LOCAL FOOD CRITIC MAKES HEROIC RESCUE, the headline blared. I skimmed the brief report, which named me but, thank goodness, not Toby. She would have been mortified by the publicity. Although below the story was an unfortunate photo of her draped in a police blanket, me standing alongside her in my white blouse that when wet, showed the lace of my bra right through it. Completely embarrassing.
“Anyone would have done the same thing,” I said. “But maybe dressed a little better.”
Danielle snickered.
Wally stuck his head out of his office. “Good work, you. Too bad we don’t write straight news—we’d have the inside scoop. How did this happen?”
I explained about Toby’s worries over the contest and her reaction to the subsequent, perhaps imaginary, gunshot.
“Good Lord, Hayley,” said Danielle. “You’re jinxed! Have you told the cops?”
“Thanks for the confidence,” I said. “I just got back from the police station. Officer Torrence doesn’t think there’s much basis for Toby’s concerns. A group of officers came through and interviewed every one of us judges and the staffers and the chefs themselves yesterday, and the upshot is that they don’t seem to think the TV show has any bearing on the murder.”
“Sounds like you’re not convinced,” said Wally, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Peter Shapiro, the executive producer, keeps saying how important it is to keep taping. Because winning this contest would mean so much for each of the candidates. Toby said the same thing—big bucks, fame, escape from drudgery. In other words, there’s an awful lot at stake for these three chefs.”
Wally’s eyes widened. “Whether it has anything to do with the murder or not, this could be a fascinating story—who wants to win this TV spot and why. This is one hell of a great feature for Key Zest.”
“Who’s writing that angle?” I asked.
“You are, of course.” He grinned. “You’ll have to do some digging to get the background on all of them. We’ll help you do the research. And if you’re worried about a conflict of interest, I’ll take the byline.”
“I’ll do the work and you’ll take the byline?” I asked. “Are you kidding?”
“Of course,” Wally said with a laugh.
“Road trip!” said Danielle. “It’s four o’clock—maybe the boss will let us knock off a little early.” She winked at Wally. “Where do we start?”
“Officer Torrence did tell me to keep my eyes peeled for anything related to the murder,” I said and described what Bransford had said about Sam Rizzoli’s connections to Key West politics. Then I told them about the conversation I’d had with the men at the harbor regarding Rizzoli’s bar. “Maybe we’d learn something there. And then I’d love to see Randy Thompson perform. He’s our drag-queen contestant who cooks like his grandmother. Maybe even talk with him, if we get the chance.”
“I think he’s doing dueling bartenders tonight at the Aqua,” said Danielle.
Aqua was a well-known drag bar on Duval Street. Miss Gloria had been there several times with her bridge group, but I’d not yet drummed up the nerve to go in. Miss Gloria—bridge group—drag bar. I had to mentally shake my head every time I thought of that combination.
“It’s probably too late to get a reservation,” I said. “But maybe we could get a bite to eat later at Chef Adam’s restaurant on Simonton Street.” I looked over at Wally. “It’s not exactly in my budget. Is this Key Zest business?”
“Definitely,” Wally said. “I’ll deal with Ava Faulkner when the time comes.”
Ava Faulkner, Wally’s copublisher who managed the finances of Key Zest. An antifan of mine. The name spoken aloud made me quiver.
Danielle patted my hand reassuringly. “Chef Adam isn’t a candidate for the show, is he?”
“No. A judge. And the one I know least well of all the players. The one who doesn’t seem to have anything riding on the contest outcome. Which makes me suspicious of course.” I grinned. “Give me a minute to put some things away.”
“No offense Wally,” Danielle said, “but I think I’ll change out of this shirt. We look a little too much like fast-food employees, don’t you think?” She plucked at the sleeve of her yellow shirt.
“Traitor,” he said.
“Hayley doesn’t have hers on,” said Danielle, pulling out the bottom desk drawer where she kept her makeup and an extra blouse.
Half an hour later we had found a table at Rizzoli’s outdoor bar, down the alley from his restaurant. We were early enough to snag a position near the bar, but at the same time overlooking Duval. I made sure to sit facing the street so I didn’t have to look at the restaurant I’d shredded in my review not forty-eight hours ago.