Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (11 page)

I nodded again. “It was a hard day. I’m not sure it was a good decision to go forward with the taping. We did the best we could, though, right? What are the chances this silly business will amount to anything anyway?”

“Oh no,” she said, her eyes widening. “You’re underestimating the situation. This type of show is very, very popular. With all the tourists who visit this island
and fall in love with it, I have no doubt that a Key West
Topped Chef
show could be a major winner. This could easily get picked up by the Food Network or even one of the majors on prime time.” She squared her shoulders. “I have no doubt at all. That’s why I’m so worried.” She fell silent, her lips trembling. A gust of wind wafted over us, scented with the odors of old cigarettes and discarded food from the nearby trash can.

“Worried?” I prompted her after several moments.

“You’ll think I sound like a nut.” She glanced around, frowning. “Do you mind walking a bit? I’m not comfortable here.”

I wasn’t that comfortable either—we were no more than a stone’s throw from my ex’s apartment. It would only take one sighting to make him believe—again—that I was stalking him. We got up and wound our way through the happy residual crowds from the Food and Wine Festival, and headed toward Mallory Square.

Just outside the Westin’s outdoor restaurant, the cat man was boxing up the paraphernalia from his nightly show. He looked drained, which made me think about how much energy he must expend to keep his cats in line while entertaining visiting tourists in his falsetto French accent. Several felines waited by the water’s edge, silent and ghostly in their cages. Evinrude would have hated the confinement. And the whole business of leaping through fiery hoops, climbing rope steps, and walking tightropes as the show cats did? My cat was handsome and clever, but he liked to do what he wanted, when it suited him. No matter how many glistening entrails were offered as bribes. I had to admire the cat man’s skills.

By the time we had crossed the wooden bridge behind the aquarium, the crowds had thinned to almost nothing, and we headed toward the water. The square was mostly deserted, streetlights casting a dim glow on the empty brick courtyard. Although the portable conch fritter stand had been rolled away for the night, I could smell the lingering odor of hot oil. A red plastic cup skittered by, causing us both to jump. Lorenzo had set his table up in the distance, not far from the bright yellow Ocean Key Resort. Two tall candles (more likely Coleman lanterns) framed his station. He was deep in conversation with a customer so I didn’t bother to wave. In the opposite corner of the square, a small group of men drank and talked, too far away for us to make out their conversation, or for them to hear us. Probably my homeless friend, Tony, and some of his buddies.

“I wonder,” said Toby, her voice so low I could barely catch the words, “whether Rizzoli was killed because he was a judge? What if it became clear that he favored one of the contestants over the others? And what if one of the other chefs noticed that and was desperate to win? If that’s so, we also could be in danger.”

She was right about sounding a little nutty—spoken out loud, her theory sounded paranoid and borderline ridiculous. Even though I’d had thoughts not so far from hers, Bransford had convinced me they were groundless. It simply made no sense to imagine that someone would have murdered one of the contest’s judges, hoping to improve his chance of winning.

But Toby’s anxiety was real and I thought I could help with that.

“I called my friend who’s a detective at the police department. They aren’t pursuing any
Topped Chef
connections.”

“Why did they interview all of us?” she asked. “Why did they herd us all into the studio and scare us half to death?”

“Any one of us might have heard something about Rizzoli. I’m just guessing, but doesn’t it make more sense if his death was related to town politics? That’s where there’s influence to be peddled and money to be made. Rizzoli owned bars, restaurants, and T-shirt shops on Duval Street.”

“We know about one of his restaurants, for sure,” said Toby, her eyes widening. “Everyone knows about it now. I salute you for speaking the truth. In spite of his politics and your position as a judge.”

I winced. “I wish I’d never set foot in that place. And I can assure you I had no idea who he was when I wrote the review. The more I find out about him, the more I think his business dealings got him killed. Just think about how his fortune could increase or plateau depending on whether the town decided to widen the channel and let larger cruise ships in. He was not a disinterested observer when it came to Key West. And that makes some folks very, very angry.”

But Toby didn’t look convinced. “You haven’t worked in a restaurant kitchen, have you?”

“No.”

“Then you might not be able to imagine how much landing a TV show could change a chef’s life,” said Toby, her fingers curling into fists. “No more slaving long hours in a fiercely hot kitchen. No more worrying
about the restaurant getting sold to a new owner who cares about profit instead of quality ingredients. No more relying on poorly trained sous-chefs who’ve moved to Key West because they can’t manage life in the real world. Assistants who miss a third of their shifts because they were dead-dog drunk the night before and can’t get out of bed, even by four in the afternoon.”

“I believe what you’re saying about it being a tough job,” I said. “And I see your point about the cooking show being a big deal. But it’s almost impossible to imagine that killing Rizzoli would fix anything. How would someone be sure which way he was leaning? And how could they be sure that he’d be persuasive enough to sway the rest of us? It all seems a little too circumstantial.”

Toby frowned. “Nothing that Buddy Higgs does to win the contest would shock me.”

My eyes bugged out in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. But before I could ask more, my phone rang. I slid it out of my back pocket. Connie.

“Girlfriend, a bunch of us are over here at the Green Parrot. The band is terrific. Are you finished working? Can you swing by for a drink?”

A half a beer with friends sounded like just the right nightcap after an unsettling day. And weren’t hops vegetables? “On my way,” I said and pressed
OFF
. “Let’s stay in touch,” I told Toby, and patted her thin shoulder. “I’ll definitely let you know if I hear anything else about Rizzoli. Can I walk you back to Duval Street?”

“No thanks,” she said. “I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes. See you tomorrow.”

9

We live in an age when pizza gets to your home before the police.

—Jeff Marder

Wispy clouds fled across the moon, leaving striated shadows on the brick courtyard. It hadn’t rained since this afternoon, but the air felt heavy and thick. I trotted across the square, which stretched endless and enormous in the filtered moonlight without the buzz of street performers and tourists. As I reached the opening of the alley that led past the Waterfront Playhouse and out to the street, I heard another firecracker. Then a muffled but high-pitched cry. And then a splash.

I spun around. Toby was not where I’d left her. My cell phone in my hand, heart pounding, I hurried back toward the edge of the pier where we’d talked. No sign of her, but there was someone splashing frantically in the water.

“Help!” a small voice cried.

I pressed 911. “Woman overboard at Mallory Square!”
I yelled, and then stuffed the phone in my sweater pocket.

I ran up to the edge of the water. “Toby, is that you?”

“Help!” she cried again. “I can’t swim.” She swatted at the water, sank briefly, then burst to the surface again, sputtering. The harder she struggled, the more quickly the current pulled her away from the dock.

I glanced around, shouting for assistance. But no one appeared. And there was no lifesaving ring, nor even a long stick that I might have used to drag her to safety.

“Lorenzo! Tony!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my hands cupped into a megaphone, first in the direction of the tarot table, then toward the spot where I’d noticed the gathering of homeless men. “The cops are coming—tell them we’re over here. My friend is in trouble!”

I couldn’t wait to see whether either of them heard me. So I shucked off my sandals, dropped my cell phone and pack on top of them, and my sweater on top of that. I had no idea how deep the water was or what obstacles might lurk underneath. But I took a deep breath and pushed off the pier into a shallow dive.

If my mouth hadn’t been full of salt water, I would have screamed out at the shock of cold. Not cold like the ocean in New Jersey in January, but still unpleasantly chilly. I surfaced, struggling to push away a disgusting, slimy hunk of seaweed, and dog-paddled in place, looking for Toby. Already the current was pulling me away from the pier.

Toby splashed frantically a few yards from me. I breaststroked over. She slapped at the water, gasping and choking, and grabbed onto my head.

I frog-kicked, trying to make a little space between us. She held on tighter, now with a death grip on my hair. Her weight pushed me under and I had to fight to get back to the surface and breathe.

“Toby,” I sputtered, my adrenaline surging, mouth full of salt water, “I’m trying to help. But you have to let go.”

“I can’t swim,” she shrieked, and floundered until she sank a second time, pulling me down with her. I bobbed to the surface, panicked at the idea of her fastened to me like a barnacle as the current swept us away. A fact from the lifeguarding class that I’d flunked flashed through my brain: To break the stranglehold of a panicked victim, drop down low into the water and then approach again from behind.

If I didn’t try something, we would both drown. So I kicked hard and shot lower into the water. Flailing madly to stay at the surface, Toby let go of my hair. Then I surged up on her far side. Slinging one arm across her chest, I started an awkward sidestroke toward the extension of the pier that hosted cruise ships during the city’s three-boat days. Toward the closest way out—a slippery-looking ladder attached to the concrete. She continued to flop and thrash like a hooked marlin as I kicked against the current. Finally, we reached the ladder; I grabbed her hand and wrapped it around the rusty metal. I was exhausted and breathless. And frightened and cold.

“You’re okay,” I said, shaking the water and some green glop out of my eyes. “The cops will be here soon.”

She reached for the bottom rung with her other
hand, sucking in great gulps of air. Her hair, plastered to her scalp, was covered with an oily sheen—something cruise-ship related I was sure—and some strands of brown sea grass. And her eyes looked wild.

My friend Tony’s worried, whiskered face appeared thirty feet away, at the top of the ladder attached to the main pier. “Lorenzo’s gone to show the cops the way. See if you can swim over here and grab my hand. They’ve got the gates locked so I can’t get over to you.” He dropped his battered cowboy hat on the cement, wiggled prone, and reached out for us. But Toby wouldn’t let go of the rung she was gripping and I was afraid to leave her there alone. In fact I was afraid to try fighting the current again myself.

The welcome sound of a siren split the air. Once it bleated to a stop, we could see the lights of emergency vehicles flashing off the clouds. Then thin beams of flashlights pierced the darkness.

“Over here!” Tony shouted. “Over here!”

When he’d gotten the attention of the officers, he melted away into the shadows. He’d taken a forced march to the police department last week on charges of disturbing the peace—he would not be eager to be seen by the cops, however positive the circumstances this time.

After what felt like an hour, two policemen approached the edge of the pier, with Lorenzo in his white shirt, black tie, and black vest decorated with the moon and stars right behind them. All three struggled over the fence and then ran across the dock to our ladder. The smaller cop, a wiry guy with thinning blond
hair, descended the ladder until he was wet to his knees.

“Take her first,” I said, flutter-kicking out of the way and tipping my chin at Toby.

The cop grasped her arm and pulled her up so she could get a foothold on the ladder’s lowest rung. Then she slipped her other foot on the ladder, too, this one still clad in a black leather sandal. The second policeman lay out flat on the concrete above us and reached for Toby’s hand.

“Ma’am,” said the first cop. “You’re going to have to let go.”

“You’ll be okay,” said Lorenzo, who hovered above him. “They’ve got you. You’re safe.” He squeezed his face between his hands and shook his head at me. “Good lord, woman, what were you thinking? I told you how strong the current is here.”

“I couldn’t let her die,” I muttered, trying not to picture what might have happened if we’d gotten swept away. My teeth had begun to chatter as I realized how close I’d come to drowning, trying to save a woman I barely knew.

Finally, Toby was hoisted out, then the cops helped me. I flopped onto the concrete, my chest still heaving from fright and exertion.

“What happened?” I asked her, once I had scrambled to my knees and then to standing. “How in the world did you end up in the water?”

Toby crouched in a shivering heap, breathing hard, her eyes closed. Lorenzo took off his vest and wrapped it around her shoulders. She nodded her thanks. A
town employee arrived to unlock the gate and we staggered over to the main pier.

Once I reached my pile of belongings, I wiped my face with my sweater, then pulled it on and slipped my feet into my sandals.

“Get a couple of blankets from the cruiser,” said the wet cop to the dry one. Then he addressed Toby, repeating my question. “What happened here?”

But Toby was shaking too hard to speak.

“I was working across the square,” Lorenzo offered, pointing to his table where the lanterns still flickered, carving out geodes of light in the darkness. “Unfortunately, I didn’t see exactly how it happened. I heard a splash and then my friend Hayley yelled for help. And then there was another splash.”