“You’re saying I’m a glutton?”
“I’ve seen you eat—can we leave it at that? And I was planning to call you, but we’ve been flat-out crazy busy here.”
“With Sam Rizzoli’s hanging?” I asked. “Have you arrested anyone?”
I heard him sigh and close his door. “Right now we’re narrowing suspects down, particularly considering the political opponents of the commissioner. Really, that’s all I can say. But if we thought you were in any danger, I’d be the first to let you know. You have to trust me a little.”
“You have to give me something to go on,” I said back, keeping my tone light as a feather so he might imagine I was joking. Though I wasn’t. Trust could not be a one-way street.
“Yes. It was Sam Rizzoli,” he finally said. “And it was murder.”
* * *
After I’d helped Miss Gloria clean up from lunch, I got dressed for the first event of this weekend’s Key West Food and Wine Festival, the Mallory Square Stroll. This would be a quick and dirty way to develop material for my restaurant review column. Maybe I’d even be able to persuade Wally to swap out this story for my online review of Just Off Duval, considering that its owner had been murdered. Of course, plenty of people would have already seen it, but it seemed tacky to pile on to the man’s already significant misfortunes.
I’d decided to skip the opening “Barefoot on the Beach” cocktail party and go directly to the first stop on the stroll: the Conch Shack on Duval Street. Right away that struck me as a good move as I watched a crowd of boisterous people tumble off a trolley car and hip-check bewildered tourists out of their way to reach the shack. I’d have to eat and drink quickly to catch up with these folks. A Food and Wine Festival volunteer handed out sheets of paper listing the restaurants we’d be visiting and the munchies and wine those establishments would serve.
The Conch Shack was an open-air restaurant with no seating other than a single row of stools lined up outside the open windows. Menus had been painted on the bright blue and yellow walls, declaring “Home of the Best Ever Conch Fritters” and “Cheap Beer!” Inside the small kitchen, two men in straw hats and shorts manned the deep fryer. The heavy smell of seafood hitting hot oil hung in the alley alongside the shack. I fought through the rowdy crowd that had descended from the trolley, snagged a glass of Chardonnay, and then slid a small plastic cup off a passing waiter’s tray. A fist-sized conch fritter drizzled with a pale green sauce filled the cup.
I moved away from the crowd and nibbled the fritter—hot and tender, not at all fishy, chewy, or heavy as I might have predicted. And the green sauce tasted like a rémoulade, with the faintest flavor of lime. I jotted a few notes, dumped my trash, and loosed myself into the stream of revelers headed toward our second stop. This was a crowd on a mission.
The next stop was Hot Tin Roof restaurant, two blocks away and tucked a stone’s throw from Duval Street. We passed through an outdoor eating area on the porch upstairs and went into the bar overlooking the water. Bartenders poured red wine as servers passed shrimp skewers al ajillo, which seemed to translate to “load on the garlic.”
I inhaled every spicy bite, set my empty plate and wineglass on the counter, and trotted downstairs toward Wall Street. Our next destination, El Meson de Pepe, a Cuban restaurant right off Mallory Square, had outdoor seating that ran the length of the alley leading from Mallory Square to Duval Street. Lively music, pitchers of margaritas, and inexpensive food catered to hungry tourists in their post-sunset celebration daze. I claimed my plantain cup filled with Cuban roast pork and had another glass of pinot noir thrust upon me, which I promptly poured into a potted palm. Any more alcohol and I’d have no business on my scooter. The pork was tasty, though also deep fried and rich.
By now I would have killed for a carrot stick, though what chef would choose salad or veggies as a showcase for his talents? I trailed the crowd to another upstairs venue, the Roof Top Café. With vaulted ceilings and twinkling lights, this restaurant appeared spacious and welcoming. I accepted another glass of white wine and ate half of a shrimp and crab cake; delicious, though drenched in butter. I could feel my cholesterol count shooting up as the evening progressed.
Feeling fat-saturated and close to exhausted, I marched off to our final and most exotic tour stop, dessert on a yacht. I checked my stroll cheat sheet to get the details: The Barefoot Yacht, docked at the Westin Key West Resort and Marina Pier, promised key lime–infused phyllo tartlets drizzled with a dark chocolate sauce. My mouth began to water.
I got in line to board the yacht, which looked to be about twice the height and length of Miss Gloria’s houseboat. It was tethered a stone’s throw from the Custom House Museum, at the slip near to the pier where the cruise ships docked. Why would anyone want to dock a boat here, even for a night or two? I would be embarrassed to sit out on the deck while tourists streamed by, ogling my indulgences and wondering why I deserved what most folks couldn’t even dream of. When we reached the gangplank, bouncers in green golf shirts instructed us to remove our shoes. As the woman in front of me argued that her rubber flip-flops would not leave marks on the deck, I shucked off my sandals and was helped aboard. A young man in a pressed blue shirt passed out flutes of champagne as we entered the living area.
While waiting for the dessert to materialize, I explored the yacht for a few minutes, first checking out the upper deck—spacious enough for a dozen sunbathers—and then peeking into the berths on the lower level, which looked like actual hotel rooms. Definitely roomier and much more extravagant than Miss Gloria’s tub, but not nearly so homey. There was still no sign of the key lime tartlets so I wandered down a passageway toward the bow.
A heavyset woman wearing thick makeup bustled out of the kitchen and blocked my way. “No admittance here, ma’am,” she said. “This is a working galley.”
I apologized and backpedaled quickly, but not before catching a glimpse of a man in chefs’ whites squirting chocolate syrup from a plastic bottle onto a tray of desserts. He had thick eyebrows, a mustache, and a ponytail down his back. It took me a minute to connect the dots. This pastry chef was Buddy Higgs, one of the contestants from the Topped Chef contest. Buddy Higgs? Plastic chocolate? For a man enamored of molecular gastronomy, that struck me as sloppy and lazy. Astonishing. I returned to the living room and watched a few minutes of basketball on the flat-screen TV that covered most of one wall.
Finally, the woman I’d seen in the galley emerged from the hall with a platter of pastries and passed them around. I took one bite of the dessert, which should have puckered my mouth with the tart flavor of key limes. Instead the custard’s sweetness made my fillings ache. Smothered in the saccharine corn syrup chocolate, the concoction was barely edible. I covered the rest with a paper napkin and slipped it into the trash. Then I abandoned my plastic flute of champagne on a shelf near the oversized television, and started for the exit. Enough was enough. I didn’t even want to think about the conflict of interest involved in panning a dessert made by one of the contestants from the Topped Chef contest. If only I hadn’t nosed into the galley, I scolded myself. Really, it was too late to worry.
Out on the deck, the same two beefy men grasped my elbows and lifted me off the boat and onto the gangplank. They weren’t taking any chances with tipsy guests ending up in the harbor. I thanked them and began to poke through the pile of shoes left on the dock, looking for my sandals.
“Hayley, is that you?” a familiar voice asked. Toby Davidson, her voice sounding more reedy and anxious than this morning. I slid my feet into my shoes and turned to greet her.
“Did you enjoy the tasting?” she asked as I buckled my sandals.
“It was fun,” I said. “Not something I’d want to do every night. There wasn’t a vegetable to be seen, though I got acquainted with lots of butter and the excellent proceeds of a deep-fat fryer. And all that reminded me of our contestant Randy Thompson.” I snickered. “He’s cute, isn’t he? Though I don’t imagine we’re supposed to be co
mparing notes off the set.” I wondered whether to mention seeing Buddy Higgs in the yacht’s galley. Probably best left unsaid.
Toby gave a weak smile while her gaze probed the surrounding darkness. “Do you have a minute?”
Though I was tired and my stomach had started to churn a little, she looked so worried that I nodded.
She motioned to me to follow her a little distance away from the yacht to a bench near a large cement trash barrel. The sounds of diners partying on the yacht caromed across the bight and strings of fairy lights outlining the handrails and portholes made it look more magical than it had felt onboard. On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like the wavy lines on a Hostess cupcake.
“I don’t know who else to talk with about this.” A wisp of brown hair blew across Toby’s forehead. She unclasped a barrette and recaptured the flyaway, then leaned forward to whisper. “I’ve been thinking. After the police talked with us earlier about Sam Rizzoli?”
The rat-tat-tat of firecrackers in the distance rattled through the air and Toby startled.
I nodded again. “It was a hard day. I’m not sure it was a good decision to go forward with the taping. We did the best we could, though, right? What are the chances this silly business will amount to anything anyway?”
“Oh no,” she said, her eyes widening. “You’re underestimating the situation. This type of show is very, very popular. With all the tourists who visit this island and fall in love with it, I have no doubt that a Key West Topped Chef show could be a major winner. This could easily get picked up by the Food Network or even one of the majors on prime time.” She squared her shoulders. “I have no doubt at all. That’s why I’m so worried.” She fell silent, her lips trembling. A gust of wind wafted over us, scented with the odors of old cigarettes and discarded food from the nearby trash can.
“Worried?” I prompted her after several moments.
“You’ll think I sound like a nut.” She glanced around, frowning. “Do you mind walking a bit? I’m not comfortable here.”
I wasn’t that comfortable either—we were no more than a stone’s throw from my ex’s apartment. It would only take one sighting to make him believe—again—that I was stalking him. We got up and wound our way through the happy residual crowds from the Food and Wine Festival, and headed toward Mallory Square.
Just outside the Westin’s outdoor restaurant, the cat man was boxing up the paraphernalia from his nightly show. He looked drained, which made me think about how much energy he must expend to keep his cats in line while entertaining visiting tourists in his falsetto French accent. Several felines waited by the water’s edge, silent and ghostly in their cages. Evinrude would have hated the confinement. And the whole business of leaping through fiery hoops, climbing rope steps, and walking tightropes as the show cats did? My cat was handsome and clever, but he liked to do what he wanted, when it suited him. No matter how many glistening entrails were offered as bribes. I had to admire the cat man’s skills.
By the time we had crossed the wooden bridge behind the aquarium, the crowds had thinned to almost nothing, and we headed toward the water. The square was mostly deserted, streetlights casting a dim glow on the empty brick courtyard. Although the portable conch fritter stand had been rolled away for the night, I could smell the lingering odor of hot oil. A red plastic cup skittered by, causing us both to jump. Lorenzo had set his table up in the distance, not far from the bright yellow Ocean Key Resort. Two tall candles (more likely Coleman lanterns) framed his station. He was deep in conversation with a customer so I didn’t bother to wave. In the opposite corner of the square, a small group of men drank and talked, too far away for us to make out their conversation, or for them to hear us. Probably my homeless friend, Tony, and some of his buddies.
“I wonder,” said Toby, her voice so low I could barely catch the words, “whether Rizzoli was killed because he was a judge? What if it became clear that he favored one of the contestants over the others? And what if one of the other chefs noticed that and was desperate to win? If that’s so, we also could be in danger.”
She was right about sounding a little nutty—spoken out loud, her theory sounded paranoid and borderline ridiculous. Even though I’d had thoughts not so far from hers, Bransford had convinced me they were groundless. It simply made no sense to imagine that someone would have murdered one of the contest’s judges, hoping to improve his chance of winning.
But Toby’s anxiety was real and I thought I could help with that.
“I called my friend who’s a detective at the police department. They aren’t pursuing any Topped Chef connections.”
“Why did they interview all of us?” she asked. “Why did they herd us all into the studio and scare us half to death?”
“Any one of us might have heard something about Rizzoli. I’m just guessing, but doesn’t it make more sense if his death was related to town politics? That’s where there’s influence to be peddled and money to be made. Rizzoli owned bars, restaurants, and T-shirt shops on Duval Street.”
“We know about one of his restaurants, for sure,” said Toby, her eyes widening. “Everyone knows about it now. I salute you for speaking the truth. In spite of his politics and your position as a judge.”
I winced. “I wish I’d never set foot in that place. And I can assure you I had no idea who he was when I wrote the review. The more I find out about him, the more I think his business dealings got him killed. Just think about how his fortune could increase or plateau depending on whether the town decided to widen the channel and let larger cruise ships in. He was not a disinterested observer when it came to Key West. And that makes some folks very, very angry.”
But Toby didn’t look convinced. “You haven’t worked in a restaurant kitchen, have you?”
“No.”
“Then you might not be able to imagine how much landing a TV show could change a chef’s life,” said Toby, her fingers curling into fists. “No more slaving long hours in a fiercely hot kitchen. No more worrying about the restaurant getting sold to a new owner who cares about profit instead of quality ingredients. No more relying on poorly trained sous-chefs who’ve moved to Key West because they can’t manage life in the real world. Assistants who miss a third of their shifts because they were dead-dog drunk the night before and can’t get out of bed, even by four in the afternoon.”
“I believe what you’re saying about it being a tough job,” I said. “And I see your point about the cooking show being a big deal. But it’s almost impossible to imagine that killing Rizzoli would fix anything. How would someone be sure which way he was leaning? And how could they be sure that he’d be persuasive enough to sway the rest of us? It all seems a little too circumstantial.”
Toby frowned. “Nothing that Buddy Higgs does to win the contest would shock me.”
My eyes bugged out in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. But before I could ask more, my phone rang. I slid it out of my back pocket. Connie.
“Girlfriend, a bunch of us are over here at the Green Parrot. The band is terrific. Are you finished working? Can you swing by for a drink?”
A half a beer with friends sounded like just the right nightcap after an unsettling day. And weren’t hops vegetables? “On my way,” I said and pressed OFF. “Let’s stay in touch,” I told Toby, and patted her thin shoulder. “I’ll definitely let you know if I hear anything else about Rizzoli. Can I walk you back to Duval Street?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few minutes. See you tomorrow.”
9
We live in an age when pizza gets to your home before the police.
—Jeff Marder
Wispy clouds fled across the moon, leaving striated shadows on the brick courtyard. It hadn’t rained since this afternoon, but the air felt heavy and thick. I trotted across the square, which stretched endless and enormous in the filtered moonlight without the buzz of street performers and t
ourists. As I reached the opening of the alley that led past the Waterfront Playhouse and out to the street, I heard another firecracker. Then a muffled but high-pitched cry. And then a splash.
I spun around. Toby was not where I’d left her. My cell phone in my hand, heart pounding, I hurried back toward the edge of the pier where we’d talked. No sign of her, but there was someone splashing frantically in the water.
“Help!” a small voice cried.
I pressed 911. “Woman overboard at Mallory Square!” I yelled, and then stuffed the phone in my sweater pocket.
I ran up to the edge of the water. “Toby, is that you?”
“Help!” she cried again. “I can’t swim.” She swatted at the water, sank briefly, then burst to the surface again, sputtering. The harder she struggled, the more quickly the current pulled her away from the dock.
I glanced around, shouting for assistance. But no one appeared. And there was no lifesaving ring, nor even a long stick that I might have used to drag her to safety.
“Lorenzo! Tony!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my hands cupped into a megaphone, first in the direction of the tarot table, then toward the spot where I’d noticed the gathering of homeless men. “The cops are coming—tell them we’re over here. My friend is in trouble!”
I couldn’t wait to see whether either of them heard me. So I shucked off my sandals, dropped my cell phone and pack on top of them, and my sweater on top of that. I had no idea how deep the water was or what obstacles might lurk underneath. But I took a deep breath and pushed off the pier into a shallow dive.
If my mouth hadn’t been full of salt water, I would have screamed out at the shock of cold. Not cold like the ocean in New Jersey in January, but still unpleasantly chilly. I surfaced, struggling to push away a disgusting, slimy hunk of seaweed, and dog-paddled in place, looking for Toby. Already the current was pulling me away from the pier.
Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 8