Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  I didn’t tell her I was nervous, too. I’d never seen Lorenzo as a civilian. Or cooked for him. But more than that, the last time he’d read my cards, I’d almost lost my mother. I realized that somehow the two things had started to get twined up in my brain: tarot and danger.

  We heard a ship’s bell tinkle out on the dock—Miss Gloria’s maritime doorbell. I went to the door and waved Lorenzo onto the boat. Dressed in black jeans and sneakers and wearing a yellow slicker, he looked completely different from the man I’d seen many times plying his trade at his card table on Mallory Square. No makeup, no jewels, no turban.

  “This is adorable,” he exclaimed, as he stripped off his dripping raincoat and hung it next to mine on a peg outside the door. “I was deathly afraid of boarding the wrong craft—I’ve heard stories about how protective boat captains are.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek and we went inside.

  “Well, this is Captain Gloria,” I said, drawing Miss Gloria forward to meet him. “She’s not very scary and we’re thrilled you could come.” Lorenzo took her tiny hand in his and kissed her palm. She shivered, speechless for a minute.

  “Such a pleasure,” he said with a small bow.

  “But where’s your eye makeup? And your turban?” asked Miss Gloria. “Hayley and her mom described you but you look nothing like what I imagined.”

  He touched both hands to his dark hair, looking sad. “Oh, I loved that turban. I felt like Lana Turner when I wore it. But all dressed up like that, I was being treated like a tourist attraction. People kept coming up and snapping photographs while I was reading my customers’ cards. They didn’t take me seriously—treated me like a fool. And it was so intrusive for the people waiting to hear what I had to say.” He sighed dramatically. “There’s a mass level of consciousness—or should I say unconsciousness—that turban tapped into, so I had to give it up.”

  “Why don’t you show him around?” I suggested, “and I’ll finish making lunch.”

  Miss Gloria beamed and led Lorenzo down the houseboat’s short passageway, explaining as she went that her deceased husband had added many of the built-ins that took best advantage of the small space. “Not an inch is wasted,” she said proudly, as she ushered him into her bedroom. “We have drawers everywhere. And it’s all recycled Dade County pine. This wood will last long after I’m gone.”

  I could hear the smooth scrape of wood on polished wood as she opened the storage drawers under her bed. Hopefully she wouldn’t spend too much time in my little room—I hadn’t quite gotten her knack of keeping it pin neat.

  “I’m not much of a cook.” Miss Gloria’s voice echoed out to the galley once they were back in the hall. “That’s Hayley’s specialty. You’ll see. But I do have a green thumb.” I heard the screen door open and then creak shut as she led him onto the back deck, which was chockablock with pots of herbs, a few tomato plants, and a jumble of palms and tropical flowers.

  “This space is magical,” I heard him tell her.

  When they returned to the galley, a little damp from the misting rain, Miss Gloria directed Lorenzo to a seat at our table. Both cats jumped up on the bench beside him and began to nuzzle him and purr.

  “Go away, kitties,” Miss Gloria scolded.

  “Never mind, I love cats,” said Lorenzo, flashing a big grin. “How can you live on this island if you don’t like cats and chickens?”

  Miss Gloria beamed and settled a cup of hot tea in front of him, a plate of lemon slices and a jar of creamed honey on the side. “How did you end up here?” she asked.

  He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “There’s a powerful current that runs from the Bermuda Triangle, right around Mallory Square. I guess it pulled me in, like a lot of folks. And then once you get here, the island either embraces you or chews you up and spits you out. I was embraced!”

  I checked Miss Gloria’s face to see how she was handling his “current” theory—she was mesmerized. I dished up bowls of steaming soup garnished with islands of crispy croutons and delivered them to the table. Sliding in next to Miss Gloria, I raised my water glass. “Bon appetit!”

  “Delightful,” said Lorenzo, after sipping the soup.

  “Hayley, this is heavenly,” said Miss Gloria. And to Lorenzo: “I told you she was a whiz in the kitchen.”

  I thanked them and tasted my broth—spicy and rich, with a hint of the sea—and had to agree. A perfect dish for a gloomy day. As we slurped our way through the first bowl of soup, and then on to seconds, Lorenzo told Miss Gloria stories about running for Queen Mother in the yearly charity drag contest at the La Te Da.

  “I appeared as Marlene Dietrich—and I won.”

  “Congratulations! What did you wear?” asked Miss Gloria.

  “A suit, of course. Women knew how to dress in those days.” He took a deep breath and began to sing with a German accent: “I often stop and wonder, why I appeal to men…”

  “Falling in love again,” Miss Gloria warbled along with him in her reedy soprano.

  Outside the boat, I could see our neighbor, Mr. Renhart, pausing on the dock in the rain, peering into our living room, looking puzzled. He never quite knew what to expect from us. I waved and smiled and he ducked his head and hurried on.

  “Oh I bet you were marvelous, no wonder you won!” said Miss Gloria to Lorenzo, clapping her hands together.

  “I can do Dietrich in my sleep,” said Lorenzo modestly. “I was the right girl—I had what it took.”

  I hadn’t realized that Lorenzo was a part-time drag queen, though with his dramatic flair, it didn’t surprise me. But this turn in the conversation got me thinking about the Topped Chef candidate Randy Thompson—about his second career in entertainment and the TV show contest. And how nervous he seemed waiting for the cops. And what he’d blurted out about a lousy relationship with Rizzoli.

  “Do you happen to know Randy Thompson?” I asked Lorenzo.

  “Of course. He sings at the Aqua as Victoria. She’s got a beautiful voice,” said Lorenzo. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s a ‘cheftestant’ for the contest I’m helping to judge.” I sighed. “We’ve got problems over there—big ones.” Not wanting to upset Miss Gloria, I told them the bare details about Sam Rizzoli’s death, which was almost certainly a murder, and how the police had come around the Studios of Key West this morning and interviewed the contestants and judges.

  “They wondered whether I’d noticed any conflict between Rizzoli and the other folks,” I added.

  “Was there?” asked Miss Gloria.

  I sighed again. “There was some friction among us judges over the food, but that seemed more staged than real, I think. And of course Rizzoli would have been happy to wring my neck for that restaurant review.” I heaved an even deeper sigh. “The three contestants we met this morning all seem really eager to win. Really eager.”

  Saying that made me a little queasy. Would winning have mattered enough to one of them that he or she resorted to murder? It did seem unlikely. In fact it seemed ridiculous. Because wouldn’t a normal person assume that a murder would bring the whole contest to a screeching halt?

  I turned to Lorenzo. “Why does a guy decide to become a drag queen?”

  “That’s a big question,” said Miss Gloria, patting his hand. “He’s going to need another cup of tea. Is there dessert?”

  “I bought some cookies at Coles Peace,” I said and got up to put the kettle back on. I filled a plate with the mango triangles, coconut almond macaroons, brownies, and oatmeal raisin cookies, and brought it to the table along with a fresh pot of tea.

  “That looks like death to my waistline,” said Lorenzo, as he stroked my rumbling Evinrude, who was now draped across his lap like a striped cummerbund.

  He went on: “It is a big question. And probably as many answers as there are queens. Some of us just want to make a living. I’ve met some who had a terrible time as kids—they were bullied and harassed all through school. Performing fills an emptiness that was left in their lives
by those negative experiences. And some of us feel pretty all dressed up and we love expressing our creativity that way.” He smiled and nibbled on one of the macaroons. “Swoon.” He patted his lips with a paper napkin. “Why do you ask?”

  “Is it possible that a guy could feel trapped in that world? Desperate to rise out of it?”

  Lorenzo shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know anyone who feels like that, not consciously anyway.”

  I shrugged. Time to drop my improbable theory about Randy as killer. I really had not a shred of evidence to go on. One slip of someone’s tongue and that unsubstantiated rumor would be all over town.

  “Who is this Rizzoli?” asked Miss Gloria.

  “He owned a lot of property on the island and he had a reputation for skewing his decisions toward his own interests,” I said. “For weeks, the Citizen’s Voice column has been full of comments from town residents who sounded like they’d have been delighted to see him dead.”

  “That’s awful,” said Miss Gloria. “Was he that bad?”

  Lorenzo said nothing, but frowning again, he glanced at his watch. “This has been so lovely. You ladies have cheered up a perfectly gloomy day. I have to be off in a minute, but I brought my cards.” He arched his carefully shaped eyebrows.

  Miss Gloria’s face lit up. “Oh would you? I’ve never had a reading. How does this work?”

  “You shuffle the cards, and that sends your energy into the reading. I simply deal them out and talk about what I see.” He touched a finger to his nose. “And trust me”—he shrugged as if she might not believe him—“what comes out of my mouth amazes me on my side of the table as much as it amazes you. Sometimes the universe is trying to get a message through to someone and they aren’t getting it. But then the cards make it real.”

  We finished clearing the table. I clattered the dishes into the sink, then shook out the paisley cloth, folded it up and put it in a drawer below the counter. Lorenzo had Miss Gloria shuffle his deck and then he dealt three cards out on the pink Formica—he turned over the Death card, the Wheel of Fortune, and the Four of Wands.

  I couldn’t help flinching when I saw the knight on a horse stepping over a dead body, but Miss Gloria didn’t seem to realize that she’d drawn death. I took my friend’s hand and squeezed. Lorenzo smiled reassuringly and then looked deep into Miss Gloria’s eyes.

  “The first card represents the conflicts in your past,” he said to her, and placed one of his hands on hers. “People get frightened when they see that they’ve chosen the Death card, but it shouldn’t be taken at face value. Probably you’ve had some conflict rooted in a time of intense change. And most people don’t like change. But if we look at this card the way a child looks at death, it means change—and change can offer a time of positive transformation.”

  Miss Gloria pressed her palms together and blinked. “Last year my son began to insist I move to an old people’s home near him in Michigan. I know he only wanted the best for me. He wanted to be near enough to help if I had medical problems—or needed anything. But he didn’t understand that I would have dried up and died if I had to spend the last years of my life in a nursing home.”

  She glanced around the living area, eyes bright with tears. “All my treasured memories are here. Hayley saved the day on that one when she agreed to move in.”

  She flashed a brilliant, grateful smile, which made me feel unworthy. In truth, she had been the one to save my bacon, and she earned my gratitude every day with her warm hospitality.

  Lorenzo nodded and patted her hand. “If you were able to accept that change, you will be able to move on to what’s ahead.” He tapped the second card, the Wheel of Fortune. “The card in your present position is saying that the things you set in motion are bearing fruit. And your future card is the Four of Wands, indicating the successful completion of some projects.”

  “Fascinating,” said Miss Gloria. “I guess I’d better get busy thinking some up. You next, Hayley.”

  But I was stuck on Miss Gloria’s Death card. She’d become part of my family. If something happened to her, I couldn’t bear it. I shuffled the deck, and again Lorenzo dealt out three cards—the Judgment card, an angel blowing a horn above three nude figures; the Magician; and the Eight of Swords, showing a woman blindfolded and tied up, with eight swords stabbed into the earth around her.

  Lorenzo began with the last one. “Hayley, you must look within yourself for answers—were you really as bound up by authority as you seem to feel? Are you waiting for someone else to rescue you? You have choices, even though you may need to let go of feelings to which you are attached.”

  Surely he was referring to how I was handling detective Nate Bransford, but I preferred not to hash that over. Not right now.

  “The Magician tells us to watch what we bring into our lives as well as what we give to others. Walk your talk, Hayley,” he said. Then he tapped the Judgment card with his forefinger. “Let go of the past and accept things as they are. There is no one to blame—not even you.” He grinned. “Let me know how it goes?”

  I took a great big breath—having my cards read stirred up such a weird combination of anxiety and relief. “I’ll keep you posted,” I said, pushing the cards across the table to him and getting to my feet. “We’re so glad you could come today.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” Lorenzo put his cards away, and then stood and hugged Miss Gloria. I followed him out to the deck and walked with him to the end of the dock. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. “You may need to let go,” he said. Then he mounted his scooter and drove away.

  Let go of what, exactly? I watched him disappear over the hill toward Old Town, then trudged back to the boat. Several slips up the finger, I saw my former roommate from college, Connie, who lived a few boats up the dock. She’d taken me in after the debacle with Chad last fall, but my subsequent move down to Miss Gloria’s place had taken the pressure off our friendship. Her place was simply too small for two women, one boyfriend who visited frequently and would soon be a husband, and one spoiled cat. I hurried down the dock to ask my mother’s questions about the fast-approaching wedding.

  Connie looked like she’d just gotten out of the shower, her short hair sticking up randomly like a well-used patch of catnip. My mother had been lobbying for her to grow it out for her wedding to better display a handmade headpiece and veil or even a ring of flowers—something “girly.” But right now it was in that awkward in-between stage.

  “Here comes the bride!” I warbled. “I have strict instructions from Mom to pin you down about some details.” Connie made a face, as though she’d eaten something sour.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She pressed her fists to her cheeks and blew out an exasperated puff of air. “Does Ray seem like a normal guy to you?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Normal for an artist, creative normal.” I smiled but she didn’t. “I think you’ve made an excellent choice—he’ll be a great husband. He adores you.”

  “He’s gotten it into his head that if we’re getting married on the beach, it should be a pirate wedding.”

  “A pirate wedding?”

  “The wedding party would be dressed in costume and we’d ask the guests to come dressed as deckhands. And then say our vows in pirate-ese.”

  I would have burst out laughing if she hadn’t looked so near to tears.

  “Would you mind going by this shop sometime in the next few days and snapping some pictures of the costumes? I’m up to my neck in cleaning jobs—and they don’t have evening hours. I’m thinking if he could only see how silly we’d look, he’d drop this.” She handed me a flyer with colorful pictures of full-breasted wenches in white lace corsets and their pirate grooms wearing feathered hats and eye patches. “They refer to getting married as swallowing the anchor. If that’s how he really feels about it…” Tears shimmered the length of her eyelashes like crystals of sugar.

  “Of course,” I said, giving her a quick squeeze
. “That’s what maids of honor are for—heading off disaster in whatever form it takes.”

  8

  The salt, the sweet, the brine, the crunch. It was a culinary car crash of depravity.

  —Elissa Altman, Poor Man’s Feast

  All afternoon, I thought about Lorenzo’s words: Let go of feelings to which you are attached. Are you waiting for someone else to rescue you? Walk your talk.

  I finally drummed up the nerve to call Nate. Considering how our date failed to materialize, shouldn’t he have called me first? But since he hadn’t, Lorenzo’s reading had convinced me that I had to take the lead, to be more direct. Whether we ended up in a relationship or whether we didn’t, I shouldn’t allow him to intimidate me. I punched his number into my phone. He answered on the first ring. I instantly considered hanging up. Foolish idea since everyone in the universe now has caller ID. Especially the cops.

  “Oh hi. It’s Hayley. I was wondering how you’re doing? Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

  Silence, but then he cleared his throat. “It was a long night.”

  That was all he could give me?

  “Long night for me, too,” I said. “Though your half of the lava cake helped cushion the pain.”

  He chuckled but fell silent again.

  “I was hoping you might have more information about the murder. And hoping that you’d be willing to share.” My voice sounded a little wobbly but I soldiered on. “I know you must think this is none of my business, but Rizzoli was a judge in the contest I’m involved with—as you know perfectly well. Since your guys were crawling all over the set this afternoon. Don’t you at least think I deserve to know if that puts the rest of us in danger?”

  “Nice to talk to you, too,” he said, finally laughing. “And I am sorry about the dinner. In fact, I ended up eating a peanut butter sandwich last night, all the while thinking about that steak. And you. And the chocolate lava cake, though I suspect I wouldn’t have gotten much more than a taste.” He laughed again, a deep, charming laugh that loosened the knots of tension in my belly.