Free Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette

up on the screen. “I need to head over to the Custom House and do a quick sweep for vagrants; then we’ll ride along that end of Duval Street. What does your brother look like?”
    I described Rory again and explained how he’d left Salute! several hours earlier, but failed to return as we’d agreed. And then because he was so sympathetic, I gave him the CliffsNotes version of all the family drama that had rolled out over the first day of their visit.
    “So you’re the last man left standing,” he said with a smile. “Not that you’re a man. Not at all.” He grinned as we reached the distinctive redbrick building that housed the Custom House. “Back in a jiff,” he said, hopping out of the vehicle with his flashlight in hand. “I have to make sure no one’s sleeping here.”
    Was he flirting with me? I was too tired to figure it out and way too tired to do anything about it. But with my mother’s voice in the back of my mind—
you should always be ready, Hayley, because you’ll never know when and where Mr. Right might turn up
—I slicked on some lip gloss just in case, and then watched Officer Ryan circle the wraparound porch and emerge from the shadows on the other side of the building. When he returned to the vehicle, he reported in to the dispatcher and we set off across Duval Street again, the radio crackling every few minutes with word of trouble or police action in other quadrants of the city. I kept my gaze pinned on the sidewalks, hoping to catch a glimpse of my stepbrother among the partying spring breakers.
    As we reached Truman Street, the dispatcher reported a possible grand theft by the old harbor. “Ten-four, on the way,” Officer Ryan said, then skidded into a U-turn and raced back toward Greene Street. On the computer screen, a more detailed report of the complaint flashed up. According to its owner, a Jet Ski had been taken by two teenagers.
    “BOLO for a young man with blond hair and jeans and a white shirt and a girl with dreadlocks and pink shorts,” the dispatcher said before the sound faded away.
    “Ten-four,” said Officer Ryan as my whole body stiffened.
    “That’s what he was wearing,” I said, my stomach grinding. “And he was obsessed with Jet Skis. He was so mad when no one agreed to take him riding.” I skipped ahead in my mind to the worst-case scenario: How would I ever tell Allison her precious son had landed in jail?
    “Don’t panic,” said the cop. “There have to be a couple hundred blond boys in jeans in this town right now. Maybe even thousands.”
    He whooped the siren to move a gaggle of tourists out of the road and we lurched to a stop at the bight.

6
     
Centers should resemble creamy custard and not be rubbery. Tarts are done when an inserted toothpick (like a good alibi) stands up on its own.
—Cleo Coyle,
Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen
     
    The wind gusted through the boats moored in the old harbor, causing the masts to clank and sway. Officer Ryan parked the cruiser near the Conch Republic restaurant, and we hustled down the finger of the dock where another policeman was conferring with a civilian. They stood looking at a slip in between two fishing boats. One Jet Ski had been pulled onto a little floating platform and tied up. Next to that, a sawed-off rope tied to nothing trailed into the sheen of oil that topped the murky water.
    “What’s the situation?” Officer Ryan asked.
    “This man saw a girl this afternoon walking along the docks. Thin, dreadlocks, a blue fleece,” said the other policeman, pointing to a small, wizened man wearing a faded Yankees cap and a wool fisherman’s sweater.
    “You saw the girl and what about her stood out?” Officer Ryan asked the man.
    “First of all, she had on the shortest pair of pink shorts I’ve ever seen.” He smirked but the policemen glared back at him. “She was sitting on the dock with her legs hanging over, like she was going to drop down onto one of my skis,” the man continued. “I should