Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (17 page)

“I bet he had something to say about that.”

My father widened his eyes. “Plenty. Something like: Jim, everyone wants to know about that
expletive-deleted
gold bar. If they incarcerated every
expletive-deleted
kid who asked about it, the jail would be full of
expletive-deleted
tourists.”

We all laughed.

“Could it be helpful to go back to the museum, maybe speak with the people he spoke with?” my mother asked. “Maybe you’d get a little clearer on what was on his mind before he went off with that poor girl.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sam said, nodding.

“I’ll run over with you, Dad,” I said. “Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress?”

I dashed back into the houseboat, astonished by how well everyone seemed to be getting along. It helped, I supposed, to have a crisis around which they could all rally. I took a quick shower and then while I was dressing and blow-drying my hair, I tapped on my computer and brought up
Purple Moan,
the band whose name had been emblazoned on my stepbrother’s T-shirt. I hit
PLAY
on the sample song and my room was filled with a driving guitar beat, about what I would have expected. After listening to it twice more, I thought the band was singing about a girl in trouble, someone whom they’d take a bullet for—just the kind of incendiary lyrics an angry teen wouldn’t need to hear. I downloaded a copy for future reference—though I’d never
choose
to listen to it, somehow it spoke to Rory and that seemed important. Someone banged on my door. I turned off the music and pulled it open. Mom was just outside, a grim look on her face.

“Change in plans, Hayley. The police are at the hospital again. Allison thinks they’re about to arrest Rory. As you might expect, she’s losing her mind.” She followed me out to the deck, where the day still looked fairy-tale serene, a far cry from what I was feeling.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“He left as soon as he heard,” Sam said.

“I feel so terrible for them,” Miss Gloria added.

“I’d better get over there, see if there’s anything I can do. I’ll text you later,” I told Mom.

“What in the world were you listening to?” she asked, handing me my backpack and two pieces of coffee cake wrapped in foil, one for Allison and one for the road. “It sounded like the worst caterwauling.”

“Purple Moan,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried toward the parking lot. “Don’t even ask.”

In the end, cooking isn’t about understanding; it’s about connecting. Food is the best way to keep those we must lose.

—Alton Brown

At the hospital, I signed into the visitors’ log, trying to smile as the volunteer of the day handed me a pass but warned me that I was not likely to gain access to the room of a patient in the ICU.

“Thank you,” I said politely. There’d be no point in trying to explain the situation to her—she had her script and I had mine. I veered away toward the elevators and pushed the button for the third floor. Once in the waiting room, I texted my father to tell him I’d arrived and began to pace around the room.

Within minutes, Allison, my father, Rory’s father, Rutherford, Detective Bransford, and an irate nurse tumbled into the waiting area.

“Hayley, thank god you’re here,” Allison said, rushing up to squeeze my hands. “Could you wait with Rory while we talk with the detective? This is my son’s sister,” she told the nurse before I could answer.

“You may use the conference room down the hall on the right,” said the nurse to Bransford. And to me: “Come with me.”

My father made a face behind her back as I turned to follow her into the ICU. She muttered loudly enough for me to hear all the way down the hall. “These people don’t have the sense of lab rats. Why in the world would you fight in front of a recovering head-injury patient who’s been in critical condition for days?”

Just outside Rory’s room, I noticed a uniformed policeman had been posted by the door—Officer Ryan, the cop who’d driven me around the island in search of Rory. It took a minute for him to recognize me. He started to smile but seemed to think better of it, his face twisting into a frown instead.

“You can relax; I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” I said, mustering my own weak grin.

“Probably not, but I’ve got my orders.” His lips twitched, activating the dimples in his cheeks, and he squared his shoulders. “I’m glad you found him. He seems to be improving from what I’ve heard.”

“Thanks.” I entered the room, bracing myself for the now-familiar picture of Rory, flat and pale in bed, tethered to his machines. His eyes fluttered open and then closed and he mumbled something I couldn’t make out. My heart rate ticked up just to see him moving and trying to speak. He reached for his left arm with the right hand and plucked at his IV. I hurried over.

“You need to leave that in or they’ll tie your hands down,” I said, removing his fingers from the tubing and taking them in my hand. “How are you feeling? We’ve been worried.”

He croaked out a few more words that sounded like “Where am I?”

“You were in an accident,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You’re in the hospital now. You’re going to be fine.”

He tugged his fingers away. Seeing tears gather in the corners of his eyes, I let him go. How much should I say? What should I ask? Probably better to say less than more, to be optimistic rather than pessimistic.

“Mariah?” he said, eyes flying open, filled with a look of desperation.

“She was hurt, too,” I said, lowering my gaze, terrified that he’d read the awful truth in my face.

“Do you remember what happened Wednesday night?” I asked.

He shook his head, looking confused and distraught.

“You were on Duval Street with some kids and then you and Mariah borrowed a Jet Ski.” I watched his face carefully, looking for any sign of recognition. A spark of memory. Hoping that he’d tell me something that he might not tell the cops. Like correct my assessment of “borrowed” to “stole.”

But he said nothing, just heaved a monster sigh.

Allison and Rutherford returned to the room, both of their faces ashen.

“What happened?”

“They’re considering placing him under arrest,” my stepmother whispered, choking back a sob. Rory’s eyes fluttered open and then shut. “Your father can explain. He’s waiting for you outside. Thanks for helping us out.” She gestured at the bed.

“Of course.” I nibbled my lower lip. “Absolutely anything I can do, I am standing by.”

“We know you are,” said Allison. “Thank you.” She glared at Rutherford as if to say he should be thanking me too, but he said nothing. In fact he looked as angry as I’d ever seen anyone—angry enough to even enjoy listening to Purple Moan. I blew a kiss to Rory, backed out of the room, and joined my father in the waiting area.

“What are they basing the arrest on?”

“Apparently another kid saw them fighting earlier in the evening.” He touched his face, looking sad. “I think that, along with the scrapes on his cheek and the chain business, might be enough evidence to arrest him. When Rutherford gets a lawyer on board, he’ll find out more.”

“What kid saw them fighting? They didn’t look like they were fighting in that photo Wednesday night. In fact, they looked deliriously happy.”

My father only shrugged.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “He’s found unconscious, nearly dead on one side of the island, and she washes up dead on the other coast. How does that suggest that he killed her?”

“I don’t know, Hayley,” he said, his voice heavy with despair. “I expect they’ll tell us more as time goes on.”

“Surely they won’t be taking him to jail?”

“No,” my father said. “He’s not considered a flight risk. But none of us are going anywhere until all this is sorted out. I offered to help find a lawyer, but Rutherford insists on taking care of it.”

“I hope he doesn’t choose that bozo we hired to defend me last fall.”

Dad faked a smile. Attorney Richard Kane had come highly recommended by one of his lawyer buddies. When he’d turned out to be a personal and professional loser, I’d had the good sense to let him go.

“You must feel so helpless,” I said, wishing I could gather my father up into a big hug. But his body language said
hands off.

“Yep.” He nodded and blew his nose.

“Let’s go to Mel Fisher’s and poke around,” I suggested. “Doesn’t seem like we can do much good here. Not right now.”

He nodded and went back in to tell Allison where we were headed.

•   •   •

There are a series of firsts as you grow up and away from your parents—having my dad ride on the back of my motor scooter was one I never expected. From the pained look on his face as he donned my spare helmet and swung his leg over the seat behind me, I was sure he would have preferred to be driving—and driving a conservative rental car at that.

“Try to relax,” I suggested. “If you tense up, it throws off our balance.” I patted his knee and revved up the engine. As usual, the traffic slowed to a crawl when we hit the construction along North Roosevelt Boulevard.

“I can’t understand why they don’t fix this,” my father grumbled.

“You and everyone else who writes in to the
Citizen’s Voice
column. We’re on island time,” I added with a laugh, and then turned onto Palm Avenue, past houseboat row, and down Eaton Street to Whitehead. We parked about a block away from Mel Fisher’s Treasures. “You’re not that crazy about Key West, are you?”

Dad shrugged, straightened his clothing, and brushed his fingers through his hair. “I’m not seeing it through the best lens this week. It’s interesting.” He smiled. “It seems to suit you; that’s what’s most important.”

Inside the museum, which I’d yet to visit, Dad paid for both of our admissions. The clerk at the register, wearing a lime green polo with
Mel Fisher
written in script above the pocket, explained that there were two floors of exhibits. “Take as much time as you need,” she said.

We nodded our thanks and stepped away from the counter.

“So tell me how it went the other day,” I suggested, glancing around at the place—lots of parents with kids, lots of treasure toys and mementos for sale, and a sign describing what exhibits could be found on each floor. “What was he most interested in?”

My father waved me to the left, down a long hallway, dark except for the lighted cases showing displays of history and artifacts. He stopped in front of one that explained the Fisher family history, including Mel’s obsession with finding the Spanish wreck
Atocha
.

“The ship sank in 1622,” my father said. “The Fisher outfit located it in 1985 and recovered a treasure trove of silver bars, chests full of coins, silver plates—you name it. Rory wanted to know if the person who found the treasure could keep it. And whether there was more out there.” Dad stopped speaking to scratch his head. “Of course, I wasn’t paying close attention. He was fidgety and whiny and I had no idea—” He broke off and looked away.

“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known,” I said. “No one would have. But let’s think. Can you recognize the attendant that he was chatting with?”

I followed him through the rest of the downstairs exhibits. Dad waved at the stairs that led to the second-floor exhibit as we passed them. “Believe me, he wasn’t the least bit interested in Harry Potter’s world.” He stopped stock still. “I think that’s him.” He pointed to a square man in a Mel Fisher polo shirt and a suit jacket who was sitting on a chair at the entrance to the jewelry gift shop. He was speaking Spanish into his phone.

While waiting for him to get free, I wandered into the jewelry shop. Much of the merchandise was designed using replicas of items found in the
Atocha
wreck—necklaces, bracelets, and at the back of the case, a couple of rings. I studied the necklaces, which were fashioned to look like ancient sterling silver coins on chains, some set in plain gold rings, some with dancing dolphins encircling them. All of them beautiful and expensive. My father signaled me from the across the room—the guard was off the phone.

“Excuse me,” said Dad, as we approached the man. “My son and I visited the museum yesterday . . .” His words trailed off and I could see him struggling to ask the right questions and explain why he needed the answers. When the pause had gone on uncomfortably long, I stepped in.

“So Rory, that’s my brother, was in an accident the night after he came here. A boating accident. And well, we’re trying to figure out where he went that night and why. It’s a long shot, coming here, but we’re in a worrisome situation.”

“Because he’s unconscious and can’t speak for himself,” my father added. “And a girl was”—he paused—“badly injured. So it’s crucial that we understand what was on his mind.”

The man stared us down and finally shook his head. “Hundreds of people come through here every day. What did he look like?”

“Strawberry blond, blue jeans,” my father started, and just as quickly stopped. “What color are his eyes, Hayley?”

“Like Allison’s, blue,” I said. “And he was wearing a white T-shirt with a band’s name written on it in script.
Purple Moan.
”

Now the man burst out laughing. “Yep, I remember him because I asked what in the devil that meant. He told me it was his favorite band—he had me listen a minute on his iPod. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was godawful.”

We all chuckled.

“Then he was asking me about finding treasure.”

“Treasure?” I asked.

“Was there more of it out there and could anyone go looking. So I told him how much training went into treasure hunting, and that equipment was terribly expensive, and that the government claimed twenty percent of what Mel found. Which of course he thought was outrageous. Well trust me, Mel wasn’t too happy about that either. And then he wanted to know about the gold bar that was lifted right out from under us.” He glanced up at my father. “He said you told him not to ask about it because I’d get the idea he was somehow involved.”

“Yeah.” My father sighed. “I didn’t think it was a great plan to ask questions about the unsolved burglary while in the museum.”

“Everyone in the world wants to know that,” the man said. “He seemed like a good kid, polite enough. Though he was texting the whole time we talked. Antsy, I’d say. Yeah, anxious”—his eyes shifted over to my father, then back to his lap—“about getting some cash fast.” He rubbed his chin. “I did kind of wonder whether he was on something.”

Which made me feel a little sick to my stomach. Because the same question had flitted through my mind when my family had first arrived at the Casa Marina and I’d seen him pacing, pacing, pacing. And wasn’t one of the worrisome signs of drug use a drop in grades? Rory fit that profile too. This would not be good information to pass on to cops looking for murder motives.

“He looked so discouraged after I told him all that,” the guard continued, “that I did mention the stash of emeralds some fellas claim they found recently on a nearby reef. Said they’d paid for a map to the treasure in a local bar. He absolutely lit up when I told him that. Apparently he’d heard the same story somewhere else. Personally, I think the whole business is a sham.”

“Did you mention any specific bar to him?” I asked, wondering what Mariah’s part in all this might have been.

The guard shook his head and squirmed in his chair. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything. But like I said, he looked so disappointed about diving for treasure.” He shrugged. “I told him to check out Sloppy Joe’s. Figured he’d want to stop there anyway and what harm would it do? I’m sorry if I led him astray.”