Topped Chef(42)

A bustling happy-hour crowd began to trickle in—sunburned tourists, mostly. The prices were on the high side, and I saw no signs proclaiming a locals discount, which some of the bars and restaurants in town embraced to encourage the patronage of real Key Westers. Rock-and-roll tunes from the sixties and seventies pounded out from the loudspeakers. We waited for about five minutes, watching the people around us and hoping a waitress would materialize.

“Weren’t you scared last night jumping into the harbor?” Danielle asked. “I can barely swim. If I tried to rescue someone, it could only end up with two of us drowning.”

“Honestly, I didn’t spend one nanosecond thinking it through,” I said. “I just reacted. It scares me now, though, thinking about it.” I shivered. “Especially if someone really does have it in for Toby. Which I know is not likely, but still…”

“You can quit the show,” Wally said, a worried look crossing his face. “If you’re that concerned.”

But by now I was way too invested to quit. I wanted to see which contestant won the contest, and then whether and how his or her career got launched with Peter Shapiro’s TV show. If one of these guys made it big—became the next Bobby Flay or Paula Deen or Jacques Pépin—I wanted to have been part of the process.

And I wanted to make sure Toby was okay. Wasn’t there a Chinese proverb that said once you’d saved someone’s life they were your responsibility forever?

“You don’t really mean that,” I said with a big grin. “And I swear I won’t do anything else that reckless. And honestly, I do think she overreacted.”

Wally finally gave up on the waitress and threaded through the crowd to the bar, squeezing in between an overweight man sipping an icy white drink topped with a paper umbrella and a skinny woman covered in blurry tattoos of birds and links of chains, drinking Coke.

“I’ll have three Key West pale ales,” we heard him tell the bartender. “Awful shame about Sam Rizzoli.”

“He’s smooth, isn’t he?” Danielle laughed.

“And he’s kinda cute in that silly shirt,” I said, squinting at the back of his neck, which had a sunburn that stopped just short of his new haircut. He probably wasn’t five inches taller than me, but there wasn’t a pinch of flab on him.

“I tried to talk him out of the company-shirt idea before he hired you,” said Danielle, “but it’s grown on me. At least during business hours.”

“You don’t look like a fresh case of hepatitis when you’re wearing yellow,” I said. “The way some others of us do.”

Wally came back to the table with our drinks. “I got a few snippets,” he said. “Rizzoli’s funeral is tomorrow. Private service for the family at Saint Mary Star of the Sea. But they’re having a memorial open to the public around lunchtime on the White Street Pier.”

“Any more word on who killed him?” I asked.

“I overheard the guy at the end of the bar say Rizzoli had some troubles with his wife recently.” Wally pointed through the crowd to a tall man with a faded Fast Buck Freddies ball cap and a dappled white and gray beard. “But I couldn’t hang around to hear what kind of troubles. And it’s hard to imagine his own wife hoisting him up the rigging, no matter how mad she was at him.”

“Somebody hated him,” said Danielle, and then turned to me. “Say, what’s happening with you and that adorable detective?”

Tears pricked my eyes, surprising me and bringing expressions of concern from both Wally and Danielle. I’d hoped I was over it—wishful thinking. Even I—champion of denial—wasn’t that good at sweeping disappointment under the rug. I ducked my head and took a big slug of beer. “His ex-wife is in town. I don’t know what that means, except I’m sure it’s curtains for me and him. They looked very cozy. And she’s a stunner.”

“You deserve better,” said Wally softly. He held my gaze for a minute and then changed the subject to a feature he wanted to write about literary Key West.

“Travel and Leisure did a nice piece about our town in 2009, but a lot’s changed. Not the history, of course—everyone knows about Hemingway and Tennessee Williams. But this place is rife with artists and writers. Do they come because they sense they can be a big fish in our small town? Would a painter who’s a big deal in Key West be a nothing in New York City? Or is there something about the atmosphere that nurtures creativity and brings out the best in artists and writers? We’re the insiders—we know this stuff better than anyone.”