Topped Chef(55)
“How’s her cooking?” Connie asked.
“Her food was okay,” I said. “Nothing that would win a prize today.” I thought for another minute. “Buddy Higgs is into molecular gastronomy.” Sam looked puzzled. “It’s complicated,” I told him. “Nothing ordinary people want to eat.” I frowned. “But I don’t know enough about Buddy personally to be able to say whether he’d sabotage someone else to get ahead. And Randy seems sweet, but he wants to win as much as anyone.”
Not as much as anyone, I thought, remembering our conversation in Aqua. More.
“I always wondered who’d be willing to go on reality television,” said Mom’s beau. “You have to be prepared to make a complete fool of yourself in public.”
“Tell me about it,” I groaned, reaching for the fried rice.
After I’d polished off every bite of the Chinese food and we’d signed off with my mother, I whipped out my smartphone to show the pirate wedding photos to Connie and Ray. “Of course this is totally your call,” I said, “and as the maid of honor, I will do anything you ask of me. But I think these people look a little silly.” Not a little silly, a lot.
Ray took the phone and flashed through the pictures. “Ahoy, matey,” he boomed to Connie in a resonant pirate voice, “wilt thou be my wench for life?”
She did not laugh.
“Okay, okay, I bow to the wishes of my bride. Buy a gown and whatever you want me to wear—I won’t complain.”
She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you! I swear you won’t look like a monkey. And I’ll stick to the budget.”
“I got some great ideas for the reception, too,” I said. “I’ll make the key lime cupcakes tomorrow and see what you think.”
“I hope you don’t mind that your mom got involved,” Connie said, talking fast. “She started asking me about the plans and I panicked a little about how much there is to do. And it makes me feel less bereft to have her interested.” She paused. “I miss my mother so much.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “She loves a project. And she’s so thrilled about you and Ray. And there’s certainly enough of her to go around—I’m happy to share.” We hugged, both a little teary-eyed, and they headed up the dock.
“I’ll clean up,” I said to Miss Gloria, who looked worn out.
“I love your family,” she said. “Doesn’t Sam seem like a perfect match for your mother?” She sighed a big happy sigh and went off to bed. It was hard to stay annoyed with a mother whom everyone adored.
Once I’d cleaned up the dishes and cleared away the trash, I stretched out on Miss Gloria’s living room floor to rest my back. Between the memorial service and my phony visit to the gym and the stress of the tasting disaster, every disk and nerve in my spinal cord was crying for mercy. Imagine how I’d be feeling if I’d actually exercised. I eased the phone out of my back pocket and put a call into Deena.
“No real news here,” she said as soon as she answered. “The woman is in fair condition in the ICU, getting flooded with IV fluids. The police packed up every bit of food we had on the set to run tests, but it could be days before we have an answer.” She sighed. “And as you well know, the hundred-fifty-a-plate fundraiser is set for tomorrow. We’ve already had calls from people wanting refunds or wondering if the event will be cancelled.”
“What’s Peter saying?” I asked.
“A lot of words that wouldn’t be fit to print. Basically, he’s crazed. That’s the only way to describe it. As long as no one dies, he thinks we can edit the tape we’ve got and save the episode. If we don’t go forward with the final leg, he loses three-quarters of his camera crew because they are committed to other shows next week. Plus I have to go back to the office on Monday. Chad has a big, ugly divorce trial coming up and there’s no way he can spare me longer than that.”
“We have to finish then,” I said. “Do you think anyone checked the trash cans around the Westin? Is it possible that someone subbed a tainted ingredient into the mix on the counter—and then when the woman fell ill, switched the bad stuff for the good?”
“You could come up with a thousand scenarios,” Deena said. “But why? Why ruin the show?”
I hung up and texted Torrence, asking him to call me tomorrow. Then I considered getting back on my scooter to buzz over and check the trash cans around Mallory Square. That idea lasted about ten seconds as I pictured myself sorting through all the nasty garbage from tonight’s sunset celebration, in the company of one or more hungry homeless folks. Instead I went off to bed.