The ephemera may include a frozen disc of dashi, intensely marine under tongues of sea urchin imprinted with yuzo kosho, a flare-up of citrus and chile . . . and day-boat scallop with green tomato Cryovaced to amplify its tang, anchoring a shallow whey broth steeped with kombu and bonito flakes.
—Ligaya Mishan, “Small on Space, Big on Flavors,” The New York Times
As soon as I clicked my seat buckle and leaned back against Eric’s leather seat, the exhaustion struck me. “I feel like a sack of flour,” I said to Eric. “Pounds and pounds of King Arthur whole wheat. Not the white whole wheat, either; the heavy stuff.”
He laughed. “I’m not surprised. You’re doing a lot of worrying. And racing around the island like a crazy woman. And besides that, Lorenzo’s troubles are real.”
“What’s your sense of his future?” I asked him. “Did you get any insight from the lawyer?”
“He couldn’t tell me anything confidential,” said Eric, rubbing the side of his cheek with his thumb. “He had to fight to get him released. His mother mortgaged everything she owned to come up with the bond, including her retirement account. And if he’s charged with this new murder, no amount of dollars will set him free.”
I groaned. “I can’t wait until this is over. And I mean over in a good way, not Lorenzo back in jail.”
My smartphone chirped and Lorenzo’s name came up on the screen. As if he had sensed that we were talking about him. Which I totally and completely believed. I accepted the call and put him on speakerphone. “I’m driving with Eric so I’ll put you on speaker. What’s up?”
“I remembered something else,” he said. “While I was in jail, I did a few readings because two of the other guests recognized me from Sunset. And they told me some things about Bart Frontgate that I hadn’t known.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like he was feuding with Louis, the hat guy.”
“What, Louis wanted his spot?” Eric asked. “I hadn’t heard that he had any juggling talents.”
“Not juggling,” Lorenzo said. “Louis has been feuding with him for a long, long time.”
I glanced over at Eric and shrugged my shoulders. This new information was too vague to be of much use, as far as I could tell. “Keep thinking,” I told Lorenzo. “We’ll be home soon.”
Once Eric had shimmied into a tiny parking space at the end of Caroline Street, we made a beeline across Mallory Square to the home away from home of Snorkel the Pig. The pig’s father, Rick, was dressed in a white shirt and a plaid vest and what appeared to be a golf cap, and his trim, prickly white beard matched the spiky hair of the pig. We joined the tourists who had gathered around to watch their act. After some introductory patter about how a fiftysomething man came to be performing with a pig in Key West, he began the show.
“Up, pig!” he shouted, and the pig stood on his hind legs and strutted several feet. The crowd whooped with delight. Then the pig turned in circles as his father sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” and ended the show by serpentining through Rick’s legs, a move they had certainly seen the Cat Man do.
Rick and the pig bowed together. “Snorkel and I thank you for your patronage,” Rick said, and then reminded the audience that Snorkel’s well-being relied on the generosity of his patrons.
A number of children rushed forward to stuff dollar bills into a can with the pig’s likeness pasted on the outside. Photos were taken with Snorkel and his dad and the visitors, for which another dollar was charged. When the last of the fans had cleared away, Eric and I moved forward.
“We met two weeks ago,” I reminded Rick. “Hello, Snorkel; hello, Rick. We love your show.” I reached out to stroke the cute dark patch on the pig’s nose, remembering at the last minute that he didn’t like his face touched. I clasped my hands together and managed a smile. “We were wondering if you’ve heard anything more about the death of Bart Frontgate.”
He frowned, looking at me first, then Eric. And I realized my interrogation technique was less than smooth. “I don’t understand why you’re involved. Is this part of the official investigation? Are you deputies or something?”
“We’re friends of Lorenzo Smith—that’s all. And he suggested we talk with you,” Eric said with a reassuring smile, holding his hand out for the man to shake.
“How is Lorenzo?” Rick asked, setting the diminutive pig down on the pavement and shaking our hands. “It doesn’t seem right without him here. The vibes feel wonky, like something awful is about to happen and we’re all unsafe.” His face looked serious, as though he really meant this.
“He’s out of jail,” said Eric. “So that’s a good thing. But there’s some solid evidence that points to him as the guilty party.”
Rick shook his head. “He’s not a murdering kind of guy. He’s not like most of the guys around here, who wouldn’t hesitate to act on their rage.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Once he’s mulled things over, he’s able to let his anger go like balloons in the wind. I admire that in him.”
“Has he been especially angry lately?” I asked.
Rick shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help more, but I really don’t have anything to add.”
My heart sank so hard that I realized how heavily I’d been counting on him knowing something crucial. “There’s been another death,” I said to him. “A woman who may have associated with Bart. Does that sound familiar?”
“What did she look like?” he asked.
The image of the dead woman’s face flashed through my mind, and I clenched my eyes and fists tight to fight a sudden wave of nausea.
“Deep breath,” said Eric, touching my back.
I blew out the air caught in my throat, the way Leigh instructed me to do when I picked up a heavy weight at the gym. “On the short side, with blond hair, wavy. Dark blue eyes, maybe even violet.” How fast did a dead person’s eyes change color? I shook that horrifying thought off, too. “Maybe a little chunky.” Then another memory hit me. “She had a tattoo circling her upper arm.”
He rubbed his chin, nodding. “Cheryl Lynn. The tattoo was from a song. ‘I used to disregard regret, but there are some things that I can’t forget.’ She was trouble. If you didn’t just tell me she was already dead, I might have said that she killed him. It wasn’t a murder-suicide, was it? Now, that would fit.”
“No.” I shook my head. “No way that could have happened. But you’re saying there was no love lost between them?”
“Sick love,” he said with a grimace.
“Can you tell us more?” Eric asked.
“They were together, but not. Because of his act—you know, the daredevil-on-tightrope routine—he could pretty much have his pick of loose tourist ladies. The ones who came down to the island for a wild adventure. What happens in Key West stays in Key West. Or so these people seem to think,” he added, then reached down to stroke his pig. Snorkel nuzzled him with his enormous pink snout and Rick fed him a treat.
“So what, she’d get jealous and pissed off?” I asked.
He nodded. “Exactly. There was a screaming fight about two weeks ago in the sculpture garden.” He pointed down the alley past the Waterfront Playhouse. “She had the loudest, craziest voice and she went on and on. Almost like a two-year-old’s tantrum.”
“She was mad about another girl?” I prodded.
“A girl and maybe some stuff he was supposed to sell and give her half.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It was so ugly and the noise was bothering Snorkel, so I went out the other way.”
Eric handed him a business card. “Call us if you think of anything else?”
We started to leave, but I turned back. “One more question,” I asked, “about Bart Frontgate’s forks. Were they like regular barbecue forks? Like something you’d buy from Kmart or Home Depot in the household goods department?”
“Oh no,” said Rick. “He had them specially designed. I don’t know where he got the metal part, but he had the handles hand milled. They had to be just the right weight for the juggling act. So he didn’t end up miscalculating his tosses and stabbing himself. Or any of the spectators.” He laughed and slid his phone from a back pocket. “Here, I have a photo.” He showed us a picture of Bart, tall, swarthy, and very much alive, holding a fork in both hands and grinning proudly. As Rick had said, the handle was a thing of beauty, heavy wood inlaid with what looked like ivory. “I think he had them made at a gallery up on White Street. Harrison. The artist makes spear guns in his regular business.”
We said good-bye and walked the two blocks to the farewell party for Bart Frontgate. Neither Eric nor I had ever visited the Smokin’ Tuna Saloon, a large outside/inside bar off an alley that was sandwiched between Greene and Caroline streets and not far from Mallory Square.
“Never in the world would we have found this place if we didn’t have the address. In fact,” I said to Eric, “I’ve never attended calling hours at a bar. I hope it’s less grim than standing in line at the funeral home.”
I remembered standing for hours next to my mother to greet my grandmother’s mourners. I could still picture fresh tears on the cheeks of her elderly friends, and on my mother’s friends’ faces, and shimmering in the eyes of a few friends of mine. By the end of the night we’d been completely cried out, both numb and exhausted. I wasn’t convinced that getting drunk on top of all that sadness would be an improvement.
“I don’t think Key West does a lot with funeral homes,” Eric said. “Strange that they scheduled this event right during the Sunset Celebration. Though I suppose that’s going to keep the undesirable attendees away. The people who didn’t really know him but might come to do some grisly people watching. Or score free drinks.”
As we walked down the alley to the bar, the odors of garbage and fermented alcohol assaulted us. Once inside the entrance gate, we each snagged a glass of white wine from a passing waitress and moved to the back wall to look over the crowd. I spotted a man who was a dead ringer for Bart, only some thirty years older. “That has to be his father,” I said. “I’m going over to give him my condolences.”
When the couple who had been talking to the elder Mr. Gates moved away, I stepped in with my hand outstretched. “I’m Hayley Snow,” I said. “I didn’t know your son well”—not at all but I wouldn’t tell him that—“but I enjoyed his act at the pier many, many times. I am so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he said, and squeezed my hand between his, staggering a little as he did. “Shank you.” The man was absolutely smashed.
I fell quiet for a moment, mentally scrambling for what to say. A minister’s words from a funeral that I’d attended a while ago in the Episcopalian church on Duval Street flooded my mind and I spit them out. “It’s so wrong when a young person goes like this. Well, I mean murder is always wrong. But I mean a young person’s death—it’s not fair. Your son had so much potential. So many years to enjoy life and make his mark.” I stopped blathering to give him a chance to respond.
Mr. Gates looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Make his mark?” he asked, his voice growing louder. “Would he ever have managed that?”
A woman in a black dress, with droopy eyes and very red lips, came over and took his arm. “Thish is Hayley Mills,” he told her. “Thish is Bart’s mother, my wife.”
“Snow,” I said, with an automatic smile. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Other people before Bart made terrible mistakes and bounced back,” she told him. “Who would’ve thought Senator Kennedy could go from Chappaquiddick to the Senate? And President Clinton, he fell into a ridiculous scandal and came out more popular than ever.”
Mr. Gates squared his shoulders, as though she might have convinced him of this truth.
“No telling what Bart might have done, had he been given the chance,” I said wagging my head sadly. The woman nodded with me.
Mr. Gates picked up the glass of beer that he’d set on the bar when he greeted me. The bartender had filled it to the brim while we talked. “The hard truth was, Bart never could own up to his mistakes. How in the world was he supposed to move beyond them?”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s cruel. He would have gotten around to that,” she said. “The way those others did.”
I was trying to figure out how to ask what Bart’s mistake had been, when the woman grabbed her husband’s arm, murmuring her thanks, and pulled him away to greet some other mourners.
“How did that go?” Eric asked when I returned to his position against the wall.
I made a face and held my hand up, fingers an inch apart. “Bart’s mother seems to be under the impression that their son was just this close to leaving a legacy like President Clinton or Senator Kennedy. His father’s not so sure.”
* * *
By the time we got back to Houseboat Row, starving and worn as thin as a strand of angel hair pasta, I could smell the garlicky-tomato scent of my spaghetti sauce wafting all the way up the finger. Miss Gloria met us on the deck and announced that she’d been fielding texts from her mah jong friends ever since we’d left. News had spread like full-moon floodwaters through Key West that another death had occurred, this one in the cemetery. The residents who lived in that section of Old Town were frantic, and the police department had received hundreds of anxious calls.
“There’s a special meeting called for seven thirty tomorrow night at the Old City Hall,” she said. “Everyone will be there. The city commissioners will be in attendance along with the police chief and other officers. Of course they want to reassure the citizens,” added Miss Gloria. “But I don’t see how that’s going to happen unless they’ve got the real murderer behind bars. My friends are hysterical—and they are sturdy old ladies.”
“I guess we’ll have to attend that meeting,” I said with a sigh. “But where’s Lorenzo? How’s he holding up? Is he resting?”
“They picked him up about half an hour after you left,” said Miss Gloria, her gaze not meeting mine. “I didn’t see the point of calling you, because his lawyer was here and said he had to go. There wasn’t a darned thing you could have done. Apparently the evidence against him is mounting.”