Free Fatal Reservations by Lucy Burdette

how cute she was, Miss Gloria and I piled onto my scooter and headed down the island. I had managed to persuade her that there wouldn’t be parking for an oversized Buick and thus to sidestep the issue of riding shotgun with her again.
    “I’d like to walk a few blocks on Duval Street and see if the man who weaves those palm hats is around. If we wait till later, I’m afraid he’ll be fried.”
    “Drunk again,” warbled Ms. Gloria.
    “He’s an explosive personality,” I warned her, “and he could be very dangerous. So please let me do the talking.”
    On Southard Street, I parked in a small space that had been set aside for bicycles and scooters, and we started to walk west. The sidewalks were already busy with tourists wearing flip-flops, sundresses, and T-shirts, most of the visitors shiny and red from too much time in the sun. Under the overhang of Willie T’s bar, its ceiling papered with messages written on dollar bills, a rock band played. The crowd spilled out onto the street, drinking beer and dancing. We stopped for a minute to listen and watch the fun.
    “Mr. P and I used to come to Duval Street once a week back in the day,” said Miss Gloria, the expressionon her face all nostalgic and sad. “We figured if we didn’t act old, we wouldn’t get old.”
    “It worked pretty well for you.” I squeezed her hand. “Let’s get going, okay?”
    The palm-hat weaver was sitting in a low beach chair on the sidewalk, not far from Starbucks the next block over. He had a pile of palm fronds next to him and several completed hats and bowls on display. Behind him was a rusty metal grocery cart full of more supplies and products. He was shouting at a stream of passersby, explaining about his merchandise and his reasonable prices as his fingers worked the palm fronds. When there was a break in the action, I moved closer.
    “Hi,” I said in a perky voice. “I’m Hayley and this is Miss Gloria.”
    “We would love one of those hats,” said Miss Gloria, “for this young lady’s father.”
    I glared at her—I hadn’t intended to buy anything. And my father would not—no way—be caught dead in this ugly green hat.
    “Freaking awesome,” he said, pushing the hat into Miss Gloria’s hands. “I’m Louis. These hats here are woven from only the finest coconut palm trees. I harvest them gently and legally and they cure in approximately three weeks and provide excellent protection from the sun.”
    “How much?” I asked, pointing first to the green pith helmet and then to a smaller basket, hoping one of them wouldn’t break the bank. And feeling a bit like a cop who had to pay his snitch.
    “Thirty-five for the hat and twenty-five for the basket. Fifty for the both.”
    “We’ll take one of each,” piped up Miss Gloria. “And while you’re wrapping those, we would like to extend our condolences on the loss of Bart Frontgate.”
    He looked up, surprised, and grunted his thanks. “Though truth is, we weren’t more than working acquaintances.” He scratched his stomach through a gap between his shirt buttons and then placed the hat and the bowl into a rumpled plastic bag with a CVS logo on it. “Still, he was one of us. And he put a hell of a lot into making things run smooth.”
    “What’s happening with the group managing the Sunset Celebration now?” I asked. “We thought we might have seen you at the commission meeting last night.”
    He twirled a finger around next to his ear. “Loco,” he said. “That crap has all gone further than it should. I tried to take a leadership role, but apparently I wasn’t leader material. Or so thought our precious fortune-teller.”
    He guffawed, releasing a gust of alcohol-laced air. “Apparently he didn’t see me in his cards. But that isn’t working out so well for him now, is it?” He leered and thrust the sack of hideous woven items at Miss G.
    I handed over the last of my cash. Then I took Miss Gloria by the elbow and steered her down the