Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (25 page)

“He’s always stiff,” I said. “He mentioned thinking
Turtle brought the beating on himself. And something about hoping the person who attacked him didn’t go back to finish the job.” I heard Eric’s dog yip in the background.

“Dog’s got a lizard—I better go. Last question: Would Derek have shared his theories with the cops?” Eric asked. “Because if he didn’t, you should.”

“I will,” I said. “I promise. Now that I’ve got Turtle’s real name, I’m going to drop in on him at the hospital—see if I can do anything for him. Lord knows he doesn’t have any family on this island. And maybe not anywhere.”

*   *   *

I took a quick shower and drove up Route One, off Key West to the next pearl in our little string of islands, Stock Island. Though with its landfill and marine industry and trailer parks and homeless shelter, this one more resembled a misshapen freshwater pearl than a perfect white orb. Turning left before I hit the golf course, I imagined that Turtle might have taken this route many times to get to the overnight homeless shelter. Except he’d have been on foot. Every night around six o’clock, a stream of folks seeking a place to spend the night shuffled or pedaled along Route One to the Stock Island shelter.

I pulled into the parking lot of the pink and blue stucco medical center, trying to press back the unpleasant memories of my recent outpatient visit and then a visit to Miss Gloria after she’d been attacked by a would-be killer. As I approached the building, the glass entry doors slid open, releasing a blast of refrigerated, disinfected air. At the information desk, I explained to
a white-haired woman in a blue jacket that I wished to see Mr. John Sampson.

She flashed through several computer screens, and then glanced up and squinted through thick lenses. “Name, please?”

“Hayley Snow,” I told her, thinking they must have upgraded their system to print out personalized visitor badges.

She tapped my name into her computer.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Sampson cannot have visitors right now,” she said.

“But you see, I’m his friend and I’m worried. I’m the one who found him yesterday and called the police.”

She slid her glasses down her nose and peered over them. “It says here, ‘no visitors.’”

“Then why did you take my name?” I couldn’t help asking, feeling frustrated and disappointed.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this,” she said firmly, gripping her computer desk with both hands.

Clearly I wasn’t going to get anything more from her. I retreated from the reception area and took a seat on a hard plastic chair that had been bolted to the floor. Derek’s voice rang in my head: “Hope they find who did it before they finish what they started.”

So I texted Torrence, telling him that I was at the hospital, had hoped to visit Turtle, and had some other information that might have bearing on the murder. As I stood to leave, I spotted a small woman signing papers at the insurance desk and recognized her as the traveling companion of the woman who had taken ill at the Mallory Square taste-off. I hurried across the room to greet her.

“How are you? And how’s your friend doing?” I patted her back and told her my name. “I was one of the judges at the cooking demonstration. I’ve been thinking about you ever since. Is your friend okay?”

“Thanks for asking,” said the little woman. “I’m Harriet Miles.” She bared her teeth in a timid smile. “Of all things, they think my friend had an allergic reaction to star fruit.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s unusual,” she said. “Apparently star fruit is related to mango.”

“Mango?”

“A few people have a toxic reaction, and unfortunately, Sarah is one of them. She was so mad about missing the rest of the tasting.” She shook her head with a wry smile. “You can probably tell by looking at her that she enjoys eating everything. She’s not fussy about food the way I am. But she’d never tried star fruit before so the bad reaction was a complete surprise.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t poison,” I said. “That’s what we were afraid of.”

She looked alarmed. “You thought she was poisoned?”

Okay, foot in mouth, Hayley: I should never have mentioned that. I gave a fake laugh. “Food critic’s humor. I’m so sorry you ladies missed the rest of your cruise. I’m sure this particular detour wasn’t on your itinerary.”

The little woman nodded. “Definitely more excitement than we bargained for. First of all, the paramedics wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance because I’m not a relative by blood or marriage. Luckily that nice Mr.
Shapiro put me up in a bed-and-breakfast on Grinnell Street. And once Sarah was stable and they weren’t so worried about her, I visited the Hemingway House and saw all his cats.”

“Those kitties are my favorite tourist attraction,” I said with a grin.

“Sarah’s getting released this morning so we plan to take the conch tour train and have a nice dinner before we have to catch a plane home tomorrow.” Her face brightened. “You’re a food critic, right? Maybe you have a recommendation?”

“Sure,” I said. “I love Michael’s for steak. Or Santiago’s Bodega for tapas—it’s in our funky part of town up the street from Blue Heaven. Which is also enjoyable, and famous for chickens pecking underneath your dinner table. Or Louie’s Backyard for the view—though it’s pricey. Or if you want the down-home Key West experience, either B.O.’s Fish Wagon or Pepe’s—they’re right across the street from each other on Caroline Street.”

“She owes me,” said Harriet. “Louie’s Backyard sounds perfect. Don’t tell Sarah, but I wasn’t enjoying the cruise that much anyway. All those children running around shrieking, and plus I felt constantly queasy from the boat’s motion. Key West is the bomb.”

I exited the waiting room, relieved that the tourist ladies were alive and safe. And pleasantly surprised that Peter Shapiro had been so generous. I suppose he didn’t want a lawsuit marring his show’s prospects.

My phone buzzed and Torrence’s name flashed on my screen. “Good morning,” I said after clicking to accept the call. “They wouldn’t let me in to see Turtle.”

“Then
they
are doing their job,” he said. “You said you had some news?”

“A little,” I said. “Though mainly I called because I was worried about Turtle being in danger. But it looks like you already have that covered.” I told him how I’d tracked down Derek at the harbor earlier this morning. “I might have forgotten to mention the other day that he had a photo on his iPhone of Rizzoli hanging from the mast. Turtle was kind of worked up about the whole crime thing.”

“Worked up?” Torrence asked.

“Excited. Sort of. I don’t know how to explain it. He insisted that Derek show me the photo. But ever since we found him all beat up, I started to wonder whether he saw something happen the night Rizzoli died. Maybe he didn’t realize he saw it. But maybe the killer thought he’d seen something that would make him dangerous.”

There was a pause on the line.

“You forgot to mention this?” Torrence asked.

“Sort of,” I said, feeling a little sick to my stomach. In my urge to protect Derek’s privacy and his smartphone, had I put Turtle in danger?

“Anything else?” he asked.

I hesitated, but then spilled the details of the visit I’d made last night to Mrs. Rizzoli, and her admission that she’d been involved with Buddy Higgs.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said.

Which sounded like a perfectly nice thing to say, only the way he emphasized “letting me know” made it clear he was annoyed.

“I would appreciate it if you’d leave any further interviews to me.”

“Sorry,” I said. I hesitated, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Has there been any progress on the case? Anything you can tell me, I mean?”

Torrence sighed loudly, then said: “The preliminary report on Mr. Rizzoli’s autopsy is in. It appears that he didn’t die from hanging. He was killed by a blow from a blunt instrument, then dressed and made up, and then hoisted up into the rigging.”

“Someone put makeup on him after they killed him? That’s sick.”

“That’s the working theory. Not that any of it should have any bearing on your activities,” he warned. “I’m only telling you that because you’re morbidly curious and I figured you’d badger me until I gave up something. Chances are it’ll be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”

24

The amateurs are not going away, which restaurateurs once might have hoped, and they are making chefs nervous.

—Ike DeLorenzo

A wealthy Venezuelan man and his third wife had donated the use of their home for the final leg of the
Topped Chef
competition. Only blocks from Mrs. Rizzoli’s house on Washington Street, this place was twice as opulent and showy. Key West is known for tiny yards and adorable conch homes decorated with gingerbread trim and inviting front porches. But Juan Pisani had chosen to design and build a white stucco monstrosity surrounded by a black metal fence and elaborate plantings.

A card table had been set up on the porch outside the door underneath an enormous portico. Two volunteers in red shirts with
TOPPED CHEF KEY WEST
logos printed on them asked for my name and driver’s license. Behind them, just inside the foyer, a uniformed
cop waited, partially hidden by the largest indoor ficus tree I’d ever seen.

“Got your A-team security here today,” I said with a chuckle as I handed over my license.

The volunteer studied my license and then pushed it back to me. “That’s right.” No return smile. She gave me a badge and explained that I was to wear it at all times while on the premises. Serious business.

I entered the house, gawking shamelessly at the leather and brass bar in the foyer and after that the expansive living room filled with leather furniture and African artwork. Nothing subtle about any of it. The ceilings swept up through two full floors and some of the potted palms reached three-quarters of the way to the top. Deena hurried past me as I was trying to decipher the meaning of a twisted metal sculpture. I tapped her arm and she whirled around to face me.

“Oh, it’s you.” She clapped a hand to her chest. “You startled me.” She looked me up and down and tweaked the fake pearls I’d put on to dress up my sleeveless black shift. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks. Hey, I have some really good news,” I said. “The woman who took sick at the Mallory Square taste-off? Turns out she was allergic to star fruit. So nobody poisoned anybody.” I grinned but my cheer ebbed away when I saw the worry in her expression and a sheen of sweat gathering on her upper lip. This on a woman who considered perspiration a cardinal sin.

“What’s wrong?”

She glanced around the room and then beckoned for me to follow her into a small office adjacent to the living area. Once inside, she slid the mahogany pocket
doors closed behind me and straightened the faux zebra-striped rug with her foot. “There’s been a threat against the show.”

“A threat? Good lord, what kind of threat?”

She held a finger to her lips. “We need to keep this quiet if we don’t want mass hysteria. But someone slipped a note under Peter’s door at his bed-and-breakfast during the night. The police have it now.”

“What did it say?” I hugged my arms around my torso, feeling suddenly chilled rather than pleasantly cool, as I had when I entered this palace.

“It looked childish—made of letters cut from a magazine. ‘Topped Chef Key West, where someone’s not making it back for seconds.’ The chief of police thinks it’s a fraud, but of course it has to be taken seriously. Hence, the extra security. All the guests will have their purses searched and ID’s checked.”

“Shouldn’t we cancel? It’s not worth continuing if someone else dies. My gosh,” I added, slinging my backpack off my shoulder and perching it on the shiny cherry desk, “no one looked at what I brought in.”

“What did you bring?” she asked, her eyes widening with worry.

“Nothing. But that’s not the point. I could have smuggled anything in. A gun. A knife. Anything. How would they know if no one is checking?”

“They are checking,” she said in a soothing voice. “But you’re one of the judges. Once they recognized your name, they would know you’re a good egg.” She smiled with encouragement. “We considered all the options, including canceling this episode of the show. The police mentioned that possibility to Peter, but they
didn’t push it. And neither of us felt it was the right thing to do. Especially since the cops agreed to provide extra security.” She sighed. “We’ve come so far. We’re so close to the climax. We hate to bow to some fruitcake’s idea of a joke.”

“But aren’t you worried about the food getting tainted—for real this time?” I asked her.

“I shopped for everything personally,” Deena said. “Every grain of salt, every stick of butter, every length of pasta. And it hasn’t been out of my sight since I left the grocery store.”

“How about right now?”

Deena smiled. “We have a volunteer stationed in the pantry and two more in the kitchen. And there are at least two cops in street clothes on the premises. We wouldn’t proceed if we thought anyone was in danger.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. But I know you’re a good observer so I wanted you to keep your eyes open. Let me know right away if you notice anything weird. Okay?”

“I guess.” I shrugged my pack back onto my shoulder and followed her into the living room, which had begun to fill with guests sipping champagne from plastic flutes, even though it was well before noon.

We threaded through the crowd and finally arrived at the kitchen—a fabulous, futuristic, open-air kitchen that might have been designed for this very affair. A central island at least four yards long held a six-burner stainless stovetop, set in pink granite. It made Miss Gloria’s propane stove look as though it came from Barbie’s Dream House, circa 1980. Behind the stove
against the window were double sinks and the biggest stainless steel refrigerator I’d ever seen, surrounded by more yards of gorgeous granite. The other wall of the kitchen was constructed of sliding glass doors so the room could be opened to a vast interior courtyard containing a pool, a hot tub, and enough foliage to keep an army of landscapers busy. Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the courtyard for the studio audience.