Chapter 9
THE GRAND PALAIS, a fantasy of steel, stone, and glass, had been built for the 1900 World Exhibition. The space beneath its majestic glass-and-iron canopy had been transformed into an aromatic arena in which culinary gladiators and international foodies had gathered for a gargantuan banquet.
Each day six different “national” restaurants competed in the center space. Judges and visitors peered in through open kitchens to watch each team prepare the dishes on its menu. Along one wall were the cold-platter displays, along another the hot platters. Table after table was filled with candies, cakes, and pastries. Special platforms held ice carvings, butter sculptures, and exhibits of “marzipan art.” Cafés, beer halls, Kaffeehauses, bars, and tearooms offered a place to rest before heading to lectures and demonstrations. Hundreds of booths displayed everything from cooking utensils to restaurant accounting systems.
Natasha stood at the entrance, her arm entwined in Millie’s as professional excitement overwhelmed personal anxiety. The Culinary Olympics was the Oscar, the Pulitzer, and the Nobel Prize all wrapped into that most fragile of pastries — passion. It was a setting closer to academe than to commerce, a place in which sauciers argued with the intensity of first-year philosophy students. Teams of young cooks, institutional chefs, and world-famous instructors bonded in the search for perfection. It was the research laboratory, the university press, the art-house cinema, the senior prom of food. There was no room for the cynicism of superstar chefs whose names were inseparable from their restaurants. Everything at the Olympics, especially the awards, was taken seriously.
Just as Natasha had taken it all seriously years ago, when she was on the U.S. team. She glanced at Millie, wanting to share her feelings. But she was embarrassed by her pride at being a judge. It was as though she had returned to her alma mater to give the commencement address.
Or to be killed.
An old man with unruly white hair and a wild look in his eyes grabbed hold of Natasha. Instinctively, Millie wedged himself between them. The old man pushed him aside.
“Where have you been? I was looking everywhere for you.” Professor Wladisczeucz of the Lodz Culinary Institute kissed her on each cheek. “You must take over the cold-platter competition for me.”
“But Professor,” Natasha asked, “what happened?”
“Ask the French what happened!” he said, nodding angrily to the man standing next to him.
The mayor of Dijon, who had married into a mustard fortune, exclaimed, “We have a right to defend our borders! N’est-ce pas?” He kissed Natasha on both cheeks. “The Polish team tried to smuggle in suitcases of live chickens!”
Professor Wladisczeucz looked to Natasha for help. “Airport Customs has threatened to kill all my chickens.”
“Naturellement! What would you have us do?” the mayor asked. “Put them in jail?”
“Not without a trial first!” Wladisczeucz shouted.
Natasha glanced at Millie. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Ogden. Professor Wladisczeucz. Mayor Caron.” While they all shook hands, Natasha tried to think of a solution. “Professor, let me call Maxim’s. I’m sure they’ll let you borrow a few — ”
The Professor shook his finger in the mayor’s face. “French chickens? Not in my zupa! Like French models, they are skin and bones. I must protect the solidarity of my team. We will march on the airport and save the chickens!” He turned and hurried away.
The mayor shrugged. “For all the good it will do. We have a consommé de vollaile that could win the Croix de Guerre.”
Natasha whispered to Millie, “Why don’t I meet you later?” But he wouldn’t let go of her arm.
“Come with me,” the mayor said, taking her other arm. “The committee is meeting at the Cuban café.”
Millie shook his head no. Natasha pulled away sharply. “Your Honor, I’ll meet you there.” She glared at Millie. “I have to straighten something out first.” The mayor nodded and quickly disappeared into the crowd.
“Now listen — ” Natasha began.
“No, you listen. You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“Hold it, bub. Don’t think you can boss me around like in the old days. These are the new days. Just because we’re together again in Paris and we’re in love again and someone is trying to kill me again, don’t for a minute think — ”
“Of saving your life?”
Natasha groaned. “Millie, I’m surrounded by a crowd. What could possibly happen?” She put her finger on his nose and smiled. “He’s a one-on-one killer. Just like you.”
Millie paused. “Do you mean what you said?”
“Every word.”
“That part about being in love again?”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s talk about it tonight.”
“You asking me for a date?”
“My treat. The sky’s the limit.”
“Onion soup at Au Pied du Cochon?”
Natasha smiled as she began walking backward, away from him. “You remembered.”
Millie watched as she turned and headed down the aisle. Without taking his eyes from her, he raised his hand and pointed toward Natasha. A burly man in a raincoat who had been pretending to read the program followed her.
ALL THE WAITERS at the Café Castro wore beards, camouflage fatigues, and army boots. Seated under camouflage-cloth umbrellas were members of the organizing committee. A bearded waiter passed a grease-stained purple mimeographed sheet, the only copy of the menu, from person to person. There were six items listed: State Bebida No. 1, State Bebida No. 2, State Bebida No. 3, State Comida No. 1, State Comida No. 2, and State Comida No. 3.
Vera Rama Singh, credited with originating nouvelle Kashmiri cuisine, smiled and tilted her face as if to prevent the red dot on her forehead from slipping. “Can you tell me, please, what is State Bebida Number One?”
“Favorite of Hemingway,” the waiter answered.
“No more left.”
“And Number Three?”
“Sold out.”
Herr Professor Dr. Klaus von Rieber, former chef de cuisine at Spandau Prison, whose memoir, Cooking for One, included many of Rudolph Hess’s favorite dishes, pointed to the menu. “You will tell me, please, what is State Comida Number One?”
“Hemingway favorite,” the waiter replied impatiently. “No more Two and no more Three!” He grabbed back the menu and handed it to Ingmar Oooaiie, director of the Royal Scandinavian Herring Council.
Ingmar leaned over and whispered to the mayor, “I told you we should have had a smorgasbord here instead.”
“I hate herring!” the mayor snapped.
“Ja, but he eats filthy little snails!” Ingmar shuddered.
“Chinese eat snails first,” said Uncle Ho, acknowledged as a Living National Treasure in the People’s Republic for his root- vegetable carving.
“Well, I’m dying of thirst,” Vera said, opening her purse. “This round is on me. Five State Bebidas, if you don’t mind.”
The waiter snatched the menu and left.
Ingmar nodded at Vera. “Thank you. But I thought you had problems getting money from the Indian government.”
“Not a bloody rupee from those papadums,” she said. “They’re so behind the times they still wear Nehru jackets. I had to hit up Air India and Ismail Merchant.” As she saw Natasha approach, Vera opened her arms. “Darling, I didn’t think you’d come.”
Natasha embraced Vera. They had worked together in London, at the Connaught. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Things must be going well,” she said, admiring Vera’s outfit. “You’re back to wearing saris.”
“Please! I look like something Krishna dragged in. Did you get my book?”
“And the video! What’s this I hear about your going into business? Importing caviar to Calcutta?”
“Oh, you Americans. You’ve got guts made of poori.”
All of the men were standing. Natasha greeted them with kisses on each cheek. “Herr Professor Doktor.”
“If only the magazine reviewed books in German.”
“What magazine?”
“My magazine,” Natasha said proudly. “American Cuisine.”
Von Rieber shrugged. “Amerikanisch Küche? A magazine for hamburgers?”
Natasha ignored him and kissed Ingmar. “Your book was wonderful. I simply had no idea herring traders were responsible for establishing the Hanseatic League.”
Ingmar shook his head. “It is amazing what people don’t know about herring.”
“Dear Uncle Ho,” Natasha said, moving on quickly.
“You like my book?”
“It’s gorgeous. You’re the Michelangelo of vegetables.”
Vera sat Natasha next to her. “How are you doing, really? I’m absolutely distraught over those awful killings.” She turned to the mayor. “I think the committee should issue a public statement of outrage that someone is killing American chefs.”
The mayor sneered. “Actually, I am not certain it is even against the law.”
“And,” Vera continued, “we should express our gratitude that Natasha, at least for the moment, is safe.”
“Certainly it is not against French law,” the mayor muttered.
Vera glared at the mayor. “Apparently, the only thing against French law is good manners!”
“Or typing a menu,” said von Rieber. “The polizei should come in the middle of the night and arrest all the owners of bistros where you cannot read the menu.”
Ingmar leaned over toward him. “God knows they’ve locked up people for less.”
“You are telling me?” von Rieber shouted irately. “Everybody forgives everybody, but no one forgave poor Rudy.”
“I’d like to thank Vera,” Natasha said. “Three great American chefs have been murdered, all of them Olympic gold medalists.”
Grudgingly, the mayor agreed. “The least we can do is issue a statement mourning the loss of our fallen colleagues.”
“If it is the least, you can be certain it will be done,” Vera muttered.
“However,” Ingmar said, “I think we must first clarify the term ‘great chef.’ ”
Vera groaned. “It means they never cooked a herring!”
“A great chef,” Uncle Ho said, “can turn a cucumber into the Forbidden City.”
Von Rieber waved his finger. “A great chef shops for one portion as carefully as if he were feeding the entire Wehrmacht!”
“Jamais!” the mayor said. “A great chef charges the highest price.”
All conversation stopped as a bell chimed twice over the public address system. A woman’s voice announced, first in French and then in English, the opening match in the ten-event decathlon in which contestants were judged on their ability to sauté, roast, deepfry, boil, steam, poach, bake, broil, braise, and flambé. “Ladies and gentlemen, the three-minute shellfish sauté will begin promptly at two o’clock.”
Vera glanced at her watch. “Shit! I’m one of the judges. I must go.” She stood up. “How do I look? Is my dot on straight?” As she kissed Natasha, she whispered, “How brave of you to come, darling. I’m just terrified you’re going to be next.”
Natasha was ready to scream. “Thank you.” She began to think Millie was right. They should have gone back to the hotel and made X-rated love all afternoon. At least it would have taken the taste of Alec out of her mouth. Besides, her nerves were shot to hell. Natasha could have sworn she was being watched.
“We must talk,” Vera said. “Why don’t you meet me at four o’clock under the marzipan Jesus in Aisle Six?”
AT THE OTHER END OF THE CAFÉ, a waiter stood impatiently while a dowdy matron wearing a floppy Borsalino that nearly covered her face stared at the menu.
“My good man, would you mind telling me what State Bebida Number One is?” Beauchamp was careful to keep her features hidden from the woman she had vowed to kill.
ROY ARRIVED at the service entrance to the Grand Palais. His mouth was dry and his hands were shaking. He walked up to the burly guard, smiled anxiously, and said, “I am here to see Etienne.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”
Roy cleared his throat nervously. “Louis Quatorze.”
The guard opened his palm before allowing Roy to pass.
“Welcome to France.” Roy reached into his pocket for some money. “Merci,” he said, stuffing bills into the guard’s hand.
The basement of the Grand Palais had been transformed into a series of prep rooms filled with ovens, refrigerators, fish tanks, and cages with small fowl and rabbits. There was one room for dry provisions and one with misting units suspended over fruits and vegetables. Room after room was filled with flowers. An arsenal of wine and liquor was protected behind locked steel fencing. But most of all, there were hundreds of chefs all shouting at once. A gastronomic Tower of Babel. The noise was nearly deafening as they hurled greetings, insults, and instructions to one another. Roving photographers and a TV crew clogged the narrow hallway as Roy made his way to Room 301.
“Etienne?”
“Louis?”
“Yes. I mean, oui.”
“Your accent is not so bad,” Etienne said, shaking hands. “You should hear them at Euro-Disney.”
“Well,” Roy said, “why don’t you show me — ”
Etienne shook his head and held out his palm.
“Right you are,” Roy said, reaching into his jacket for the envelope filled with money. He handed it to Etienne. “Merci.”
Etienne frowned as he opened the envelope. “I should have known there would be trouble.” He looked up at Roy. “The accent is on the second syllable. Mer-CI!”
“Mer-CI!” Roy repeated.
“Bon. Mer-CI!” Etienne handed Roy a small detonator. “If the bomb doesn’t work, you can always kill her with your accent.”
“What do you mean, ‘if the bomb doesn’t work’?”
“A joke, mon ami. You press the button, and the minute she opens the top of the truffle . . .”
AS MILLIE WALKED into the American Good Foods booth, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Mrs. Nakamura?” He stood at attention, ready to begin the customary three bows. “Nakamura-san.” But as he leaned over, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Cut the crap. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
Millie tried to disengage himself. “I was too busy returning your gifts.”
“I have yet to give you the best gift of all, Ogden-san. Come with me. I have the most expensive suite at the Bristol. The kitchen is fully stocked with seaweed and eel. We never have to leave.”
He still couldn’t pry her arms loose. “So what brings you to Paris? A little shopping?”
“Yes. I bought the Bristol. But we can talk about that in the tub.”
Millie shook himself free. “Not tonight, Nakamura-san.”
“I warn you. I am not the type to sit and hum ‘Un bel di.’ One way or another, I get what I want.”
“Me too,” he said.
“Is it still this woman on your Dupont lighter? This Natasha?”
Before he could respond, this Natasha ran screaming into his arms. “Millie! Oh, thank God you’re here.”
“Nat, what the hell happened?”
Natasha was trembling. “Someone’s been following me.” She looked over her shoulder at the man in the raincoat and whispered, “Him!”
Millie began to laugh. “I hired Alphonse to protect you. He’s on our side.”
She pulled back from his arms angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Babe, chill out,” Millie whispered. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” He turned around to introduce Mrs. Nakamura. “Where the hell did she go?”
Mrs. Nakamura had seen all she could bear. While Natasha was still in Millie’s arms, she had left the booth to make a phone call. Dialing slowly, with bitter tears streaming down her cheeks, she knew that she had dishonored Fuji Food and, even worse, dishonored herself. She had no choice. In the old days she would have had to kill herself. But these were modern times.
“Find the ninja,” she whispered into the phone.
A modern, Westernized woman no longer had to kill herself to save face. Instead, she would kill Natasha.
GERTA HEIL, editor of Guten Appetit magazine, stood on stage in the Bocuse Bowl and called the audience to attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to the Cold Platter Competition. Each competing chef will bring out his platter for inspection by the judges. Factors to be considered by our panel are composition, method of preparation, originality, and degree of difficulty, for a maximum of forty points. Olympic rules also state that all decorations and garnishes must harmonize in taste and color with the main dish displayed, and of course, everything on the platter must be edible.”
It was standing room only. Looking around at the audience, Natasha saw Millie in the back, scanning the crowd nervously. She smiled and waved at him, wanting desperately to believe her own lie that she had nothing to worry about. But she had a lot to worry about. For starters, where the hell was Alec?
“As picked in a random drawing, our first entry is from Brazil. It was prepared by Humberto Vilfrido, master chef of the members’ dining room at the Carmen Miranda Museum in Rio. His platter is entitled Bananas Brasileiras.” Natasha took out her pen and opened the scorepad as she glanced into the wings expecting to see the chef appear. Instead, she heard anxious voices and people running. Heil continued to read. “The platter comprises peppered shrimp and peas wrapped in banana leaves and is surrounded by — ”
“Stop!” Vilfrido, a short man with a handlebar mustache, rushed on stage carrying an empty platter. “I have been eaten!”
Chefs from Denmark, Hungary, Scotland, and Italy stepped out from both sides of the wings. Stunned, they stared blankly at their empty platters. Only bits of aspic and stalks of parsley were left. The judges rose from their seats.
Heil didn’t know what to say. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am certain there is an explanation.”
The explanation stood outside the door, hiccuping as he peered in through a small circle of glass that framed his face. Achille stared at Natasha. It was either her or him. With Natasha out of the way, he could suppress Alec forever. He’d never be hungry again. The only question was, How to kill Natasha?
* * *
IT WAS A CLEAR NIGHT. Stars shone brightly as Natasha and Millie walked along the Seine, heading for the site of the old Les Halles just as they had done early in the morning after work at Chez Auguste. All that was long before Les Halles was torn down, the Marais restored, and the minimalist extravagance of the Beaubourg recast the landscape.
They had walked into Au Pied de Cochon expecting to be recognized. But no one did, not even Louise, who had taken their order for onion soup with a shot of cognac so many times in the past.
“She looks just like she used to,” Natasha whispered, watching Louise glide through the aisles with the grace of a dancer. “Why do you think she didn’t recognize us? Have we changed that much?”
Millie put down his spoon. “No. But the soup has.”
“I thought it was just me. Maybe you can’t go home again.”
“Maybe you can’t. But you can go to La Coupole.” Millie left some money on the table and guided Natasha to the door.
“Oysters,” she sighed.
THE CAVERNOUS LA COUPOLE was just as she remembered it. Artists to the left, dilettantes and dealers to the right. Natasha headed for a table under the posters. She looked over at Millie and took his hand. “It’s still the same as it used to be.”
“Exactly.”
“I can’t believe it. There’s our waiter. Antoine. But he’s so thin. Hunched over.”
“Bonjour,” Antoine said, cleaning off the table with his dirty rag. “La carte?” he asked.
“Antoine?” she said hesitantly.
“Oui.” He looked directly at her. And through her.
“Je voudrais mille Belons,” she said, hoping to jog his memory.
Antoine paused, smiled, then shook his head. “Pardon, je crois que . . . Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit? Des Belons?”
Natasha tried again. “Mille Belons. Don’t you remember? A thousand oysters?”
Antoine rolled his eyes. “S’il vous plaît.”
“Just bring us two orders of Belons,” Millie said, grabbing Natasha’s trembling hand. “And a bottle of Les Clos ‘89.”
Antoine stared at him for a moment and then turned away.
“Nat, it’s been ten years.”
“Not in my dreams.”
“You don’t have to settle for dreams anymore.”
When Antoine came back with the oysters, Natasha leaned over the platter and inhaled deeply. Then she pushed it away. “Oh, Millie,” she whimpered.
“What is it?”
“Life is not a bowl of cherries!”
FOR ONCE, the line at Berthillon was short. Natasha watched as a little girl came away from the window with an ice cream cone. “I wish I knew what happened to Alec. It’s not like him.”
“Hey, I thought this was to be our night. No Alec. No Olympics.”
She nuzzled against his shoulder. “To tell the truth, I could use a little Olympics later on. Oh, God! They have apricot sorbet. My very favorite. I can’t risk it. Millie, let’s go.”
“Risk what?”
She grabbed his arm and led him across the street. “Dummy. Three strikes and you’re out!”
“Listen, I’m starving to death. I am standing in the middle of Paris and I am starving.”
“Me too.”
“So what’s the answer?”
Natasha became teary. “I guess we have to try someplace new. Someplace we’ve never been.”
“I heard about this bistro near Saint Sulpice.”
“Sure.” Natasha turned back to stare across the street, her eyes following the path they had taken.
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “We’re like Hansel and Gretel. Someone has eaten all the crumbs, and now we’ll never get home.”
To Be Opened Only in the Event of My D.E.A.T.H.
I, Natasha O’Brien, being of sound mind and sound body, wish to apologize to the manufacturers of Milk Duds for all the terrible things I have said about them during my lifetime. If the truth be told, and what better time than this, I have always had a secret passion for their product and most likely would not have seen the ends of such classic films as Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. The Empire Strikes Back, and Gandhi were it not for a secret stash of candy in my purse.
I also feel compelled to confess that during my tragically short existence, I never really liked radicchio, sun-dried tomatoes, or Godiva chocolates.
Oh, Millie. What the hell happened to us? It’s easy to blame career conflicts -- even murder -- for playing havoc with our emotions. But every good cook knows how to deal with a sauce that’s curdled. Why didn’t we? Even our bad times were better than most people’s good times.
What is it, as George S. Kaufman said, that makes one man’s Mede another man’s Persian? And who the hell cares? Barbara Kafka loves her microwave and the Sterns love road food. Does that make them lesser humans? You know what I mean. Taste is subjective, ephemeral, easy to attack and impossible to defend. Perhaps that’s why it is so deadly a weapon.
We’re all guilty of elevating style and taste to a verdict rather than a preference. The jury is always coming in, breathless with judgment and ready to condemn. Such a waste of energy. Such a waste of time.
Thank God I’ll be dead when you read this: Millie, you have been the Milk Dud of my life.
One more thought: what the fuck ever happened to chicken chow mein?
THE FIVE NATIONS competing in the free-style flambé were Switzerland, Brazil, Italy, France, and the Cherokee. All eyes were on Cooks With A Smile as he rolled paper-thin buffalo filets and doused them with corn liquor.
The CNN anchor team, positioned above the stage and sharing a camera feed with French National Television, had been covering all the decathlon events. “Irv, the real degree of difficulty in this dish is to flambé those filets without overcooking them.”
“Yes, Chuck, that’s one of the things the judges will be watching for. Hold on a minute! Bronzini from Italy has just added the grappa to his sauté pan. . . .”
“Bad luck for Bronzini. His flame is too big for those artichokes. That’s going to cost him points.”
“What a shame! What a heartbreaker! Especially after the way he cut the lobster medallions. I figured he was a shoo-in for the silver medal. But now . . .”
“Irv, I think Vilfrido from Brazil is just about ready.”
“He’s picking up the dark rum.”
“Checking his bananas.”
“He’s raising his arm. Will you look at the angle on that bottle?”
“Not too high over the pan.”
“And there he goes! Vilfrido is pouring like a real champion. First a dash over the oranges. Then a splash over the cherries. Will you just look at the way that man hits those shrimp!”
“And up comes the flame! Irv, I think we’ve got a winner here. Not too high. Evenly spread throughout the pan. No question about it, Vilfrido could walk away with the gold.”
“What an upset that would be for the French and the Swiss.”
“The word is that they’re just going to cancel each other out. I’ve spoken to the head of the organizing committee, and they’ve never before had two contestants make the same dish.”
“There goes Dournier from Lucerne. He’s picking up the cognac.”
“Chapellet just glanced over at him. You can tell this is a grudge match. Chapellet is reaching for his Armagnac . . .”
“I tell you, Chuck, I wouldn’t want to be one of the judges for this event.”
Neither did Natasha. She wanted to find out where Alec was. He hadn’t picked up any of his messages at the hotel. Maybe he was avoiding her because he knew she had found out about Beauchamp. How could she have been so wrong about him? And how the hell long was Professor Wladisczeucz going to be at the airport with the Polish team? The last word she had was that they were holding a candlelight vigil for the chickens that were about to be executed.
The mayor of Dijon shook his head. “The world knows that Rognons de Veau Flambés is a French dish!” he muttered angrily. “This time the Swiss have gone too far!”
“The only thing neutral about them is that they steal from everyone,” hissed Lady Redfern-Joyce, president of the British Vegetarian Alliance and host of the BBC show Living with Broccoli.
“No one steals from the Germans!” von Rieber challenged.
“I said they were thieves. I didn’t say they were crazy.”
“The Swiss steal from us. We were first to have fondue,” said Uncle Ho. “Mongols bring hot pot in fourteenth century. Then Marco Polo steal noodles from us. All we have left is sweet-and-sour pork!”
As each chef finished plating his dish and presented it to the judges, the room burst into spontaneous applause. The mayor stood up. “Mesdames et messieurs, je regrette . . .”
Oh, no! Natasha thought. The son of a bitch was lodging a formal complaint to disqualify the Swiss. Cooks With A Smile frowned. Vilfrido banged his pan on the flambé trolley. And the Swiss chef lunged for the French chef.
Millie tapped Natasha on the shoulder. “C’mon.”
“Did you find Alec?” she asked.
“No. Let’s get out of here.”
The crowd was turning ugly. Cheers became angry shouts as the applause took on the ominous rhythm of a quickening pulse. She held Millie’s hand as he led the way toward the door, the same question having echoed in her mind for over twenty-four hours: What had happened to Alec? Suddenly aware that someone was following close behind, she nudged Millie with her elbow.
As they stepped into the corridor, he confessed. “Okay, okay. So I got someone else to watch you.”
Natasha groaned. “You’ve hired more conscripts than George Washington!” Not that she didn’t love Millie for it, but the more he tried to protect her, the more nervous she became. Assuming that was possible. Extending her hand to the stranger, she said, “Bonjour. Et comment vous appelez-vous? Groucho, Harpo, ou Chico?”
“Your accent is excellent.” The man smiled. “I am Etienne.”
ROY WORE A GRAY WIG, a mustache, and sunglasses as he stood on line to buy a ticket at the Grand Palais.
“Combien?” the cashier shouted.
“Un, s’il vous plaît.”
“S’il vous PLAÎT!” the cashier corrected, giving Roy his change.
“Gesundheit,” Roy muttered, walking toward the entrance. He stopped short on seeing the metal detectors. Instinctively he put a hand into his pocket and felt for the detonator.
As soon as he stepped through the archway, the alarm sounded. The young guard handed him a small wicker basket. “Monsieur.”
Roy had purposely carried a lot of change. He put the detonator into the basket and covered it with coins. Very slowly, making everyone very impatient, he took out his pen, his keys, and slipped off his watch. The guard hurried him through for a second time. No alarm. “Merci, monsieur.”
Beauchamp watched as the man put the change back into his pocket. Luckily, she had hidden her gun the day before. Not that she was prescient, or had found out that Millie had convinced the organizing committee that such precautions would be necessary. Simply, the gun frightened her too much to carry it around.
As soon as she was inside, Beauchamp hurried toward the butter sculptures. She turned left at the Little Town of Bethlehem, went two tables past Elvis, and put her hand through the opening in the drapery beneath the Loch Ness Monster. The first thing she felt was the cold steel of the silencer.
Barely breathing, she kept her eyes on the crowd to be certain no one saw her slip the gun up the full sleeve of her coat and then quickly put her hand into a pocket. With a deep sigh of relief, she leaned back against the wall to steady herself. It would soon be over. It was just a matter of time.
“I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME!” Natasha exclaimed as she and Millie stood in front of a white chocolate Taj Mahal. “I’ve got to judge all these sculptures, the next event is the hors d’oeuvre competition, and there’s still no Alec.”
“To hell with the chocolates, to hell with the hors d’oeuvres, and most of all, to hell with Alec. The only thing you should be worried about is you. Babe, let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t,” she said between gritted teeth. “I feel as though I’m locked in a chocolate prison on my way to a chocolate electric chair.”
“Don’t tell anyone, but I have a chocolate key.”
“If you really want to help, then please stop hiring bodyguards long enough to hire me a photographer. Alec was supposed to take care of all that.”
“I ought to let you melt in the chair.”
“How can I do a cover story on the U.S. team without pictures? I had it all worked out with Alec.” Afraid to say anything more about Alec, she opened her scoring sheets for the chocolate sculpture. Entry No. 400. Bittersweet chocolate bust of Beethoven. Just what the world needed. No matter. It would keep her occupied. As long as she didn’t mention Alec again. “I can’t help feeling that he’s in some sort of trouble because of me.”
“How come you’re not blaming yourself for the economy?”
“Millie, we’ve got to call the police. Alec’s been missing too long. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”
“Don’t look now,” he said, smiling, “but it’s all beginning to make sense.”
“What is?”
“Turn around slowly. Two aisles over. Against the wall. Near the butter Churchill.”
Natasha cleared her throat and tried to look casual as she glanced around, pretending to check the back of her shoe. She turned back to Millie and gasped, “Beauchamp!”
“Aka Mrs. Alec Gordon.”
“What is she doing here?”
“I’d say it was pretty obvious. We couldn’t find Mr. Gordon because he was off making whoopee with Mrs. Gordon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Alec would never . . .”
“Sleep with his own wife?”
“Take advantage of me. Let me down. Marry Beauchamp?” Was that the reason Alec had been avoiding her? Was the sleazeball screwing around with his wife? “Why didn’t he tell me he was married?”
Millie stared at her. “When he did what?”
Natasha’s heart began to pound. “Applied for the job,” she said quickly. “I know why! Millie, he had a recommendation from Beauchamp. He couldn’t very well tell me he was married to his only reference.” She looked down at her sheets. Entry No. 401. Chocolate Mother Theresa.
“He could have told you after he got the job.”
“What for? It didn’t matter by that time. I don’t care.” It did matter. She did care. “It’s all strictly business between us.” Shut up, Natasha. Entry No. 402. Chocolate Colosseum. “The no-good bastard!” Why didn’t she just hire a skywriter?
“Is there something I should know?”
“Don’t you dare ever hide the fact that you’re married to me!”
“I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. But I’m not.” He stepped closer to her. “Am I?”
Natasha put a hand on his arm. “Millie, I think I ought to say something to Beauchamp.”
“Like what?”
“Like congratulations and where the hell is Alec, you bitch?”
“And announce that we’re on to them?”
“On to what?”
“I don’t know yet. But there’s something fishy here.”
Entry No. 403. Chocolate octopus. “Oh, my God. Millie!”
“What is it?”
“Look. All over the octopus. Teeth marks!”
THE TROISGROS AMPHITHEATRE was filled to capacity as Natasha came onstage. She had changed into her new Valentino emerald-green suede suit, knowing that she would be photographed. “Bonjour and good afternoon. On behalf of the Organizing Committee for the Tenth Culinary Olympiad, I am pleased to welcome you to a most unusual event. Having been recognized for their unique showmanship as well as their brilliant culinary skills, teams from the United States of America and Japan are competing for the highest honor in international gastronomy, a special award last given to Anton Mosimann for his extraordinary bread-and-butter pudding. I refer, of course, to the Golden Truffle.”
Roy, still wearing his wig and mustache, sat in the second row, just behind the judges. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and gently fingered the detonator.
Natasha, while smiling for the cameras, scanned the audience trying to find Millie. Although she had convinced him that she was in no danger whatsoever, she still hadn’t convinced herself. At least not until she had solved the Alec/Achille mystery. “I take great pleasure in presenting Captain Reed Barker and the United States Hors d’Oeuvre Team.”
Reed Barker was the most successful caterer in Chicago. Michigan Avenue hostesses found his ruggedly handsome twenty- something appearance as exciting as his canapés. Once his business expanded, instead of hiring more cooks, he had recruited Chippendale dancers and turned them into a private gourmet army.
The audience broke into applause as Reed and his four-man team marched onstage. They wore pumpernickel-colored trousers, salmon shirts, cucumber-colored ascots, and pimiento-red silk field jackets embroidered with crossed celery stalks.
The team members marched around the prep counter, stamped their feet twice, and stood at attention. Reed shouted, “Mushrooms!”
As each man was called, he stepped to the counter. “Sir!”
“Potatoes!”
“Sir!”
“Cucumbers!”
“Sir!”
“Sir!”
What a to-do, Beauchamp thought as she stood near the door and reached into her pocket for the gun. Quite enough to give her a headache, if she hadn’t already had one. She clenched her fingers around the silencer, eager to get it over with and sit down to a nice hot cup of tea. Of course, she’d have to be very careful to avoid hitting one of those young men. But hadn’t she spent a lifetime typing perfectly margined memos for Achille, filing his correspondence according to major food groups, and keeping complete records of all his appointments, phone calls, and meals? After satisfying his every requirement, how difficult could it be to pull the trigger and fire a bullet through Natasha’s heart?
“Present arms!” Reed shouted.
In rapid succession, each man unbuttoned his holster, took out a sharpening steel, and held it directly in front of his face. Then they all reached for their knives and began twirling them as the audience oohed and aahed.
“Cleaver!”
“Slicing!”
“Paring!”
“Tourné!”
Mrs. Nakamura sat back in her seat and smiled as the team began to sharpen their blades. Such children! What did Americans know about knives? No sushi master worth his wasabi would use toys of stainless steel. They were an insult to his ancestors who had forged high-quality carbon steel samurai swords. Hai! It was even an insult to the fish. Her ninja would use a hon-yaki knife sharpened only on a whetstone that had been quarried for its fine grain. A deba-bocho? Or a nakiri-bocho? Either one, a cleaver or a vegetable knife, would cut a single hair as effortlessly as it would sever Natasha’s head from her body. Then Ogden-san would be hers. She had already bought him a new Dupont lighter.
“Men, name your hors d’oeuvre!”
The mushroom man took a step forward and shouted, “Hot huckleberry salsa in grilled morilles with deep-fried oregano! Sir!”
The team stamped two steps in place.
“Smoked salmon custard in roasted baby red potatoes coated with candied lemon peel! Sir!”
“Pear pâté on cucumber crescents filled with walnut steak tartare! Sir!”
“Corn meal-breaded cherry tomatoes stuffed with tequila- rhubarb guacamole! Sir!”
Roy shook his head in despair. Normally he would have got up and walked out, calling as much attention to himself as possible. But he had to finish the screenplay, no matter how much he hated Reed’s cocktail-party clowns. Too much depended on the last murder. Roy’s killer instincts focused on the Golden Truffle sitting on its pedestal. He saw nothing else as he allowed himself to enter the mind of a madman.
The audience burst into applause as the U.S. team presented its platters to the jury and exited running double-time around the stage. Natasha signaled to the photographers Millie had hired. She had all the shots she needed. There was nothing to worry about.
The team returned for another bow and then ran back up the aisle. Beauchamp, still standing near the door, put her finger on the trigger. Hiding the gun behind her purse, she slowly raised her hand.
“And now,” Natasha began, “it is my pleasure to present the Japanese team, the Grand Sushi Masters of Tsukiji Fish Market, led by Toshio Watanabe, the ‘Gourmet Ninja.’ ” Offstage, the Kodo drummers from Sado Island began their ritual pounding as the barefoot four-man Japanese team marched onstage in single file. They wore judogi, traditional white judo outfits, with bright red sashes around their waists and foreheads. The ninja wore a black sash.
Preparing to read her narration, Natasha moved to the side of the stage. Perfect, Beauchamp thought. With Natasha right there, she wouldn’t have to worry about hitting any of the Japanese gentlemen.
Kabuki-like figures dressed in black marched out from the wings carrying trays of live fish. The drumbeats had reached a nearly deafening pitch as the ninja raised his cleaver and shouted a bloodcurdling “Hai! Hai! Hai!”
Beauchamp gasped and leaned back against the door. At that precise moment, Millie swung it open.
“Beauchamp?”
Screaming as she lost her balance, Beauchamp fell back into Millie’s arms and accidentally pulled the trigger. A bullet sped silently across the auditorium. Only the ninja, who could hear smoke rise and the sun set, looked up. The bullet hit his cleaver and propelled it out of his hand. The knife spun in circles, dancing in slow motion toward the audience. People began shouting as they scrambled back from the oncoming knife. They rushed up the aisles to the doors. Millie dropped Beauchamp and headed for Natasha. But he couldn’t get through the oncoming crowd.
Roy pushed his way across the aisle, tripping over a Japanese woman who refused to get out of her seat. The detonator dropped to the floor. He had no time to stop and look for it.
Natasha stood frozen as she watched the knife spin out of control. The pounding of the Kodo drummers echoed the beat of her heart as a gray-haired man ran toward her.
“Natasha!” Roy shouted, ripping off his mustache and wig.
“Natasha!” Millie called out.
“Natasha,” Beauchamp muttered as she ran from the auditorium.
“Na-ta-sha,” Mrs. Nakamura chanted as the knife fell to the floor a few inches from her feet. She reached over to pick it up and noticed an odd-shaped small metal object.
Roy took hold of Natasha. “Come with me.”
“Millie!” she screamed.
Roy glanced out at the audience and saw the Japanese woman pick up the detonator. “Oh, my God! We’ve got to get out of here!” He shoved Natasha into the wings and toward the side door.
Millie turned quickly as he saw Roy grab hold of Natasha. He pushed his way out the exit, planning to circle backstage and reach them.
Mrs. Nakamura was the only person still seated. The Kodo drums had stopped. The ninja, disgraced, bowed very low and walked backward into the wings. Mrs. Nakamura flicked her thumb absently against the piece of metal she had picked up. Her thoughts filled with the bitter realization that Millie’s old Dupont lighter still worked.
She was alone in the Troisgros Amphitheatre as the Golden Truffle exploded, destroying most of the stage. Looking up, as though the blast were no louder than a whisper, Mrs. Nakamura began to laugh.
NATASHA TRIED TO GET AWAY as Roy pulled her down a flight of stairs. “You need help, Roy. I know someone. I can get you into the Menninger Clinic. I hear the food is terrific. Oh, my God, Roy, please don’t kill me!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got to die,” he said. Suddenly the stairs shook from the explosion. They stopped and stared at one another. “You hear that?” he shouted. “That was my ending. Now I have to start all over again.”
“Roy, you’re crazy!”
“Crazy like a fox! It was a brilliant ending!” Natasha began to scream for help. Roy put his hand over her mouth. “Now I’ve got to figure out some other way to kill you. Natasha, you have no idea what pressure I’m under. Paramount wants to call in Billy Crystal for a rewrite. Can you believe that? After I murdered three chefs! Listen, you’ve got to pull yourself together and help me find a fun way to kill you. Natasha, what are friends for?” He peered down the hallway he had gone through looking for Etienne. It was empty. Everyone had left after hearing the explosion.
Natasha gasped for air and nodded frantically.
“You’ll help me?” he asked. “No screaming?”
She nodded yes, still hoping to reason with him.
“You promise not to ask for shared screenplay credit?”
She nodded again.
Roy opened the door to one of the kitchens and led her inside. Natasha was convinced that she’d never walk out alive. She had gone from the fire into the frying pan. Parker, Neal, and Whitey had been killed in the kitchen. As he took his hand away from her mouth, she knew that she was about to die.
“How are you going to do it?” she asked softly.
Roy sat down next to her. “Well, that’s what we have to figure out. I need a dynamite ending.”
“You just had a dynamite ending.”
He banged his fist on the table. “For God’s sake, will you take this seriously?”
“All right! But give me something to work on, Roy. At least give me a motive.”
“A motive? What the hell do you need a motive for? This is a movie, not Psych 101!”
“Roy, this is my life!”
“Oh, please!”
Natasha stopped breathing as she saw the pantry door behind Roy slowly begin to open. Afraid that he’d seen the look of surprise on her face, she said, “I’ve just had an idea.”
“Tell me.”
The door kept opening as she spoke. “Now listen carefully.” It had to be Millie. “Suppose you were to bake me in a pie?”
Roy shook his head. “I already baked Neal in a pizza. I need something more imaginative!”
“Well, then, what about a cake?” It wasn’t Millie. “Or you could chop me up in tiny pieces and put me in pastel-colored petits fours.” It was Alec!
“No, no, no!” Roy said. “We’ve got to think big. This is the end!”
Alec put a finger to his lips as he stepped quietly toward Roy. He was holding a heavy copper skillet.
“I need something splashy,” Roy said.
Natasha became giddy. “How about my doing the backstroke in a bowl of vichyssoise?” Alec stood in back of Roy. That’s what he must have been doing all along, following Roy. No wonder she hadn’t been able to find him. “Or you could bury me in a tiramisu.” Alec raised the skillet. Natasha smiled nervously. “Then again, I’ve always wanted to be a marron glacé.”
Before Roy could respond, Alec struck him on the head. Natasha watched Roy crumple and fall to the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she rushed into Alec’s arms. “Oh, Alec. Thank God you found me. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Nor I. You know I detest tiramisu.”
His voice was cold. Different but strangely familiar. It didn’t matter. She was so relieved to see Alec that she began to laugh despite feeling somewhat uncomfortable in his arms. Not half as safe as she had expected. Understandably. So much still had to be resolved. “I ought to let Millie know I’m all right.”
“Dear heart, give yourself a moment to ripen.”
The voice was unmistakable. Natasha pulled back slowly. It was then that she noticed that Alec’s shirt was torn. Some of the buttons had come off. His face was bloated and puffy. Jowls had begun to obscure his jawline. Something terrible had happened to him.
“I must look awful,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Alec smiled. “You just need a handkerchief.” He turned around and reached into his pocket.
Natasha glanced at Roy, still unconscious on the floor. She began to tremble. Roy was not the killer.
Alec walked toward her, clutching his handkerchief. “Let me take care of it.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, backing away.
“I insist.” He brought the handkerchief to her face.
Immediately, Natasha knew it was chloroform. She tried not to breathe as she struggled to free herself. But it was no use. Her lungs gave out. As she inhaled deeply, she looked helplessly at Alec, hoping for an explanation. Those eyes — it couldn’t be. . . .
Achille caught Natasha as she collapsed. Triumphantly, he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the dessert trolley. “Marron glacé, indeed!”
HE HAD TO WORK QUICKLY. The first thing he did was fill four cauldrons with water and put them on the stove. Then he put Natasha onto a display table and took off all her clothes. While the water came to a boil, Achille picked up a cleaver in each hand and began chopping blocks of bittersweet chocolate coating, the couverture that contained the chocolate flavor, the liquor, the cocoa butter and sugar.
He lowered the flames beneath two of the cauldrons to keep the water from boiling. Then he put the chopped chocolate into two large copper bowls and floated them over the boiling cauldrons. As the coating began to melt, he poured more chloroform onto the handkerchief over Natasha’s face and wheeled her into the large walk-in freezer to lower her body temperature.
Achille hurried back to the stove with a dry wooden spoon in each hand to stir the coating. He stirred and tasted. Not his preferred Valrhona, but it would have to do. Impatient for the chunks to melt, he put down the spoons and plunged his hands into the bowls to work the shards of chocolate into a thick mass. Once the coating was melted, he tested it between his thumb and forefinger to be certain it would tighten and shrink away from his fingertips. It was ready.
First he ran his hands along the rim of the bowl to scrape off the chocolate. Then he licked his fingers and cleaned them on the front of his shirt. The clothes didn’t matter; he’d soon be buying new ones in a larger size. He took the bowls from the cauldrons of boiling water and put them over the warm water. The melted chocolate had to maintain a temperature close to forty degrees centigrade.
Wondering if Natasha was dead, he wheeled her out of the freezer. No, not yet. But her breathing was very shallow. He put his hand to her stomach. She too was the right temperature.
Of all the murders, Natasha’s was to be his masterpiece. He had slowed down her respiratory system with the chloroform. Once he had clogged her pores with chocolate, she would, quite painlessly, quite beautifully, and quite publicly, suffocate. The display card for Entry No. 489 in the chocolate-sculpture competition had been lettered with great care. It read
NU AU CHOCOLAT
Achille rolled Natasha close to the stove. He plunged his hands into the melted chocolate and slathered her shoulders with the coating. Working quickly, he moved down her breasts to her stomach and then around her legs. Once he had covered the entire front of her body, he licked the chocolate off his fingers and gently turned her over.
He positioned Natasha’s head on its side and bent her knees slightly, giving a more graceful curve to the buttocks. Since this was the side of her that would show, he applied the coating with a pastry brush, leaving her head for last. There was just enough chocolate to mold her hair into a sensuous swirl.
As he stood admiring his creation, chocolate still dripping from his fingers, Achille became melancholy. If only there were some way for Natasha to appreciate the poetic justice of her death. How often she’d said that when her time came, she wanted to be chocolate-covered. His moment of nostalgia was interrupted by the sound of someone opening the door in the next room. Holding his breath, he covered the drip marks on the table with a cloth and wheeled her body into the corridor.
Two uniformed porters were watching him. Achille snapped his fingers. “Portier, portier!” They walked over, smiling at the sight of the sculpture. One of them extended his hand toward her buttocks. “Non! C’est un oeuvre d’art! Vite, vite, vite! Pour l’exhibition du chocolat,” he said, pointing upstairs. “Tout de suite!” The porters shrugged and wheeled Natasha toward the elevator.
Achille went back to the kitchen and into the room in which he had left Roy. But Roy was no longer alone.
“Beauchamp!”
“Where is she?”
Achille smiled. Good old Beauchamp. Leave it to her to turn up just when he needed her. “Who?”
“Natasha. I saw her come in here with someone.” She motioned with her head toward Roy, sprawled on the floor with a pool of blood near his head. “Him.”
“My God, Beauchamp! You think she did that?”
“No.” Beauchamp took a step back. “Look at you. You’ve got chocolate all over yourself. What have you been doing?”
“Oh yes, Beauchamp, do look at me. I’m practically plump!” He pointed to the bulges beneath his shirt and showed her that his trousers were tight. “I am getting to be more myself with every passing meal.”
“Not as long as Natasha is alive.”
“Precisely! That’s why I had to kill her.” Achille put a hand to his stomach. It was rumbling again. “Dear me, it must be nearly tea-time.” He headed for the refrigerator. “Come along, Beauchamp. I shall need a hand with the zuppa di pesce. Or should we have the cannelloni alia napoletana? I tell you, the Italians have been cooking brilliantly this year. I had a polenta con funghi for breakfast that was pure ambrosia.”
“You killed her? I wanted to kill her.”
“Don’t be a gnocchi,” he said, stepping into the refrigerator. “You haven’t nearly my imagination.”
She followed him inside and took the gun from her pocket. “But I do have this.”
“Wherever did you get . . . oh, dear. You’ve been going out with that waiter again.” He reached for a Genoa salami and inhaled it. “I simply must have some while we wait.” He held it out toward her. “Here. Cut me a dozen thick slices. Can you believe Natasha credited my most politically significant murders to date to a mere critic?”
Beauchamp raised the gun and pulled the trigger. She shot the salami out of his hand.
Achille was stunned. His eyes narrowed. “I wanted you to slice it, not kill it.”
“They’re going to take you away again,” she said softly.
“Only for a short time. You know the American court system. I plead temporary insanity — although, let’s face it, Beauchamp, killing the American chefs was the most rational thing I’ve done in years. They had to die. They had all but renounced the Holy Trinity of eggs, butter, and cream. Whatever happened to respect for classical traditions? These New World nincompoops have nearly brought decent cuisine to its knees with their trendy, flash-in-the-pan nonsense. In any event, I shall throw myself on the mercy of the ACLU and hire von Bulow’s lawyer. Do you recall whether he’s the one who defended that wonderful woman who killed the diet doctor?” Achille turned back to the shelves and held up a large tureen. “Let’s be really wicked and have a bit of risotto Milanese too.”
She raised her gun and aimed at the container.
“Beauchamp, this is no time for games! I am trying to get back into shape. Have you any idea what hell my life has been? First I had to endure that fool Enstein’s spa cuisine. It was barely sufficient to sustain a rabbit in a coma. Then I land in America. A most disagreeable place. Its restaurants are filled with people who bite off less than they can chew.”
“I can’t let them take you away from me. Mr. van Golk — Achille, my darling — I can no longer live without you.”
“Well, if you must, go ahead and blow your brains out, Beauchamp. But for heaven’s sake, spare the poor innocent risotto!”
She pulled the trigger. And missed.
Achille put his arms around the tureen. “That does it, you old hag. You’re fired!”
“I was aiming at you!”
“At me?” Achille trembled as though the air had been knocked out of him. He dropped the risotto, felt his knees give way, and sank to the floor. “Beauchamp,” he gasped, staring at the blood rushing from his chest. “What have you done?”
She kneeled beside him. “ ‘Where is my Romeo? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die. . . .’ ” Beauchamp kissed Achille. But instead of poison, she tasted chocolate. Picking up the gun, she whispered, “ ‘O happy dagger!’ ” She held it to her forehead. “ ‘This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.’ ”
Beauchamp pulled the trigger and fell on top of her Romeo.
Achille opened his eyes. He had never been so cold. Each breath was like the North Wind howling through an empty cave. His lips were dry. His throat was parched. His voice was barely audible. “Is there any risotto left?”
MILLIE WAS FRANTIC. Natasha was nowhere to be found, and he could only blame himself. The police circling the Grand Palais hadn’t seen her leave. She had to be inside. But he’d spoken to everyone she knew, and no one had seen her. All he could think of was to retrace their steps.
It was on the second time around that he saw a crowd gathering at the chocolate sculptures. Millie pushed his way in. They were standing over a life-size reclining sculpture of a nude woman. “Oh, my God!” he gasped, staring at her buttocks. “I’d know that ass anywhere!”
“Mon Dieu!” said the man next to him. “It’s breathing!”
Division of Homicide
CASE REPORT NO. 18-5764-8976-3225-AB-218G-445
FROM: D.I. Davis, NYPD
TO: The Commissioner
J. Oiseau, Sûreté
D. I. Carmody, New Scotland Yard
Det. Billy Bob Scooner, Dallas PD
Det. Chad Stone, Los Angeles PD
RE: Achille van Golk/Alec Gordon
Enclosed, for your records, are the statement taken from Ogden upon his return to New York, the deathbed testimony of Mme. Beauchamp van Golk Gordon, and, although she was barely coherent at the time, the testimony of Ms. O’Brien as last rites were being administered.
While we have to wait for the Crown’s decision to indict van Golk’s solicitors as accessories to fraud before all the loose ends can be tied up, Beauchamp’s testimony at least gives us a motive, not to mention her bizarre theory that inside every thin person there is a fat person trying to get out.
While it is difficult to imagine the degree of outrage that van Golk felt because of the current trend toward lighter cooking -- there is no denying the emotional price of undergoing so radical a physical change -- we have been unable to come up with any other motive for the murders.
A very puzzling case. There is no evidence that van Golk/ Gordon actually killed the three chefs. I am relieved that we do not have to bring this case to trial. Even the positive identification by the bakers that van Golk/Gordon was the person who bought out their cakes on the same days as the homicides merely places him in those cities on the dates in question.
The final irony in this matter is the fate of American Cuisine. Evidently, van Golk/Gordon was instrumental in helping to focus many of the features that caused the magazine to become an overnight success. Sadly, Natasha O’Brien has not been around to enjoy the fulfillment of her vision.
As requested, I have enclosed all of the recipes from the White House dinner - you just can’t get a copy of that first issue anymore.
PROMPTLY AT NINE A.M., Natasha sat down on her new bed and began to work. She opened the large envelope with the layout that Ester had messengered over the night before. As usual, there was a note.
Happy Anniversary. It is three months since you got out of the hospital. It didn’t take Gorbachev three months to get over Yeltsin.
Natasha closed her eyes. Of course not. Gorbachev hadn’t slept with Yeltsin.
The physical injuries she had sustained in Paris had healed quickly. The problem was the trauma of what had happened in New York. Not even scraping the floors, painting the walls, or buying a new bed had helped. She was still devastated by the knowledge that she had slept with Achille.
More than feeling that she had betrayed the chefs who had been killed, Natasha felt she had betrayed herself. She could no longer trust her instincts. Possessing the same visceral energy that had once propelled Icarus toward the sun, Natasha was accustomed to jumping off cliffs and landing on her feet. Suddenly, she realized she could not fly.
The phone rang. She sat back and waited to hear the message. It was Millie.
“Oh, come on, Nat! Pick up the damn phone. I can’t go on leaving messages and sending faxes. We’re communicating without communicating. Babe, please! I miss you!” He waited and then slammed down the receiver.
Millie had stayed on with her in Paris. He was at the hospital every day, fielding questions from the police and keeping the reporters at bay. He brought her back to New York and humored her determination to stay in a hotel while the apartment was renovated. Like fugitives, they slept in one another’s arms without ever once mentioning the horror from which she had escaped, without ever once allowing empathy to escalate into passion. She could not have survived without Millie.
By noon she had edited the piece on “Pennsylvania Dutch Treats” and approved the layout. Reluctantly, she got dressed and went downstairs to Café des Artistes.
Jenifer Lang hugged her. “George says hello from Budapest.”
“Why didn’t he take me with him?”
“Over my . . . oops.”
Natasha smiled. “Thanks for the chicken soup.” She sighed. “I’m here to meet something named Bobby Silverstein.”
“You’re kidding!” Jenifer rolled her eyes. “They’re over in the corner,” she said, leading the way toward the table.
They? Natasha wondered. She had agreed to meet Roy’s agent for a drink. He had said it was about Roy’s future. How could she refuse?
Bobby, wearing a heavy knit cardigan over his shirt and tie, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “Natasha, at last we meet.”
She smiled uneasily, waiting to be introduced to the very elegant couple at the table. The woman was gorgeous. Very willowy. Milk-white skin, long blond hair, bright green eyes, and a Kay Kendall nose. The man stood up. He was tall and lean. The deep cleft in his chin led to a firm, square jaw. His handsome, tanned face was framed by a mane of silver hair.
“You know Nan and Ivan, don’t you?” Bobby asked.
“Who?”
“The Lyonses. The people who wrote Someone Is Killing . . .”
Natasha couldn’t believe it. The Lyonses were the last people she wanted to meet. Ever. “Oh, yes. How do you do?” Natasha pretended not to notice Ivan extending his hand. She sat down and turned quickly to Bobby. “You have news about Roy.”
“They’re letting him out of the white hotel next week. I don’t know why. I did my best to convince them that he wasn’t fully cooked yet. It looks as though we’re going to have to be very supportive of poor Roy.” Bobby winked at her and smiled. “Actually, I was hoping to get all this business settled before they put the dumb schmuck back on the menu.”
“All what business?”
Nan leaned toward Natasha. “I want you to know how sorry we are about all you’ve been through.”
“It’s an incredible story,” Ivan said.
“He doesn’t mean incredible,” Nan interrupted.
“What’s wrong with incredible?” Ivan snapped.
“Astonishing, fantastic, remarkable — but not incredible. Incredible implies a lack of believability.” Nan patted Ivan’s hand patronizingly as the waiter came over to take their drink order.
“Miss O’Brien, the usual?”
“No. Just bring me a Perrier, please.”
“Ice and lime?”
That was all he said: ice and lime. Natasha suddenly felt as though she were playing the last scene in Brigadoon, where every word brought back memories that were supposed to have been buried a hundred years ago. Ice and lime. Alec and Achille.
“Miss O’Brien?”
“No ice. No lime,” she said for her own ears as well as the waiter’s.
“Ma’am?”
“Lillet,” Nan said.
Ivan began to laugh.
“What’s wrong with Lillet?” she asked.
“It’s such a retro drink,” he said. “Pure sixties.”
Nan smiled. “Natasha, don’t ever work with your husband.”
“I don’t have a husband.”
“Smart.”
Ivan shook his head. “As though I were the difficult one.” He turned to the waiter. “I’ll have a Pernod. Perrier instead of water. Reverse the proportions. And I’d like it in a stemmed glass filled with ice.”
The waiter nodded and looked at Bobby. “Sir?”
“Diet Pepsi. And don’t forget the straw.” Bobby put his hand on Natasha’s. “I gotta tell you the truth. I didn’t come here just to talk about Roy.”
“Really?” Natasha pulled her hand out from his, pretending she had to brush the hair away from her face. “And what did the Lyonses come here not to talk about?”
“We came here to talk about you.”
Natasha smiled nervously. “Then perhaps I should leave.”
Bobby put his hand on her arm. “Listen, I’ve been taking meetings with the Disney people about Roy’s screenplay, and my nose is growing longer every day. Their lawyers think I have a release from you.”
“And you don’t.”
“I don’t want a release from you.”
“Well, then, there’s no problem, Mr. Silverstein. I’m not going to give you one.”
Bobby leaned close. “I want more. I want to buy the rights to your life.”
Natasha was stunned. She didn’t know what to say. She stared at him until she found the right word. “Incredible.”
“Let me explain,” Bobby continued. “Nutsy squirrel had it all wrong. We don’t start with a screenplay. We start with a book.”
“Enter the Lyonses,” Natasha said.
Bobby smiled. “Who said all dessert chefs were stupid?”
“I’m sure it was you, Mr. Silverstein.”
He laughed. “This way we get the book, we get the paperback, we get the movie, we get the movie tie-in. I guarantee you’ll be on television for years.”
Natasha shook her head. “Interviewed by Barbara Walters again.”
“And Donahue. And Oprah. And Sally Jessy. And Jay, Arsenio, Letterman. You name it.”
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Silverstein. You say you want to buy the rights to my life?”
“It’s done all the time. Otherwise you’d turn on the television and see nothing but test patterns.”
“Do you want my past, my present, or my future?”
Bobby narrowed his eyes and thought. “I want it all. God knows what could happen to you tomorrow.”
“And it’s cheaper to buy my life than to have me sue.”
Bobby leaned back and smiled at Nan and Ivan. “What did I tell you?” He tapped a finger against his forehead. “She’s got a tookis and a half, this kid!”
Natasha still couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You want me to sell you my thoughts and my feelings?”
“Sweetheart, what good are they doing just sitting around in your head? Don’t go melodramatic on me. It’s only research.”
NATASHA SAT BACK on the bed, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. She switched on the phone machine. Millie.
“You won’t believe what happened. Fuji Food just bought AGF. Mrs. Nakamura also rises. Nat, I don’t know what to do with my life. I put so much of myself into this damn company. I know it’s crazy, but I feel as though Fuji Food just bought me. Please pick up. Help!”
The next message was also from Millie.
“Today’s sermon, boys and girls, is about life after sushi. Look who I’m talking to. Nat, come out from under the covers. I need to see you. Pick up the phone, please! You can do it. That’s right. Move your hand over to the receiver . . . Nat, remember me? I saved your life! Okay for you. Next time you’re dipped in chocolate, call Milton Hershey!”
That was the whole problem, she thought. Even as a child, Natasha had been warned about the “next time.” As though it were inevitable. Why hadn’t her parents taught her about good times, new times, the best of times, instead of just the worst of times?
“Nat, let me in!”
She looked at the phone machine and suddenly realized Millie’s voice was coming from downstairs. He was knocking on her door.
“Goddamn it, open up! I’ve got to talk to you!”
She hurried down and without a word opened the door. They stared at one another.
“I got good news and I got bad news.” Millie took a deep breath. “Nat, I’ve been fired.”
“And what’s the bad news?”
“Are you gonna let me in or what?”
Natasha didn’t move. “The bad news is?”
“My wife doesn’t understand me.”
“You don’t have a wife. You don’t even have a job.”
“Says who?”
“You said you were fired.”
“Fired and hired. It’s like love and marriage. You can’t have one without the other.”
“Hired by whom? Don’t tell me. Colonel Sanders? Burger King? Domino’s Pizza?”
“Nat, I’m in a whole new area of junk food. Television! VP for daytime programming. Soaps, cooking shows, reruns.”
“Don’t talk to me about reruns. They’re already planning Natasha Two.”
“Oh, come on. You’re not going to let them — ”
“No, I’m not going to let them.”
“Good. There’s a whole world out there, Nat. It’s time to move on.”
“No more next times.”
Millie took her in his arms. “Besides, I’m still in love with Natasha One. Let’s finally put the past behind us.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s what I’m trying to do. It’s what I want most in the world.”
Brushing her tears aside, he said, “You’ve got a pretty good track record for getting what you want. Babe, it’s all out there for the taking.” He whispered, “Take me. Let’s get married and start all over again.”
“Oh, Millie.” She put her arms around his neck. “You know what I love most about you? You never listen. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in years. You can’t imagine how comforting that’s been. You never took no for an answer. I could always count on you.” Natasha’s tears gave way to a smile.
“You still can.”
“That’s my whole problem.” She put a hand to his cheek and kissed him gently. “I’ve got to start counting on me. I’ll always love you, Millie, but I’ve finally learned that some things have to come to an end. I made a promise to myself. No more sequels.”