Death In Four Courses Part 4

"He wouldn't have been satisfied with Olivia Nethercut alluding to what's hidden behind her writing," said Yoshe. "He would have asked her straight out what she didn't have the nerve to say."

"Really?" Mom's eyes widened. "I thought that was so interesting. Did you agree with her comment that all writers show more than they intend?"

Sigrid snorted and smoothed her flowered dress over her belly. "I didn't appreciate that-if I have something to say about a subject, I say it right out," she said. "She made it sound like we're all hiding things or too dumb to know what we've written."

"I think the more interesting fireworks would have come outside of the panels," Yoshe added. "Of course, you knew that Jonah and Dustin were an item?"

"They were?" Mom and I asked simultaneously.

"Was that recent?" I asked. "Dustin didn't mention anything about a personal relationship with Jonah last night when we were talking to the cops. He didn't act like a guy who'd just lost his boyfriend. In fact, he seemed most annoyed that Jonah might have irritated the conference sponsors."

"Jonah dumped him in record time," Yoshe said. "He isn't going to brag about that."

The waitress delivered our meals: Greek salads thick with feta cheese and Nicoise olives folded into buckwheat pancakes for Yoshe and me, a spinach and mushroom omelet for Mom, and the ham and cheese sandwich crowned with an egg over easy and an order of french fries on the side for Sigrid.

"Besides, if the conference sponsors aren't happy," Sigrid said, plunging her knife into the sandwich so that yolk flowed like yellow lava over the ham onto the crunchy stalks of potato, "Dustin's out of a job." She carved off a large corner of her sandwich, mopped it through the pool of egg yolk, and wolfed it down. "And I don't believe it was serious between them. For Jonah, nothing was ever serious outside of his work."

As we ate, the conversation turned toward admiration of the food-the crispy tang of the buckwheat pancakes, the creamy feta, the fresh tomatoes. A vinaigrette with a secret ingredient. Extra garlic? Tarragon? Mustard? No one agreed.

"Tell us about your new project," Mom said to Yoshe. "You didn't get a chance to expand on its 'point of view.'"

Yoshe blushed furiously and looked hard at Mom, like maybe she'd underestimated her. "What I meant by that is that no cooking occurs in a vacuum. In fact, the best recipes sprouted in some grandmother's kitchen somewhere. Doesn't matter whether she was Polish or Italian or a pioneer woman from Iowa. We need to learn from the women who came before us."

Mom leaned forward eagerly. "When Hayley graduated from college, I gave her a box of my mother's recipes-written in her own hand. And a few from my mother's mother and my mother-in-law. Some of them are delicious and some simple and several just awful, but the point is, they demonstrate the history of these women in such a tangible, personal way. And it's our history too-we're all connected."

I didn't dare mention how close I'd come to losing every last recipe card in the box during the breakup with Chad Lutz last fall.

"Exactly!" said Yoshe. "I should have hired you to write the preface."

Now Mom blushed and ducked her head.

"The food of my ancestors sucked," said Sigrid with a big belly laugh. "That's why I write fiction."

The alarm on my phone beeped-almost two o'clock. "I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back for the afternoon sessions," I said.

"I'm skipping the panels this afternoon," said Sigrid. "We have a long night ahead. And there won't be anything said that I haven't already heard."

Yoshe nodded in agreement.

"You go on," Mom suggested to me. "I'll make sure the ladies get dessert and help them find a cab to take them to their hotels. I can cover the bill and bring the receipt to you later."

I flashed a grateful smile. As much as my mother had looked forward to every moment of this conference, precious private time with her cooking idol, Yoshe, would be even better. And Sigrid added to the raw entertainment value of the afternoon. I left them arguing over Nutella dessert crepes with bananas versus the more extravagant raspberry chocolate ganache red velvet, with Yoshe proposing maybe they should stick with herbal tea. Did she realize that her weight-conscious barbs. .h.i.t home every time for Sigrid? I wondered as I walked away. Only the result seemed to be that Sigrid ordered more, not less, each time Yoshe mentioned calories. To give Yoshe the benefit of the doubt, maybe they were a running commentary in her own head and she was merely giving them voice.

I jogged the few blocks to the San Carlos Inst.i.tute, arriving slightly sweaty and a couple of minutes late. As the lights of the theater were already dimmed and the audience quiet, I slid into a seat in the back row. Floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains covered the diner set onstage. Dustin fought through them and announced the next speaker, Fritz Ewing, the culinary poet who had moderated the morning panel. Based on his earlier introduction, Fritz seemed to be best known for using food as metaphor for strong emotion. Most recently his focus had become protein. He approached the podium, shook Dustin's hand, and launched into a monotone reading.

"Mutton, gray strands, like tough sinews of conversation with my ex," he began. "Beefsteak, raw and tender flesh, calling a lover home. One I shall spit to the side of the plate, never to taste again. The other swallowed, joining enzymes in my belly..."

Feeling a little queasy, I sank lower in my chair and tried to block out the meat metaphors by reviewing the conversation we'd had over lunch. Neither of the women had seemed all that fond of Jonah, though there was a general admiration of his competence. The news of a failed relationship between Jonah and Dustin surprised me. As I'd learned the hard way last year when Kristen Faulkner was murdered and I landed on the hot seat, this derailed romantic connection would certainly make Dustin a person of interest in the eyes of the cops.

A few rows in front of me, Dustin stood, looking at the vibrating phone in his hand with some annoyance. He strode up the aisle toward the lobby. I slipped out behind him, trying madly to think of a way to ask about his relationship with Jonah. Before I could get his attention, two uniformed cops met him in the lobby and led him to the side of the room. I ducked into the cubby that served as the conference bookstore and pretended to browse the books nearest the door, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"I understand that you need to do your jobs," Dustin was saying, his pleasant tone not quite covering the irritation underneath. "Could we possibly talk after the day's panels are completed?"

I thumbed through a paperback copy of Sigrid's latest novel, not able to make out the policeman's reply.

"I have no idea what happened to the d.a.m.n bird," Dustin replied. "I can only tell you I had nothing to do with either hefting it or causing it to vanish." Then he stalked back across the foyer and disappeared into the auditorium.

I returned Sigrid's novel to the stack and headed out, exhausted by the day and anxious about the night to come.

6.

When I write about a line cook's bad night, it's not just about a bad night, it's about not being good enough, period, about personal shame and failure.

-Michael Ruhlman If Key West can be said to have a ghetto, the walk down the blocks of Petronia Street from Duval Street to Santiago's Bodega led us right through it. It was one thing to ride along this path in full daylight, in the back of a pedicab, as we had done this afternoon, another to march the same distance in the darkness.

Mom did her best to keep up a chipper smile as we pa.s.sed along the drab blocks of small homes, yards littered with odd bits of trash and dour dark-skinned residents who looked as though they'd just as soon not have pale strangers tromping through their neighborhood.

"Maybe we should have had the detective pick us up," she said in a soft voice that let me know she was a little nervous even though she didn't want to be.

I linked my arm through hers. "We're perfectly safe and we're almost there. And he was coming straight from work."

Which was a tiny stretcher. In truth, I preferred to meet him at the restaurant on my own terms. I'd been looking forward to a date with Bransford for weeks, though after last night's conversation I was filled with a greater percentage of dread than antic.i.p.ation. And besides, having Mom along ensured that we wouldn't be indulging in anything more thrilling than dinner.

Sparks had flown like the worst romantic cliche right from the first minute I laid eyes on Detective Bransford, despite inauspicious circ.u.mstances (me as his murder suspect). He asked me out the same day the real killer was arrested. But it took almost five weeks to find an evening that worked for both of us. I'd spent ten days visiting both my families in New Jersey before Christmas-ten days can start to feel like a life sentence under those conditions. But I'd figured one thing out for certain since my parents' divorce: My time had to be divided equally between Mom's house and Dad's. On top of my family issues, the holidays, especially New Year's Eve when Key West goes party-in-the-streets crazy, were stressful times for the police department.

All that to say antic.i.p.ation made my heart race and my decision-making difficult-it took me a solid hour to figure out what to wear to this dinner. First I tried on the black swing dress that made me feel s.e.xy but in just the right girlish kind of way. Until I remembered he'd already seen me wear it to a funeral. Bad dating Karma. So I switched the dress out for my black jeans-a little snug at the current payload-and a light blue sweater that made more of my cleavage than actually existed. Mom's and Eric's enthusiastic responses had left me feeling that I'd made the right selection, even though my feet felt like I'd been walking on a bed of bamboo skewers in Connie's borrowed patent leather stilettos. And the heel-strap rubbed exactly on the spot where my mother's gift sandals had created a tender blister. All in all, a fashion-for-comfort blunder I would not repeat. Ever.

Detective Bransford was pacing outside Santiago's. He stopped still when he saw us. "I would have been happy to pick you up," he said, looking worried, glancing from Mom's sandals to my heels and then into the darkness of the Petronia Street approach.

"I told you we should have asked him," said Mom, reaching for his hand. "Oh my, he's just as handsome as you said he was."

He grinned foolishly and I felt myself turn the color of a roasted beet. "Detective Bransford, this is my mother, Janet Snow. Mom, Detective Bransford."

"Nate, please." He smiled again, flashing the killer cheek dimples that matched the cleft in his chin. "It's an honor to meet you. And you're just as lovely and youthful as Hayley described. You two could be sisters."

I rolled my eyes, but Mom beamed, and he ushered us past the narrow porch with its handful of tables, inside to the hostess station, a hand on each of our backs. The warmth of his touch sizzled like a blazing brand on mutton, as Fritz the meat poet might say. To keep my knees from buckling, I forced myself to focus on the restaurant decor-simple wooden chairs, white tablecloths, sponge-painted walls with a few big paintings for accents, and an orange ceiling for color.

"Where would you like to sit?" asked a tall woman in a tight dress.

"Inside, please," I said, just as Nate said, "Outside."

"Whatever the lady wants is fine with me," said the detective to the hostess. He grinned at me. "Inside."

She gathered a stack of menus and led us to the corner of the back room, which had a lively bar and marginal acoustics. I minced along after her and took the seat at the table against the wall so I could make mental notes about the restaurant's ambience and clientele. I shucked off the offending high heels and rubbed one aching foot and then the other. Our drink orders-white wine sangria for me and Mom and a Key West Sunset Ale for Nate-were finally taken by a waiter so goofy and smiley I wondered if he'd been tippling something out in the back alley.

I glanced at the menu. "And could you put in orders for the trio of hummus, a spinach salad with strawberries, and the bocconcini di mozzarella while we're waiting?" I asked. As soon as the waiter left, I listed off a few more of the tapas that I wanted to be sure we tried-including asparagus, spanakopita, seviche, saganaki, and grouper.

Nate looked down at his menu and then back up at me. His eyes were the color of moss, only nothing soft and fuzzy about them right now. "I'm going to have the Roman meatb.a.l.l.s, the potato croquettes, and the lamb patties," he said. "Seems like you've already got the vegetable department covered."

"Those are wonderful choices-I tried them the last time I was here," I said, lowering my voice and smiling sweetly. "If it's possible, I really do need you to branch out." I'd warned both my mother and the detective ahead of time that I had a review agenda for this meal-apparently I should have been more clear because he didn't look happy. Note to Hayley: Don't expect a police detective to be the kind of man who enjoys ceding the lead. On anything. When the waiter returned, I made a big show of ordering the three dishes he'd mentioned and then added my choices.

"Oh, wow, man, you guys must really be hungry!" the waiter said.

"That we are." I closed my menu and pa.s.sed it to him. If Wally had a fit about the bill, I'd cover the excess. Somehow. Considering the unexpected lunches and the double pedicab bills I'd piled up earlier, I was already way over budget. How much madder could he get?

Soon after, the trio of hummus, the spinach pie, and the spinach salad with strawberries arrived. Mom served us each some salad and then picked up a triangle of pita bread that came with the hummus and sniffed it.

"Remember what Ruth Reichl said this afternoon? She can tell right away about a restaurant from trying their bread." She spread her corner of pita with a teaspoon of black olive tapenade, and nibbled. "Oh, Hayley, you have to taste this. It's heaven," she said, spearing another piece of pita and spreading it with the plain hummus. "This one has lots of lemon, I think. And I have a feeling they brush the bread with b.u.t.ter or olive oil and toast it-if it isn't homemade. If I was reviewing this place, I'd be tempted to write that they have the best chickpea dip outside of Athens."

I couldn't help feeling the tiniest p.r.i.c.k of annoyance. She'd said it better than I would have-and faster too.

"You'd be really good at this job," I said, trying to cover my negative reaction with a wide grin. "But no offense, Mom, I have to figure out how to say things myself or I'll be lost once you've gone back home."

"Just trying to be helpful, dear," she chirped. "Remember, I was a cook before you ate anything other than strained carrots." I flashed her another tight smile as the waiter delivered the detective's Roman meatb.a.l.l.s and lamb patties.

"So you're a food expert, just like your daughter," Nathan said. "Me, I'm strictly meat, potatoes, and pasta." He poked at the nest of angel hair holding the meatb.a.l.l.s. "Though it tastes better if you just call it spaghetti. Want to try it?" he asked Mom.

"Definitely," Mom said. "If you'll try this lovely spinach pastry in exchange. That's how I used to get Hayley to try new things-wrap them in dough or phyllo pastry. And it's all paid off, hasn't it?"

"Yes, Mom." I cut off a corner of the spanakopita before she pa.s.sed it across the table to him. Delicious layers of b.u.t.tery, crispy phyllo with a spinach-feta filling and a drizzle of white sauce zigzagging across the top. "Any developments with Jonah Barrows?" I asked the detective once I'd finished chewing. Anything to change the subject.

"Not worth mentioning," he said, and then rubbed a hand across his chin, leaving a small streak of grease.

Mom touched her chin and raised her eyebrows at him. "Grease spot," she said.

He wiped his face with his napkin. "You're absolutely certain you saw no one leaving the area of the dipping pool last night after you found the victim?"

"Honestly, I told you everything I could think of, but I'll try again." I closed my eyes and pictured the sequence of events. "I went to the bathroom. That's where I spoke with Olivia Nethercut. And I'm sure I told Officer Torrence that Sigrid Gustafson was there too. But they were both gone by the time I came out-I guess it might be worth talking to them if you haven't already." I opened my eyes and he nodded.

"We have."

"Then I walked over to sit by the pool. Almost right away, I noticed something off." I tried to keep the gruesome slide show from flashing through my head: Jonah's sodden body bobbing in the lily pads, my feeble attempts at resuscitation, and all that followed after. Should I mention to him that I'd overheard a couple of his men grilling Dustin Fredericks about the bird statue at the conference this afternoon, in hopes that he'd tell me whether and where they'd found it? A waste of breath-he wouldn't tell me any more than he had to. And he'd be annoyed about my eavesdropping. I speared his remaining meatball and twirled a bit of pasta on the fork.

"I wonder who else at the party might have used the restroom about then?" Mom asked. "Of course Hayley wouldn't have known if anyone was in the men's room. Have you thought of that?" she asked the detective, then added quickly, "Of course you've probably thought of everything." She smiled and touched the back of his hand. "None of the ladies that I was talking with while I waited for Hayley left the table. We were too busy drinking and gabbing and taking pictures of everything. I bet I got mug shots of everyone at that party!" She turned to look at me, serious again. "But didn't Bill say something about Eric going over to get one of the fancy drinks they were making near that end of the property? Maybe he saw something that would be helpful."

"I wasn't there, remember? But I'm sure he would have mentioned it," I said. "I thought he had a migraine anyway-would he have been drinking alcohol with a headache?" The waiter reappeared and added the croquettes and two more dishes to the array on our table.

"Rock 'n' roll," said the waiter. "How's everyone doing?"

"Fine," said Nate gruffly. The waiter backed away.

"We had lunch with two of the conference panelists," my mother told Nate. "One of them happened to be Sigrid Gustafson. Hayley asked them all about Jonah Barrows-what people thought of him and how the conference might have been different if he was alive."

"He didn't suffer fools," I said. "And you're bound to get some when you put people onstage and encourage them to hawk their work in front of a big audience."

"Hayley thinks maybe one of the writers had a secret-something they were afraid Jonah might have revealed."

Nathan frowned and took a sip of beer.

"I'm sure he's thought of that," I said. "Mind if I try your potatoes?"

He pushed the plate closer to me. "Go ahead."

I sawed off half of a fried potato patty, dropped a dollop of sour cream and green onions on top, and bit into it. Creamy, crunchy, with the right jolt of heat.

"But I'd prefer that you leave the interviews to my department," he added.

I finished swallowing the bite of potato and laid the empty fork on my plate. "I'm a.s.signed to the conference as a writer. Key Zest is paying me to be there and they paid my registration fee, which was hefty. I've been told to write a piece on the life and work of Jonah Barrows. Which would be difficult to do without talking to the people who knew him." I didn't add that I'd be fired if I didn't produce something brilliant, because I was afraid I'd cry.

"He didn't mean it like that, honey," said Mom. "Did you, Nathan?"

Bransford and I glared slitted dagger eyes at each other-as close to fighting as we could have gotten in a nice restaurant when we didn't know each other well to begin with. And didn't want to draw attention to ourselves and had my mother poised to meddle. This was the first night that suited both of our calendars and it looked like Jonah Barrows's corpse-and my mother, still very much alive-would spoil the whole thing.

After we'd plowed through most of the dishes, the waiter stopped by again and cleared some of the plates onto a tray. "How about dessert, folks? We have some utterly amazing choices!"

"No, thank you," said Bransford.

"Of course," I said at the same time.

The s.p.a.cey waiter's hand froze above his pad.

"Suppose we order something for the table?" my mother suggested, her head buried in the menu. "How about the chocolate crepes and the bread pudding?" She flashed a dazzling smile, closed the menu, and handed it back.

As the waiter left, Nate's phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it, frowning again. "I hate to do this, but I have to get to the station. I'll call you a cab. Say half an hour from now? I don't like to have you walking home this time of night in this neighborhood."

"We'll be fine," I said firmly. "We need the exercise after all this dinner-and finishing your part of the dessert too."

Nate got to his feet, grumbling and pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He threw three fifty-dollar bills and a twenty on the table. "I think that will cover it. You'll let me know if it doesn't?"

I couldn't let him pay; Wally would have heart failure. But Nate would never accept the money later-it could only get more awkward.

"Thanks, but I'll put it on my credit card," I said, beaming foolishly and pushing the money back in his direction. "I have an expense account that I'm required to use to keep the reviews on the up-and-up."

"I thought I asked you to dinner," he said.

"You did and thanks so much anyway, but the magazine really needs to keep the boundaries clean. If it appears in any way that the reviews were skewed, we lose all our credibility. And quite possibly our advertisers as well." I squinted and shrugged. "I'm sorry if I wasn't clear. You can get it next time? When I'm not on the clock?" I doubted there would be a next time, the way this evening had gone.

"Fine," he said, shuffling the bills back into his wallet. He ducked his head in my mother's direction. "Janet, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll call you," he added to me. But not, I thought, like he meant it. I watched him leave, wondering how something that had seemed so full of promise could have ended up falling so flat.

Mom gripped my wrist, her eyes wide with excitement. "Hayley, isn't that Olivia Nethercut who just came in? I know you were disappointed about your conversation getting cut off the other night. Here's your chance to talk with her. I'm sure she hasn't eaten here before. You could tell her what we enjoyed."