Murder Most Garlic

By Ryan Dietzen

Gardner Lyon’s a hot mess, but being able to solve a gruesome murder at Havana, NY’s annual Garlic Festival might just get his life back on track. Against the wishes of his family and boyfriend, he plunges headlong into his mother’s gossipy and insular hometown to prove he can solve the crime—without getting himself killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Dietzen
• Release date: Jan 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998140124

Book preview

Come out, come out, wherever you are! said Gardner, as he tapped the cake pan’s rim against the edge of the kitchen island. When it quickly became evident that the Garlic Polenta Cake, studded with the equivalent of two whole heads of golden brown roasted garlic, was not going to obey, he carefully retraced the perimeter with a sharp steak knife, praying that might give him just enough help.

Another series of taps yielded still nothing, and he felt himself let go like a spring released from tension. He firmly grabbed the sides of the aluminum pan, flipped it upside down, raised it above his thin, six-foot two-inch frame and slammed it squarely down, smiling in grim silence as it made a satisfying reverb against the island.

He had felt movement, and slowly lifted the cake pan. Roughly one-quarter of the golden yellow cake lay on the butcher block, its broken edges simultaneously spongy and jagged. Gardner looked at the rest of the cake still firmly affixed to the pan bottom. The pattern on the surface made it look as though an angry child had taken a pudgy fist and ripped out a chunk. He set the pan down beside him and delicately gathered up the jagged blob on the island. He flung it at the cupboard, sneering with satisfaction at the moist little thwap it made.

The silence of the late September day was suddenly broken, a shocking explosion coming from the kitchen of Cabin #248. You Motherfucker! I am going to kill you!

Seconds later Gardner sprinted out the French doors of the cabin, running with maniacal glee toward the dock and the already frigid waters of Lake Havana. A brief thump-pound rhythm began as his feet hit the old wooden dock, and continued briefly until he reached the rotting end. He then flung the pan, and its remaining chunk of worthless, wasted effort, out into the air like a Frisbee. It arced up and around, skipping like a stone with its first contact with the water. He thrilled as it skittered for another dozen feet before foundering. Seconds later he followed it with the steak knife, which due to a wildly unskilled flick of the wrist landed, handle first, on the adjacent neighbor’s dock, ricocheting off their speed boat and into the water. An elderly couple chugging by in a party boat watched the whole thing with shock. Seeing the pan sink just off their bow, they maneuvered farther out to the center of the lake, their scowls visible even from shore.

Thank god only they had seen this, thought Gardner. But someone else had. Jan, Gardner’s boyfriend of just under two years, stood quietly at the back corner of the house, having just arrived from the supermarket. He had only been gone a half hour, but could have predicted the scene he’d return to after being sent on an emergency trip for more polenta. Two cakes had preceded the one just thrown into the lake. Their resting places were less dramatic, Gardner only having shoved them with great ceremony into the kitchen trash can. Jan turned back toward the rental car, and leaned against it, hanging his head and exhaling quietly.

Having achieved what catharsis he could on the dock, Gardner waved sheepishly at the retreating pontoon boat and turned to check the windows of the neighbor’s cabin. He breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed that there were no lights on, and no visible activity. He turned slowly back toward the house, looking back at the scene of the crime. As God is my witness, he whispered through clenched teeth, I will get one of these cakes out of the pan before I sleep tonight. When he got back to the kitchen, Jan greeted him with a timid hello and a ‘told you so’ smirk, and then, after a quick glance at the unopened box of corn meal on the counter, turned toward the upstairs toward their bedroom.

A tersely delivered Hi was all Gardner could manage in response, and this was delivered to Jan’s retreating back. Gardner fell back under the black cloud of failure that had hovered over him all afternoon. He felt even worse seeing Jan, unsure what, if anything, he had observed. The only thing worse than fucking up is fucking up in front of a guy who already thinks you’re a fuck up. Even if Jan missed the dock meltdown, he couldn’t have missed the telltale signs of destruction in the kitchen, from the cake-coated cupboard door to the batter-smeared faucet handle.

Gardner sat down at the tiny kitchen table, tracing with his index finger a hairline crack in the blue Formica as he gathered strength for Round Four. Jan had told him to bring the corn meal from the city, the special brand he’d bought at Eataly and used in all his previously successful trials of the recipe. But Gardner hadn’t, and now faced using Rick’s Red Mill from the ShopRite. For his own sanity, he needed to complete at least one trial run of Garlic Polenta Cake before his sister, Lane, arrived from Rochester. He loved coming to the Garlic Festival every year, and loved entering the cooking contest, but had to admit that it wasn’t exactly relaxing. It was all fun and games in the planning process, brainstorming over drinks with his sister about what wild concoctions they might put together. He’d toyed with entering a garlic martini last year (Garlini, anyone?), or garlic peanut brittle, but then as the contest inevitably got closer the pressure mounted, and he had to choose a dish that actually stood a chance and get it into fighting shape.

Chapter 2

When Lane pulled up at dusk, the kitchen was pristine and orderly. Gardner had regained some semblance of a can-do attitude. Jan was still avoiding him, squirreled away upstairs reading, but he came down as he heard Lane and her husband, Phil, enter the cabin, arms full of groceries. Lane, a trim 47, with rapidly graying brunette hair, hugged Gardner and Jan, and then took a quick tour of the cabin. They’d rented this same one since they started coming back to their mother’s hometown every September, but Lane liked to ensure that the intervening year hadn’t taken its toll. The first year they’d rented the place she had discovered an enormous cache of mouse droppings in the couch cushions and insisted that they spend until 2 a.m. sterilizing every room, with particular attention paid to every drawer and surface in the kitchen. They had gotten half their rent back after Lane had complained to the landlord, and since then the house tended to be ship shape when they arrived. A five-minute inspection, beginning with a ta-da maneuver with the couch cushions, satisfied her, and she headed back to the kitchen to sort the groceries and take stock.

Gardner always thought of his sister as the ideal blend of no-nonsense competence and kindness, the kind of person you’d turn to if things went terribly wrong and you’d had to kill a man. She’d guide you through the moral implications, and help you decide whether you should report it to the police. If you decided it was best not to, then Lane, after a firm lecture on how she didn’t approve of this one bit, would help with burying the victim in a discrete, unfindable venue. And her husband of 20 years, Phil, a chemical engineer with a love for photography, could calculate for you how long the body would take to decompose, and what agents might be used to accelerate the process if necessary. Having a doctor and chemical engineer in the family couldn’t hurt, Gardner often thought.

After a half hour of catching up on their travels and arranging the kitchen, the four of them sat down on the weather-beaten dock, glasses of wine in hand. The lake’s calm water gently lapped the dock as the sun set.

Where are we going for dinner? Jan asked. He’d been invited to come to Havana last year for the festival, but had been called back to his native Holland on last-minute family business. Gardner had been thrilled when nothing had intervened this year and had spent the car trip up from New York briefing Jan on all things Havana.

Where? Where? said Gardner, with mock incredulity, Oh, Jan, there is only one place you can go on your first night in Havana. You go to Moonwink's, a local institution! When Mom was growing up, she went there every Friday night for a fish fry. Who are we to break tradition? Besides, we have to meet Rick and Mary Beth there.

And they are? asked Jan.

You met them when my mother came to New York last year. That lunch at the Mexican restaurant. Gardner’s mother, who lived in Texas, hated to fly and made a point of traveling only once a year, usually for just two thoroughly scheduled weeks. These brief annual trips were typically spent visiting her grandchildren, and her high school or college friends, many of whom lived in the tri-state area. During her last visit, her few days in the city had been marked by a series of lunches and dinners, and Gardner and Jan had accompanied her on as many as they could. This year, she’d chosen to come up in May, and while they had begged her to make another trip just for the Garlic Festival, she had declined. Jan couldn’t remember the names of any of the five or six older ladies he had met almost a year ago, and he continued to stare blankly as Gardner looked at him expectantly.

As I briefed you last week in prep for your visit, said Gardner, a peevish tone rushing into his voice, they are my mother's best friend since first grade and her husband. They split their time between Havana and Sarasota, Florida. She's the sweetest person on earth, and he's, well, he's a character. One of many you'll meet this weekend.

I still can’t believe I’m in Havana, laughed Jan, his Dutch accent giving the word Havana even more panache. When you first told me you had family there, I had imagined something slightly more exotic than this.

There’s a big difference between Havana, Cuba, and Havana, New York, said Gardner, I’ll give you that. I usually just say ‘Havana’ and let people make their own assumptions. It makes me look a lot more exciting than I actually am.

Jan conceded the point with a slow, exaggerated nod.

Havana, a small hamlet of just under 2000 souls, lay an hour and a half north of Saratoga Springs, New York, making it just remote enough to be out of reach of any real source of 21st-century economic opportunity. It had enjoyed a good subsistence for over hundred years, as long as dairy farming was viable, but had never hit the big time. Gardner’s grandfather and namesake had loved the area and owned a farm implements store until the early 1970s when he had gone into semi-retirement as one of the town’s two real estate agents.

He had been deeply saddened when both his children chose to leave Havana after high school, but his devotion to the town had never flagged. The town’s fortunes dwindled with time, hitting a major downward inflection point in the early 80s. Economic constraints, inertia, personal determination, or nostalgia were the only things that kept people around now. That and the quaint man-made lake right outside of town, whose perimeter was dotted by mostly modest summer cabins built in the 1920s and 30s. The tiny population was mostly seasonal, arriving in early May and lingering, at the latest, until early October.

Arguably, any fantasy, Cuban or otherwise, would be more exciting than this. But I’m along for the ride, said Jan. Gardner smiled softly over at Jan. He loved that his boyfriend was game for anything, once you managed to get him out of the office. Getting him out was one of the big challenges of their relationship, given that Jan loved his work as the chief counsel for a large New York City insurance company. Seventy-hour weeks were routine, with work often spilling over into Jan’s limited time at home.

From the outside Moonwink’s was utterly bland, an odd collection of low-rise buildings patched together over the long history of the place. To the hundreds driving between the lake and town every day, its one remarkable feature was a whimsical 10-foot diameter sign hung above the door. A cartoonish moon, rendered in rich yellow and outlined in thick black lines, shone down on all those who passed, its lurid wink beckoning. The sign had received a fresh coat of paint since last year, making it glow a little brighter in the evening’s dusky light. But, as soon as they entered the crowded bar area, the group realized little else had changed, not just in the last year, but in all the years, now over thirty in total, they'd been coming. The scene was the usual blend of wealthier lakers and townies, with a heavy skew toward the over sixty crowd. Every maroon Naugahyde barstool was occupied, and those not lucky enough to get a seat stood clumped together in small groups, guarding their drinks against being jostled.

Look, there's Rick, said Lane, wedging her way over to the far corner of the crowded bar. Jan put their name in for a table, and followed the others over. Hugs were exchanged, and Gardner introduced Jan, just in case Rick didn't remember him from last year. Normally full of stories, each featuring himself prominently as the protagonist, Rick was increasingly muddled, age and memory loss curating his repertoire further and further each year.

Rick, hi! said Lane, accepting a big hug from a pencil-thin man in his early seventies, whose leathery, wizened face was a testament to many hours spent on either the golf course or tennis court. A fishing cap, dotted with small lures and an NRA pin, sat atop his head. It provided unnecessary shade in the poorly lit bar. We left a message for you earlier. Where's Mary Beth?

My lady is in the toilette, seeing a man about a horse, but shall return, he announced, with his usual mix of grandeur and low-brow humor. The thrill of Rick, thought Gardner, is that you just really didn't know what he might say. It’s sad that there were so few people like that left in a world whose politically correct veneer was growing ever thicker. He recalled with a smile a discussion from years before, when Rick had carefully detailed how he'd lost his virginity, not to Mary Beth, but to an easy on the eyes ginger in the back of a 1942 Plymouth Roadking De Luxe, and how he still owned the very car. In fact, they took it out every Sunday, its intimate history undoubtedly retold with each drive.

Are you all coming to the festival tomorrow? asked Lane, nearly shouting over the bar’s din.

You people aren't actually going down tomorrow, are you? laughed Rick. You couldn't pay us—the crowds, the traffic. We went the first year but have happily skipped all those since. We'll be just fine at the lake thank you.

Not even the 10th anniversary can lure you? asked Jan, leaning down to Rick’s 5’ 8" frame.

Especially not the 10th, he said, taking another sip from his gin and tonic. We will be making a brief appearance at the gala at the opera house tomorrow night. Can’t get out of that. I’m on the Chamber.

Mary Beth returned, and another round of hugs and kisses were exchanged. Her warm, round face, whose focal point was a set of lively brown eyes, was echoed in her short, practically circular frame. At barely five feet tall, she was a nearly a foot shorter than her husband. What should have been gray hair was just tastefully tinged with salt thanks to a good colorist.

You remember my boyfriend, Jan, don't you Mary Beth? said Gardner.

Oh, yes, how can I forget someone so tall and handsome? And that accent! How tall are you again? she said, patting his lower arm.

I'm six foot six, and my brother is six eight, he replied, proudly.

Oh, my, said Mary Beth, fanning her face as though fighting the vapors. We’re so glad you could come up this year! She then turned her attention to Lane. Catch me up with you, Lane, you’re still in Syracuse, right?

Yes, we’ve been there four years now. I’ve switched hospitals, but still doing internal medicine. Phil’s doing consulting for a pharmaceutical company.

And the kids?

Both high schoolers now, Claire is a senior, Bill a freshman.

Thanks to, or despite, Rick not so discreetly slipping the waitress a five-dollar bill, a few minutes later they were all seated at the best spot in the house, a large corner booth whose round table easily accommodated all six of them, with drinks in hand.

So let me get this straight, marveled Rick teasingly, as he did every year. You people come from all over God's creation once a year to this forsaken place just for the Garlic Festival?

Yes, laughed Lane, shooting a look at the others.

Now, I didn't grow up here, but Mary Beth did, and I can honestly say there is less and less reason every year to come. I mean, the last big employer closed five years ago, and the downtown just lost the Family Dollar. I mean, what kind of a hell hole do you have to be to lose a dollar store? What’s next, we get a Family Quarter? I will say this, thank God for Michael Stone. He's the only one in town with a spine and half a brain. He's at least trying to keep the town afloat.

Michael Stone? asked Phil.

He just got elected to the town council. Grew up in Havana, 10 or so years behind Mary Beth, but then left. Apparently has now returned with some decent fortune to resurrect his beloved hometown. He's heading up an effort to save the old opera house downtown, and is on the Garlic Festival PR committee.

I have a phone call scheduled with him on Monday, said Gardner, I want to get a recap of how the festival went.

Oh, yes, Lane tells me you are doing an article on this year's festival? said Phil.

Yes it won't be all pleasure this year, said Gardner, an exaggerated frown on his face. I'm not writing up the festival itself so much as how it shows small towns’ efforts to revive economically. I will have you know that I visited Groton, Connecticut just last week. After you read my article, you’ll count yourself lucky to have missed their annual ‘Color Me Purple’ grape stomp.

Why? asked Phil.

Well, for one my left foot is still slightly purple, which Jan found oddly titillating for a few days but now considers repulsive, two they lost money for the fourth year in a row, and third the local Connecticut wine tastes like what it is, grape juice. Let no one tell you it’s fun being a freelance business journalist.

Who are you writing the article for? I mean who pays for that sort of thing? asked Rick, unable and unwilling to hide his contempt. The more he had to drink, the less self-editing he did, and he was now on his third martini.

Gardner, fighting an urge to get defensive, explained that the piece was on spec, but that he had the U.S. Chamber of Commerce's magazine interested in running it for their November issue. Rick pressed him on exactly how much he was being paid, but Gardner dodged the question. The freelance work he'd been doing for the last two years was definitely, as he liked to joke, non-lucrative.

Let’s just say I won't be retiring after this assignment, he laughed, then drained the watery remains of his second margarita.

That, announced Phil, reminds me of an old joke my uncle told me. How do you make a small fortune in farming?

This question was greeted with blank stares all around. I'll bite, sighed Lane, used to playing the straight man for her husband’s bad jokes, Why?

You start out with a large one! said Phil, giving a pitch-perfect ba-dum tshh impression as he tapped his index fingers on the table.

That's essentially what Gard’s doing, laughed Jan, hitting a sore spot that he had been poking at a lot lately. Gardner had made a small fortune ten years before, co-authoring, with his best friend Susan, a self-help guide for business professionals called A Dog's Guide to Business. The slight volume only amounted to a few hundred pages of business insights from the viewpoint of dogs but had surprised everyone by selling over a half million copies. Beyond sales, it had spawned a short-lived cottage industry in calendars, coffee mugs, and even public appearances for the two authors. His favorite contribution to the book had been a chapter on how pack behavior can lead to bad decision making. While the follow-on book, A Cat's Guide to Strategy, hadn’t sold as well he and Susan had each walked away with a good nest egg. Unfortunately, the money had slowly been whittled to almost nothing, doled out slowly but surely over the years to supplement a life clearly beyond the means of the average freelancer. He had felt a subtle pressure to spend as freely as his more successful peers over the years, and this had only sped up when he met Jan, who seemed to have a bottomless bank account. Gardner had worked steadily, bouncing from gig to gig, but never brought in enough to break even.

Avoiding Jan's baiting on the topic, Gardner brought up his mother and offered a toast.

To my Mom, who I wish were here, and to saving our beloved Havana! Everyone but Rick raised their glass.

If you ask me, said Rick, taking the last sip of his martini and slamming the glass down on the table, saving this place is like putting lipstick on the pig before you barbecue it but to each, his own.

During her husband's pronouncement, Mary Beth had glanced nervously around, ending with an imploring glance at Rick; sensing her discomfort, Lane jumped in with an effort to change the topic.

The cheese shop is still doing OK, isn't it?

I guess, Rick replied sullenly, reluctant to shift topics or outlook, although the last time we were in there, the service was terrible. We got waited on by this girl, a real knockout, but she didn't know the first thing about cheese. I asked for cheese curd, and she thought I said turd.

Now, Rick, laughed Mary Beth, her voice amazingly strain-free given the years she’d had to put up with her husband, she can't know what cheese curd is right off the bat. I don't even know quite what it is. That stuff is an acquired taste, anyway.

That ‘stuff,’ as you say, is the leftover remnant of cheese production, the solid part of soured milk, and a real delicacy, announced Rick, more loudly than necessary.

Lane glanced at Gardner for help in finding yet another neutral discussion topic, one hopefully less touchy than curd.

Since you are going to skip the festival, you won't be enjoying the fruits of our labor, said Gardner. Between us, we have three entries for the garlic cooking contest. I’m making a polenta cake with garlic glaze and competing head-to-head against Jan here in the dessert category. He's making a garlic pecan pie.

Garlic pecan? asked Rick. Sounds disgusting.

Sounds like it, but it isn't, defended Jan, smiling with the assurance of a born salesman who could overcome any objection. My secret is roasting the garlic with agave, to make it sweet. You don't even taste it.

Which is what I look for in any dessert involving garlic, said Gardner,