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

eavesdrop on their conversation.
    “I understand that you need to do your jobs,” Dustin was saying, his pleasant tone not quite covering the irritation underneath. “Could we possibly talk after the day’s panels are completed?”
    I thumbed through a paperback copy of Sigrid’s latest novel, not able to make out the policeman’s reply.
    “I have no idea what happened to the damn bird,” Dustin replied. “I can only tell you I had nothing to do with either hefting it or causing it to vanish.” Then he stalked back across the foyer and disappeared into the auditorium.
    I returned Sigrid’s novel to the stack and headed out, exhausted by the day and anxious about the night to come.

6
    When I write about a line cook’s bad night, it’s not just about a bad night, it’s about not being good enough, period, about personal shame and failure.
    —Michael Ruhlman
    If Key West can be said to have a ghetto, the walk down the blocks of Petronia Street from Duval Street to Santiago’s Bodega led us right through it. It was one thing to ride along this path in full daylight, in the back of a pedicab, as we had done this afternoon, another to march the same distance in the darkness.
    Mom did her best to keep up a chipper smile as we passed along the drab blocks of small homes, yards littered with odd bits of trash and dour dark-skinned residents who looked as though they’d just as soon not have pale strangers tromping through their neighborhood.
    “Maybe we should have had the detective pick usup,” she said in a soft voice that let me know she was a little nervous even though she didn’t want to be.
    I linked my arm through hers. “We’re perfectly safe and we’re almost there. And he was coming straight from work.”
    Which was a tiny stretcher. In truth, I preferred to meet him at the restaurant on my own terms. I’d been looking forward to a date with Bransford for weeks, though after last night’s conversation I was filled with a greater percentage of dread than anticipation. And besides, having Mom along ensured that we wouldn’t be indulging in anything more thrilling than dinner.
    Sparks had flown like the worst romantic cliché right from the first minute I laid eyes on Detective Bransford, despite inauspicious circumstances (me as his murder suspect). He asked me out the same day the real killer was arrested. But it took almost five weeks to find an evening that worked for both of us. I’d spent ten days visiting both my families in New Jersey before Christmas—ten days can start to feel like a life sentence under those conditions. But I’d figured one thing out for certain since my parents’ divorce: My time had to be divided equally between Mom’s house and Dad’s. On top of my family issues, the holidays, especially New Year’s Eve when Key West goes party-in-the-streets crazy, were stressful times for the police department.
    All that to say anticipation made my heart race and my decision-making difficult—it took me a solid hour to figure out what to wear to this dinner. First I tried on the black swing dress that made me feel sexy but in justthe right girlish kind of way. Until I remembered he’d already seen me wear it to a funeral. Bad dating Karma. So I switched the dress out for my black jeans—a little snug at the current payload—and a light blue sweater that made more of my cleavage than actually existed. Mom’s and Eric’s enthusiastic responses had left me feeling that I’d made the right selection, even though my feet felt like I’d been walking on a bed of bamboo skewers in Connie’s borrowed patent leather stilettos. And the heel-strap rubbed exactly on the spot where my mother’s gift sandals had created a tender blister. All in all, a fashion-for-comfort blunder I would not repeat. Ever.
    Detective Bransford was pacing outside Santiago’s. He stopped still when he saw us. “I would have been happy to pick you up,” he said, looking worried, glancing from Mom’s