Topped Chef(57)

“That fat bastard,” said Mrs. Rizzoli’s friend.

“I don’t think I can do any more,” I whispered to Leigh.

“Almost there,” she said. “Ten seconds.”

“And the worst thing is, I did comfort him,” said Mrs. Rizzoli to her friend. “He’s off screwing another woman and I’m patting his hand.” She thumped the weights down to the floor. “And then I threw him out. Told him to go stay on his boat a few days—I needed some space.”

“You’d feel a lot worse if you’d acted angry and mean and then he went and got himself killed,” said the other woman. “Do the police have any news?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Rizzoli with a shrug of indifference I knew she couldn’t feel. “I believe they’ve cleared me of suspicion because they can’t imagine I could have hoisted him up onto the rigging.”

Her friend grinned. “They haven’t seen what you can do in this gym. I have to run—I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetie.” She bussed Mrs. Rizzoli’s cheek and hurried off toward the locker room.

“That’s it for today,” said Leigh, snapping my mind away from eavesdropping and my own agony. “We’ll meet the same time next week? Or we can step things up and make it twice a week?”

“Same time next week. If I don’t die from lactic acid poisoning after this session,” I said, only half-joking.

Leigh chuckled and pointed to the aerobic machines, lined up to the right of the desk where I’d checked in. “You should stop on the way out and put in fifteen minutes on the treadmill. When you come next week, get here early and you can warm up the same way.” She patted her own flat stomach. “Good for the heart, lungs, and waistline.”

I was about to tell her I’d put in more time working out when my mother served Thanksgiving gravy from a can, when I noticed that Mrs. Rizzoli had moved over to the machines. She was pumping the pedals of a stair-stepper, her tanned shoulders and chest glistening.

“Great idea, coach,” I said with a smart salute. Then I headed to the stationary bike, thinking that sitting down might feel like heaven. But I could barely lift my leg over the center bar of the bike.

“It gets easier,” said Mrs. Rizzoli, smiling as she watched me struggle. “I promise.”

“I sure hope so,” I said, smiling back. I punched in fifteen minutes on the bike’s computer, at an easy level, the lowest. When asked for my weight by the computer, I shaved seven pounds off and began to pedal. “I’m awfully sorry about your husband.”

She startled, as though she suspected I’d been listening in on her private conversation. Which I had. I began to pedal the bicycle.

“Mr. Rizzoli and I were serving together as judges in the Topped Chef Key West competition,” I added quickly, hoping to correct the impression that I was a snoop for no good reason. “I’m Hayley Snow. I was hoping I’d get the chance to talk to you because some weird things are happening with the contest. It’s hard not to worry that they’re connected with his murder.”

She took a long drink from her stainless steel bottle and increased her speed on the stair-stepping machine. She was barely breathing hard, but perspiration poured off her body and soaked her lavender top until it turned deep violet.

“I know he made some political enemies. You can’t help but do that working in the public sector,” I blundered on. “If you take a strong stand, you won’t please everyone. But it does seem possible that there’s a connection to the TV show. For instance, Randy Thompson said something about having a bad relationship with your husband.”

“Oh, Randy was a pain in his patootie,” she said, her fingers flicking the idea of him away like a mosquito. “Half the time Sam told me he didn’t pay the rent on his apartment and the other half he paid late. My husband finally had enough and gave him notice. I think he was supposed to get out by the end of the month.” She squinted and stared at me, her legs still churning on the stair-stepper. “You’re not suggesting he was angry enough to murder my husband? That seems a little extreme.”

“I’m not saying that, only wondering about the possibilities,” I said, sucking for air as my machine’s workout leaped up to a higher level.

“Who are you? Are you working with the police?” she asked.

“No, no. I work for Key Zest. Like I said, just gathering information. We all felt awful about what happened to your husband. And to be honest, we’re pretty scared, too. Could one of us be next? We have no idea.”