Death in Four Courses: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page A

harder not to allow my nerves or my reactions to her well-intentioned motherly ministrations ruin the visit. As we inched forward toward the bar, the pressure on my bladder grew intense.
    “Mom,” I said, “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Will you hold my stuff?”
    I handed her the canvas bag containing my phone, notebook, wallet, program, and the press copy of Jonah’s book I’d brought in case I ran into him, and dashed down a long brick walkway, passing groups of people chatting at tall cocktail tables with plates of nibbles and glasses of wine. Twenty yards to the right, one serving station was dishing up tiny lamb chops. The smell of roasted meat and garlic called to me like metal filings to a magnet, but I decided it would be rude not to wait for my mother. At the next station, more waiters were setting up coffee, tea, and enormous trays of chocolate-covered strawberries. Those I could not resist. I veered over and popped one into my mouth,savoring the bright burst of berry coated in a crisp shell of dark chocolate with the smallest hint of orange—no resemblance to the greasy, grainy, overly sweet chocolate I’d had in wedding fountains. I’d pick one up for Mom on the way back.
    At the far corner of the property at the end of another long brick walkway, I located the restrooms in a small white clapboard building shaded by dense green foliage—palms, ferns, and bougainvillea vines covered in hot pink blossoms. As a woman climbed the steps ahead of me, I recognized the white-blond hair and slim, black-draped figure of Olivia Nethercut, one of my food writing heroines. Jonah was spectacular and controversial and brilliant, but I could picture myself having a career like Olivia’s—food critic, philanthropist, and cookbook writer. My psychologist friend Eric had told me more than once that people who wrote down their goals achieved them more often than those who didn’t. So on page one of my notebook, I’d dashed off a list for this weekend. Number one: an exclusive interview with Olivia. Jonah’s interview was number two.
    “Ms. Nethercut,” I said, panting a little as I caught up with her. “I’m Hayley Snow and I just wanted to say how thrilled we are to have you in town. Speaking at the conference.”
    She nodded blankly. My face flushed as I suddenly realized that accosting her in the ladies’ room would probably be considered a journalistic faux pas. On the other hand, it was way too late to pretend I hadn’t seen her. I started to hold my hand out, then realized my fingers were covered with melted brown goo.
    I began to stammer like a waitress with her first table. “Isn’t it a gorgeous night? Never seen such a full moon. They’re so lucky that squall blew by to the south. I don’t think they had any rain plan at all.”
    Inside the ladies’ room, the novelist Sigrid Gustafson was applying a fresh layer of lipstick at the sink. Hearing me prattle, she caught Olivia’s eye and grimaced. Olivia ducked into a stall and I took the one next to her.
    “I loved your memoir,
A Marrow Escape
,” I chattered, unable to shut myself up. “And I sent a check off to your foundation at Christmas.” So what if it was ten bucks? That was all I could swing, working only part-time at my friend Connie’s cleaning service before starting at
Key Zest
.
    “Thanks,” she said in a muffled voice. “You’re very kind.”
    Feeling disappointed and slightly brushed off—she hadn’t shown one smidgen of curiosity about who I was or what my connection might be to the seminar—I told myself that once we emerged and were busy with the less personal task of hand-washing and away from Sigrid’s eye-rolling, I’d announce my credentials and request an interview. But by the time I’d exited the stall, both of the women were gone.
    I stumbled back down the stairs, mentally pinching myself for acting like a groupie instead of the professional critic and writer I was supposed to be. Though I was a