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

spot something they overlook.”
    “But where do we even start?” Allison asked, clutching her arms to her chest and looking as though she might cry again.
    “We can’t know where they were headed. Or why,” I said. “But Ray knows this water—he’s lived here all his adult life. He’ll take us around through the mangroves and out toward the live-aboard sailboats. Any place where kids might hide out, right, Ray?”
    He nodded and helped the ladies to board. When we were settled—Mom and Sam and me in the bow, and my father and Allison perched on the tiny bench in front of the console—he passed around faded orange life jackets.
    “I’m going to point us out toward the Atlantic side first,” Ray said. “Y’all let me know if you see something. You said he was wearing a white shirt, right?”
    Allison nodded, looking hopeless. And I had to admit that looking for a white shirt in the vast area surrounding the island did feel a little daunting.
    Ray started up the engine and steered the boat out of the little channel into the big channel that fed into the ocean. A thick layer of gray clouds hung down like a quilt of cotton batting, blending into the steely water and obscuring the horizon. The choppy waves spanked the hull. Contrasting with her orange life vest, Allison’s color changed from merely pale to gray like the clouds. She gripped my father’s hand and pinched her lips together.
    “You okay?” my dad asked quietly.
    “Yes,” she said. “No.” She shot up from her seat, bolted to the side of the boat, and heaved her breakfast into the water. Connie rustled through the little compartment under the console and produced a roll of paper towels. She handed these to Allison along with a bottle of water. Ray throttled back the engine and shouted over the noise of the waves and wind.
    “I’m happy to run you back over to the marina.”
    “I’ll be fine,” she said, looking more miserable than I’d ever seen her. Except maybe earlier this morning in the police station.
    “It’s her son,” said my mother. “She needs to be right here with us.”
    Allison flashed her a grateful smile, and Ray accelerated again. My mother pointed to my father and indicated that they should trade places. She took the seat next to Allison and circled her arm around my stepmother’s shoulders, murmuring something that I couldn’t hear over the motor’s roar. I looked away to give them some privacy, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Nothing could draw mothers together like a child in danger.
    We roared past Fort Zachary Taylor State Park and its gorgeous beach, practically empty this gray morning, and then into the channel that funneled cruise ships, sailboats, and yachts into the Hilton marina. One cruise ship was already docked at Mallory Square and another at the Navy’s Outer Mole. In the distance, I saw columns of tourists like ants, marching off the gangplank to the pier and loading onto the Conch Tour Train to be ferried into Old Town.
    Ray headed away from the harbor out into the sea, pointing toward lumps of green in the distance. “I’m going to circle around these mangrove islands. You all keep your eyes open and let me know if you see anything.”
    He slowed the boat down, explaining that we were in a section of shallow water called the flats. The shadow of a small hammerhead shark with its distinctive Neanderthal-ish head flitted beneath us. Stripes of sea grass alternated with bare sand where unskilled and unlucky motorists had dragged their engines.
    Connie and I stood up, taking turns peering through the binoculars that she had brought from home. In a small cove off the mangrove islands, we spotted one of the Danger party boats, and then several kayaks full of shivering day-trippers. Ray veered over to speak with their captain.
    My father lurched to a stand. “We’re looking for a missing boy,” he shouted, his words echoing loudly after Ray idled the engine. “Light hair, fifteen years