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

I’d worked too hard to land this job to fold up like a paper napkin. “Absolutely not. I’m up for it. I’m going over to talk to folks now.” I gathered my things and started for the door.
    “Don’t forget your restaurant review,” Wally called after me. “We still need that.”
    I turned back to look at him—he was smiling. A month on the job and he already had my number. Ambitious even if it killed me. “Got it covered,” I said with a smart salute.
    I left my scooter in the office parking lot and walked the few blocks down Southard to Duval. Early morning was actually a good time to see the city—street-cleaning crews had swept away the detritus of the parties from the previous night—the Mardi Gras beads, the broken beer bottles, the pizza crusts—along with its accompanying odors. The streets were peopled by roosters and joggers and a few of the homeless folks who’d spent the night in places not conducive to sleeping in, but none of the evening crowds of revelers were up this early.
    I crossed the street to avoid the powerful smell of a deep-fat fryer from a fast food grill serving greasy breakfasts and headed east on Duval Street to the San Carlos Institute. I spotted Dustin on the sidewalkoutside the building, talking with a cluster of the conference organizers and Officer Torrence—fully recognizable because of the mustache and the wide shoulders in spite of his street clothes. I ducked my head and scuttled by, not wishing to rehash my discovery of Jonah’s body. Or get sucked into more questions on the unfortunate death. Besides, I had a lot to do before Mom arrived and distracted me from my
Key Zest
business.
    Having my mother here with me cemented the connection I felt between food and love. Between food and taking care of someone you loved. Or might want to love. Between food and guilt. I appreciated her enthusiasm and confidence in me, but I wasn’t convinced she understood how important this weekend was for my career. She’d understand if I explained that I was in danger of getting fired if I didn’t produce something brilliant, but she’d also worry. And hover, motherly rotors a-whapping.
    I climbed the white marble steps circling to the second floor above the lobby. In the large room across from the stairway, a sumptuous continental breakfast had been laid out for the conference speakers and attendees—pastries, fruit, an egg casserole with onions and sausage, three kinds of juice, and coffee. I imagined that anyone providing food for this seminar would be hypervigilant about its quality. Who’d want a roomful of restaurant critics and food writers wrinkling their collective noses at your offerings? Or worse still, suffering a wave of food poisoning?
    I loaded a plate with a little of everything and lookedaround for someone to chat with. A group huddled in the far corner of the room included three of the conference speakers and several others. Their body language was not welcoming, but if I let that stop me I’d gather nothing but uninformed suppositions from the home cooks and fringe writers attending the conference. I pictured Ava Faulker poised to can me, and then wedged into the space between a well-known Asian cookbook author and Sigrid Gustafson, the author of three novels centering on Scandinavian food, whom I’d seen in the bathroom at the reception the night before.
    I surfed into the first silence. “Good morning,” I said brightly. “I’m Hayley Snow with
Key Zest
magazine, headquartered right here in town. We’re so happy to have you visiting.”
    There was the smallest pause and then they continued to talk as if I hadn’t appeared—about the pitiful state of advances in book contracts and whether e-books were truly the way of the future.
    “Surely not for cookbooks,” said Yoshe King, a small dark-haired woman in a sequined tunic and black leggings. “Who wants to look at a recipe on an iPhone?”
    The novelist scowled. “Haven’t you heard of Epicurious,