Swan Dive (9 page)

“Probably not,” she said.

We each hit the halfway spot of our popcorn and switched bags. “There’s more,” I said. “Lexie was auditioning for some kind of cook-off in Savannah. Her fellow sous chef, an unfriendly girl with blue hair named Rory, was her main competition. And get this, the competition is tomorrow.”

“Get out.”

“Yep.” I stopped mid-reach into the bag and pointed toward the door. “Here they come.”

Seven people trouped out, including Vigo, Courtney, and Berg. They shuffled over to a cluster of cars parked in the first row. We were four spots over to their right and three rows back.

“You think they’ll go out?” I asked.

“Nah. Their friend just died. They look kind of solemn.”

Sid’s car windows were all down, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying, only a low rumble of voices as the group leaned on cars, heads mostly down.

“Yeah, probably go back to their condo and order a pizza,” I said. We sat in silence and watched the dancers brood. “You’re a good friend to pick me up and help me. I know it’s kind of boring sometimes.”

She waved me off. “No big. I was binge watching tv again. Addicted to
Hannibal
.”

“You finished
Alias
?”

“I’m on a Gina Torres kick. Watched all of
Suits
. Fabulous, by the way, thanks for the recommendation. Now I’m on
Hannibal
. Did you know Gina’s married to Lawrence Fishburne in real life?”

“I did not know,” I said. “Hey, they’re leaving.”

“Should we follow?”

“Sure, we put in this much time, might as well see it through.”

Vigo, Courtney and Berg got into separate cars. Within seconds, red taillights lit up and the cars backed out. They drove in a straight line diagonally across the lot and onto Cabana Boulevard.

“Well, not going to the condo,” Sid said after they passed the turnaround and headed toward the south side of the island.

Traffic was heavier than usual, even for a Saturday night. Visitors had been arriving for days, ready to spend the holidays on the island. By next week, every condo, rental, and hotel room would be occupied until the first week in January.

Sid followed and weaved through the cars packing Cabana. We hit the large traffic circle right before Harborside Plantation and followed it all the way around, now heading toward South Pebble Beach. The car parade turned into the drive for Bar Row.

Sid found a spot in the corner and parked facing the entrance. Music spilled over the low buildings, mixed with loud conversation and laughter. A line of cabs waited to the side of the front walk. People with plastic cups zigzagged across the asphalt.

“I’m just putting this out there,” I said. “If you die by poison cake, or any means, really, for the whole next week, I’m not going out to the party bar. I’m home eating a pizza.”

“Word.”

I slipped off my pink kitten heels and swapped them for a pair of flip flops. It was way too chilly for them, but I didn’t want to wear my pretty shoes in that sticky sin palace. I took the pins out of my hair and shook it free to make it look more casual. More beachy. More I’m young enough to be hanging out at this place. “Let’s do this.”

The beefy man at the door stamped our hands (without even asking for ID), and we squeezed onto the patio. It was loud, crowded, and smelled faintly of barf. Four different bars (all with the same owner, I was betting) faced an open patio. Each establishment had its own décor. One had a dance floor, the second a wall of sporting events on flat screens, the third catered to the pool table crowd. The last one was basically a crowded space lined with bar tops and limited seating.

Vigo wore his hair messy and stood about eight inches taller than the average guy, so it wasn’t too difficult to tail him. He and his friends went for the dancing bar. A pair of girls waved them over to their table.

Sid and I wedged ourselves between two high tops near the wall, keeping the group within eyesight. Courtney approached Vigo, carrying two drinks in plastic cups, and sat down. They weren’t old enough to drink alcohol, but those cups could’ve held root beer. On the other hand, I didn’t know how strictly the bartenders followed the booze law or what kind of IDs Courtney and Co. showed at the door.

A girl with short hair joined the group. She squeezed in tight next to Vigo. He turned and kissed her. Light on the cheek, innocent enough until he put his arm around her and she put her hand on his thigh. They tucked their heads together in conversation. Lots of nodding and talking, her lips close to his ear. Vigo pulled back and handed her his drink. She sipped, then lifted her head to look around the room, as if checking the place out.

“Well, well,” I said and leaned close to Sid so she could hear me. The music beat so hard, I felt it in my chest. “That’s Rory, from the Wharf. Lexie’s competition for the cook-off tomorrow.”

“Looks like she was also competition for Lexie’s boyfriend,” Sid shouted.

“Not anymore,” I said.

I pushed my way to the bar and ordered us two of their house specialties. It was half daiquiri, half piña colada, and half disgusting. It was both over-poured and watery at the same time.

We nursed them for nearly two hours. The troupe stayed in the same spot the entire night. Not one got up to dance or mingle or smoke or breathe fresh air. Vigo huddled with Rory like a conspirator plotting world domination, Courtney moped with a trio of girlfriends, and Berg never showed up.

My lower back ached from standing against the wall and my head ached from cheap booze and blaring monotonous music and I would’ve jumped for joy when they finally left had it not been physically impossible from cramps in seven different muscle groups.

Sid tailed them all the way to their condo, then dropped me off at my cottage. I trudged up the stairs to my room, and after a thorough face and upper body scrub, I threw on an old Dodgers tee and snuggled into bed.

Sid deserved an extra special Christmas gift after tonight. But it was worth it. Vigo went up a notch on my suspect list. His mother grew the same kind of poison berries that killed his girlfriend, and it looked like he had another hottie on the side, who also happened to be competing against Lexie for a coveted spot in a local cook-off. Maybe Vigo decided Rory needed an advantage. And he figured out how to give it to her.

NINE

(Day #4 – Sunday Morning)

The sun had yet to rise when I woke Sunday morning. I rolled over to stay snuggled, but couldn’t get back to sleep. I put on a robe and wandered downstairs to my desktop computer which shared its space with my mini Christmas tree. While the lights twinkled and the computer booted up, I grabbed a bowl of cereal and opened the slider to the patio deck. The sound of the waves filtered through the screen while I ate my Cap’n Crunch, then gulped down the sugary milk at the bottom of the bowl.

I typed Stream Kitchen into the Google machine and it returned one billion results. Ish. The third link was the one I wanted. The initial landing page splashed onto the screen. A shiny kitchen with a pair of chefs in white coats gripping panhandles over a gas stove with wicked flames. It didn’t look like an afternoon cook-off, it looked like a reality show competition. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a lot of information on the show, but the contact information was current.

After retrieving my phone from the charger upstairs on my nightstand, I carried it to the computer and dialed the number. Two rings later, a recorded message informed me that auditions were closed, callbacks needed to be on set an hour before their slot either today or tomorrow, and filming began at seven a.m. sharp.

My phone clock said it was seven thirty-seven. The young prep cook from the Wharf said she thought Rory needed to be there today, but after brunch. Plenty of time for me to zip over and see what was what.

I rinsed my bowl and stuck it in the drying rack, then popped into the shower. I was almost looking forward to the day. Matty and I had shopping plans at eleven, which included lunch, I hoped. I’m not a happy shopper. I’d rather buy via mouse-click than traipse through crowded public retail villages, operating on sensory overload as I simultaneously avoided touching every germy surface while choosing appropriate gifts. But Matty enjoyed the holiday-ness of it. The carols and bells and kids in line for Santa. But the mall had an Orange Julius, so there was that.

Dressed in a festive green linen tunic and long, flowy white pants, I grabbed a floral sun hat, my hipster handbag, a small box of decorations, and hit the road.

I checked in at the Big House to make sure the tree-trimming crew had arrived on time. Two workers were setting up tall aluminum ladders on either side of the tree, while four men unloaded boxes and spare lights. I showed them my personal box for beneath the tree. A surprise to tie the whole thing together. With a sticky bun from Carla’s kitchen, I was back on the road and sailing over the Palmetto Bridge shortly after eight.

The tide was low, almost nonexistent. Miles of oyster beds covered the sea floor and their familiar brackish aroma filled the air. The long, low bridge connected Sea Pine Island to the rest of South Carolina. I sped onto the mainland and entered Summerton, a lowcountry town filled with diverse residents, major strip centers, and at the far edges, I-95 which led north to Maine and south to Florida.

I took the back road to Savannah, a town whose popularity grew after the release of
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
. A Southern charmer of an insider’s peek behind a genteel society, eccentric residents, and, of course, a salacious murder.

It took thirty-two minutes to reach the Talmadge Memorial Bridge. I drove two hundred feet over the river and into Historic Savannah. I wasn’t going far. The set address on the Stream Kitchen website was for a warehouse near the waterfront.

Parking was limited in that section of town. Somewhat industrial, down from the quaint shops and river boats, but somehow still enchanting. Majestic oaks and magnolias lined the streets, cobblestone walks led to once-stately homes. Even an enormous barge stacked high with metal containers felt quixotic as it navigated the Savannah River.

A plain metal door marked 127A faced a narrow alley and I was able to steer the Mini into a half-spot between the crumbling curb and the sidewalk about ten feet from the entrance. It felt deserted, isolated. Until I entered the warehouse.

Cables and lights and equipment nearly blocked the entrance. Through a pair of overhead doors on the far side, people shouted commands while other people scrambled to answer them. A round table was set off to one side of the entry room, empty chairs pushed back as if a meeting had recently adjourned. Paper plates with half-eaten pastries littered the table along with plastic utensils and discarded napkins. I followed the shouts past the table, through the open overhead door, and into the most wondrous kitchen-like set. It was
MasterChef
meets
The Next Food Network Star
.

Five mahogany islands spanned the room, each at least twenty feet long. Two sets of stainless burners, double sinks, and ovens were installed on each. As were thick chopping blocks and white cutting boards. Each pristine work area gleamed under dozens of can lights.

“We’re filming,” a man shouted. “This is a go.”

A young girl carried a black and white clapper board to the far wall where a fancy logo had been mounted. Stream Kitchen, it said. She slapped down the clapper and rushed out of the shot.

The noise level stayed at shouting, so I assumed the cameras were shooting for background. Another young girl approached me. “Name and slot time?” she asked.

“Elliott Lisbon, but no slot time—”

“Auditions are over. This is a closed set. Unless you’re a parent, then I’ll need your kid’s name and slot time. We’ll have bleachers set up next week.”

“Definitely not a parent,” I said. “I’m here about one of your contestants.”

“Press isn’t allowed on set,” she said, then shouted over her shoulder. “Mark, call security. They’ve got to man this door better. I don’t have time for this.” Fran Banks was typed on a lanyard badge around her neck. She wore a headset and clicked the tiny button on the hanging wire. “How much longer ’til the voiceover talent gets here?” She turned to me. “You’re still here? Ma’am, I need you to leave. We’ll take your credentials next week. Check in with Penny on your way out. We’ll put you on the list.”

“I’m not press,” I said as she tried to hurry me out of the room. “I’m here about Lexie Allen.”

That stopped her.

“I assume you heard?” I asked.

“Mark, the producer, he told us yesterday,” she said. “Lexie was here, what? Wednesday, Thursday? Hard to believe.”

The young girl with the clapper approached us, holding out a Starbucks cup with a cardboard wrapper.

“I asked for this an hour ago,” Fran snapped.

“The delivery guy said the line was out the door,” the girl said. Her lanyard said
intern
with “Penny” scribbled underneath it. She twisted her hands together. “He said he got here as fast as he could.”

“It’s cold,” Fran said and took another long sip. “Mark!” she shouted into the room. “Dammit, Mark.” She clicked the headset button. “Someone get Mark to the front of the set. Now.” She turned to me. “You’ll probably want to speak with our producer. If I can find him.”

“He’s out by the—” Penny said.

“Lord, girl, don’t lurk. Go get him,” she said, and then under her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Interns. More hassle than they’re worth.”

Penny spun around and ran into a tall man with curly hair and a faded tee. His badge credentials said Mark Malone. He carefully righted Penny and moved around her.

“What’s up, Fran? I’ve got the lighting crew dangling from the rafter in B.”

“This woman is here about Lexie Allen,” Fran said. “She’s all yours.” She hurried off, talking into her headset and shouting to passersby at the same time.

I stuck out my hand, even though I hate the convention, and repeated my intro. “I’m Elli Lisbon, with the Ballantyne. I’m working with the Sea Pine police on the Lexie Allen case.”

“Great girl, that one. And she could really cook,” he said. A camera rolled by with a large man in a driver’s chair. Mark guided me out of the way and over to a food table with picked over fruits and bagels and spreads.

“I’ve never heard of Stream Kitchen. Can you tell me about it?”

“We’re new this year. For the Kitchen Cuisine Channel. Online. Like YouTubeTV or Crackle. Stream Kitchen is the ultimate battle for Southern chefs.”

“And Lexie Allen was a contestant?”

“Almost. She came so close,” he said. He sounded like a surfer hopped up on coffee and sugar. Speaking of, Penny the intern approached with another Starbucks cup and handed it to him. “Thanks, doll.”

“It’s not a cook-off?” I said. “I’d heard Lexie was auditioning for a cook-off.”

“Her audition
was
a cook-off. She and another local chef here in Savannah. They were battling for the last spot on the show. Turns out the girls were rivals. Couldn’t even script it, their catfights were so fierce.”

“You mean Rory?”

“You know her? Hellfire, that one. She’s on the show now. Has a good shot at winning the whole thing.”

I watched Penny linger at the snack table. Lurking, as the headset gal put it.

“What does the winner get?”

“The jackpot. Their own show on the Stream Kitchen, streaming live each week. Showcasing local flavors around the South. Texas BBQ vs. Carolina BBQ, that kind of thing. Plus a blog tour stopping at all the top cooking magazines and a product line of their signature dish.”

“Mark! Need you in Studio B,” a male voice hollered. “Pronto, man.”

He took a big swig of the coffee, then tossed it in the trash by the table. “Sorry to hear about Lexie. She would’ve been one tough cookie to beat.”

Penny still lurked, so I moseyed over, surveying the bagel selection. “Did you know Lexie Allen?”

“Sure, I know all the contestants.” She kept her head down and studied a jam jar. “I had to prepare their credentials.”

“Even the ones who hadn’t made it?”

“Lexie Allen made it. So did Rory Throckmorton. Mark was stringing them along, playing them against one another. Made them audition against each other four times. Today was the final audition. But they didn’t know he already decided to keep them both. Tell one today, make a big deal out of it. Then bring the other one back for the first round of competition.”

“Why split it up?”

“The surprise, I guess. He really liked to see them fight. And they both really,
really
wanted on the show. It got ugly. And Mark loved it.”

Fran’s shouting voice got louder and I noticed her stalking toward us. So did Penny, and she scurried away.

With a quick wave to Fran, who ignored me, I carefully stepped through the warehouse. With its massive can lights, thick cables and bustling crew, it reminded me of backstage at the theatre. Lexie would’ve felt at home there. Too bad she never got the chance.

I needed to find out more about this Rory Throckmorton. First I see her out snuggling Lexie’s boyfriend, then I discover she was in a heated battle for a reality show. Maybe Rory didn’t want to wait until the producer made his decision on who would join the competition. Maybe she made it for him.