Chapter 7
ROY ARRIVED AT THE WHITE CHIC promptly at ten the next morning as though nothing had happened. As though Natasha had not canceled the article. He had an appointment with Whitey that he was determined to keep. Article or no, Roy Drake had his own agenda.
All the lights were on in the restaurant as the busboys set tables and the bartenders removed traces of yellow rind from the lemon slices. Without his beard and wig from the day before, Roy was immediately recognizable to Isidore, the maître d’. “Oh, look, everyone. It’s the Wicked Witch of the West!”
“Fuck you.”
“The very thought sends chills up and down my spine.”
“You have no spine. You work on tips.”
“Moyles work on tips. I work on gratuities.” Isidore pulled out a chair for Roy. “Why don’t you rest your brains and I’ll tell him you’re here. Oh, Carlos,” he shouted to the busboy. “A roll of toilet paper and a pencil for table six. The critic!”
Roy shook his head, wondering what the hell he had ever seen in Isidore. Or why Whitey had ever married him. It didn’t matter. That was all in the past. He saw a future filled with sweaty young messenger boys and smooth-skinned Oriental chauffeurs as he took off for his own private Planet Hollywood. There was no critic at table 6. There was a screenwriter. A screenwriter about to become hotter than bistro food.
Whitey appeared in his chef’s whites, holding a white cellular phone and rolling his pink eyes as he waved hello to Roy. A true albino, he had milky skin and white hair. He looked like the White Rabbit without long ears. “Oh, puh-leez, don’t be brown,” he said into the receiver. Then, putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said “Hi, sweetie” and kissed Roy before flopping down into the chair next to him. “Arnold and Maria’s lawyer,” he whispered before taking his hand away. “Listen, you tell them Bruce and Demi never said anything about ketchup.” Whitey put his hand on Roy’s while continuing the conversation. “I don’t care who grossed more, and frankly, I didn’t think Hudson Hawk was all that bad. Talk to me when the overseas video figures are in. Oops, gotta go. Goldie’s on the other line.” Smiling, he put the phone down.
Roy shook his head. “My ass, she is.”
“Your ass, she is what?” Whitey began to giggle as he patted Roy’s hand. “Poor baby, miss the hard times, don’t you? But enough about you. Here’s a joke Bobby De Niro told me, and I just don’t understand it. What’s the difference between bad food and bad sex?”
It was all too much for Roy. Arnold and Maria. Bruce and Demi. Goldie. Bobby. Never mind what the difference was between bad food and bad sex, what was the difference between what Whitey was selling and what he was selling?
Isidore appeared and smiled at Roy. “Your throat must be parched with envy. Can I get you a nice glass of iced pee?”
Whitey tugged at Isidore’s sleeve and pouted. “Bring me something.”
“What would Mommy like?” Isidore asked.
“Surprise me.”
“And for King Cobra?”
“Black coffee,” Roy said.
“We don’t serve black coffee.”
“Then send out for it.”
“It’s all right. Daddy. Let him have it.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Roy looked at Whitey. “The difference between bad food and bad sex is . . . ?”
“Now this is supposed to be a joke. But I don’t know what’s funny about it.” Whitey cleared his throat. “The difference between bad food and bad sex is that bad food sucks.” A giant shrug of puzzlement.
Carlos rushed over to the table. “It’s Liza. A table for eight at lunch?”
Whitey picked up the cellular phone. “Hi, sweetie. Tell me first what you’re going to wear.” He began to giggle.
Something was very wrong with the world as far as Roy was concerned. Basic American values had certainly gone to hell if Liza Minnelli, who was perfect for the woman in his screenplay but was virtually unreachable, was talking to someone who cooked dead animals for a living.
“You know,” Whitey said, hanging up the phone with a sigh, “I’ve heard of two more Judy sightings in the past month alone. It’s like a Menotti opera. God forbid Liza should find out. But enough about her.” Whitey rapped his knuckles on the tablecloth. “Guess what I’ve decided to do?”
Die, Roy thought.
“I’ve decided to really push the envelope this time. I’m going to call in Adam Tihany or Milton Glaser and redo the whole fucking place. Something really new and fun. Spark up the room with some vanilla and ivory trim.”
“Wow!”
Isidore reappeared. “A glass of coconut milk for Mommy, and a buh-lack coffee for the Prince of Darkness.”
Roy took a sip from the steaming cup. “Mmmm. This is great coffee!” Wringing the last drop from his damnation with faint praise, Roy continued. “You really know how to make a good cup of coffee.”
Isidore groaned and left.
Whitey sipped his coconut drink. “So. What kind of spin are you planning for the article? I should tell you, in all fairness, that Architectural Digest and Elle Decor have already been here.”
“And what did they think of the coffee?”
“Oh, puh-leez! This isn’t going to be one of those boring food things?”
“Heaven forbid. Give me credit for a little imagination. We both know no one comes here for the food. Especially not after Gael and Bryan spread the word about your new vanilla and ivory trim. No way,” Roy said, sitting back. “I’m talking an in-depth profile, a real character study. A day in the life of — ”
Isidore called from across the room. “Godzilla on two.”
Whitey raised his eyebrows. “My book agent.” He picked up the phone. “So what have you done for me lately? Uh-huh. Great. Sure I can get quotes from everyone, but I want final jacket approval. What about the tour?” Whitey winked at Roy. “I don’t want their publicist! Some Ivy League bimbo in a Peter Pan collar. Have them call Howard. He knows where I like to stay. And tell them to add one more city. I read somewhere that Dean Fearing had fifteen cities. I want twenty. And we keep foreign rights and first serial. ‘Bye.”
“That’s the spin!” Roy said. “Arnold and Maria. Liza. The photo shoots. The book deal. Working with the lawyer, the agent, the publicist, the architect, and the designers. The chef of the nineties coming out of the kitchen!” Roy leaned forward almost threateningly. “I’m going to capture the real you!”
Whitey smiled and brushed back his hair. “Oh dear. You may have to kill me first.”
FROM: Ogden-san
TO: Hiram Heartburn
Damn it, I’m in love! Fourteen hours in a plane going from right to left, with nothing more to look forward to than a relapse of chronic Fuji syndrome, I close my copy of Huckleberry Finn. I am only on page 5 when I suddenly realize that the twain has been met.
I am the twain. I am not a camera or a teenage werewolf. I am the east that is east and the west that is west. Me! Think about it. What I have always had trouble meeting is myself. This is deep stuff. Better put away your autographed picture of Ross Perot.
Have you ever looked out the window from 35,000 feet? The earth is not round. The horizon is not endless. The world begins and ends with my shoe size. One small step for man. The world is what I can hold in my arms, and Hiram, I have been embracing the wrong stuff. I guess I always knew. Down deep, in that teeny tiny part of me that has no preservatives or artificial flavoring, I knew she was right when she said I was wrong.
To explain. I get on board a plane that will take me all the way from New York to Tokyo, which is about as far as you can go without having to move your bowels. But when I get off United’s Nina II, there is no land for me to claim for Spain. Testosterone shrugged. I am met at Customs by a nearsighted driver who holds the card with my name upside down. I step into the limo and pick up the phone. DNA propels the male forefinger toward a dial. The Y chromosome has been imprinted with an inexorable desire to claim this land for Spain. Arigato and gomen nasal, get me Queen Isabella!
Hiram Hockfleisch, let me tell you something: Like the earthquakes in California, the fault lies within ourselves. Beware of flying homonyms. Priorities pervert. The discoverer discovers himself.
In comparison to me, Columbus was an armchair traveler, Magellan was an agoraphobic, and Cortez had nothing but ants in his pantaloons. Add up my frequent-flier miles. Recalculate the cost of the Lady of Spain’s money in terms of today’s dollars. Amortize my expenses versus theirs. Price the returns on their discoveries versus mine. Nolo contendere, buddy. Tomatoes, potatoes, chocolate, and corn versus Natasha. I just met a girl named Natasha.
All of which is a roundabout way of saying that she loved me once, she loves me twice, and I’m not going to screw it up again. We don’t often get the chance to rewrite our lives, and this time, goddamn it, it’s going to have a happy ending.
NATASHA HAD KEPT the answering machine on all weekend. She had put herself under house arrest as she wondered how she was going to face Alec on Monday morning. He had called dozens of times. Even Millie had phoned twice from Tokyo. She let their messages pile up just as she did the newspapers outside her door. She didn’t know what to do. It was going to be another Monday morning without her homework.
She needn’t have worried.
Her confrontation with Alec took place at the police station. They caught sight of one another through the glass partitions while each was questioned in the death of Whitey Harris.
The torment in Natasha’s mind had shifted from not knowing what to say to Alec after she slept with him to the horror of Whitey’s murder. All during her session with Davis, she answered his questions with a shake of the head or a nod. Natasha finally spoke as she was ready to leave.
“Stuffed with what?” she asked, gripping the doorknob.
Davis consulted his notes. “A mousse of scallops, white truffles, beaten egg whites, and heavy cream.”
“And then he was . . .”
“Poached,” Davis said. “In a fish stock.”
“White turnips?” she asked.
“And celery hearts.”
“No amateur,” Natasha said.
“I think not.”
“Any clues?”
“We had you under surveillance all weekend, but you never left your apartment. And Mr. Ogden is in Tokyo.”
“Mr. Gordon and Mr. Drake?”
“It can’t be Alec,” she whispered.
“Because he spent the night with you on Friday?”
Natasha had forgotten all about Solares. Of course. He had driven them to her apartment. He didn’t see Alec leave until Saturday morning. “Because I know what makes people tick. I understand them as well as I understand myself.” She turned back to Davis and shouted, “I could never have slept with a killer!”
“I didn’t say you had.”
“Then I was right. It is Roy!”
“No. We can’t put him at the scene of the crime.”
“Why? Because he gave you some flimsy alibi? Can’t you see through that?”
“Not really, Miss O’Brien. His alibi is Mr. Gordon.”
NATASHA SAT UP FRONT as the detective du jour drove her up-town to the office. She stared out the window. “What makes someone kill people?” she asked.
The driver put his foot down on the brakes. “Given the circumstances, I don’t think I’m supposed to discuss company business.”
“Why can’t you tell just by looking at someone?”
“Because it’s nothing you can see. People kill for money or power or love. I remember somebody telling me, ‘You want to find a killer, first find someone who’s hungry.’ ”
A POSSE HAD GATHERED outside Natasha’s office. Bermuda, Christine, Bud, and Arnold snapped to attention as she stepped off the elevator.
“I’ve got to see you!”
“We have to talk!”
“There’s a real problem here!”
“This can’t wait!”
Natasha walked past them without a word and quickly closed the door behind her. She barely had enough time to mutter “Vultures!” before Ester came in with the mail.
Important letters were put in the middle of Natasha’s desk, near the jelly donut Ester had brought from Brooklyn. Phone messages to the side. Ester held up the rest of the mail. “You don’t have any money to buy stocks this month, you’re too busy to subscribe to the Met, I’ve decided to go to most of the press dinners myself— except there are some you should consider — and I’ve already said no to all the free trips for the next two months, although believe me, I could use a few days at Sundance, God forbid I should meet someone named Robert Redford.” She waved the mail. “Garbage?”
“Garbage.” Natasha looked down at the donut. “Ester, I can’t eat this.”
“Eat half. Then technically it becomes a leftover and I can feed it to Pushkin with a clear conscience.”
“I wish I had one of those.”
“No you don’t. He pees on everything.”
“I meant a clear conscience.”
Hesitating, Ester asked, “How bad was it?”
Natasha held out her hands. She had chipped off the polish and bitten her nails to the quick.
“So this time you really did it.”
The tears began to stream from Natasha’s eyes. Yes, this time she felt as though she had really done it.
AFTER A GOOD CRY and a manicure, Natasha was ready for the next round. Ester opened the door and everyone started talking at the same time.
“I can’t believe there’s been another murder.”
“We’re going to run out of chefs.”
“The American Beef Council is getting nervous.”
“I’ve got to tell you about Grenouille!”
Natasha looked at Arnold. “About where?”
“Me and Ester went for lunch. After she helped me move on Saturday. It was like the Botanical Gardens. I never saw so many flowers.”
Natasha sensed danger. “What else?”
“The dishes. The service. Those funky little lamps on the tables.”
“And what did you eat?” she asked ominously.
“Who remembers?”
Natasha banged her fist on the desk. “What the hell is going on here? I turn my back, get arrested for ten minutes, and you, Mr. Noo Joisey, you forget why I hired you.”
Bermuda shook her head at Arnold. “You should have said the fish was overcooked. You’d have been a hero.”
So much for Natasha’s unfailing instinct about people. She had hired Arnold the same day she hired Alec. “Next!”
Bud took a deep breath. “The American Dairy Council is getting nervous about their twelve pages.”
“You look like you’re nervous about their twelve pages.”
“Let’s face it. These murders aren’t doing us any good. The advertisers keep reading your name in the tabloids.”
“What the hell is happening to you people?” Natasha asked. “You’re folding faster than warm egg whites.”
Christine interrupted. “I’ve got to replace those profiles with something.”
“What about ‘Mom Cuisine’?” Natasha asked.
Bermuda made a gagging sound. “Why do we have to jump on the bandwagon just because every cook in America has developed an Oedipus complex?”
“Kill me, but I didn’t graduate from the Columbia School of Journalism to write about meat loaf with gloppy brown gravy and lumpy mashed potatoes,” Christine said.
Natasha should never have hired Christine. How could she have made such a mistake? “What about the piece on Barbra Streisand’s seder?”
Bermuda waved the recipes. “May my Bubbie rest in peace. Latkes with truffles? Tsimis with caviar? That little brucha is going to cost more than Terminator 2!”
“Listen,” Bud said, “I sold pages based on great American chefs, not dead American chefs! They’re beginning to connect you to the murders. What do I tell them? I’ve had calls from Publishers Clearinghouse.”
Natasha stood up. “You tell them I’m leaving for Paris on Wednesday. You tell them I’m coming back with an entire issue dedicated to American culinary excellence as recognized around the world. You tell them we have lip-smacking recipes from the most innovative cooks in America. You tell them this is going to be the best damn food magazine in the country. And no half-baked lunatic is going to get in my way!”
The door was flung open. Everyone turned as Alec stood there, pale as a ghost. “Excuse me.” His voice was tense. “Natasha, I must see you. Alone.”
She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Not now.”
“Now!”
Bermuda rattled her papers, pretending to be frightened. With great exaggeration, she tiptoed out. The others followed. Natasha and Alec stared silently at one another.
Where was Emily Brontë when you needed her? Natasha stood there as though she were alone on the moors. The wind was chill, night was falling, and she was lost.
Alec locked the door. “Sit down.”
“Not another chef.”
“No. Not yet.”
She sat down, praying that something would pop into her head. A sentence, a word, anything that would explain to Alec, and to herself, what had really happened on Friday night. But he didn’t seem interested in what she had to say.
Alec’s voice was flat. Devoid of emotion. “I met Roy at the police station this morning. He came back to the office with me. He wanted to speak to you.”
“Roy is here?” she asked.
“No. He had to make a plane.” Alec handed her a contract. “He came to return this.”
“His Olympics contract? That bastard! I won this fair and square! What the hell do I do now?”
Alec ignored her question. “I sent him over to accounting to get his kill fee. While he was gone, I looked through his briefcase.”
“You did what?”
“I found these.” Alec offered her some papers. “I made a copy.”
Natasha didn’t want to take them. “What are they?”
“Pages from Roy’s screenplay. That’s why he couldn’t go to the Olympics. He said he had to finish it.” Alec paused. “There’s a scene in which a chef is stuffed with scallops, white truffles, egg whites, and heavy cream.”
“He must have heard it on the news. He writes fast.”
“Too fast for his own good.” He handed her the pages. “Read this.”
“I don’t want to read it. I don’t even want to touch it.”
“He wrote more than one scene. He wrote the next murder.”
Natasha reached for the phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Alec slammed down the receiver while her hand was still on it. Natasha backed away, as though she could retreat from the incredible thought that had just crossed her mind.
Alec spoke softly. “The victim is a famous dessert chef who runs a food magazine.”
Natasha had just become a bonus question in the final round on Jeopardy.
As Alec put his arms around her, Natasha no longer wanted to disavow Friday night. Suddenly she felt safe. Not the way she did with Millie. Alec was so different. First, there was no back story. Second, Alec was very much like her. It wasn’t a question of opposites attracting. And then, although he didn’t really look it, she sensed that he was older, or at least more mature. At that moment, with all the evidence pointing to Roy, she relaxed into his arms.
“I’ve taken care of everything,” Alec said. “We’re booked on the next flight to Paris. There’s a car waiting downstairs to drive us to the airport. Once we’re in Paris, I’ll notify Inspector Davis. He’ll pick up Roy, and the nightmare will be over.”
Natasha held tight to Alec. “Shouldn’t we call him right away?”
Alec glanced at his watch. “It wouldn’t do any good. Roy’s plane just took off.”
She pulled back. “It’s really Roy?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Roy,” she repeated.
“Roy.”
Then, suddenly, “But Davis said you were Roy’s alibi.”
“Sunday was the Soltners’ anniversary. They had a party. Everyone was there.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You weren’t answering your phone. I called to remind you.”
“Was that why you called?”
“What do you think?”
“I think Roy could have put in an appearance and left.” She felt herself grow flush. “I think I’d better send André and Henriette some flowers.” She smiled helplessly. “I think I was hoping that you had called for some other reason.”
“I think you’d better kiss me.”
“I didn’t ask. I said you’d better kiss me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You leave me no choice. I’ll have to kiss you.”
She leaned forward and brought her lips to his. “You know the rules about not kissing the boss.” Alec kissed her with the hunger of an adolescent. It was a kind of excitement she hadn’t felt in years. She sensed that he wanted to devour her. Natasha pulled back. “But I can’t go to Paris without clothes. I have to go home and pack.”
“You’ll buy new clothes.”
“What about my toothbrush?” she asked.
“I’ll buy you a new toothbrush.”
“It looks like you’ve thought of everything.”
“I know how difficult it is to start over.”
“But I can’t go running off to Paris” — she shrugged her shoulders— ”just to save my life.”
Alec glanced at his watch. “We have to leave.”
Before she could take refuge in the Kingdom of Alec, there was something Natasha had to know. It was the same question every convert asked.
“Alec, you read the pages. How do I die?”
He lowered his eyes. “I don’t know. Roy didn’t get to that part yet.”
THE FIRST-CLASS CABIN of the Air France 747 was less than half full: four Japanese businessmen, a young man using a laptop, and Angela Lansbury. Alec had arranged for bulkhead seats, just as Achille always had, to avoid having anyone overhear his conversation or lean back into his air space.
“I feel so strange,” Natasha said nervously. “Like a little girl. Free of all responsibility. I guess it’s that I’ve never traveled without baggage.”
He smiled. “It means you’ve finally let go of the past. Besides, I told you that I’ll see to it you have everything.”
“Alec. . .”
“I will. I can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. I’m not a little girl. Every time I mention something I need, you can’t say you’ll buy it for me.”
“The problem is that you believe you.” Natasha was worried. Alec, simply because he had slept with her and saved her life, now thought he owned her. Not that she couldn’t see his side of it — after all, what the hell more did most other women want from a man? Trying to get things back on track without hurting his feelings, she took his hand. “Dear Alec, your job description doesn’t include providing a limo, buying plane tickets, or getting my passport back from the — ” She stopped short. “How did you manage that?”
“I bribed someone at the French Consulate.”
“Alec, that’s dangerous!”
“About as dangerous as putting croutons in soup. The French won’t give you the time of day without a pourboire!”
The steward leaned over, smiling. “Are we ready for some champagne now?”
Before Natasha could answer, Alec said, “No, we are not. Bring us two Perriers. No ice. No lime.”
That tone again. Why was it that whenever she was with Alec, she thought of Achille? Except when he had made love to her. And now that was the one thing she didn’t dare think about when she was with Alec.
“I could have used a drink,” she said.
“Cheap champagne does terrible things to the digestion.”
“So does murder. I’m starving!”
“Suppose I told you that I had in my possession the world’s single most perfect pear?”
“Not an Oregon Cornice?”
“Yellow with a slight red blush. And — ”
Natasha began to feel uneasy as she finished the sentence for him. “ — a wedge of Stilton and a split of d’Yquem?”
“Not overly chilled, either.”
Her words were barely audible. “Of course not.”
Alec pressed the call button and then took a thermal bag from the overhead compartment. The steward appeared immediately. “Tray tables, please. Also, two stemmed white-wine glasses.” He opened the bag and took out two plates. “But first — ”
“I know. Sturgeon smothered with Osetra.”
Alec hesitated. “How did you know?”
“And Polish potato vodka.”
She watched as he took a frosted bottle from the freezer chest. Smoked sturgeon and a jar of fresh caviar coded 000 for its light color from one compartment, and two stemmed crystal vodka glasses from the other. How many flights had she been on with Achille? Whether to Istanbul, Majorca, or Kyoto — each time he had gone through the very same ritual.
“What is it?” Alec asked. “That look on your face.”
“Nothing. . . really.” Natasha felt a sudden chill, for the first time understanding what they meant about someone walking across your grave. Someone with a very heavy footstep.
Alec put his hand on hers. “I thought we agreed. No baggage on this trip.”
No baggage? At that moment Natasha was flying a fucking cargo plane! Daring to look Alec straight in the eye, she asked, “What made Achille do it?”
“I don’t know!”
“You were right there with him. You . . .”
Alec whispered, his words barely audible, as though he were afraid someone very close might overhear. “I was not right there with him. He isolated me from his life as though I’d never existed. He never let me into his world, much less his thoughts.”
“I had no idea. I imagined that you and Achille . . . well, that he was your mentor.”
“My jailer.”
“But you’re so much like him.”
Alec smiled. It was a chilling smile. Self-satisfied. Triumphant.
Natasha sat back and held tight to the armrests, as if to reassure herself that she was not falling through space, catapulting into a forbidden time zone. She knew it was impossible, but she also knew that she was sitting next to Achille.
MEMO FROM: Natasha O’Brien, Editor in Chief
TO: Max Ogden
Millie,
How difficult this is to write, especially since I’ve been sending out the wrong signals. Or at least I’ve been sending out old signals. Like old habits, they die hard.
Promise you’ll be happy for me. For the first time in my life, I’m happy for me, and I wanted you to know that at least, in part, you’ve won.
I have decided to step down as editor in chief of American Cuisine and give that job to the person to whom it really belongs, just as I’ve decided to give myself to the person to whom I really belong -- Alec.
I know how you feel about Alec, but you’re wrong. One of the most important things I’ve learned from him is to look deep within for the heart of the artichoke. I think of all the years I’ve spent judging the outer leaves -- it makes me feel like such a little fool*%# YOU ARE A FOOL TO BE WRITING THIS SOPHOMORIC LOVE LETTER TO YOURSELF, AND YOU ARE AN EVEN BIGGER FOOL TO BE PIDDLING AROUND WITH YOGURT WHEN I WANT SOME PATE AND BRIOCHE* ^ % and yet, Millie, Alec speaks so fondly of you@#$ THAT’S A LAUGH*~ that I know we’re all going to be great friends STOP STOP STOP ALL THIS BORING PROSE WHEN WE COULD BE WRITING ABOUT CORNICHON PICKLING IN THE LOIRE.
I’m going to marry Alec as soon as possible +) \ THE HELL SHE IS <>[and I wanted you to be the first to know= ^ * DON’T BE A TURNIP, I WAS THE FIRST TO KNOW%‘@ By the time you read this, Alec and I will be in Paris WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR YOU MUST CALL AHEAD AND BOOK MY TABLE AT TAILLEVANT and, can you imagine, I don’t even care where we eat!- + WELL, I DO CARE WHERE I EAT AND YOU HAVE AS MUCH CHANCE OF MARRYING NATASHA AS SYLVIA PLATH HAD OF COLLECTING SOCIAL SECURITY
FROM: A. Gordon
TO: Beauchamp
Get the lead out of your bird cage. I arrive in Paris tomorrow with Natasha under my wing. Have been up all night tidying loose ends, saving the best for last.
You may consider yourself divorced. I have alerted the solicitors to exercise all relevant codicils in the prenuptial agreement. Effective immediately, kindly revert to your previous persona as the Virgin Queen of Notting Hill Gate. All employee benefits shall continue according to contract.
Thank you very much for being my wife.
YUZURO, THE CHAUFFEUR, had been at JFK waiting for the plane from Tokyo to land. As Millie exited Customs, Yuzuro bowed three times and then hurried off to bring the car around. As he passed a newsstand, Millie saw the headlines about Whitey. He took out his cellular phone and dialed Natasha. Answering machine at home. Voice-mail at the office. No use calling Ester again. She had instructions to hang up on him and had been doing so for days.
Mrs. Nakamura was the only person actively trying to reach Millie. She had left twelve messages at his hotel in Tokyo, four at the airport, two on the plane, and one with the ground crew. Yuzuro had handed him six more.
Millie dialed his secretary, who told him that he could make the memorial service if he went directly to The White Chic. He’d be sure to catch up with Natasha there. Poor Nat, she must have been half out of her mind.
Millie stepped into the black Mitsubishi limo to find three packages from Mrs. Nakamura. A large bottle of cologne, a box of candy, and a life-size, anatomically correct blow-up balloon of a woman.
Once they were on the expressway, Millie began to undress. Yuzuro nearly went off the side of the road as he glanced into the rearview mirror. Millie could feel the shift in the car each time the chauffeur looked back. Always one to clean his dirty laundry in public, he opened his alligator Gucci carry-on filled with fresh shirts, underwear, and socks.
Millie was stark naked as he unzipped his matching alligator toiletries kit, took out the electric razor, shaved, and slapped his face resoundingly with Mrs. Nakamura’s cologne. He opened the bar compartment, poured a quarter of a glass of white vermouth, and brushed his teeth with it. Next he took a linen napkin, doused it in vodka, and gave himself a quick, and very careful, rubdown.
While drying off, he looked in the fridge and found a jar of olives. He dipped the napkin into the jar, soaked up some olive oil, and shined his shoes. Then he washed his hands with the rest of the vodka. By the time Yuzuro reached the East Side Drive, Millie was fully dressed and ready to meet the Queen of England. Or Tina Brown.
Almost. One of the most important business tips he had learned at the Wharton School was to use the facilities before he had to. Familiar with all of the car’s amenities, Millie opened the side compartment and took out the screw-top urine bottle as Yuzuro headed down Lexington Avenue toward The White Chic.
The glut of limos in front was more impressive than a Sondheim closing. Nothing but staged entrances as the legion of terribly bereaved but terribly chic and terribly hungry posed for the paparazzi.
Millie couldn’t wait the last half block. He tapped Yuzuro on the shoulder and said, “Give me ten minutes. Then you’d better be right in front with the motor running, or else you lose your whole benefits package for six months, including your charge at Tiffany’s.”
Yuzuro jumped out of the car, opened the door for him, nodded, and bowed three times. Millie hurried down the block until he reached the line going into the restaurant. He was right behind Paloma Picasso. Her lips were so red she looked as though she’d just kissed Count Dracula.
“What is the delay?” she asked, applying more lipstick.
Millie shrugged. “You know how people dawdle over dessert.”
She glanced at Millie, wondering for a moment whether she was supposed to know who he was. She shrugged.
The delay was due to the stunned reaction as each person walked into the restaurant. With the exception of the walls and floor, everything at The White Chic was black. Black chairs, black table-cloths, black napkins, black roses in black vases. The waiters wore black tunics and black tights. A tuxedoed string quartet played “Pavane for a Dead Princess.”
Beth Morgan of Chickpea Morgan’s, California’s hottest organic-food restaurant, grabbed Millie’s sleeve. “I need to network.”
“Call CBS.” He removed her hand as though it were a piece of lint. He had disliked Beth ever since she called a press conference to accuse American Good Foods of “poisoning” kids with Sparkle Cupcakes — coincidentally, on the eve of opening her restaurant.
“Max, I’m worried.”
“Have you seen Natasha?”
“She must be here. Listen, Max, it’s time to put our cupcakes behind us.”
“Why?”
“I hear AGF is looking for an executive chef. If you remember, I did work with Troisgros and Bocuse.”
“Give me a break! It isn’t possible that all the cooks who say they worked for Bocuse actually did. Or if they did, they couldn’t have done more than empty the garbage for a week.” He turned from her and began making his way through the crowd. Among the 24-carat celebs — Michael Caine, Glenn Close, Zubin Mehta — there was a roomful of nervous chefs. David Bouley, Jean-Georges Vongerichten, and Daniel Boulud stood in a circle joking about being safe because they were French, while Alfred Portale, Andrew d’Amico, and Michael Romano wondered whether ethnicity counted. Millie felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Max!” It was Dewey Arno from New Orleans. He was the chef at A Restaurant Named Desire.
“Have you seen Natasha?” Millie asked.
“No. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“After I find Natasha.”
“Max, I know who’s going to be next.”
Millie took a deep breath. “Who?”
Dewey pointed to himself.
Millie looked away, scanning the crowd. “Any particular reason, or just chef’s intuition?”
Dewey grabbed Millie’s shoulders, forcing eye contact. “Max, I was the one who invented tomato water. Oyster water. Cucumber sweat.”
Millie nodded. “I myself could kill you for that.”
“Don’t you see the pattern? The chefs who were murdered all had high profiles for translating regional American dishes into healthy, modern cuisine. You must have seen the piece on me in the New England Journal of Medicine. I have a book coming out, a monthly spot on Good Morning America, and I’ve been hired by Spielberg to cater his next movie. Max, you are looking at a dead man!”
“You sure you haven’t seen Natasha?”
Millie spotted a waiter carrying drinks and was about to reach for a glass when he realized they were serving champagne in black flutes. Who the hell had thought that one up? You couldn’t see the color of the champagne or the bubbles, and where the hell was Natasha, anyway?
There was a mob around the buffet. People holding black plates as waiters served Beluga caviar, black bean soup, blackbirds stuffed with black truffles, blackberry pie, and black coffee. He turned to Connie Chung. “Wouldn’t you just kill for a marshmallow?”
“I know you,” she said. “You were married to — ”
“Lana Turner,” he said, moving away. “Or was it Tina Turner? One of them.”
Isidore stood at the head of the receiving line. Like a czar in mourning, he was dressed in white. Next to him, in dark suits, were Whitey’s key suppliers — his butcher, his poultry man, his fish man, the greengrocer, the baker, and his decorator. Isidore recognized Millie and his mouth dropped open. “Max? Is that you?”
“Izzy?” The two men embraced. “How long is it?”
“The same length it’s always been,” Isidore said as he began to cry.
Between semesters at Cornell, Millie and Isidore had spent a summer waiting tables on the QE2. Although they had bumped into one another a few times over the years, they had lost touch until Isidore wound up sobbing in his arms. The two men eased their way into an alcove.
“When I stepped on the glass, the chief rabbi of Cherry Grove said it would last forever. Lucky for him he wasn’t in the calendar business. Max, what the hell am I going to do?” Isidore brushed the tears from his face. “I don’t have a table for you.”
Millie held on to him, taking the opportunity to scan the crowd over his shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m looking for Natasha.”
“You and who else.”
“Who else?” Millie asked, pulling away.
“Le gendarme. Some wussy detective. I sat him next to Ivana. Max, I can’t believe Natasha did it.”
“She didn’t!”
“Oh, please. I was here.” Isidore shook his head. “She came in a couple of days ago and, God forgive me, I sat her near the men’s room.” Isidore gave a “case closed” shrug.
“Roy Drake.” He rolled his bloodshot eyes. “But he likes sitting near the men’s room.”
“Is Roy here?”
“He wouldn’t dare show his face. Not after the fight he had with Whitey.”
“About what?”
“Roy came back the next day to interview him. Blah blah blah. And then it all started again.” Isidore sighed. “Over me. Whitey and Roy had a thing going until Whitey came east.” Isidore raised his eyebrows. “In Roy’s case, a very small thing.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Max, baby, Roy couldn’t kill anything but a good time.” Suddenly Isidore gasped. He was staring at the entrance to the restaurant. “Oh my God!” he groaned, heading toward the door. “It’s Maria!”
Millie edged his way past Bobby Short and Diane von Furstenberg to reach Detective Davis, who was holding a plate of caviar and a cup of coffee. “Can’t drink on duty.”
“Where is she?” Millie asked.
“You don’t know?”
“Is she all right?”
“I hope so.” Davis spoke between hurried mouthfuls of caviar. “We never even saw her leave the office. Some getaway. A real pro.”
“Where is she?”
“She left for Paris last night. Must have worn a disguise.”
“Paris? Why the hell aren’t you going after her?”
“What for?”
“To protect her!”
“I’m not in the protection business. I investigate crimes, I don’t prevent them. At this point, I don’t have anything to hold her on. Her secretary said she left because of a problem with the . . . Culinary Olympics? There is such a thing?”
Millie nodded. “Every four years. A high-class Pillsbury Bake-Off.”
“According to the secretary, Miss O’Brien and Mr. Gordon — ”
“Not Alec Gordon?”
“Not Flash Gordon.”
“Son of a bitch! I knew there was something about him. . .” Millie handed Davis a napkin. “Your tie. A material witness leaves the country and you stand here dribbling Beluga on your Ralph Lauren knockoff.”
“I’ve notified the Sûreté.”
“That’s as good as putting up a No Fucking notice in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get her the hell away from Alec Gordon.” Having said it, Millie knew that was something he had to do himself. Davis wasn’t in love with Natasha; he was. Davis didn’t think of Natasha every morning when he got up, every time he went to bed with another woman, or every time he ordered dessert. Impulsively, Millie grabbed hold of Davis and hugged him. “You’re right! I’m leaving for Paris immediately.”
Davis pulled back and looked around nervously. “Keep her away from Roy Drake.”
“I knew it!” Millie said. “I knew it was Roy. Have you got him locked up?”
“LAPD has him under surveillance.”
“What does that mean? Everybody is under surveillance in L.A. It’s either the studios, the 1RS, the Enquirer. . .”
“I have no proof.”
“Who needs proof? L.A. lives on innuendo. It’s the capital of half truths. Davis, trust me. Get the LAPD to pick this guy up for jaywalking and he’s a shoo-in for the gas chamber!” Millie began edging his way through the crowd.
“Max?”
Millie was face to face with Benno St. Louis, owner of the exclusive Jean Valjean Bakery. “So who’s minding the store?” Millie asked.
Benno’s eyes were red. His cheeks were tear-stained. He put an arm around Millie. “A terrible thing to have happened.” Then he leaned closer. “You hire anyone yet?”
“Et tu, Benno?”
“I’ve had it with the bakery business. It’s too crazy for me. I might as well head production at Fox.”
Millie had had it too. He was tired of everyone’s using Whitey’s memorial as an excuse to make a pitch for the job. Not that he’d lose any sleep over the loss of a one-trick pony like Whitey. But still. “So, Benno, I hear the police are looking for you.”
“What?”
“It’s probably just the old ‘round up the usual suspects’ business. I’m sure you have an airtight alibi for where you were when Whitey was killed.” That ought to shut him up for a while, Millie thought, scanning the crowd for Isidore. He was only half listening as Benno spoke.
“Oh, I know where I was, all right. I was with Jeanette. Screaming at her for putting the cherries upside down on top of a Saint-Honoré. As though I had to bother. In walks this guy, and without even looking, he buys out all my cakes. Voilà!”
Private Line Fax
TO: Bobby Silverstein
FROM: Roy Drake
I’ve got it! The last chef to be killed! It’s going to be a woman!
ROY WAS ALMOST an hour late for his meeting with Bobby. As he rushed down the corridor, Mae Sung looked up from reading The Good Earth. Without a word, she offered him the dish of fortune cookies. “ ‘A wise rider selects a speedy horse.’ ”
Roy brushed it aside. “A wise canary knows when to shut up.” He nodded toward Bobby’s office.
“He’s talking to Paramount. He’s been frantic. I haven’t seen him this worried since the day they gave away his table at Morton’s.”
Roy opened the door to find Bobby on the speakerphone, playing darts, a lemon-colored cashmere sweater tied around his neck. The couch was filled with open boxes of tennis shorts from Tommy Hilfiger. Each of the television sets in the bookcase had a different video game on screen.
Seeing Roy, Bobby clutched his heart and rolled his eyes. He offered him one of the remote controls while continuing his conversation. “No, I don’t want Bisset again. I want someone more nineties, like Melanie, Michelle, or Demi, and what does Penny know anyway?”
Roy stood in front of Bobby’s desk, which was littered with dozens of packages of sweat socks rather than scripts. “Get off the phone,” he said.
Bobby looked up in surprise. Without taking his eyes from Roy, he shouted into the speakerphone, “Gotta go, bubbala. I’m late for my facial.”
“You hear the one about the Polish starlet?” the voice on the other end asked. “She slept with the writer.”
Bobby laughed, switched off the phone, and became serious as he motioned for Roy to sit down on the couch. “It’s time this business got back on track. All this crap about film being a director’s medium. Tell that to Selznick, Goldwyn, or Thalberg. You heard it here: Film is a producer’s medium! The producer is the auteur! So. You got more pages?”
Roy didn’t move. He motioned toward the couch. “Get rid of this garbage so I can sit down.”
“Sure.” Bobby hurried over, picked up the boxes, and threw them in the corner of the room. “Say, babe. How about something to drink? I got some brand new water. From Utah, yet.”
“I want a Chivas. Neat.”
“Coming up.” Bobby turned on the intercom. “Get me a case of Chivas and a glass.”
“A case?” Roy asked.
“Whatever you don’t drink, you’ll take home. So. You got more pages?”
“No, I don’t got more pages.”
Bobby sat down next to Roy. “Boychik, all you got to do is kill off the lady chef. One more measly little murder. You can do it.” He reached for one of the boxes on the floor. “What size shorts do you take?”
Roy slid off the couch and began pacing. Things were heating up too fast. First he had the police breathing down his neck, and now Bobby was breathing down his shorts. “Who was on the phone?”
“Paramount.”
“And you’re talking casting with them?”
“Why not?”
“Because you told me they came in with the lowest offer!” Roy shouted.
“Only for the screenplay.”
“What the hell else am I selling them?”
“Hey, babe. You gotta learn something. In this business, it doesn’t pay to be greedy. You have to give a little. Everything isn’t me, me, me. Film is a collaborative art.”
“Apparently so is deal-making.”
Bobby walked over to his desk and sat behind it. “You got enough socks?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
“Sounds like writer’s paranoia to me.”
“I want to know why you’re ready to take the lowest bid. How is that in my best interest? Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do to write this screenplay?” Roy covered his eyes for a moment. No, not even the police really knew. No matter how many times they had dragged him down for questioning. “I don’t want my deal screwed up because the agency is packaging it.”
“Where does it say that? Did Chuck Heston leave that one up on the mountain? Forget about the agency. They’re not packaging it. I am. Yours truly is the bow on this little package. You and these beautiful dead chefs are my ticket out of the agency and onto the lot. So stop worrying and get back to writing. The whole world isn’t screwing you. If anybody’s screwing you, I am.”
“You want me to make a deal with Paramount because they’re going to let you produce.”
“Hey! You’re getting smart. You could be a waiter at Le Dôme.”
“But you’re supposed to be working for me! You’re supposed to be looking out for my best interests!”
“Tell me, genius, how better can I look out for your interests than to be there all the time?”
“But producers hate writers!”
“Not as much as agents do! You people think we should bottle your every fart and get Elizabeth Taylor to endorse it.”
“Does that include Chefs?”
“No. Chefs is a good idea.”
“Bobby, you just don’t know what I’ve gone through on this one. You don’t know what it’s cost me.”
“And the reason it’s a good idea is because it was my idea!”
Roy smiled bitterly. “You bet your ass it was your idea.” He pointed his finger at Bobby. “You remember that. You tell that to the jury. You hear me?” Roy shouted. “You tell them it was all your idea!”
“What does the Writers Guild do? They make you take an oath to be ungrateful? You haven’t even finished the script and already you’re suing me?”
Roy held on to the wall for support. “Bobby, I’m in trouble.” The evidence was mounting. Not that they had enough proof to charge him formally, but he was the last known person to have seen Parker. His review of Neal’s pizza had been interpreted as a confession, and somehow the police had found out that the article on Whitey had been canceled the day before. Roy hadn’t covered his tracks. But what the hell did he know about being a killer?
“Sit down,” Bobby said. “We’ll work it out. I told you. I’m on your side.” He picked up a package from his desk. “Kiddo, are you sure? Nobody ever has enough socks.”
Roy sat down. He knew he had to be careful. Bobby would turn him in faster than a Stroganov curdles.
“All right. So tell me how the lady chef gets killed.”
“I don’t know,” Roy said, unable to stop his voice from trembling. “I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
DRAKE / SCREENPLAY /
SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF AMERICA
FIRST DRAFT / SCENES 101 - 109
101. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS - TEST KITCHEN -- DAY
CAMERA FOLLOWS Lucinda through the smoke and steam as she runs tearfully past dozens of chefs toward Robby. She
wears an apron over her Givenchy gown.
LUCINDA
Oh, Robby. You came. I was hoping against hope.
ROBBY
What a fool I’ve been. Lucinda, you’re the only
thing in my life that makes eating worthwhile.
LUCINDA
But darling, what about your lunch? The twelve-
course tasting at Tour d’Argent?
ROBBY
My place is here. Now that we’ve finally found one
another, not even the most famous restaurant
in Paris can keep me away from you.
LUCINDA
I’ve no right to ask that of you. Your work is
too important, my darling. All of America is waiting
for your review.
Frankly, Luclnda, I don’t give a damn!
102. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS - AWARD AREA
MUSIC UP as the PRESIDENT OF FRANCE kisses Lucinda on each cheek. He reaches for the GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD.
103. CLOSE SHOT -- GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD
We HEAR a ticking.
104. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS -- AUDIENCE
Robby, eating a croque-monsieur as he watches, signals “thumbs up” to Lucinda.
105. CLOSE SHOT -- GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD
President’s hand touches the award. More ticking.
106. CLOSE SHOT -- LUCINDA’S TEARFUL FACE
She is overwhelmed as president hands her the award.
107. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS -- AWARD AREA
As ticking grows louder, Lucinda clutches the GOLDEN TRUFFLE to her breast. She smiles at Robby.
108. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM - PARIS -- AUDIENCE
The killer’s gloved hand holds a detonator. We see his fingers tighten and HEAR an explosion.
109. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM - PARIS - AWARD AREA
SLOW MOTION as we see part of Lucinda’s dress floating in the air.
“MISS O’BRIEN’S ROOM, please.”
“Merci, monsieur,” the switchboard operator said.
Millie paced back and forth in his suite, staring out the window that overlooked the lake. Although he would have preferred the Hilton, he had switched reservations to the Beau Rivage. It had been Achille’s favorite hotel in Geneva, and somehow that seemed fitting. If not fitting, at least appropriately vindictive.
“I am sorry, monsieur. Would you like to leave a message?”
Millie slammed down the phone. He had already left four messages and was beginning to think he should have gone straight to Paris instead of stopping in Geneva. But he was sure that Enstein, after years of treating Achille, would know what the copycat killer might do next. Presuming that he hadn’t done it already. Damn! Where the hell was Natasha?
“Bonjour. Clinique Enstein,” the operator answered.
“Dr. Enstein, please.” There was a long pause. “Hello? Dr. Enstein?”
“One moment, monsieur.”
Millie turned on his laptop computer and logged on to Infotel for the Geneva-Paris airline schedules. “Hello?” he shouted.
“Clinique Enstein,” another voice said. “May I help you?”
“I want to talk to Dr. Enstein!”
“May I ask what it is in reference to?”
“Just tell him it’s Maximilian Ogden. I’m sure he knows who I am.”
“Monsieur, I must ask what this is about.”
Millie growled as he said, “It is about Achille van Golk.”
A pause. Then, “One moment, monsieur.”
He should have gone to Paris, picked up Natasha, and brought her with him to Geneva. No one ever got killed in Geneva. People died of boredom, but no one ever got killed.
“Guten Morgen, this is Herr Doktor Konig.”
“I didn’t ask for Dr. Konig. I asked for Dr. Enstein.”
“So I understand. But in life we do not always get what we ask for, ja?”
Millie took a deep breath. “May I please speak to Dr. Enstein?”
“You wish to speak with him about Herr van Golk?”
“Yes.”
“That is too bad. I am afraid Herr van Golk is dead.”
“I know he’s dead! I still want to talk to Dr. Enstein.”
“I am afraid Dr. Enstein is also dead.”
Millie sat down. “What did you do? Get a discount at the cemetery?”
“Herr Doktor was killed.”
“I’m sorry.” Millie glanced at his laptop for the next plane to Paris. “What happened?”
“His head was bashed in.”
“By whom?”
“We don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Enstein collected strays and misfits the way a dachshund collects fleas. He had a crackpot theory that he could change behavior patterns. I told him it was impossible. But he wouldn’t listen. It was his own fault. It wasn’t my fault that he died, ja? I told him that even a dummkopf like Freud knew that people were driven to do the same things over and over again.”
“Dr. Konig, there must be a clue of some kind.”
“I tried my best. I warned him to be more careful.”
“What about his files?”
“He kept no files. Everything was in his head.”
“When did he die?”
“It is about two months now.”
Then it couldn’t have been Achille. But Millie was still convinced there was a link between the killings of the American chefs and those of the Europeans. And perhaps even Enstein. “Doctor, there must be a clue.”
“I did everything I could,” Konig repeated. “Was it my fault he wouldn’t listen to me?”
“Doctor, think back to the day he died. Did anything unusual happen?”
“Nothing. I tell you what I told the polizei. Nothing happened. I saw no one. It was a very ordinary day. The most exciting thing that happened was that the town bakery sold out all its cakes.”
Something flashed through Millie’s mind. He closed his eyes, trying to recall where he had heard that before.
“Herr Ogden,” Konig continued, “one more thing you must know.”
“Yes?”
“To avoid any false conclusions, I was born in Zurich. I am not German.”
AS MILLIE TURNED from the cashier’s desk, he caught sight of a woman dressed in black. A large black hat covered most of her face. He stepped aside and watched as she crossed the lobby, almost certain that he knew her. He did.
It was Beauchamp.
Something was going on. He saw her get into a car and immediately waved over his driver.
“L’aéroport, monsieur?”
“No,” Millie said, quickly getting into the limo. “I want you to follow that car. Schnell!”
The driver turned around and smiled. “Pardon, monsieur, but I was born in Lausanne.”
BEAUCHAMP’S CAR wound its way through the outskirts of Geneva and stopped at a small cemetery. She got out carrying a Fortnum & Mason shopping bag in one hand and some gardening tools in the other. Millie was too far away to hear what she was saying, but her driver looked at his watch, nodded, and got back into the car.
Millie followed her path through a maze of old tombstones. And then he saw it, on the top of a hill, like the moon rising: a huge round slab of white marble shaped like a dinner plate. Emblazoned in gold was the name ACHILLE VAN GOLK, and the epitaph Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.
Millie stepped back to recover from the sudden pounding in his chest. Although Achille had once treated him as the heir apparent to the Lucullus empire, Millie had sworn he would never forgive him, no matter how insane he had been, for trying to kill Natasha. Yet as he stood there, he felt nothing but sadness and regret. He had never made his peace with Achille. So much had been left unsaid. Not that he would dare admit it to anyone, but Millie missed Achille.
“It’s too late now, Mr. Ogden.” Beauchamp shouted over her shoulder as though reading his mind.
Millie walked slowly toward her. She was on her knees, digging up the soil in front of the headstone. “Still the keeper of the flame, Beauchamp?”
“You should have been at the funeral. You above all. It was a disgrace. No one came. Would you mind passing me the tarragon?” Beauchamp was planting an herb garden. Her bag was filled with shoots of dill, rosemary, coriander, thyme, and sage. “You had no right to abandon him.”
“He tried to kill Natasha!”
“Mr. van Golk was . . . confused,” she said, taking the tarragon from him. “You should have been there when he needed his friends.”
“He needed his friends dead.”
Beauchamp began to sob uncontrollably. “I still can’t believe he’s really gone. I don’t know what to do, Mr. Ogden. I sometimes think I don’t want to live if I can never see him again.”
Millie reached toward her but then stopped. “Pull yourself together, Beauchamp. It’s been three years since he died.”
She opened her mouth as if to scream. Instead, she whispered, “He’s not dead!”
“Oh, Beauchamp.” Millie knelt down and put his arms around her. “You really did love him, didn’t you?”
“Mrs. Gordon, are you all right?” It was Beauchamp’s driver.
She nodded yes. “Thank you, André.”
“Mrs. who?” Millie was astonished.
“We’ll be going back now, André,” she said, quickly smoothing over the earth.
“Mrs. Gordon?” Millie asked. “Mrs. Alec Gordon?”
Beauchamp brushed off her skirt and took the driver’s arm as he led her back to the car. “He was particularly fond of coriander,” she said softly.
“NAT?”
“Oh, Millie, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I had an interview on Bonjour Paris and then I absolutely had to buy some clothes.”
“At a time like this?”
“I’ll explain it later. Where are you?”
“Never mind where I am. Where is Alec?”
“I sent him to cover the lighting of the torch. Millie, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s incredible, but — ”
“Nat, I’m at the airport in Geneva. I’ll be in Paris in an hour. Get the hell away from Alec. Don’t let him know where you are. Meet me at Chez Auguste.”
“But Millie — ”
“I know who the killer is!” they both said at the same time.
* Concours Olympique des Cuisiniers *
Culinary Olympics
* Olympiade der Köche * Olimpiade dei Cuoci *
10TH INTERNATIONAL CULINARY OLYMPICS
ROOM 210, GRAND PALAIS
Secretaire du presse: Eve St. Laurent
Office (555-88999); Residence (555-98211);
Lover (555-44326)
PRESS RELEASE/English
GREAT CHEFS FROM 21 NATIONS
STIR UP SPECIAL EVENTS
Over 1,000 cooks will take part in the culinary world’s greatest international competition, being held this week at the Grand Palais. Merely to stroll through the test kitchens and exhibit areas is to inhale a living library of aromas that have seduced diners through the ages.
Chefs will compete in a variety of settings open to the public: national restaurants, catering kitchens, health-food restaurants, an armed forces’ mess, a hospital kitchen, and a children’s restaurant. In addition, there will be hot- and cold-platter displays and galleries for sugar, ice, butter, marzipan, and chocolate sculpture. The best in each category will be awarded bronze, silver, and gold medals, with the highest award given by the sponsors -- the Golden Truffle -- presented in recognition of innovative gastronomy.
The special events to be featured this year are:
THE WELL-LAID TABLE, sponsored by the Lichtenstein Association of Waiters and Skilled Restaurant Staff. This three-dimensional multimedia display has been mounted as a thought-provoking preview of what a well-laid table will look like in the year 2000;
GERMAN ARMY MESS, cosponsored by the Pipeline Pioneer Battalion 850 from Zweibrucken and the Supply and Transport Squadron of Bomber Group 38 from Schortens, will prepare 750 portions of food whose preparation costs less than U.S.$3.25 each;
GLOBAL WARMING BUFFET, sponsored by the Baltic Sea Fishermen’s Association in keeping with their motto of “cold fish with warm thoughts,” will present its award-winning Denizens of the Deep buffet;
INTERNATIONAL LACHS COMPETITION, sponsored by Peer Gynt Carbon Steel Blades, will focus on uniform slicing of smoked salmon;
INTRODUCTION TO DUTCH WINES, a seminar hosted by “the nose” of the Netherlands, Utwe van Snopp;
GREAT MEALS IN HISTORY, a new edition of the award-winning restaurant that has enchanted attendees. This year’s presentations will include the Last Dinner of the Romanovs, Summertime Buffet on Catfish Row, and Brunch with Henry VIII.
THE CHILL, GRAY, OVERCAST SKY had drained all the color out of Paris. Members of the Organizing Committee for the Culinary Olympics, dressed in morning coats, striped trousers, and top hats, gathered in front of an old house in Montparnasse. Alec, his rain-coat pockets stuffed with Pâtisserie Ladurée’s pain au chocolat, watched from a doorway across the street. He was relieved that Natasha had decided not to attend the ceremony. It gave him time to feed Achille and silence the voice screaming inside him.
A young chef, his starched toque square atop his head, hurried down the narrow cobblestone street. After solemnly kissing each member of the organizing committee on both cheeks, he led the way into the old house that served as headquarters for the Académie Nationale des Pommes Frites. Alec brushed the buttery flakes of pastry from his lips and walked to the entrance. He took out his press pass.
“American Cuisine,” he announced to the young man who was checking credentials at the door.
“Monsieur!” the man said impatiently.
Alec showed him the press pass.
The young man stared at it. “Cuisine Americaine?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Impossible!” he muttered under his breath. He forced a smile and looked up at Alec. “Monsieur,” he said, motioning to Alec’s mouth. “Chocolat?”
Alec quickly took out his handkerchief and rubbed his lips.
The man sighed wearily and handed back the press pass. “Entrez, monsieur.”
Following the last of the officials and press, Alec walked through the foyer, across the dining room, and into the kitchen. Two gendarmes stood at attention on either side of a stove that had once belonged to Escoffier. The president of the Académie, wearing a bright red sash across his chest, looked around the room to be certain everyone was ready. The TV crew focused its camera. Lights were switched on. After receiving a nod, the president struck a long wooden match and lit the fire in the stove. Photographers began taking pictures.
The young chef made his way through the crowd holding Escoffier’s chafing dish. While everyone’s eyes were on the chef, Alec reached into his coat pocket, tore off a piece of croissant, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“I prefer the ones from Pâtisserie Millet,” Achille said.
Alec closed his eyes, thinking that he hadn’t had time to go to the Left Bank and that the ones from Ladurée were excellent.
“How dare you argue with me!” Achille shouted.
Alec gasped as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his head.
The chef stood next to the stove. He lifted the lid from the alcohol burner in the chafing dish. As the crowd edged closer in anticipation and flashbulbs began to pop, the president ignited a wooden skewer from the flame on Escoffier’s stove and lit the alcohol burner in the chafing dish. The room burst into applause. As Alec started to clap, he realized that his hands were sticky.
The young chef, holding the dish aloft, marched toward the door. Everyone filed out behind him. Once on the street, he quickened his pace to a trot amid cheers from the spedators. He was to carry the flame from Escoffier’s stove through the streets of Paris to the Grand Palais for the opening of the Culinary Olympics.
Alec hurried down the street. But no matter how fast he walked, there was no escape. Turning the corner, Alec found a bench and sat down. He took the bags from his pockets, both of which were stained with butter and chocolate. His eyes filled with tears of anguish as he began to stuff his mouth with croissants to silence Achille’s cries for “More, more, more!”
Finally, he burped.
Afraid to think any thoughts that Achille might overhear, he folded his raincoat inside out so that the stains wouldn’t show and carried it over his arm. He got up and walked slowly toward a flower stall. He would take back some flowers for Natasha. But as he approached the stall, he suddenly felt himself go limp. Like a marionette. His head began to bob. His arms swung loosely. The raincoat dropped onto the street. His feet searched for firm ground as he was pulled back from the stall. One foot in front of the other, as though on a tightrope, he was propelled into a small bistro next door.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the waitress said quizzically as he fell back onto a chair. “Voudrez-vous la carte?” She handed him the menu.
Alec whispered, “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Achille screamed.
“Non?” the waitress asked.
Taking a deep breath and gathering all his strength, Alec was determined to push himself away from the table. Straining against the pressure in his chest, he spoke to Achille for the first time. “This body is mine!”
“Monsieur, ça va?” The waitress stepped back.
Alec held on to the table with both hands, put his feet flat on the floor, and very slowly lifted himself up. Breathless, he paused for a moment and smiled victoriously. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Achille pulled him back into the chair. Again, he held on to the table and struggled to stand on his feet. “It’s not your body. It’s mine. It belongs to me!”
His eyes glazed over from the blinding flashes of light. His ears nearly burst from the roaring in his head. He gasped for air as his throat tightened. He was being strangled from within.
“Mon Dieu!” The waitress ran to the back. “Pierre! Pierre!”
Alec’s face was contorted in pain, the most intense he had ever felt. Unable to open his eyes, he grabbed the edge of the table and pushed against the wind-tunnel force of Achille. “I created this body. It’s mine!”
Inch by inch. Alec made it to his feet again. He lifted one leg and then the other as he walked in slow motion toward the door. As his hand touched the knob, every organ seemed to erupt with pain. The hot lava of Achille’s anger scorched his body as he fumbled with the handle. He couldn’t turn it. His fingers kept slipping. He couldn’t get out of the restaurant.
Alec stepped back and pulled his jacket over his face. He pushed his shoulder against the glass door and, as it shattered, stepped through. The moment his feet touched the pavement, the pain stopped. He opened his eyes and began to run.
Standing in the middle of the street, he waved his arms frantically at a taxi and lunged for the door even before the driver stopped. He fell against the seat cushion, quickly slammed the door shut, and then locked it. He rolled up the windows. “Fermez la porte!” he shouted to the driver, pointing to the front door.
The driver didn’t budge. “Où allez-vous, monsieur?”
Alec opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He couldn’t speak.
“Monsieur? S’il vous plaît?”
Achille’s voice escaped from Alec’s mind and captured his vocal cords. Loud and clear, Achille van Golk told the driver, “Tour d’Argent! And step on it!”
FROM: Holmes
TO: Watson
Hold the presses! Hold the phone! Hold on to your jockstrap! Alec Gordon gets the Xerox of the year award!
Hiram, baby, add this up on your trusty abacus:
1) Alec worked for Achille
2) Alec left Fergieville without passing Go or collecting $200 and made a beeline for Natasha (don’t get me wrong: not that he’d have a hope in hell with my one and only)
and (DRUM ROLL!)
3) Alec married Achille’s secretary!!!!
The only thing the son of a bitch didn’t do was gain three hundred pounds, and I wouldn’t put that past him.
Looks like the copycat is out of the bag!