Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Teresa Dovalpage

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dovalpage, Teresa.

  Death comes in through the kitchen / Teresa Dovalpage.

  Includes recipes.

  ISBN 978-1-61695-884-8

  eISBN 978-1-61695-885-5

  1. Journalists—Fiction. 2. Bloggers—Fiction.

  3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Food—Blogs—Fiction.

  5. Havana (Cuba)—Fiction. I. Title

  PQ7392.D69 D43 2018 863'.7—dc23 2017026568

  Interior design by Janine Agro

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my journalism mother, la Joan Livingston,

  who opened the doors of a new career for me.

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Meringue Puffs

  The Cuban customs officer lifted an eyebrow at the bridal gown—a white satin bodice with tulle appliqués, sheer sleeves, and a two-foot train—and took a long, suspicious look at the couple. The woman was a tall blonde in her forties who wore a teal broom skirt, a beige cotton blouse, turquoise-studded cowgirl boots, and a brittle smile. The man, in jeans and a San Diego Padres T-shirt, was a few years younger and a few inches shorter. His hands shook when he opened his passport to the picture page.

  “Are you getting married here?” the officer asked.

  The woman’s pale cheeks tinted with a soft blush.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling at the wedding dress that was carefully wrapped in a plastic bag.

  “To him?” the officer pointed to her companion with a hint of mistrust in his voice. That was unusual, two Americans coming all the way to Havana to get hitched. But both hurried to correct him, almost at the same time:

  “No, no!”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “I’m the one getting married,” the woman explained. “To a Cuban.”

  “I see.”

  The customs officer reconsidered his initial decision to send the couple over to security. He waved the woman away after taking a cursory look at her passport, which he didn’t stamp.

  “Welcome to Cuba, Anne.”

  “Thanks, compañero!”

  She walked away with her face still flushed. The man, whose passport read Matthew Sullivan, waited nervously while the compañero inspected his backpack. The unopened Hugo Boss gift set that contained a watch, a pair of sunglasses, and three red monogrammed boxer shorts made the officer snicker.

  “Are they yours?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he was finally told to go ahead, Matt let out a sigh of relief and hurried to meet Anne in the waiting room. In a corner, after looking around like conspirators, they exchanged items quickly: Matt cradled the wedding dress in his arms and Anne took the Hugo Boss set.

  “Well, that was easy enough,” she said.

  Matt didn’t understand the need to lie, but Anne had insisted, saying that they would have to offer detailed explanations for gender-swapped gifts. He had deferred to her; having traveled to the island seven times, she was the expert on Cuban affairs.

  “Why didn’t that guy stamp our passports?” Matt asked. “I thought we would have to ask him not to do it.”

  “I guess it’s a courtesy to ‘good Americans’ like us, who come here despite the embargo,” Anne answered, shrugging. “For whatever reason, I’ve never had mine stamped. And I am not asking why.”

  They picked up their luggage (one big, heavy suitcase for him and two medium-sized ones for her) and went outside the building to the airport parking lot where a small crowd of nationals had been awaiting the arrival of the Aeroméxico flight.

  A young, wiry man stepped out of the group. Anne ran to hug him.

  “Yony, my love!”

  “Mamita!”

  There was a loud smooching sound. She handed him the Hugo Boss set.

  “Cool!”

  Matt stood aside, searching the crowd for Yarmila, his Cuban fiancée, but he couldn’t find her. He walked back to the airport building, careful not to stumble over the gown’s train and ignoring the curious glances that followed him. A security guard stopped him at the door.

  “Only people who are traveling today can come in,” he said.

  “But I was just in there!”

  “So? You are out now.”

  Matt turned around. The crowd had dispersed. Yony and Anne were still kissing, but Yarmila was nowhere to be found.

  He made several unsuccessful attempts to call her apartment from a pay phone. The phone rang without response. He asked the security guards if they had seen “a pretty young woman with brown eyes and dark hair.” They chuckled and told him they had seen dozens of them. An hour slipped by. By then Matt’s hands were shaking so much that the gown’s tulle appliqués fluttered like sick doves.

  “I bet Yarmila just got tired of waiting,” Yony said. “She must be back home now.”

  It made sense—sort of. The plane had been delayed during a stopover at Monterrey and arrived at two fifteen instead of one o’clock. But Yarmila could have stayed a little longer, Matt thought. He would have waited for her an entire day if necessary.

  “If Yarmi is home, why isn’t she answering my calls?” he asked, despondent.

  “Her phone may be out of order,” Yony said. “This is Cuba. Things get broken all the time.”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t sweat it, man,” Yony looked around, worried. “Sorry, but we have to go now. We’ve been here too long and I don’t want the cops coming and asking questions. I’ll drop you off at her place.”

  Matt shook his head.

  “We agreed to meet at the airport,” he said. “That was the plan. You guys can go ahead.”

  “We aren’t leaving you alone!” Anne protested.

  “I’ll find a taxi later.”

  “Take it easy, Yuma.” Yony put a reassuring hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Remember: you are in Havana. Here, plans don’t always pan out.”

  Yuma, Yarmila had explained to Matt, was a term that younger Cubans used when referring to Americans. It didn’t have the pejorative connotation that Yankee had, like in “Yankees, go home.” It was almost affectionate, though it sounded odd to him.

  Matt gave up and followed the couple, rolling the big suitcase along the uneven sidewalk and holding the bridal gown protectively against his chest.

  Outside the airport premises, a scruffy-looking woman tried to sell them a bunch of withered marigolds. Matt recoiled at the sight of the flowers. Mexicans called them cempasúchil and placed them on their deceased relatives’ graves on the Day of the Dead.

  “It’s for the orishas,” the woman insisted in a husky voice. “They’ll make your stay pleasant and safe.”

  They walked away. Much later, Matt would regret not having made an offering to the orishas, whatever they were.

  Yony’s car was an almendrón—a refurbished 1956 Studebaker President sedan, blinding red, with huge hubcaps and a polished chrome bumper. Anne sat in the passenger’s se
at and began to scratch the young man’s neck with her manicured nails. Matt shared the back seat with the dress, his luggage and Anne’s. The trunk was filled with a spare tire, assorted tools, and three gas cans.

  When they left the airport behind, the city seemed to open up for Matt like a woman or a book. Havana was a fifties postcard swathed in an aura of exhaust fumes; a moving, breathing slide from the past. It wasn’t just the old American Fords and Chevys, but also the architecture: pastel stucco exteriors on flaking façades, wrought-iron balconies, and stained glass windows that fractured the sun into flashes of diamonds.

  The four-lane Rancho Boyeros Avenue was for the most part empty of vehicles. At the crowded bus stops people scanned the deserted streets with hopeful eyes. The avenue was lined with palm trees and billboards that read long life to fidel—a wish fulfilled long ago, as Castro had reached the ripe age of seventy-seven—socialism or death, and a collection of laudatory references to Che Guevara. Matt smiled to them as if they were old friends. They had been there the previous year when he’d arrived in Havana. Then, Yarmila had been with him.

  When he returned to the airport, she might accompany him again, he daydreamed. She might even be ready to travel the 2,213 miles that separated Havana from San Diego. Matt knew the exact distance thanks to an interactive map he had sent her as a gift. It was in fact a toy, though a newfangled one: not only did it measure distances between cities but also listed “fun facts” about the places and played regional songs in their original language. He had thought that Yarmila would get a kick out of it.

  Matt turned his attention to the dress, caressed the soft fabric and wondered how Yarmila would react when she saw it. Would she be happy, flattered, amused, angry? Ah, the possibilities! Or maybe she was going to dump him in the end and that was why she hadn’t been there . . .

  He stopped the train of thought and focused on his surroundings. A miniature red car hung from the rearview mirror. It was a replica of the Studebaker, with chrome bumpers and everything. Yony noticed his interest and smiled.

  “It looks like the real thing, eh?” he said.

  Matt nodded. When they’d first met, he’d thought that the young man’s name was Johnny, mispronounced, but Anne explained that he belonged to the “Generation Y,” like Yarmila. During the Cold War, many Cuban parents had given their children Russian-inspired names that began with the letter Y.

  They were now in Centro Habana. Matt saw Revolution Square in the distance, with a giant portrait of Che Guevara in neon silhouette on a wall.

  A more modern and subdued vehicle, a Russian Lada, cut them off. Yony stopped barely in time to avoid hitting it.

  “Comemierda!” he yelled, showing his middle finger to the other driver.

  Matt refreshed his mental list of Cuban insults, adding to it the Spanish term for shit-eater.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that piece of crap,” Yony said. “Who drives Ladas anymore?” He was proud of his almendrón. With a modified Fiat engine, a Moskvich carburetor, a Canadian transmission, and a number of handmade parts, the Studebaker was a testimony to the ingenuity of the Cuban mechanics.

  “Those who can’t afford charming oldies like yours, my amor,” Anne said and pinched his arm.

  My amor! Matt laughed quietly, thinking that Anne was making a fool out of herself. How could she be in love with that foulmouthed Cuban? How could she date a guy who was at least fifteen years her junior? She was fleshier than her amor by around twenty pounds. Next to her, Yony looked skinnier, darker and younger than he actually was.

  But the fact that he himself was thirteen years older than Yarmila didn’t bother Matt. At all. He imagined her making rice and chicken and enjoying the little gifts he had collected for her over the last two months. Nothing expensive, because she had asked him not to splurge: an apron embroidered with red chilis, a dream catcher, and a San Diego Zoo 2003 calendar. Maybe it was a bit late for that kind of present—it was already March—but he was sure she would love the pictures of the newly born panda bears.

  He also brought, in a red velvet box, a pendant made from an iridescent shell that they had found together the year before at El Mégano Beach. Matt had taken the shell to a Tijuana jeweler who mounted it in gold. It now hung from a thin belcher chain.

  There was a size-five gold engagement ring in another velvet-lined box.

  “I hope Yarmi is okay,” Matt said, speaking more to himself than to his companions.

  “Of course she is,” Anne answered. “Don’t worry. Communications aren’t Cubans’ forte.”

  “These airport clerks wouldn’t talk to us,” Yony chimed in. “I was standing in the parking lot for two hours and no one bothered to say a word about the delay. No updates, no news, nada.”

  “You didn’t happen to see Yarmila, did you?” Matt asked.

  “No, man. If I had seen her, I’d have asked her to wait with me in the car. That chick is a pistol. And a cutie too.”

  Anne shot Yony a dirty look and the young man blushed, fixing his eyes on the road. Matt ignored the silent exchange. Anne reminded him of his ex-wife—so jealous and possessive at the beginning of their marriage, which hadn’t stopped her from discarding him like a pair of old shoes later on.

  “Yarmi is a great gal,” he said diplomatically.

  “She must be an amazing cook too,” Anne made an effort to smile. “Every time I read one of her blog posts, I get hungry.”

  Matt nodded, remembering Yarmila’s last entry, which had been about meringue puffs. He visualized a plate full of perfectly baked merenguitos and his mouth watered in response.

  Yarmi Cooks Cuban

  Merenguitos: clouds of sweetness on the Pinar del Río sky

  Hola, my dear readers!

  Welcome back to Yarmi Cooks Cuban! Come into my very own kitchen, the virtual space where you can enjoy a taste of sweet and savory, and everything in between, from the heart of Havana.

  I have been asked recently for easy-to-make recipes.

  “You may not know this, but not everyone has two hours to devote to prep time like you do in Cuba,” wrote one snippy reader a few days ago.

  In all fairness, she had good reason to be snippy. She wrote that in a comment to my paella recipe, and any paella worth its shrimp does take a long time. Woe to the foolish cook who tries to hurry it!

  Yes, queridos, I am aware of the luxury of time that we enjoy here. So today I am going to present you with the easiest recipe of my culinary repertoire, one that never fails to remind me of my grandmother Hilda.

  It was always a special day when Grandma made merenguitos, meringue puffs. I ate them greedily, by themselves, but they can also be used to decorate cakes and custards. They are supposed to be “the icing on the cake.” For me, they were the cake itself.

  The only ingredients you need are egg whites (four for a dozen or so merenguitos), a pinch of salt and one cup of sugar. To bake them, use a baking tray or a baking sheet. Such sheets are not available in Cuba, but my boyfriend said he would bring enough baking sheets and parchment to carpet my kitchen when he comes back—which will happen quite soon, by the way.

  I will be baking dozens of merenguitos for him! I love my boyfriend. Have I ever said that here? I’m sure I have, but just in case . . .

  Back to the merenguitos.

  The most important step is beating the egg whites while gradually adding sugar. Grandma would sit on her rocking chair to prepare them. It was like a ritual. When she put on her apron and took out the yellow and blue bowl, la merenguera, we all knew it was meringue time.

  She took the rocking chair to the porch. It made a ricki-ra ricki-ra sound that to this day I associate with the sweetness of meringue puffs and my childhood in Pinar del Río. As some of you already know, I am from Pinar—the westernmost province of Cuba—born and raised in a small town called Los Palacios.

  I would sit on
the floor, next to Grandma. She tasted the mixture from time to time, or asked me to do it—and I happily obliged—then went on beating. The fork made a crystalline sound every time it touched the merenguera.

  The merenguera wasn’t a porcelain bowl, though for a moment just now I was tempted to say so, just to make it sound more picturesque. Beautifying the truth, you know. But the un-beautified truth is this: Grandma’s bowl was a plastic one, bought in the sixties at the only store in town.

  Grandma liked to sing while she cooked and she tailored the music to the food. Mambos were reserved for stews, cha-chas for anything fried (we listened to many a cha-cha back then), and songs of love for desserts. For merenguitos she often chose the habanera “Tú,” a ballad written in the 1800s by Eduardo Sánchez de Fuentes. She would add sugar to the egg whites every time she began a verse.

  While Grandma worked and hummed, I looked at the clouds, white and fluffy, and imagined they tasted like meringue puffs. I wanted to fly up to the sky and lick them!

  Once she’d used all the sugar, the mixture was firm and consistent. Afterward, with a fork, she twirled around tiny portions, carved a cute peak on the top, and placed them on an oiled baking tray. She would bake them for around two hours.

  A word about the temperature: we had a rudimentary oven that my dad built himself so there was no way to find out. I’d say that between 200 and 250 degrees Fahrenheit will be right.

  When Grandma took the tray out, the merenguitos were crispy and brown on the outside but soft and white inside. A little deceiving. But aren’t we all like that?

  Sometimes, while we waited for the meringue puffs to be ready, Grandma also made natilla, egg custard, with the egg yolks because she hated to throw away food. Natilla then became the main dessert with the merenguitos on top. But egg custard being a more complicated and temperamental dish, I will reserve it for another post.

  Try my merenguitos and let me know how they turn out.

  “Tú”