Fatal Reservations (25 page)

“Clever girl,” I said.

“Any thoughts about what you could add?” Palamina asked me. “Besides your food beat, of course. But not local politics. Wally and I will cover the hard stuff.”

Another zinger. Somehow I had to convince her I wasn’t an idiot. I creaked through the recesses of my brain like an old Rolodex, with the three of them watching and waiting. “What about a story on the cemetery?”
I asked, spilling out the first real thought that came to mind.

“The cemetery?” Palamina asked.

“I’m thinking about the history layered in there. And the way you can get a sense of Key West over the years by looking at the neighborhoods in the graveyard and different styles of stones. And all those complex relationships . . .”

Wally and Palamina exchanged a glance, and then Wally said, “Sounds like it’s worth a try. Just nothing too grim.”

“Deep, though,” added Palamina.

“Deep but not grim,” I repeated. “Anything else?”

Palamina glanced at the list on her laptop. “You have your story on For Goodness’ Sake ready this morning?”

“One note on that,” I said. “I’m kind of thinking we might want to visit the restaurant again before I tweak the review one last time.”

Palamina narrowed her eyes and tapped her lip with a pencil. “Why?” she asked. “Do you feel we didn’t cover all the bases? Seems to me like we tried most of the items on the menu.”

I hemmed and stuttered a little more and finally spit it out. “Mrs. Mastin lobbied me for another visit. Her husband was so distressed about the dead girl we found in the cemetery. He’s feeling that loss so deeply and she’s concerned that a bad review would finish
him off. She says they’ll pay for the second meal. They realize that they need to simplify the menu.” I widened my eyes, trying to look hopeful, when even to me the explanation sounded lame.

Dead silence for a moment.

“I hate to be blunt,” said Palamina, “but that seems like a terrible idea. A terrible precedent to set.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “I recall that Ava wanted to accept advertising from restaurants in
Key Zest
in exchange for reviews. And I know you struggled with her on this, how much to allow the restaurant owners and chefs to influence your stories.”

She waited until I nodded my agreement.

“And you were right to push back on Ava and maintain your independence as a critic,” she said. “We have to try to stay autonomous and transparent, as much as that’s possible in a small town.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “I felt bad for her; that’s all. I was letting my heart lead the way when I said I’d ask at this morning’s meeting.” Which I probably shouldn’t have said, as it implied that Palamina had no heart.

When the meeting was finally over I slunk back to my office cubby and e-mailed the story on For Goodness’ Sake to Palamina and Wally. Feeling utterly glum—and lonely, too—I texted Miss Gloria to say I’d pick her up and take her to lunch. She texted me right back.

Rain check? Plans with the ladies.

Even my elderly roommate had more going on than I did.

Next I called Lieutenant Torrence. “I’ve heard that things are looking bad for Lorenzo,” I said. “Is there anything new?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“I don’t believe he has it in his heart to kill someone. Certainly not a second person.”

“We can’t operate on hunches,” said Torrence quietly. “No matter how well-meaning they are.”

Dead end there. With lunch with Miss Gloria out of the question, the only thing I could think to do was work. I would write a brilliant article on the cemetery neighborhoods. I had to show Palamina—and Wally, too—that I belonged permanently on the staff of
Key Zest
. And that I could handle any subject under any deadline pressure they might throw at me.

And maybe while I was at it, I could find something in that cemetery that we’d all overlooked. Something that might spring Lorenzo from jail—permanently.

23

Meat keeps cooking when you take it off the flame; my mother could turn herself off in an instant.

—Jessica Soffer,
Tomorrow There
Will Be Apricots

I puttered slowly across Grinnell Street and took a right turn on Angela, which runs along the west side of the cemetery. Two houses over, I spotted two older folks on their porch, rocking in rocking chairs and sipping drinks. Their home, a gorgeous eyebrow design built to keep out the hot sun and trap the sea breezes, was half a block from the cemetery entrance and only a stone’s throw from Cheryl Lynn’s place. I stopped, not exactly sure what I could extract from them—or what I even wanted. But if they spent a lot of time watching the world go by, who knows what they might have seen?

“Terrible business at our cemetery lately,” I called to them. “I’m doing a story on the situation and wondered if you wouldn’t mind chatting with me for a bit.”

“Not at all,” said the woman in a cultured English accent. “Come up and sit with us. I’m Maureen and this is Brian.”

I parked the scooter and scurried up the stairs. “Your home and garden are lovely.” I gestured at the stone walkway and manicured plants and a turquoise metal
sculpture that I recognized as a John Martini critter, half bird, half fish.

“You’ll have to excuse our drinking so early in the day,” Maureen said. “But since the murder we don’t feel comfortable sitting out at night anymore, so we’re starting early.” She giggled. “Besides, our granddaughter sent us a monthly subscription to craft beers. I never drank a beer in my life before this. But we have to make a dent in these before the next shipment arrives.”

She grinned at her husband, who appeared to be drinking a Budweiser. “He doesn’t care much for them,” she added with a laugh, “but this chocolate-flavored beer has me hooked. Can I get you one?”

“No, thanks,” I said, wondering whether to query them about the cemetery’s history or the latest murder. She’d already mentioned the murder, so I went with that. “I work for
Key Zest
magazine. We’re doing a story about crime in the city. I thought our readers would like to hear from residents about the psychological effects of the recent crime wave on the neighborhood.”

“The burglaries have had us all at sixes and sevens for months, but the murder takes the cake,” Brian said. “You can’t rule out that it was a vigilante killing.”

“A vigilante killing?”

“I’m saying someone might have figured out who the thief was. Someone who was really dratted tired of being afraid. And who then decided to take matters into their own darn hands.”

“Watch your language, Brian, darling,” his wife piped up. “We are all so very tired of someone sneaking into our houses and stealing things right off our nightstands while we sleep.” Maureen shivered and took another sip of beer. “I’ve had trouble dropping off to sleep lately, just thinking of someone breaking in.”

“But on the other hand, blaming the burglaries on a dead girl wraps things up a little too neatly, maybe, eh?” Brian said.

“We have seen a man hanging around this area lately,” said Maureen in a hoarse whisper. “Visiting that dead girl’s home. We were the ones who tipped off the cops.”

“What did he look like?” I asked, a cloud of dread clogging my throat.

“Tall,” she said glancing at her husband for confirmation. He nodded. “With dark curly or wavy hair.”

“And glasses,” he added. “And the waist on his pants up a little higher than most people wear these days.”

The description was a dead ringer for Lorenzo. I gulped and tried to focus on the rest of what she was saying, rather than the miasma of doubt and fear that enveloped me.

“Maybe he was a friend of the woman,” I said. “Maybe they were socializing, like normal people. Maybe he had nothing to do with her death.”

“Maybe,” said Brian. “But we felt we needed to tell the police, let them figure out the facts.”

“We moved here,” Maureen said, “because everyone told us the neighbors were so quiet at the cemetery.” They both snickered—a joke they’d enjoyed before. “Hasn’t turned out to be that way, though.”

I declined another offer of the chocolate beer, then stood up and said my good-byes. I drove the last half block to the cemetery, parked, and entered through the black metal gate. I wandered up the main drag to the plot where we’d found Cheryl Lynn, drawn like a fly to a rotten carcass. Who was she really?

The sparse grass around the three-tiered crypt had
been flattened by the boots of the cops and the rescue crew. Someone had replaced the rectangle of stone behind which Cheryl Lynn had lain, and cemented it in. I watched an ant scurry up the wall, wander in loops around the fresh cement and then around the family’s name, written in crabbed script.

This was no random death. It took too much effort to kill a grown woman and then drag her here, open the crypt, and hoist her body inside.

I decided to try Lorenzo’s mother again, to see if she’d remembered anything useful. After I dialed her number, she answered on the first ring—not like my generation, who considers the bleat of a phone call highly intrusive. Most of my pals won’t even listen to a voice mail, much to their mothers’ annoyance. I identified myself.

“Have you heard something?” Her words rushed out. “I am so worried.”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m in the cemetery, looking at the crypt where Cheryl Lynn was found. I’m wondering if the place the killer left the body was a random choice or whether it was a statement of some kind. I’m also wondering how someone even got into the cemetery. I’m sure the gates are locked at night.”

“Maybe it’s like Gramercy Park in New York City,” said Lorenzo’s mother. “Special people who live nearby and own adjacent property have keys to the garden. It’s a very exclusive neighborhood. I used to walk by the park when I visited the city and imagine living there.” She chuckled. “Leave it to Cheryl Lynn to have figured out the angles. She’s been in bad trouble over the years, but this is the worst of it, of course.”

I felt the jerk of an emotional whiplash. Over the
years? My face felt suddenly flushed. “Didn’t you tell me Lorenzo only met her recently?”

“Well, I can’t be certain,” she stammered, sounding completely flustered. “Maybe I’m mixing her up with another of his clients?”

“If you know something, you should tell me. People are getting murdered down here.”

A long, loaded silence. “Lorenzo told me that her cousin’s death had nearly pushed her around the bend,” said Mrs. Smith finally. “And she was getting crazy about it again lately. He was so worried. I begged him to come and live with me. He could find work somewhere here in my town. That island is toxic,” she added. “Has he ever talked to you about the current that runs around the outside of Key West?”

“Yes, yes. It sucks you in or spits you out,” I said, still trying to picture Lorenzo living in that little retirement community in Fort Myers. I couldn’t. “Are you saying that Bart Frontgate was Cheryl Lynn’s cousin?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Smith. “The girl who died years ago was her cousin. Or some relation—I may have it wrong.”

I paused again. “How long had he known her? Please tell me the truth here.”

His mother said, “Known her? Whoever really knows anyone?”

I waited her out.

“Maybe fifteen years,” she said. “But it was all professional.”

I waited some more.

“They made a connection because they both lost their parents. He has clients every once in a while where the walls between them come down and his river of loss just flows into theirs. I don’t think he ever felt it more strongly than with her. The veil is very thin, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“He can be so attuned to other people’s sorrow. Sometimes he loses track of his boundaries. I need to go,” she said sadly. “My stretch-and-tone class is starting in five minutes.”

Once I had retrieved my scooter from where I’d parked outside the sexton’s office, my phone rang. It was my father. For once I was relieved to talk to him. He have an outsider’s opinion, and he loved being asked for advice. In a matter of minutes I had filled him in on all the goings-on over the last few days.

“I’m so worried about Lorenzo,” I added, echoing what Mrs. Smith had said. “He doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.” Seemed like I’d been trying to tell that to everyone I knew over the last few days.

But my dad took a harsher view. “Honestly, Hayley, it sounds like your friend may have killed two people.” I tried to interrupt, but he barreled over me. “You’ve helped him find a lawyer. You’ve taken in his pet. That’s all you can do, even if you do consider him a friend.”

“But he wouldn’t have killed Cheryl Lynn,” I said. “He was deeply, deeply troubled about her. His mom says she practically grew up with him.” Which she
hadn’t said exactly, but I believed that was the gist of her meaning.

“Sweetheart,” Dad said. “I would lie, too, if you were in that much trouble.”

I felt prickles of gratefulness but also a swell of despair.

He cleared his throat. “I hate to be this blunt, but . . . let’s see, maybe I should use one of your cooking metaphors.” He chuckled at his own humor, but I dreaded what was coming. “We saw nothing but a mille-feuille of oddballs and misfits in Key West when we visited last year. I know you love that place, but I’m afraid it will only drag you down. You can always come home, stay with us a few months if you need to.”

I said nothing. Moving in with them would feel good for about twenty-four hours. But he meant well.

He finally sighed. “Stay out of trouble—will you please promise me that, Hayley Snow?”

“Okay, Dad,” I said quietly. “I’ll stay out of trouble. I will.”

24

To eat passionately is to allow the world in; there can be no hiding or sublimation when you’re chewing a mouthful of food so good it makes you swoon.

—Kate Christensen,
Blue Plate Special