“My back’s gone out.” He winced and tried to straighten up. “I’ve had this happen before. It means I need a couple of days off, a bottle of muscle relaxants, and a lot of time in bed. Damn!” He took a step but grimaced with pain. “I wonder…no never mind.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
He shook his head decisively. “I’ll be fine.” He began to limp down the block toward Petronia Street and I hovered alongside him, feeling helpless. The crowd around us pressed in, seeming drunker and more boisterous by the moment.
“I hate to ask,” he said. “Is it possible you could help me get to my car? I thought walking the length of Duval Street twice would be relaxing after the week I’ve had—bad idea. But I hate to take you away from the party…” He whipped the phone out of his jacket pocket. “I can call a cab.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ve had enough anyway. Nobody wants to read a column listing every bite we’ve tasted—I’ll hit a few highlights and describe the whole crazy scene. Actually I’m dying to get out of here. It has felt like a long week. Really long.”
“A nightmare,” Peter said. “I’ve tried to stay optimistic about the contest, but sometimes I wonder if it was cursed from the minute I set foot on this island.”
Which reminded me of what Lorenzo had told Miss Gloria and me a few days ago during our lunch on the houseboat: Key West either embraces you, or chews you up and spits you out. Maybe Peter was finding out that he fit into the second set.
“Come on,” I said, moving closer to him and offering my hand. “Let’s go.”
He slung his arm over my shoulder and leaned some weight on me, at the same time that I felt a sharp object poke my side. I looked up at him, startled. He laughed and staggered like he fit in completely with the crowd around us.
“Not a peep from you,” he said under his breath. “If you say anything, I’ll shoot you right here.”
“But—”
“Not one word. It won’t matter to me either way.”
With one hand gripping my shoulder and the other shoving the gun in my ribs, he force-marched me down the block. Fear washed over me like a rogue wave, as I finally grasped the niggling thought that had surfaced as he told me about his sailing background. And then his love for costumes. Peter knew Sam Rizzoli well enough to play dress-up. They’d done this together in the past. And Peter was a sailor, knew his way around winches and rigging.
Peter was the killer, not Randy. Not anyone else. Peter was the man who’d had the strength and know-how to hoist Sam Rizzoli up the mast.
He’d murdered the man, dressed him up, and hung him on his own mast. And then I thought of Turtle, beaten half to death. Another loose end shifted into focus: Derek wasn’t the only man with a white beard—Peter had one, too. I hadn’t cast my mental net wide enough to consider that.
With two men, one dead, one nearly dead, notched on his belt, he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me.
I tried to force my sluggish mind to churn through the options. The truth was if I went anywhere with him, I was as good as dead. He was at least a foot taller than me, and carried twice my bulk. One day at the gym would not help my chances of overpowering him. But if I shouted for help, I believed he would shoot me. The only option seemed to be to continue along Duval and hope to god I saw someone I knew. Or a cop, best of all.
“Where’s your bike?”
“Petronia Street,” I squeaked.
Reaching the corner, we turned up the darkened street and walked to the rack where my bike was parked. With the crowd left behind on Duval Street, Peter abandoned the pretense of needing my help. I pointed to my silver scooter and he jerked me roughly toward it. “You first, I’ll get on behind.”
“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Could you hand me my helmet?”
His only answer was a sharp jab in my back that almost knocked the breath out of me. I threw my leg over and fired the scooter up. And he slid onto the seat behind me.
“Left on Whitehead and then over to Truman,” he said.
Hands shaking and mind racing, I drove as instructed. To my dismay, I’d started to cry and the tears blurred my vision.
“Take a left when you get to Reynolds and head toward the cemetery. I’d prefer not to hurt you but I will if I have to.”
The scooter jiggled as we hit the first block of Truman Avenue that had been under repair for the last few weeks. The danger lights on the sawhorses that had been placed over open manholes flickered in the gloaming. Peter’s grip on my waist loosened, but he grabbed me again and prodded my back with his gun. I thought of Miss Gloria’s comment—sooner or later someone was going to wipe out on the road’s shoddy temporary construction. Maybe then the contractors would get working. The scooter slipped on the loose stones.
“Idiot!” he said. “Pay attention to what you’re doing.”
With a surge of angry desperation, I realized this was probably my only way out. Lucky for me, the night had been cool enough that I had changed out of my dress into the jeans and sneakers and a sweater that I kept stashed in the office. I stepped on the gas and swerved toward the gravel and the sawhorses and the yawning holes in the pavement.
“What the hell?” Peter yelled.
The bike’s tires skidded and like a slow-motion video, we began to slide sideways, finally tipping over and scraping along the pavement until the scooter crashed into the barricades by the side of the road. Peter flew off the back and slammed into the plate glass window of the convenience store on the corner. A large yellow caution sign blinked above me, illuminating the gash on Peter’s head in garish Technicolor. Then the pain from my left ankle and my raw skin rushed in and I blacked out.
27
It’s an unintentional master class in how to say waxy and embalming things about fresh food.
—Dwight Garner
The Aqua nightclub sat on Duval, a stone’s throw from Angela Street. The door was propped open and the shutters on the windows had been folded back to reveal the oval-shaped bar, enticing customers who passed by. Though tonight it appeared that most every seat in the house was occupied. A rousing rendition of Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You, Babe” bounced out onto the sidewalk. A few young coeds carrying plastic cups of beer stood by the windows peering in.
I adjusted the air cast on my right ankle, squared my shoulders, summoned my courage, and marched in. As I edged past Gassy Winds, the same tall drag queen that I’d seen the night I was here with Wally and Danielle, she glared at me. A thunk-your-head moment: I realized she was Randy’s friend—the one who’d been thrown off the set on the last day of taping. In a deep bass, she growled unintelligible lines from the “Sonny” side of the duet.
At the second bar lining the left side of the room, behind the letters spelling out AQUA on the far wall, Randy Thompson was dressed as his alter ego, Victoria, in elaborate eye makeup and wide red lips. She poured drinks and belted out Cher’s half of the song. I crossed the room and slid onto the bar stool at the end of the bar. As Danielle had taught me, I switched my thinking so I would call Randy “Victoria.” And I reminded myself to think of him as her. Just for now.
Victoria wiped down the bar as the Sonny and Cher song wound down. “We take requests—for the right-sized tips,” she said into her portable microphone as she tucked a five-dollar bill from one of the other patrons into her bustier. She did not look at me or ask if I wanted a drink. But when she came to my end of the bar to page through the songbook I said: “I’d like a Coke, please. And do you know Brenda Lee’s ‘I’m Sorry’?”
She rolled her eyes and poured the soda, then called out a series of numbers and letters to the sound engineer. She slammed my drink in front of me and moved away again.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” she sang in a powerful voice that could have been Brenda herself. When she finished, I pushed a ten-dollar bill across the bar. She lit a cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke, and stared me
down.
“I am sorry,” I said, the words coming out in a rush. Wanting to get everything in before she walked away. “I read the situation completely wrong. I thought you felt trapped here.” I waved my hand to indicate the nightclub, the bar, the sound man, the other drag queen. “And that you’d never find an affordable place to live after you were evicted. And that Rizzoli would block you from winning Topped Chef. And then when Mrs. Rizzoli told me that Sam had a crush on you—”
She cut me off. “You thought I was psychologically damaged. Sick enough to kill a person and try to kill two others because I might not get what I wanted from that ridiculous contest.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t get the whole drag queen thing—that you’re an entertainer and that you love what you do.”
“I thought I was pretty clear during my interview on that stupid show that I have some bigger aspirations. And there’s some good news on that front, too,” she said and huffed down the length of the bar to take the drink orders of a couple who’d just wandered in from Duval Street. Across the room, Gassy, the other drag queen, began to warble “It’s raining men.”
When Victoria was back within earshot, I said: “I’d love to hear about it. Your news. Really, I would.”
“I get a break in ten minutes,” she said. “Meet me over there.” She pointed across the smoky dance floor to the tables on the other side of the room. I grabbed my Coke from the bar and took a seat. Victoria joined me shortly, sat, and lit another cigarette.
“I know, they’re bad for me, so don’t waste your breath,” she said and blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. “So here’s the deal. When the Topped Chef show blew up this week, the executives at the company did some exit interviews. So I got the chance to pitch an idea to Shapiro’s boss at the TV station. It would be a cooking show called “Sing for Your Supper.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Did they love it?”
She nodded and broke into her first smile since I’d arrived. “He pitched it to his boss. They want to start filming in a couple of weeks. They’re still not sure whether they want me in drag, so we may film it both ways. During a mini-segment within each half hour, I’ll give advice about parties and decorating and what to serve to a crowd. That will be called ‘Entertaining Shouldn’t Be a Drag.’”
I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I’m so glad.”
“And there’s more.” Her smile grew wider. “I’m appearing as a guest on Emeril. Watch the show Friday night.”
She squinted and sat back in her chair. “You have quite a road rash there. I read in the paper how you scraped that bum off your scooter and nearly killed yourself to boot.”
“It was the only thing I could think to do. I knew if he got me somewhere alone, I was toast. He’d figured out that he’d told me too much and pretty soon I was going to realize he was the real killer.”
“And not me after all.” She scowled.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “And I’ll say it as often as I need to until you forgive me.”
A sly smile played over Victoria’s face. “So what’s going on with you and the hunky detective?”
“Every time I think we’re getting started, another case comes along and somehow I get involved and mess things up and he gets mad.” I blew out a heavy sigh. “Although this time was even worse because his ex showed up. She’s a knockout and she makes him laugh. So I think we’re pretty much a bust.”
She reached across the table to touch my cheek, exactly where my face had scraped along the pavement. And where a slash of brown shadow on her face created the illusion of carved cheekbones. “Don’t give up so easily. I know a thing or two about what men like. I could help with your makeup for example. And cleavage, girlfriend. Men love cleavage.” She laughed and batted her long false eyelashes.
“Of course, you’ll never look like me. And where the detective’s concerned, that’s probably not a bad thing.”
* * *
I was relaxing on the deck of Miss Gloria’s houseboat with a glass of wine and my foot propped up on the railing when I saw a figure coming down the finger, headed for our boat. I was already tired from a stream of solicitous visitors today—Deena, who apologized for putting me in danger. Toby Davidson, who brought a signed copy of her memoir to read during my convalescence. And Chef Adam with a gift certificate for a return visit to his restaurant.
This time it was Detective Bransford. Dressed like a professional cop, not his absurd imitation of a tourist. My heart fluttered, but the rest of me stood on alert, ready for bad news if it came. And my roiling stomach told me that it would.
“Come have a seat,” I said when he reached our boat, trying to sound casual and upbeat. Not utterly rattled, the way I felt. I patted the cushion on the chair beside me. “Would you like a drink?”
He shook his head, remained on the dock. “Can’t stay.” He pushed his sunglasses up above his forehead, peering at my face. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nodded, my hand touching my cheek, exactly where Victoria had touched it an hour earlier.
“I’m sorry we didn’t put things together sooner. Once your friend Turtle regained consciousness, he started mumbling like a crazy man. How he’d seen the big guy with the white beard hoisting the pirate up the mast. And how the man had beaten him senseless after he offered to keep quiet in exchange for a couple packs of cigarettes.”
“He is crazy off his meds, poor guy; I’d think you trained professionals would recognize that.”
“We were a little late, I admit,” he said with a nod. “When I went over to interview him Saturday morning, among his other ramblings, like I said, he mentioned a big guy with a white beard. After I passed you on Duval Street with Shapiro, the pieces fell into place. I called for backup and ran after you, but by the time I reached Petronia Street, he was already on the back of your scooter and you were riding away.” He grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. “We were right behind you. We would have stopped him before anything happened.”
“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. “B
ig 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.”
Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Page 22
