Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (13 page)

I scribbled a few furious notes, hopeful that these details would deter Connie’s boyfriend. Then I wandered around the shop snapping photos. A lace gown with a lace-up corset on top and a long train, a short red skirt with a black beaded top…Was that meant to be worn by the maid of honor? Then I noticed an outfit hanging on the far wall for the groom—a V-necked shirt, bloomer pants, boots, and a cloak similar to the one Rizzoli had worn.

I returned to the counter. “Thanks so much for your help. I think I’ve gotten what I needed—at least a start.” How to segue into Rizzoli’s costume? I couldn’t think
of an easy way so I blundered forward. “The cloak on the back wall…isn’t that what the man who was murdered the other night was wearing?”

“Was he?” The man stared for a minute, his mouth set in an unfriendly line. “You can get a cape like that anywhere.”

“I didn’t mean your store was involved in any way,” I said quickly. “It was so awful—I’m having trouble getting that image out of my mind. And it came back when I saw that costume.”

“It was gruesome,” he said, wagging his head somberly. “One of my customers told me the dead man’s hands were tied in front. That’s how they took care of criminals in the old days—hung the ones convicted of piracy and murder and then displayed their corpses to deter other miscreants from a life of crime. Though obviously Sam Rizzoli wasn’t convicted of anything—except in the mind of his killer.”

“So you knew him?”

“By reputation,” he said. “Rizzoli first, Key West second. Even his own wife didn’t like him much.”

The clerk’s phone rang. He answered, then pointed at the phone and shook his head. So I waved my thanks and headed home.

This information fit in with Bransford’s theories about why Rizzoli was killed: Someone believed he was selling out the town to benefit his own businesses and chose to punish him for it. Which seemed like the simplest explanation, though awfully convenient and generic. Wouldn’t committing a murder like this one take something more personal?

My phone began to buzz as I came aboard the houseboat and my mother’s number flashed on the screen. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “You’re up early.”

“It’s almost nine thirty,” she said. “I’ve been up for hours. You sound a little stuffy. Are your allergies kicking up? Sometimes it can be hard to get used to the vegetation in a new geography. Especially in the change of season.”

“I’m fine,” I said. Which was not true: Hearing her concerned voice made me realize I was more upset about the photograph I’d seen at the harbor than I’d let myself know. But I didn’t want to discuss it with her or anyone, really. Seeing Rizzoli’s tortured face was a nightmare I didn’t want to share. Describing it would only burn it further into my brain. Not to mention worrying her sick.

“I went for a run and then to do an errand for Connie’s wedding. Ray’s come up with the silly idea of a pirate theme so Connie assigned me the job of figuring a way to talk him out of it.”

“That shouldn’t be hard.” Mom laughed. “Sounds like he’s just a little anxious about the wedding. Men get that way when they get close to the noose.”

“The noose?”

“Oh heavens, on our wedding day, your father wondered whether we couldn’t just be friends instead of getting married.” She snorted with more laughter. “But Ray loves her so much. He’ll get over it. How’s the TV show?”

“Kinda crazy,” I said. “As you’d expect. I have to get showered and dressed for today’s taping.” I needed to get off the phone before I spilled the beans about the
near-drowning or the hanged man. Next thing I knew, she’d be threatening to fly down and act as my personal bodyguard.

I took a quick shower, swallowed a small helping of Special K, and dressed in an all-black outfit. The heck with the yellow
Key Zest
shirt today. Black matched my mood completely.

11

I think it is a sad reflection on our civilization that while we can and do measure the temperature in the atmosphere of Venus we do not know what goes on inside our soufflés
.

—Nicholas Kurti

I arrived at the set twenty minutes early, and was surprised to find Peter Shapiro alone in the lovely little kitchen just inside the porch. He was studying something—a script?—a mug of coffee in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. I suddenly had a fierce urge to off-load some of my worries on him. He was the executive producer—shouldn’t he know what was going on behind the scenes? But was it the right thing to talk to him about Toby’s business?

“Morning,” I said brightly, as I slid onto the bar stool next to him. “Looks like the weather’s going to clear up by this afternoon.” He grunted but continued to read.

I couldn’t help it—I had to tell him. “So listen, can I speak to you in confidence about something?”

He glanced up, squinting, and put the coffee and the papers on the counter, his blue eyes focusing on my face. “Of course. I hope there isn’t a problem with the show?”

“Sort of. Not really. This might sound a little silly, but I thought you should know…Toby could be a little shaky this morning.” I described what had happened the night before at Mallory Square with Toby’s near drowning, skipping past my part in her rescue. “She’s worried about Sam Rizzoli’s death.”

“Of course she is. We’re all concerned about that. It was very disturbing,” said Peter, his dark brows drawing together, a sharp contrast against his mop of white hair and the closely cropped beard. “I would have stopped the filming altogether, if it hadn’t been for those chefs. It didn’t seem right to ruin their dreams….”

“Understood.” Though he’d used that line so many times—surely there was plenty for him to lose, too, if the show ground to a halt. “But here’s the thing,” I said. “Toby got the idea that someone shot at her last night. She actually wonders if one of the chef candidates could have killed Rizzoli in order to improve his or her chances in the contest.”

“Oh my,” said Peter, a small smile on his lips. “She is very worried.”

I nodded. “Do you know anything about which of the chefs Rizzoli preferred? It seems like he agreed more with Chef Adam than with either of us women, right? And that would mean he probably would have voted for Buddy Higgs.”

“That doesn’t really make sense, does it? If two judges ended up dead, how would the contest even continue?”

“You’re right. It sounds silly when you say it out loud.”

Peter frowned and tapped the pages on the counter in front of him into a neat pile. Finally, he shook his head. “She’s told all this to the police, I hope? We can speculate and make up stories until we’re blue in the face, but really they are the professionals when it comes to a murder.”

I nodded in agreement.

“I’m sure you’ve read the papers,” he continued. “There was hardly a Key West controversy Rizzoli
wasn’t
involved with. I hadn’t realized that you and he had a little rhubarb recently.” His eyebrows peaked, as though now he’d like to hear the dope from me.

I only sighed. “Honest to god, I’d never met the man before the other morning here. It was my job to review that restaurant. And once I’d eaten there—three times—I couldn’t lie about it.”

He nodded. “I appreciate that. The magazine has to have standards.”

I tugged on one of my earrings, thinking again of Lorenzo’s admonishment to speak up when I needed to. It might offend Peter, but on the other hand, he should understand that none of us was naïve about reality TV. Funny business was probably the norm.

“This isn’t a contest where the outcome was determined before the show even begins, is it? You don’t have a ringer who’s bound to win no matter what we judges think?”

He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle
squeeze. “Now that would be an enormous waste of your time—and mine, wouldn’t it? And what would be the point? My goal is to finish up the week with the chef who makes the most excellent food and is a terrific entertainer. That’s it.” He smiled. “Your job is to find her. Or him.”

While we were chatting, the chef candidates and the TV assistants had begun to gather in the courtyard. The three chefs, wearing crisp white jackets and tall toques, were differentiated only by their size and shape and the pattern of their pants. Chili peppers for Henri, black checks for the two men. Peter whistled them over to the kitchen, and Deena rounded them up and led them over.

“Feel free to refrigerate what you need to,” she said. “We don’t want any of our esteemed judges contracting botulism.”

The chefs snickered nervously.

“There’s not a lot of room in here,” Peter added, “so share the space, people.”

Three of the show’s staffers clattered in from the alley along the back of the Studios of Key West, followed by Chef Adam and Toby. Both Peter and I watched her cross the courtyard. She looked a little more pale than yesterday and wore long sleeves and a flesh-colored Band-Aid on her temple, but seemed otherwise unscathed.

“Don’t mention this to her, okay?” I whispered. “She’d only feel embarrassed.”

He swiped a finger across his lips, then stood and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, people. We have a lot to accomplish today.”

As soon as Toby and Chef Adam and I were seated and mic’d up at the judges’ table, Peter left to organize the contestants, who were milling around the small kitchen, arranging ingredients, looking tense. I had to wonder again whether one of them could have shot at Toby last night. In the light of day after talking with Peter, this did seem like a preposterous theory. Where would they have been hiding? And I’d seen Buddy Higgs only fifteen minutes earlier squirting chocolate syrup on his tarts. No way he would have been finished in time to hustle over to Mallory Square. And none of them had looked surprised to see Toby alive and well this morning. All three had come prepared to proceed with the contest. They appeared nervous and determined, rather than guilty.

The makeup artist buzzed over to our table and squinted at Toby’s face.

“Is the Band-Aid necessary?” she asked.

“Unless you want a close-up of ragged skin,” Toby snapped. Chef Adam snickered and then returned to text messaging on his iPhone.

“May I see?” Without waiting for Toby to answer, the makeup girl ripped the bandage off Toby’s forehead.

“Ow!” Toby yelped.

“I can work with this,” said the young woman. “It will only sting a little.”

“Whenever you’re ready, people,” yelled Peter from the kitchen. The makeup girl swabbed flesh-colored liquid on Toby’s wound and ran a puff of powder over her face. Then she packed up her potions and utensils, and backed off the porch.

“Are you all right?” I whispered. “I felt bad leaving you there last night.”

Toby shook me off with a fake smile. “I’m fine. We’ll talk later.”

The lights came on and Peter stepped forward. “As I mentioned yesterday, this morning’s challenge is all about destination weddings. Today you’ll have the opportunity to decide which of our chefs has the creativity and the talent to tally the most points for this round of
Topped Chef
!” He waved a hand for the theme music to begin—the song “Food Glorious Food” from the Broadway show
Oliver!
surged over the loudspeakers and then faded off, giving way to the Dixie Cups singing “The Chapel of Love.”

“Our candidates will present their overnight brainstorms about a Key West wedding, and the judges will have the opportunity to sample their cakes and signature cocktails to determine whether they are or are not a Topped Chef. First up, chef Henri Stentzel.” He stepped back and the cameras closed in on Henri. She forced a smile, smoothed a few tendrils of hair into her toque, and tucked her hands behind her back.

“In my mind,” she said, “the bride and groom shouldn’t allow themselves to be overly influenced by our island. Our tropical setting should enhance the classic nature of the wedding vows, not steal their thunder.”

I snuck a look at the other two judges. Toby’s expression was noncommittal, Chef Adam’s, bored.

“I’m suggesting that the bridal couple should consider going for something classic and classy. And what
is more classy than a historical museum? The sense of history grounds the couple in what’s come before so they don’t set out on their voyage feeling alone. One such venue in Key West is the Lighthouse and Keeper’s Quarters Museum. A happy and successful marriage involves two people who look out for each other and remain committed through all the ups and downs of life. What better to symbolize the promise of a wedding than the searching beam of the lighthouse?”

Henri paused for a breath and seemed to assess her audience. Behind her, Peter pretended to fall asleep. Chef Adam looked positively catatonic. Henri smiled brightly and made eye contact with Toby.

“For the wedding cake, I’ve chosen to spotlight key lime cupcakes: They are light, they are lovely, they sidestep the saccharine sweetness and staleness of so many wedding desserts.”

Cupcakes. Now she’d caught my interest.

She opened a white bakery box, placed miniature cupcakes on three plates, and delivered them to us. I nibbled at mine—the cream cheese icing had flecks of lime zest in it, as did the pale green cake. Utterly delicious.

“Did you use food coloring in this?” Toby asked.

“Just a drop—to emphasize the lime. Wouldn’t this look lovely with green hydrangeas in the bouquet and centerpieces?”

Since no one else was bothering to answer her, I nodded briskly.

“Often signature cocktails are heavy and sweet,” Henri continued, “and they can result in drunken and boorish guests that night and queasiness the next morning.” She popped the cork on a bottle of prosecco
and poured the bubbly liquid into four flutes with raspberries nestled at the bottom. She brought each of us a glass, and clinked hers against ours as she talked.

“Classic setting, light and lovely cake, prosecco. That’s my recipe for an elegant wedding.”

I wished Connie had been here to listen to all this firsthand. She might not have loved the lighthouse idea, but she would have adored those pale green cupcakes. I’d have to try replicating them at home so she could sample. We hadn’t discussed one thing about what kind of reception she wanted or what she wanted served.