And so, bit by bit, on the backs of those traitorous breaths, in snuck the fragrance of something baking in an oven.
—Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper
After picking up more pie slices at Kermit’s key lime shop near the harbor, known for its iconic owner/chef’s costumed shenanigans and for a pucker-worthy taste, I stowed the pie in my scooter’s storage bin and we drove to the last stop I had planned for the morning. A Facebook friend had insisted that Key West Cakes on White Street made the best key lime pie on the island. Other folks might dispute that, but I felt I had to test it for my roundup article to be fair.
And besides, I was getting hungry, yearning for one perfect piece to tide me over until lunch. We parked on White, a busy cross street that ran between Eaton Street and the Atlantic Ocean, and entered the shop. Just inside was a tall glassed-in case containing a gorgeous multi-tiered chocolate cake spackled in large flakes of chocolate, a baby shower cake, and a carpet of cupcakes. Large glass containers held piles of cookies. A hand-painted sign rested on a small pink chair. It read: You are the Icing on my Cupcake. I could imagine hanging that in Miss Gloria’s kitchen, but I wasn’t so sure about the kitchen in Nathan’s and my houseboat. I feared Nathan would find it sappy. After snapping pictures of everything, I ordered two pieces of pie and a potpourri of sugar cookies at the counter from a serious man with deep blue eyes.
“Do you mind if we sit for a few minutes while I make some notes?” I asked my mother-in-law. “And maybe nibble on some pie?”
“Not at all,” she said, pulling out her own phone. “But I’ll pass on the pie.”
I sank into a chair beside a café table in the window to sample and write. As I ate, I thought of the words I’d use to describe this pie: super-creamy with a crumbly, buttery crust and fleurettes of what had to be real whipped cream all around the edges. One delicious mouthful felt like it might contain the day’s entire allotment of calories and cholesterol. The difficulty with this piece I was writing would be figuring out how to find words to differentiate the pies. I hadn’t tasted a bad bite so far.
Nathan’s mother had returned to the cash register before I even noticed. I stopped tapping into my phone to listen.
“You must have heard about the pastry chef who was murdered last night,” she said to the young man piping frosting on starfish cookies. “So tragic.”
He glanced up at her, his blue eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe we got sucked into attending that ridiculous event at the library. Enough said.”
“Ridiculous event?” she asked, her voice innocent as an ingenue.
“David Sloan, ridiculous. The more trouble he can stir up, the better he likes it.”
“And he likes that because?”
“Conflict equals publicity, in his mind anyway,” the man said.
“Do you think Ms. Parker was killed because of that event?”
“I’m not in the know, but anyone could see the rancor between the new shop and the rest of the bakers in town. She seemed so sure that her product was superior to any of ours.” He sniffed, and turned the cookie to begin icing the other side.
As Mrs. Bransford returned to my table, I was scraping the little plastic container of its last creamy bite, feeling a little piggy in front of her. I couldn’t help it—this was my job, and besides that, I loved food. And I was ravenous. Just then, Miss Gloria called.
“What’s up?” I asked my roommate. “I’m just finishing the most lovely pie.”
“Did you save some for me?” she asked.
“I’ve ordered you a slice,” I assured her. Which I hadn’t. But she could have the one I’d bought for my mother-in-law. Besides, we also had samples from two other shops.
“This afternoon, I was wondering, if it wasn’t too much trouble, whether you would mind running me out to the SPCA?” Miss Gloria asked.
I glanced at Nathan’s mother and then at the clock on my phone. I did not have time to run my guest back down the island, then return to the houseboat to pick up Miss Gloria and take her up to the next island where the shelter was located. And work on my article and get ready for dinner.
“I’m happy to ride along,” Nathan’s mother said.
Another mystery, because she didn’t seem to be an animal lover. In other words, she hadn’t dropped everything to chirp and cluck to get our cats’ attention when they sashayed past her. Nor had Ziggy the wonder dog caught her interest. And he was adorable in a wacky doggish sort of way, and also the apple of Nathan’s eye.
“We’ll be home shortly,” I said. “Then we can discuss.” I brought the extra slice of pie for Miss Gloria and the cookies and tucked them all into the basket at the back of the scooter with the other assorted goodies. Nathan’s mother hopped on, and we buzzed up to Houseboat Row.
Several construction vans were parked in the lot, and I could hear the happy sounds of nail guns and band saws—coming from my future home. A miracle! But as we walked up the finger of the dock, I saw the workers clustered on Mrs. Renhart’s boat, not mine. Sigh.
Miss Gloria was waiting on the deck with the cats, who wound between her legs, meowing.
“Looks like everyone wants a piece of the action,” I said, handing over her confections. “I didn’t know cats loved key lime.” I turned to Nathan’s mother. “Can I get you a snack or coffee?”
“A glass of water?” she asked, perching on the rocking chair next to my roommate. “I’ve passed my pie quota for the year and caffeine quota for the day.”
Miss Gloria hollered after me as I hit the kitchen. “And don’t let those cats tell you they haven’t eaten, because they scarfed down a whole can of cat food only twenty minutes ago.”
I returned with three glasses of water, ice, and lemon slices. “Tell me about the SPCA. Are you thinking of volunteering?”
Miss Gloria had been working for a while now giving tours of notable gravestones and architecture in our local cemetery. Some people thought it was a little spooky for her to be working in the graveyard when she had crossed over into her eighties and might be joining the ranks of the buried sooner rather than later. But she paid no attention to their naysaying—she enjoyed bringing the dead people back to life by telling their stories and tales of old Key West. And she especially loved spreading the word that there was a lot more to Key West than drinking on Duval Street—the city was loaded with interesting characters and history.
“It’s not that,” she said. Several expressions flitted across her face in succession: mournful, embarrassed, hopeful.
She pointed to my houseboat-to-be, and then to the boat on the other side of us, where four strapping guys were nailing new siding onto the Renharts’ home. “I got to thinking that pretty soon they will be making real progress on Nathan’s place, and that drives home the truth—you will be moving out before I know it. And you’ll be taking your husband and his dog and Evinrude with you. That’s all I can think about, and it makes me feel so sad.”
Her lips started to quiver and her eyes got a little teary. I leaned over to hug her, thinking I should reassure her that nothing would change. Which was exactly what I’d been trying to tell myself as well. Even though it would. We’d knock on each other’s doors and ask politely if it was convenient to have coffee instead of stumbling out of bed and finding each other at the kitchen table or on the deck. And she’d worry that she was a drag on my new marriage if she accepted too many dinner invitations from me. And who knew what Evinrude would do—he might even refuse to make the move. He was a cat, after all, mercurial and unpredictable.
Why did any kind of change feel so hard?
Miss Gloria continued to talk. “Mrs. Dubisson knew I was feeling blue, so she called the shelter and found out that the orange tiger kitten I pulled out of the bushes last night is still there.” She held up her hand to stop me from protesting. “I know we’re one cat away from becoming crazy cat ladies, but all I can think of is you’ll be leaving and taking Evinrude. The idea of having only one cat in the house feels pathetic and lonely.”
“We’ll be right next door, remember?” I said. “And Evinrude will not understand the concept of moving. He loves you so dearly. He and I will be over here all the time, I promise. You’ll hardly notice a difference, except that you’ll be able to get in the bathroom without queuing up.”
I kept my voice cheerful and flashed a reassuring smile. But I was beginning to feel sad, too. We had developed something special and unexpectedly magical in our little home. She felt like my family in only the best way. No telling what would be left after the construction dust had settled.
“Maybe one of his owner’s family members will show up to claim him. Wouldn’t that be the best ending? They would keep a connection to Claudette by raising her cat. I know you would do that with Evinrude.”
Miss Gloria’s face fell. “I would, but I live with Evinrude. He is family. She hardly had time herself to get to know that kitten.”
I sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere. “I don’t suppose it will hurt to look over the kitty.”
She beamed and picked up her bag. “We better take the car, since there are three of us.”