walking tightropes as the show cats did? My cat was handsome and clever, but he liked to do what he wanted, when it suited him. No matter how many glistening entrails were offered as bribes. I had to admire the cat man’s skills.
By the time we had crossed the wooden bridge behind the aquarium, the crowds had thinned to almost nothing, and we headed toward the water. The square was mostly deserted, streetlights casting a dim glow on the empty brick courtyard. Although the portable conch fritter stand had been rolled away for the night, I could smell the lingering odor of hot oil. A red plastic cup skittered by, causing us both to jump. Lorenzo had set his table up in the distance, not far from the bright yellow Ocean Key Resort. Two tall candles (more likely Coleman lanterns) framed his station. He was deep in conversation with a customer so I didn’t bother to wave. In the opposite corner of the square, a small group of men drank and talked, too far away for us to make out their conversation, or for them to hear us. Probably my homeless friend, Tony, and some of his buddies.
“I wonder,” said Toby, her voice so low I could barely catch the words, “whether Rizzoli was killed because he was a judge? What if it became clear that he favored one of the contestants over the others? And what if one of the other chefs noticed that and was desperate to win? If that’s so, we also could be in danger.”
She was right about sounding a little nutty—spoken out loud, her theory sounded paranoid and borderline ridiculous. Even though I’d had thoughts not so far from hers, Bransford had convinced me they were groundless. It simply made no sense to imagine that someone would have murdered one of the contest’s judges, hoping to improve his chance of winning.
But Toby’s anxiety was real and I thought I could help with that.
“I called my friend who’s a detective at the police department. They aren’t pursuing any Topped Chef connections.”
“Why did they interview all of us?” she asked. “Why did they herd us all into the studio and scare us half to death?”
“Any one of us might have heard something about Rizzoli. I’m just guessing, but doesn’t it make more sense if his death was related to town politics? That’s where there’s influence to be peddled and money to be made. Rizzoli owned bars, restaurants, and T-shirt shops on Duval Street.”
“We know about one of his restaurants, for sure,” said Toby, her eyes widening. “Everyone knows about it now. I salute you for speaking the truth. In spite of his politics and your position as a judge.”
I winced. “I wish I’d never set foot in that place. And I can assure you I had no idea who he was when I wrote the review. The more I find out about him, the more I think his business dealings got him killed. Just think about how his fortune could increase or plateau depending on whether the town decided to widen the channel and let larger cruise ships in. He was not a disinterested observer when it came to Key West. And that makes some folks very, very angry.”
But Toby didn’t look convinced. “You haven’t worked in a restaurant kitchen, have you?”
“No.”
“Then you might not be able to imagine how much landing a TV show could change a chef’s life,” said Toby, her fingers curling into fists. “No more slaving long hours in a fiercely hot kitchen. No more worryingabout the restaurant getting sold to a new owner who cares about profit instead of quality ingredients. No more relying on poorly trained sous-chefs who’ve moved to Key West because they can’t manage life in the real world. Assistants who miss a third of their shifts because they were dead-dog drunk the night before and can’t get out of bed, even by four in the afternoon.”
“I believe what you’re saying about it being a tough job,” I said. “And I see your point about the cooking show being a big deal. But it’s almost impossible to imagine that killing
By the time we had crossed the wooden bridge behind the aquarium, the crowds had thinned to almost nothing, and we headed toward the water. The square was mostly deserted, streetlights casting a dim glow on the empty brick courtyard. Although the portable conch fritter stand had been rolled away for the night, I could smell the lingering odor of hot oil. A red plastic cup skittered by, causing us both to jump. Lorenzo had set his table up in the distance, not far from the bright yellow Ocean Key Resort. Two tall candles (more likely Coleman lanterns) framed his station. He was deep in conversation with a customer so I didn’t bother to wave. In the opposite corner of the square, a small group of men drank and talked, too far away for us to make out their conversation, or for them to hear us. Probably my homeless friend, Tony, and some of his buddies.
“I wonder,” said Toby, her voice so low I could barely catch the words, “whether Rizzoli was killed because he was a judge? What if it became clear that he favored one of the contestants over the others? And what if one of the other chefs noticed that and was desperate to win? If that’s so, we also could be in danger.”
She was right about sounding a little nutty—spoken out loud, her theory sounded paranoid and borderline ridiculous. Even though I’d had thoughts not so far from hers, Bransford had convinced me they were groundless. It simply made no sense to imagine that someone would have murdered one of the contest’s judges, hoping to improve his chance of winning.
But Toby’s anxiety was real and I thought I could help with that.
“I called my friend who’s a detective at the police department. They aren’t pursuing any Topped Chef connections.”
“Why did they interview all of us?” she asked. “Why did they herd us all into the studio and scare us half to death?”
“Any one of us might have heard something about Rizzoli. I’m just guessing, but doesn’t it make more sense if his death was related to town politics? That’s where there’s influence to be peddled and money to be made. Rizzoli owned bars, restaurants, and T-shirt shops on Duval Street.”
“We know about one of his restaurants, for sure,” said Toby, her eyes widening. “Everyone knows about it now. I salute you for speaking the truth. In spite of his politics and your position as a judge.”
I winced. “I wish I’d never set foot in that place. And I can assure you I had no idea who he was when I wrote the review. The more I find out about him, the more I think his business dealings got him killed. Just think about how his fortune could increase or plateau depending on whether the town decided to widen the channel and let larger cruise ships in. He was not a disinterested observer when it came to Key West. And that makes some folks very, very angry.”
But Toby didn’t look convinced. “You haven’t worked in a restaurant kitchen, have you?”
“No.”
“Then you might not be able to imagine how much landing a TV show could change a chef’s life,” said Toby, her fingers curling into fists. “No more slaving long hours in a fiercely hot kitchen. No more worryingabout the restaurant getting sold to a new owner who cares about profit instead of quality ingredients. No more relying on poorly trained sous-chefs who’ve moved to Key West because they can’t manage life in the real world. Assistants who miss a third of their shifts because they were dead-dog drunk the night before and can’t get out of bed, even by four in the afternoon.”
“I believe what you’re saying about it being a tough job,” I said. “And I see your point about the cooking show being a big deal. But it’s almost impossible to imagine that killing
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