Visions of the rolled oats, pecans, coconut, and slivered almonds I’d bought at the Sugar Apple Natural Foods last week flashed through my mind; I started to salivate with possibilities. Pulling those ingredients out of the freezer and the cupboard, I began to measure and mix a batch of my favorite granola. I stirred maple syrup, brown sugar, and canola oil into the bowl of nuts and grains, poured it into two big cookie pans, and slid the pans into Miss Gloria’s oven.
I retreated to the back deck of the houseboat with a big mug of coffee and my laptop, intending to write up my notes for the Mallory Square Stroll. It was not easy to develop a flow when I had to get up every fifteen minutes to stir the granola so it would roast to a consistently lovely golden crunch.
Besides, every time I put fingers to keyboard, the image of Nate’s wife popped into my mind—excruciating. Even though I’d purposely left my phone in the bedroom to avoid distraction, each time the oven timer went off, I cadged the Wi-Fi signal from one of the neighbors to check my e-mail. I found the usual junk mail to sort through and a couple interesting updates from old college friends on Facebook, but not a word from the detective.
When the granola had turned a gorgeous caramel color, I scraped it into a large glass bowl and added dried cherries to the mixture. After pouring myself a sample of the toasted oats and dousing it with milk, I left the rest to cool on the counter. Back outside, I sat basting in the sun and nibbling, still thinking about Nate. I tried to convince myself that I should be happy for him. I really, really wanted to feel that way. Really. In truth, it hadn’t ever sounded like his marriage had ended because he and his wife didn’t love each other. It ended because they had experienced a horrible crisis and they hadn’t known how to handle the emotional fallout. And they needed to gnaw down to the marrow of their matrimonial boneyard before either of them would be ready to move on.
I set my bowl down on the deck so Evinrude and Sparky could lap up the dregs of sweetened milk. Who was I kidding? If I were really honest, I would ask myself why in god’s name he’d even want to move on from that gorgeous woman. I was strictly Miss Congeniality to her Miss America. After I’d spent forty-five minutes crafting two lifeless sentences about the thrill of the Topped Chef competition, I gave up and went back inside the boat.
“Your granola is to die for. Need another cup of java?” called Miss Gloria from her comfortable spot in front of the television. The Food Network, of course. She was watching an episode of Restaurant: Impossible in which host Robert Irvine pronounced the kitchen of the restaurant he was visiting the most disgusting he’d ever seen. The show always made us feel better about our own housekeeping.
She tore her gaze away from televised close-ups of a grimy stove and a sink full of dirty pots and pans. “I can make a new pot.” The cats had migrated from the back deck to curling up on either side of her. Lounging with the three of them watching foodie blunders from a comfortable distance looked oh-so-tempting.
“I think I’m going to run over to Sam Rizzoli’s memorial service,” I told her. Speaking of a bone that needed gnawing. That death drove me crazy. Why had he been killed? And why had he been left in such a publicly gruesome position? I felt torn between wanting to go and wanting to mind my own business, but in the end, I was too antsy not to attend.
I dressed in my nicest black jeans and a clean white shirt for the occasion, pulling on the jeweled sandals my mother had given me earlier this month instead of my favorite, more comfortable red sneakers. Then I motored across town to the White Street Pier and parked a couple of blocks away.
The concrete square at the end of the pier was jammed with people, the crowd obliterating the faded compass that was painted on the surface of the cement. A man standing with his back to the ocean called for quiet, and a hush rippled across the gathering. Before the speaker began, a large brown pelican plummeted through the air behind him and stabbed his beak into the water. As the bird floated peacefully on the surface with his freshly caught dinner, a gull landed on his head and began to peck at his gullet. A metaphor for Rizzoli’s life? Maybe even the big guys are vulnerable when they are hoarding something valuable. Maybe two birds in action provided a message more powerful than anything his friends and colleagues might say.
While several of Key West’s politicians held forth on the contributions Rizzoli had made to the town, I circulated around the outer perimeter of the crowd, listening for any undercurrents to the dead man’s story.
“Sam Rizzoli always put his hometown first,” said one of the city commissioners through the microphone.