Topped Chef(66)

“So someone’s told you a stretcher,” said Miss Gloria, one arthritic finger waggling. “If it was me, I’d go back to her with the new information and lay it all out.”

“You’ve become quite the little detective,” I said with a laugh, piling clean bowls onto the counter. I fished a dish towel from the linens drawer and began to dry. “You’d just show up at her house?”

“We could go see her now,” said my roommate, nodding eagerly. “Once the cupcakes are out. We’ll surprise her and she’ll spill all she knows.” She whipped a phone book out of the bookcase that was tucked under the bench, laid it open on the kitchen table, and paged through until she found Rizzoli’s address. “They live in Casa Marina. We could be there in no time.”

I frowned and wiped the clean counter dry. “Your son would kill me. He brought me onboard to look after you, not chase around the island after criminals.”

“He’d never know,” she said, zipping a finger across her lips. “Besides, I’d just be along for company,” she said. “And courage.”

I thought this over as I settled the clean dishes back on their shelves. No way Mrs. Rizzoli had really killed her husband. She was strong, but I didn’t believe she was dangerous. But on the other hand, there was a very good chance she was harboring a secret connected to his death. Something she hadn’t revealed to the cops—either because it was too embarrassing or she believed it wasn’t related. Or both.

“How do you feel about riding on the back of a scooter?” I asked, grinning.

“Hot dog!” she said. “Let me get a sweater.”

“And you’ll stay on the bike and let me do the talking?”

She nodded again.

Once the cupcakes were out of the oven and cooling on the stove, I found the spare helmet I’d bought when my mother was visiting and ran a comb through my curls. At the last minute, I frosted four of the still-warm cupcakes and packed them into a Tupperware container. Though the melting icing was not quite up to my usual standards, I preferred not to show up empty-handed to a family in mourning. Then I drove slowly over to the Casa Marina neighborhood, Miss Gloria clutching my waist with both hands and the cupcakes nestled in the crate over the rear wheel.

“Don’t let’s go on Truman Avenue,” she said. “Mrs. Dubisson says it’s under construction—an accident waiting to happen.”

“I won’t,” I said, trying to imagine Mrs. D on a scooter on one of the busiest streets in town.

The Rizzoli home on Washington Street was a stunner—an enormous white stucco estate just blocks from the Atlantic Ocean and Flagler’s famous Casa Marina Resort. The lawn alone was larger than many of the homes in town, and the stands of tropical vegetation rivaled what I’d seen done by the garden club. A new white Mercedes sat in the driveway in front of the three-car garage, parked behind a bright yellow Hummer.

“Why would you even want a vehicle that’s wider than half the streets in the city?” Miss Gloria wondered. “Haven’t they heard of global warming?”

“Some people still don’t get it,” I said. I hopped off the scooter, took the cupcakes from Miss Gloria, and ran up the stairs to ring the bell. Mrs. Rizzoli came to the door after a long pause. She saw the cupcakes first, and it took her a moment to place me.

“You’re too kind,” she said politely, as I expressed condolences again and handed over the baked goods. She set them down on an occasional table just inside the door

“Who is it?” called an older woman’s querulous voice from down the hall.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Miss Gloria, suddenly materializing next to me. She’d removed her helmet and her white hair stood up like an angry cat’s. “But we have something to ask you about Buddy Higgs.”

Mrs. Rizzoli frowned and tried to shut the door, but Miss Gloria’s sneakered foot wedged it open. “Probably better to tell us ladies than spill the whole embarrassing episode to the police,” she said, ignoring my warning glare and my hand, clamped firmly on her wrist.

“Who is it?” the voice called again from the living room.

“A friend from the gym, Mother,” Mrs. Rizzoli answered. “I won’t be a minute.” She came out onto the portico, closed the door behind her, and folded her arms across her bosom, glowering. “What do you want?”

“It’s about Buddy Higgs,” I said. “We’ve discovered that you lied, saying that you don’t know him. He told me the truth today.”