Topped Chef(54)

Connie poured me a big glass of white wine and patted my hand. “Eat. We’ve all been so busy here, we haven’t had a chance to hammer out some of these details. Thank goodness Janet’s willing to goose us along a bit.”

“I knew you girls would get around to it,” Mom said. “But I have more time on my hands than you do.”

I slumped down and began to shovel in the food. Who could argue with her logic?

“We worked out three dates when I could fly to Miami to shop for the dress,” Mom continued. “You and Connie can decide when it’s convenient to drive up and meet me. It’s less than two months away now—way too late for a special order. But Connie’s so tiny, I’m sure we’ll find something lovely. And a dress for the maid of honor, too.” She winked at me.

Ray moaned and stood up, heading to the galley. He clattered his dish into the sink. “Speaking of which, I need to get to work or we’ll never be able to afford all these wedding gewgaws.” He stopped to ruffle Connie’s hair. “Are you sure we can’t just be friends?”

Mom giggled. Had she told him the story about my father’s panic?

Connie slapped his hand away and gave him a little push. “Sit down, you silly man. Getting married was all your idea. We’re almost finished here.”

“Whatever happened to the taste-off?” Mom asked me. “We never thought you’d get here so soon. And we certainly never thought you’d show up hungry.”

“Most of the food ended up getting packed up in trash bags to be taken to the police department. One of the guests took ill after eating what the chefs prepared. You can’t imagine what a disaster that was—an ambulance, angry chefs, and hordes and hordes of hysterical tourists watching the whole event come unraveled.”

“Good lord, Hayley,” said Miss Gloria. “Was it some kind of allergic reaction?”

I shrugged and finished chewing a mouthful of vegetable lo mein. “The medical people looked worried, for what that’s worth. They whisked this woman and her friend off in an ambulance.” I explained how she had been among the first to score a small plate that contained samples of each of the contestants’ dishes. “Obviously, you think about nuts first, since some people have such a deadly reaction.”

“I bet I took your father to the ER ten times over the ten years we were married,” said Mom. “If you’re a grown man and terribly allergic, wouldn’t you think you’d ask about peanuts before you ate a strange dish? Even a nice restaurant can make a mistake.”

“But there were no nuts on the ingredients table,” I said, trying to divert my mother from a rant about Dad’s flaws. Especially in front of Sam. “Shapiro and company would never take a risk like that.”

“But you don’t think there was something wrong with the food?” asked Miss Gloria. She discarded a barbecued rib on her plate that had been gnawed down to bare bone.

“I can’t imagine that there was,” I said, scraping the last bite of General Tso’s chicken onto my plate. “We three judges sampled everything before this spectator took sick. But I’m positive the police will be testing for poison, just in case.”

“Certainly the reality show staff wouldn’t have tainted the food—that would totally ruin the show,” my mother said.

“And the legal repercussions would be staggering,” added her boyfriend. He shrugged and added: “Sorry. I can’t help myself. I’m a lawyer.”

“And a good one, too,” said Mom, picking up one of their white cartons. “More fried rice?”

“Thank you. Just a soupçon.” Sam patted his stomach and beamed.

Lordy, lord. I’d encouraged my mother to date but I hadn’t thought through what it might feel like to watch her in a blossoming romance.

“Peter Shapiro, the director, was livid,” I said. “He suspects sabotage, but then he’s been kind of paranoid all week.”

“Well,” said Connie, “if you wanted to knock out a certain rival, one sure way would be to poison the food they’d prepared and make their fans ill. Though you might run the risk that they’d earn a certain sympathy vote.”

“And how would you know who was going to eat the doctored plate?” asked Mom.

“Maybe you wouldn’t care,” said her boyfriend. “Maybe that’s not the point.”

Mom frowned. She had a hard time thinking the worst of people, except occasionally my father. “Tell us about the contestants again.”

I started with Henri. “It seems like she’s been antsy ever since she had to sell her restaurant in Miami Beach. Not that I’ve talked to her at all this week—she’s still pissed at me because I suspected her of murdering Kristin Faulkner.” I bit into the lone remaining egg roll, not that I needed more calories. But eating helped me think. I corralled the snippets of information I’d noticed over the past few days and tried to piece them together in my mind. “She badly wants to win, even though she’s not saying that directly as much as the other two. Her career is stalled—you can see it in her eyes.”