Murder With Ganache: A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette
Authors: Lucy Burdette
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behind—this is probably my one chance to taste this stuff for my article. I know I can count on you guys.” I grinned at all of them, trying to appear more cheerful than I felt.
“Oh, this will be fun!” my mom exclaimed as she bit into a doughnut, then chewed and swallowed. “Are you ready?” She waited until I picked up my pen. “I don’t even like doughnuts, but this is amazing. The dough is so light, not cakey or stale. And I love the glaze—sweet but not cloying. Mmmm, I’d put this up against Dunkin’ or Krispy Kreme any day.”
I jotted down a few notes on what she’d said and chugged a third of my coffee, feeling the caffeine sweep through my system and surge toward my tired brain.
“What do you think about the candied bacon?” I asked, pushing a plate filled with specialty doughnuts across the table. She cut off a corner and nibbled.
“Divine,” she said. “Inspired. Although on the other hand, perhaps the bacon gilds the lily.”
“But this sticky bun is better than anything I’ve ever eaten,” said Sam. “It’s got the most amazing caramel crust.” He passed the other half to my father, who nodded his thanks and began to eat. Possibly the first time I’d seen them actually interact.
I noticed that Allison wasn’t tasting anything. “Are you okay?”
“That detective seemed so sure Rory did something bad,” Allison said, placing a hand on her stomach which gurgled loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. “Those questions about whether he used drugs or stole things . . .”
“He had to ask. Don’t take it personally. That’s just him doing his job,” I said. “I pretty much always feel guilty around him.” I forced a little laugh. “He may look small town, but he’s damn good at what he does. They will find Rory, and he’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.” I dished a scoop of eggs onto her plate, added a few pastry samples, and pressed a fork into her hand. “You need strength in the meanwhile.”
The chatter about the food continued, and I listened with one ear, taking notes and zipping through my iPhone inbox. Then I buzzed over to my Facebook account, looking for messages. Nothing there I couldn’t deal with later.
Then I glanced over at Allison. “Does Rory have an Instagram or a Twitter account?” I asked. “I wonder if he might have left a trail of virtual crumbs last night.”
“I don’t know about those, but he does use Facebook,” Allison said. “We argued about whether he’d accept me as a friend.” She grinned, but then the smile faded away. “At first, he said he wouldn’t post anything if he thought I’d be looking at it. But we’ve reached a little détente: As long as I look and listen and don’t comment, he kind of forgets I’m there.”
I logged into Allison’s account and surfed over to Rory’s page. Front and center was a photo, date-stamped last night. Rory sat entangled with two girls on the Courthouse Deli bench across from the Green Parrot Bar. He had a goofy grin on his face and looked as though he’d been enjoying the Duval Street party. If he hadn’t known anyone in Key West before he came, he’d made friends fast. And one of the girls was dressed exactly as the creepy Jet Ski owner had described her.
My phone rang.
Connie.
“Ray was able to borrow his buddy’s boat for the morning,” she said. “Meet us over at the marina on Stock Island, and he’ll take us around Key West. I know the Coast Guard will be looking, but Ray knows the mangroves and the reefs like nobody’s business.”
8
She’d always loved setting the table: the fork was the mom, the knife the dad, the spoon the child. The plate was the family’s world—the mother and father partnering up on the tough parts, the child dipping into the sweetness of dessert at the end
.
—Jennie Shortridge,
Love and Biology at the Center of the Universe
At Miss Gloria’s insistence, we left the breakfast dishes to her, and the rest of us darted out
“Oh, this will be fun!” my mom exclaimed as she bit into a doughnut, then chewed and swallowed. “Are you ready?” She waited until I picked up my pen. “I don’t even like doughnuts, but this is amazing. The dough is so light, not cakey or stale. And I love the glaze—sweet but not cloying. Mmmm, I’d put this up against Dunkin’ or Krispy Kreme any day.”
I jotted down a few notes on what she’d said and chugged a third of my coffee, feeling the caffeine sweep through my system and surge toward my tired brain.
“What do you think about the candied bacon?” I asked, pushing a plate filled with specialty doughnuts across the table. She cut off a corner and nibbled.
“Divine,” she said. “Inspired. Although on the other hand, perhaps the bacon gilds the lily.”
“But this sticky bun is better than anything I’ve ever eaten,” said Sam. “It’s got the most amazing caramel crust.” He passed the other half to my father, who nodded his thanks and began to eat. Possibly the first time I’d seen them actually interact.
I noticed that Allison wasn’t tasting anything. “Are you okay?”
“That detective seemed so sure Rory did something bad,” Allison said, placing a hand on her stomach which gurgled loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. “Those questions about whether he used drugs or stole things . . .”
“He had to ask. Don’t take it personally. That’s just him doing his job,” I said. “I pretty much always feel guilty around him.” I forced a little laugh. “He may look small town, but he’s damn good at what he does. They will find Rory, and he’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.” I dished a scoop of eggs onto her plate, added a few pastry samples, and pressed a fork into her hand. “You need strength in the meanwhile.”
The chatter about the food continued, and I listened with one ear, taking notes and zipping through my iPhone inbox. Then I buzzed over to my Facebook account, looking for messages. Nothing there I couldn’t deal with later.
Then I glanced over at Allison. “Does Rory have an Instagram or a Twitter account?” I asked. “I wonder if he might have left a trail of virtual crumbs last night.”
“I don’t know about those, but he does use Facebook,” Allison said. “We argued about whether he’d accept me as a friend.” She grinned, but then the smile faded away. “At first, he said he wouldn’t post anything if he thought I’d be looking at it. But we’ve reached a little détente: As long as I look and listen and don’t comment, he kind of forgets I’m there.”
I logged into Allison’s account and surfed over to Rory’s page. Front and center was a photo, date-stamped last night. Rory sat entangled with two girls on the Courthouse Deli bench across from the Green Parrot Bar. He had a goofy grin on his face and looked as though he’d been enjoying the Duval Street party. If he hadn’t known anyone in Key West before he came, he’d made friends fast. And one of the girls was dressed exactly as the creepy Jet Ski owner had described her.
My phone rang.
Connie.
“Ray was able to borrow his buddy’s boat for the morning,” she said. “Meet us over at the marina on Stock Island, and he’ll take us around Key West. I know the Coast Guard will be looking, but Ray knows the mangroves and the reefs like nobody’s business.”
8
She’d always loved setting the table: the fork was the mom, the knife the dad, the spoon the child. The plate was the family’s world—the mother and father partnering up on the tough parts, the child dipping into the sweetness of dessert at the end
.
—Jennie Shortridge,
Love and Biology at the Center of the Universe
At Miss Gloria’s insistence, we left the breakfast dishes to her, and the rest of us darted out
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