the Topped Chef contest. If only I hadn’t nosed into the galley, I scolded myself. Really, it was too late to worry.
Out on the deck, the same two beefy men grasped my elbows and lifted me off the boat and onto the gangplank. They weren’t taking any chances with tipsy guests ending up in the harbor. I thanked them and began to poke through the pile of shoes left on the dock, looking for my sandals.
“Hayley, is that you?” a familiar voice asked. Toby Davidson, her voice sounding more reedy and anxious than this morning. I slid my feet into my shoes and turned to greet her.
“Did you enjoy the tasting?” she asked as I buckled my sandals.
“It was fun,” I said. “Not something I’d want to do every night. There wasn’t a vegetable to be seen, though I got acquainted with lots of butter and the excellent proceeds of a deep-fat fryer. And all that reminded me of our contestant Randy Thompson.” Isnickered. “He’s cute, isn’t he? Though I don’t imagine we’re supposed to be comparing notes off the set.” I wondered whether to mention seeing Buddy Higgs in the yacht’s galley. Probably best left unsaid.
Toby gave a weak smile while her gaze probed the surrounding darkness. “Do you have a minute?”
Though I was tired and my stomach had started to churn a little, she looked so worried that I nodded.
She motioned to me to follow her a little distance away from the yacht to a bench near a large cement trash barrel. The sounds of diners partying on the yacht caromed across the bight and strings of fairy lights outlining the handrails and portholes made it look more magical than it had felt onboard. On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like the wavy lines on a Hostess cupcake.
“I don’t know who else to talk with about this.” A wisp of brown hair blew across Toby’s forehead. She unclasped a barrette and recaptured the flyaway, then leaned forward to whisper. “I’ve been thinking. After the police talked with us earlier about Sam Rizzoli?”
The rat-tat-tat of firecrackers in the distance rattled through the air and Toby startled.
I nodded again. “It was a hard day. I’m not sure it was a good decision to go forward with the taping. We did the best we could, though, right? What are the chances this silly business will amount to anything anyway?”
“Oh no,” she said, her eyes widening. “You’re underestimating the situation. This type of show is very, very popular. With all the tourists who visit this islandand fall in love with it, I have no doubt that a Key West Topped Chef show could be a major winner. This could easily get picked up by the Food Network or even one of the majors on prime time.” She squared her shoulders. “I have no doubt at all. That’s why I’m so worried.” She fell silent, her lips trembling. A gust of wind wafted over us, scented with the odors of old cigarettes and discarded food from the nearby trash can.
“Worried?” I prompted her after several moments.
“You’ll think I sound like a nut.” She glanced around, frowning. “Do you mind walking a bit? I’m not comfortable here.”
I wasn’t that comfortable either—we were no more than a stone’s throw from my ex’s apartment. It would only take one sighting to make him believe—again—that I was stalking him. We got up and wound our way through the happy residual crowds from the Food and Wine Festival, and headed toward Mallory Square.
Just outside the Westin’s outdoor restaurant, the cat man was boxing up the paraphernalia from his nightly show. He looked drained, which made me think about how much energy he must expend to keep his cats in line while entertaining visiting tourists in his falsetto French accent. Several felines waited by the water’s edge, silent and ghostly in their cages. Evinrude would have hated the confinement. And the whole business of leaping through fiery hoops, climbing rope steps, and
Out on the deck, the same two beefy men grasped my elbows and lifted me off the boat and onto the gangplank. They weren’t taking any chances with tipsy guests ending up in the harbor. I thanked them and began to poke through the pile of shoes left on the dock, looking for my sandals.
“Hayley, is that you?” a familiar voice asked. Toby Davidson, her voice sounding more reedy and anxious than this morning. I slid my feet into my shoes and turned to greet her.
“Did you enjoy the tasting?” she asked as I buckled my sandals.
“It was fun,” I said. “Not something I’d want to do every night. There wasn’t a vegetable to be seen, though I got acquainted with lots of butter and the excellent proceeds of a deep-fat fryer. And all that reminded me of our contestant Randy Thompson.” Isnickered. “He’s cute, isn’t he? Though I don’t imagine we’re supposed to be comparing notes off the set.” I wondered whether to mention seeing Buddy Higgs in the yacht’s galley. Probably best left unsaid.
Toby gave a weak smile while her gaze probed the surrounding darkness. “Do you have a minute?”
Though I was tired and my stomach had started to churn a little, she looked so worried that I nodded.
She motioned to me to follow her a little distance away from the yacht to a bench near a large cement trash barrel. The sounds of diners partying on the yacht caromed across the bight and strings of fairy lights outlining the handrails and portholes made it look more magical than it had felt onboard. On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like the wavy lines on a Hostess cupcake.
“I don’t know who else to talk with about this.” A wisp of brown hair blew across Toby’s forehead. She unclasped a barrette and recaptured the flyaway, then leaned forward to whisper. “I’ve been thinking. After the police talked with us earlier about Sam Rizzoli?”
The rat-tat-tat of firecrackers in the distance rattled through the air and Toby startled.
I nodded again. “It was a hard day. I’m not sure it was a good decision to go forward with the taping. We did the best we could, though, right? What are the chances this silly business will amount to anything anyway?”
“Oh no,” she said, her eyes widening. “You’re underestimating the situation. This type of show is very, very popular. With all the tourists who visit this islandand fall in love with it, I have no doubt that a Key West Topped Chef show could be a major winner. This could easily get picked up by the Food Network or even one of the majors on prime time.” She squared her shoulders. “I have no doubt at all. That’s why I’m so worried.” She fell silent, her lips trembling. A gust of wind wafted over us, scented with the odors of old cigarettes and discarded food from the nearby trash can.
“Worried?” I prompted her after several moments.
“You’ll think I sound like a nut.” She glanced around, frowning. “Do you mind walking a bit? I’m not comfortable here.”
I wasn’t that comfortable either—we were no more than a stone’s throw from my ex’s apartment. It would only take one sighting to make him believe—again—that I was stalking him. We got up and wound our way through the happy residual crowds from the Food and Wine Festival, and headed toward Mallory Square.
Just outside the Westin’s outdoor restaurant, the cat man was boxing up the paraphernalia from his nightly show. He looked drained, which made me think about how much energy he must expend to keep his cats in line while entertaining visiting tourists in his falsetto French accent. Several felines waited by the water’s edge, silent and ghostly in their cages. Evinrude would have hated the confinement. And the whole business of leaping through fiery hoops, climbing rope steps, and
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