Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (12 page)

An entire new world had opened up for Jonah during his first job as a dishwasher in New York City. As he scraped the remnants of patrons’ plates into the trash, he took the opportunity to taste their upscale meals. That led him to choose a program in hospitality at New York University and then to a gig as a sous-chef in a French restaurant in the city. And then followed his famous application for a job as a
Guide Bouchée
restaurant critic. During his interviews, he so wowed them with the accuracy of his taste buds and the novelty of his descriptions that they hired him with practically no experience whatsoever.

In the
next chapter
, Jonah went on to discuss his
training in France and England and the apprenticeship that followed back home in New York. “At first, I savored my work with the
Guide Bouchée
. They helped me understand the importance of what I chose from a menu—the dish should represent a challenge to the chef without being too fussy or peculiar. I learned to spot critic traps on a menu—dishes that no ordinary diner would select. I had some astonishingly good meals and others that were marginally edible. And some memorable bouts of food poisoning. I was taught to notice the restaurant’s ambience, the service, the presentation of the meal, the freshness of the ingredients, and finally, their preparation.

“But the life-and-death matter of awarding the stars—this began to weigh heavily on me. Many people will have read about the two well-known cases of chefs driven to suicide after their slide in ratings. One was demoted from three to two stars; the other had his star stripped altogether. Which is not to say there may not have been other personal issues contributing to depression or despair—a perfectly balanced person would not choose this profession to begin with.”

I could imagine Jonah cackling with laughter as he wrote this.

“But to contribute to the possibility of a man’s despondency and ultimate suicide … that was no longer acceptable. And of course, lying or even stretching the truth about food was never an option.

“And finally, the secrecy demanded by the Guides began to press upon me like a lead apron. Because how can prospective diners judge the criticism rendered upon a
restaurant if they have no idea who’s provided it? Would you choose your spouse or your hometown or even a movie based on anonymous recommendations?”

I skimmed over the
next chapter
, in which Jonah had quit his job as restaurant critic, moved to the West Coast, and founded a restaurant in L.A. He described the same grinding schedule that I’d heard other chefs talk about, but he did not mention using alcohol or other drugs to keep up the pace. And I doubted he would have held that information back. The chapter after that was devoted to his life through the distorted lens of love.

“Like Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones—if you can believe the words of a heroin addict—I never put the moves on someone else. I preferred to stand back and let things develop. Let the tension mount until it felt almost unbearable, and then watch the other party’s reaction.

“Take Z,” he said, “a brilliant chef who lurched toward me and ravaged me like a starving grizzly. Or A, ebullient on the page but more like a trembling schoolboy approaching his principal when I met him in person. When I noticed myself rating these last two men as though I would be responsible for writing up their performance (no stars at all in these cases), I knew it was time to take a break from ‘love.’”

Feeling a little sickened by that much personal disclosure, I marked my place in the book and leafed through the program, checking to see which writers he had been scheduled to appear with today. I imagined that all of them had secrets they would be loath to
expose, but which ones were worth killing over? What about zero stars in the romance department? I would definitely feel murderous if I were Z or A, who’d had their amorous advances described and rated in a bestselling memoir. I really, really hoped that one of those letters didn’t stand for Eric.

Mom slid into her seat as I reached the page in the program detailing this morning’s session: “Food as Metaphor: The Resurgence of Food Writing as an Expression of Culture.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Mom whispered. “I took Miss Gloria to breakfast. Wow, can that lady eat! Have you had any news about Eric?”

“Nothing really,” I whispered back. “I did see him for a few minutes at his office, but he wouldn’t say much. I’ll tell you more at the break.”

Dustin burst onto the stage from the wings and strode to the podium, a wide, forced smile on his lips. “How’s everyone doing this morning in beautiful Key West?” he inquired. “We’ve planned a glorious day to go along with this glorious January weather!”

But the energy in the audience had wilted—only a few audience members called out in response. He went on to make some general announcements about the day’s events, while the panelists mounted the side stairs. Sigrid Gustafson came first, barging across the stage as though she couldn’t wait to sit down. Two other women we didn’t recognize took their places on either side of Sigrid.

“Isn’t Yoshe supposed to be on this panel?” my mother asked, tapping my open program.

I shrugged. “I guess they’re switching everything around with Jonah out of the picture.”

Dustin assured us we were in for an amazing day, a day that would leave us wrung out and famished. “Those students who have signed up for a special restaurant meal tonight should remember to appear at their chosen venue at seven o’clock sharp. Unfortunately all seats have been sold out, but of course you are all warmly invited to our closing luncheon tomorrow. And breakfast as usual before our final panels. How about our catering company? Aren’t they doing an amazing job?”

Tepid applause rippled through the crowd, surely more of an indication of low energy than unhappiness with the food because everything I’d sampled had been delicious.

“Should you need a restaurant recommendation for this evening, please don’t hesitate to flag one of us down,” Dustin continued. “And don’t forget that we are taking deposits for next year’s seminar, ‘The Art of the Mystery.’”

Apparently he had taken to heart the advice of his board and chosen another topic that would appeal to a mass of common readers. Though I had to wonder if this was the right topic, following on the heels of a suspicious death right here at the conference.

“Now on to our first stellar panel.” Dustin looked at his notes, frowned, and then introduced the three women on the stage.

For forty-five minutes we listened to the three writers bat around the topic of food as a metaphor for
changes in culture—many of Sigrid’s comments we’d heard already at lunch yesterday. A second woman hailed from Colorado and had a lot to say about cowboys and beans. The third woman, a writer from Thailand, broke into tears several times as she described the process of cooking her grandmother’s food and how it brought childhood memories to life.

I got up to stretch and run to the ladies’ room during the break. As I came out of the bathroom, Dustin waved his arms furiously from across the room. I wove between the clusters of attendees until I reached him, surprised that he would single me out to chat when we barely knew each other. When in fact our only interactions this weekend had been unpleasant conversations around Jonah’s death.

“Have you seen Yoshe King?” he demanded in a low voice. His skin was a deep color of violet and the veins on his neck throbbed ominously. “Sigrid Gustafson said you appeared to be friendly with her. She missed her morning panel altogether and now she’s scheduled for a reading from her memoir.” He looked at his watch, a cheap plastic item whose hands were shaped like a knife and fork. “She’s supposed to be on that stage alone in fifteen minutes and I haven’t heard a word. We could cover for her in the panel—God knows all of those women abhor a vacuum. But when she’s supposed to be performing solo…” He rubbed a chubby hand across his face. “We’re very, very clear that every panelist is supposed to be in the greenroom at least fifteen minutes before they go onstage. I’ve called and texted her—nothing!”

“I haven’t seen her today,” I said. He seemed like he was about to bust a gut with worry—I should do what I could to calm him down. And maybe a small kindness now would pay off later in a private interview? “Would you like me to look around the auditorium? There have been so many adjustments to the program. Probably she just got mixed up.”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said. “She isn’t on the premises.”

Mom appeared at my side. “I know exactly where she’s staying. I took her home yesterday after lunch and she showed me her room. They upgraded her to the most magnificent view. Not that you could do any better than your houseboat,” she said to me. She reached over and tucked my bra strap under the neckline of my shirt. “My daughter lives right on the water—it’s so soothing,” she explained to Dustin. “I slept like a baby. Never even heard the squall that blew through.”

“Mom,” I said, gripping her elbow. “He’s not in the mood to hear about my living arrangements or your sleeping experience. He’s worried about Yoshe missing her solo reading and ruining the day.”

“You’re right,” she said, and smiled at Dustin. “I was just trying to say that I know where she’s staying. If you’d like, I can run down the street and tap on her door. She probably overslept.”

I whooshed out a breath. In case anyone wondered where I got my nosy streak, they could see it in its full genetic expression right here. “You can hardly run down the street and get back in ten minutes,” I said.

“Go!” said Dustin, ignoring me and giving her a little shove. “Call on my cell if there are any issues at all. If she’s not coming, I’ll have to do some damn fancy dancing.” He recited his phone number and then Yoshe’s too. I punched them both into my contacts directory as Mom bustled off through the crowd.

I followed her outside, not sure who I was more annoyed with, Mom for butting in where she didn’t belong, or Dustin for taking advantage of her.

“Come on,” I told her. “My scooter’s right around the corner. I’ll run you over.”

She hesitated for a minute—she had never approved of the idea of me riding a motorcycle, even though a scooter was about as far from a motorcycle as Jonah’s childhood chop suey would have been from one of Yoshe’s Asian noodle recipes. But curiosity and her Good Samaritan streak overrode her nervousness. We walked quickly to the side street where I’d left the bike, and I fastened the helmet on Mom. “Just keep your feet up on these little footrests and hold on tight.”

She slung her leg over the body of the bike and clamped me around the waist.

I twisted around to look at her and grinned. “I gotta be able to breathe, Mom.”

We sailed the length of Whitehead Street past Hemingway’s house to the Southernmost Point on the island and in the continental U.S., marked by an enormous black-, yellow-, and red-striped buoy. At almost any hour of any day, you could find tourists lined up to get their photos taken at the closest point from the U.S. to
Cuba. Ninety miles, the sign said. Even today, with the wind whipping the waves so they crashed against the break wall and sprayed the buoy and the people, a queue of visitors in vacation clothes too cool for the weather jostled for position.

“We’ll make sure to get this shot before you leave on Tuesday,” I hollered over my shoulder to Mom.

We stopped in front of Yoshe’s bed-and-breakfast, two blocks past the Southernmost Point on South Street, exactly overlooking the private South Beach and not so private Atlantic Ocean. I parked the scooter on the sidewalk outside the three-story yellow Victorian home with white gingerbread trim and a green-and-white-striped awning. Mom staggered off the back of the bike, removed the helmet, and shook out her curls. She had to shout to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks next to the beach.

“That was kind of fun.”

I smiled and followed her into the building, decorated with white wicker furniture and miniature palm trees. A wall of wooden cubbies holding mail and metal keys hung behind the reception desk. And an old-fashioned copper bell and a collection of tourist destination pamphlets sat on the polished pine counter.

“Hello!” Mom called, but no one appeared. She rang the bell: still no answer. I peered over the counter into the office behind the cubbies. A computer screen flashed on a cluttered desk, but there was no one working.

We looked at each other. Mom shrugged and darted
up the sweeping staircase, me trotting behind. We were both panting a little by the time we got to the third floor.

“Down here.” Mom took a right-hand turn and walked briskly to the room at the far south end of the hallway.

“This is it,” said Mom, tapping on the whitewashed wood. We listened. Dead quiet inside. She pressed her ear against the door and then tapped again. Nothing.

I took a turn, rapping loudly. “Miss King? Yoshe?” I pulled the phone out of my pocket. “Let’s try calling.” I dialed the number that Dustin had given us. Through the wooden door, we could hear the answering echo of her phone.

“That’s just odd,” Mom said. “If we walk around the side of the building, we may be able to see up to her balcony and then try to wave her down. Her porch overlooks the rocks right in front of the water. She could be out there having coffee or doing yoga and not be able to hear a thing. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who has to be in reach of her phone every instant.”

“Like me, you mean,” I said, feeling a prickle of irritation.

“Your generation is different from ours,” Mom said over her shoulder. “We like to focus on the people we’re spending time with, not the ones we might imagine are having more fun. Wherever else they might be.”

I ground my teeth and tried to breathe evenly—one long, slow breath in, one seething whistle out. Sometimes Mom had a way of couching her criticisms and
suggestions so gently you could hardly notice them. Other times, especially when she was stressed or a little bit anxious (like now), subtle as a meat mallet.

I followed her back down the stairs and along the red brick path that led around the side of the building. Mom pointed to Yoshe’s third-floor, far-corner room. I climbed onto the low cement wall surrounding the grounds to get a better sight line. A heart-wrenching shriek nearly made me fall; I turned quickly to see my mother stagger back off the wall and crumple to a heap on the sidewalk.