“Yeah right. Assuming his hometown is ME ME ME,” muttered a man several rows back from the podium. “He never made a vote without first consulting his own interests. And the tie always went to Rizzoli.” From the rear, the man looked vaguely familiar, like someone whose picture I’d seen more than once in the local paper.
I edged around the pier until I had worked into a position where I could observe Rizzoli’s wife. Not that you could always tell what was going on by looking at the deceased’s closest relations. Sometimes a great show of mourning covered rage or revenge or even relief. But Mrs. Rizzoli looked pale and sad, swathed in a black dress that accentuated her slender figure, leaving bare her sculpted arms—impressive for what I estimated as her forty-something years. Enormous sunglasses covered much of her fine-boned face.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and, startled, I whirled around to face detective Nate Bransford. My already fast pulse hitched up another level. I mouthed “good morning” and turned back to the speaker, who was droning on about Rizzoli’s love for and support of the arts in Key West. If Nate hadn’t been feeling bad about the awkward incident with his ex yesterday, he might have demanded to know what the hell I was doing there.
But instead, he said: “Sorry to surprise you like that yesterday. It all came up kind of suddenly.”
I fluttered my fingers behind my back like his ex-wife’s appearance was no problem, no problem at all. And by the way, didn’t he have more important things to do here than make excuses to me? I refused to turn around to look at him a second time, because I could feel the heat in my face—I was sure it would not match that message.
He sighed heavily. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him move off through the crowd. He wore a dark navy blazer and a white-collared shirt and a narrow tie that he must have thought would help him blend in with the mourners. Instead all he needed was an earpiece to resemble the Secret Service. People parted to give him space as he headed toward the podium. He stopped about five paces away from the man I’d heard heckling the eulogist, scanning the crowd. I wondered if I was the only one from Topped Chef who’d come to the service.
After five speakers and a thank-you from Rizzoli’s brother on behalf of the entire family, an informal receiving line formed and I felt myself getting pushed forward to join it. I considered cutting away, but the crowd was too thick to make an easy escape without drawing the notice of the mourners.
The woman in front of me seized Mrs. Rizzoli’s hand and clutched it to her chest. “So sorry about your loss. I hope you got my phone message?” Both women burst into tears and hugged each other. There was a long pause as they disentangled themselves. Mrs. Rizzoli’s friend patted her cheek dry. “Can I do anything for you? Bring dinner? Call We Be Fit and let them know you won’t be in tomorrow?”
Mrs. Rizzoli adjusted the sunglasses that had been knocked askew in the big embrace and smiled. “We really have as much food as we can manage. As you can imagine, I have no appetite anyway. But thank you for the offer. And I do plan to go to the gym.” She chuckled grimly. “After all, Sam’s the one who died. I’m not dead yet.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow at ten?”
Mrs. Rizzoli nodded. “I’ll look forward to that.” She lowered her voice so I could barely catch the words. “I’m ready to burst here.”
When my turn came, I mumbled my condolences without mentioning how I knew her husband and bolted as quickly as I could. I hadn’t meant to get that close in the first place. Nate Bransford stepped in front of me while I was waiting to cross through the traffic streaming along Atlantic Boulevard to reach my scooter.
“Find any clues?” he asked with a hint of a smile.
“You’re the detective. What do you think?” I snipped back. I didn’t mean to sound quite so thorny, but a protective barrier of prickliness had slid into place as soon as I saw him. I didn’t want to show him how disappointed I’d felt, seeing his wife in his office and noticing the sparks that snapped between them.
“Officer Torrence told me he spoke to you at length yesterday,” he said, sidestepping my question.
I tried to read his expression, but the only thing I could see in the dark lenses of his sunglasses was my reflection. Had Torrence told him how I’d wept? How humiliating that would be…
“I want to underscore his advice—you’re not on the case, Hayley. You need to leave the police work to the professionals. Rizzoli’s death was brutal and personal. Whoever killed him is a dangerous criminal who would not hesitate to kill again to protect his secrets. Do you understand?”