Whatever I would have expected to feel at this moment, excitement, sadness, anger, frustration, exhilaration, is suddenly obscured by a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge for a bowl of escarole soup.
—Meredith Mileti, Aftertaste
A thick layer of gray clouds had dropped low during the time we were filming, bringing a spitting rain that matched my mood. I agreed with Chef Adam on one thing: It had been a mistake to continue. And clearly Peter Shapiro was uninterested in respecting anyone’s boundaries. He had told us he would go for the jugular, and now I could see that he meant it.
I gathered up my backpack and sweater, wondering how to convince Wally that I had to bail out of the TV reality show assignment because one of the judges had been murdered and another was an idiot. Obviously a drag queen wasn’t exactly corn-belt Americana, but this was Key West. Drag shows were obligatory fun on Duval Street and some of the best entertainment in Florida came out of those clubs. Not that I completely understood the urge for a guy to dress up as a girl and dance around onstage, but if people loved to watch them and if it heated their skillets, why would anyone care? And if Peter Shapiro was looking for sparks—something livelier than your average “produce a homey casserole” cooking show—a chef in drag could be the answer.
I hurried across the courtyard—I couldn’t wait to get out of here. But as I reached the alley that led out of the complex, I slammed into a City of Key West policeman who was emerging—officer Steve Torrence. And another cop was right behind him.
“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t watching.” I extricated myself from the wall of blue and started around them, down the alley to the street.
Torrence touched my elbow as I passed, his brown eyes cool. “Could we have a moment of your time?” he asked. “We have a few questions about Sam Rizzoli.”
Could we have a moment? in police vernacular really means Get over here now. And what were the chances that Nate wouldn’t have told the other cops how I’d showed up at the harbor last night when Rizzoli was found? Practically nil.
So I followed them back into the courtyard and waited while Torrence announced in his booming voice to the milling crowd that they needed to talk to everyone on the set. Everyone.
Despite Peter’s pro forma blustering about wasting everyone’s time, the judges, chef contestants, and TV show personnel were herded into the main building of TSKW, seated in two rows of folding chairs, and then taken one by one to a far corner of the cavernous room. I sat between Randy Thompson and Toby Davidson, unable to think of any small talk that wouldn’t cause problems. I’d said all I wanted to say about the TV show for today and I certainly didn’t want to discuss Rizzoli. Compare recipes? Hardly appropriate. Toby looked small and scared. Randy, an odd mixture of impatient and anxious. And I felt nervous myself, for no good reason.
Finally, I was called over. I sat facing two cops, my heart racing and my thoughts racing even faster. A line of sweat broke out on my upper lip, though I had absolutely no connection with the dead man, other than spending one morning with him on the TV show set when he was still alive. And the bad review of his restaurant, of course. But what bearing would that have on his hideous hanging? These guys knew me—they would have to know I wasn’t involved. And why would they need my opinion on that death when the harbor had been crawling with law enforcement officials who’d seen the same thing, only much closer?
After adjusting his glasses and smoothing his dark mustache, Torrence began the questions. “Miss Snow, as you are aware, we’re investigating the death of Sam Rizzoli. We understand that you spent the morning here yesterday with him during the first day of the Topped Chef contest. Did he seem disturbed about anything?”
“Since I’d never met him before, I don’t have a baseline for his behavior. We didn’t agree on much so we argued a lot, but I have no idea what he’s like normally. Was like,” I added.
The second cop cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs.
“Argued?” asked Torrence, nodding at his partner and tapping his finger on the clipboard that lay on his lap.
Here we went. A familiar downward spiral—the cops leaping to conclusions because I used one wrong word or otherwise showed some small sign of acting guilty. I scrambled to repair the impression I might have given.
“Discussing, that’s more like what I meant. We were only talking about food—nothing life and death. Yesterday was day one of the shooting.” I waved my hand at the door, beyond which were the courtyard and the porch where the filming had taken place. “Four of us judges had to choose the three best dishes out of the six we were presented with. It was not easy; we all have strong opinions and different perspectives on cooking. Mr. Rizzoli seemed to have a preference for fancy recipes and haute cuisine. I don’t think he and I voted the same way on any of them. And…” My words trailed off.
“And?” Torrence prompted.
I sighed. “You’ll figure this out anyway. My review of his restaurant went live on the Key Zest Web site yesterday. It wasn’t exactly complimentary.”
I looked down at my fingers, twisted together on my lap, and then took a deep breath.
“But I sure wouldn’t kill him or anyone else over a difference of opinion on a recipe. And really, who would? And I didn’t pick up on any particular tension with any of the other folks here, because I know that’s going to be your next question.” Feeling a little calmer, I squinted at Torrence, suddenly noticing that he looked bulkier. Almost buff. “Have you been going to the gym a lot? You look—different.”
He puffed up a little and grinned like crazy but then his partner rolled his eyes and he gathered himself back into his stern-cop persona.
“You seem to believe Rizzoli was murdered,” the other cop said.
“I guess I just assumed. From the way he was found. Wouldn’t it have been enormously difficult for a man alone to hang himself from that rigging?” I rubbed my palm over my forehead. “And wouldn’t that be a particularly harsh suicide? You would be making quite a statement, dressed up like that. Imagine how the people he left behind would feel. Though I suppose that would be true if someone killed him, too.”
Then I remembered an article I’d read online last month. “Could it have been a case of autoerotic asphyxiation? Or maybe someone tried to make it look like that…” My words trailed off as Torrence and the other cop exchanged shuttered glances.
“Why did you show up at the harbor last night?” Torrence asked.
I pinched my eyes closed and tried to stay calm. Tried to tell myself he was only doing his job. “Not that my love life is any of your business, but I had a date with Detective Bransford. I was waiting at the restaurant and he kept texting to say he’d been delayed. When he finally called with the news that he wasn’t going to make it, he told me he was detained at the harbor. So I took a ride over that way on the way home.”
“But why would you?” he asked. “Swing by the harbor, I mean, not go out with Bransford.” His face softened, and he almost smiled again.
I snickered. “Though that’s probably a good question, too, right?”
Seeing the other cop’s face harden, I slumped forward, elbows to knees, wishing I had an easy answer. Old-fashioned curiosity—a Pavlovian urge to rubberneck—seemed like the wrong response. And I didn’t very much like that about myself either.
“I packed up the steak the detective had asked me to order and the chocolate lava cake, thinking he’d be hungry later and glad to have the food.” I wiped my eyes and heaved a great sigh before looking back up at Torrence. “I wish I hadn’t gone. I wish I hadn’t seen what I saw. It was gruesome. And if that was Sam Rizzoli, I’m sorry for him. It was an ugly way to go out—someone must have been really, really angry to leave him like that. Whoever it was,” I added lamely.
Torrence turned his chin over his shoulder to the place where the rest of the cast and crew waited. “You’re certain you didn’t notice that one of the other folks here might have had a beef with Rizzoli?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be glad to let you know if I remember anything different.”
“We’ll be in touch,” he said, as he pointed across the room at Randy Thompson and gestured for him to approach.
I got up, feeling relieved to be off the hot seat, but a little battered.
“What was your relationship with the late Sam Rizzoli?” the second officer asked Randy as I walked away.
“Not good,” I heard Randy say defiantly. “Lousy. But I didn’t kill him.”