Carolyn
Luz was brushing her teeth and I was flossing when I received a call from the U.S. delegation to the UN, summoning me for an interview about my part in the firebombing of an ambassadorial limousine. I agreed to an appointment in an hour. When Luz heard, she offered to accompany me, but I decided that since the conversation would require some diplomacy, I’d go on my own.
“Right. Diplomacy. You want to tear into them because they didn’t answer your emails from the Bountiful Feast.”
“That, too,” I said, smiling cheerfully. I did have a thing or two to say to the State Department, but then I remembered that I should call Detective Worski. I made that call immediately and told him that I’d learned the chef, whom he hadn’t been able to find, was at a conference in Atlantic City, which didn’t mean he wasn’t a suspect anymore, just that he had a different motive for ruining my turkey flambé. “He missed the first day of his meeting and the opportunity to cook a wild turkey dinner because of me,” I explained. Detective Worski thought those motives not only hilarious, but also unbelievable, even when I assured him that he obviously didn’t understand temperamental chefs. Then I mentioned Allison Peabody, who was jealous of her status as queen of gourmet food writing, and Annunziata Randatto, who might be worried about her status as bestselling cookbook author at Pettigrew’s. Detective Worski assured me that I, the person who’d made the turkey bombs, was still his best suspect. “So you get your ass right down to my office, Mrs. Blue. Benitez and I need to talk to you.”
Now that was insulting! “I have an appointment today with the State Department, Detective. I think they trump the New York Police Department.” I hung up and instructed Luz to tell him I had left if he called again, although I still had to bundle up for my journey into the frigid canyons of New York. Should I be frugal and take the subway, or free-spending and comfortable in a Ming family cab? Frugal, I decided, as I brushed my teeth. All those cabs yesterday? Definitely frugal today.
I hadn’t even called Jason, poor man, stuck in El Paso with the DEA, the lab accident, and his unconscious students. I’d definitely call him tonight, and I’d ride subways all day. Mr. Ming might be disappointed; I was, too, but I had yet to tell my husband about the cell phone and the new dress. Goodness, I had to drop the velvet dress off with Uncle Bernie today. So many things to do. I checked the velvet gown for dampness, put it into the plastic bag, and headed for the door.
Luz shouted after me that she’d head for Cratchett, and if I got free of the feds, I could call her there. Then our phone rang, and she answered while I motioned that she wasn’t to say I was here. “Cool it,” she told me. “Cratchett wants to talk to you.”
I took the call, embarrassed that I wouldn’t be available this morning to help with the investigation as I had promised. He wanted us to get together to discuss talking to temps who had been employed as kitchen help and waiters the day and evening of the launch party, so I suggested lunch, something ethnic preferably, and we settled on a Kosher-Indian restaurant on Curry Hill, a fusion cuisine the likes of which I’d never heard. He provided directions and I finally got away, with my velvet gown over my arm, to keep my appointment. But by that time I was running late and needed to take a cab after all.
I might as well have taken the subway, since the State Department kept me waiting. After fifteen minutes, I suggested to the receptionist that I return my gown to the store in Lower Manhattan while the State Department was leaving me in limbo. Suddenly I was admitted to the office of some official to whom the lady showed great respect. I think she said he was Assistant something Pratt.
I shook his hand, sat down, and told him all about my unfortunate experience with his agency. He said, “That would make you the woman involved in shooting down a stolen Moroccan military helicopter.”
“Not personally. I don’t carry guns, but it was a very frightening experience, and I think my own government should have been more supportive. Not that I am complaining about the U.S. Navy. They rescued us when the bomb went off during the Mother’s Day dinner.”
“You seem to have an affinity for bombs and international incidents, ma’am, which is why you’re here today. Ah, Naylor.” Mr. Pratt nodded to a man who had entered the office unannounced. “This is Mrs. Blue. Mrs. Blue, Mr. Naylor is here representing the Department of Homeland Security. As you can imagine, two bombs hitting the streets of New York is a matter of concern to his department, even if you do deny being a terrorist.”
“I take it that the FBI has been in touch. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Naylor.” I shook his hand. “Does the Department of Homeland Security have any particular protocol regarding flaming turkeys striking U.S. streets? It was certainly a shocking and frightening incident, but there were no bombs, just my excellent Herald-Tribune turkeys. Because someone sabotaged them, they produced a conflagration instead of the pretty blue-flame decorative effect of a successful flambé.
“Indeed, the volcano turkey with its silver eruption cup on top and lava streams made quite an impression on the guests, who clapped enthusiastically before the whole turkey started spitting fire and scorching the ceiling. Then two employees at Pettigrew’s speared my turkeys and threw them over the balconies. Of course, they weren’t expecting traffic and crowds at that time of night, but as it turned out, St. Laurence O’Toole’s Day was being celebrated, so—” I stopped because both men were staring at me as if I were mad.
“He was an Irish bishop of Dublin, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Mrs. Blue, your…missiles…blew up a car.”
“It was illegally parked.”
“And hit a diplomatic limousine, causing an accident resulting in injuries.”
“I’ve already explained and apologized to the grandfather of the unfortunate young woman who is in a coma.”
“Causing an embarrassing international incident. The Benamians think they were attacked by Muslim fundamentalist terrorists who resent the Benamian alliance with our country.”
“Well, they’re mistaken, Mr. Pratt. I am not a Muslim fundamentalist. I’m a food and travel writer. Tell them I wrote a nice column about desserts in Morocco, which will probably help their share of the American tourist market since I didn’t mention the whistle-blowing guide or the impolite Arab youths who made nasty comments about my hair. I have never seen a camel urinate—well, possibly when I was a child visiting the St. Louis zoo—but I’m sure my hair is not the color of camel urine. How would you feel if someone said something like that to your wife?”
“Your experiences in Morocco are beside the point, ma’am,” said Mr. Naylor. “You’ve caused us to consider raising the national security alert level, and you brought back all the trauma of 9/11 when you—”
“Those were airplanes, not turkeys,” I retorted, “and any consternation I may have been partially responsible for causing New Yorkers, I shall apologize for immediately. You, however, should be very relieved to know that Thanksgiving turkeys, not bombs, fell into the city streets. An unburned turkey, which I myself managed to rescue, was turned over to the fire department. I suggest that before you accuse me of being a terrorist, you call them and find out what foreign substance was added that caused the problem. I am a respectable housewife and mother who writes educational food columns.”
“Educational?” mumbled Mr. Naylor.
“I include culinary history. Would you like an example? Louis XIV of France—”
Assistant Pratt gave a loud sigh before I could mention the king’s problem with strawberries and said none of this would pacify the angry Benamian delegation, which was threatening to take the matter to the United Nations.
“Oh, for goodness sake! This whole diplomatic fuss is incredibly silly. Neither the ambassador’s limousine nor any of his party were injured that I’m aware of. I’ll go over this afternoon and explain the situation to the ambassador.”
Mr. Pratt sighed again. “I’ll have to go with you, and please don’t call their concerns silly or mention that you were involved in shooting down a Moroccan helicopter or were insulted by Moroccan youths.”
“Naturally not,” I replied. “I’ll be at Madras Mahal in Curry Hill, or technically Murray Hill, from twelve to one. You can pick me up there.” I scribbled down the address of the Kosher-Indian restaurant.
Mr. Pratt ordered his secretary to set up the appointment.
Glancing at the scruffy velvet evening dress I was holding, Mr. Naylor asked me if I was planning to dress formally for my lunch date. “The food there is pretty hot. If you’re not used to Southern Indian cuisine, you might consider dressing down. People have been known to make rush trips to the bathrooms.”
“I’m from El Paso. I’m accustomed to food that is muy picante.” I threw in the Spanish phrase so that he’d know I wasn’t a country bumpkin.
“Well, it’s your ulcer,” he retorted and asked if I knew the name of the person in charge of the third turkey. I did and gave him the name, asking that he call me if he found out what had been done to my turkeys. Then I gave him my card. Mr. Pratt confirmed an appointment with the Benamian ambassador at two and reluctantly agreed to have his driver pick me up at Madras Mahal.
Once freed from that unpleasant interview, I got rather confusing instructions from the receptionist on how to travel by subway to Uncle Bernie’s. She was very interested in seeing the water-damaged dress and didn’t think it could be refurbished, but I had confidence in Loretta’s uncle, more than I had in Loretta. Thinking of my agent reminded me that I had a book signing tonight that was bound to be a flop. My first and possibly last book signing.
My bodyguards were with me again—I’d forgotten to look for them at the hotel—but here on the street, I walked right up to them and asked the name of the leader. I might have known. It was Mr. Li, so I told him that if they were going to follow me all day, they might as well take the lead because I wasn’t at all sure that I could find my way to the discount clothing establishment or even to the restaurant. Following an angry argument in Chinese, they agreed, reluctantly, but they wouldn’t sit with me in the half-empty subway car. Evidently I’d embarrassed them in some unforeseeable way.