Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (17 page)

“Sleep tight!” was all she’d written.

When pigs fly, I thought grimly.

I went back to bed, listening for hours to the clank of ropes and winches against the mast of our neighbor’s boat, two slots up the finger. And wondering just how different it might have sounded with a body tangled up in the rigging.

14

A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.

—Aesop

I woke up late and logy. I went straight to the galley, looking for a decent breakfast—do not pass Go, do not pass Anything Edible. Unfortunately, our cupboard space was jammed with three boxes of dietetic, cardboard-tasting cereal that I’d bought earlier this week when I was thinking Diet with a capital
D
. Not acceptable in my current frame of mind. Miss Gloria’s leftover bran muffins from the local Publix supermarket had been moldering in a plastic container on the counter all week—I ruled them out, too.

Visions of the rolled oats, pecans, coconut, and slivered almonds I’d bought at the Sugar Apple Natural Foods last week flashed through my mind; I started to salivate with possibilities. Pulling those ingredients out of the freezer and the cupboard, I began to measure and mix a batch of my favorite granola. I stirred maple
syrup, brown sugar, and canola oil into the bowl of nuts and grains, poured it into two big cookie pans, and slid the pans into Miss Gloria’s oven.

I retreated to the back deck of the houseboat with a big mug of coffee and my laptop, intending to write up my notes for the Mallory Square Stroll. It was not easy to develop a flow when I had to get up every fifteen minutes to stir the granola so it would roast to a consistently lovely golden crunch.

Besides, every time I put fingers to keyboard, the image of Nate’s wife popped into my mind—excruciating. Even though I’d purposely left my phone in the bedroom to avoid distraction, each time the oven timer went off, I cadged the Wi-Fi signal from one of the neighbors to check my e-mail. I found the usual junk mail to sort through and a couple interesting updates from old college friends on Facebook, but not a word from the detective.

When the granola had turned a gorgeous caramel color, I scraped it into a large glass bowl and added dried cherries to the mixture. After pouring myself a sample of the toasted oats and dousing it with milk, I left the rest to cool on the counter. Back outside, I sat basting in the sun and nibbling, still thinking about Nate. I tried to convince myself that I should be happy for him. I really, really wanted to feel that way. Really. In truth, it hadn’t ever sounded like his marriage had ended because he and his wife didn’t love each other. It ended because they had experienced a horrible crisis and they hadn’t known how to handle the emotional fallout. And they needed to gnaw down to the marrow of their matrimonial boneyard before either of them would be ready to move on.

I set my bowl down on the deck so Evinrude and Sparky could lap up the dregs of sweetened milk. Who was I kidding? If I were really honest, I would ask myself why in god’s name he’d even want to move on from that gorgeous woman. I was strictly Miss Congeniality to her Miss America. After I’d spent forty-five minutes crafting two lifeless sentences about the thrill of the
Topped Chef
competition, I gave up and went back inside the boat.

“Your granola is to die for. Need another cup of java?” called Miss Gloria from her comfortable spot in front of the television. The Food Network, of course. She was watching an episode of
Restaurant: Impossible
in which host Robert Irvine pronounced the kitchen of the restaurant he was visiting the most disgusting he’d ever seen. The show always made us feel better about our own housekeeping.

She tore her gaze away from televised close-ups of a grimy stove and a sink full of dirty pots and pans. “I can make a new pot.” The cats had migrated from the back deck to curling up on either side of her. Lounging with the three of them watching foodie blunders from a comfortable distance looked oh-so-tempting.

“I think I’m going to run over to Sam Rizzoli’s memorial service,” I told her. Speaking of a bone that needed gnawing. That death drove me crazy. Why had he been killed? And why had he been left in such a publicly gruesome position? I felt torn between wanting to go and wanting to mind my own business, but in the end, I was too antsy not to attend.

I dressed in my nicest black jeans and a clean white shirt for the occasion, pulling on the jeweled sandals
my mother had given me earlier this month instead of my favorite, more comfortable red sneakers. Then I motored across town to the White Street Pier and parked a couple of blocks away.

The concrete square at the end of the pier was jammed with people, the crowd obliterating the faded compass that was painted on the surface of the cement. A man standing with his back to the ocean called for quiet, and a hush rippled across the gathering. Before the speaker began, a large brown pelican plummeted through the air behind him and stabbed his beak into the water. As the bird floated peacefully on the surface with his freshly caught dinner, a gull landed on his head and began to peck at his gullet. A metaphor for Rizzoli’s life? Maybe even the big guys are vulnerable when they are hoarding something valuable. Maybe two birds in action provided a message more powerful than anything his friends and colleagues might say.

While several of Key West’s politicians held forth on the contributions Rizzoli had made to the town, I circulated around the outer perimeter of the crowd, listening for any undercurrents to the dead man’s story.

“Sam Rizzoli always put his hometown first,” said one of the city commissioners through the microphone.

“Yeah right. Assuming his hometown is ME ME ME,” muttered a man several rows back from the podium. “He never made a vote without first consulting his own interests. And the tie always went to Rizzoli.” From the rear, the man looked vaguely familiar, like someone whose picture I’d seen more than once in the local paper.

I edged around the pier until I had worked into a
position where I could observe Rizzoli’s wife. Not that you could always tell what was going on by looking at the deceased’s closest relations. Sometimes a great show of mourning covered rage or revenge or even relief. But Mrs. Rizzoli looked pale and sad, swathed in a black dress that accentuated her slender figure, leaving bare her sculpted arms—impressive for what I estimated as her forty-something years. Enormous sunglasses covered much of her fine-boned face.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and, startled, I whirled around to face detective Nate Bransford. My already fast pulse hitched up another level. I mouthed “good morning” and turned back to the speaker, who was droning on about Rizzoli’s love for and support of the arts in Key West. If Nate hadn’t been feeling bad about the awkward incident with his ex yesterday, he might have demanded to know what the hell I was doing there.

But instead, he said: “Sorry to surprise you like that yesterday. It all came up kind of suddenly.”

I fluttered my fingers behind my back like his ex-wife’s appearance was no problem, no problem at all. And by the way, didn’t he have more important things to do here than make excuses to me? I refused to turn around to look at him a second time, because I could feel the heat in my face—I was sure it would not match that message.

He sighed heavily. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him move off through the crowd. He wore a dark navy blazer and a white-collared shirt and a narrow tie that he must have thought would help him blend in with the mourners. Instead all he needed was
an earpiece to resemble the Secret Service. People parted to give him space as he headed toward the podium. He stopped about five paces away from the man I’d heard heckling the eulogist, scanning the crowd. I wondered if I was the only one from
Topped Chef
who’d come to the service.

After five speakers and a thank-you from Rizzoli’s brother on behalf of the entire family, an informal receiving line formed and I felt myself getting pushed forward to join it. I considered cutting away, but the crowd was too thick to make an easy escape without drawing the notice of the mourners.

The woman in front of me seized Mrs. Rizzoli’s hand and clutched it to her chest. “So sorry about your loss. I hope you got my phone message?” Both women burst into tears and hugged each other. There was a long pause as they disentangled themselves. Mrs. Rizzoli’s friend patted her cheek dry. “Can I do anything for you? Bring dinner? Call We Be Fit and let them know you won’t be in tomorrow?”

Mrs. Rizzoli adjusted the sunglasses that had been knocked askew in the big embrace and smiled. “We really have as much food as we can manage. As you can imagine, I have no appetite anyway. But thank you for the offer. And I do plan to go to the gym.” She chuckled grimly. “After all, Sam’s the one who died. I’m not dead yet.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow at ten?”

Mrs. Rizzoli nodded. “I’ll look forward to that.” She lowered her voice so I could barely catch the words. “I’m ready to burst here.”

When my turn came, I mumbled my condolences
without mentioning how I knew her husband and bolted as quickly as I could. I hadn’t meant to get that close in the first place. Nate Bransford stepped in front of me while I was waiting to cross through the traffic streaming along Atlantic Boulevard to reach my scooter.

“Find any clues?” he asked with a hint of a smile.

“You’re the detective. What do you think?” I snipped back. I didn’t mean to sound quite so thorny, but a protective barrier of prickliness had slid into place as soon as I saw him. I didn’t want to show him how disappointed I’d felt, seeing his wife in his office and noticing the sparks that snapped between them.

“Officer Torrence told me he spoke to you at length yesterday,” he said, sidestepping my question.

I tried to read his expression, but the only thing I could see in the dark lenses of his sunglasses was my reflection. Had Torrence told him how I’d wept? How humiliating that would be…

“I want to underscore his advice—you’re not on the case, Hayley. You need to leave the police work to the professionals. Rizzoli’s death was brutal and personal. Whoever killed him is a dangerous criminal who would not hesitate to kill again to protect his secrets. Do you understand?”

If he was trying to frighten me, it worked. I stared back, speechless, and then darted across the street. I heard brakes squeal and a horn blasting from the car that almost hit me.

“I mean it, Hayley,” the detective yelled. “Watch out.”

My hands shook badly, as I registered the cold steel of his warning. And the near miss with the car. Perched
on my scooter, I breathed deeply for a few minutes until I could fit the key into the ignition. Apparently he thought I was an idiot who would bumble into risky situations without considering the possible cost. And he wasn’t completely wrong. I wasn’t thinking straight—I had to be more careful.

Though it never hurt to listen if presented with the right opportunity—like dropping by Mrs. Rizzoli’s gym.

I fired up the scooter and headed for the small We Be Fit gym a couple of blocks north of the pier on First Street. A tall blond woman, dressed in sweats, but graceful like a dancer, greeted me as I came in.

“I’m wondering whether you have any small-group weight-lifting classes for women?” I asked. I raised my arm and jiggled my tricep. “I’m a runner and I thought some weight training might be a good complement to my exercise program.” Which was all quite an exaggeration—I’d only been out running three times, and that hardly constituted a “program.”

“I’d love to start tomorrow morning if that’s possible,” I added. “Sometime around nine thirty or ten?”

After Leigh, the trainer, had ascertained that I had no experience in a gym, she was less than enthusiastic about having me work out with a group. “I recommend a few personal training sessions so we can assess where you are in terms of physical fitness and get you acquainted with the machines.”

“I may need personal attention,” I said with a smile, “but my budget is definitely group-oriented.”

“Let’s try a one-on-one session and then if it’s going well, we’ll try to find you a workout buddy,” she suggested.

Then she rattled off a list of embarrassing questions about my goals, my current workout schedule, and my eating, about which I was only partially honest. I had to think most people lied rather than expose their miserable habits at the first meeting. I signed a raft of permissions and disclaimers and she faxed a medical release off to my doctor in New Jersey. I hadn’t visited a medical professional since coming to Key West last fall—other than after my car accident, for which I had been treated in the ER; there had been no need for it. I cleaned out the last two twenties in my wallet to pay for tomorrow’s session.

“See you at ten,” she said when we were finished. “Or better still come fifteen minutes early and you can warm up on the treadmill.”

15

I always tell people, “Just put it in your mouth,” she said. “What’s the worst that can happen? You’re not going to die. Either you’re going to like it or you’re not.”

—Emma Hearst, chef at Sorella

I puttered around at my
Key Zest
desk until four o’clock, when Peter had told us to show up at the Westin Resort and Marina Pier on Mallory Square for the next
Topped Chef
challenge. The usual gaggle of tourists was snapping pictures of the oversized Seward Johnson statues dancing behind the Custom House Museum, a few silly man-boys posing beneath the statues of the naked women.

Behind the museum, alongside the Westin, three cooking stations had been set up under an enormous white tent. Stainless steel six-burner Wolf stoves with grills and ovens had been installed at each station—the equipment had me absolutely drooling. Peter must have spent a fortune to get it here. Each station was
designed so the chefs would face the onlookers, with the food supply counter behind them. Although the advertising flyers said the show would begin at five, a large crowd had already begun to mill around outside the ropes. The central island counter space was piled high with the secret food supplies that had been promised, all covered by a white sheet. Deena waved me right over so I could get set up with my microphone.