“Every time I think we’re getting started, another case comes along and somehow I get involved and mess things up and he gets mad.” I blew out a heavy sigh. “Although this time was even worse because his ex showed up. She’s a knockout and she makes him laugh. So I think we’re pretty much a bust.”
She reached across the table to touch my cheek, exactly where my face had scraped along the pavement. And where a slash of brown shadow on her face created the illusion of carved cheekbones. “Don’t give up so easily. I know a thing or two about what men like. I could help with your makeup for example. And cleavage, girlfriend. Men love cleavage.” She laughed and batted her long false eyelashes.
“Of course, you’ll never look like me. And where the detective’s concerned, that’s probably not a bad thing.”
* * *
I was relaxing on the deck of Miss Gloria’s houseboat with a glass of wine and my foot propped up on the railing when I saw a figure coming down the finger, headed for our boat. I was already tired from a stream of solicitous visitors today—Deena, who apologized for putting me in danger. Toby Davidson, who brought a signed copy of her memoir to read during my convalescence. And Chef Adam with a gift certificate for a return visit to his restaurant.
This time it was Detective Bransford. Dressed like a professional cop, not his absurd imitation of a tourist. My heart fluttered, but the rest of me stood on alert, ready for bad news if it came. And my roiling stomach told me that it would.
“Come have a seat,” I said when he reached our boat, trying to sound casual and upbeat. Not utterly rattled, the way I felt. I patted the cushion on the chair beside me. “Would you like a drink?”
He shook his head, remained on the dock. “Can’t stay.” He pushed his sunglasses up above his forehead, peering at my face. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nodded, my hand touching my cheek, exactly where Victoria had touched it an hour earlier.
“I’m sorry we didn’t put things together sooner. Once your friend Turtle regained consciousness, he started mumbling like a crazy man. How he’d seen the big guy with the white beard hoisting the pirate up the mast. And how the man had beaten him senseless after he offered to keep quiet in exchange for a couple packs of cigarettes.”
“He is crazy off his meds, poor guy; I’d think you trained professionals would recognize that.”
“We were a little late, I admit,” he said with a nod. “When I went over to interview him Saturday morning, among his other ramblings, like I said, he mentioned a big guy with a white beard. After I passed you on Duval Street with Shapiro, the pieces fell into place. I called for backup and ran after you, but by the time I reached Petronia Street, he was already on the back of your scooter and you were riding away.” He grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. “We were right behind you. We would have stopped him before anything happened.”
“But I didn’t know that,” I said fiercely. “I couldn’t count on someone swooping in to save my bacon.” If he was going to blame me for wiping out…
“You did what you thought you had to,” he said. “Shapiro confessed this morning when one of our officers confronted him with the goods on his financials. He was deep in a hole—bankruptcy, foreclosure on two homes, three ex-wives suing him for alimony and increases in child support.”
“So he was desperate about coming up with a show that would be a hit,” I said.
“Then it turns out that Buddy Higgs’s uncle is a network executive. He promised Shapiro a job and a show, if he could deliver the right man as the star of Topped Chef.”
“Buddy Higgs,” I said. “Henri Stentzel didn’t have the zip to carry off hosting a show. And Randy was simply too risky. Even if he was the best chef in the world, Peter must have worried about his sponsors.”
“It wasn’t just what was right for the show—it was nepotism, pure and simple. Shapiro thought he’d picked a panel of judges who would agree that Buddy Higgs had what it took to go all the way. But Sam wouldn’t promise to follow the script. So he added you to the judges’ roster, just for insurance. That night after the first taping, Shapiro went to see Sam on his boat. They got stinking drunk and dressed up in Sam’s Fantasy Fest costumes. But the drunker Sam got, the more he dug his heels in about voting for whomever he wanted. Shapiro says Rizzoli chased him up to the deck and then came at him with a knife. He hit him with the bottle of Jim Beam in self-defense. That’s what killed him.”
“Self-defense? A likely story,” I said. “The jury will have to figure that one out. How did he end up hanging from the mast?”