Free Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette

“When Hayley graduated from college, I gave her a box of my mother’s recipes—written in her own hand. And a few from my mother’s mother and my mother-in-law. Some of them are delicious and some simple and several just awful, but the point is, they demonstrate the history of these women in such a tangible, personal way. And it’s our history too—we’re all connected.”
    I didn’t dare mention how close I’d come to losingevery last recipe card in the box during the breakup with Chad Lutz last fall.
    “Exactly!” said Yoshe. “I should have hired you to write the preface.”
    Now Mom blushed and ducked her head.
    “The food of my ancestors sucked,” said Sigrid with a big belly laugh. “That’s why I write fiction.”
    The alarm on my phone beeped—almost two o’clock. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back for the afternoon sessions,” I said.
    “I’m skipping the panels this afternoon,” said Sigrid. “We have a long night ahead. And there won’t be anything said that I haven’t already heard.”
    Yoshe nodded in agreement.
    “You go on,” Mom suggested to me. “I’ll make sure the ladies get dessert and help them find a cab to take them to their hotels. I can cover the bill and bring the receipt to you later.”
    I flashed a grateful smile. As much as my mother had looked forward to every moment of this conference, precious private time with her cooking idol, Yoshe, would be even better. And Sigrid added to the raw entertainment value of the afternoon. I left them arguing over Nutella dessert crepes with bananas versus the more extravagant raspberry chocolate ganache red velvet, with Yoshe proposing maybe they should stick with herbal tea. Did she realize that her weight-conscious barbs hit home every time for Sigrid? I wondered as I walked away. Only the result seemed to be that Sigrid ordered more, not less, each time Yoshe mentioned calories. To give Yoshe the benefit of the doubt, maybethey were a running commentary in her own head and she was merely giving them voice.
    I jogged the few blocks to the San Carlos Institute, arriving slightly sweaty and a couple of minutes late. As the lights of the theater were already dimmed and the audience quiet, I slid into a seat in the back row. Floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains covered the diner set onstage. Dustin fought through them and announced the next speaker, Fritz Ewing, the culinary poet who had moderated the morning panel. Based on his earlier introduction, Fritz seemed to be best known for using food as metaphor for strong emotion. Most recently his focus had become protein. He approached the podium, shook Dustin’s hand, and launched into a monotone reading.
    “Mutton, gray strands, like tough sinews of conversation with my ex,” he began. “Beefsteak, raw and tender flesh, calling a lover home. One I shall spit to the side of the plate, never to taste again. The other swallowed, joining enzymes in my belly…”
    Feeling a little queasy, I sank lower in my chair and tried to block out the meat metaphors by reviewing the conversation we’d had over lunch. Neither of the women had seemed all that fond of Jonah, though there was a general admiration of his competence. The news of a failed relationship between Jonah and Dustin surprised me. As I’d learned the hard way last year when Kristen Faulkner was murdered and I landed on the hot seat, this derailed romantic connection would certainly make Dustin a person of interest in the eyes of the cops.
    A few rows in front of me, Dustin stood, looking at the vibrating phone in his hand with some annoyance. He strode up the aisle toward the lobby. I slipped out behind him, trying madly to think of a way to ask about his relationship with Jonah. Before I could get his attention, two uniformed cops met him in the lobby and led him to the side of the room. I ducked into the cubby that served as the conference bookstore and pretended to browse the books nearest the door, trying to