“Sorry,” I said. I hesitated, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Has there been any progress on the case? Anything you can tell me, I mean?”
Torrence sighed loudly, then said: “The preliminary report on Mr. Rizzoli’s autopsy is in. It appears that he didn’t die from hanging. He was killed by a blow from a blunt instrument, then dressed and made up, and then hoisted up into the rigging.”
“Someone put makeup on him after they killed him? That’s sick.”
“That’s the working theory. Not that any of it should have any bearing on your activities,” he warned. “I’m only telling you that because you’re morbidly curious and I figured you’d badger me until I gave up something. Chances are it’ll be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”
24
The amateurs are not going away, which restaurateurs once might have hoped, and they are making chefs nervous.
—Ike DeLorenzo
A wealthy Venezuelan man and his third wife had donated the use of their home for the final leg of the Topped Chef competition. Only blocks from Mrs. Rizzoli’s house on Washington Street, this place was twice as opulent and showy. Key West is known for tiny yards and adorable conch homes decorated with gingerbread trim and inviting front porches. But Juan Pisani had chosen to design and build a white stucco monstrosity surrounded by a black metal fence and elaborate plantings.
A card table had been set up on the porch outside the door underneath an enormous portico. Two volunteers in red shirts with TOPPED CHEF KEY WEST logos printed on them asked for my name and driver’s license. Behind them, just inside the foyer, a uniformed cop waited, partially hidden by the largest indoor ficus tree I’d ever seen.
“Got your A-team security here today,” I said with a chuckle as I handed over my license.
The volunteer studied my license and then pushed it back to me. “That’s right.” No return smile. She gave me a badge and explained that I was to wear it at all times while on the premises. Serious business.
I entered the house, gawking shamelessly at the leather and brass bar in the foyer and after that the expansive living room filled with leather furniture and African artwork. Nothing subtle about any of it. The ceilings swept up through two full floors and some of the potted palms reached three-quarters of the way to the top. Deena hurried past me as I was trying to decipher the meaning of a twisted metal sculpture. I tapped her arm and she whirled around to face me.
“Oh, it’s you.” She clapped a hand to her chest. “You startled me.” She looked me up and down and tweaked the fake pearls I’d put on to dress up my sleeveless black shift. “You clean up nice.”
“Thanks. Hey, I have some really good news,” I said. “The woman who took sick at the Mallory Square taste-off? Turns out she was allergic to star fruit. So nobody poisoned anybody.” I grinned but my cheer ebbed away when I saw the worry in her expression and a sheen of sweat gathering on her upper lip. This on a woman who considered perspiration a cardinal sin.
“What’s wrong?”
She glanced around the room and then beckoned for me to follow her into a small office adjacent to the living area. Once inside, she slid the mahogany pocket doors closed behind me and straightened the faux zebra-striped rug with her foot. “There’s been a threat against the show.”
“A threat? Good lord, what kind of threat?”
She held a finger to her lips. “We need to keep this quiet if we don’t want mass hysteria. But someone slipped a note under Peter’s door at his bed-and-breakfast during the night. The police have it now.”
“What did it say?” I hugged my arms around my torso, feeling suddenly chilled rather than pleasantly cool, as I had when I entered this palace.
“It looked childish—made of letters cut from a magazine. ‘Topped Chef Key West, where someone’s not making it back for seconds.’ The chief of police thinks it’s a fraud, but of course it has to be taken seriously. Hence, the extra security. All the guests will have their purses searched and ID’s checked.”
“Shouldn’t we cancel? It’s not worth continuing if someone else dies. My gosh,” I added, slinging my backpack off my shoulder and perching it on the shiny cherry desk, “no one looked at what I brought in.”
“What did you bring?” she asked, her eyes widening with worry.
“Nothing. But that’s not the point. I could have smuggled anything in. A gun. A knife. Anything. How would they know if no one is checking?”
“They are checking,” she said in a soothing voice. “But you’re one of the judges. Once they recognized your name, they would know you’re a good egg.” She smiled with encouragement. “We considered all the options, including canceling this episode of the show. The police mentioned that possibility to Peter, but they didn’t push it. And neither of us felt it was the right thing to do. Especially since the cops agreed to provide extra security.” She sighed. “We’ve come so far. We’re so close to the climax. We hate to bow to some fruitcake’s idea of a joke.”