My heart started to pound. This had to be the egret that had disappeared from the scene of the crime on Thursday night. The bird that went missing and made me look like a fool. "Which police officer was that?"

"The detective with the horse face. Some name like Bran Flakes."

I burst out laughing. In less than twenty-four hours, Bransford had been demoted from "chiseled" to "horse-faced." And his name had morphed from some distinguished European heritage to breakfast cereal.

The old man chortled along with me. "He came back around again yesterday to ask what else I might have seen or heard. I guess they figure one old man can't remember much, but if you go back a second time he might dredge something up. Or make it up, even." He chuckled again. "Lucky thing Boris found that bird. And like I said, the detective saw it on my porch and his eyes got so big, I thought they might pop right out of his head and roll off into the dirt. So then he asked me if he could take it and I said, why not? It don't belong to me. And he wrapped it up in his jacket and carried it off. I should have thought of this when you were here, but sometimes my brain just don't go where it should."

"Not to worry. Thank you so much for calling," I told him. "You and those cats enjoy the sunshine today."

I hung up and sank back into my chair. Somehow the bird had to be connected to Eric's arrest. Was this the physical evidence Officer Torrence had mentioned? But what were the chances Bransford would tell me anything about it? Slender. Still, I packed up my belongings and headed out-the chances of my getting any more writing done here were even more slim than that.

I drove superslowly on my way to the police station, looking down all the alleyways off Eaton Street and in the parking lots too, hoping I'd spot Mom or her bike. Of course, she could have gone anywhere-into New Town for grocery shopping at Publix or a quick sandwich-or even buzzed right off the island. But why, when we'd had lunch plans as clear as plastic wrap? And why not call me? None of it made sense. Unless she was in trouble. Or angry. I drove with a piercing sense of dread-and I wasn't going to feel better until I spotted my mother puttering up on her bright pink scooter and knew Eric was safely back home, the arrest a nightmarish mistake in the past.

I parked in front of the peach-colored police department and picked up the intercom phone that hung outside the front door. A gruff male voice answered, "KWPD."

"I'm hoping to catch a word with Detective Bransford?" I said, wishing my voice didn't sound like a lost little girl's.

"He's not in."

"Are you expecting him later? It's about a missing person." And clearing my friend of murder, I thought but didn't say.

"Doubt it," said the gruff man. "Torrence is covering the desk. I'll put you through to him."

I groaned aloud and considered slamming the phone down and running. But before I could make that move, Officer Torrence appeared at the double gla.s.s doors, pushed them open, and poked his head out. "Can I help you, Miss Snow?"

Too late to bolt. "My mother's missing," I said, and horrified myself-and probably him-as a trickle of tears started down my cheeks. The opening salvo for what felt like many more.

"Come in," he said, swinging one of the heavy doors open wide and waving me through. "Coffee? It's been sitting on that burner a couple hours, so I don't recommend you say yes." He smiled and I followed behind him down the greenish blue cement-walled hallway to his office. When we were settled, me on a folding chair, him behind his desk, I scanned the framed citations for bravery and excellence in community relations and marksmanship on the wall above his head.

After a minute, he asked, "So, about your mother?"

Now, in spite of my efforts to keep them inside, the trickle of tears turned into a torrent as the stress of the weekend gained purchase. Two deaths too close to me. And two of the people I was closest to in the world, one in jail, and the other maybe in danger. I put my face in my hands and leaned onto his pristine desk blotter and cried. Finally I gathered myself and peeked through my fingers. Torrence, looking thoroughly alarmed, had nearly overturned his chair while flapping his hand behind him for a box of tissues.

"Let's start fresh," he said, grabbing the box and pushing it over to me.

I wiped my face and explained how Mom had failed to meet me as promised. And then, because why would he take me seriously otherwise, I told him that before she disappeared, she'd been asking questions about Yoshe King's unfortunate death at the bed-and-breakfast near the Southernmost Point.

"I a.s.sume you know that we found her body on the rocks," I said, parrying his disapproval before he could say anything. "I hope my mother didn't get in over her head with her inquiries. She's a little bit nosy, in a creative kind of way." He looked annoyed now, his face darkening and fingers gripping the arms of his chair. "It's not that we don't trust you guys to do your job-"

"But?" he asked, leaning back in his chair until it squawked and the b.u.t.tons on his shirt threatened to pop.

"But it's gotten personal," I said. "Our friend Eric Altman is in jail and we're positive he didn't kill anyone." I sniffled away some tears for the second time in ten minutes. "Can you tell me why he was arrested? Just a hint maybe? Does it have something to do with fingerprints on a bird statue?"

His dark eyebrows undulated and he licked his lips as his chair snapped upright. "That would be an excellent reason to arrest someone," he finally said. "As for your mother, it's too early to file an official report, but I can let our patrol officers know to keep an eye out for her."

He jotted some notes about her appearance (auburn curls and hazel eyes like me, only twenty-plus years older and without my father's widow's peak) and what she might be wearing. This I had to guess from what I'd seen in her suitcase, but I a.s.sumed she would have dressed up for the luncheon. When he'd gotten all the details along with my phone numbers, he promised he'd let the detective know I'd come by.

"Not necessary," I a.s.sured him. Bransford wouldn't be calling me back tonight-he'd be drooling over a bloodred rare steak and garlic mashed potatoes in the cozy courtyard at Michael's. Washed down with a bottle of expensive wine and then Olivia Nethercut for dessert.

I left the PD and drove the short distance to houseboat row. Water glinted in the sunshine, wind chimes tinkled, and the steady hum of someone power-washing their home pulsed in the background. Odd how life could look and sound exactly normal, when the truth couldn't be more different. I felt acutely alone-meeting with Torrence had done little to dispel that-and eager to see the cheerful face of my elderly housemate.

I parked the scooter near the Laundromat and trotted up the finger to Miss Gloria's place. "h.e.l.loooo!" I called. No answer. I jumped onto the deck and hurried into the houseboat. The living area was pin neat, the pillow and bedclothes I'd left tangled on the couch folded away, the breakfast dishes upside down in the drainer, papers on the counter tidied into a neat stack.

I put the kettle on for tea and nibbled at the last remnants of strawberry-rhubarb cake, thinking sorrowfully of the lunch we were missing. Then I noticed a note scribbled in Miss Gloria's old-fashioned script lying on the counter near the fridge, a copper-speckled rock on the corner for ballast.

Up the dock playing cards with Mrs. Dubisson, the note read. Bill called. Eric's mom is coming into town this evening. Then in parentheses: Should we offer to put her up? She can share my double bed. I'll let you call and suggest it.

Four women in this tiny s.p.a.ce, all sharing a bathroom no bigger than a closet? "Absolutely not!" I yelped aloud, and then jotted on the paper: I'm sure Bill will want her to stay with him or maybe get her a hotel room up near their home. We'll have them over for drinks or dinner, okay?

I poured hot water over the green tea bag in my mug, and sorted through the stack of yesterday's mail. Most of it was addressed to Miss Gloria, including a few bills, catalogs, and a postcard from Cory Held at Preferred Properties.

Who says real estate doesn't move over the holidays? We sold four homes last month! was splashed across the top of the card. Underneath were snapshots of two condominiums and two wooden conch houses, all staged to look adorable and tropical with red SOLD banners slapped across the photos. Someday. I restacked the mail, added honey to my tea, and dug the letter I'd lifted from Yoshe's belongings out of my backpack.

Settling into a wicker chair out on the deck, I sipped my tea and read the letter again, slowly. I'd never seen actual correspondence between a writer and her publisher, but this seemed unusually harsh. The editor had taken issue with Yoshe's food and her writing, but even more interesting (and probably devastating to Yoshe) were the questions about the authenticity of her recipes. I wondered if the call Yoshe had taken at breakfast had been from the publisher. But why call the bed-and-breakfast's house phone instead of her cell? How would they even have that number?

I wished I knew more. My gaze swept over the letter again, pausing on the letterhead. Certainly this person would not talk to me. Unless I called and impersonated Yoshe's next of kin? But I didn't even know her name.

Then I remembered that Yoshe's niece was expected at the bed-and-breakfast-maybe she had arrived. And maybe she'd have some insights about her aunt's state of mind before the tumble from her balcony. Should I phone ahead? I hated the idea that she'd refuse to speak to me or that the manager would think I meant to stir up more trouble about the death in her establishment and tell me not to come. Better to take my chances in person.

Back inside the boat, I smoothed out the editorial letter, tucked it into a clean envelope, and put it in my pack. Not that I intended to hand it over, because how in the world would I explain where it came from? As I searched through my room for an official business card to offer Yoshe's niece (because even I realized that a deposit slip with my name and cell number scratched on it looked sloppy and unofficial), my phone rang. My stepmother Allison's name came up.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked, ready to dance around why it had been too long since I called. Allison and my father have been married over ten years, but she and I had kept each other at arm's length until last fall when she used her chemistry expertise to help me solve Kristen Faulkner's murder. That definitely warmed things up between us.

We chatted about her job and mine, and the veterinarian's annual checkup report on her dog, a dachshund named Alphonse. Not that he and I were close-he bared his pointy white teeth and growled every time he saw me-which probably stemmed back to the time Evinrude had pinned him on his home turf. He'd never gotten over the humiliation of getting whipped by a cat, and in his linear dog thinking, he seemed to place the blame on me.

But despite our small talk, Allison sensed something was up with me. "You don't sound like your usual chipper self, Hayley," she said, sounding just like my mother. Which honestly, under the present circ.u.mstances, felt like a relief.

So I told her about Mom's visit, my impending job review, the two murders, Eric's arrest, and finally admitted that Mom was missing.

"What an awful weekend," she said. "I'm sure the police will find your mother. Or she'll show up with a dead cell phone."

"I know. I keep telling myself the same thing."

"How can I help? Do you want us to come down?"

"Not yet," I said, feeling a rush of grat.i.tude, tinged with a little shiver of horror. Three parents on the scene would be two too many parents to manage. Even if one of them was MIA. "I'll let you know if I need you." But then it occurred to me that she might be able to help figure out what was going on with Eric.

"I do have a favor. Any chance you could run over to Eric Altman's house in Mom's neighborhood? Mrs. Altman is coming to Key West later on today and apparently she's quite hysterical. Maybe you could help her sort through Eric's boxes and see if she has any old yearbooks or letters or diaries from the years Eric spent at graduate school in New York? I'm looking for any clue about his relationship with a guy named Jonah Barrows."

It sounded stupid and hopeless even as I asked her-whoever heard of a graduate program with a yearbook? Did I think Jonah would have inscribed a secret message to Eric on his photo like we did back in high school? But I was feeling desperate.

"I'll call ahead and tell her you're coming."

19.

Let things taste of what they are.

-Alice Waters After ten minutes trying to calm the frantic Mrs. Altman, I ran out to my scooter and puttered back over to the bed-and-breakfast, keeping an eye out for my mother all along the way. Tourists were everywhere, enjoying the temperatures in the seventies and the blue, blue water and cups of Cuban coffee and relief from their frozen realities back home. I squeezed my hands into fists, pumping myself up to fib as needed, and marched into the lobby.

Reba, the manager, was tucked into the back room with a slender Asian woman wearing stylish New York clothes-a short, belted dress and black leggings, boots so tall they extended above her knees, a fluffy sheepskin vest that looked hot as Hades, the shiniest black hair I'd ever seen. And me in red high-tops and tight jeans-face it: everything was a little snug these days, considering the way I'd been eating. How could I make a connection so she'd answer my intrusive questions?

"There was no computer in the luggage," Reba was telling the Asian woman.

"Yoshe brought it here with her," the woman insisted. "That's why I flew down instead of having you ship the stuff. She told me she was planning to work in her downtime. It was a MacBook Air, practically brand-new. She kept it in a soft-sided Burberry case."

Reba shook her head. "I'm terribly sorry about the circ.u.mstances, but I don't remember seeing anything like that. You understand that we can't be responsible for missing items. As I explained, I locked her purse in our house safe. If the computer had been with her things, I would have put it there for safekeeping."

"Yoo-hoo," I called from behind the desk, thinking this conflict could work to my advantage.

Reba looked up but frowned when she recognized me. "Did your mother turn up?"

"Not yet," I said. "She didn't stop by here again, did she?"

Reba shook her head.

"Since I was in your neighborhood, I came to talk to Ms. King's niece. As we discussed." Which we hadn't, but what could she say with me right there?

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I added to the young woman, barging around the counter with my hand outstretched. "My mother is the biggest fan you can imagine. And I adored your aunt's recipes too-practically grew up on Yoshe King's vegetable lo mein and her crispy fried chicken. We spent some wonderful time with her this weekend. I'm Hayley Snow."

"Mary Chen," she said with a faint smile, placing a limp hand in mine.

Two women in flip-flops and bathing suit cover-ups rang the bell out in the lobby. Throwing a warning glare at me, Reba left the office to help them.

Up closer I could see that Yoshe's niece's eyes looked sunken and dull in spite of the thick band of eyeliner and multiple coats of mascara she'd applied. Food and caffeine, I thought, of course. I was desperate for both, but maybe she was too. And maybe while I plied her with calories and coffee, I could get her to talk about whether Yoshe was depressed. Or angry. Or frightened. Anything that might help explain her terrible death. And possibly my mother's disappearance.

"You must be drooping after that trip. There's nothing worth eating in the Miami Airport-that's for sure. Want to grab a bite to eat before you tackle this?" I waved at Yoshe's luggage. "The Banana Cafe is like two blocks from here and they make the best breakfasts and coffee."

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I'm catching the plane back to Miami at five."

I glanced at my watch-almost one. "We've got plenty of time for brunch. I don't know about you, but I can't think well if I'm hungry."

She stared at me for a few moments, finally heaving a grateful sigh and nodding. I grabbed her elbow and steered her past the desk. "Back in a jiffy," I said to Reba.

The hostess led us to a table on the rooftop-just high enough to feel removed from the noise and grit but still enjoy watching the buzz of activity on the sidewalk below. A large green umbrella shielded us from the midday sun. Shortly after being seated, we ordered-an omelet with fried potatoes and caramelized onions and cheddar cheese for me and La Formidable crepe for Mary: sausage, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cheese. A mimosa for her and a coffee for me.

"This beats January in the Northeast, right?" I said after the menus had been whisked away and Mary's drink delivered. "I moved down here from New Jersey early last fall. Never looked back."

"Fifteen degrees and incredibly windy when we took off," Mary said, sipping the mimosa. "Not that I'm planning to stay long enough to get used to it. There's no point. And now this place gives me the creeps."

"I really am so sorry about your aunt."

"And how did you know her?" Mary asked, her face tipped toward the sun like a delicate bird's.

"My mom and I took her to lunch on Friday with one of the other writers."

"So you don't really know her," she said, furrowing her forehead and clutching her purse as though she might walk out. "Why are you so interested in speaking with me?"

I suspected that only the awful truth would keep her talking. "We found her body," I said. "My mom and I. Honestly, we won't feel right until we know what really happened."

Mary grasped her stomach and winced, her face puckered in pain like she'd been socked in the gut. Then she straightened, pursing her lips and tapping a glossy fingernail on the wooden table. A large tear rolled down her cheek, dropped off her chin, and sparkled on the hair of the faux-fur vest. "I can't believe she killed herself like that."

I leaned across the table to take her hand. "See, I'm not so sure she did." I explained that my mother and I had been making some inquiries about conflicts among the panelists, and were wondering if someone might have pushed her off that balcony to the rocks below, though of course I didn't put it that way.

"Was she worried about anything as far as you knew?"

Yoshe's niece shook her head mournfully as our meals were delivered. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Obviously, a food writer doesn't always generate what you'd call reliable and lucrative income. Last year I would have said she was down-it had been several years since she had something new published. But then she had that fabulous idea about recipes from the ancestors and scored the contract for the new cookbook. I hadn't seen her this happy in a long, long time. Even though she had to work at warp speed to make the deadline. And she was so pleased to be invited to this conference." She tucked a napkin into her black sweater and finally shrugged off the sheepskin.

Thank goodness, I was burning up just looking at her. She swallowed the rest of her mimosa and signaled for another.

"How did she seem to you? Emotionally, I mean," she asked, b.u.t.tering a piece of whole wheat toast and then discarding it on the plate next to her crepe. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears again and she fought to hold them back. Like she needed some good news.

"s.p.u.n.ky. Feisty. I would never have said she was depressed, though I know people can hide things. On Friday, she seemed upbeat, in spite of the dreadful start to the weekend with Jonah's murder." I told her about his opening lecture and described how the other panelists had been placed on the stage behind him like theater props. "I think all of the panelists were a little worried about his honesty manifesto. Maybe worried that they were in his bull's-eye. And I'm certain some of them were."

I took a small bite of my omelet, savoring the creamy browned onions in melted cheese and sighing with satisfaction. Food did amazing things for me even if the circ.u.mstances were completely dire. Mary had cut her crepe into tiny pieces, but so far I hadn't seen her eat a single bite. Nor was she telling me much. So I kept talking.

"Even I-and trust me, I must be the lowest writer on the totem pole at this conference-was dragged through the mud a little." I described the fangirl e-mails I'd sent to Jonah, hoping he'd have the time to chat with me about my career sometime over the weekend. Or at least, that I could score an insider interview that would help me write a great piece.

"Instead of helping me out, he told the organizer that I was stalking him." I laughed lightly, though I could still feel the searing embarra.s.sment that followed Dustin's accusation.

"I'm sure it was the same guy. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?" Mary sniffled, and dabbed at the corner of her eye with a napkin.

My ears perked up. I handed over one of the spare tissues that Officer Torrence had pressed on me. "What guy?"

"She told me about an e-mail she received last week from one of the other writers. She was so upset. Probably the same person who was nasty to everyone, including you, right?"

I nodded quickly. "So Jonah Barrows was badgering her?"

"She never told me the name. But she did get an e-mail earlier this week warning that he was going to raise some issue about her background during the weekend. She called me on Monday, absolutely distraught. I told her not to pay one bit of attention to him-he was trying to steal the limelight from the real stars. I told her to ignore any question she didn't like."

"Her background?" I repeated. "What kind of issues?"

Mary hesitated, cupped her fingers over her eyes as if she was thinking hard. Then she drained her drink and leaned across the table, her words slurring a little. "Are we speaking in confidence? Her reputation has been damaged enough already."

"Of course," I said, pushing my nearly empty plate aside. "Go ahead."

"What did it matter whether Yoshe's grandmother really came from the Fujian Province?"

I sat back against the bench. "That's where the tea she liked so much is grown, I remember. But her family didn't live there?"

Mary shook her head. "Six generations in San Francisco. Yoshe did a lot of traveling in China, mind you. She talked to a thousand grandmothers in provinces all over the country, including the Fujian. They just didn't happen to be her close relatives, that's all."