” I hollered. She turned to look. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re killing Ray. And his folks will be so disappointed. Please let me know how I can help?”

She pinched her lips together. “I know my father acted like a heel in the past. But he loves me and he’s the only family I have. I can’t imagine why Ray would ask me to choose. Anyway, I won’t.”

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes filled with a haunted expression. Then she broke away and darted toward her boat. At the same moment, the others came clattering up the dock from the parking lot. So I put on my hostess smile and showed them in.

Inside, the air was laced with the glorious smell of crispy phyllo and melted cheese. Miss Gloria had set the table with pink flowers and stubby candles and placed one of the strawberry pies in the central place of honor. Sam opened a bottle of Prosecco to toast Ray’s triumph, and I helped everyone fill their plates with spinach pie and Greek salad. For half an hour, we ate and chatted about Ray’s raging success and ignored the wedding fiasco.

Mom waited to break the news until after the last bite of strawberry pie had been consumed. “I hardly know how to say this,” she started. “So I’ll say it flat out. Connie’s broken off the engagement and canceled the wedding.”

The smile faded from Alice’s face and a tear seeped from her left eye. “What?”

Before my mother could explain any further, Ray materialized from the dock’s shadows. We greeted him and Mom bustled into the galley to get him a plate of food and a glass of wine.

“How did it go?” Miss Gloria asked.

“All but two of the paintings sold,” he said. But he looked like a man headed for his own execution, not celebrating his first artistic triumph.

“Raymond,” said Alice, “what in the world has happened between you and Connie?”

Mom handed him a plate, and he put the food on the table and sat down.

“We felt we had to tell them,” Mom said. “Why don’t you eat something first? Then we can all chat.”

We watched him eat a few bites, nothing but the sound of his fork clinking on the plate to distract us.

He put the fork down. “It’s delicious,” he told me and my mother. “But I’m a little too wound up to eat.” He turned to his mother. “It’s complicated. I can’t really say anything more. I’m just sorry you came all this way for nothing.” There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Ray, whatever’s happened, it can only get better if you talk things over. Your father and I learned that the hard way early in our marriage.” Alice patted her husband’s hand.

“She’s right,” said my mother. “Connie’s probably waiting for you to make an appearance and apologize.”

“Listen, man,” Sam said. “Even if you didn’t do a damn thing wrong, say you’re sorry.” He flashed a big grin as Mom frowned and fisted her hands on her hips.

“I’ll walk you over,” I said to Ray. “How can it get worse?”

He ducked his head and stood up. What choice did he have? We walked up to Connie’s houseboat, shuffling along slowly, as if our legs were chained. I knocked on her door. “Just tell her the truth,” I whispered.

Connie cracked the door open.

“I didn’t ask him to leave for no reason,” Ray began.

She cut him off. “Ray, he’s my
father
. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I was going to marry you.” The door slammed, rocking the houseboat on its ropes.

Ray raised his arms and then let them drop. “There was no winning with this.” He strode back to our boat where the guests were waiting for news. They had to have heard Connie’s door slamming. And the light from our boat illuminated the heartbreak on Ray’s face.

“We’ll take your parents home,” said Sam in a hearty voice. “Things are bound to look better in the morning.”

“They almost always do,” Mom agreed. She gathered Ray’s parents up and shepherded them out to the rental car, Ray and me trailing behind.

“You go on home, Ray,” my mother insisted, as she tucked his mother into the backseat. “We’ll get your parents settled.”

Ray watched them pull away, then got into his car and drove off without a word.

“Call you tomorrow!” I yelled, and trudged back up to Miss Gloria’s place. I shooed her off to bed, cleaned up the galley, and collapsed out on the deck with a few sticks of celery stuffed with pimento cheese. Evinrude settled onto my stomach, purring. I munched through the snacks, stroking the cat and pushing my worries away as fast as they crowded into my mind.