His voice, as one fan wrote in a YouTube comment, sounds like what melted chocolate tastes like.
—Maureen Dowd, “Tom Ford, Fragrant Vegan Vampire,” The New York Times, April 20, 2019
With the pies safely bundled into my basket, I zipped across the back roads to Houseboat Row. Miss Gloria and Helen and our three animals were waiting for me on the porch. I went inside, tucked the pies into a tiny space in the refrigerator, and returned to the deck.
“Everybody ready? I guess we better take the car.” It wouldn’t be easy to find parking near the lighthouse where the pie finale was to be held, but I could probably find something closer to Bahama Village.
“I’m waiting for a call from Cheryl,” said Miss Gloria. “The first applicant on the list for the orange kitty backed out, and now they’re making home visits in order to choose the best situation.” She thrummed her fingers anxiously on the small table beside her lounger. “I’ve scooped the litter box and washed the cat bowls and put out that fluffy bed and the scratching tower and the toys that our guys ignore. I’m trying to make it look like a fun and happy place for a new kitten. There’s not much else I can do to make it look appealing.” She looked as though she was near tears. “I feel like that kitty is destined for me, but it’s out of my hands. Anyway, you two go ahead on the scooter. If she gets here in the next hour or so, I’ll take an Uber to the lighthouse.”
I couldn’t think of a darn thing to say to ease her nerves or give her comfort. We already had a lot of animals living in a small space, and there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Other than explain to the people making the decision that Nathan and I would be moving soon, taking two of the furry guys with us. We hoped. I couldn’t imagine there would be a pet lover anywhere on the keys who would dote more on this kitten, or provide more fun, than Miss Gloria. But she was right, it was out of our hands.
“She’ll see when she gets here that you would provide an amazing home,” I said. Then, to distract her, I described what I had learned from talking with the library staff, the Blue Heaven pastry chef, and Sigrid at the key lime pie factory. “Bottom line? We need to keep a close eye on both Paul Redford and David Sloan. And Bee Thistle, too. Those are the names that keep coming up.”
“Got it,” said Helen, fastening her bike helmet into place over her perfect hair. “Ready for action.”
Key West lore has it that Hemingway used the lighthouse to find his way home on nights when he’d had too much to drink at Sloppy Joe’s. Whether the story was true or not, the lighthouse was located directly across Whitehead Street from the home Hemingway had shared with his second wife, Pauline. And it was the highest place on the island, with a gorgeous view for those willing to make the climb to the top.
The perfect place from which to drop pies, I supposed.
A mob of people circulated on the grounds around the lighthouse keepers’ home, a cute little museum that honored the history of the tenders of the light. I recognized pie tasters, pie bakers, interested onlookers, and a smattering of press.
“How is this supposed to work?” asked Helen, once we were inside the gates on the lawn.
“Sloan’s billing the event as a fund raiser for the soup kitchens in town—Cooking With Love run by Metropolitan Community Church and the one operating out of St. Mary’s. The first fifty people to pony up fifty bucks get to taste all the pies and vote on their favorites, and most of that money goes to charity. As a professional food critic, I am not eligible to vote. Besides, I’d hate to have to describe something by eating one bite. However, I bought Miss Gloria a ticket …” I blushed and started to stammer. “I didn’t get one for you based on what you said last night about sugar and all.”
“That’s perfectly correct,” she said. “There is no way I’d be interested in tasting all those pies. Especially since we tried most of them over the last two days. Sometimes if I hear too much about a certain food, I lose a taste for it altogether. I know that isn’t true for everyone. You foodies, for example, never seem to tire of talking about what you’re eating and what you ate yesterday and what’s on the menu tomorrow.” She tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you didn’t waste fifty bucks on me.”
In one way, I thought she was trying to make me feel better about not buying her the ticket. But in another, she was letting me know—again, even if unintentionally—how very different we were. The more she talked, the more self-conscious I felt. So I just grinned stupidly and began to walk around the display tables to take photos of the pies. Everything was there, from the creamy pies made by the Key Lime Pie Company, to the tall peaks of brown meringue produced by Blue Heaven, to the understated creaminess of the pie from Key West Cakes, to Kermit’s strawberry–key lime bars dipped in dark chocolate. Everything I had been sampling and writing about and more, only in miniature form.
Wearing a white chef’s coat with his name in lime-colored cursive on the chest pocket, David Sloan bounded up the steps to the stage and took the microphone. “Welcome to Key West’s premier key lime event! We hope you will enjoy every minute, and we sincerely and fiercely hope you will patronize all the shops and bakers who have participated. And if you will indulge one small reminder, my books, including the Key West Key Lime Cookbook, are for sale at the table on your way out. Even if you did not purchase a tasting ticket, please make your donations to our soup kitchens generous. And we are thrilled to have local celebrities Mayor Teri Johnson, Judy Blume, and Suzanne Orchard in attendance.”
The crowd clapped and cheered. “Now, before we begin the events of the day, I would like to introduce our new police chief, Sean Brandenburg, who has a few words to share.”
Chief Brandenburg, a tall, good-looking man with a shaved head, wearing sunglasses and the trademark blue police uniform, climbed the stairs and shook hands with David Sloan, over whom he towered. Our previous chief had been a small man with a large presence. Brandenburg had a presence just by nature of his height. I tried to assess whether Sloan appeared anxious, which he surely must have been if he’d killed Claudette. His face was shiny with sweat, but the temperature and humidity had both risen over the day, so it was unfair to judge him on that. And he was pumping Brandenburg’s hand and grinning like a monkey.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Key West,” said the chief to the waiting crowd. “On behalf of all of us at the police department, we wish you a happy holiday week. It’s a very busy time in our town, and we ask for your cooperation in helping the island stay safe. Please obey traffic rules and be courteous to visitors, and if you see something out of order or need assistance, let one of our officers know.”
His face grew more serious. “We are also asking for information regarding the recent death of pastry chef Claudette Parker. As you may have read online or in our local newspapers, she was found murdered on her front porch several days ago.” He shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head and glanced around to make eye contact with some of the people watching.
“Anyone who has any information about her death or who might have seen something unusual in her neighborhood that evening, please come forward. Feel free to approach me this afternoon, call the help line at the department, or message us on Facebook. We appreciate your assistance in advance—as talented as our department and officers are, we cannot have eyes everywhere. That is why we need you, both visitors and members of our community, to be our partners. Thank you, be safe, and don’t eat too much pie!”
He grinned, shook hands again with David Sloan, and disappeared into the crowd.
“He comes across as both friendly and deadly serious,” Helen said, nodding her approval. “Every once in a while, a plea like that garners some interesting information. But more often the keys to cracking open a case emerge from a suspect or a witness whom the police already know. Somebody they’ve already interviewed remembers a bit more. Or decides that holding back on details only makes them look guilty.”
I studied her face, wondering how she knew so much. And how I knew so little about my own husband’s family history.
“I know you have work to do,” she said. “I’m going to walk around and see if I can chat up Paul and Bee, and even Sloan, if he has a minute. When shall we meet up?”
I glanced at my watch. Midafternoon already. “Say, in an hour? I’ll have captured the highlights by then.”
As I walked around the lighthouse grounds, I reminded myself of my mother-in-law’s advice—not to constrain my thinking about murder suspects to the baking community. And also to remember that if we were considering someone from Nathan’s past, we probably should be looking for a Key West newcomer.
I took pictures of the chefs with their pies and their fans for the Key Zest social media accounts, noticing that the Blue Heaven pies were there but Bee was not. Did this have something to do with our earlier conversation?
Next I videoed five men diving face first into the cream-covered pies on the table in front of them. The pie-eating contest was a crowd favorite, but also sort of disgusting. I wondered whose pies they’d used—I suspected they came from a half-price grocery store sale—and what this said about our island’s tendency to gluttony. Maybe it was just a mood, but I decided not to post pictures of the contest. Besides, the pie-laden faces reminded me of Claudette’s attack on David Sloan. And the horrible death that followed.
As I moved away from the pie gluttony table, I ran into my friend Jennifer Cornell, a chef with a catering business who sometimes shared the industrial kitchen with my mother. As we greeted each other and chatted, I remembered that she had gone to the same culinary school as Claudette, the Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts. And had they also both interned in Paris? We discussed the tragedy of Claudette’s death, and then I asked, “How well did you know her? Were you in the same class?”
Jennifer shook her head. “Not well. She was coming in as I was finishing up. Back in those days, she was kind of touchy-feely. Meditating to the sound of brass Buddha bowls ringing while counting rosary beads as feverishly as an Italian grandmother.”
“Beads?” I asked, suddenly on high alert. “Can you remember what they looked like?”
“No,” she said, after thinking for a minute. “The intensity of French chefs shrieking at her for tiny mistakes snuffed those tendencies out quickly, and she quit wearing them. I think she almost dropped out—which, considering her talent, would have been tragic.”
She stopped talking to stare at me. “No, on the other hand, she probably wouldn’t be in the morgue on a slab if she’d quit and taken another path.”
David Sloan came to the microphone again and announced that tasters had fifteen more minutes to complete their rounds and cast their votes. I said goodbye to Jennifer and made another sweep around the grounds, chatting briefly with the pastry chefs and taking more photos. Bee had still not shown up at the Blue Heaven table. All I could think about was the beads Jennifer had mentioned. And what Tony from the gym had said. Were those beads the same as what I’d seen Bee wearing earlier today? I thought they might be similar, and I wished I’d paid closer attention.
Then I noticed that Christopher was again serving Sloan’s key lime martinis. He’d told me the other night that he had a busy schedule in this high season, and he hadn’t exaggerated. I wasn’t going to consume something that sweet and alcohol laced, not this afternoon, even if it was calling to me. But I stopped to say hello.
“You may be the busiest guy on the island,” I said.
“I’ve got a lot of competition,” he said, grinning. “You, for example, are always working. Can I get you something?”
“No thanks, I—”
My words trailed off as we watched Chief Brandenburg and two uniformed officers approach Paul Redford’s table. We weren’t close enough to hear what they said to him, but he objected fiercely. Chief Brandenburg kept talking, looking calm but poised for whatever chaos might break out.
Paul dropped the silver pie server he was holding onto the table, picked up the pie he had been about to cut, and slammed it to the ground at the chief’s feet, where it splattered green goop over his polished black shoes and blue serge pant legs.
“If you’re finished with your tantrum, let’s go,” said the chief in a loud voice. Then they marched him off across the grass toward the exit, Brandenburg ahead of him and the two officers at each elbow.
“Wow,” I said.
“Wow is right,” said Christopher. “I’m glad they finally figured out who had it in for Miss Parker. Maybe we can all relax and enjoy the New Year.”
I turned back to him and pointed at the little cups of light-green liquid on the table. “I’ll have one of those after all.”