Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  “Morning, ladies,” Leigh called.

  I tried to follow their conversation but Leigh was killing me by placing ten-pound weights in my hand and forcing me through a series of squats, and then a return visit to the scene of the push-ups. When she finally granted me a short rest, I sank gasping to a nearby bench, gulped a stream of water, and mopped my sweating face. Ten feet away, the two friends were zipping through a routine of weights and planks that would have brought me to my knees.

  “We’ve got perfect weather today,” said Mrs. Rizzoli’s friend. “Even our old dog felt frisky this morning.”

  “Nice,” Mrs. Rizzoli agreed, but without much enthusiasm.

  “You had a fabulous turnout at the memorial service yesterday. How are you feeling?” the friend asked her.

  “Honestly?”

  The friend nodded.

  “I would have liked to have killed that bastard myself,” Mrs. Rizzoli said. “But someone got to him first.”

  The other woman looked at her like she didn’t believe the bravado. “You sound so angry. And sad.”

  Mrs. Rizzoli’s lower lip quivered. For a moment, only the click clack of their weight machines broke the silence. “We’d been having trouble for a long time. You know that. But…” She choked back a sob. “The morning of the day he died…”

  A tear leaked down the side of her face and splashed onto her bosom, darkening the purple stripe on her fashionable yoga top. Lucy brand. Expensive, I thought, my mind pushing away from her obvious pain.

  The friend reached over to smooth a wisp of hair off Mrs. Rizzoli’s face. She tucked it behind her ear and nodded with encouragement. “Something happened the day he died?”

  “Let’s try a plank on the exercise ball,” Leigh suggested to me. “Forearms on the ball and then straighten your knees and draw your navel in tight. We’ll start with thirty seconds.” I stretched into the position, my arms quivering. It hardly seemed fair to say “we” when one of us was doing the work while the other held the stopwatch.

  “He admitted that he’d been having an affair.” Mrs. Rizzoli barked out a harsh laugh. “Not that that was breaking news. Him being faithful—now that would have been worth a special marital conversation. But he admitted this new relationship had gotten more serious than he ever intended. It wasn’t his fault, of course. It crept up on him. He actually cried about not knowing what to do.”

  “You’re joking,” said her friend.

  “I wish,” said Mrs. Rizzoli. She picked up a couple of heavy-looking free weights and began to execute bicep curls, her muscles bulging gracefully with each rotation. “And then he told me how torn he felt and how he couldn’t bear to lose either one of us. Really, it was as though I should comfort him for getting in too deep with his girlfriend.”

  “That fat bastard,” said Mrs. Rizzoli’s friend.

  “I don’t think I can do any more,” I whispered to Leigh.

  “Almost there,” she said. “Ten seconds.”

  “And the worst thing is, I did comfort him,” said Mrs. Rizzoli to her friend. “He’s off screwing another woman and I’m patting his hand.” She thumped the weights down to the floor. “And then I threw him out. Told him to go stay on his boat a few days—I needed some space.”

  “You’d feel a lot worse if you’d acted angry and mean and then he went and got himself killed,” said the other woman. “Do the police have any news?”

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Rizzoli with a shrug of indifference I knew she couldn’t feel. “I believe they’ve cleared me of suspicion because they can’t imagine I could have hoisted him up onto the rigging.”

  Her friend grinned. “They haven’t seen what you can do in this gym. I have to run—I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetie.” She bussed Mrs. Rizzoli’s cheek and hurried off toward the locker room.

  “That’s it for today,” said Leigh, snapping my mind away from eavesdropping and my own agony. “We’ll meet the same time next week? Or we can step things up and make it twice a week?”

  “Same time next week. If I don’t die from lactic acid poisoning after this session,” I said, only half-joking.

  Leigh chuckled and pointed to the aerobic machines, lined up to the right of the desk where I’d checked in. “You should stop on the way out and put in fifteen minutes on the treadmill. When you come next week, get here early and you can warm up the same way.” She patted her own flat stomach. “Good for the heart, lungs, and waistline.”

  I was about to tell her I’d put in more time working out when my mother served Thanksgiving gravy from a can, when I noticed that Mrs. Rizzoli had moved over to the machines. She was pumping the pedals of a stair-stepper, her tanned shoulders and chest glistening.

  “Great idea, coach,” I said with a smart salute. Then I headed to the stationary bike, thinking that sitting down might feel like heaven. But I could barely lift my leg over the center bar of the bike.

  “It gets easier,” said Mrs. Rizzoli, smiling as she watched me struggle. “I promise.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said, smiling back. I punched in fifteen minutes on the bike’s computer, at an easy level, the lowest. When asked for my weight by the computer, I shaved seven pounds off and began to pedal. “I’m awfully sorry about your husband.”

  She startled, as though she suspected I’d been listening in on her private conversation. Which I had. I began to pedal the bicycle.

  “Mr. Rizzoli and I were serving together as judges in the Topped Chef Key West competition,” I added quickly, hoping to correct the impression that I was a snoop for no good reason. “I’m Hayley Snow. I was hoping I’d get the chance to talk to you because some weird things are happening with the contest. It’s hard not to worry that they’re connected with his murder.”

  She took a long drink from her stainless steel bottle and increased her speed on the stair-stepping machine. She was barely breathing hard, but perspiration poured off her body and soaked her lavender top until it turned deep violet.

  “I know he made some political enemies. You can’t help but do that working in the public sector,” I blundered on. “If you take a strong stand, you won’t please everyone. But it does seem possible that there’s a connection to the TV show. For instance, Randy Thompson said something about having a bad relationship with your husband.”

  “Oh, Randy was a pain in his patootie,” she said, her fingers flicking the idea of him away like a mosquito. “Half the time Sam told me he didn’t pay the rent on his apartment and the other half he paid late. My husband finally had enough and gave him notice. I think he was supposed to get out by the end of the month.” She squinted and stared at me, her legs still churning on the stair-stepper. “You’re not suggesting he was angry enough to murder my husband? That seems a little extreme.”

  “I’m not saying that, only wondering about the possibilities,” I said, sucking for air as my machine’s workout leaped up to a higher level.

  “Who are you? Are you working with the police?” she asked.

  “No, no. I work for Key Zest. Like I said, just gathering information. We all felt awful about what happened to your husband. And to be honest, we’re pretty scared, too. Could one of us be next? We have no idea.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. I tried to look open and trustworthy, at the same time I was panting. “Not Randy,” she said finally. “I don’t think so.” She shook the loose hair off her face and reset her headband. “Whoever did this was ruthless and powerful and very, very angry. To leave him like that?” She blinked away a sudden rush of tears and swabbed at her face with a towel.

  This was exactly the warning that Torrence had given me about the killer. “What kind of man is he?” I asked. “Your husband, I mean.”

  “Was he,” she corrected. She began to tick his characteristics off on her fingers. “He was a strong personality, brilliant in business and tireless in bed. Unfortunately, as you probably overheard, I was not the only recipient of those gifts. He wanted what he wanted and he didn
’t mind lying or cheating to get it.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had a boyfriend like that,” I added. Those few months with Chad were of course nothing compared to a long-term marriage where you’d promised in front of God and all your relatives to hold each other gently for life. And then gotten drop-kicked from heaven to hell when the rat bastard let you down. I’d felt shocked and outraged and embarrassed and furious—hard to imagine how she was coping. Hard to figure what was real in the façade she was showing, and what wasn’t.

  “Does the name Buddy Higgs mean anything to you? He’s another one of the TV show contestants.”

  I could have sworn her lips twitched, but she pulled them tight and answered: “Don’t know him.” She shook her head and gulped another swig of water. “Thinking back, I can’t imagine why that producer even asked Sam to judge food. Sure he owned restaurants and he loved hanging out at the bar and feeling like the big cheese, but he was no foodie. If I served him something new, he poked at it like I was trying to poison him. So you see he wasn’t altogether crazy.” She grinned. “More than once he asked to order off the kids’ menu—that’s what he was like when it came to food.”

  Then her eyes widened until they looked like two dinner plates—like my mother’s Burleigh china, with all its shifting shades of blue. “Hayley Snow. You’re the one who slammed Just Off Duval. He was soooooo angry. The food isn’t that bad, is it?”

  I lifted one shoulder and faked a smile. “I felt like I had to be honest about my experience. And I swear I gave it three tries…because I hate writing negative things about someone’s restaurant. I go in hoping I can give a good report. That’s the fun part of the job, spreading the word about great meals.” I was babbling and she wasn’t even cracking a smile.

  My bicycle beeped, signaling that the fifteen minutes I’d programmed were up. According to the computerized display, I’d consumed fifty-six calories in this aerobic segment of my workout. Not even enough to counter a single café con leche.

  “He was gunning for you, dear. You should be grateful that he’s dead.”

  Mrs. Rizzoli tipped her chin and stepped off her machine, leaving me in a pool of guilt-ridden sweat. I knew writing negative reviews would hurt people’s feelings, but I didn’t expect they’d make someone want to kill me.

  She banged into the TRX machine on the way out, leaving its pulleys and levers swinging like the rigging of a sailboat.

  18

  You’re better off peeling potatoes at a great kitchen than working saucier at a really mediocre place.

  —David Chang

  As I struggled off the scooter at Tarpon Pier, every muscle screaming, a text message came in from Peter Shapiro instructing the staff, chefs, and judges to gather at the Studios of Key West at two p.m. He planned to tape pick-up interviews to fill in slow spots in the show, which were many, according to Peter. Apparently he had no intention of closing the show down just because of one gut-sick fan.

  Then I scrolled through my e-mail. I was reading a note from Mom about a new catering gig she’d landed and how much she wished I was there to act as sous-chef, when my psychologist pal Eric called.

  “Just checking in,” he said. “How are things going?”

  “I’ve been dying to talk to you, but I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of your vacation,” I said, feeling ridiculously relieved to hear his voice. I took a seat on the bench outside the laundry room at the head of the dock.

  I needed to hash things over with someone, but I refused to worry Miss Gloria with every gory detail. And Connie’s life was so hectic these days, between her business and the wedding. Mom would have been happy to listen, but I try not to tell her everything. Not because she wouldn’t take my side, but more because she’d take it so definitely. And once my side was taken by my mother, there was no room for going back. Chad, for example, was doomed for life once Mom found out I’d discovered him in bed with another woman. She was a mother hen and I will still be her chick fifty years from now when we’re sharing a suite in an assisted living facility.

  “We’re finding vacation to be a little boring.” Eric laughed. “We may even come home early. What’s new down there?”

  “What isn’t new?” I hated to dump everything on him at once—he didn’t know about the Topped Chef contest, Rizzoli’s hanging, or all the events that had unfolded after. I’d have to ease him into it. “You’ll never guess where I just came from.”

  “The police department? The county jail? Detective Bransford’s yacht?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “None of the above. The gym. My first personal training session.”

  After he’d squawked in disbelief and feigned admiration, I admitted how I’d really made the appointment hoping to learn something about Rizzoli’s murder. And then I summarized the hanging, Toby’s near-drowning, and the disaster at the Mallory Square cook-off. Eric was pretty much speechless by the time I finished.

  “So someone strung him up wearing pirate drag?” he asked. “Why in the world was he left like that?”

  “Torrence asked the same thing. And Bransford, too. Randy Thompson thinks the killer was pointing to the drag queen community.” I sighed. “Whoever did this was ruthless, and maybe crazy.”

  “And terribly angry,” Eric said. “You need to keep your distance.”

  I sighed again and stretched out on the wooden bench, breathing a mixture of salty harbor air and dryer vent odors. “I’m in the thick of it, ready or not.”

  “What did Mrs. Rizzoli say?”

  “She’s a funny person. She was telling her friend how her husband cheated on her, yet at the same time he seemed to want her sympathy. And she says she gave it to him.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  A couple of seagulls landed near the trash can and began to squabble over a partially eaten sandwich. “Maybe. But why would any woman be solicitous after her husband tells her he’s having an affair? Why wasn’t she furious?”

  “Makes a good story though, doesn’t it?” Eric mused. “Especially when the cops are nosing around looking for murder motives. Gets her off the hook, right? Speaking of cops, what’s happening with Bransford?”

  I covered my eyes with one hand and groaned, then drew my knees up to my chest to ease the strain in my back. There had been a lot going on over the past few days and I was feeling it settle hard in my sacrum. “We’ve ground to a halt. His ex has arrived in town and they looked very cozy.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, not even asking for the gory details.

  “You never did like him much, did you?”

  “I tried,” said Eric, “because you liked him. From a friend’s point of view, I couldn’t help finding him standoffish and condescending. Hang on, I’ll be right there,” he said to someone talking to him. “Listen, Bill’s calling me to get moving. I think we’ll be back day after tomorrow. But call me if you need me. For anything, okay?”

  I hung up feeling slightly less lonely, but utterly disappointed in Bransford. I knew Eric wasn’t crazy about him, but it still stung to hear the unvarnished truth. Shoving that thought away, I turned back to mulling over what I’d heard from Rizzoli’s wife. Just how angry was she at her husband?

  I had plenty of time before I had to shower and dress to return to the Studios of Key West, so I decided to run back over to the old harbor. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered how in the world Rizzoli had been hoisted up into the rigging without anyone noticing. And who’d finally seen him and called it in? I hadn’t heard anything about that. Two days after the murder and there were still no leads? That was hard to believe.

  Quite possibly the two guys I’d talked with at the harbor—Turtle and Derek—had not told me their whole story. And if they hadn’t told me, they certainly wouldn’t have told the cops. Derek just on principle, because the cops were authorities and he’d come to this island to shed as much big-brother baggage as possible. And Turtle because he hadn’t had a good interaction with the police the whole s
ix months he’d lived on the island. And probably a long time before that.

  What else might they have noticed—and held back?

  Muscles complaining, I struggled back onto my scooter, buzzed across town, and parked it at the rear of the Schooner Wharf Bar. My body was starting to scream for caffeine and calories, so I trotted over to what used to be called the European Village Cafe, now Key West Munchies, next to Kermit’s Key Lime Shop. A cute young man with a Russian accent took my order for a café con leche, extra sugar. While the milk steamed and the TV chattered in Russian, my stomach began a serious rumble. Telling myself I’d been planning to review this place anyway, I added two Cuban sandwiches to my order, one for me and one for Turtle in case I found him.

  “That was an awful tragedy the other night,” I said, when the young man delivered my coffee to the shelf separating his little kitchen from the outdoors.

  “Terrible,” he said, as he began to pile ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, and pickles on loaves of Cuban-style bread. “I’m glad I wasn’t here to see it.” He slathered mustard over the top of the bread, closed up the sandwiches, and weighted them down on his grill. The cheese melted down the sides and sizzled on the hot metal. I tried not to drool on the counter.

  “Any word on who did it?” I asked, thinking he must see and hear a lot from his little window on the seaport.

  He rubbed his chin and looked out across the horizon, over my head. “They’ve gone door to door interviewing at the shops and restaurants that were open that evening. They even had Navy Seal scuba divers come in to search the harbor bottom around the boat. There’s so much garbage down there, I doubt they could tell what might have been new.” He pulled a rag from a sink full of soapy water and wiped his counters down. “That was a low trick to hang a man on his own boat.”