Topped Chef(78)

Then the photo that Derek had taken of Rizzoli the night he died flashed into my brain. And the bizarre chain of events that must have led up to that photo—how Torrence said he was conked on the head, and then makeup was applied before he was hoisted up the mast. Who would even have access to the materials, or the facility with them? Who would even come up with that? And be angry enough to pull it off?

Randy might.

I remembered his furious face when Peter announced that the contest winner was Buddy Higgs. Winning meant everything to him. And Sam Rizzoli had been dead set against him from that first day the chefs were interviewed. Suppose Randy was already seething over his eviction. And then Sam Rizzoli made it clear he had no chance of winning the contest. Made it clear he would allow Randy to win over his dead body.

Literally.

I knew better than to confront Randy myself. With some reluctance, I called Officer Torrence. Pacing up and down the short Key Zest hallway, I explained what I’d learned about the connection between Randy and Rizzoli.

“The thing is, my judgment was all off on this one,” I said, “because I really liked Randy. And I loved his stage presence. And he made killer shrimp and grits.”

“It happens to everyone,” he said. “Likeability gets in the way of seeing the facts. Both personally and professionally,” he added. With special emphasis on personally, like he was trying to send me a message in code. Pig Latin, maybe.

Ansford-Bray is an erk-jay.





26


On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like lines on a Hostess cupcake.

—Hayley Snow



My heart wasn’t in the raucous bacchanal known as Duval Uncorked. Starting at one end of Duval Street or the other, each guest was given a small plastic wineglass to wear dangling from a lanyard around his or her neck, which served as the admission ticket to the event. Revelers stopped in at each of the participating restaurants and shops—sixty of them, up and down Duval—for hors d’oeuvres and a taste of wine.

A couple of hours into the evening, many of the participants would be staggering from too much alcohol, their taste buds dulled from too much food. I wasn’t much in the mood for drunken parties but a review of this event was on the editorial calendar for Monday’s issue of Key Zest, which would focus on a roundup of the events of the Food and Wine Festival. And Ava Faulkner, Wally’s co-publisher, would be watching that calendar like a turkey vulture, waiting to pick me off.

So I parked my scooter on Petronia and began to sip and taste, making notes for next week’s column. The pulled pork at Willie T’s was delicious, the cheese dip at an adjoining gallery barely superior to microwaved Velveeta. I gave up drinking after the first three sips, my tired brain already feeling addled by the stressful week and not refreshed by my short rest in the office. I waved a quick hello to a number of acquaintances, sprinkled among just as many strangers. If this event was like the Mallory Square Stroll that I’d attended earlier in the week, tourists traveled a long way to participate.

On the other side of the street, I spotted Trudy Bransford. She wore a pale yellow sundress that showed her deep tan to great advantage. My breathing kicked up a notch: The detective was with her, disguised as yet one more tourist in tan cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a moss green T-shirt. I knew the shirt would have perfectly reflected the color of his eyes, if he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses. If he’d been looking at me instead of at her. They were laughing so hard he spilled red wine from his plastic glass onto the sidewalk. And that only made them laugh harder. I’d never seen him so happy.

I ducked into 7 Artists to avoid being forced to wave hello, or even worse, to chat. Theoretically, I applauded his good fortune. But realistically, it turned my heart to granite.

In the process of inhaling a chip loaded with guacamole, I recognized Peter Shapiro’s voice at the wine-sampling table behind me. I turned to greet him—he looked jaunty and relaxed in white pants and a blue sport coat.

“Congrats on a great week,” I said, though to my ears, the words sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Thank you for your professionalism,” Peter said. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I understand that the candidate you preferred didn’t win and I appreciate your patience and honesty and—well, flexibility.”

If he’d heard the things that went on in my head, he would never have called me flexible.

“As it turned out, we might have had to be filming in prison, though, right?” he asked. “A friend called and said Randy Thompson was picked up for questioning in the murder of Sam Rizzoli.”