Death With All the Trimmings: A Key West Food Critic Mystery (10 page)

Should you doubt the worth of a chef’s brand,
the author of the article wrote,
consider the losses faced by Nigella Lawson or Martha Stewart or, particularly, Paula Deen after missteps in their personal affairs. When celebrity chefs cut themselves with the sharp knives of their own bad behavior,
they bleed money from their tarnished brands, rather than blood from their fingers.

I wondered which one of them—Edel or Juan Carlos—had wanted the divorce. And how the split had affected their restaurant. And whether divorce law would have allowed Juan Carlos a percentage of a new restaurant if it had been started without him. Would it matter if Edel had moved to Key West? Would he still be able to claim a piece of her success?

One person I knew would have some insight. I had his phone number seared into my brain, like grill marks on a raw steak. Chad Lutz. He hadn’t acted entirely unfriendly when we’d run into each other at the Little White House earlier, though that may have been the effects of my mother and Sam and his reluctance to be rude in a public setting. I fidgeted with my phone. He was a night owl—a text at eleven p.m. would not have been unusual or unwelcome. At least not from someone he liked.

Finally, I caved in to my curiosity and texted him the question.

I had a minute of uncomfortable waiting before the phone buzzed back.

I’ll be at the Courthouse Deli at 9 am for coffee.

In Chad’s usual terse style, he’d not invited me to meet him. But what else could that mean?

You can’t microwave a career or a life
.

—Cal Thomas

My alarm buzzed at 7:30 the next morning, an hour before I was due at We Be Fit for my personal training session with Leigh Pujado. Not my idea of a great way to start the morning, but Leigh had convinced me that lifting weights was the only way to counteract the meals I was consuming—bigger muscles meant more calories burned. If I planned to stay on in my position as food critic over the long haul, she’d added. A big if, as things stood now. I had time for a quick cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal, and a glance through the
Key West Citizen
. I scanned the front-page headlines and opened the paper, skimming over the usual whining in the Citizen’s Voice until my attention caught on the crime report.

E
X-
H
USBAND OF
L
OCAL
R
ESTAURANTEUR
F
OUND
D
EAD
AFTER
F
IRE
,
the headline read. Key West detective Nathan Bransford reported that the body found at the Bistro on the Bight had been identified as Juan Carlos Alonso, former husband of restaurant chef/owner Edel
Waugh. No arrests had made in the death, and the police were still looking for witnesses. Persons who may have seen anything suspicious in the harbor area around the time of the fire Monday night were asked to come forward.

It must have killed Bransford to sound so uncertain in the paper, particularly after the other day’s headline: B
RANSFORD
B
AFFLED
. At least it appeared that Edel’s trip to the station last night had not resulted in her arrest. I scarfed down a bowl of homemade granola, grabbed my backpack and helmet, and raced out to my scooter. Leigh hated it when her customers showed up late for their appointments. Yes, the minutes came off our exercise time, paid for by our money, but she took it as a personal failure—her inability to properly motivate us.

I hurried through the small gym, dodging the clanking machines operated by customers who had arrived on time for their sessions. The place already smelled like sweat and wet rubber. Muscle-bound trainers barked out instructions to their grunting clients. In the background sounded the pounding beat of “I Shot the Sheriff.” I dumped my belongings in the tiny ladies’ locker room and hurried down the hall to the gym. Seven minutes late. Twenty-three to go.

“Morning,” I called to Leigh. “I swear I’ll do the repetitions I missed at home this evening.”

Leigh snickered. “When have you ever done an exercise without me standing over you?”

I shrugged. “Caught me there.”

I placed my phone on a little shelf by the door, picked up the seven-and-a-half-pound free weights as she directed, and began a series of lunges and squats that had my thighs burning within minutes. I stopped to take a breath.

“You looked cute in that elf costume,” Leigh said with a sly smile, and then directed me to the low bar to begin push-ups. “Your Santa was cute, too.”

“No comment,” I said, and began to leverage my body up and down over the bar until my triceps and biceps had joined the screaming of the other muscles. I dropped to my knees, resting my head on the bar.

“Okay, I get it: no action on the romance front,” she said, tapping comments into her iPad. These would show up later in my in-box—impossible to ignore.
Address left-side weakness in hip flexor, increase time lapse for planks, superset hamstring runners and split squats. More push-ups!
Enough to make you feel tired before setting foot in the gym.

“What’s coming up in
Key Zest
this week?” she asked.

“A review of Latitudes,” I said, heaving myself up to standing. “A place to take your sweetie for a big splurge. Pricey but delicious. And the view, of course, is priceless.” I grabbed a stainless thermos of cold water and took a long gulp.

“Hamstring pull-ups next,” she said, ignoring my groan. “What else are you writing?”

I shrugged. “That’s it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Let’s put it this way: If there’s an opening for another trainer, let me know.”

Leigh laughed out loud. “If we had a snack bar, you’d be a shoo-in. Weren’t you writing a piece about the restaurant that had the fire?”

I nodded. “Edel’s Waugh’s place. Everything’s on hold until the cops figure out what happened.”

My phone buzzed and jumped on its little shelf and I excused myself to look. Edel.

I held up a finger to Leigh. “I need to take this—be with you in a minute.”

“How are you?” I asked, sidestepping into the laundry room for a little privacy.

“Not great,” she said, her voice brittle and shrill. “I need to talk. Do you have any time this morning?”

I thought about Wally’s warning about keeping my distance and neutrality. And Ray’s question about why Edel was reaching out to me, anyway. On the other hand, I was already meeting my ex to mine his expertise about the fallout of celebrity divorce. Edel’s divorce. And I had nowhere else to be today. And maybe no job.

“Sure. I’m headed down to the Courthouse Deli in a few to grab a coffee with an acquaintance. I’ll buzz over to the Westin marina after that and meet you at the boat launch? I’m glad to hear you weren’t arrested,” I added, hoping she’d tell me what had really happened.

“Not yet. But they’re definitely not finished with me. The cop told me Juan Carlos was clunked on the head before the fire. I think they think I killed him.” Her voice cracked and it sounded as though she’d started to cry. “Honestly, I need a friend. Not the boat launch, though. Too many prying eyes. I’ll meet you in the bar at Kelly’s Caribbean in forty-five minutes.” She hung up.

“Everything okay?” Leigh asked as I returned and replaced the phone on the shelf.

I could have simply said yes. But Leigh’s a smart cookie. And a foodie, always looking for the next great meal. We had that very much in common. She was very eager for Bistro on the Bight to open. And very good at keeping a secret. And tied into a huge network of local folks on the island.

“Not really,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “That was Chef Edel. The body they found after the blaze was her ex, and she’s worried that they blame her for his death.”

“Wait a minute,” Leigh said. “They think she killed him? Couldn’t the death have been a terrible accident?”

I shook my head and followed her to the last machine of the morning to do lat pull-downs. “He suffered a blow to the head before the fire, or that’s what she was told.”

“So, it’s possible someone set the fire in order to cover up the death. Let’s think like a jock for a minute,” Leigh said. “If he was killed up close and personal, wouldn’t the murderer have to be someone strong? From the picture I saw in the paper a couple of weeks ago about the restaurant opening, your chef looked tiny.”

“She is,” I agreed. “Small in stature but mighty in personality.”

“What was he doing there, anyway? Is he involved in the business?”

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” I said as I took a seat on the bench near the front of the gym and grasped the bars that hung above me. The outside door swung open and my cousin Cassie blew in. She pulled off her bike helmet and finger-combed her hair.

“I’m looking for Leigh?” she said to the man at the desk. He pointed to us.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. My mother would have assigned demerits for my abruptness.

She shrugged. “I needed a place to work out. And someone to help with my flexibility. I feel like my hamstrings and hip flexors have tightened up over the past few months. Maybe that’s why my drives aren’t going anywhere. Or maybe I need to beef up my strength training. Anyway, your mom said you love this place.”

“I wouldn’t describe it as love.” I scowled. “Leigh’s more like a necessary evil.”

Leigh strode over to shake Cassie’s hand. “Just finish up with two more sets,” she called back over her shoulder to me. “Pull your shoulder blades together and engage your abs. Nice to meet you,” she said to Cassie. “I’m excited to work with a professional golfer.”

Once I’d done the final sets, I hurried into the locker room, feeling crowded—once again—by my cousin. But why should Leigh’s enthusiasm matter? I was not an ideal gym rat. Often late, frequently grumbling, and with no goals other than avoiding the attack of the dreaded pudgies. Why shouldn’t Leigh prefer working with a real athlete?

I glanced in the mirror and fussed with my hair, which had expanded into a mass of unruly reddish curls. My face was slick with sweat and red as a ripe tomato. Not my best look. Not that I should care what Chad thought, either. And maybe he’d be impressed with my so-called commitment to staying strong and healthy.

I buzzed down Seminary Street toward the courthouse area of Old Town. The MARC plant store a couple blocks away from the gym was doing a brisk business with last-minute Christmas tree sales. I veered around a Smart Car and an old VW van whose owners were tying fir trees on their car rooftops. The smell of pine needles made me feel nostalgic for a good, old-fashioned, cold-and-snowy Northeast Christmas. For about forty-five minutes. After that, I’d be yearning for palm trees and humidity.

Food celebrities are a bit different. They seem more accessible and, however falsely, we bond with them. Their books, shows and tweets purport to bring us into their kitchens and connect us to their traditions in service of that most intimate of activities—sharing food. And we bring them into our kitchens, too, turning to them to help feed our families. So when they step out of line, how they’ve sold themselves to us matters, probably far more than they anticipated.

—
J. M. Hirsch, the Associated Press

Chad was sitting on the bench outside the Courthouse Deli, near two homeless men with worn backpacks and a small, shabby-looking dog nestled between them. He smiled and waved and held up a Styrofoam cup in greeting.

“One café con leche with one sugar, just as you like them, madam,” he said with a grin.

Who was this man, who both remembered my preferences and acted on them?

“You said you have some questions,” he said. “I only have a couple of minutes. My long-term client from Palm Beach is coming in. You may remember the guy with the yacht bigger than Tiger Woods’s boat? He’s divorcing his fourth wife.”

I nodded. “I think he was only on number three when I was in the picture.” Frankly, I thought the man’s story was pathetic, a saga about a guy who learned nothing from his own painful history. A man who kept a divorce lawyer on retainer was no joke. But to Chad it was funny.

“My question has to do with community property across state lines,” I said. “For instance, supposing the most valuable community property of a certain couple is the reputation of a store or restaurant. Supposing that reputation is worth a lot of money. Supposing one of the spouses leaves the state and starts another business. Would the other spouse have any claim to that business? Let’s assume that some of its success rests on the brand that the two spouses built together, even though they are divorced now.”

“So both of the spouses were instrumental in building the brand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then I think a case could be made for returning to court and claiming rights to the new property.”

“What if one of the spouses is making a public ass of himself? Or herself?” I added quickly.

Chad tapped on his chin so I couldn’t help noticing his manicured fingernails, buffed to a polish. I curled my own fingers into fists to hide the scraggly nails. I’d been way too busy and upset lately to worry about that level of grooming detail—which he would never understand.

“To land the best clients, a man must look like he’s
worth every penny that he charges,” I remembered Chad telling me when I remarked on his two walk-in closets full of carefully tailored suits. When most people on this island get by on a drawerful of T-shirts and a couple pairs of cutoffs. Possibly a sweater or two for the weeks when our winter cold front blows through.

“If this fellow is making a public nuisance of himself, his wife would have grounds on which to sue him for defamation of their jointly owned character.” Chad removed his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s suppose that Paula Deen’s spouse—if she had one—were filing for divorce. His lawyer could make the case that her actions were reducing the value of their joint property because they were at odds with the reputation of the Deen brand as homey, healthy, and honest.” He slid the glasses back on. “This sounds like a juicy case.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Do either of them need a lawyer?”

I tossed my Styrofoam cup in the nearby trash can and grinned weakly. “I’m not that close to the situation.”

“Just nosy, as usual?” He smiled to soften the barb.

“Thanks for the info,” I said, ignoring the smart remark and standing up. “Give my love to Deena?” His secretary, whom he did not deserve. No matter how friendly he was pretending to be at the moment. Yeah, and why was he bothering?

“Listen,” he said, catching my wrist as I turned to leave. “I’m glad you texted me. I’ve been thinking for a while that I never apologized for being such a wanker. You know, the bit about putting your stuff out on the curb.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Finding my belongings dumped on the street in front of Harbor Place had been
perhaps the lowest moment in a series of low moments. Although finding him in the sack with another woman was worse. He interrupted my gloomy memories.

“And losing your grandmother’s recipes. That was mean, and I’m sorry.”

“Ummm, thank you. I appreciate that.” I pulled my wrist out of his grip. I still believed he’d destroyed them, not lost them. “And thanks for the coffee.” I started across Whitehead Street, my nerves buzzing from the extra shot of caffeine and his unexpected mea culpa. I’d have to figure out later—in private—why he was bothering to apologize more than a year after he’d broken my heart.

My mother called minutes later. “Cassie said she had a wonderful workout with your trainer.”

“That was fast,” I said flatly.

Mom just laughed. “Listen, would you mind coming to dinner tonight? I know it’s a busy time of year, but Sam dragged in an enormous Christmas tree and I need help decorating. And I couldn’t get the idea of spaghetti Bolognese out of my head. I’ve made enough for an army. Miss Gloria’s coming, too.”

She was practically wheedling, which brought out feelings of guilt and sympathy. Besides that, what else did I have going on? Not much. And I really missed decorating a tree, no matter how brave Miss Gloria and I had been about being practical and skipping that tradition. “What time?”

I returned to my scooter and zipped over to Kelly’s on Caroline Street, named after movie star Kelly McGillis, who was rumored to keep a watchful eye on the place. It was a cute white clapboard building with a sign in front proclaiming it to be the original home of Pan Am Airways. Behind the building was an open courtyard with tables for dining and stools for
barhopping. I’d never been inside—though anytime I’d passed by at the end of a workday it seemed busy with a cheerful, happy-hour crowd, especially after sunset. And also during the lunch hour when the place appeared to cater to tourists and cruise ship visitors, looking for the “real” Key West experience. But Edel was right—in the midmorning, we were unlikely to find anyone we knew in this bar.

I went inside, pausing for a moment so my eyes could adjust to the dim light. Edel was sitting in a far corner of the room, nursing what appeared to be a bloody Mary.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I’m overcaffeinated, and it’s a little early for me to start drinking.” I cocked my head, pressed my fingers to my forehead. “You said you needed my help. But I’m getting the idea there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

“There’s no one I can turn to on this island,” she said. “Who do I trust? Someone’s out to destroy me and I don’t know who it is. No one cares whether my restaurant makes it or not. But if it doesn’t, I’ve got nothing. Nothing.”

“And yet when we were discussing potential problems, you failed to mention Juan Carlos,” I pointed out.

She looked up from her drink and blinked. “Okay, so I didn’t tell you everything. That stuff is very personal. And painful.”

I waited. If she wanted to play games, I would walk.

“I was working in the bistro all day Monday, just fussing. Getting things ready for the big day. Then Juan Carlos showed up out of nowhere and started arguing with me. I had no idea he was on the island. There was no reason for him to have come.” Her bottom lip
trembled and she pinched it between her forefinger and thumb.

“Why was he here? What were you arguing about?”

She ducked her chin, sipped her drink. “We fought about money and the New York restaurant, and then he left.” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, glinting in the Christmas fairy lights strung above the bar. “Actually, that’s not all. He wanted to give it another chance.”

“The marriage?”

She nodded.

“How did you feel about that?”

“I—I said I needed time to think. That now was not a good time to hash out personal issues. It was time to concentrate on my place. Do everything I had in my power to make it work.” The tears tipped over the rims of her eyes, made runnels down her cheeks.

“But you didn’t want him back?”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, fanned her fingers on the table. “I don’t know. Of course I still love him. But he completely humiliated me. And he risked everything we’d built.” She touched the empty place on her left ring finger where a wedding band would have been. “Have you heard of Page Six in the
New York Post
? It’s celebrity gossip. He showed up there with a girlfriend—flaunted his cheating in front of me and the whole world.”

“That must have felt awful,” I said, meaning it. I’d just been reminded of how bad it felt to stumble upon Chad in bed with another girl. Even now, a year later, the memory still stung. At least my shame had been mostly private. Juan Carlos’s infidelity had been shockingly public.

“What was the purpose of the shed in back of the restaurant, where the fire started?” I asked. “Can you
think of anything that your ex-husband would have been looking for?”

“Storage,” she said. “I’d had an air conditioner put in—the shed would have been worthless without climate control. This way I could keep the prices down by ordering in larger quantities.”

“So, what—cans of tomatoes? Baking supplies? What?”

“All of that stuff,” she said. “Once we put the big coolers in the kitchen, there wasn’t a lot of room for dry goods.”

“Okay, so dry goods. I can’t imagine Juan Carlos was looking for canned broth in your shed.”

She squared her shoulders. “First of all, we don’t use canned broth in my food.” She barely smiled. “And second, no, I can’t think of any reason he’d have been there. We’d fought hours earlier, and then I returned to Sunset Key to try to calm down. You saw me at the bar.”

I nodded. “Do you keep money there? A safe?”

“No,” she said. “I would never leave valuables on that property. Too many people passing through. And he was definitely not after my money, what there is of that. His family is filthy rich.”

I sat quietly for a moment, wondering now whether they’d had a prenuptial agreement, and whether any of his family dough would be hers upon his death—probably not after the divorce. And trying to parse out what she wasn’t saying.

Her eyes widened, big as pot lids. “I see what you’re thinking. The same idea the cops had. That I needed money for the restaurant project. And that doing him in would do the job because I’d inherit.”

I snorted. “I hope that’s not the best theory they’ve got cooking. There are plenty of ways that plan could
go terribly wrong. What do you think happened? Did the police tell you exactly how he died?”

The tears began to run down her cheeks again. “The blow to the head knocked him out but it appears he died of smoke inhalation. If only I’d gone back to the restaurant and found him, I could have saved him.” She removed the napkin from under her drink and blotted her eyes.

“So, are you thinking maybe someone set the fire to try to cover up what they’d done?” I said, watching her expression closely to see whether this hit home for her. Nothing.

“Or else he was unlucky,” I added. “Really unlucky.”

This time she winced.

“Any ideas about who set the fire? Did he have problems with any of the staff who were working with you at the new place? Any conflicts that could be construed as a motive for murder?”

She smoothed out the damp napkin on the tabletop, folded it until it looked like a paper fortune-teller, the origami finger toy we used as young teenagers to predict the names of our future husbands. Then she lifted her gaze to meet mine. “He fought with many people. You have to understand, he was intensely emotional, which came, I’m certain, from his mother. She’s a hot-blooded Spanish woman who never has gotten over Juan Carlos marrying someone of Irish descent. Oh, how I dread seeing her.”

“The funeral,” I said.

She shook her head. “She’s not intending to have a funeral. A memorial service in a month or so, so all his friends and relations have time to make reasonable travel plans. She may be a hothead, but she’s practical, too.”

“So, you’ll see her in a month?”

“If I’m invited.” She groaned. “But, worse than that, she’s flying in this afternoon to claim his body. I told her I’d pick her up at the airport and then put her up in my guest room. She declined staying with me, but I insisted that we have dinner—after all, we were the closest women in his life. At least for a while. But I’m dreading this so much.”

She looked as though she would cry again. I knew what my mother would have me do.

“Why don’t you both come to my mother’s place for dinner tonight? She’s having our gang already. Two more will not matter to her. In fact, I know she’d insist.” After a few more minutes of convincing, she agreed.

“Will you be involved in planning the memorial service?”

“She won’t let me anywhere near it.”

“But still, he was your husband . . .”

She rolled her neck toward one shoulder, then the other. “We were history, as far as she was concerned. It’s not worth fighting her on this.”

A million thoughts ran through my head. How tragic it was that she wouldn’t be invited to her own husband’s memorial service. How complicated their lives must have been, entwined in both love and work. How hard it must have been for her to wrench herself away. Had she been as successful at separating herself from him as she claimed?

“I wonder what will happen to his restaurant in New York,” I said.

“No idea. I suppose it will depend on what instructions he left in his will. And what his mother wants to do. It would be a shame to see it go.”

“How was the place doing after you left the city?”

“Of course there was a big burst of interest following the disgusting publicity in that gossip rag. And a lull
after I left with a few of the staff. But overall fine, I suppose.”

She looked deflated, like a cake pulled from the oven too soon. “I should go.”

“See you tonight, then.” I patted her hand, paid our bar tab, and then headed out into the day. Sunny but breezy—most of the locals were wearing sweaters; some even had moved to hats and mittens. With no real work to do, I would have considered going to the beach, but it would have been windier there. And, besides, my mind was absolutely racing. So I drove over to Southard Street and parked in back of the Preferred Properties Real Estate office and shot up to the third floor to
Key Zest
. Which, chances were, would not be my place of employment much longer. And that thought made me feel instantly sad.