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

them?”
    Mom dropped the whisk and clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with sudden tears. “Oh my gosh, this is my fault. I’m the one who told the detective that Eric went to the grapefruit bitters table right around the time that man died.”
    I shook my head. “If he didn’t know Jonah, he certainly wouldn’t have killed him.”
    I stirred the beaten eggs into the cooled chocolate and added vanilla and flour, feeling sick to my stomach and, for once, speechless. Maybe he
was
involved somehow.
    “Surely it was an accident, then,” said Mom. She poured the batter into the pan and slid the pie into the oven. “Our Eric would never hurt someone onpurpose. And he’s not the kind of man who would run away from trouble.”
    “In seven years together, he’s never shut me out,” said Bill. “No matter how bad things got. I’m beginning to wonder if I know him after all.” Bill got up, snapped a leash on his dog’s collar, and stormed from the house.
    Mom and I waited the twenty-five minutes it took the pie to bake, hoping Bill would return and Eric would get lured out of his room by the incredible scent of warm chocolate. But neither happened. We pulled the pie from the oven and hunkered on the back porch, listening to the night rustling, waiting for the dessert to cool. Finally we served ourselves small triangles and loaded dollops of French vanilla ice cream on top. Not that we needed rich pie on top of what we’d already consumed at Santiago’s. But it was hard to know what else to do. We both picked at our third dessert of the night.
    Mom dropped her fork on her plate and pushed it away. “It feels like rain,” she said. “I hope he didn’t take the dog too far.” She sighed. “Should I pack up and come home with you?”
    As cramped as Miss Gloria’s houseboat would feel with three of us shoehorned in, I had to agree it was time for Mom to clear out. Whatever was going on with Eric, entertaining a houseguest would not be an asset in hashing things through. Even well-meaning and goodhearted company like my mother. She would straighten the kitchen and cook little treats and natter cheerfullyabout the weather and the interesting people she’d seen on the streets of Key West, but right now the guys needed privacy.
    “I think that’s a good idea,” I said. She went into the spare bedroom to pack while I called a cab and alerted Miss Gloria and left a note for my friends.
    B and E: Mom came home with me for tonight at least. Let us know what we can do. The pie tastes amazing with vanilla ice cream. And maybe a shot of whiskey on the side
. I drew a little smiley face and a row of
x
’s and
o
’s and stuck the paper to the refrigerator, where it would be hard to miss.
    At the sound of the taxi’s horn, I carved off a piece of the pie for Miss Gloria, wrapped it in foil, and helped my mother carry her stuff out to the front stoop. Ten minutes later, the taxi driver dropped her at Tarpon Pier and I pulled in behind on my scooter. As we walked up the finger, the moon glided out from its cover of clouds, causing sparkles of light to dance on the water like a thousand pearls of tapioca. We could hear the deep cowbell clank of the wind chimes on the Renharts’ boat, and the answering silvery notes from Connie’s front porch. Miss Gloria bounced out on the deck to meet us and I hoisted the suitcase from the dock to her porch.
    “What fun having your mom visit—it’s a hen party!” Miss Gloria said, clapping her hands. Ninety-seven pounds of exuberant welcome. She reached for the foil packet Mom was carrying and peeked inside. “And good heavens, you brought chocolate too!”
    Hard to imagine all was not right with the world.

8
    Unlike cooking, where largely edible, if raw ingredients are assembled, cut, heated, and otherwise manipulated into something both digestible and palatable, writing is closer to having to reverse-engineer a meal out of rotten food.
    —David Rakoff
    Just after six