On the far pier where the cruise ships docked, a row of lamps cast squiggles of light on the water, like lines on a Hostess cupcake.
—Hayley Snow
My heart wasn’t in the raucous bacchanal known as Duval Uncorked. Starting at one end of Duval Street or the other, each guest was given a small plastic wineglass to wear dangling from a lanyard around his or her neck, which served as the admission ticket to the event. Revelers stopped in at each of the participating restaurants and shops—sixty of them, up and down Duval—for hors d’oeuvres and a taste of wine.
A couple of hours into the evening, many of the participants would be staggering from too much alcohol, their taste buds dulled from too much food. I wasn’t much in the mood for drunken parties but a review of this event was on the editorial calendar for Monday’s issue of Key Zest, which would focus on a roundup of the events of the Food and Wine Festival. And Ava Faulkner, Wally’s co-publisher, would be watching that calendar like a turkey vulture, waiting to pick me off.
So I parked my scooter on Petronia and began to sip and taste, making notes for next week’s column. The pulled pork at Willie T’s was delicious, the cheese dip at an adjoining gallery barely superior to microwaved Velveeta. I gave up drinking after the first three sips, my tired brain already feeling addled by the stressful week and not refreshed by my short rest in the office. I waved a quick hello to a number of acquaintances, sprinkled among just as many strangers. If this event was like the Mallory Square Stroll that I’d attended earlier in the week, tourists traveled a long way to participate.
On the other side of the street, I spotted Trudy Bransford. She wore a pale yellow sundress that showed her deep tan to great advantage. My breathing kicked up a notch: The detective was with her, disguised as yet one more tourist in tan cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a moss green T-shirt. I knew the shirt would have perfectly reflected the color of his eyes, if he hadn’t been wearing sunglasses. If he’d been looking at me instead of at her. They were laughing so hard he spilled red wine from his plastic glass onto the sidewalk. And that only made them laugh harder. I’d never seen him so happy.
I ducked into 7 Artists to avoid being forced to wave hello, or even worse, to chat. Theoretically, I applauded his good fortune. But realistically, it turned my heart to granite.
In the process of inhaling a chip loaded with guacamole, I recognized Peter Shapiro’s voice at the wine-sampling table behind me. I turned to greet him—he looked jaunty and relaxed in white pants and a blue sport coat.
“Congrats on a great week,” I said, though to my ears, the words sounded less than enthusiastic.
“Thank you for your professionalism,” Peter said. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “I understand that the candidate you preferred didn’t win and I appreciate your patience and honesty and—well, flexibility.”
If he’d heard the things that went on in my head, he would never have called me flexible.
“As it turned out, we might have had to be filming in prison, though, right?” he asked. “A friend called and said Randy Thompson was picked up for questioning in the murder of Sam Rizzoli.”
“Wow, that was fast,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “I really liked Randy. I liked what he did all week in the show. Except for the cake pops,” I added, unable to suppress a smirk.
“My taste buds are not so well developed as yours.” He grinned back. “So much goes into getting a successful program on the air. Ratings are so fluky—especially in reality TV. You imagine that a perky guy who’s a good chef will draw in viewers, but the sponsors are more conservative than you might believe. Much more. Drag queens are not a draw in middle America.” He looked me right in the eyes. “So thank you. Whether Randy ends up in the hoosegow or whether he doesn’t, I feel certain that we chose the right man.”
He fell into step beside me as I exited 7 Artists and started down the block toward the next stop on the Uncorked program. “Did you enjoy the process?”
“I’ve never been through anything like it,” I said, meaning I hoped never to experience anything like it again. But I assumed that, with his major ego, he’d think I meant it was amazing. “Will you have some time off before you start filming the actual show?”
He nodded as we waited for a crowd to exit the Old Town Mexican Café, our next stop. “I’ll have a week or ten days, probably do some sailing. Nothing like being out on the water to help a tightly wound guy relax.”
“I’m a bit like a cat,” I said, flashing on that horrible plunge into the water off Mallory Square. “Even though I live on a houseboat, don’t ask me to get wet.”
Peter’s eyes lit up. “You’re really missing out. I spent several summers working as a mate on a sailboat in the British Virgin Islands. Fabulous experience! The only drawback was I’m a big guy,” Peter said. “I didn’t fit too well into the crew’s quarters. Are you planning to stay on in Key West?” he asked.
“I love it,” I said. “If I can keep the job, I can imagine settling in for the long haul. You’ve spent time here before?”
“Of course. I love the wackiness of the place. That’s how I came up with the idea of the TV show in paradise.” He grinned. “Fantasy Fest is my favorite. One year Sam and I even marched in the parade. We wore spike heels and diapers and wigs and carried spray bottles of tequila.”
“Spray bottles of tequila?” I asked.
“A quick shot for any girl willing to lift up her shirt. Such a hoot!” He laughed, then looked at my face. “Sorry, I know that’s politically incorrect.”
“I’m just trying to picture those outfits,” I said. “I never even liked dressing up for Halloween as a kid.”
Suddenly he lurched to the right, and grabbed for his back. “Good god, doesn’t this put the icing on the cake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My back’s gone out.” He winced and tried to straighten up. “I’ve had this happen before. It means I need a couple of days off, a bottle of muscle relaxants, and a lot of time in bed. Damn!” He took a step but grimaced with pain. “I wonder…no never mind.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
He shook his head decisively. “I’ll be fine.” He began to limp down the block toward Petronia Street and I hovered alongside him, feeling helpless. The crowd around us pressed in, seeming drunker and more boisterous by the moment.
“I hate to ask,” he said. “Is it possible you could help me get to my car? I thought walking the length of Duval Street twice would be relaxing after the week I’ve had—bad idea. But I hate to take you away from the party…” He whipped the phone out of his jacket pocket. “I can call a cab.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ve had enough anyway. Nobody wants to read a column listing every bite we’ve tasted—I’ll hit a few highlights and describe the whole crazy scene. Actually I’m dying to get out of here. It has felt like a long week. Really long.”
“A nightmare,” Peter said. “I’ve tried to stay optimistic about the contest, but sometimes I wonder if it was cursed from the minute I set foot on this island.”
Which reminded me of what Lorenzo had told Miss Gloria and me a few days ago during our lunch on the houseboat: Key West either embraces you, or chews you up and spits you out. Maybe Peter was finding out that he fit into the second set.
“Come on,” I said, moving closer to him and offering my hand. “Let’s go.”
He slung his arm over my shoulder and leaned some weight on me, at the same time that I felt a sharp object poke my side. I looked up at him, startled. He laughed and staggered like he fit in completely with the crowd around us.
“Not a peep from you,” he said under his breath. “If you say anything, I’ll shoot you right here.”
“But—”
“Not one word. It won’t matter to me either way.”
With one hand gripping my shoulder and the other shoving the gun in my ribs, he force-marched me down the block. Fear washed over me like a rogue wave, as I finally grasped the niggling thought that had surfaced as he told me about his sailing background. And then his love for costumes. Peter knew Sam Rizzoli well enough to play dress-up. They’d done this together in the past. And Peter was a sailor, knew his way around winches and rigging.
Peter was the killer, not Randy. Not anyone else. Peter was the man who’d had the strength and know-how to hoist Sam Rizzoli up the mast.
He’d murdered the man, dressed him up, and hung him on his own mast. And then I thought of Turtle, beaten half to death. Another loose end shifted into focus: Derek wasn’t the only man with a white beard—Peter had one, too. I hadn’t cast my mental net wide enough to consider that.
With two men, one dead, one nearly dead, notched on his belt, he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me.
I tried to force my sluggish mind to churn through the options. The truth was if I went anywhere with him, I was as good as dead. He was at least a foot taller than me, and carried twice my bulk. One day at the gym would not help my chances of overpowering him. But if I shouted for help, I believed he would shoot me. The only option seemed to be to continue along Duval and hope to god I saw someone I knew. Or a cop, best of all.
“Where’s your bike?”
“Petronia Street,” I squeaked.
Reaching the corner, we turned up the darkened street and walked to the rack where my bike was parked. With the crowd left behind on Duval Street, Peter abandoned the pretense of needing my help. I pointed to my silver scooter and he jerked me roughly toward it. “You first, I’ll get on behind.”
“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Could you hand me my helmet?”
His only answer was a sharp jab in my back that almost knocked the breath out of me. I threw my leg over and fired the scooter up. And he slid onto the seat behind me.
“Left on Whitehead and then over to Truman,” he said.
Hands shaking and mind racing, I drove as instructed. To my dismay, I’d started to cry and the tears blurred my vision.
“Take a left when you get to Reynolds and head toward the cemetery. I’d prefer not to hurt you but I will if I have to.”
The scooter jiggled as we hit the first block of Truman Avenue that had been under repair for the last few weeks. The danger lights on the sawhorses that had been placed over open manholes flickered in the gloaming. Peter’s grip on my waist loosened, but he grabbed me again and prodded my back with his gun. I thought of Miss Gloria’s comment—sooner or later someone was going to wipe out on the road’s shoddy temporary construction. Maybe then the contractors would get working. The scooter slipped on the loose stones.
“Idiot!” he said. “Pay attention to what you’re doing.”
With a surge of angry desperation, I realized this was probably my only way out. Lucky for me, the night had been cool enough that I had changed out of my dress into the jeans and sneakers and a sweater that I kept stashed in the office. I stepped on the gas and swerved toward the gravel and the sawhorses and the yawning holes in the pavement.
“What the hell?” Peter yelled.
The bike’s tires skidded and like a slow-motion video, we began to slide sideways, finally tipping over and scraping along the pavement until the scooter crashed into the barricades by the side of the road. Peter flew off the back and slammed into the plate glass window of the convenience store on the corner. A large yellow caution sign blinked above me, illuminating the gash on Peter’s head in garish Technicolor. Then the pain from my left ankle and my raw skin rushed in and I blacked out.