“That was an awful tragedy the other night,” I said, when the young man delivered my coffee to the shelf separating his little kitchen from the outdoors.
“Terrible,” he said, as he began to pile ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, and pickles on loaves of Cuban-style bread. “I’m glad I wasn’t here to see it.” He slathered mustard over the top of the bread, closed up the sandwiches, and weighted them down on his grill. The cheese melted down the sides and sizzled on the hot metal. I tried not to drool on the counter.
“Any word on who did it?” I asked, thinking he must see and hear a lot from his little window on the seaport.
He rubbed his chin and looked out across the horizon, over my head. “They’ve gone door to door interviewing at the shops and restaurants that were open that evening. They even had Navy Seal scuba divers come in to search the harbor bottom around the boat. There’s so much garbage down there, I doubt they could tell what might have been new.” He pulled a rag from a sink full of soapy water and wiped his counters down. “That was a low trick to hang a man on his own boat.”
“The boat definitely belonged to Rizzoli?”
He nodded and threw the rag back into the sink. After drying his hands on his apron, he flipped the sandwiches. “Can’t say how often he actually sailed, but the guy who does my deliveries said he stayed aboard fairly often.” He grinned. “Probably the nights his wife was mad at him. Or when he planned to party harder than she approved.”
As I started to cross the street with my loot, an orange and green trolley rattled around the corner. A man dressed in chef’s hat and clothing burst out of Kermit’s Key Lime Shop and pretended to throw the pie at the tourists on the bus. I estimated that he performed this stunt ten times a day, but he acted as if this was the first time he’d thought of it. I detoured around the back of the trolley and settled on a bench overlooking the bight, thinking about a slice of key lime pie for dessert. Or frozen pie on a stick, dipped in chocolate. How many push-ups would it take to counteract those calories?
I sat with my face tipped to the sun until I couldn’t wait another second to dive into the lunch. Maybe Turtle would smell the roasted pork and come out of hiding. But I made it all the way through my sandwich, washed it down with the sweet, thick coffee, and there was no sign of him.
I strolled past the bar at the Conch Republic Seafood Market, passing the slips that held charter fishing boats, most of which were empty for the day. Then I came to the sign that read TARPON FEEDING 4 P.M., which reminded me that I needed to take more advantage of the quirky things that made this island so endearing. In front of the A & B Lobster House, I finally had a decent view of Sam Rizzoli’s sailboat. A piece of yellow crime-scene tape was still strung across the stern; a loose end fluttered in the breeze. Standing on the dock and looking up at the restaurant, I tried to imagine whether diners would have been able to see Rizzoli’s body as it was hoisted up the rigging. Maybe not, if it was dark outside and light in the restaurant. The death had been all over the front page of the Key West Citizen for several days running. Wouldn’t someone have come forward?
A little farther, around the corner, at the end of Front Street, a homeless woman named Elsa was sitting in the dappled shade of a royal poinciana tree. I’d seen her many mornings as she wandered the island on a three-wheeler bike, with its rusty wire baskets stuffed with her belongings. A gray tiger kitten with muted stripes that reminded me of Evinrude ribboned through her legs, batting at the ragged hem of her blue skirt. She had laid out a tiny bowl of kibbles and another of water in the shade beside her.
“Morning,” I said. “That kitty is so cute! What’s his name?”
“I was thinkin’ of Cloudy. Or Stormy. Or Foggy. Or Whisper,” she answered, her weathered face creasing into a wide smile. “I’m havin’ some trouble deciding.”
She hooted out a peal of laughter and I laughed along with her. “You need a whole litter of kittens to use up all those good names.”
“Yep. Right now, I’m calling him Cat.”
“That works.” I crouched down to their level and wiggled my fingers until the kitten pounced. After wrestling with him for a few minutes, his sharp white teeth pricking my hand, I smiled again at Elsa. “Are you okay on cat food?” She wasn’t the kind who’d take a handout easily, but I figured showing concern about the cat was something else.
“For now,” she said.
I left it at that, not wanting to push about whether he’d had his shots or flea medicine. Maybe next time I saw them, I’d tell her there was a program that paid for veterinary care. Me.