Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (27 page)

—Wylie Dufresne

I retreated to the office to regroup for an hour before the Duval Uncorked event started, and to begin making notes for my
Topped Chef
article. Saturday afternoon—neither Danielle nor Wally should be there—the place would be quiet and dim. And I would not be tempted to chat with Miss Gloria or bake something tasty.

My shoulders felt like concrete blocks and the heavy-metal pounding of a major headache had kicked in. I changed my clothes, then nicked a few of Danielle’s Motrin, swallowed them down with a bottle of spring water from the fridge, and went to curl up on the wicker loveseat in Wally’s office. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe out the cables of tension racking
my body, calmed by the scent of Wally’s citrus aftershave wafting from the tropical upholstery.

As I mulled over this morning’s event, my irritation with the
Topped Chef
contest crested. After Buddy’s abrupt coronation, I’d tried to speak with Deena to register my concerns. The judges hadn’t really had a reasonable opportunity to debate the outcome, in my opinion. Nor had there been an accounting of accumulated scores from the other cooking events.

But Deena was ebullient about the results and resistant to my complaints. After all, the final episode had gone off without any hiccups. No one had died or been poisoned or dropped to the floor with convulsions. And the chef with the most interesting food had come out on top.

But as Randy and his friend had suggested, now I suspected the contest had been rigged from the start. And despite how much I loved and trusted Deena, the producer’s insistence on stirring up rancor between the contestants bothered me. I wasn’t cut out for reality television, that much was clear.

Finally, it occurred to me to wonder again why I had been chosen as a judge. Yes, I was food critic for
Key Zest
magazine. But I was not well known, not yet. Why not ask one of the well-published food writers who’d worked for years for the
Key West Citizen
? And why had I been asked to join the panel so late? I realized that all three of the other judges had been tapped weeks before me. Why?

Peter and Deena would know the answer to that. But Deena was the only person who might tell me the truth. I dialed her cell phone.

“Deena, it’s Hayley. I bet you’re glad the week is over.”

“Glad because I’m bushed. Sad because I love the stuff,” said Deena. “Thanks for being a good sport and coming along for the ride.”

“You’re welcome, it was certainly interesting.” I laughed.
Aggravating
,
annoying
,
infuriating
,
demeaning
—those were the words I’d have used if I didn’t want something from her.

“I know you were somewhat disappointed about the results, but we’re only grateful that it went off without a hitch today. That threat really rattled us,” she said. “You probably couldn’t tell, but Peter was a wreck. We’re all relieved that the only misadventure was that crazy drag-queen friend of Randy’s rushing the set. I’m so relieved that everyone’s safe.”

“That was Randy’s friend?” I asked.

“He works and sings with him at the Aqua,” Deena said.

This made sense—Randy was the kind of guy who would inspire rabid loyalty. Another reason why he would have made a magnificent Topped Chef. “Now that it’s over, I’ve been wondering,” I said. “How did you choose the judges?”

Deena cleared her throat. “Peter asked me to recommend some people since I’ve been living here awhile and he’s not local. From those names, he chose the final panel.”

“But what were the criteria?” I asked. “There are so many foodie writers and chefs in town. Who made the short list?”

“Not everyone could give up a week during their
busy season,” she said. “You know what it’s like in January on this island. So having the ability to take time off was critical. Since Wally was enthusiastic about the idea of a story for
Key Zest
, you were a shoo-in. And Peter wanted folks whose opinions wouldn’t be overwhelming, but who would demonstrate their knowledge about food clearly.”

“Rizzoli and Chef Adam hardly fit into the category of not having strong opinions,” I said.

She laughed. “The results weren’t perfect. First I thought of Toby Davidson. She has the foodie background because of her baking blog and the cookbooks she’s written. And the memoir, of course. But I’d seen her give presentations; she seemed a little timid.”

“You were looking for timid?”

Deena was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t mean it that way. Peter wanted some people on the panel who would be open to considering other points of view. I think that’s how he said it.”

My phone buzzed with an incoming call. From Mrs. Rizzoli.

“I have to run. Thanks for telling me the truth. We’ll get together soon, okay?” Although if I didn’t see her for a while, that would feel perfectly fine, too.

I accepted the other call. “Hello?”

“Hayley, it’s Deborah Rizzoli. I’ve been debating whether to call you, but I decided you deserve to know the truth. I wasn’t completely honest about my husband’s relationship with Randy Thompson.” She sighed, and then I heard a little clicking noise and imagined her tapping her perfect nails on the phone. “It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I think Sam had a
little crush on him. It pains me even more to say this, but I think they may have had an affair.”

“Randy and your husband?” I asked, dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe she’d call to tell me this. Was she lying? What would be the point?

“Sam had eclectic tastes,” she admitted. “He loved drag bars. The gay pride parade. And Fantasy Fest. He had a collection of amazing costumes and wigs and makeup that he kept on his boat. That was a side of him I didn’t care to know that much about. But we’ve been over there cleaning things out so I can put the damn tub up for sale.”

Hard to know how to respond to that. Now I truly felt sorry for her. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through,” I said, and then added: “Anything else I should know?”

“Well, you should know that he acted on his grudges. He wouldn’t hesitate to wield his influence if someone crossed him.” She cleared her throat. “If someone he was interested in ceased to be interested in return.”

I tried to puzzle out what she was implying. Then it hit me like a fiery mouthful of Chef Stentzel’s jalapeño pepper. “Meaning that if Randy ended things, your husband might have done something like set his eviction in motion?”

“Something like that,” she said. “It’s possible. Well look, Randy had a sweetheart of a deal because he’d lived in his apartment so long. Though to be fair, he had put a lot of his own money into fixing the place up. It’s absolutely gorgeous. Our agent will be able to rent it for twice what Randy was paying.”

Once she’d signed off, my mind spun thinking about the kind of pressure Rizzoli might have put on Randy. Housing on this island is super-expensive. He’d be in despair about losing his nest. And even more anxious to land the TV show contract. But would you kill someone over losing an apartment?

Then the photo that Derek had taken of Rizzoli the night he died flashed into my brain. And the bizarre chain of events that must have led up to that photo—how Torrence said he was conked on the head, and then makeup was applied before he was hoisted up the mast. Who would even have access to the materials, or the facility with them? Who would even come up with that? And be angry enough to pull it off?

Randy might.

I remembered his furious face when Peter announced that the contest winner was Buddy Higgs. Winning meant everything to him. And Sam Rizzoli had been dead set against him from that first day the chefs were interviewed. Suppose Randy was already seething over his eviction. And then Sam Rizzoli made it clear he had no chance of winning the contest. Made it clear he would allow Randy to win over his dead body.

Literally.

I knew better than to confront Randy myself. With some reluctance, I called Officer Torrence. Pacing up and down the short
Key Zest
hallway, I explained what I’d learned about the connection between Randy and Rizzoli.

“The thing is, my judgment was all off on this one,” I said, “because I really liked Randy. And I loved his stage presence. And he made killer shrimp and grits.”

“It happens to everyone,” he said. “Likeability gets in the way of seeing the facts. Both personally and professionally,” he added. With special emphasis on
personally
, like he was trying to send me a message in code. Pig Latin, maybe.

Ansford-Bray is an erk-jay.

26

On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like lines on a Hostess cupcake.

—Hayley Snow

My heart wasn’t in the raucous bacchanal known as Duval Uncorked. Starting at one end of Duval Street or the other, each guest was given a small plastic wineglass to wear dangling from a lanyard around his or her neck, which served as the admission ticket to the event. Revelers stopped in at each of the participating restaurants and shops—sixty of them, up and down Duval—for hors d’oeuvres and a taste of wine.

A couple of hours into the evening, many of the participants would be staggering from too much alcohol, their taste buds dulled from too much food. I wasn’t much in the mood for drunken parties but a review of this event was on the editorial calendar for Monday’s issue of
Key Zest
, which would focus on a roundup of
the events of the Food and Wine Festival. And Ava Faulkner, Wally’s co-publisher, would be watching that calendar like a turkey vulture, waiting to pick me off.

So I parked my scooter on Petronia and began to sip and taste, making notes for next week’s column. The pulled pork at Willie T’s was delicious, the cheese dip at an adjoining gallery barely superior to microwaved Velveeta. I gave up drinking after the first three sips, my tired brain already feeling addled by the stressful week and not refreshed by my short rest in the office. I waved a quick hello to a number of acquaintances, sprinkled among just as many strangers. If this event was like the Mallory Square Stroll that I’d attended earlier in the week, tourists traveled a long way to participate.

On the other side of the street, I spotted Trudy Bransford. She wore a pale yellow sundress that showed her deep tan to great advantage. My breathing kicked up a notch: The detective was with her, disguised as yet one more tourist in tan cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a moss green T-shirt. I knew the shirt would have perfectly reflected the color of his eyes, if he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses. If he’d been looking at me instead of at her. They were laughing so hard he spilled red wine from his plastic glass onto the sidewalk. And that only made them laugh harder. I’d never seen him so happy.

I ducked into 7 Artists to avoid being forced to wave hello, or even worse, to chat. Theoretically, I applauded his good fortune. But realistically, it turned my heart to granite.

In the process of inhaling a chip loaded with guacamole, I recognized Peter Shapiro’s voice at the
wine-sampling table behind me. I turned to greet him—he looked jaunty and relaxed in white pants and a blue sport coat.

“Congrats on a great week,” I said, though to my ears, the words sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Thank you for your professionalism,” Peter said. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I understand that the candidate you preferred didn’t win and I appreciate your patience and honesty and—well, flexibility.”

If he’d heard the things that went on in my head, he would never have called me flexible.

“As it turned out, we might have had to be filming in prison, though, right?” he asked. “A friend called and said Randy Thompson was picked up for questioning in the murder of Sam Rizzoli.”

“Wow, that was fast,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I really liked Randy. I liked what he did all week in the show. Except for the cake pops,” I added, unable to suppress a smirk.

“My taste buds are not so well developed as yours.” He grinned back. “So much goes into getting a successful program on the air. Ratings are so fluky—especially in reality TV. You imagine that a perky guy who’s a good chef will draw in viewers, but the sponsors are more conservative than you might believe. Much more. Drag queens are not a draw in middle America.” He looked me right in the eyes. “So thank you. Whether Randy ends up in the hoosegow or whether he doesn’t, I feel certain that we chose the right man.”

He fell into step beside me as I exited 7 Artists and
started down the block toward the next stop on the Uncorked program. “Did you enjoy the process?”

“I’ve never been through anything like it,” I said, meaning I hoped never to experience anything like it again. But I assumed that, with his major ego, he’d think I meant it was amazing. “Will you have some time off before you start filming the actual show?”

He nodded as we waited for a crowd to exit the Old Town Mexican Café, our next stop. “I’ll have a week or ten days, probably do some sailing. Nothing like being out on the water to help a tightly wound guy relax.”

“I’m a bit like a cat,” I said, flashing on that horrible plunge into the water off Mallory Square. “Even though I live on a houseboat, don’t ask me to get wet.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “You’re really missing out. I spent several summers working as a mate on a sailboat in the British Virgin Islands. Fabulous experience! The only drawback was I’m a big guy,” Peter said. “I didn’t fit too well into the crew’s quarters. Are you planning to stay on in Key West?” he asked.

“I love it,” I said. “If I can keep the job, I can imagine settling in for the long haul. You’ve spent time here before?”

“Of course. I love the wackiness of the place. That’s how I came up with the idea of the TV show in paradise.” He grinned. “Fantasy Fest is my favorite. One year Sam and I even marched in the parade. We wore spike heels and diapers and wigs and carried spray bottles of tequila.”

“Spray bottles of tequila?” I asked.

“A quick shot for any girl willing to lift up her shirt.
Such a hoot!” He laughed, then looked at my face. “Sorry, I know that’s politically incorrect.”