“That was Tony,” I said. “He’s not a threat. Except to himself. He’s homeless and I don’t think he really wants to change that. I’m sure he didn’t care to stick around and get harassed by Key West’s finest.” I grinned to take the edge off my words.
“These are all excellent observations.” Torrence’s voice was gentle. “You’re a real student of human behavior.” He paused and lapped his lower lip over the upper.
“But—”
“But there isn’t any real evidence to substantiate your theories. To be honest? I think your friend is nervous.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. “Don’t you find it odd that a woman who can’t swim and says she’s terrified of the water dives into the harbor right at the point with the worst current?”
“Unless she really heard a gunshot. Unless she panicked because of that and tripped and fell in.”
“Yes, but no one else heard it. You yourself said you didn’t hear it.”
“I thought it was firecrackers.”
“Does it occur to you that she’s lying about something? I even wonder if she’s suicidal. Is it possible that she intended to drown herself but then panicked when the reality of what she was about to do hit her? Did you get the sense she was feeling down last evening? Do you know her well? What has she been like the past few days?”
“I only just met her,” I admitted, hating to think how much sense his questions made. “So I don’t have any idea of what she’s like normally. She did seem nervous right off the blocks and it’s gotten worse each day. A few times she’s told us what she really thinks about the Topped Chef contestants, but speaking out seems to set her back. She worries about what other people think of her opinions. And whether we’ll disagree.” I balled up the tissue in my fingers and fired it at his trash can. “I never considered whether she might be depressed. That would explain some things.”
“Such as?”
“She’s quite well known for a memoir about food and grief. It wasn’t that long ago that she lost her husband. Then she wrote a book about the experience, which was a huge bestseller.”
My friend Eric would probably have said she might have been better off letting herself feel her sadness, instead of writing about it for the general public. That way she would have had a better chance at putting it behind her instead of having her face rubbed into it everywhere she turned.
“But I do wonder how she’ll follow up on a success like that.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Hmm. I’ll pass your information along.” Then he stood up, a signal that our impromptu counseling session was over. “Anything else?”
“One more thing.” I described the idea that sprang from my pirate wedding research—how maybe Rizzoli had been strung up to teach someone a lesson. I did not mention the photo on Derek the dockhand’s iPhone because he’d never forgive me if his cell got impounded as evidence. How many early mornings had he rolled out of bed to clean spilled beer and puke off that catamaran to afford the darn thing?
Torrence walked me to the door. “You feel free to feed me any information you come across.” He read off his cell phone number and I punched it into my contacts list. “I may look old-fashioned but I do accept text messages. I am not putting you ‘on the case.’ Understand? You don’t have a deputy star pinned to your chest. You’re not to go rushing around like a junior detective. Don’t do anything, other than keep your eyes and ears open. Got that?”
“Roger that,” I said.
He grinned, and then chucked my chin. We walked down the hallway and he held the door to the outside. I stood blinking in the sudden sunlight, feeling as though all the ground had shifted subtly beneath me. I seemed to have lost a boyfriend, but gained a friend. Which left me feeling a little hollow, but not as bad as I might have if I hadn’t run into Torrence. Boyfriends, in my limited experience, were dust in the wind. Friends, my rocks and anchors.
I no longer felt like napping. Instead, I hopped on my scooter and headed south to the Key Zest office, where I could start my article on the Mallory Square Stroll and enjoy the camaraderie of my coworkers. And avoid thinking about what I’d just seen in detective Nathan Bransford’s office.
13
The cult of celebrity associated with the postmodern chef is kept alive by armies of publicists, but it is rooted in the chef’s psychological yearning to be loved by thousands.
—Scott Haas
Danielle jumped all over me the minute I emerged from the stairwell into our office reception area. “Hayley, you’re on the front page of the Citizen. I’m so proud of you!” She held up the newspaper.