Topped Chef(34)

My phone began to buzz as I came aboard the houseboat and my mother’s number flashed on the screen. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “You’re up early.”

“It’s almost nine thirty,” she said. “I’ve been up for hours. You sound a little stuffy. Are your allergies kicking up? Sometimes it can be hard to get used to the vegetation in a new geography. Especially in the change of season.”

“I’m fine,” I said. Which was not true: Hearing her concerned voice made me realize I was more upset about the photograph I’d seen at the harbor than I’d let myself know. But I didn’t want to discuss it with her or anyone, really. Seeing Rizzoli’s tortured face was a nightmare I didn’t want to share. Describing it would only burn it further into my brain. Not to mention worrying her sick.

“I went for a run and then to do an errand for Connie’s wedding. Ray’s come up with the silly idea of a pirate theme so Connie assigned me the job of figuring a way to talk him out of it.”

“That shouldn’t be hard.” Mom laughed. “Sounds like he’s just a little anxious about the wedding. Men get that way when they get close to the noose.”

“The noose?”

“Oh heavens, on our wedding day, your father wondered whether we couldn’t just be friends instead of getting married.” She snorted with more laughter. “But Ray loves her so much. He’ll get over it. How’s the TV show?”

“Kinda crazy,” I said. “As you’d expect. I have to get showered and dressed for today’s taping.” I needed to get off the phone before I spilled the beans about the near-drowning or the hanged man. Next thing I knew, she’d be threatening to fly down and act as my personal bodyguard.

I took a quick shower, swallowed a small helping of Special K, and dressed in an all-black outfit. The heck with the yellow Key Zest shirt today. Black matched my mood completely.





11


I think it is a sad reflection on our civilization that while we can and do measure the temperature in the atmosphere of Venus we do not know what goes on inside our soufflés.

—Nicholas Kurti



I arrived at the set twenty minutes early, and was surprised to find Peter Shapiro alone in the lovely little kitchen just inside the porch. He was studying something—a script?—a mug of coffee in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. I suddenly had a fierce urge to off-load some of my worries on him. He was the executive producer—shouldn’t he know what was going on behind the scenes? But was it the right thing to talk to him about Toby’s business?

“Morning,” I said brightly, as I slid onto the bar stool next to him. “Looks like the weather’s going to clear up by this afternoon.” He grunted but continued to read.

I couldn’t help it—I had to tell him. “So listen, can I speak to you in confidence about something?”

He glanced up, squinting, and put the coffee and the papers on the counter, his blue eyes focusing on my face. “Of course. I hope there isn’t a problem with the show?”

“Sort of. Not really. This might sound a little silly, but I thought you should know…Toby could be a little shaky this morning.” I described what had happened the night before at Mallory Square with Toby’s near drowning, skipping past my part in her rescue. “She’s worried about Sam Rizzoli’s death.”

“Of course she is. We’re all concerned about that. It was very disturbing,” said Peter, his dark brows drawing together, a sharp contrast against his mop of white hair and the closely cropped beard. “I would have stopped the filming altogether, if it hadn’t been for those chefs. It didn’t seem right to ruin their dreams….”

“Understood.” Though he’d used that line so many times—surely there was plenty for him to lose, too, if the show ground to a halt. “But here’s the thing,” I said. “Toby got the idea that someone shot at her last night. She actually wonders if one of the chef candidates could have killed Rizzoli in order to improve his or her chances in the contest.”

“Oh my,” said Peter, a small smile on his lips. “She is very worried.”

I nodded. “Do you know anything about which of the chefs Rizzoli preferred? It seems like he agreed more with Chef Adam than with either of us women, right? And that would mean he probably would have voted for Buddy Higgs.”

“That doesn’t really make sense, does it? If two judges ended up dead, how would the contest even continue?”

“You’re right. It sounds silly when you say it out loud.”