Topped Chef(68)

“But does he have a temper?”

“Yes,” she admitted, one hand floating to her lips. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’d say he’s more likely to turn the anger inside when he’s frustrated, and then self-destruct.”

I didn’t want to come right out and say it, but wouldn’t murdering someone be the ultimate form of self-destruction? A prison term for life? There wouldn’t be many cutting-edge cooking opportunities in the federal penitentiary.





22


The moon glided out from its cover of clouds, causing sparkles of light to dance on the water like a thousand pearls of tapioca.

— Hayley Snow, Topped Chef



After returning to Tarpon Pier and parking the scooter, we met Eric and his dog coming down the finger of our dock.

“You ladies are out late,” Eric said, at the same time the little Yorkie yipped his own greeting and threw himself at my legs.

“I’m so happy to see you!” I rushed up to give him a big hug and then scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“We were doing some detective work,” said Miss Gloria, looking smug.

Eric looked at me and I rolled my eyes. “I decided it was worth talking to Mrs. Rizzoli because we caught her in a lie. Miss Gloria was supposed to be along for the ride, but she couldn’t keep out of it.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Eric. “Who taught her everything she knows?”

“And she turns out to be quite a good ‘good cop,’” I said, slinging an arm around Miss Gloria’s shoulders; she shivered with pleasure and beamed. “Do you have time to come in and try a key lime cupcake? We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did someone say cupcake?” Eric answered, and then patted his belly. “I’ve missed your cooking. Maybe I even lost a pound or two while we were away.”

Once we were all settled in the kitchen, the cats closed off in Miss Gloria’s bedroom to avoid double-team attacks on Eric’s little dog, and cupcakes and steaming tea on the table, I caught him up on what had gone on this evening.

“Mrs. Rizzoli claimed she never knew Buddy Higgs, but that turned out to be a lie,” I said. “The truth is she had an affair with him.”

“Which we think was a reaction to her husband’s infidelity. Mrs. R claims her husband didn’t care one way or another whether she slept with another man but that’s hard for me to swallow,” said Miss Gloria. “Even in these modern days, doesn’t a marriage mean anything?”

“Agreed,” Eric said, as he bit into his cupcake. He closed his eyes for a second to chew and swallow and then blinked his eyes open. “Hayley, these are outstanding.”

“Good enough for Connie’s wedding?”

“Definitely. These could steal the show,” he said. “Who was Sam Rizzoli’s girlfriend?”

Miss Gloria and I looked at each other. “She didn’t say. And we didn’t think to ask.”

“Whoever she is, I’m sure the cops are checking her out, because she’d make an obvious suspect.”

“Oh my,” said Miss Gloria. “What if he was going to dump the mystery girlfriend and go back to his wife? What if she’d rather see him dead than allow that?”

“Did you say that Henri Stentzel is one of the chefs?” Eric popped the last bite of lime cake into his mouth and licked the icing off his fingers. “Isn’t she the woman you thought murdered Chad’s girlfriend?”

I nodded. “She’s still angry about that—and she lets me see that every chance we have to interact. And believe me, I’ve gone out of my way to be complimentary about what she cooks.”

“She’s probably not the killer, but hopefully the cops won’t overlook her just because you mis-fingered her last time.” He took a sip of tea. “What about the other judges?”

“Wally and Danielle and I had dinner at Chef Adam’s restaurant this week. The food was very, very good, by the way. He came out to talk with us after the meal. None of us got a scary vibe, even though he has that haughty superchef air about him.”

“And the third judge?” Eric asked.

“Toby Davidson,” I said. “She’s the one who’s worried all along that someone might be picking us off, one by one.”

“If there were no judges left, there would be no contest,” he said. “Even one more death would kill the project, I imagine. Would anyone want that outcome?”

I shook my head. “Me.” I grinned. “Not the killing part, but ending the dumb project.”

I went to get my computer and typed “Toby Davidson author” into the search bar. Hundreds of links came up, many to reviews of her memoir, but also to articles about cooking that she’d written for magazines and posted on her baking blog.