I no longer felt like napping. Instead, I hopped on my scooter and headed south to the Key Zest office, where I could start my article on the Mallory Square Stroll and enjoy the camaraderie of my coworkers. And avoid thinking about what I’d just seen in detective Nathan Bransford’s office.
13
The cult of celebrity associated with the postmodern chef is kept alive by armies of publicists, but it is rooted in the chef’s psychological yearning to be loved by thousands.
—Scott Haas
Danielle jumped all over me the minute I emerged from the stairwell into our office reception area. “Hayley, you’re on the front page of the Citizen. I’m so proud of you!” She held up the newspaper.
LOCAL FOOD CRITIC MAKES HEROIC RESCUE, the headline blared. I skimmed the brief report, which named me but, thank goodness, not Toby. She would have been mortified by the publicity. Although below the story was an unfortunate photo of her draped in a police blanket, me standing alongside her in my white blouse that when wet, showed the lace of my bra right through it. Completely embarrassing.
“Anyone would have done the same thing,” I said. “But maybe dressed a little better.”
Danielle snickered.
Wally stuck his head out of his office. “Good work, you. Too bad we don’t write straight news—we’d have the inside scoop. How did this happen?”
I explained about Toby’s worries over the contest and her reaction to the subsequent, perhaps imaginary, gunshot.
“Good Lord, Hayley,” said Danielle. “You’re jinxed! Have you told the cops?”
“Thanks for the confidence,” I said. “I just got back from the police station. Officer Torrence doesn’t think there’s much basis for Toby’s concerns. A group of officers came through and interviewed every one of us judges and the staffers and the chefs themselves yesterday, and the upshot is that they don’t seem to think the TV show has any bearing on the murder.”
“Sounds like you’re not convinced,” said Wally, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Peter Shapiro, the executive producer, keeps saying how important it is to keep taping. Because winning this contest would mean so much for each of the candidates. Toby said the same thing—big bucks, fame, escape from drudgery. In other words, there’s an awful lot at stake for these three chefs.”
Wally’s eyes widened. “Whether it has anything to do with the murder or not, this could be a fascinating story—who wants to win this TV spot and why. This is one hell of a great feature for Key Zest.”
“Who’s writing that angle?” I asked.
“You are, of course.” He grinned. “You’ll have to do some digging to get the background on all of them. We’ll help you do the research. And if you’re worried about a conflict of interest, I’ll take the byline.”
“I’ll do the work and you’ll take the byline?” I asked. “Are you kidding?”
“Of course,” Wally said with a laugh.
“Road trip!” said Danielle. “It’s four o’clock—maybe the boss will let us knock off a little early.” She winked at Wally. “Where do we start?”
“Officer Torrence did tell me to keep my eyes peeled for anything related to the murder,” I said and described what Bransford had said about Sam Rizzoli’s connections to Key West politics. Then I told them about the conversation I’d had with the men at the harbor regarding Rizzoli’s bar. “Maybe we’d learn something there. And then I’d love to see Randy Thompson perform. He’s our drag-queen contestant who cooks like his grandmother. Maybe even talk with him, if we get the chance.”
“I think he’s doing dueling bartenders tonight at the Aqua,” said Danielle.
Aqua was a well-known drag bar on Duval Street. Miss Gloria had been there several times with her bridge group, but I’d not yet drummed up the nerve to go in. Miss Gloria—bridge group—drag bar. I had to mentally shake my head every time I thought of that combination.
“It’s probably too late to get a reservation,” I said. “But maybe we could get a bite to eat later at Chef Adam’s restaurant on Simonton Street.” I looked over at Wally. “It’s not exactly in my budget. Is this Key Zest business?”
“Definitely,” Wally said. “I’ll deal with Ava Faulkner when the time comes.”
Ava Faulkner, Wally’s copublisher who managed the finances of Key Zest. An antifan of mine. The name spoken aloud made me quiver.
Danielle patted my hand reassuringly. “Chef Adam isn’t a candidate for the show, is he?”
“No. A judge. And the one I know least well of all the players. The one who doesn’t seem to have anything riding on the contest outcome. Which makes me suspicious of course.” I grinned. “Give me a minute to put some things away.”
“No offense Wally,” Danielle said, “but I think I’ll change out of this shirt. We look a little too much like fast-food employees, don’t you think?” She plucked at the sleeve of her yellow shirt.
“Traitor,” he said.
“Hayley doesn’t have hers on,” said Danielle, pulling out the bottom desk drawer where she kept her makeup and an extra blouse.
Half an hour later we had found a table at Rizzoli’s outdoor bar, down the alley from his restaurant. We were early enough to snag a position near the bar, but at the same time overlooking Duval. I made sure to sit facing the street so I didn’t have to look at the restaurant I’d shredded in my review not forty-eight hours ago.
A bustling happy-hour crowd began to trickle in—sunburned tourists, mostly. The prices were on the high side, and I saw no signs proclaiming a locals discount, which some of the bars and restaurants in town embraced to encourage the patronage of real Key Westers. Rock-and-roll tunes from the sixties and seventies pounded out from the loudspeakers. We waited for about five minutes, watching the people around us and hoping a waitress would materialize.
“Weren’t you scared last night jumping into the harbor?” Danielle asked. “I can barely swim. If I tried to rescue someone, it could only end up with two of us drowning.”
“Honestly, I didn’t spend one nanosecond thinking it through,” I said. “I just reacted. It scares me now, though, thinking about it.” I shivered. “Especially if someone really does have it in for Toby. Which I know is not likely, but still…”
“You can quit the show,” Wally said, a worried look crossing his face. “If you’re that concerned.”
But by now I was way too invested to quit. I wanted to see which contestant won the contest, and then whether and how his or her career got launched with Peter Shapiro’s TV show. If one of these guys made it big—became the next Bobby Flay or Paula Deen or Jacques Pépin—I wanted to have been part of the process.
And I wanted to make sure Toby was okay. Wasn’t there a Chinese proverb that said once you’d saved someone’s life they were your responsibility forever?
“You don’t really mean that,” I said with a big grin. “And I swear I won’t do anything else that reckless. And honestly, I do think she overreacted.”
Wally finally gave up on the waitress and threaded through the crowd to the bar, squeezing in between an overweight man sipping an icy white drink topped with a paper umbrella and a skinny woman covered in blurry tattoos of birds and links of chains, drinking Coke.
“I’ll have three Key West pale ales,” we heard him tell the bartender. “Awful shame about Sam Rizzoli.”
“He’s smooth, isn’t he?” Danielle laughed.
“And he’s kinda cute in that silly shirt,” I said, squinting at the back of his neck, which had a sunburn that stopped just short of his new haircut. He probably wasn’t five inches taller than me, but there wasn’t a pinch of flab on him.
“I tried to talk him out of the company-shirt idea before he hired you,” said Danielle, “but it’s grown on me. At least during business hours.”
“You don’t look like a fresh case of hepatitis when you’re wearing yellow,” I said. “The way some others of us do.”
Wally came back to the table with our drinks. �
��I got a few snippets,” he said. “Rizzoli’s funeral is tomorrow. Private service for the family at Saint Mary Star of the Sea. But they’re having a memorial open to the public around lunchtime on the White Street Pier.”
“Any more word on who killed him?” I asked.
“I overheard the guy at the end of the bar say Rizzoli had some troubles with his wife recently.” Wally pointed through the crowd to a tall man with a faded Fast Buck Freddies ball cap and a dappled white and gray beard. “But I couldn’t hang around to hear what kind of troubles. And it’s hard to imagine his own wife hoisting him up the rigging, no matter how mad she was at him.”
“Somebody hated him,” said Danielle, and then turned to me. “Say, what’s happening with you and that adorable detective?”
Tears pricked my eyes, surprising me and bringing expressions of concern from both Wally and Danielle. I’d hoped I was over it—wishful thinking. Even I—champion of denial—wasn’t that good at sweeping disappointment under the rug. I ducked my head and took a big slug of beer. “His ex-wife is in town. I don’t know what that means, except I’m sure it’s curtains for me and him. They looked very cozy. And she’s a stunner.”
“You deserve better,” said Wally softly. He held my gaze for a minute and then changed the subject to a feature he wanted to write about literary Key West.
“Travel and Leisure did a nice piece about our town in 2009, but a lot’s changed. Not the history, of course—everyone knows about Hemingway and Tennessee Williams. But this place is rife with artists and writers. Do they come because they sense they can be a big fish in our small town? Would a painter who’s a big deal in Key West be a nothing in New York City? Or is there something about the atmosphere that nurtures creativity and brings out the best in artists and writers? We’re the insiders—we know this stuff better than anyone.”
“The same questions work for restaurants, too,” I pointed out. “Would a place we rate four stars get one in New York? Or do we really have top chefs working here?”
Once we’d finished our drinks, we left a couple of bucks on the table and went out onto the sidewalk. A herd of motorcyclists without helmets or mufflers roared by, drowning out the conversation until they were several blocks down Duval.
“There’s something I don’t get,” said Wally, shaking his head. “Why is that allowed? Do you think our commissioners and police are afraid to take them on? This is what I don’t like about our town. We should make reasonable guidelines and rules and then stick to them—not bend them according to whoever’s pressuring the commissioners. Or paying them off.”
“Sam Rizzoli, for example,” I added.
A couple of minutes later, we reached the Aqua nightclub. I’d passed this bar by scooter or on foot a hundred times since I’d hit town, but I’d never found the right opportunity to go in. The doors and shuttered windows had been folded open to the street so passersby could see in. A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted outside, along with a blast of music. Wally looked a little nervous, as I must have, but Danielle pushed us through it.
We stepped into the semidarkness and stopped a minute to let our eyes adjust. A bar stretched along the left side of the room, “AQUA” written in turquoise neon script above the bottles of liquor on shelves against the wall. A second U-shaped bar was set up to the right of the entry, glasses hanging from the ceiling. At the back of the hall stretched an empty stage, and empty tables and chairs were clustered around a deserted dance floor. Right now, all the action was at the two bars.
Behind the bar on the left, a lovely young woman with sculpted arms, a sparkly sequined top, and narrow hips poured glasses of wine and draft beer for two customers. And standing outside the other bar was an enormous person with a behind shaped like a divan, wearing a wig, high heels, and thick, thick makeup. She crooned a scratchy rendition of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” into a portable microphone.
“That’s Gassy Winds,” whispered Danielle. “But I assume you want to get served by Randy Thompson, right?”
I stopped stock-still. “Where’s Randy?”
“Behind the other bar. Well, Victoria at the moment,” said Danielle as she herded us over to take seats at the bar.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, trying not to stare at Randy/Victoria, who had better muscle definition in his/her arms than I ever dreamed of.
“I come here for karaoke as often as I can,” she said with a shrug. “I love this place.” She slapped a twenty on the bar. “Looking good, Victoria!” she called out. “Three Coronas with lime. And can you sing some Patsy Cline?”
The bartender—Randy? Victoria?—winked at her, thumbed through a notebook on the back counter, and then called out a number to the DJ who sat in a glassed-in cubicle at the back of the room. After serving us the beers, Victoria began to sing “She’s Got You” in a mournful, vibrant baritone. She looked straight into Danielle’s eyes as she crooned “I’ve got your memory…,” then turned to wash out a few glasses left in the small sink behind the bar. “Or has it got me…”
“Wow, some voice,” said Wally. “So how do you address a drag queen? Is it he or she?”
“She, when she’s dressed up, like Victoria is now,” said Danielle. “And he, when he’s Randy. It’s that simple.”
When the song wound down, Victoria stopped by our end of the bar to deliver the drinks. “Slumming tonight?” she asked Danielle, still making no eye contact with me.
“I think you know Hayley,” said Danielle, placing a hand on my forearm. “And the cute guy is Wally.”
“Hey, big fella,” said Victoria. “Are you a three-woman kind of man?” She winked and Wally flushed absolutely crimson.
“Oh stop,” said Danielle, giggling. “He’s our boss. How’s the TV show going?”
“It would be a lot better if the judges hadn’t decided ahead of time who was going to win,” said Victoria, an edge in her voice. “And better if they weren’t in the executive producer’s pocket.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Nobody’s approached me about how to vote. And I’m certainly not getting paid. Everything’s been real and aboveboard so far.” I turned to Wally. “You tell her, I sure didn’t ask for this job.”
“She’s right,” Wally said. “Deena Smith called and asked if we could send someone because we cover a lot of local food events in our magazine. Hayley’s the real deal.”
“There’s nothing real about this business—it’s television. And as fake as they can make it,” Victoria said and grimaced. “The TV people don’t care about the best local food. They care about ratings because ratings sell advertising.” She flounced down to the other end of the bar and then came back to lean in closer to Wally. “Just like a lot of people give lip service to supporting local performers—and that includes drag queens. But underneath the surface, life is not all champagne and cake pops. It’s downright ugly. Why do you think Rizzoli was hung in a wig and makeup? Trying to point a finger at one of us, that’s why.”
She sashayed away to take another customer’s money. I chugged my beer a little faster than I should have, feeling chastised and chagrined. If I was completely honest, as much as I liked Randy’s cooking and personality, I did have trouble imagining a drag queen winning the contest and going on to host a cooking show. Maybe our biases were showing through more clearly than I’d ever imagined.
We slunk out of Aqua and walked a couple of blocks north to Chef Adam’s restaurant, which he’d named “Boyd’s Nest.”
“Why not ‘Boyd in the Hand’?” Danielle asked, snickering.
Wally secured us a table in the back of the dining room near the side window, which looked out on a small garden. Once we’d confirmed that we wanted Miami’s finest tap water, rather than bottled, the hostess dropped off some menus. My eyes practically bugged out of my head when I saw the prices. I was glad Wally was here to pick up the check, courtesy of Key Zest.
“We do have one special on the menu tonight. But Chef doesn’t like us to call them spe
cials because everything he makes is special,” said the waiter with only the smallest hint of a smile.
“Sounds like him, all right,” I muttered under my breath.
“The dish is a sautéed, blackened grouper, served with crashed new potatoes, and steamed squash. The fish is on the spicy side,” he warned us.
“What are crashed new potatoes?” I asked.
“They’re steamed, and then smashed and broiled with kosher salt and herbs until crispy. Out of this world.”
Once we’d ordered, Wally asked the waiter to ask the chef if he was free to visit for a minute or two. “I’ll ask,” said the waiter. “He’s pretty busy in there, bossing people around.” He smirked and hurried off to place our orders.
Halfway through the meal, Chef Adam barreled through the dining room to our table. “Oh, it’s you,” he said when he arrived and recognized me. “I thought one of our customers had lodged a complaint.”
“Not about this dinner,” I said graciously. “The fish is magnificent—fresh and zingy. Your waiter described it exactly.”
“And the potatoes are even better,” said Danielle with a melting smile.
“None of us have eaten here before,” said Wally. “I don’t think Hayley can do a review with both of you serving as Topped Chef judges, but we did want to tell you how much we’re enjoying the food.”
“How about you, Chef?” asked Danielle, tossing her hair off her shoulder so her cleavage showed more clearly. “How are you enjoying being a judge?”
“Not so much,” he said, scowling. “It’s an amateurish production rife with amateur cooks.”
“You miss Mr. Rizzoli,” I said.
He looked at me with surprise, and then nodded. “No offense, but he knew food.”
“I’d say Hayley’s pretty darned good at that, too,” said Wally.
No comment from Chef Adam.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “when were you tapped to be one of the judges?”
Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 12