“You’re home early,” said Miss Gloria, her face lighting up with a huge smile. Then the smile faded away. “Maybe home early from a big date isn’t good news, though, is it?”
Mom’s voice floated through the receiver. “How was her dinner with Nate?”
“I’ll put you on speakerphone, so you can hear it firsthand,” said Miss Gloria, even as I tried to wave her off.
I dropped the sack of leftovers on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch. Evinrude and Sparky hopped up to investigate the scent of grilled meat. After shooing the cats away, I gave my mother and Miss Gloria the short version of how I’d ended up eating alone, then a whitewashed version of seeing the hanged man down by the harbor.
“I’m scared to death it was Turtle, the homeless guy I bought coffee for this morning.”
“Why would you think that?” Mom asked.
I explained about his cloak and Turtle’s cape, but then had to agree with Miss Gloria’s assessment—a hundred folks on this island might own a garment like that. Our island is rife with costume parties and pirate events and just plain kooky people. Besides, why in the world would a homeless man be wearing a wig and lipstick? Not that that helped me feel better in the grand scheme of things—a man was still horribly dead.
“So you never even saw Nate?” asked Mom.
“I ran into him at the dock,” I said, and then admitted that he and I seemed to fit together like nails on a chalkboard.
“Even considering that he was called in to deal with an awful crime,” I said, “he was pretty harsh when I tried to drop off the food.”
“What were you wearing?” she asked.
“Mom! What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m sorry, darling,” said my mother. “You’re completely right. Your Nate has such a stressful job. He probably doesn’t always handle it as well as he might.” She cleared her throat. “I liked him quite a bit when I met him. But maybe he really isn’t ready to date again.”
“Was it Maya Angelou who said ‘when people show you who they are, believe them’?” asked Miss Gloria. Which seemed like deep wisdom from a tiny old lady in a sparkly pastel sweatsuit.
“On another subject,” said my mother, “how are the plans for Connie’s wedding coming?” Connie was my college roommate. She’d grown close to my mother after hers died of cancer during our freshman year.
“She’s so busy,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything except they want it to be on the beach.”
“But it’s only two months away,” said Mom. “What’s she going to wear? Are there any attendants other than you? What are you going to wear? And what about the reception? What will they serve?”
I felt a rising surge of panic. If Connie was too overwhelmed to plan the occasion, the maid of honor should step up. Me. “I’ll get on it,” I said. “And keep you posted.”
* * *
I had to drag myself out of bed the next morning. The caffeine in the chocolate lava cake that Miss Gloria and I had bolted down after hanging up with my mother, along with my alternating feelings of disappointment and humiliation over the interaction with Nate had kept me awake for hours. And worst of all, the sound of that body hitting the deck with a sickening thunk. Had it been Turtle?
One quick look in the mirror confirmed the crepey bags under my eyes: I had no business being on television. Besides that, I was wicked nervous about appearing on camera again. It would have been kinder for the show’s theoretical audience—and me—if I went back to bed. Instead I showered, troweled on some miracle concealer that my mom had left behind on her recent visit, and spent a little extra time blow-drying my curls into submission. Then I donned the yellow Key Zest shirt again, layering it over a pair of snug black jeans. Finally, I swallowed a cup of coffee, laced up my favorite black sequined sneakers and headed downtown to the Studios of Key West.
I parked my scooter in between a Smart car and a motorcycle on Southard Street and walked through the alley behind the Armory building, which normally housed art receptions and artists’ studios, to the courtyard in back. Chef Adam and Toby Davidson were already on the back porch of the little conch house; Sam Rizzoli was nowhere to be seen. Deena Smith was overseeing the application of makeup to the chef candidates in the other corner of the square.
“Morning, Deena!” I called out. She waved back and returned to her work.
I ducked through the sculpture garden to the porch and trudged up the steps. The lead cameraman muttered: “What do you people not understand about nine o’clock sharp?”