Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  “Please meet chef Henrietta Stentzel, Henri to her friends,” said Peter. “Ms. Stentzel owns and operates a burrito restaurant in Key West, and is the former owner of Hola on Miami Beach. Judges, you will remember her for her seafood fra diavolo presentation.” He guided her to the hot seat and backed away. “Take it away, judges.”

  “I’m puzzled,” said Chef Adam. “You chose to present an Italian dish and yet your background appears to be in Mexican food. Explain.”

  Henri grinned, looking everywhere but at me. “I love all kinds of food, but Mexican seafood dishes are not my favorite part of that ethnic tradition. On the other hand, when I’m in a restaurant that offers anything in a fra diavolo sauce, I leap to order it. If I were to land this show, I would love to share a variety of dishes with the viewers. My techniques are not overly complicated, but I like to spread the word about seasonal foods, along with spices that may not be common to the American palate.”

  “It sounds like such a show might appeal to a niche market, rather than the broader public,” Toby said.

  Henri leaned forward and spoke eagerly. “That’s exactly the prejudice my show could fight. American food is not just steak and potatoes. It’s cilantro, oregano, cumin, basil. I would love to introduce viewers to new things, to encourage them to try recipes they never dreamed they’d enjoy. And to show them how the foods from other countries have shaped our American way of eating.”

  “Your seafood dish was delightful,” I said, unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t get her hackles up.

  We stumbled through some other questions and then, as with the others, Peter instructed us to discuss her presentation and her personality while she looked on.

  “There’s nothing particularly wrong with her,” said Chef Adam, “but where’s the beef?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Toby asked. “She’s not a vegetarian chef.”

  His eyes rolled back in his head.

  “I think it was a lame joke,” I said. “He probably meant: where’s the sparkle? She’s got a lovely message, but maybe she’s too nervous for it to come through clearly? Maybe that would improve with time?” I was starting to sound like a Key West–style Pollyanna.

  My gaze darted over to Henri, who was glaring, laser-eyed, at me, right along with Chef Adam. I patted my hair and fiddled with my microphone. I could not have felt more uncomfortable and I was sure it showed.

  “On reality TV,” said Chef Adam, “there is no time to improve. Sloooooow-ly. Either you’re scintillating off the blocks or the viewers punch their clickers and change channels.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on reality TV,” I said sweetly.

  Peter was grinning madly on the sidelines. “Let’s wrap things up for today,” he said, striding to the middle of the porch. “Contestants, here is your challenge for tomorrow: Key West is the site for many destination weddings. Tell us about the themes you would exploit if you were hired to do a wedding. And bring a sample of a signature drink for the prospective bride and groom and a piece of your wedding cake.”

  The cameras panned the faces of the three contestants—Henri’s expression pleasant and interested, Randy’s excited, and Buddy’s, disgusted.

  Peter signaled for them to stay seated and then turned to address the judges. “Before I let you three go, let’s buzz over where we are so far. If you had to choose today, do or die, for whom would you vote?”

  “Ms. Stentzel, absolutely,” said Toby. “Women have cooked meals for centuries and I’m sick to death of male chefs pushing forward to take the limelight when suddenly there’s some money to be made of it.”

  My jaw nearly dropped open to my knees. I wouldn’t have expected her to voice such a strong opinion. I said: “Point well taken, but are you saying we should choose a woman simply because she’s female? If we go on just what we’ve seen so far, I’m liking Randy Thompson.”

  Chef Adam shook his head impatiently. “Buddy Higgs’s food and his presentation as a chef are head and shoulders above the others.” He pointed at the cameraman and said, “Cut!” and then turned to address Peter. “This is not for the camera. I think it was a mistake to continue without Sam Rizzoli. I’m not seeing how this panel has the necessary level of expertise to make an informed decision.” He faced me again. “Are you aware of the details of Randy Thompson’s so-called entertainment career?”

  I shrugged and made a who cares face.

  “He’s a drag queen. How do you think that will play with the American TV viewing public?”

  “Great stuff!” said Peter to us. And then “Cut!” to the cameraman. “Finally, we’ve got some conflict!”

  6

  Whatever I would have expected to feel at this moment, excitement, sadness, anger, frustration, exhilaration, is suddenly obscured by a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge for a bowl of escarole soup.

  —Meredith Mileti, Aftertaste

  A thick layer of gray clouds had dropped low during the time we were filming, bringing a spitting rain that matched my mood. I agreed with Chef Adam on one thing: It had been a mistake to continue. And clearly Peter Shapiro was uninterested in respecting anyone’s boundaries. He had told us he would go for the jugular, and now I could see that he meant it.

  I gathered up my backpack and sweater, wondering how to convince Wally that I had to bail out of the TV reality show assignment because one of the judges had been murdered and another was an idiot. Obviously a drag queen wasn’t exactly corn-belt Americana, but this was Key West. Drag shows were obligatory fun on Duval Street and some of the best entertainment in Florida came out of those clubs. Not that I completely understood the urge for a guy to dress up as a girl and dance around onstage, but if people loved to watch them and if it heated their skillets, why would anyone care? And if Peter Shapiro was looking for sparks—something livelier than your average “produce a homey casserole” cooking show—a chef in drag could be the answer.

  I hurried across the courtyard—I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But as I reached the alley that led out of the complex, I slammed into a City of Key West policeman who was emerging—officer Steve Torrence. And another cop was right behind him.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t watching.” I extricated myself from the wall of blue and started around them, down the alley to the street.

  Torrence touched my elbow as I passed, his brown eyes cool. “Could we have a moment of your time?” he asked. “We have a few questions about Sam Rizzoli.”

  Could we have a moment? in police vernacular really means Get over here now. And what were the chances that Nate wouldn’t have told the other cops how I’d showed up at the harbor last night when Rizzoli was found? Practically nil.

  So I followed them back into the courtyard and waited while Torrence announced in his booming voice to the milling crowd that they needed to talk to everyone on the set. Everyone.

  Despite Peter’s pro forma blustering about wasting everyone’s time, the judges, chef contestants, and TV show personnel were herded into the main building of TSKW, seated in two rows of folding chairs, and then taken one by one to a far corner of the cavernous room. I sat between Randy Thompson and Toby Davidson, unable to think of any small talk that wouldn’t cause problems. I’d said all I wanted to say about the TV show for today and I certainly didn’t want to discuss Rizzoli. Compare recipes? Hardly appropriate. Toby looked small and scared. Randy, an odd mixture of impatient and anxious. And I felt nervous myself, for no good reason.

  Finally, I was called over. I sat facing two cops, my heart racing and my thoughts racing even faster. A line of sweat broke out on my upper lip, though I had absolutely no connection with the dead man, other than spending one morning with him on the TV show set when he was still alive. And the bad review of his restaurant, of course. But what bearing would that have on his hideous hanging? These guys knew me—they would have to know I wasn’t involved. And why would they need my opinion on that death when the harbor had been crawling
with law enforcement officials who’d seen the same thing, only much closer?

  After adjusting his glasses and smoothing his dark mustache, Torrence began the questions. “Miss Snow, as you are aware, we’re investigating the death of Sam Rizzoli. We understand that you spent the morning here yesterday with him during the first day of the Topped Chef contest. Did he seem disturbed about anything?”

  “Since I’d never met him before, I don’t have a baseline for his behavior. We didn’t agree on much so we argued a lot, but I have no idea what he’s like normally. Was like,” I added.

  The second cop cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs.

  “Argued?” asked Torrence, nodding at his partner and tapping his finger on the clipboard that lay on his lap.

  Here we went. A familiar downward spiral—the cops leaping to conclusions because I used one wrong word or otherwise showed some small sign of acting guilty. I scrambled to repair the impression I might have given.

  “Discussing, that’s more like what I meant. We were only talking about food—nothing life and death. Yesterday was day one of the shooting.” I waved my hand at the door, beyond which were the courtyard and the porch where the filming had taken place. “Four of us judges had to choose the three best dishes out of the six we were presented with. It was not easy; we all have strong opinions and different perspectives on cooking. Mr. Rizzoli seemed to have a preference for fancy recipes and haute cuisine. I don’t think he and I voted the same way on any of them. And…” My words trailed off.

  “And?” Torrence prompted.

  I sighed. “You’ll figure this out anyway. My review of his restaurant went live on the Key Zest Web site yesterday. It wasn’t exactly complimentary.”

  I looked down at my fingers, twisted together on my lap, and then took a deep breath.

  “But I sure wouldn’t kill him or anyone else over a difference of opinion on a recipe. And really, who would? And I didn’t pick up on any particular tension with any of the other folks here, because I know that’s going to be your next question.” Feeling a little calmer, I squinted at Torrence, suddenly noticing that he looked bulkier. Almost buff. “Have you been going to the gym a lot? You look—different.”

  He puffed up a little and grinned like crazy but then his partner rolled his eyes and he gathered himself back into his stern-cop persona.

  “You seem to believe Rizzoli was murdered,” the other cop said.

  “I guess I just assumed. From the way he was found. Wouldn’t it have been enormously difficult for a man alone to hang himself from that rigging?” I rubbed my palm over my forehead. “And wouldn’t that be a particularly harsh suicide? You would be making quite a statement, dressed up like that. Imagine how the people he left behind would feel. Though I suppose that would be true if someone killed him, too.”

  Then I remembered an article I’d read online last month. “Could it have been a case of autoerotic asphyxiation? Or maybe someone tried to make it look like that…” My words trailed off as Torrence and the other cop exchanged shuttered glances.

  “Why did you show up at the harbor last night?” Torrence asked.

  I pinched my eyes closed and tried to stay calm. Tried to tell myself he was only doing his job. “Not that my love life is any of your business, but I had a date with Detective Bransford. I was waiting at the restaurant and he kept texting to say he’d been delayed. When he finally called with the news that he wasn’t going to make it, he told me he was detained at the harbor. So I took a ride over that way on the way home.”

  “But why would you?” he asked. “Swing by the harbor, I mean, not go out with Bransford.” His face softened, and he almost smiled again.

  I snickered. “Though that’s probably a good question, too, right?”

  Seeing the other cop’s face harden, I slumped forward, elbows to knees, wishing I had an easy answer. Old-fashioned curiosity—a Pavlovian urge to rubberneck—seemed like the wrong response. And I didn’t very much like that about myself either.

  “I packed up the steak the detective had asked me to order and the chocolate lava cake, thinking he’d be hungry later and glad to have the food.” I wiped my eyes and heaved a great sigh before looking back up at Torrence. “I wish I hadn’t gone. I wish I hadn’t seen what I saw. It was gruesome. And if that was Sam Rizzoli, I’m sorry for him. It was an ugly way to go out—someone must have been really, really angry to leave him like that. Whoever it was,” I added lamely.

  Torrence turned his chin over his shoulder to the place where the rest of the cast and crew waited. “You’re certain you didn’t notice that one of the other folks here might have had a beef with Rizzoli?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll be glad to let you know if I remember anything different.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” he said, as he pointed across the room at Randy Thompson and gestured for him to approach.

  I got up, feeling relieved to be off the hot seat, but a little battered.

  “What was your relationship with the late Sam Rizzoli?” the second officer asked Randy as I walked away.

  “Not good,” I heard Randy say defiantly. “Lousy. But I didn’t kill him.”

  7

  If Mom and I had one thing in common, it was the urge to cook and eat during a crisis. Even the whiff of crisis brought a surge of recipes to our minds.

  —Hayley Snow

  If Eric had been in town instead of vacationing in Miami, I would have called him and invited him for lunch and thereby scored an informal counseling session. He had a way of jollying me out of the worst sort of funk, and as a psychologist, he understood how to handle people better than most anyone else I knew. He would have known which parts of the last twenty-four hours I really needed to vent about and which might simply fade away with time. And he’d have tips about how to get the picture of the hanged man out of my head.

  My second best option was Lorenzo, the tarot card reader. I almost always felt calmer after talking to him, too, though the process was less easy to define. Raisin-sized raindrops began to splat onto my face as I reached my scooter. I pulled a crumpled blue windbreaker from my backpack and slipped it on. I doubted Lorenzo would be at his card table on Mallory Square if this weather kept up. But he’d given me his phone number back when I first moved to Key West so I dialed him up anyway.

  “Lorenzo, it’s Hayley Snow. What time will you be setting up shop?”

  “Probably not happening today. I’ve got a meeting of the Mallory Square board later this afternoon. And the forecast is awful. Maybe tomorrow?”

  My stomach rumbled, a familiar combination of hunger and disappointment. The idea of having him over for lunch popped into my mind and then out of my mouth before I could lose my nerve.

  “How about lunch?” I asked brightly.

  “Lunch?” He sounded surprised, yet pleased. “Why not?”

  Now that I had an important guest, next came the problem of what to make. I craved something simple and warm—comfort food—to offset the gloomy weather and the deflating morning. The dish I would have prepared if I had been competing in the contest sprang to mind. “Do you like fish chowder?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “It’s a red sauce base, not the creamy white New England kind,” I added.

  “Better and better,” he said.

  I gave him directions to Miss Gloria’s houseboat, and then hung up and punched her number into my phone. “Hey, it’s Hayley. Okay with you if I asked my friend Lorenzo to pop over for lunch?”

  Gloria shrieked with excitement. “The tarot man? Oh what fun! What should I wear? What are you serving? Should I set the table inside or out?”

  “Better make it inside,” I said with a laugh. “It’s raining. Could you fish the tub of chunky tomato basil sauce out of the freezer and defrost it? I have it labeled.”

  I fired up my scooter and drove four blocks south down Southard Street and then hooked a right over to the Eaton Street Seafood Market. In the market, I chose a pound of grou
per, then continued up Eaton to Cole’s Peace Bakery to buy a loaf of ciabatta bread to make croutons, along with a small assortment of cookies. I nibbled on a mango triangle on my way out the door. Flaky and not too sweet—pure heaven.

  By the time I reached Tarpon Pier, it was almost noon and still drizzling. The damp weather brought out the aromas of the marina—the lingering fishy smell from the cleaning table, the fresh scent of someone’s laundry drying in our mini-Laundromat, the sharp odors of marine oil and gasoline. I dashed up the dock to our boat and skidded across the deck, leaving my wet slicker on a hook outside the sliding glass door. Inside, the two cats were splayed on a paisley tablecloth that Miss Gloria had spread over her Formica table in front of the banquette in the galley. She emerged from her bedroom and let out a horrified yelp.

  “Scat, you bad kitties!”

  I scooped up Evinrude and dropped him to the floor with a thunk. He wound in between my legs purring, not the least bit chastened.

  “Is this too much?” Miss Gloria asked, spinning in a circle to show me the sweat suit she’d chosen. The stretchy white pants had a line of blue rhinestones marching down each leg, and bejeweled blue manatees swam across the front of the shirt. “I can change…”

  “It’s so cute.” I grinned, reminded of how lucky I’d gotten in the roommate department. “You’re so cute. He’s going to love you.”

  Once the half-frozen tomato sauce was warming in a pan, I began to dice zucchini, black olives, and onions while Miss Gloria cut the ciabatta into thick slices and brushed them with olive oil. Adding the vegetables to the pan with two-thirds cup of white wine and chicken broth, I brought the sauce to a simmer and cut the grouper into chunks. While the bread toasted, Miss Gloria finished setting the table.

  “Do you think he’ll read our cards?” she asked. “I’ve never had it done. I’m a little nervous.”