Part 5 (1/2)
”We enjoyed all of it,” I said, looking at the silverware and napkins and crumbs littering the table. ”Besides, she doesn't want random people bothering her while she eats. And dessert will be here any minute.”
”Well, I'm going over, then,” said Mom as she pushed her chair away from the table. ”It's only polite to say h.e.l.lo. And it's not like she's some kind of rock star or top-level politician who needs to guard her privacy.”
What choice did I have but to follow?
”Ms. Nethercut,” Mom gushed when she reached her table. ”I'm Janet Snow and this is my daughter, Hayley.” She pulled me forward. ”We're both attending the food writing seminar and we just loved your panel discussion today.”
”Thank you. I'm delighted to be part of the conference,” said Olivia. Her polite smile, I thought, did not invite further conversation. And she did not introduce us to the woman sharing her table, who was busy thumbing through messages on her smartphone.
”I arrived just in the nick of time on Thursday-any later and I would have missed Jonah Barrows,” my mother burbled. ”My gosh, even the airport in Key West is adorable.”
Olivia nodded without enthusiasm. ”I flew into Marathon this time.”
”Have you eaten here before?” Mom asked. ”We just loved the trio of hummus. Though actually the croquettes were my favorites-these light little patties of crusty mashed potatoes with a tiny bite of hot pepper. They quenched the fire with a dollop of sour cream and chopped green onions in exactly the right way. Hayley's boyfriend ordered those-such a guy thing-but we were all crazy about them. He's a detective with the local police department and just adorable.”
I gritted my teeth to keep from correcting the boyfriend comment. Olivia Nethercut would not care about the status of my relations.h.i.+p, which after tonight hovered near ground zero. Better to jump on the food bandwagon and then steer Mom away as quickly as possible.
”The pita bread with the trio of dips was the best we've had outside of Athens,” I said. Mom flashed me a grateful smile. ”They put tons of lemon in the plain hummus, while the red pepper version was just the right spicy.”
”Hayley's the food critic for Key Zest magazine,” my mother announced to Olivia and her dinner partner.
”I'm sorry to say I haven't heard of that one,” said Olivia.
Although she had heard of it-when I'd introduced myself the night before. But who could blame her for losing that fact in the discovery of the murder that followed?
”Local rag,” I said before my mother could inform her it rivaled the New York Times.
Across the room, I noticed the waiter delivering the dessert we'd ordered to our table. ”I would love to talk to you at some point over the weekend if you're available,” I said to Olivia. ”I'm doing stories on some of the folks here at the conference. What would be the best way to get in touch with you?”
She took an elegant ivory card from a small black satin bag and handed it over. ”Text or e-mail-I'll get either.”
”Wonderful!” I said, running a finger over the raised printing. ”I'll be calling. We hope you enjoy your dinner.” I gripped Mom's elbow and steered her back across the room.
”You see?” Mom said as she slid into her seat and unfolded her napkin. ”You just need to put yourself forward a little more. Now you've got an interview with a hotshot.”
”She didn't really agree to anything,” I said, though I did feel a hopeful glimmer of possibility as I tucked Olivia's card into my worn leather wallet.
My mother divided the desserts between our plates and spooned in a bite of the bread pudding, studded with enormous, fresh blueberries and garnished with vanilla ice cream.
”This is outstanding,” she said. ”And I don't even care for bread pudding. Would you say that a critic should always order the restaurant's specials?”
I sighed. ”I suppose. If that's what they're steering people toward, you ought to taste it, right?” But I had little appet.i.te for either the bread pudding or the chocolate crepes, too wound up about both the conversation with one of my foodie idols and the evening with Bransford. Beginnings were hard-whether it was a relations.h.i.+p or the dream job you were desperate to succeed at. Endings were worse.
As we started our walk back to Bill and Eric's house, I deflected Mom's suggestion about a second go-around of dessert at the Better Than s.e.x Restaurant by pointing out that both of us had been forced to unhook the top b.u.t.tons of our pants during dinner. After the detective left, of course.
We walked the length of Duval Street instead, Mom marveling at the young black boys playing a keyboard and singing at the top of their lungs who reminded her of the Jackson Five in their heyday. We cut away from the crowded bustle of Duval and headed into the residential neighborhood where my friends lived. It was after ten by the time we arrived at Eric and Bill's small cottage. We let ourselves in, surprised that all the lights were blazing. Toby the wonder dog threw all his fifteen pounds of wiry dog flesh at our knees, yapping with outrage.
”I'm home,” Mom warbled cheerfully. ”Is everybody decent? Hayley's here too. Dinner was amazing. Killer croquettes and the most stunning hummus. And oh, we actually talked with Olivia Nethercut. And Hayley's Nate is just adorable.”
”He's not 'my Nate,'” I grumbled.
No one answered.
We walked through the kitchen to the open-air seating that overlooked the garden. Bill was pacing by the fan palms in the backyard, yelling into his cell phone.
”I don't need a lawyer tomorrow. I need one now!”
7.
That's something I've noticed about food: whenever there's a crisis if you can get people to eating normally things get better.
-Madeleine L'Engle Bill slammed the phone back into its receiver and sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. Toby leaped up onto the cus.h.i.+on beside him and tried to lick between his fingers.
”What's happened?” I asked. ”Why do you need a lawyer?”
He explained in a hoa.r.s.e whisper that three cops had arrived at the house earlier.
”For what?” Mom and I asked in unison.
”They wanted Eric to come to the station.” He glanced up at us, struggling to hold back the tremor in his voice. ”To be questioned about the murder of Jonah Barrows.”
Mom and I exchanged horrified glances.
”Your boyfriend was one of them,” he added, and I winced. Bransford had left dinner with us to pick up Eric and hadn't mentioned it? Not that I'd expect to get the update on every detail of his police business, but good gravy, he knew Eric was one of my best pals. Surely he could have given me a heads-up. It was hard to see how dating a cop in a tight-knit community was going to work out, no matter how cute he was.
”They dropped him off five minutes ago,” Bill said, his voice so tight it almost broke. ”He went directly to our bedroom and closed himself in.”
”So, what were they questioning him about?” I asked.
”He wouldn't tell me anything,” Bill said. ”But I've never seen him look so bad.”
”He withdrew like that when his dad died,” Mom said. ”That was such a shock. They all took it hard. Because of the unfinished business about the divorce, I suppose. If you don't get these things sorted out at the time they happen, they fester. Eric barely spoke to his mom when he came home for the funeral.”
”But he's a grown man now,” I said, feeling a little impatient with Mom's amateur a.n.a.lysis. ”This behavior makes no sense.”
Mom nodded and planted herself on the couch next to Bill, circled one arm around him, and reached for his hand, ignoring Toby's warning growl. ”He probably needs a little time alone to digest what happened. That's all.”
Bill straightened his slumped shoulders. ”But doesn't he understand that I'm worried sick too? It's not just him anymore.”
”What can we do?” Mom asked, patting his knee. ”How can we help?”
”I can call Detective Hotshot and find out what the h.e.l.l's going on. That's what I can do.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and punched in Bransford's number, which shunted me right to voice mail. ”He is so not my boyfriend,” I muttered while his ”away from my desk” message played.