Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

The first time you see something that you have never seen before, you almost always know right away if you should eat it or run away from it.

—Scott Adams

I phoned the hospital first thing when I woke, intending to ask about Turtle’s condition. But once the canned “Welcome to the Lower Keys Medical Center” message began to play, I realized that I’d never heard him called anything but Turtle. Not a clue about his real name or his last name. I doubted I’d get any information with what I had, but I clicked through to the guest services line and asked the receptionist to check on a “Turtle Doe.”

I rolled out of bed, fed the cats, and slid into my running clothes, thinking that either Derek or Elsa might know Turtle’s real name. Although based on what Elsa had told me yesterday, I worried that Derek was the one who’d beaten Turtle to a bloody heap. I certainly wouldn’t mention that when I saw him—generally starting out with an accusation did not produce much new information.

I puffed slowly over to Old Town harbor, feeling every repetition of every exercise Leigh the trainer had put me through yesterday—right through my skin to my muscles and then down to the bone. As I reached the water, Derek had finished washing the party boat and begun to coil up his hose.

He grunted and slung the hose onto a peg at the edge of the dock. I stopped right in front of him so he couldn’t avoid me and watched his face carefully. “You probably heard that Turtle’s in the hospital?”

His gaze flicked up to meet mine. Then he backed away and began to tie up a bag of trash from the boat. “I heard.”

“Someone beat the crap out of him,” he said, emphasizing crap. “Knowing Turtle, he probably drove them to it. But don’t ask me a damn thing about it because I don’t know anything.” He scowled and turned his hose on again and began to squirt the dock near the boat. “I got work to do here, if you don’t mind.”

I hopped back to get out of reach of his spray, which came dangerously close to my sneakers. “Do you have any idea what his real name is? I wanted to check on him, but of course he’s not listed at the hospital as Turtle.”

“John Sampson,” he said, and stomped away. He called over his shoulder: “Hope they find who did it before they finish what they started.”

I headed toward the Cuban Coffee Queen, puzzling over his reaction. Honestly, he didn’t look like a guy who’d bludgeoned someone to within an inch of his life. Yes, he was irritable and short-tempered. But he was more likely to drench Turtle with his hose than beat him with it.

With my tall con leche in hand, I walked back to houseboat row. Was Turtle still in danger as Derek implied? I hadn’t consciously considered that, though the possibility would explain why I’d woken up worried. But surely the cops would keep an eye on a victim of that much violence—even if he was one of the throwaway homeless.

My stomach began to churn as I faced the facts. From the glimpse I’d gotten of Turtle yesterday, the beating wasn’t meant casually—it hadn’t come after a small fracas or minor difference of opinion. They’d meant to finish him off, rather than teach him a lesson.

I punched Eric’s number into my phone. He answered on the third ring, sounding groggy.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” I said, to try to be polite. Then I told him about what Derek had said about Turtle, and all the details I’d noticed about his body language. “I used to think I was a good judge of character,” I said. “But Chad lied through his teeth and I didn’t pick that up until way too late. So if someone’s lying, what kind of body language would you watch for?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Eric said when I finally drew a breath. “Let me stagger out to the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee and then you can pelt me with your questions.”

While he made his coffee, I explained again how I’d gone to talk to Derek, and how Elsa had said she saw someone who looked like Derek arguing with Turtle yesterday. But Derek claimed he knew nothing about it. “How could I tell if he was lying?”

“This is police business,” he said. “Did you tell the cops about Elsa and Derek?”

“I’m planning to call Officer Torrence when I hang up with you. But the more details I give him, the better the chance he’ll follow up, right?”

Eric groaned and slurped his coffee. “Probably he wouldn’t make eye contact with you if he was telling a lie. Though if he’s a practiced liar, that might not be true. Or you might notice excess eye movement,” he suggested. “A lot of blinking, drawing eyebrows together, that sort of thing.”

I sighed. “That pretty much describes him all the time. Any conversation with me, he behaves like he wishes he were somewhere else—anywhere else. I guess you don’t land a job washing boats at the crack of dawn because you love working with people.”

Eric laughed. “What did he say when you asked him about Turtle? Did he act defensive? Was his body language stiff?”

“He’s always stiff,” I said. “He mentioned thinking Turtle brought the beating on himself. And something about hoping the person who attacked him didn’t go back to finish the job.” I heard Eric’s dog yip in the background.

“Dog’s got a lizard—I better go. Last question: Would Derek have shared his theories with the cops?” Eric asked. “Because if he didn’t, you should.”

“I will,” I said. “I promise. Now that I’ve got Turtle’s real name, I’m going to drop in on him at the hospital—see if I can do anything for him. Lord knows he doesn’t have any family on this island. And maybe not anywhere.”

I took a quick shower and drove up Route One, off Key West to the next pearl in our little string of islands, Stock Island. Though with its landfill and marine industry and trailer parks and homeless shelter, this one more resembled a misshapen freshwater pearl than a perfect white orb. Turning left before I hit the golf course, I imagined that Turtle might have taken this route many times to get to the overnight homeless shelter. Except he’d have been on foot. Every night around six o’clock, a stream of folks seeking a place to spend the night shuffled or pedaled along Route One to the Stock Island shelter.

I pulled into the parking lot of the pink and blue stucco medical center, trying to press back the unpleasant memories of my recent outpatient visit and then a visit to Miss Gloria after she’d been attacked by a would-be killer. As I approached the building, the glass entry doors slid open, releasing a blast of refrigerated, disinfected air. At the information desk, I explained to a white-haired woman in a blue jacket that I wished to see Mr. John Sampson.

She flashed through several computer screens, and then glanced up and squinted through thick lenses. “Name, please?”

“Hayley Snow,” I told her, thinking they must have upgraded their system to print out personalized visitor badges.

“But you see, I’m his friend and I’m worried. I’m the one who found him yesterday and called the police.”

She slid her glasses down her nose and peered over them. “It says here, ‘no visitors.’”

“Then why did you take my name?” I couldn’t help asking, feeling frustrated and disappointed.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this,” she said firmly, gripping her computer desk with both hands.

Clearly I wasn’t going to get anything more from her. I retreated from the reception area and took a seat on a hard plastic chair that had been bolted to the floor. Derek’s voice rang in my head: “Hope they find who did it before they finish what they started.”

So I texted Torrence, telling him that I was at the hospital, had hoped to visit Turtle, and had some other information that might have bearing on the murder. As I stood to leave, I spotted a small woman signing papers at the insurance desk and recognized her as the traveling companion of the woman who had taken ill at the Mallory Square taste-off. I hurried across the room to greet her.

“How are you? And how’s your friend doing?” I patted her back and told her my name. “I was one of the judges at the cooking demonstration. I’ve been thinking about you ever since. Is your friend okay?”

“Thanks for asking,” said the little woman. “I’m Harriet Miles.” She bared her teeth in a timid smile. “Of all things, they think my friend had an allergic reaction to star fruit.”

“It’s unusual,” she said. “Apparently star fruit is related to mango.”

“A few people have a toxic reaction, and unfortunately, Sarah is one of them. She was so mad about missing the rest of the tasting.” She shook her head with a wry smile. “You can probably tell by looking at her that she enjoys eating everything. She’s not fussy about food the way I am. But she’d never tried star fruit before so the bad reaction was a complete surprise.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t poison,” I said. “That’s what we were afraid of.”

Okay, foot in mouth, Hayley: I should never have mentioned that. I gave a fake laugh. “Food critic’s humor. I’m so sorry you ladies missed the rest of your cruise. I’m sure this particular detour wasn’t on your itinerary.”

The little woman nodded. “Definitely more excitement than we bargained for. First of all, the paramedics wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance because I’m not a relative by blood or marriage. Luckily that nice Mr. Shapiro put me up in a bed-and-breakfast on Grinnell Street. And once Sarah was stable and they weren’t so worried about her, I visited the Hemingway House and saw all his cats.”

“Sarah’s getting released this morning so we plan to take the conch tour train and have a nice dinner before we have to catch a plane home tomorrow.” Her face brightened. “You’re a food critic, right? Maybe you have a recommendation?”

“Sure,” I said. “I love Michael’s for steak. Or Santiago’s Bodega for tapas—it’s in our funky part of town up the street from Blue Heaven. Which is also enjoyable, and famous for chickens pecking underneath your dinner table. Or Louie’s Backyard for the view—though it’s pricey. Or if you want the down-home Key West experience, either B.O.’s Fish Wagon or Pepe’s—they’re right across the street from each other on Caroline Street.”

“She owes me,” said Harriet. “Louie’s Backyard sounds perfect. Don’t tell Sarah, but I wasn’t enjoying the cruise that much anyway. All those children running around shrieking, and plus I felt constantly queasy from the boat’s motion. Key West is the bomb.”

I exited the waiting room, relieved that the tourist ladies were alive and safe. And pleasantly surprised that Peter Shapiro had been so generous. I suppose he didn’t want a lawsuit marring his show’s prospects.

My phone buzzed and Torrence’s name flashed on my screen. “Good morning,” I said after clicking to accept the call. “They wouldn’t let me in to see Turtle.”

“Then they are doing their job,” he said. “You said you had some news?”

“A little,” I said. “Though mainly I called because I was worried about Turtle being in danger. But it looks like you already have that covered.” I told him how I’d tracked down Derek at the harbor earlier this morning. “I might have forgotten to mention the other day that he had a photo on his iPhone of Rizzoli hanging from the mast. Turtle was kind of worked up about the whole crime thing.”

“Excited. Sort of. I don’t know how to explain it. He insisted that Derek show me the photo. But ever since we found him all beat up, I started to wonder whether he saw something happen the night Rizzoli died. Maybe he didn’t realize he saw it. But maybe the killer thought he’d seen something that would make him dangerous.”

“Sort of,” I said, feeling a little sick to my stomach. In my urge to protect Derek’s privacy and his smartphone, had I put Turtle in danger?

I hesitated, but then spilled the details of the visit I’d made last night to Mrs. Rizzoli, and her admission that she’d been involved with Buddy Higgs.

Which sounded like a perfectly nice thing to say, only the way he emphasized “letting me know” made it clear he was annoyed.

“Sorry,” I said. I hesitated, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Has there been any progress on the case? Anything you can tell me, I mean?”

Torrence sighed loudly, then said: “The preliminary report on Mr. Rizzoli’s autopsy is in. It appears that he didn’t die from hanging. He was killed by a blow from a blunt instrument, then dressed and made up, and then hoisted up into the rigging.”

“That’s the working theory. Not that any of it should have any bearing on your activities,” he warned. “I’m only telling you that because you’re morbidly curious and I figured you’d badger me until I gave up something. Chances are it’ll be in the paper tomorrow anyway.”

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