Topped Chef(14)

“Sorry,” I said, and scuttled across the deck to take my place at the table. “Take a chill pill,” I added under my breath. “I’m five minutes late. And it’s Key West.”

He began to suit us up with microphones, laying Sam’s wires and power pack on the table in front of his empty chair. Through the mullions of the glass doors that led into the kitchen, I could see our producer/director, Peter Shapiro, on the phone—getting some crummy news from the look of dismay on his face. He punched a button on his phone, threw it onto the counter, and strode out onto the porch. His ruddy complexion had paled and his blue eyes watered. He gestured for all the TV personnel to move away from the set.

“I need to speak with the judges,” he explained curtly. Then he approached us, leaned forward, his hands on our table, and spoke in a low voice. “We’ve had some unfortunate news,” he said, lips thinning to a grim line. “Mr. Rizzoli is dead.”

Toby gasped. “Oh my goodness, whatever happened? We can certainly reschedule. Or I for one, would understand completely if the show’s taping is cancelled.”

I raised a finger to indicate that I agreed.

Peter shook his head and smoothed a lock of white hair off his forehead. “I realize the news is horrifying,” he said in a soothing voice. “I feel ill myself, but I beg you to understand that we must proceed with filming. We’ll certainly be respectful of any services that are planned. But we’ve spent too much money and time on the show to risk letting it die—and even more importantly, these chefs have their careers riding on the outcome.” He waved across the courtyard to the makeup area, where the three chefs whose food we’d chosen yesterday were being groomed for their first appearance.

“What in the world happened to him?” Toby asked. “He was much too young for a heart attack. Though in these stressful days I suppose men succumb younger and younger. Of all people, I should know that much.” She frowned, her eyes sad.

Peter rubbed his chin, then said, “Mr. Rizzoli appears to have been murdered.”

“Oh tell me no,” I said, melting down in my chair, the horrible image of the dead man I’d seen on the rigging flashing to mind, oversized like the picture at a drive-in horror movie. “Tell me he wasn’t found hanging from a sailboat’s mast last night.”

Peter looked shocked. “I certainly hope not! Where in the world did you hear that?”

I shrugged, wishing I could take my comment back. “There was a big brouhaha down at the harbor—something to do with a hanged man. They weren’t letting anyone get too close. I imagine you can find the details in the paper.”

“You were there?”

“Close enough to get a ghastly view that I wish I hadn’t seen.”

“I’m not privy to the details of how Sam died,” Peter said. “We can only hope that wasn’t him.” He looked away from me to the other two judges and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Are we in agreement? We can continue?”

“Give us a minute,” I said and turned my back on him to consult with Chef Adam and Toby. “We don’t have to do this if it doesn’t feel right.” It didn’t feel right to me, especially considering the way Rizzoli might have died. If in fact I’d seen his corpse last night.

“But I do worry about those young people who came to cook today,” said Toby in a low voice, lifting her chin at the chef candidates.

They looked so excited. And after all, having written the memoir about her husband’s death, wasn’t she an expert on working through grief?

“More to the point,” said Chef Adam, “yes, it’s a tragedy, but if the world stopped every time someone died, nothing would get accomplished. I don’t mean to sound callous, but did either of you know him personally? I liked him fine and he seemed to know his way around a kitchen table…but yesterday was the first time I’d met him.”

I most certainly wasn’t going to mention my connection: how I’d trashed his restaurant in our magazine. “I’ve seen his name in the paper from time to time,” I said. “He was a city commissioner, right? And kind of controversial.”

I was pretty sure he’d stirred up some kind of trouble recently about widening the cruise ship channel. I remembered reading comments in the Citizen’s Voice that suggested he voted for things that would advance his businesses, to hell with the town’s needs.

“That doesn’t mean he should have been murdered,” Toby squeaked.

“Of course not,” I said. Though if I were the police, I’d be asking questions about exactly this. Local politics on this island were anything but cozy.