A Dish to Die For by Lucy Burdette

Author:Lucy Burdette
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Seventeen

Sympathy is nice and necessary when it’s fresh. But if you leave it out too long, it curdles like old milk.

—Laura Hankin, A Special Place for Women

By the time I reached Houseboat Row, I was on the verge of running late. Not cool when working a funeral reception. Not cool ever in the catering business. I texted Miss Gloria as soon as I parked to tell her we should leave in ten minutes flat. Then I dashed to my boat to splash water on my face and slap on more deodorant, brush and tie my hair back, and pull on the white shirt and black pants that I had fortunately hung up out of reach this morning. Not a pet hair on them.

“Ziggy,” I told Nathan’s little dog, who was watching me with a distressed expression, “we’re going to run out to the parking lot for a pee, and I promise something so much better later.”

I snapped his leash on and trotted down the finger of the dock so he could relieve himself. “You’ll be in charge tonight,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean throwing the cat overboard.”

Back in the houseboat, I ruffled the short, shiny fur on the top of his head and kissed him in the same place. Evinrude raised his head from his perch on my pillow and blinked. I crossed the room and whispered to him, “You’re really in charge, but sometimes I have to pretend so he doesn’t feel left out.” Then I kissed his head and dashed outside to meet my friend.

On the way to the funeral event, I caught Miss Gloria up on the murder case, including my visit to Jager. “If you happen to overhear anything that you think might be related to the murder, please let me know. I’m sure Darcy Rogers and probably several of our Key West police are going to be there and we can pass the information along rather than handling it ourselves.”

She giggled. “Are you telling me to butt out?”

I began to laugh with her. “I’ve been told that more times than I can count, and I’m simply sharing it with you. Seriously, though, somebody at this party must know what happened on that beach. Who would be better at listening than unobtrusive servers too busy with delivering food to seem like a threat?”

She held up her palm for me to slap. “Gotcha.”

By the time we had woven through the usual Key West afternoon traffic and parked in the back of the building near the Red Barn Theatre, the Woman’s Club was bustling with activity. Though my mother had gently questioned the decision, the widow Mrs. Garcia had insisted that mourners be served flutes of champagne as soon as they entered. I took up my station at the front door with its red stained-glass inserts, smiling a greeting, directing guests to the ballroom, and offering the drinks. I wondered whether this was something Mrs. Garcia herself needed—and who wouldn’t?—and whether she thought it would look better if everyone was drinking along with her.

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