Chapter Ten

When I need to get away from it all, competing for a table is one of the main things I’m getting away from. That, and meals longer than a filibuster, and hearing that “chef” would like me to eat this particular taste in one bite while rubbing my stomach and patting my head.

—Pete Wells, “So Long, Menus; Hello, Pots and Pans,” The New York Times, August 19, 2015

The last thing I was interested in doing was eating a meal at the Cuban restaurant and writing the darned thing up. But both Palamina and Wally had been good about allowing me the time off during this high season weekend when our e-zine was most popular, so I wasn’t about to let them down. I’d promised them both that I could handle everything—actually, not only promised, but made it sound as though this weekend would be a cakewalk. I’d laid it on thick as chocolate sour cream icing. So I had no choice but to eat fast and write faster.

El Siboney was located in a low-key residential area of Old Town, and from early morning to late at night, the restaurant filled the neighborhood with the smells of garlic, cumin, and roasted pork. They don’t take reservations, so in the busy high season, tourists lined up for dinner starting at five. I was hoping that showing up for an early lunch would help me bypass the wait that I didn’t have time for. The outside of the building was unassuming red brick, while the inside had the feel of a diner, with red vinyl tablecloths, yellow beadboard walls, furniture serving function over form, and tons of hot sauce.

I was seated quickly at a two-top, and ordered the traditional roast pork dinner that I hadn’t tried before. While I waited, I tried to keep my uneasiness about Lorenzo’s cards at bay by drafting the introduction for my Cuban food piece. One ugly, clunky sentence in, I could see this wasn’t going to happen.

The tarot reading wasn’t my only concern—just the latest in a long line of problems and questions. I was also feeling sad about Gabriel and Maria—who murdered him and why—plus worried sick for Bill, hoping the conference wouldn’t be canceled for my mother’s sake, and wondering who in the world would’ve stolen that gold medal. As I gazed into space, mind whirling, a slender woman with long dark hair and a T-shirt reading SUN, RUM, KEY LIME PIE led a group of tourists into the dining room and settled them at a large table against the wall. My friend Analise Smith from Key West Food Tours.

“You’ll be eating pork in mojo sauce with onions, served along with traditional Cuban side dishes. Mojo sauce is a classic Cuban marinade made of sour orange, oregano, cumin, garlic, and salt. Keep in mind that this is only the first stop of six,” she reminded her patrons, “so make sure you save some room for the rest of the samples. And also, save a little piece of Cuban bread for something I’ll show you after lunch. The bread is a particular staple of the Cuban people, and it’s made with lard.”

Several of the tourists groaned.

“Wait until you taste it,” she said with a laugh. “Lard might become your new favorite ingredient.” She left them distributing water from a plastic pitcher and slid into the chair across from me.

“What in the world went on last night at the conference?” she asked. “It’s all the talk of the island.” Analise’s mother was Cuban, so she would have had her finger on the pulse of that community.

“It was bad,” I said, and told her how Maria’s brother had been killed late in the evening, and about the popping noises that had sent the guests diving into the dirt. “We lost several trays of flan, too,” I said. “Sounds absurd, doesn’t it, that I would even think of that when a man died?”

“Sounds like you’re in shock,” Analise said.

I felt tears prick my eyes. Though I’d broken down the night before when the police had questioned me, I hadn’t allowed myself to truly feel how stressful the night had been since then. I’d tried to wall my reactions off and march forward as though life were normal. And convince myself that even if it wasn’t, I could handle whatever was thrown at me. “I think you’re right,” I said, sniffling and digging in my backpack for a tissue. I finally gave up and wiped my nose on a paper napkin.

“Though lord knows flan can cause a family feud on this island,” she added, once I’d composed myself.

I laughed. “I keep wondering if this was about something personal? Was there a personal relationship between Gabriel and some other person at the party that we knew nothing about? Or was the killer someone who disagreed violently with the idea of the conference? But then why kill Gabriel?”

“Plenty of people don’t approve of this weekend,” Analise admitted. “Not every Cuban-American who lives in Key West or Miami or anywhere in the U.S. feels good about improving the relationship between the countries. If your family lost a lot while fleeing Cuba, then the taste in your mouth could be very bitter.”

“Of course,” I said.

“The part about Hemingway’s gold medal gone missing, is that true?” Analise asked.

“Yes, that’s what sent yesterday off to a ghastly start. There were a lot of priceless Hemingway artifacts on display, including the medal he won for The Old Man and the Sea. It was stolen right out from under our eyes. Once that happened, the organizers were of course scrambling to locate it, and when they couldn’t, explain its absence away. But the Cuban delegation was outraged.” I made a face and heaved a big sigh. “We thought that had to be the low point of the evening, but then the murder was discovered at the very time Mr. Obama was onstage.”

Her eyes got wide. “Obama? So it’s true what I read in the Key West locals Facebook group this morning.”

Key West seems to run on the fuel of Facebook gossip, especially in the high winter season.

I nodded. “And Diana Nyad. And Jimmy Buffet. An amazing trifecta. Can you imagine what a coup it was to get them all together on that little patch of lawn?” I sighed again. “To have the night ruined was devastating on so many levels. Do you know Maria?”

“A little,” she said. “She’s a nice lady and devoted to her mother. Her brother too. I’ve tasted her magical flan. I believe it’s her grandmother’s recipe, brought over from the mother country. They guard it as though it was the family jewels.”

Just then, an efficient waitress delivered my food. “Gracias,” I said, inhaling the magical smells that rose from the hot food. “Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?” I asked Analise.

She nodded.

“Can I sit with you? Maybe you can help me translate if the Spanish overwhelms me.”

After agreeing to meet outside Our Lady of the Sea at nine forty-five the next morning, Analise returned to her tour group and I to my food. I snapped photos of the dish, then sampled citrusy roast pork, deep-fried plantains, and rice with black beans, trying to think of words that would describe how ordinary ingredients could come together in such a homey and delicious way.

I accepted the check as a text vibrated in from my mother. I didn’t need to hear the tone of voice to realize that she was stressed to the point of hysterical.

IRENA AND MARIA NO GO FOR TODAY. CAN YOU SPARE TIME TO HELP SET UP AT HEMINGWAY HOME?

BE THERE IN 20, I tapped back into my phone.

It wasn’t on my calendar, but I felt terrible about the way my mother’s first major job was going. And then I realized that if my friend Rusty Hodgdon was on guide duty today, I might be able to learn everything I would ever want to know about that missing gold medal. And more important, even the murder.