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

foodie groupie, like my mother before me. What was wrong with that?
    Maybe I’d annoyed Olivia with my gushing. MaybeI’d broken some unwritten rule of courtesy by even speaking to her, even if it was to admire her cutting-edge criticism, gorgeous writing, and generosity. Maybe it was rude to compliment one writer in front of another. Maybe I’d crave the same kind of distance from scruffy fans in the unlikely event I ever got famous. In that case, why the heck attend a food writing conference?
    I wandered off to collect myself on one of the black metal benches by the reflecting pool in the corner of the property before rejoining the party. Lush staghorn ferns and mother-in-law tongues shielded the seating area from the restrooms. Two large metal birds—more egret in shape than flamingo—were posed gracefully in the water, and clusters of water lilies floated over most of the surface. I took a seat and tried to slow my whirling thoughts: This weekend could be fun if I would only relax.
    A trickle of water burbled out from a pipe in the pool’s wall, and I noticed that something was pushing the lily pads up, something surfacing from the dark recesses of the water. The wind gusted, causing the palm fronds overhead to clack like castanets and bringing a whiff of roasted meat that now smelled more rancid than enticing.
    I edged a step closer, my heart ratcheting up to uneven thumps like a Kitchen Aide mixer loaded with dough. A third bird statue appeared to have been broken off at the shins and was lying on the bricks next to the pool, the sharp metal beak pointing to a sodden mass of—something.
    I squatted at the edge to peer into the water, and was horrified to recognize a swatch of orange linen painfully similar to the shirt Jonah had worn onstage. There must be some reasonable explanation. He didn’t own the only orange shirt in the world.
    I grabbed the ruined statue and poked at the mass. A pale face bobbed up through the lilies, white flesh and blond hair stained with algae. I tried to scream. The sound caught in my throat, emerging as a strangled squeak.
    I kicked aside my mother’s expensive sandals, rolled my pants up to my knees, and waded into the water. It was colder and deeper than I’d expected and I skidded on the slick pool bottom and barely caught my balance. Grabbing hold of the orange shirt, I dragged the body to the shallow steps at the end of the pool, propped it up on the edge of the brick walkway, and finally steeled myself to focus. Oh my Lord, it was definitely Jonah.
    I pressed my fingers against the clammy skin of his neck, feeling for a pulse—nothing.
    What now? My phone was in the bag I’d left with Mom. And the last time I’d practiced CPR was in high school when I’d taken Red Cross training in hopes of working as a summer lifeguard. I’d flunked the water safety portion of the test and dropped out to work for a local caterer.
    I screamed for help.
    “Breathe, Jonah,” I moaned, looking around for someone—anyone—to assist me. In the distance, the loud buzz of a million conversations floated through the trees from the direction of the Audubon House.How could it be that the grounds were mobbed and yet not one person was close enough to hear me?
    I squeezed Jonah’s nostrils shut and blew two quick puffs of air into his cool lips, noticing an angry red knot on his forehead partially covered by his hair. His mouth tasted of sour coffee and pond water. I pulled away, gagging, and broke off my amateur CPR to try to wrestle him farther up onto the sidewalk. He was too heavy.
    I yelled again. “Help! Help!” No one came.
    “Help!” I shrieked a third time, then tipped Jonah’s head back, leaned my weight onto his chest, and pumped until a stream of greenish water leaked from his mouth. He still didn’t seem to be breathing. I couldn’t fumble around while his life ebbed away. I leaped up and tore down the sidewalk and around the corner to the dessert and coffee table.
    “Call