Chapter Seven

Any fool can make a sauce but you can’t fake the crust.

—Adam Gopnik, The Most Beautiful Room in New York

“Don’t panic,” I muttered, although inside that’s exactly what I was doing. We hear about shootings and other terrorist incidents every day, but who thinks it could happen to them? I craned my neck from side to side to try to see what was happening. Within seconds, the former president and the other celebrities had been whisked off the stage into waiting vehicles. The cars sped off, and security guards and police began swarming the building. Two German shepherds and their handlers wove among the flattened guests, sniffing.

Some long minutes later, the authorities cleared us to get to our feet. I brushed the dirt off my face and knees and tried to sop up the worst of the caramel sauce as it trickled down my chin and chest. Following Sam’s lead, I hurried among the tables, assisting guests who were struggling to get up. Sam and my mother instructed the bartenders to move around the diners, offering more wine. We raced back to the staging area outside the kitchen to pick up undamaged flan and deliver the dessert. As I wound through the tables with a large tray, Bob climbed the steps to the stage and took the microphone in hand.

“Sorry about the interruption, folks.” He looked sheepish and unhappy but tried to cover it with a smile. “One of our bartenders came across a defective bottle of prosecco, and that unfortunately, made the popping noise you heard. And that startled one of our waitresses. Hence the yelling.”

There was some laughter from the guests, but underneath that, a murmur of complaints and disbelief. And I had to agree—how could a bottle of fizzy Italian champagne make a sound that would cause someone to scream as though they were being murdered? And besides, his face was lined with anxiety—the longer he stood on the stage, the sicker with worry he seemed. He breathed in deeply.

“Unfortunately, there has been an incident with someone inside the building who was frightened by the noise. Rescue workers are with him now. Meanwhile, authorities will most likely need to talk with many of you, so please sit tight for the moment,” he added. “The caterers are in the process of serving the most amazing flan you might find anywhere, outside of Cuba, of course. Please enjoy that while you wait.” He patted his forehead with a white hanky. “A quick note for conference participants: tomorrow morning, meetings will be taking place at our new city hall on White Street rather than here on the Little White House grounds. Following those sessions, we will gather at the Sunset Key boat dock on the Margaritaville Westin pier at noon for our short trip to have lunch on the island.”

A babble of questions rose up from the guests, but Bob descended heavily from the stage without answering.

“What in the world is going on?” I whispered to my mother, who seemed ready to cry or burst into a thousand pieces. “The police wouldn’t ask to talk to bystanders if someone had a heart attack.”

“Not clear yet,” said Sam, his mouth set hard and his hand resting protectively on my mother’s back. “Something to do with Maria. For sure, she won’t be available to help clean up; that’s all we’ve heard.”

As I delivered the last tray of flan to one of the tables, I saw Lieutenant Torrence deep in conversation with Mayor Diaz. Diaz, who’d worn a sour expression since the gold medal incident this morning, had grown increasingly furious. I hoped my friend’s Spanish would be up to the task. I hustled around my section as well as what would have been Maria’s, picking up empty plates and listening to the conversations.

“This flan is astonishing,” said a redheaded woman at one of my tables. “What are the chances you could get me this recipe?”

“Not a whisker,” I said. “And I’ve tried everything outside of kidnapping the chef.”

Shortly after my mother and Sam were taken inside, though it seemed like hours later, my turn came to talk with the authorities. As I was ushered into the building, I felt relieved to have the chance to go into the kitchen and find out what had really happened. Maria sat at the kitchen table sobbing hysterically, smudges of blood on her face and hands. Police and other security formed a circle around her, trying to calm her enough to answer some questions.

“Oh my god, what happened?” I asked my mother, who had retreated against the windows in the hall.

“I can’t even believe it,” she whispered. She pointed in the direction of the storage area where I had placed the empty coolers earlier. “She found her brother in that closet. He’d been stabbed in the chest, and there was blood everywhere.” Mom looked dazed and frozen.

“Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Where in the world are the paramedics?” I asked, feeling a rising tide of panic.

“They’ve already been in with him,” Sam said grimly. “It’s too late to do any good. Obviously, this is a crime scene now.”

I clapped a hand to my mouth and took a step back. “Dead?” Nathan had warned me about a possible negative event, but never in a million years had I imagined something like this. Or maybe I just hadn’t wanted to consider a possibility like this. “What can I do? How can we help?”

Sam tipped his chin at Irena, who had her hand on Maria’s shoulder, shushing and calming her as though she were the mother and Maria a desperate baby. And having about that much effect too, which is to say, none. “Nothing to do right now.”

Steve Torrence came up behind us, his face fierce. “We need to talk with each of you again, one at a time, to find out what you heard and saw. So please remain in the area until we finish the interviews. Likely, we will need to talk to you again tomorrow as well.”

“Did the president get away all right?” my mother asked, a sorrowful hitch in her voice.

“He’s fine,” said Torrence. “Jimmy Buffett too. Hayley, can you come with me please?”

He nodded at me and I followed him to the other side of the kitchen and then down the opposite hallway, where a chair had been set up to face the police. Nathan was waiting, along with a woman detective I had met several years ago when my stepbrother disappeared into a spring break crowd. They both looked deadly serious. Behind them stood a man dressed in black, wearing an FBI jacket.

“Take a seat, please,” the woman said.

I held a hand up to my boyfriend, my lips beginning to quiver. “I know, I’m sorry, I should have listened. But you can see there is no way we could have canceled this evening. Not with all those big stars coming. And it’s a terribly important subject—I’m only now beginning to realize how different the points of view are and to understand some of the history—”

I could tell from the horrified look on Nathan’s face that I was frothing-at-the-mouth babbling. But I couldn’t seem to stop. “I guess the more immediate question is why in the world would someone want to kill Gabriel? He has nothing to do with any of this; he was just working for the caterers.”

I collapsed onto the folding chair and began to hyperventilate.

“Mom needed some extra muscle and he was available, and, oh god, poor Maria—”

“Hayley, stop talking for a minute,” Nathan said quietly. He squatted down next to me and took my hand, stroking it from wrist to fingertips. “Take a deep breath, sweetheart. Finding the killer is our job now, isn’t it? You don’t need to worry; we’ll find out the answer. We’ve got all kinds of professionals here. Good ones.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to take in a couple of deep yoga breaths, feeling his warm hand on mine and noticing the scent of his perspiration. This night had been a horrible and tragic shock for everyone, not just me. I needed to pull myself together.

Once I’d stopped shaking, I opened my eyes again. “Okay. Sorry. I’m ready now. Sorry.” Nathan stood up and indicated to the others that the interview could proceed.

“Start at the beginning,” said the lady cop. “When did you notice anything off about this party?”

I reported how the protesters and the heavy security had set everyone on edge right from the get-go. And then I described the fighting—squabbling really—between Commissioner Markham and the Havana mayor. “Of course, once the gold medal disappeared, we were all on tenterhooks. Maria”—I pointed down the hall, where we could still hear the sobbing woman—“was sure her brother would be blamed.”

“What was the reason for that assumption?” asked Nathan.

“Do you want facts or speculation?” I asked.

My detective sighed. “Definitely facts, if you happen to have any, and might as well hear the speculation now as later.”

I bit my lip and tried to concentrate above the injured animal sounds Maria was making in the kitchen. But I could feel her terror and sorrow swirling, winding me tighter and tighter.

“Things could be worse, right? At least you have a closed crime scene. And a list of all the attendees. The problem will be going through all the names and trying to figure out who in the world had a connection to Gabriel or Maria. Or Irena, for that matter, since Gabriel was her cousin. Or maybe it wasn’t personal at all. He could have happened upon someone doing something bad and simply been horribly unlucky. My gosh, there must be Secret Service agents everywhere, even on the condo roofs, right? Surely…” My words were coming out faster and faster and my breath, too, whistling like the wind in a set of bagpipes that couldn’t quite get going.

Nathan reached across the space between us and took my shaking hand again. “Hayley, sweetheart, we don’t need you to run the investigation, remember? We’ve got the FBI here and the Secret Service and most of the Key West Police Department. We only need you to tell us what you saw and heard, okay?”

I nodded, looking down at my small hand in his big one, grateful beyond words for his kindness.

“Breathe with me first,” he said, inhaling a big gulp of cumin-scented air and letting it out slowly.

I followed his lead, whooshed out some air, shuddered, and found myself a tiny bit calmer.

“Can you handle one more thing?” he asked, his voice soft.

But I got the underlying meaning. They needed me. “Sure,” I said. “Anything.”

“Do you recognize this knife?”