Chapter Twelve

She was not much of a cook, but she married men who could cook. Men, one after another, who beat her, she said, until she looked like a melanzana, the deep purple color of an eggplant.

—Victoria Pesce Elliott, “Remembering My Mom’s Meatballs,” Miami Herald, November 24, 2015

Before plunging right into our duties at the Hemingway Home, Miss Gloria and I took a quick swing around the grounds. The crowd seemed subdued, though the lines at the bars were long, with bartenders mixing drinks as fast as the patrons could swallow them—mojitos, Cuba Libres, and Hemingway specials made from rum, grapefruit and lime juices, and a dash of maraschino cherry liquid. I returned to the catering truck and took a tray of mini Cuban sandwiches and black bean burgers garnished with avocado and caramelized onions. Miss Gloria followed me with a tray containing small plastic cups of black bean soup. I kept one eye on her and both ears open for any news about yesterday’s tragic events.

Once my tray was almost empty, I carried it to the side of the lawn where my friend Bill was standing with Turner Markham. They appeared to be arguing. As soon as I got within hearing distance of their conversation, I wished I had gone another direction. But they’d seen me, and I thought it would feel more awkward to turn and bolt.

“Why drag them over there and rub their noses in that tawdry history?” Markham was asking. “They’re already upset about the problems this weekend with theft and murder, as well they should be.”

“Exactly because it’s history,” Bill said, his posture even straighter than usual. “We are supposed to be talking about historical relations between our island and theirs. The thinking is that once we know where we came from, we can figure out where we go. These chugs were an important, though admittedly fraught, part of our joint history. Eric would say it’s like psychotherapy—you don’t make progress if you only skate along the surface.”

Markham looked stubbornly unconvinced and Bill appeared increasingly annoyed. “We’re also doing this because we told them we were planning to,” Bill added. “How would it look if we changed the agenda now? We’d look like marionettes, like someone was pulling our strings behind the curtain.”

I couldn’t help thinking it might also look as though they were responding reasonably to rising tensions at the conference—and fears about the possibility of another tragedy. Or, canceling the chug visit could look like bowing to one side’s politics at the price of the other’s. It was complicated for sure.

“A lot of things have happened already this weekend that weren’t planned,” said Markham. “And it seems to me that part of the problem was biting off way more than you could reasonably handle.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning if you people had kept your focus on the conference itself instead of showing off with fancy speakers and musicians, it might have gone well. And if you had thought to have someone watching the displays in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.” Markham was fairly hissing by this point.

I grinned inanely and thrust my picked-over tray of goodies between the two of them. “Tonight we are serving mini Cuban sandwiches with mojo-marinated pork roast with maple mustard and pickles from our local Pickle Baron. And for the non–meat eaters, we are serving mini black bean burgers spiced with cumin and jalapeños.”

Both Bill and Markham grimaced and refused my proffered nibbles. Fortunately, I was saved from babbling further inanities when the Key West mayor stepped up to the podium.

“On behalf of the staff of the Hemingway Home and on behalf of our conference organizers and all the people of Key West, I am privileged to welcome you to Hemingway’s Key West home.”

He went on to describe Hemingway’s love for both the towns of Key West and Havana. Behind me, I heard a man whisper to his wife that Key West officials seemed to ignore the fact that Hemingway had spent little time on this island compared with the time he spent in his Havana home. More competition over Hemingway, but this time the two islands were jostling for position. It occurred to me that the folks who ran this home might feel a bit like one of Hemingway’s earlier wives—left, by a man with large appetites, for something more alluring.

“While you continue to enjoy hors d’oeuvres,” the mayor went on, “we welcome you to take a tour of the home. Your host will be one of our premier guides, Rusty Hodgdon.” He pointed to Rusty, who waved and smiled, and the visitors began to cluster around him. “After the tour, you’ll be delighted by our caterer’s foray into Cuban sweets. I hear the guava pastries are to die for.” He seemed to realize this was an unfortunate description, as he stepped down from the podium and melted quickly into the crowd.

“Tonight we will start our tour in the living room with the man who built the house in 1851, Asa Tift, a wrecker/salvager and marine architect,” Rusty said in a booming voice. “He died in 1889, alone and without a will. The estate got tied up in litigation and remained primarily boarded up and empty for forty-two years until Ernest Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer, bought it in 1931 for eight thousand dollars.”

His words trailed off as he led the group from the porch into the house. I signaled to Bill and pulled him aside to see how his day had gone.

“Just about as well as you can imagine given that ugly exchange you overheard,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “Poor Bob is so upset about the missing medal and the stabbing, he’s rendered practically mute. We were hoping for all kinds of great publicity for the Little White House this weekend. Instead we’ve become the focus of lurid stories about theft and murder.” He tipped his chin at the police officers checking visitors’ purses and bags as they exited through the front gate.

“Are you worried something else is going to happen?” I asked Bill.

“That’s a concern,” he said. “Half the people involved with this conference want to cancel the rest of the weekend. But anybody involved in potential lucrative business deals, of course, thinks that’s a terrible idea.”

“Who’s on that list?” I asked, my mind reeling with thoughts about how the murder might have hurt some attendees and helped others.

“Dana Sebek, who’s working on access to Cuban coral reefs, wants the discussions to continue.” Bill nodded at the attractive woman I’d seen in his group on Friday, and we watched her chatter with a little group of Havana visitors.

“How about Bob?” I asked.

“Of course he wants everyone to be safe. But canceling would be a big blow to our organization. We were hoping to not only score lots of new memberships but also secure corporate sponsorships.

“And I wouldn’t say this to him, but now I’m a little worried about taking this group to the botanical garden. Our mayor’s already declined to accompany us. And Markham doesn’t want to go either. And who knows how many of the Cubans will come?” His eyes brightened. “Any chance you could come along tomorrow morning? I could use some extra help defusing the tension. Someone who could keep up a line of chitchat…”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” I grinned, thinking about the obligations already packing tomorrow’s schedule. But he looked desperate, so I didn’t see how I could refuse. “Sure,” I said. “Anything for you. What time?”

“Seven thirty at the entrance to the garden?”

I hurried off to load my tray with the sweet delicacies my mom had whipped up today. So far, her Cuban-style food was rivaling what I’d tasted this morning at El Siboney. I hoped my mojito cake could live up to her standards. I nearly flattened Lieutenant Torrence as I rushed back to the party with a full tray of guava pastries, rice pudding, and mini dulce de leche cheesecakes.

“You’re in a hurry,” he said. “Something important on your mind?”

“Pastries filled with guava and cream cheese,” I said with what was certainly a silly grin. He had a sweet tooth, but his really soft spot was for my red velvet cake. And that would definitely not be on the menu tonight.

“Can you bring Miss Gloria to the police station sometime tomorrow morning?” he asked. “It’s more or less routine. We’ll be going over what you told us yesterday about what you noticed before and after the murder.”

“More or less routine?” I narrowed my eyes and tried to read the real meaning behind his words. “I take it that means you’re not close to an arrest.”

He said nothing, but then zipped his fingers across his lips. “The investigation isn’t going the way we’d hoped. The Cuban visitors have buttoned up tight. Whether they were told not to talk or whether this is their normal reaction to police questions, no one seems to have seen much of anything.”

“Hence, the second interviews,” I said. “Maybe early afternoon, would that work? Morning is already more full than I can manage. I just agreed to go with this group to the botanical gardens, plus somehow they managed to get Gabriel’s funeral mass scheduled on a Sunday morning. I’ll make sure Miss Gloria is free as well. By the way, how are Zeus and Apollo?”

Torrence owned two elderly miniature Pinschers and doted on them the way I did Evinrude. He beamed. “They’re doing well for old guys. I’ll tell them that you asked. In fact, you might see them tomorrow and you can ask yourself. They’re coming to the station for our ‘take your dog to work’ day.”

*   *   *

We were puttering home to the houseboat by eleven, me wondering all the way how I’d get everything on tomorrow’s to-do list accomplished. Somehow I’d make it work—the funeral, the cake, the articles, the chugs, the police, assisting with the dinner at the Little White House. Somehow it would all fall into place. Though tallying up the list made me feel anxious.

Once we parked at Houseboat Row, greeted the cats, and distributed bits of tuna, I felt exhausted but my nerves were jangling. “I don’t know how I can sleep,” I told Miss G.

“Me either,” she said.

And she was the champion of sleeping.

“Plus,” she continued, “I’m afraid that the police will want to hammer on me tomorrow, pressure me to tell them something about the murder. But it’s all a jamble in my mind. I’d hate to make things up because I’m nervous.” She looked so cute, with her quivery lips and white hair sticking up every which way. And so worried.

“They only push old ladies on TV cop shows,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

She rolled her eyes. “This from a woman who gets hysterical every time she has to set foot in that station.”

“I’ve gotten better since I’ve gotten to know some of the guys.”

But she had a point. I could still remember my disastrous first visit to the KWPD when they’d fingered me as one of the suspects for murder by key lime pie. Official police visits were stressful, for sure, no matter the circumstances. Truth was, I felt jumpy about separating fact from fiction, too. “What if we did a guided meditation?” I asked.

“What the heck is that?”

“Eric uses it sometimes with his anxious patients,” I said. “He gets them to relax and then leads them through their memories of a traumatic event.” This was not my worst idea ever—imagining what we’d seen and heard before the popping noises. Miss Gloria, especially, might come up with some clues about Gabriel’s killer. She had been close to the storeroom where the murder happened.

“His most neurotic patients?” Miss Gloria asked with a giggle. “We would fit right in.”

“I didn’t ask him. You know how tight-lipped he is about his people. Probably.”

“How does it work?” she asked.

“First we lie down somewhere where we can relax.” We went back out onto the deck to our matching chaise lounges. There was no need to consult on this: this tiny spot of heaven drained the tension out of a tight body faster than any masseuse could have. I lit the candle that sat on the table between us, and it flickered softly in the darkness, reminding me of a gothic romance novel.

“What next?”

“Next we close our eyes and tighten and relax our muscle groups.” I talked her through what I thought I remembered Eric telling me. “Notice your feet and toes, the cells, the skin, the muscles, the bones. Now tighten them as hard as you can, tighter and tighter.”

“If this gives me a charley horse, I’m going to be peeved,” said Miss Gloria.

“Shhh. Now let the tension go.” By the time I’d moved up and down our bodies, I could feel my breathing getting slower and more even. Miss Gloria’s sounded that way too. I was afraid she was falling asleep, although that wasn’t all bad either. Sometimes, because she had more zip than a lot of women half her age, I forgot that she was on the far side of eighty years old.

“Now,” I said, “picture yourself at the Little White House. There is Cuban music playing in the background, and you are carrying a tray with plates of flan on it. And then there is a popping noise—Ratatatat!” I shouted, startling both of us with my imitation of what had sounded like gunfire.

“Lordy lordy,” said Miss Gloria, “you scared the bejeepers out of me. If this is supposed to relax a nervous customer, I don’t see how Eric keeps any of them.”

“Maybe that’s not how he does it,” I said, feeling discouraged. But suddenly I was flooded with the urgent tension of that moment. I remembered dropping to the ground and the way my tray of custards bounced off the ground and splashed onto the people around me. I saw my mother’s auburn hair, Markham’s gorgeous pink shirt, and a pretty flowered skirt. Maybe Dana Sebek’s?

“I didn’t hit the dirt when they hollered at us,” said Miss Gloria. “I kind of started to slump and then Sam helped me to a chair.”

“Do you remember hearing or seeing anything unusual before we heard popping noises? Did anyone come out of the kitchen who maybe didn’t belong there?”

She closed her eyes and frowned, concentrating. “Do you know the men’s room door is right next to the kitchen?” she asked. “I’m having trouble figuring out who came out which door.”

I reached across the space between us for her hand. “Maybe you heard something,” I said in a soft voice. Hoping like heck that she wouldn’t come up with the sounds of a man getting stabbed.

She shrugged and opened her eyes. “Nothing’s coming to me. But I know the mayor and Lieutenant Torrence were there almost immediately.”

“The Cuban mayor?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And that woman we always see on the television commercials. The one with those pointy shoes? She’s in real estate, I think. Or maybe she’s the one who has the scuba diving company.”

“Dana Sebek,” I said. “She owns the dive shop over on Green Street, and maybe she works with Reef Relief, too? Her husband does something with dogs.”

“I wonder why she was invited to the conference?” Miss Gloria asked.

“Don’t you know that Cuba has the most pristine coral reefs in the world? I bet there are American companies chomping at the bit to get a claim on those reefs. And dollars to doughnuts, she’s one of them.”

“Anybody else?” I asked.

“Bill, of course, and Bob, and Turner Markham and Mayor Diaz and Irena, but she had a good reason to be going near the kitchen.”

“One thing we can say for sure, the killer had to have been at the party,” I said. “No one from the outside could have gotten in.”

“Who knows? Security isn’t perfect, you know.”

I sat up, feeling my eyes go wide. “Wouldn’t a person who stabbed another person be covered in blood?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “I’ve been watching that cop TV show, Bosch? Turns out a trained assassin can stab someone without leaving a drop of blood on his clothes. Something to do with cutting the bleeders on your chest first.”