“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 tourists. 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.