Topped Chef(59)

“We’re finding vacation to be a little boring.” Eric laughed. “We may even come home early. What’s new down there?”

“What isn’t new?” I hated to dump everything on him at once—he didn’t know about the Topped Chef contest, Rizzoli’s hanging, or all the events that had unfolded after. I’d have to ease him into it. “You’ll never guess where I just came from.”

“The police department? The county jail? Detective Bransford’s yacht?”

“Very funny,” I said. “None of the above. The gym. My first personal training session.”

After he’d squawked in disbelief and feigned admiration, I admitted how I’d really made the appointment hoping to learn something about Rizzoli’s murder. And then I summarized the hanging, Toby’s near-drowning, and the disaster at the Mallory Square cook-off. Eric was pretty much speechless by the time I finished.

“So someone strung him up wearing pirate drag?” he asked. “Why in the world was he left like that?”

“Torrence asked the same thing. And Bransford, too. Randy Thompson thinks the killer was pointing to the drag queen community.” I sighed. “Whoever did this was ruthless, and maybe crazy.”

“And terribly angry,” Eric said. “You need to keep your distance.”

I sighed again and stretched out on the wooden bench, breathing a mixture of salty harbor air and dryer vent odors. “I’m in the thick of it, ready or not.”

“What did Mrs. Rizzoli say?”

“She’s a funny person. She was telling her friend how her husband cheated on her, yet at the same time he seemed to want her sympathy. And she says she gave it to him.”

“You don’t believe her?”

A couple of seagulls landed near the trash can and began to squabble over a partially eaten sandwich. “Maybe. But why would any woman be solicitous after her husband tells her he’s having an affair? Why wasn’t she furious?”

“Makes a good story though, doesn’t it?” Eric mused. “Especially when the cops are nosing around looking for murder motives. Gets her off the hook, right? Speaking of cops, what’s happening with Bransford?”

I covered my eyes with one hand and groaned, then drew my knees up to my chest to ease the strain in my back. There had been a lot going on over the past few days and I was feeling it settle hard in my sacrum. “We’ve ground to a halt. His ex has arrived in town and they looked very cozy.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, not even asking for the gory details.

“You never did like him much, did you?”

“I tried,” said Eric, “because you liked him. From a friend’s point of view, I couldn’t help finding him standoffish and condescending. Hang on, I’ll be right there,” he said to someone talking to him. “Listen, Bill’s calling me to get moving. I think we’ll be back day after tomorrow. But call me if you need me. For anything, okay?”

I hung up feeling slightly less lonely, but utterly disappointed in Bransford. I knew Eric wasn’t crazy about him, but it still stung to hear the unvarnished truth. Shoving that thought away, I turned back to mulling over what I’d heard from Rizzoli’s wife. Just how angry was she at her husband?

I had plenty of time before I had to shower and dress to return to the Studios of Key West, so I decided to run back over to the old harbor. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered how in the world Rizzoli had been hoisted up into the rigging without anyone noticing. And who’d finally seen him and called it in? I hadn’t heard anything about that. Two days after the murder and there were still no leads? That was hard to believe.

Quite possibly the two guys I’d talked with at the harbor—Turtle and Derek—had not told me their whole story. And if they hadn’t told me, they certainly wouldn’t have told the cops. Derek just on principle, because the cops were authorities and he’d come to this island to shed as much big-brother baggage as possible. And Turtle because he hadn’t had a good interaction with the police the whole six months he’d lived on the island. And probably a long time before that.

What else might they have noticed—and held back?

Muscles complaining, I struggled back onto my scooter, buzzed across town, and parked it at the rear of the Schooner Wharf Bar. My body was starting to scream for caffeine and calories, so I trotted over to what used to be called the European Village Cafe, now Key West Munchies, next to Kermit’s Key Lime Shop. A cute young man with a Russian accent took my order for a café con leche, extra sugar. While the milk steamed and the TV chattered in Russian, my stomach began a serious rumble. Telling myself I’d been planning to review this place anyway, I added two Cuban sandwiches to my order, one for me and one for Turtle in case I found him.