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

declined.”
    Note to self: Interview this fellow alone later. I dug in my pocket for a business card, but found I’d given out the last one. Then before I spotted her and could head her off, my mother bounced into the middle of the group.
    “Oh, Hayley, here you are! I’ve been looking for you—” She stopped and stared at the women next to me, her mouth dropping open. “Yoshe King! Hayley, you never mentioned you knew her. Oh, Miss King, I have your book right here. I’ve been preparing your recipes since Hayley here was a little girl. You should see the pages—absolutely paper-thin and covered with stains from your sauces. In fact, I bought a brand-new copy at the bookstore downstairs.” She rustled through her enormous straw bag and pulled out a cookbook the size of a dictionary. “Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to sign it?”
    She handed the book over and then pinned me in a hug. “It’s so much fun to be attending this conference with my daughter. Do any of you have children? What a treasure to have been able to hand down my passion forfood to Hayley. You’ll be hearing about her—mark my words. Soon she’ll be up on the stage with you, rather than in the audience.” She took her signed book back and thanked Yoshe.
    “Darling, let’s get our seats. The day’s about to begin,” she said, pulling me away as if I were still five and balking on the way to my kindergarten classroom.

5
    As for greed and envy, no one can accuse a man who serves such copious portions, who relishes the company of others, who gets hurt if you don’t drink with him and who gives such enveloping drunken bear hugs … of hoarding and withholding.
    —Julian Sancton
    After Dustin had taken a solid half hour on center stage to express his grief over Jonah’s death and to assure the audience that the conference would continue with more energy than ever, the first panelists trooped onto the stage. The moderator turned out to be the narrow-faced unfriendly man we’d seen at breakfast, and his panelists were the women who’d been clustered around him—Yoshe King and Sigrid Gustafson, joined by Olivia Nethercut in a last-minute swish of midnight blue silk. They settled into a semicircle of chairs that had been set up in front of the fauxdiner, all three women tilting forward like racers at the start line.
    I tried to judge how the audience was feeling in the wake of last night’s tragedy. “Deflated” and “anxious” seemed the most accurate words to describe them. I’d overheard multiple horrified versions of Jonah’s death being discussed. And Mom hadn’t had to shush the ladies in front of us even once.
    “Food writing as a fun-house mirror—Marcel Proust meets Bobby Flay,” said the moderator. “That is the title of this morning’s panel. I have to say, only Jonah Barrows would have understood what that means.” A wave of subdued chuckles rolled through the theater.
    “I join Dustin in saying that we shall all miss him terribly, both this weekend and going forward. But never fear. We shall do the best we can to decipher and translate the organizers’ intentions for our panels, as Jonah would have done brilliantly. My name is Fritz Ewing and I’m the author of nine nonfiction and poetry books, most recently
Out of the Frying Pan
, a collaboratory memoir with chef Michael Bozeman. A
foodoir
, as it were.
Into the Fire
, a collection of poems about meat, is scheduled for publication next year.” He grinned and bowed at his panelists. “As you can quite imagine, those are not the titles I sent in with my manuscripts.
    “Mr. Fredericks asked me to channel Jonah Barrows.” He touched his balding head and held out one sneaker-clad foot. “I’m afraid I have neither the hair nor the boots to make such a statement. So I’ve decided to lead off by asking our panelists to offer an openingremark that best reflects the essence of their relationship to food writing. One sentence only, please,