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

have called the cops right then instead of chasing her off myself. This is the third time this month one of those damn kids have ripped off private property in this neighborhood. You people need to keep better watch.”
    Officer Ryan nodded sympathetically, which seemed to make the fisherman madder.
    “Personally, I’m sick to death of these little bastards,” said the old man. He coughed right at me, expelling a gasp of breath stale with garlic and beer. “They can’t be bothered to stay home and finish school or get a job. Their damn parents didn’t teach them the difference between right and wrong. And then this town coddles them like welcome guests. Of course they’re going to help themselves if they see something they want. And then you’re surprised when they take advantage.” He hawked up some phlegm and spit it onto the dock near my feet.
    I took a step back and Officer Ryan cut off his rant. “Did you actually see this girl with the dreadlocks on the Jet Ski tonight?”
    “I was sleeping below in my cabin.” The man gestured at the nearest boat, which had a handwritten sign advertising good rates on fishing expeditions and Jet Ski rentals. It was hard to imagine his cabin being much bigger than a coffin and difficult to believe that, out of all the captains in the harbor, anyone would choose this disheveled, querulous man to lead their vacation expedition.
    “Then I heard the motor start up. I knew it was mine because she coughs and misses when you start her cold. But by the time I got my pants on and got up the ladder, she was gone.” He waved a hand out toward the channel. “There was a boy riding on the back. At least I think it was a boy.”
    “What did he look like?” Officer Ryan asked.
    “Some kind of jeans, white shirt. Hair to his neck like a hippie,” the old man said. “And none too clean-looking either. Never saw nothing but his back, tearing off across the harbor with my property.”
    “Plain white shirt?” asked the cop. “Short sleeves or long?”
    “Short, something written on the back. Like the name of a rock band. Yeah, something no reasonable person ever heard of, and certainly wouldn’t want to listen to.” He chortled at his own humor.
    I felt sick to my stomach. The description was vague, but everything about it matched Rory. Though where he would have picked up this girl and why he would have helped steal a Jet Ski were beyond me.
    “Wouldn’t they need a key?” I asked. “How would they start the machine?”
    “The motor on this one was giving me fits,” the man said, casting an angry look at me, as if I had no business doubting his story. “I’d fooled around with it, but I couldn’t fix the damn thing. So I called for a mechanic to come and take a look. He said he’d be by later this week so I left the safety key there on the floor of the watercraft below the instrument panel.” He pointed to a small compartment on the second Jet Ski jammed with old ropes, a faded pink flip-flop with the toe-hold blown out, and a couple of empty beer cans. “In case I was off the water when he came by.”
    “We’ll find them,” Officer Ryan said. “We’ve alerted the Coast Guard too. Once it gets light enough to see, they’ll be out looking.” They exchanged phone numbers, Ryan advised him to call if he saw or heard anything more, and I followed him off the dock. Back inside the cruiser, he turned off the blue lights and scanned his computer screen.
    “What now?” I asked, feeling both revved up and exhausted.
    “There’s not much we can do in the middle of the night. The Coast Guard will be looking and the police boat will be out in the morning too. I’d suggest you go on home and get some rest. We’ll put on a full-court press tomorrow.” He looked at my face, which must have shown my despair. “The thing is,” he added gently, “we don’t even know if the kid on the Jet Ski was your brother. Maybe he’s gone home in the meantime and tucked himself