Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (29 page)

“But I didn’t know that,” I said fiercely. “I couldn’t count on someone swooping in to save my bacon.” If he was going to blame me for wiping out…

“You did what you thought you had to,” he said. “Shapiro confessed this morning when one of our officers
confronted him with the goods on his financials. He was deep in a hole—bankruptcy, foreclosure on two homes, three ex-wives suing him for alimony and increases in child support.”

“So he was desperate about coming up with a show that would be a hit,” I said.

“Then it turns out that Buddy Higgs’s uncle is a network executive. He promised Shapiro a job and a show, if he could deliver the right man as the star of
Topped Chef
.”

“Buddy Higgs,” I said. “Henri Stentzel didn’t have the zip to carry off hosting a show. And Randy was simply too risky. Even if he was the best chef in the world, Peter must have worried about his sponsors.”

“It wasn’t just what was right for the show—it was nepotism, pure and simple. Shapiro thought he’d picked a panel of judges who would agree that Buddy Higgs had what it took to go all the way. But Sam wouldn’t promise to follow the script. So he added you to the judges’ roster, just for insurance. That night after the first taping, Shapiro went to see Sam on his boat. They got stinking drunk and dressed up in Sam’s Fantasy Fest costumes. But the drunker Sam got, the more he dug his heels in about voting for whomever he wanted. Shapiro says Rizzoli chased him up to the deck and then came at him with a knife. He hit him with the bottle of Jim Beam in self-defense. That’s what killed him.”

“Self-defense? A likely story,” I said. “The jury will have to figure that one out. How did he end up hanging from the mast?”

“Shapiro panicked and thought he could make it look like
he’d been hung as punishment. To muddy the trail,” Bransford said.

“So he got me on the show because he thought I’d be a pushover,” I said, frowning.

The detective grinned. “Big mistake.”

“What about the shooting incident with Toby on Mallory Square?”

“He admitted to shooting at her,” Bransford said. “But only to scare her so she’d start really doubting herself. Not take a big stand against Higgs.”

“She’ll be relieved to hear it wasn’t her imagination,” I said.

The longer we talked, the more truly awkward I felt, with him two feet above me on the dock, looking uncomfortable. “Sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine or a beer?”

He shook his head, slid the sunglasses back on, even though it was too dark to need those tinted lenses.

“I wasn’t going to come by,” he said. “I’m not sure this is the right thing, but Torrence insisted I had to clear the air. He’s like the departmental shrink these days.” He wiped his lips with his hand. “First of all, Trudy’s decided to stay awhile. We need to figure out whether there’s anything left between us.”

“Fair enough,” I said, working to keep the tremble out of my words.

“Even if she wasn’t sticking around,” he added, “you’re ten years younger than I am. Sometimes that feels like an eon. And then it seems like I’d be dating one of my younger sister’s girlfriends.”

“And what else?” I asked, tapping my good foot furiously on the deck. “There’s not a damn thing I can do
about my age. You’re only young once but you can be immature forever.”

He busted out laughing. “I do love that sense of humor. Trudy’s funny but she’s also more sensitive. I feel like you can take care of yourself, even with the boneheaded things you get yourself into. Like skidding that damn scooter across the construction area.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

He grinned again, a lopsided smile that pushed into my belly. “Trudy needs me more. She needs
me
.” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “But I’d love to stay in touch.”

I thought of Lorenzo after my last tarot reading, then rose to my feet and puffed out a breath of air. And shook my head. “I don’t think that works too well from my perspective. How about you two figure out what you’re doing. If you decide to break things off, then we’ll talk. If you stick it out, I wish you well.”

I saluted him, then wheeled around and limped a retreat into the boat.

28

You bring your own weather to the picnic.

—Harlan Coben,
Caught

I patted the chicken dry, daubed on dots of butter, and sprinkled the skin with coarse kosher salt and slivers of Miss Gloria’s fresh rosemary snipped from the big pot on the back deck. Then I slid the bird into the oven, followed by the pan of potatoes scalloped with leeks, cheddar cheese, and cream. Everything would be golden and bubbly about the time that Randy’s appearance on
Emeril
came on the tube. We knew he’d make us hungry and we were going to be prepared.

I put the bowl of slippery gizzards and other innards in the fridge, to use for my cat training session later. Since Trudy Bransford had made the decision to extend her stay in Key West and see if there were any live embers in her marriage, I had the feeling my social life would dribble down to a trickle. Filling my spare time watching cooking shows with my roommate and training cats would be better than nothing. Maybe.

I started working on mixing the chocolate cake, an easy recipe that had come from my mother’s mother. One bowl, one pan—but a recipe that produced heavenly, light warm chocolate cake that went perfectly with ice cream. Any flavor really. I set out a stick of butter to soften, then measured out cocoa, sugar, flour, baking soda, and salt.

Eric called just after I’d scraped the batter into a bundt pan. “If you have a minute, I wanted to give you an update on Turtle,” he said.

“I’d love that,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron and limping to the chair on the back deck.

“The psychiatrist over at the hospital managed to stabilize his medications, and now he’s agreed to move to the Florida Keys Outreach Coalition halfway house program,” Eric told me. “They’ll make sure he takes his meds. He’ll have a real bed to sleep in. And people who care where he is at night. He’ll attend AA meetings and they’ll help him look for work. And I’ll see him in outpatient therapy.”

My eyes filled with happy tears. “That’s honestly light years better than I could have imagined.”

“He’s been out on the streets a long time but he might have a fighting chance,” Eric said. “We’ll give it all we have.”

Once I’d thanked Eric profusely, and the kitchen was back in good order, I called Mom on Skype and positioned the computer and Miss Gloria on the couch as my live studio audience. Earlier, I’d gotten the idea for trying to teach Evinrude some of the Cat Man’s tricks when cleaning out the cavity of tonight’s roasting chicken. We had borrowed a wooden stool from Miss
Gloria’s best pal up the dock, Mrs. Dubisson, and fashioned a large wire loop out of a flimsy coat hanger. We propped up the loop with soup cans in the middle of the room.

“Are you going to set the hoop on fire like the Cat Man does?” Mom asked.

“Not the first time out. He’s got a lot more experience with this stuff.” I laughed and scooped up Evinrude, placed him on the stool, and set a small Pyrex bowl of liver on the other side of the loop. Evinrude sat on the stool, tail twitching.

“So far so good,” I said.

Miss Gloria clapped with enthusiasm. “He’s better looking than Dominique’s cats. A few of them have some awfully ratty-looking fur. But not Evinrude. He’s a real star.”

“He hasn’t done anything yet,” I said, walking across the room to tap the bowl of liver. “Come on, kitty.”

Miss Gloria’s black cat, Sparky, sprang off the couch and bolted over to gobble the entrails.

“This is harder than it looks.” I snatched up the little cat and handed him off to Miss Gloria, then replenished the treats. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Evinrude twitched his whiskers and blinked. Then he hopped off the stool and strolled around the wire loop to sniff at the liver. He grabbed the treat and trotted off toward the back deck, tail held high. Both my mother and Miss Gloria broke into peals of laughter.

The seaman’s bell outside Miss Gloria’s front door chimed, signaling the arrival of a visitor. “I’ll get it,” I told her.

Wally’s familiar boxy shape was framed in the doorway. “Am I coming at a bad time?” He sniffed the air, now perfumed with the scent of roasting chicken and potatoes.

“Not a problem,” I said, feeling a pang of apprehension. Since when was it good news for your boss to show up at your home unannounced?

“Who is it?” asked my mom from the computer screen.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I’m sure you’re busy—”

“Come on in,” I said, opening the screen door and stepping aside so he could make his way into the living area.

“This is my boss, Wally,” I explained to my housemate. “And this is Miss Gloria. And my mom’s on the computer.”

Wally waved to them both. “A pleasure to meet you ladies.”

“We’re just about to watch Randy Thompson’s guest appearance on
Emeril
,” Miss Gloria twittered. “Come watch with us? It’s not so often we get male visitors.”

“Thanks a lot,” I mouthed behind his back.

“Actually, I just came to check on you,” said Wally, turning to me. “You scared us half to death. Take a few more days off if you need them.”

“Thanks, but thumbs-up,” I said. “I’ll be in tomorrow morning.” Suddenly I was acutely aware of my yoga leggings and ratty
KEY WEST—ONE HUMAN FAMILY
T-shirt.

“Come on,” Miss Gloria coaxed. “Hayley’s roasting a chicken. A couple of little ladies can’t possibly do it
justice. She’s made scalloped potatoes, too. With leeks and cheese and tons of butter. And a chocolate cake is going into the oven shortly.” She patted her belly. “I’ve gained five pounds since Hayley moved in.”

“That’s the absolute worst part of joining them by Skype,” said my mother. “I don’t get a thing to eat.”

“We were afraid we’d get hungry watching Randy on
Emeril
,” I said. “I may have gotten carried away.”

Wally licked his lips and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked younger than he did at the office, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans with holes where the knees used to be.
Hog’s breath is better than no breath at all
, his T-shirt slogan read.

“If you really don’t mind,” he said. “It smells amazing.”

“Settled!” said Miss Gloria. “We love company. We don’t get that much of it. Last man we had in here was the tarot card reader—and he’s not of the right persuasion, if you take my meaning.”

Embarrassment flooded me from toes to the roots of my hair. I was saved from any further comments from my roommate as the theme song from
Oliver!
tinkled out from the TV screen. A teaser about Randy aka Victoria announced the show and then the program broke for an early commercial.

“Quick, quick,” Miss Gloria cried, herding us over to the couch. “Beer, sir?” Within minutes, we were settled on the couch, Sparky on Miss Gloria’s lap, Evinrude on mine, Wally in the middle. We watched Randy’s lively introduction and then he explained that he’d be cooking shrimp and grits. “We have a secret weapon in Key West,” he said slyly. “And I’m going to share it with
you. Here’s a hint: It should never be a drag to entertain!” He two-stepped across the little kitchen. The television broke for another commercial.

“Hayley,” said my mom from the computer screen, “could I speak to you in private for a minute?” I dropped Evinrude to the ground and carried the laptop into my bedroom.

“What about Wally?” she whispered once I’d shut the door. “He’d make a great boyfriend. He’s way cuter than I imagined from the way you described him.”

“Mom, he’s my boss.”

Mom chuckled. “You wouldn’t be the first girl to sample that recipe.”

Recipes

Tim Boyd’s Mediterranean Cod Soup

My friend Tim Boyd is an amazing cook who inspired his son Adam to become a chef. (And yes, Adam Boyd is the inspiration for Chef Adam, though he’s much more pleasant and handsome and less churlish than the character in this book.) Tim says this is a good meal for entertaining, either as a first course or main. He makes the soup ahead and then poaches the cod in the soup at the last minute. It’s even better with a toasted baguette crouton on the side. Hayley had the chunky basil sauce made up ahead of time and frozen, which made her dish a snap to prepare for Lorenzo and Miss Gloria.

Chunky Basil Sauce

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 large shallot, chopped

1 tablespoon minced onion

1 teaspoon each: dried oregano, dried basil, garlic, and salt

1 (35 oz.) can Italian whole tomatoes

Heat oil and sauté shallots, onions, and spices. Pour off about 1 cup of the liquid from the tomatoes and set aside. Chop the tomatoes coarsely and add to the oil/spice mixture. Bring to a boil and simmer for 35 minutes or so. If sauce gets too thick, add a little of the reserved tomato liquid.

Soup

1 Recipe Chunky Basil Sauce

1 can (35 oz.) crushed or diced tomatoes

1 cup chopped onions

2 green zucchini cut into
¹
⁄
₂
-inch dice

¹
⁄
₄
cup sliced black olives

2 teaspoons chopped fresh tarragon—or less (taste this first—it can be strong)

²
⁄
₃
cup white wine

²
⁄
₃
cup chicken stock