An Appetite for Murder by Lucy Burdette Page B

day passes, and people like me who love the weather, the water, the lack of pretense? Every day the local paper featured a “citizen of the day” who waxed on about the joys of living on this island. And the editor never ran out of prospects.
    This was so not New Jersey. The thought of having to pack up my meager belongings and crawl home was utterly depressing. November in Berkeley Heights was adreary, dreary proposition. The jaunty colors of autumn would have faded, leaving dim sun and plummeting temperatures. Even the birds would be leaving.
    So once I’d finished my food and taken a few more notes about the fresh-­squeezed OJ, the crusty whole-­grain toast, and the omelet oozing cheese, I used that dread to force myself away from a third cup of coffee and on to the offices of
Key Zest
. The funeral wouldn’t start until eleven, so surely someone would be working.
    On my way from Caroline to Southard Street, I tried to figure out my approach. Direct would be best, I thought. I practiced: “Good morning, I’ve come to check on the status of my application for the food critic position.”
    But should I mention Kristen’s death to the magazine staff? Maybe they were truly sad. Wouldn’t it be callous not to bring it up? Though acting apologetic seemed like the wrong tack altogether since I hadn’t murdered the woman. Expressing dismay and sorrow? Disingenuous. Surely everyone at the office would have heard about the brouhaha with Chad. Who would believe I thought anything but “she got what she deserved”? Hopefully they wouldn’t know about my trips to the KWPD, but this being a small island, news flashed faster than crème fraîche went sour in the heat. The best I could do was approach the desk with an expression of subdued regret.
    I parked behind Preferred Properties Real Estate and hiked up to the second floor. After running my fingers through my curls to fluff up the helmet hair, I tapped on the door and stepped inside. The
Key Zest
office looked as though someone had bought out the stock of Tommy Bahama products—­all weathered wicker with faux tropical foliage upholstery and more fake foliage settled in the corners of the room and on the receptionist’s desk. “Adrienne Kamen,” the nameplate on her desktop said. Even she wore a silky yellow shirt studded with palm trees.
    “Can I help you?” she asked without looking away from her computer. Like Evinrude, she seemed to be able to sense a change in the atmosphere without seeing it directly.
    “I’m sorry to be a bother,” I said, instantly kicking myself for sounding weak. “I’m Hayley Snow, one of the applicants for the food critic position? I was wondering if the deadline is still Friday?”
    “Yes,” she said, glancing up briefly, then dropping her gaze back to her screen and resuming a spurt of furious typing.
    Another mental kick for asking a question that could be brushed aside like so many bread crumbs. “Is Wally Beile in?” I asked, hoping I’d pronounced the name right. Kristen’s co-­owner, who now held my future in his hands. I hadn’t met him personally, but I had certainly seen his name on the masthead and his picture on the website. He looked one heck of a lot cheerier than Kristen ever had. “I’d just love one minute of his time.”
    She shrugged her thin shoulders and stepped away from her computer into a back room. I heard the rumbling of a man’s voice and then her voice answering. She reappeared.
    “Go ahead in. And by the way, I love your shoes.”
    “Thanks,” I said, pointing one sequin-­sneakered foot, grateful for any connection.
    Wally turned out to be a thirtyish man with heavy black glasses and wiry brown hair—­and the same yellow shirt as the receptionist. Cute, if you liked a nerdy style. He reminded me the tiniest bit of Eric, which was a good thing.
    I pasted on my most authentic and regretful smile. “I’m so sorry about Kristen, er, Ms. Faulkner.” Just what I’d told myself not to