“But aren’t you worried about the food getting tainted—for real this time?” I asked her.
“I shopped for everything personally,” Deena said. “Every grain of salt, every stick of butter, every length of pasta. And it hasn’t been out of my sight since I left the grocery store.”
“How about right now?”
Deena smiled. “We have a volunteer stationed in the pantry and two more in the kitchen. And there are at least two cops in street clothes on the premises. We wouldn’t proceed if we thought anyone was in danger.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. But I know you’re a good observer so I wanted you to keep your eyes open. Let me know right away if you notice anything weird. Okay?”
“I guess.” I shrugged my pack back onto my shoulder and followed her into the living room, which had begun to fill with guests sipping champagne from plastic flutes, even though it was well before noon.
We threaded through the crowd and finally arrived at the kitchen—a fabulous, futuristic, open-air kitchen that might have been designed for this very affair. A central island at least four yards long held a six-burner stainless stovetop, set in pink granite. It made Miss Gloria’s propane stove look as though it came from Barbie’s Dream House, circa 1980. Behind the stove against the window were double sinks and the biggest stainless steel refrigerator I’d ever seen, surrounded by more yards of gorgeous granite. The other wall of the kitchen was constructed of sliding glass doors so the room could be opened to a vast interior courtyard containing a pool, a hot tub, and enough foliage to keep an army of landscapers busy. Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the courtyard for the studio audience.
While the guests were getting settled and I was looking around, Toby and Chef Adam were seated on stools facing the stove and then attacked by the makeup artist bearing oil-absorbing powder. Up close they looked dusty like a dry roadbed with all that makeup, but the camera would love them. Bright spotlights had been positioned near the ceiling, casting beams of hot light onto the work surface. The three chef candidates hovered in the pantry off the back of the kitchen. Every person involved with the show looked anxious, from the contestants to the judges to the lead cameraman.
Peter emerged from the people in the courtyard and entered the kitchen. “Chop, chop, people!” he called. “Take your places. The final episode of Topped Chef Key West–style is about to begin.” The theme song from Oliver! began to play from the home’s fancy speakers, both out in the courtyard and inside the kitchen. The audience quickly took seats.
I sat at the counter between Chef Adam and Toby, clipped on my microphone, and submitted to a quick face powdering. Rivulets of sweat began to run down my back and chest. Behind us, I could hear the guests rustling and murmuring. I felt vulnerable and tense; I remembered hearing how a judge who handled high-profile criminal cases always sat with his back to the wall in case some loony tunes came after him with a gun.
He would not have agreed to sit on this stool.
“Welcome, welcome!” Peter called, once everyone was in place. The music faded away. “We are so pleased to present the final, thrilling installment of our contest. You’ve seen our contestants interviewed. You’ve heard about their visions for a Key West wedding and tasted their party specialties. You’ve watched as they pulled together a meal from secret ingredients.” He rubbed his palms with feigned anticipation—or was it real? “Tonight we crown the Topped Chef of Key West! Tonight we choose the chef who will take his or her interpretation of island delicacies and spread the word to the world. This episode is all about romancing the audience. Are you ready to be swept off your feet?”
The courtyard audience roared. But inside the kitchen, the tension was palpable, as if we were all waiting for one more awful thing to happen. Peter addressed the chefs, who had gathered in a knot to the left of the double sinks. “Chefs, are you ready to leap from the frying pan into the fire?”
“Ready!” yelped Randy.
The other two merely nodded.
“We’ve drawn lots to select the order in which you will cook. We’ll begin with chef Randy Thompson, followed by chef Henrietta Stentzel, and finally, chef Buddy Higgs will close the competition.”
Randy stepped up to the counter, as the other two retreated to the pantry. “Thank you for that wonderful introduction—I adore a good romance.” He winked at the camera and began to belt out the words from the song Peter had chosen as the show’s theme. “Food, glorious food,” he warbled as he organized his dinner ingredients. “We’re all anxious to try it!”