An Appetite for Murder by Lucy Burdette Page A

e-­mail, found the one that had informed me I was on the short list, and printed it out.
    After trying on half of the things jammed into my phone-­booth-­sized closet, I chose a sleeveless black swing dress that looked professional, would fit in at a funeral, and didn’t need ironing—­but also made the most of my curves. In the bathroom, I brushed my hair and for once the curls sprang out sweetly and framed my face as if I’d planned the whole thing. Like maybe I finally had that cute Hayley Mills thing going. Sometimes the best way to summon your nerve was to dress the part—­or so my mother would say. So I added my black sequined high-­top sneakers and headed out the door.
    Miss Gloria was watering the potted plants on her deck, her black cat sunning on a faded canvas chair.
    “Don’t you look pretty!”
    I nodded modestly. “Thanks. I’m going to a job interview, but first, breakfast.”
    She perked right up. For a skinny little lady whom I’ve never seen handling any edibles other than cat food, she loved to talk about eating. I liked to drop off little bags of groceries with items I knew she wouldn’t buy forherself when I could. And I’ve offered to take her out to eat a few times, but so far she hasn’t accepted.
    “How about Pepe’s?” she asked. “They have the most wonderful pancakes. And omelets. And Bloody Marys too.” She flashed a mischievous smile.
    “Early for that!” I said, strapping on my helmet and waving good-­bye. Once on my scooter, I tucked the hem of my dress firmly under my thighs, dropped the bike off its kickstand, and started the engine. Pepe’s it would be. I drove over the bridge with its grand view of Charter Boat Row, up Palm Avenue to Eaton and then right to Caroline. “ ‘There’s a woman gone crazy on Caroline Street,’ ” I hummed as I approached the restaurant. One of Jimmy Buffett’s best. And appropriate for the day and the setting.
    I settled at a table on the patio underneath a trellis twined with an enormous bougainvillea studded with pink blossoms. A small flock of brown birds twittered on the branches. One of the birds swooped down to the other chair at my table and sang at the top of his lungs, his little neck puffing with effort.
    “Shoo, you!” said a waitress, flapping her order pad at the bird and then smiling at me. “What can I get for you?”
    After ordering a mild green chili and Monterey Jack omelet, with a rasher of bacon (extra crispy), and an assortment of baked goods on the side, I took out my phone and began to rough out an introduction. Since I text as fast as the next guy can write, it seemed like the perfect cover for a food critic not wishing to draw attention to herself. I would look like just one more obsessed young person who couldn’t part with her smartphone.
    One of the great joys of vacation is breaking away from home-­based habits. Instead of downing the same healthy but boring bran cereal and fruit, why not treat yourself to a full breakfast out? Luckily, Key West offers tons of choices. Pepe’s, snuggled into a quiet section of Caroline Street, claims to be the oldest restaurant on the island—­and frankly, the booths inside look it! This is not the setting for a diner who prefers upscale elegance, but it’s chockablock with home-­style food and local color. Make a beeline for the patio and enjoy people (and dog and bird) watching while you wait.
    When my breakfast was delivered, I snapped a photo of the plate, and then put the phone away and dug in. At the table next to me, two men in wrinkled shorts and sandals discussed the vagaries of the real estate market and then segued to bonefishing. How could I not love this place? I no longer had the excuse of Chad to stay on the island, but by now I was hooked. Where else would I find this funny combination of locals (“conchs” they called themselves, pronounced with a
k
sound, not a
ch
as in Chad), rich people, homeless people, gays, cruise ship escapees on