Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (16 page)

“Any more word on who killed him?” I asked.

“I overheard the guy at the end of the bar say Rizzoli had some troubles with his wife recently.” Wally pointed through the crowd to a tall man with a faded Fast Buck Freddies ball cap and a dappled white and gray beard. “But I couldn’t hang around to hear what kind of troubles. And it’s hard to imagine his own wife hoisting him up the rigging, no matter how mad she was at him.”

“Somebody hated him,” said Danielle, and then turned to me. “Say, what’s happening with you and that adorable detective?”

Tears pricked my eyes, surprising me and bringing expressions of concern from both Wally and Danielle. I’d hoped I was over it—wishful thinking. Even I—champion of denial—wasn’t that good at sweeping disappointment under the rug. I ducked my head and took a big slug of beer. “His ex-wife is in town. I don’t know what that means, except I’m sure it’s curtains for me and him. They looked very cozy. And she’s a stunner.”

“You deserve better,” said Wally softly. He held my gaze for a minute and then changed the subject to a feature he wanted to write about literary Key West.

“
Travel and Leisure
did a nice piece about our town in 2009, but a lot’s changed. Not the history, of course—everyone knows about Hemingway and Tennessee Williams. But this place is rife with artists and writers. Do they come because they sense they can be a big fish in our small town? Would a painter who’s a big deal in Key West be a nothing in New York City? Or is there something about the atmosphere that nurtures creativity and brings out the best in artists and writers? We’re the insiders—we know this stuff better than anyone.”

“The same questions work for restaurants, too,” I pointed out. “Would a place we rate four stars get one in New York? Or do we really have top chefs working here?”

Once we’d finished our drinks, we left a couple of bucks on the table and went out onto the sidewalk. A herd of motorcyclists without helmets or mufflers roared by, drowning out the conversation until they were several blocks down Duval.

“There’s something I don’t get,” said Wally, shaking his head. “Why is that allowed? Do you think our commissioners and police are afraid to take them on? This is what I don’t like about our town. We should make reasonable guidelines and rules and then stick to them—not bend them according to whoever’s pressuring the commissioners. Or paying them off.”

“Sam Rizzoli, for example,” I added.

A couple of minutes later, we reached the Aqua nightclub. I’d passed this bar by scooter or on foot a hundred times since I’d hit town, but I’d never found the right opportunity to go in. The doors and shuttered windows had been folded open to the street so passersby could see in. A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted outside, along with a blast of music. Wally looked a little nervous, as I must have, but Danielle pushed us through it.

We stepped into the semidarkness and stopped a minute to let our eyes adjust. A bar stretched along the left side of the room, “AQUA” written in turquoise neon script above the bottles of liquor on shelves against the wall. A second U-shaped bar was set up to the right of the entry, glasses hanging from the ceiling. At the back of the hall stretched an empty stage, and empty tables and chairs were clustered around a deserted dance floor. Right now, all the action was at the two bars.

Behind the bar on the left, a lovely young woman with sculpted arms, a sparkly sequined top, and narrow hips poured glasses of wine and draft beer for two customers. And standing outside the other bar was an enormous person with a behind shaped like a divan, wearing a wig, high heels, and thick, thick makeup.
She crooned a scratchy rendition of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” into a portable microphone.

“That’s Gassy Winds,” whispered Danielle. “But I assume you want to get served by Randy Thompson, right?”

I stopped stock-still. “Where’s Randy?”

“Behind the other bar. Well, Victoria at the moment,” said Danielle as she herded us over to take seats at the bar.

“How do you know all this?” I asked, trying not to stare at Randy/Victoria, who had better muscle definition in his/her arms than I ever dreamed of.

“I come here for karaoke as often as I can,” she said with a shrug. “I love this place.” She slapped a twenty on the bar. “Looking good, Victoria!” she called out. “Three Coronas with lime. And can you sing some Patsy Cline?”

The bartender—Randy? Victoria?—winked at her, thumbed through a notebook on the back counter, and then called out a number to the DJ who sat in a glassed-in cubicle at the back of the room. After serving us the beers, Victoria began to sing “She’s Got You” in a mournful, vibrant baritone. She looked straight into Danielle’s eyes as she crooned “I’ve got your memory…,” then turned to wash out a few glasses left in the small sink behind the bar. “Or has it got me…”

“Wow, some voice,” said Wally. “So how do you address a drag queen? Is it he or she?”

“She, when she’s dressed up, like Victoria is now,” said Danielle. “And he, when he’s Randy. It’s that simple.”

When the song wound down, Victoria stopped by
our end of the bar to deliver the drinks. “Slumming tonight?” she asked Danielle, still making no eye contact with me.

“I think you know Hayley,” said Danielle, placing a hand on my forearm. “And the cute guy is Wally.”

“Hey, big fella,” said Victoria. “Are you a three-woman kind of man?” She winked and Wally flushed absolutely crimson.

“Oh stop,” said Danielle, giggling. “He’s our boss. How’s the TV show going?”

“It would be a lot better if the judges hadn’t decided ahead of time who was going to win,” said Victoria, an edge in her voice. “And better if they weren’t in the executive producer’s pocket.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “Nobody’s approached me about how to vote. And I’m certainly not getting paid. Everything’s been real and aboveboard so far.” I turned to Wally. “You tell her, I sure didn’t ask for this job.”

“She’s right,” Wally said. “Deena Smith called and asked if we could send someone because we cover a lot of local food events in our magazine. Hayley’s the real deal.”

“There’s nothing real about this business—it’s television. And as fake as they can make it,” Victoria said and grimaced. “The TV people don’t care about the best local food. They care about ratings because ratings sell advertising.” She flounced down to the other end of the bar and then came back to lean in closer to Wally. “Just like a lot of people give lip service to supporting local performers—and that includes drag queens. But underneath the surface, life is not all champagne and cake pops. It’s downright ugly. Why do you think Rizzoli
was hung in a wig and makeup? Trying to point a finger at one of us, that’s why.”

She sashayed away to take another customer’s money. I chugged my beer a little faster than I should have, feeling chastised and chagrined. If I was completely honest, as much as I liked Randy’s cooking and personality, I did have trouble imagining a drag queen winning the contest and going on to host a cooking show. Maybe our biases were showing through more clearly than I’d ever imagined.

We slunk out of Aqua and walked a couple of blocks north to Chef Adam’s restaurant, which he’d named “Boyd’s Nest.”

“Why not ‘Boyd in the Hand’?” Danielle asked, snickering.

Wally secured us a table in the back of the dining room near the side window, which looked out on a small garden. Once we’d confirmed that we wanted Miami’s finest tap water, rather than bottled, the hostess dropped off some menus. My eyes practically bugged out of my head when I saw the prices. I was glad Wally was here to pick up the check, courtesy of
Key Zest
.

“We do have one special on the menu tonight. But Chef doesn’t like us to call them specials because everything he makes is special,” said the waiter with only the smallest hint of a smile.

“Sounds like him, all right,” I muttered under my breath.

“The dish is a sautéed, blackened grouper, served with crashed new potatoes, and steamed squash. The fish is on the spicy side,” he warned us.

“What are crashed new potatoes?” I asked.

“They’re steamed, and then smashed and broiled with kosher salt and herbs until crispy. Out of this world.”

Once we’d ordered, Wally asked the waiter to ask the chef if he was free to visit for a minute or two. “I’ll ask,” said the waiter. “He’s pretty busy in there, bossing people around.” He smirked and hurried off to place our orders.

Halfway through the meal, Chef Adam barreled through the dining room to our table. “Oh, it’s you,” he said when he arrived and recognized me. “I thought one of our customers had lodged a complaint.”

“Not about this dinner,” I said graciously. “The fish is magnificent—fresh and zingy. Your waiter described it exactly.”

“And the potatoes are even better,” said Danielle with a melting smile.

“None of us have eaten here before,” said Wally. “I don’t think Hayley can do a review with both of you serving as
Topped Chef
judges, but we did want to tell you how much we’re enjoying the food.”

“How about you, Chef?” asked Danielle, tossing her hair off her shoulder so her cleavage showed more clearly. “How are you enjoying being a judge?”

“Not so much,” he said, scowling. “It’s an amateurish production rife with amateur cooks.”

“You miss Mr. Rizzoli,” I said.

He looked at me with surprise, and then nodded. “No offense, but he knew food.”

“I’d say Hayley’s pretty darned good at that, too,” said Wally.

No comment from Chef Adam.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “when were you tapped to be one of the judges?”

“Maybe a couple weeks ago?” He shrugged. “Why?”

I couldn’t very well come out and say I was trying to rule him out as a suspect in Rizzoli’s murder. Or rule out a setup in the judging process. “I wondered why you agreed. You seem to think the whole enterprise is foolishness.”

He stiffened and straightened his toque. “It is. But I like to do my bit for the town. And besides, having a panel of rank amateurs as judges would only serve to sink the show to an even lower level. Excuse me,” he added with a small bow. “They’ll be looking for me in the kitchen.” He bustled away.

“More like relieved for the respite,” said Danielle, once he was out of earshot. “Is that what he’s like all the time?”

“That’s pretty much him,” I said.

“Seemed as though he really liked Rizzoli,” Wally said.

*   *   *

Back at the office after dinner, I said my good nights and got on my scooter. Still feeling revved up by the evening, I decided to swing back around Mallory Square to find Tony. I wanted to know in person what he’d seen and heard the night before when Toby Davidson ended up in the drink.

I parked my bike on the street outside the Waterfront Playhouse and hurried back through the alley to Mallory Square, a little spooked by the darkness. As I’d expected, Tony and his buddies were hanging out on
the same corner where I’d seen them a night earlier, talking loudly. A pile of empty beer cans and cigarette butts littered the ground at their feet.

“Hayley!” Tony called out as soon as he saw me. “Hope you’re all right. That was some scary crap yesterday.”

“Yes, yes, it was. Thanks for helping out.”

“I couldn’t stick around.” He shrugged an apology. “I stayed until the cops got here.”

“Watch out for five-oh!” another of the men razzed him.

Tony elbowed him in the ribs.

“I understand,” I said. “I was wondering, did you guys happen to hear a gunshot last night before my friend went into the water?”

“I knew that’s what them cops were lookin’ for,” said one of Tony’s pals. “That’s why we took off. Once they mistake us for a shooter, we’re goin’ to jail and never getting out.”

“I’m playing your sad story on my violin,” said the first man, making a sawing motion with his hand. He turned back to me. “We heard firecrackers all night. That’s considered big fun for those idiot college kids—drink too much beer and then wake up the whole island.”

“We definitely heard fireworks,” Tony agreed. “We heard that whistling noise. Wouldn’t a gunshot be flatter?” For a few minutes they argued about the difference in the two sounds, but came to no conclusions.

“You didn’t happen to notice anyone running away after Toby dove in?”

“Just us chickens,” the first man said, and laughed.

“It was quiet here,” said Tony. “Course, we were minding our business, shooting the shit. Not looking for trouble.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We didn’t have a good view out that way.” He pointed toward the Westin, toward the bridge in front of the aquarium that Toby and I had crossed last night.

As I left the men, I glanced across the square. Lorenzo was at his table again. A thin woman was just getting up from the chair facing him. She shook his hand and walked away, sniffling into a tissue. I wondered what news he’d given her. Since no one was waiting to take her place, I hurried over and slid into the seat.

“Just wanted to say hi,” I told him.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, “holding you in the light. No bad effects from your dip last night?”

“We’re both okay,” I said. “Toby a little more shaken than me. You were right about speaking up and cutting things loose.” I pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail and then let it go. “My detective friend’s wife showed up in town.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s hard to argue with the cards.” He placed his hand over mine and squeezed. “What are you doing here this late?”

“I wondered whether Tony and his friends had seen anything unusual last night. Besides Toby in the water, I mean.”

His forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I did see her on the square earlier. Chatting with another woman. That doesn’t help much, does it?”

“Not really. Not like if you’d read her cards and there was a secret in them you could share with me.”

He laughed. “Can’t help with that. And couldn’t share anyway—wouldn’t be ethical.”

*   *   *

I was exhausted by the time I fell into my berth on the houseboat. But not tired enough to keep the image of Bransford’s wife out of my mind. To keep from wondering why she’d come to Key West. I’d checked the answering machine just in case he might have left word. Though why would he call home when other times we connected we’d talked on my cell? Even so, I checked the pad attached to the refrigerator with a magnet where Miss Gloria left me important messages.