Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (24 page)

“Over here,” said Mrs. Rizzoli, and stomped ahead of us to a grouping of Adirondack chairs partially hidden by palm fronds in the side yard. When we were all three seated, she dropped her face into her hands. “He’s right. We have been involved. But it was only a way to protect myself.”

“From what?” I asked.

She looked up. Her eyes filled and she dashed a tear away.

Miss Gloria rustled through her fanny pack for a tissue, and then leaned over to pat Mrs. Rizzoli’s knee. “Go ahead, tell us, dear. It will help the healing to get the truth out.”

“When did this start?” I asked.

Her eyes found mine and then she heaved a great sigh. “The night Sam actually brought his girlfriend into our restaurant—and practically did her right on the bar in front of all our friends and acquaintances,
that’s the night I went out with Buddy. He used to work in our kitchen. You know how handsome he is—and charming.”

I bit my lip and nodded. Only I would never have described Buddy as charming, more like abrasive and self-absorbed. And not even all that appealing physically. I suppressed a snicker, thinking of Randy’s comment about Buddy’s hair impersonating roadkill.

“You said he used to work in your kitchen. Why did he leave?”

Mrs. Rizzoli said, “It’s not unusual—there’s a lot of turnover in this business.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t suppose you should be surprised to learn that a man has a drinking problem if you meet him at a bar when you’re both blotto,” she said. “To be honest, I think he missed a number of his shifts and the manager finally canned him.”

“So Buddy was unreliable?”

“That’s pretty much it,” she said. “I think he actually finds cooking in a restaurant beneath him. He doesn’t want to fry and plate hundreds of orders of yellowtail snapper—he wants to invent crazy dishes and then boss other cooks around who are making his creations. He’s ferociously ambitious.”

“Did your husband know that you and Buddy were seeing each other?” I asked. “Because from what I could tell in the
Topped Chef
competition, Sam didn’t seem to have anything against him. In fact, he was very complimentary about his food.”

“Honestly?” Her eyes filled again, which caused Miss Gloria’s lips to tremble in sympathy. “I don’t think
he cared. When he broke his big news the other day, I don’t think he even realized that I already knew he was cheating.” Her hands began to shake—sadness? Anger? Or heartsick with the sheer humiliation?

“That’s not right,” said Miss Gloria. “What kind of a marriage is that?”

I wasn’t entirely sure her presence on an interview was turning out to be an asset. If we felt too sorry for Mrs. Rizzoli, it would get tougher to ask the hardball questions. I decided to switch direction.

“Do you remember when Sam was asked to be a
Topped Chef
judge?” I asked. “You mentioned that he’s not much of a foodie.”

“A couple of weeks ago, anyway,” she said. “Maybe two? He was tickled to be invited. It didn’t take much to pump up that man’s ego. When Deena Smith called, he took it as a sign that he’d climbed another rung in the Key West culinary scene.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which partly explains why he was so angry about your restaurant review. When you criticized his establishment, you pricked his balloon—and then some of his hot air ran out.”

“You say Buddy’s ambitious. Ambitious enough to kill someone to get what he wanted?”

Her eyes bugged out. “You think Buddy killed Sam? That’s absurd.”

“But does he have a temper?”

“Yes,” she admitted, one hand floating to her lips. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’d say he’s more likely to turn the anger inside when he’s frustrated, and then self-destruct.”

I didn’t want to come right out and say it, but wouldn’t murdering someone be the ultimate form of self-destruction? A prison term for life? There wouldn’t be many cutting-edge cooking opportunities in the federal penitentiary.

22

The moon glided out from its cover of clouds, causing sparkles of light to dance on the water like a thousand pearls of tapioca.

— Hayley Snow,
Topped Chef

After returning to Tarpon Pier and parking the scooter, we met Eric and his dog coming down the finger of our dock.

“You ladies are out late,” Eric said, at the same time the little Yorkie yipped his own greeting and threw himself at my legs.

“I’m so happy to see you!” I rushed up to give him a big hug and then scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“We were doing some detective work,” said Miss Gloria, looking smug.

Eric looked at me and I rolled my eyes. “I decided it was worth talking to Mrs. Rizzoli because we caught her in a lie. Miss Gloria was supposed to be along for the ride, but she couldn’t keep out of it.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Eric. “Who taught her everything she knows?”

“And she turns out to be quite a good ‘good cop,’” I said, slinging an arm around Miss Gloria’s shoulders; she shivered with pleasure and beamed. “Do you have time to come in and try a key lime cupcake? We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did someone say cupcake?” Eric answered, and then patted his belly. “I’ve missed your cooking. Maybe I even lost a pound or two while we were away.”

Once we were all settled in the kitchen, the cats closed off in Miss Gloria’s bedroom to avoid double-team attacks on Eric’s little dog, and cupcakes and steaming tea on the table, I caught him up on what had gone on this evening.

“Mrs. Rizzoli claimed she never knew Buddy Higgs, but that turned out to be a lie,” I said. “The truth is she had an affair with him.”

“Which we think was a reaction to her husband’s infidelity. Mrs. R claims her husband didn’t care one way or another whether she slept with another man but that’s hard for me to swallow,” said Miss Gloria. “Even in these modern days, doesn’t a marriage mean anything?”

“Agreed,” Eric said, as he bit into his cupcake. He closed his eyes for a second to chew and swallow and then blinked his eyes open. “Hayley, these are outstanding.”

“Good enough for Connie’s wedding?”

“Definitely. These could steal the show,” he said. “Who was Sam Rizzoli’s girlfriend?”

Miss Gloria and I looked at each other. “She didn’t say. And we didn’t think to ask.”

“Whoever she is, I’m sure the cops are checking her out, because she’d make an obvious suspect.”

“Oh my,” said Miss Gloria. “What if he was going to dump the mystery girlfriend and go back to his wife? What if she’d rather see him dead than allow that?”

“Did you say that Henri Stentzel is one of the chefs?” Eric popped the last bite of lime cake into his mouth and licked the icing off his fingers. “Isn’t she the woman you thought murdered Chad’s girlfriend?”

I nodded. “She’s still angry about that—and she lets me see that every chance we have to interact. And believe me, I’ve gone out of my way to be complimentary about what she cooks.”

“She’s probably not the killer, but hopefully the cops won’t overlook her just because you mis-fingered her last time.” He took a sip of tea. “What about the other judges?”

“Wally and Danielle and I had dinner at Chef Adam’s restaurant this week. The food was very, very good, by the way. He came out to talk with us after the meal. None of us got a scary vibe, even though he has that haughty superchef air about him.”

“And the third judge?” Eric asked.

“Toby Davidson,” I said. “She’s the one who’s worried all along that someone might be picking us off, one by one.”

“If there were no judges left, there would be no contest,” he said. “Even one more death would kill the project, I imagine. Would anyone want that outcome?”

I shook my head. “Me.” I grinned. “Not the killing part, but ending the dumb project.”

I went to get my computer and typed “Toby Davidson author” into the search bar. Hundreds of links came up, many to reviews of her memoir, but also to articles about cooking that she’d written for magazines and posted on her baking blog.

“She’s an old-fashioned cook’s cook,” I said, clicking on the link to her blog.

Eric read over my shoulder. “She says she uses cooking to conjure up folks from her past,” said Eric. “Interesting.”

“Here’s the publisher’s description of her memoir: ‘Ms. Davidson absorbed her grief by cooking her way through her husband’s favorite recipes, extruding the sadness into the pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, the coq au vin, the beef stew with beer and onions…’”

“You’re making me hungry all over again,” said Miss Gloria. “Although I’m not sure I’d want a sad pot roast.”

“I don’t see a motive for murdering Rizzoli, do you?” I asked Eric.

“Not personal anyway, unless he had something to do with her husband.” The little terrier whined and Eric glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get home. But the question is out there: Are the judges in danger?”

“Or are they dangerous?” added Miss Gloria.

23

The first time you see something that you have never seen before, you almost always know right away if you should eat it or run away from it.

—Scott Adams

I phoned the hospital first thing when I woke, intending to ask about Turtle’s condition. But once the canned “Welcome to the Lower Keys Medical Center” message began to play, I realized that I’d never heard him called anything but Turtle. Not a clue about his real name or his last name. I doubted I’d get any information with what I had, but I clicked through to the guest services line and asked the receptionist to check on a “Turtle Doe.”

“Sorry we don’t have anyone listed by that name,” she said.

I rolled out of bed, fed the cats, and slid into my running clothes, thinking that either Derek or Elsa might know Turtle’s real name. Although based on what Elsa
had told me yesterday, I worried that Derek was the one who’d beaten Turtle to a bloody heap. I certainly wouldn’t mention that when I saw him—generally starting out with an accusation did not produce much new information.

I puffed slowly over to Old Town harbor, feeling every repetition of every exercise Leigh the trainer had put me through yesterday—right through my skin to my muscles and then down to the bone. As I reached the water, Derek had finished washing the party boat and begun to coil up his hose.

“Looks like another beautiful day in paradise!” I called out.

He grunted and slung the hose onto a peg at the edge of the dock. I stopped right in front of him so he couldn’t avoid me and watched his face carefully. “You probably heard that Turtle’s in the hospital?”

His gaze flicked up to meet mine. Then he backed away and began to tie up a bag of trash from the boat. “I heard.”

“Tony and I found him, over at the end of Duval.”

“I heard.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“Someone beat the crap out of him,” he said, emphasizing
crap
. “Knowing Turtle, he probably drove them to it. But don’t ask me a damn thing about it because I don’t know anything.” He scowled and turned his hose on again and began to squirt the dock near the boat. “I got work to do here, if you don’t mind.”

I hopped back to get out of reach of his spray, which came dangerously close to my sneakers. “Do you have any idea what his real name is? I wanted to check on
him, but of course he’s not listed at the hospital as Turtle.”

“John Sampson,” he said, and stomped away. He called over his shoulder: “Hope they find who did it before they finish what they started.”

I headed toward the Cuban Coffee Queen, puzzling over his reaction. Honestly, he didn’t look like a guy who’d bludgeoned someone to within an inch of his life. Yes, he was irritable and short-tempered. But he was more likely to drench Turtle with his hose than beat him with it.

With my tall con leche in hand, I walked back to houseboat row. Was Turtle still in danger as Derek implied? I hadn’t consciously considered that, though the possibility would explain why I’d woken up worried. But surely the cops would keep an eye on a victim of that much violence—even if he was one of the throwaway homeless.

Wouldn’t they?

My stomach began to churn as I faced the facts. From the glimpse I’d gotten of Turtle yesterday, the beating wasn’t meant casually—it hadn’t come after a small fracas or minor difference of opinion. They’d meant to finish him off, rather than teach him a lesson.

I punched Eric’s number into my phone. He answered on the third ring, sounding groggy.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” I said, to try to be polite. Then I told him about what Derek had said about Turtle, and all the details I’d noticed about his body language. “I used to think I was a good judge of character,” I said. “But Chad lied through his teeth and I didn’t pick that up until way too late. So if someone’s
lying, what kind of body language would you watch for?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Eric said when I finally drew a breath. “Let me stagger out to the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee and then you can pelt me with your questions.”

While he made his coffee, I explained again how I’d gone to talk to Derek, and how Elsa had said she saw someone who looked like Derek arguing with Turtle yesterday. But Derek claimed he knew nothing about it. “How could I tell if he was lying?”

“This is police business,” he said. “Did you tell the cops about Elsa and Derek?”

“I’m planning to call Officer Torrence when I hang up with you. But the more details I give him, the better the chance he’ll follow up, right?”

Eric groaned and slurped his coffee. “Probably he wouldn’t make eye contact with you if he was telling a lie. Though if he’s a practiced liar, that might not be true. Or you might notice excess eye movement,” he suggested. “A lot of blinking, drawing eyebrows together, that sort of thing.”

I sighed. “That pretty much describes him all the time. Any conversation with me, he behaves like he wishes he were somewhere else—anywhere else. I guess you don’t land a job washing boats at the crack of dawn because you love working with people.”

Eric laughed. “What did he say when you asked him about Turtle? Did he act defensive? Was his body language stiff?”