Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (15 page)

“That’s a big leap,” said Torrence.

“As Toby pointed out,” I argued, “there’s an awful lot riding on the outcome. It’s not only a local fundraiser. Winning could mean a huge game change in someone’s career. And we’re definitely not all in agreement. Chef Adam really loves this guy Buddy Higgs. Toby seems to like Henri Stentzel. And so far I’m leaning toward Randy Thompson. Except for the cake pops. Randy suggested
cake pops
for a wedding.” I hated to agree with Chef Adam on much of anything, but in this case, after thinking it over, I had to admit he was right.
“At first, I thought it was a fun idea. But when he described how they’re made, I realized he’d lost his mind. He actually admitted that his ingredients were a boxed cake mix and a can of Betty Crocker icing.”

Torrence’s eyes had begun to glaze over like the chocolate frosting on one of Randy’s treats. Torrence was clearly no chef. He wouldn’t have a clue about how using a cake mix would be anathema to a culinary professional.

“All I’m saying is no one’s a lock. But I keep wondering who’s got the biggest stake in winning the contest. And how far would he or she go to be sure he or she won?”

Torrence squinted and shook his head. “To be honest, your theory, while interesting, feels like quite a stretch. How would killing off another judge garner a win? More likely it would end the contest.”

“Point taken.” The same thing Peter had said. But then I reminded him about last night, how Toby dove into the water off Mallory Square when she thought someone was shooting at her. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

“I heard about the incident in this morning’s report,” Torrence said. “Good thing you were there to pull her out. I think her body would be floating toward the Bermuda Triangle about now if you hadn’t. Shark bait.” He rubbed a finger over his mustache. “I shouldn’t say much, but we have examined the footage from the Mallory Square webcam before and after the time your friend went overboard. We didn’t find much—only a fuzzy sequence of her ducking, and then leaping over the concrete lip into the water. And then
you followed soon after. One man came up to the edge but he appeared to be talking to you, not shooting.”

“That was Tony,” I said. “He’s not a threat. Except to himself. He’s homeless and I don’t think he really wants to change that. I’m sure he didn’t care to stick around and get harassed by Key West’s finest.” I grinned to take the edge off my words.

“These are all excellent observations.” Torrence’s voice was gentle. “You’re a real student of human behavior.” He paused and lapped his lower lip over the upper.

“But—”

“But there isn’t any real evidence to substantiate your theories. To be honest? I think your friend is nervous.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. “Don’t you find it odd that a woman who can’t swim and says she’s terrified of the water dives into the harbor right at the point with the worst current?”

“Unless she really heard a gunshot. Unless she panicked because of that and tripped and fell in.”

“Yes, but no one else heard it. You yourself said you didn’t hear it.”

“I thought it was firecrackers.”

“Does it occur to you that she’s lying about something? I even wonder if she’s suicidal. Is it possible that she intended to drown herself but then panicked when the reality of what she was about to do hit her? Did you get the sense she was feeling down last evening? Do you know her well? What has she been like the past few days?”

“I only just met her,” I admitted, hating to think how much sense his questions made. “So I don’t have any idea of what she’s
like normally. She did seem nervous right off the blocks and it’s gotten worse each day. A few times she’s told us what she really thinks about the
Topped Chef
contestants, but speaking out seems to set her back. She worries about what other people think of her opinions. And whether we’ll disagree.” I balled up the tissue in my fingers and fired it at his trash can. “I never considered whether she might be depressed. That would explain some things.”

“Such as?”

“She’s quite well known for a memoir about food and grief. It wasn’t that long ago that she lost her husband. Then she wrote a book about the experience, which was a huge bestseller.”

My friend Eric would probably have said she might have been better off letting herself feel her sadness, instead of writing about it for the general public. That way she would have had a better chance at putting it behind her instead of having her face rubbed into it everywhere she turned.

“But I do wonder how she’ll follow up on a success like that.”

He adjusted his glasses. “Hmm. I’ll pass your information along.” Then he stood up, a signal that our impromptu counseling session was over. “Anything else?”

“One more thing.” I described the idea that sprang from my pirate wedding research—how maybe Rizzoli had been strung up to teach someone a lesson. I did not mention the photo on Derek the dockhand’s iPhone because he’d never forgive me if his cell got impounded as evidence. How many early mornings had he rolled
out of bed to clean spilled beer and puke off that catamaran to afford the darn thing?

Torrence walked me to the door. “You feel free to feed me any information you come across.” He read off his cell phone number and I punched it into my contacts list. “I may look old-fashioned but I do accept text messages. I am not putting you ‘on the case.’ Understand? You don’t have a deputy star pinned to your chest. You’re not to go rushing around like a junior detective. Don’t
do
anything, other than keep your eyes and ears open. Got that?”

“Roger that,” I said.

He grinned, and then chucked my chin. We walked down the hallway and he held the door to the outside. I stood blinking in the sudden sunlight, feeling as though all the ground had shifted subtly beneath me. I seemed to have lost a boyfriend, but gained a friend. Which left me feeling a little hollow, but not as bad as I might have if I hadn’t run into Torrence. Boyfriends, in my limited experience, were dust in the wind. Friends, my rocks and anchors.

I no longer felt like napping. Instead, I hopped on my scooter and headed south to the
Key Zest
office, where I could start my article on the Mallory Square Stroll and enjoy the camaraderie of my coworkers. And avoid thinking about what I’d just seen in detective Nathan Bransford’s office.

13

The cult of celebrity associated with the postmodern chef is kept alive by armies of publicists, but it is rooted in the chef’s psychological yearning to be loved by thousands.

—Scott Haas

Danielle jumped all over me the minute I emerged from the stairwell into our office reception area. “Hayley, you’re on the front page of the
Citizen
. I’m so proud of you!” She held up the newspaper.

LOCAL FOOD CRITIC MAKES HEROIC RESCUE
, the headline blared. I skimmed the brief report, which named me but, thank goodness, not Toby. She would have been mortified by the publicity. Although below the story was an unfortunate photo of her draped in a police blanket, me standing alongside her in my white blouse that when wet, showed the lace of my bra right through it. Completely embarrassing.

“Anyone would have done the same thing,” I said. “But maybe dressed a little better.”

Danielle snickered.

Wally stuck his head out of his office. “Good work, you. Too bad we don’t write straight news—we’d have the inside scoop. How did this happen?”

I explained about Toby’s worries over the contest and her reaction to the subsequent, perhaps imaginary, gunshot.

“Good Lord, Hayley,” said Danielle. “You’re jinxed! Have you told the cops?”

“Thanks for the confidence,” I said. “I just got back from the police station. Officer Torrence doesn’t think there’s much basis for Toby’s concerns. A group of officers came through and interviewed every one of us judges and the staffers and the chefs themselves yesterday, and the upshot is that they don’t seem to think the TV show has any bearing on the murder.”

“Sounds like you’re not convinced,” said Wally, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Peter Shapiro, the executive producer, keeps saying how important it is to keep taping. Because winning this contest would mean so much for each of the candidates. Toby said the same thing—big bucks, fame, escape from drudgery. In other words, there’s an awful lot at stake for these three chefs.”

Wally’s eyes widened. “Whether it has anything to do with the murder or not, this could be a fascinating story—who wants to win this TV spot and why. This is one hell of a great feature for
Key Zest
.”

“Who’s writing that angle?” I asked.

“You are, of course.” He grinned. “You’ll have to do some digging to get the background on all of them. We’ll help you do the research. And if you’re worried about a conflict of interest, I’ll take the byline.”

“I’ll do the work and you’ll take the byline?” I asked. “Are you kidding?”

“Of course,” Wally said with a laugh.

“Road trip!” said Danielle. “It’s four o’clock—maybe the boss will let us knock off a little early.” She winked at Wally. “Where do we start?”

“Officer Torrence did tell me to keep my eyes peeled for anything related to the murder,” I said and described what Bransford had said about Sam Rizzoli’s connections to Key West politics. Then I told them about the conversation I’d had with the men at the harbor regarding Rizzoli’s bar. “Maybe we’d learn something there. And then I’d love to see Randy Thompson perform. He’s our drag-queen contestant who cooks like his grandmother. Maybe even talk with him, if we get the chance.”

“I think he’s doing dueling bartenders tonight at the Aqua,” said Danielle.

Aqua was a well-known drag bar on Duval Street. Miss Gloria had been there several times with her bridge group, but I’d not yet drummed up the nerve to go in. Miss Gloria—bridge group—drag bar. I had to mentally shake my head every time I thought of that combination.

“It’s probably too late to get a reservation,” I said. “But maybe we could get a bite to eat later at Chef Adam’s restaurant on Simonton Street.” I looked over at Wally. “It’s not exactly in my budget. Is this
Key Zest
business?”

“Definitely,” Wally said. “I’ll deal with Ava Faulkner when the time comes.”

Ava Faulkner, Wally’s copublisher who managed the finances of
Key Zest
. An antifan of mine. The name spoken aloud made me quiver.

Danielle patted my hand reassuringly. “Chef Adam isn’t a candidate for the show, is he?”

“No. A judge. And the one I know least well of all the players. The one who doesn’t seem to have anything riding on the contest outcome. Which makes me suspicious of course.” I grinned. “Give me a minute to put some things away.”

“No offense Wally,” Danielle said, “but I think I’ll change out of this shirt. We look a little too much like fast-food employees, don’t you think?” She plucked at the sleeve of her yellow shirt.

“Traitor,” he said.

“Hayley doesn’t have hers on,” said Danielle, pulling out the bottom desk drawer where she kept her makeup and an extra blouse.

Half an hour later we had found a table at Rizzoli’s outdoor bar, down the alley from his restaurant. We were early enough to snag a position near the bar, but at the same time overlooking Duval. I made sure to sit facing the street so I didn’t have to look at the restaurant I’d shredded in my review not forty-eight hours ago.

A bustling happy-hour crowd began to trickle in—sunburned tourists, mostly. The prices were on the high side, and I saw no signs proclaiming a locals discount, which some of the bars and restaurants in town embraced to encourage the patronage of real Key Westers.
Rock-and-roll tunes from the sixties and seventies pounded out from the loudspeakers. We waited for about five minutes, watching the people around us and hoping a waitress would materialize.

“Weren’t you scared last night jumping into the harbor?” Danielle asked. “I can barely swim. If I tried to rescue someone, it could only end up with two of us drowning.”

“Honestly, I didn’t spend one nanosecond thinking it through,” I said. “I just reacted. It scares me now, though, thinking about it.” I shivered. “Especially if someone really does have it in for Toby. Which I know is not likely, but still…”

“You can quit the show,” Wally said, a worried look crossing his face. “If you’re that concerned.”

But by now I was way too invested to quit. I wanted to see which contestant won the contest, and then whether and how his or her career got launched with Peter Shapiro’s TV show. If one of these guys made it big—became the next Bobby Flay or Paula Deen or Jacques Pépin—I wanted to have been part of the process.

And I wanted to make sure Toby was okay. Wasn’t there a Chinese proverb that said once you’d saved someone’s life they were your responsibility forever?

“You don’t really mean that,” I said with a big grin. “And I swear I won’t do anything else that reckless. And honestly, I do think she overreacted.”

Wally finally gave up on the waitress and threaded through the crowd to the bar, squeezing in between an overweight man sipping an icy white drink topped with a paper umbrella and a skinny woman covered in
blurry tattoos of birds and links of chains, drinking Coke.

“I’ll have three Key West pale ales,” we heard him tell the bartender. “Awful shame about Sam Rizzoli.”

“He’s smooth, isn’t he?” Danielle laughed.

“And he’s kinda cute in that silly shirt,” I said, squinting at the back of his neck, which had a sunburn that stopped just short of his new haircut. He probably wasn’t five inches taller than me, but there wasn’t a pinch of flab on him.

“I tried to talk him out of the company-shirt idea before he hired you,” said Danielle, “but it’s grown on me. At least during business hours.”

“You don’t look like a fresh case of hepatitis when you’re wearing yellow,” I said. “The way some others of us do.”

Wally came back to the table with our drinks. “I got a few snippets,” he said. “Rizzoli’s funeral is tomorrow. Private service for the family at Saint Mary Star of the Sea. But they’re having a memorial open to the public around lunchtime on the White Street Pier.”