Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (26 page)

I combed my fingers through my hair, trying to formulate a story and gather myself into something presentable—something more publicly acceptable than a crazed, fortune-teller-driven madwoman with a misplaced relative. Then I circled the building, leaning hard on the doorbells to each condominium. Through the glass doors, I could see the elaborate designs in the tiled floors and enormous frescoes on the walls. But the bells echoed in each empty foyer. No one answered.

I thumbed through my iPhone for recent contacts until I found Dustin’s number, which he’d given me
yesterday to keep him informed as Mom and I set out in search of Yoshe. On the second ring he barked, “Who is this?”

“It’s Hayley Snow,” I said, my voice high and tight. “I need you to tell me if one of the speakers from the food writing conference is staying at the Steamplant Condominium complex. This is not negotiable,” I added. “My mother is missing and I’m afraid she’s being held hostage by the person who killed Jonah and possibly even Yoshe. I found her pink scooter in the shrubbery.”

“Ridiculous,” said Dustin. “She—”

I cut him dead. “Don’t even start. If something happens to my mother and you failed to tell me what you know, I swear I’ll make sure you never work at a literary conference again. I swear I’ll e-mail every person on your board of directors and tell them you refused to help a dying woman.” An empty threat if I’d ever made one, but I had no leverage other than histrionics.

After a long pause, Dustin said, “We did have some local folks offer to put a few of our guests up for the weekend. Let me think.” In the background, I could hear the hum of voices in the bookstore and the clang of the cash register. “Olivia Nethercut was invited to stay in one of those apartments by a patron who has her place up for sale. The patron was besotted with Olivia’s books, and also a very generous donor to Olivia’s foundation. That’s all I can think of.”

Olivia? Of course. I’d run into her in the ladies’ restroom right around the time Jonah’s murder occurred. But I’d never thought of her seriously as a suspect—she
acted normal enough. And Sigrid had been there at the same time. And I’d been too starstruck to question her integrity. And maybe this new theory was totally off base; maybe my mother was just visiting with her, gathering her thoughts about the conference personalities and looking for ways to explain Jonah’s murder.

“Could you phone the apartment owner for me?” I begged. “It’s possible that she was involved in the murders this weekend.”

“That’s completely absurd,” Dustin said. “What am I supposed to say to her? Did Miss Nethercut happen to hide any bodies in your condominium? Obviously, Olivia Nethercut has nothing to do with your mother’s whereabouts.”

“What about the pink scooter that I found abandoned in the bushes?”

“How many of those do you think there are in this town?”

He was right. In fact, the man who’d rented Mom’s scooter had told her he’d had a run on pink. Dustin hung up before I could ask anything else.

Then I flashed on Cory Held’s postcard lying on Miss Gloria’s kitchen counter, and scrounged in my pockets until I found her business card. Chances were if I said Dustin wouldn’t help me, she’d be on my side in an instant. So I called her, trying to sound calm and authoritative and not like I was in a full-blown mental-patient panic.

“I found my mother’s scooter,” I said when she answered. “At the Steamplant Condos. Does the name Olivia Nethercut mean anything to you? She’s
supposed to be staying at one of these condos and it’s on the market.”

Cory put me on hold while she paged through her notes. I paced over to the pink scooter while I waited, this time noticing that the pink helmet Mom rented along with it was buried farther back in the bushes. “Let’s go!” I muttered.

Finally she came back on the line. “Jean Nee has a guest from the conference staying at her place this weekend, but we were told absolutely no showings while she’s here.”

“It wouldn’t be a showing, technically,” I said. “Could you possibly get me in? If we don’t see any sign of my mother, I swear I’ll call the cops. Again.”

I paced the premises until Cory drove up in her ice blue BMW and hopped out, holding a large ring of keys. “This afternoon, I only, have access to one of the townhomes out of the nineteen in this complex,” she said in a cheerful voice. “I can definitely make appointments for some of the others that are on the market, if you decide you like the location. I just need a little bit of notice to contact the listing agents.” And then under her breath she added, “I could lose my license over this.”

I grabbed the hand without the keys and squeezed. “Thank you so much for helping.”

“This unit is not officially on the market,” Cory said in her normal voice, “but I have a pocket listing, so I’m authorized to show it to interested buyers. If you won’t
need this much space, the lofts, of course, have smaller footprints. But they all have the same floor-to-ceiling windows and amazing views from the rooftop terraces. And hot tubs besides, with wiring for your future outdoor kitchen.”

I started to protest that I wasn’t in the market for a luxury condominium at all, but she winked and smiled, and I shut up.

“Each unit has its own elevator from the secure garage and this foyer,” she said as we walked into an enormous space tiled in pale marble with a rectangular black inset.

“What is this used for?” I asked, my eyes goggling, though I was in no mood to really appreciate the grandeur.

She shrugged and said, “It makes a sumptuous entrance, doesn’t it?” Her heels clacked on the shiny floor as she headed toward the elevator. “This particular condominium townhome is almost five thousand square feet with three bedrooms, three and a half baths. The owner is having her hip replaced in New York and we don’t expect her back in town for several weeks at least. Although she was entertaining a few guests over this period of time, she’s very eager to talk with serious prospects. Shall we start at the top and work down?”

“Do we have to take the elevator?” I asked, palms suddenly damp all over again. “I’m not good with them. A little quirk passed down in my genetic code.” No need to tell her that a ride on a Macy’s elevator was the setting for my mother’s one and only breakdown when I was a kid. It happened just after my father moved
out and I’d gone shopping with her that morning; I’d never forget her sinking to her knees and scratching at the elevator door, keening with terror.

“It’s a quick trip,” Cory said briskly. “Brand-new mechanicals. Each home has its own elevator.”

She herded me into the compartment and as we rode to the top floor, she chatted about the cherrywood floors, the Travertine marble, the granite countertops in the laundry room, and the fourteen-foot ceilings. All of which helped distract me from the fact that I was riding in a tiny silver box, not much bigger than one of the family crypts in the local cemetery.

The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open to the rooftop—more a plaza than a deck. Spread out before us was an astonishing 360-degree view of the island, boats bobbing in the harbor on the right and a sea of palm trees and roofs to the left. One quick turnaround showed the space to be empty except for a grouping of teak lounge chairs, a covered hot tub, and an expensive-looking grill. I approached the hot tub, feeling anxious, and stood there a few minutes. Finally I lifted the lid and peeked under, terrified that I’d see my mother’s body bobbed about by the pulsing jets.

But the spa contained only water. I patted my chest and took some shallow breaths.

“All set?” Cory asked, looking concerned.

“All set.” I mustered a smile.

Back on the elevator, we rode down one floor, my muscles knotting with each second that passed. If my hunch was off the mark, and my mother wasn’t here,
we were wasting time that she might need. And I was absolutely blank about what to try next.

“Yoo-hoo. Anyone home?” Cory called as we stepped out of the car into the hallway. No answer.

“Both the master bedroom and one of the guest rooms look over Old Town Key West,” she explained. “The bath has rain showerheads and both a double shower and a marble bathtub big enough for two. Not very many homes on the island have the kind of storage space this one does.”

“I don’t care—”

“I know,” she whispered. “Just play along with me, okay?”

I closed my eyes, feeling the tears pressing for escape, then nodded. We stopped in the doorway of the biggest bedroom, dominated by a large canvas of red-and-black modern art that hung over a heavy mahogany bed. The bed had been left unmade, sheets tangled, a thick quilt tossed carelessly to the carpet along with a peach-colored bathrobe, all suggesting a restless night. The air smelled of stale perfume. I ducked into the bathroom, where the burnished stone counters were cluttered with makeup, night cream, and an uncapped tube of toothpaste. Two plush white towels draped from the gaping drawers to the floor.

I poked my head into the walk-in closet, where a suitcase lay open, its contents spilling out onto the beige rug. I recognized the flowing purple silk pantsuit that Olivia had worn to dinner at Louie’s Backyard. And the Burberry case that might have contained Yoshe’s laptop.

“She did
it,” I whispered to Cory, my stomach suddenly queasy, and pushed ahead of her to scan the guest bedroom and bathroom, the two auxiliary closets in the hallway. Empty. I followed her back into the hall.

“Let me show you the main living area,” she said, and we rode the elevator down one floor and emerged into the dining alcove. She pointed across the room. “You’ll notice the copper exhaust hood and the six-burner Viking stove. Are you a chef as well as a critic?”

I nodded and, for a moment, thought longingly of what I could cook in this unbelievable kitchen. I sighed. Miss Gloria’s houseboat was the only home I saw in my future. And I’d never truly belong in a place like this. And besides that, I didn’t care for the black cabinets—sleek, yes. Homey, no.

I tried the door to the pantry, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Sometimes the owners lock one closet where they store their private things,” Cory said. “That way they can keep expensive whiskey or their best china without having to worry about guests or, heaven forbid, renters doing damage.”

We circled the living and dining room areas, furnished in heavy black leather with red accent cushions and more unintelligible and frightening art on the walls. The closets were mostly empty except for a few coats and umbrellas and a pair of sneakers and there was certainly no evidence that my mother had been here.

“I guess that’s it,” I said. “I’m afraid I overreacted. Thanks so much for taking me around.” Somehow I would have to let Detective Bransford know that I
knew where Yoshe’s computer might have been stashed.

We stepped back onto the elevator and Cory pushed the button for the lobby. The compartment’s doors slid shut and the car lurched into silent action but then ground to a quick halt. She stabbed at the button again, and then punched the button with the arrows that closed the doors when they were moving too slowly. Nothing happened. She looked at her watch. “Drat. And I have a showing across town in fifteen minutes.” She plucked her smartphone from her purse. “No service. Can you get anything?”

I pulled my phone from my pocket—no service bars on mine either.

“I’ve had this trouble before,” Cory said. “The walls of the steam plant were superthick and the service is horrible.”

Breathing a little harder, I banged on the mirrored wall and shouted for help; then we listened. But who would possibly hear us? The nearest people I’d seen were two blocks away at the ferry dock.

Cory tried her cell again with no success, then reached for the emergency phone hanging on the wall. “There’s no dial tone. Good Lord, it’s hot in here.” She unwound the blue scarf from her neck and fanned her face with her hand.

“I hate elevators,” I said, my panic rising. “Didn’t you tell me this thing was brand-new?” A drenching sweat broke out on my face and chest and I began to feel like I was choking.

“Sit down and put your head between your knees,”
Cory suggested, and I sank to the floor, quaking. Telling myself I was not my mother. And that we would find her. And that someone would come soon to let us out of this box. The walls pressed in closer and closer and I labored to breathe.

“It’s nice that your mom could come for the conference,” said Cory, still working the buttons on her phone. “Not too many daughters would care to spend three full days with their mom.”

“We have our moments,” I said, my face buried in my hands, not really wanting to talk about it but realizing chatting was the only thing standing between me and a full-blown claustrophobic panic attack. So I’d talk. “I got a little stressed and said something harsh this morning about her living off my father—alimony for life.”

“Ouch,” said Cory.

“I know. Other than that, we’ve had a lot of fun and it’s been an interesting weekend. I realized some things.”

“What kind of things?” she asked.

“It’s complicated,” I said. “Right out of college, my mother gave up her own ambitions to raise a family. If she really had any to begin with. She got pregnant with me in her last year of school and dropped out to be a housewife and mother. I think I’ve always been afraid I’d take the same path.”

“You could do worse than that,” Cory said.

“Yeah, but then you’re at the mercy of the guy you married. Or live with. I tried that when I followed my ex down here. When that relationship blew up last fall,
I felt like I’d hitched all my hopes to him. And then he lopped me off like a dead tree limb.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Every woman should have a backup plan. And the money to fund it.”

“It’s totally creepy that I’d repeat my mother’s exact mistake.” Although Eric would have said it was to be expected—if I refused to explore this stuff in therapy, it was bound to haunt me.

“I can see how that would freak you out,” Cory said, tapping furiously on her phone again and then shaking it in frustration.