Free Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette Page B

almost noon and still drizzling. The damp weather brought out the aromas of the marina—the lingering fishy smell from the cleaning table, the fresh scent of someone’s laundry drying in our mini-Laundromat, the sharp odors of marine oil and gasoline. I dashed up the dock to our boat and skidded across the deck, leaving my wet slicker on a hook outside the sliding glass door. Inside, the two cats were splayed on a paisley tablecloth that Miss Gloria had spread over her Formica table in front of the banquette in the galley. She emerged from her bedroom and let out a horrified yelp.
    “Scat, you bad kitties!”
    I scooped up Evinrude and dropped him to the floor with a thunk. He wound in between my legs purring, not the least bit chastened.
    “Is this too much?” Miss Gloria asked, spinning in a circle to show me the sweat suit she’d chosen. Thestretchy white pants had a line of blue rhinestones marching down each leg, and bejeweled blue manatees swam across the front of the shirt. “I can change…”
    “It’s so cute.” I grinned, reminded of how lucky I’d gotten in the roommate department. “ You’re so cute. He’s going to love you.”
    Once the half-frozen tomato sauce was warming in a pan, I began to dice zucchini, black olives, and onions while Miss Gloria cut the ciabatta into thick slices and brushed them with olive oil. Adding the vegetables to the pan with two-thirds cup of white wine and chicken broth, I brought the sauce to a simmer and cut the grouper into chunks. While the bread toasted, Miss Gloria finished setting the table.
    “Do you think he’ll read our cards?” she asked. “I’ve never had it done. I’m a little nervous.”
    I didn’t tell her I was nervous, too. I’d never seen Lorenzo as a civilian. Or cooked for him. But more than that, the last time he’d read my cards, I’d almost lost my mother. I realized that somehow the two things had started to get twined up in my brain: tarot and danger.
    We heard a ship’s bell tinkle out on the dock—Miss Gloria’s maritime doorbell. I went to the door and waved Lorenzo onto the boat. Dressed in black jeans and sneakers and wearing a yellow slicker, he looked completely different from the man I’d seen many times plying his trade at his card table on Mallory Square. No makeup, no jewels, no turban.
    “This is adorable,” he exclaimed, as he stripped off his dripping raincoat and hung it next to mine on a peg outside the door. “I was deathly afraid of boarding the wrong craft—I’ve heard stories about how protectiveboat captains are.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek and we went inside.
    “Well, this is Captain Gloria,” I said, drawing Miss Gloria forward to meet him. “She’s not very scary and we’re thrilled you could come.” Lorenzo took her tiny hand in his and kissed her palm. She shivered, speechless for a minute.
    “Such a pleasure,” he said with a small bow.
    “But where’s your eye makeup? And your turban?” asked Miss Gloria. “Hayley and her mom described you but you look nothing like what I imagined.”
    He touched both hands to his dark hair, looking sad. “Oh, I loved that turban. I felt like Lana Turner when I wore it. But all dressed up like that, I was being treated like a tourist attraction. People kept coming up and snapping photographs while I was reading my customers’ cards. They didn’t take me seriously—treated me like a fool. And it was so intrusive for the people waiting to hear what I had to say.” He sighed dramatically. “There’s a mass level of consciousness—or should I say unconsciousness—that turban tapped into, so I had to give it up.”
    “Why don’t you show him around?” I suggested, “and I’ll finish making lunch.”
    Miss Gloria beamed and led Lorenzo down the houseboat’s short passageway, explaining as she went that her deceased husband had added many of the built-ins that took best advantage of the small space. “Not an inch is wasted,” she said