Peter frowned and tapped the pages on the counter in front of him into a neat pile. Finally, he shook his head. “She’s told all this to the police, I hope? We can speculate and make up stories until we’re blue in the face, but really they are the professionals when it comes to a murder.”
I nodded in agreement.
“I’m sure you’ve read the papers,” he continued. “There was hardly a Key West controversy Rizzoli wasn’t involved with. I hadn’t realized that you and he had a little rhubarb recently.” His eyebrows peaked, as though now he’d like to hear the dope from me.
I only sighed. “Honest to god, I’d never met the man before the other morning here. It was my job to review that restaurant. And once I’d eaten there—three times—I couldn’t lie about it.”
He nodded. “I appreciate that. The magazine has to have standards.”
I tugged on one of my earrings, thinking again of Lorenzo’s admonishment to speak up when I needed to. It might offend Peter, but on the other hand, he should understand that none of us was naïve about reality TV. Funny business was probably the norm.
“This isn’t a contest where the outcome was determined before the show even begins, is it? You don’t have a ringer who’s bound to win no matter what we judges think?”
He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Now that would be an enormous waste of your time—and mine, wouldn’t it? And what would be the point? My goal is to finish up the week with the chef who makes the most excellent food and is a terrific entertainer. That’s it.” He smiled. “Your job is to find her. Or him.”
While we were chatting, the chef candidates and the TV assistants had begun to gather in the courtyard. The three chefs, wearing crisp white jackets and tall toques, were differentiated only by their size and shape and the pattern of their pants. Chili peppers for Henri, black checks for the two men. Peter whistled them over to the kitchen, and Deena rounded them up and led them over.
“Feel free to refrigerate what you need to,” she said. “We don’t want any of our esteemed judges contracting botulism.”
The chefs snickered nervously.
“There’s not a lot of room in here,” Peter added, “so share the space, people.”
Three of the show’s staffers clattered in from the alley along the back of the Studios of Key West, followed by Chef Adam and Toby. Both Peter and I watched her cross the courtyard. She looked a little more pale than yesterday and wore long sleeves and a flesh-colored Band-Aid on her temple, but seemed otherwise unscathed.
“Don’t mention this to her, okay?” I whispered. “She’d only feel embarrassed.”
He swiped a finger across his lips, then stood and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, people. We have a lot to accomplish today.”
As soon as Toby and Chef Adam and I were seated and mic’d up at the judges’ table, Peter left to organize the contestants, who were milling around the small kitchen, arranging ingredients, looking tense. I had to wonder again whether one of them could have shot at Toby last night. In the light of day after talking with Peter, this did seem like a preposterous theory. Where would they have been hiding? And I’d seen Buddy Higgs only fifteen minutes earlier squirting chocolate syrup on his tarts. No way he would have been finished in time to hustle over to Mallory Square. And none of them had looked surprised to see Toby alive and well this morning. All three had come prepared to proceed with the contest. They appeared nervous and determined, rather than guilty.
The makeup artist buzzed over to our table and squinted at Toby’s face.
“Is the Band-Aid necessary?” she asked.
“Unless you want a close-up of ragged skin,” Toby snapped. Chef Adam snickered and then returned to text messaging on his iPhone.
“May I see?” Without waiting for Toby to answer, the makeup girl ripped the bandage off Toby’s forehead.
“Ow!” Toby yelped.
“I can work with this,” said the young woman. “It will only sting a little.”
“Whenever you’re ready, people,” yelled Peter from the kitchen. The makeup girl swabbed flesh-colored liquid on Toby’s wound and ran a puff of powder over her face. Then she packed up her potions and utensils, and backed off the porch.
“Are you all right?” I whispered. “I felt bad leaving you there last night.”
Toby shook me off with a fake smile. “I’m fine. We’ll talk later.”
The lights came on and Peter stepped forward. “As I mentioned yesterday, this morning’s challenge is all about destination weddings. Today you’ll have the opportunity to decide which of our chefs has the creativity and the talent to tally the most points for this round of Topped Chef!” He waved a hand for the theme music to begin—the song “Food Glorious Food” from the Broadway show Oliver! surged over the loudspeakers and then faded off, giving way to the Dixie Cups singing “The Chapel of Love.”