Free Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery by Lucy Burdette

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 adifference 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