Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  “I can’t do that, Nat. Someone is killing . . .”

  “Someone is always killing . . .” She leaned over and wiped the Vaseline from his lapel, fighting back the urge to throw her arms around him. “Sayonara, slugger.”

  THE ELEVATOR DOWN was the longest ride of her life. A group of tourists counted each floor like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. Natasha walked into the bright daylight of the lobby and out the front entrance, searching every car on the street until she found what she was looking for: the detective who had followed her.

  Heading toward him with a look of resignation on her face, she waved and then knocked on the windshield. The young man, his face turning red with embarrassment, opened the door. Natasha sat down next to him and slammed it shut. “Listen, Sherlock, we might as well be civilized about this. Here’s my schedule for today. I have a lunch date at one, then back to the office, maybe a quick stop at Bergdorf’s — you can park on the Fifty-eighth Street side — and then home to change before dinner. Now step on it.”

  Without a word, he started the car.

  THE WHITE CHIC was the East Side’s hottest new restaurant. Whitey Harris, an albino, had been fired from some of the city’s most innovative kitchens as, one by one, they lowered their prices and embraced bistro cooking. En route to oblivion, Whitey had begun a small catering business distinguished by the highest prices in town and the conceit that he would serve only white food on white plates. He hired male models, dyed their hair blond, and dressed them all in white. He was an overnight sensation. Within six months, he had two Academy Award-winners prepared to back him.

  The all-white restaurant ushered in a new trend in “dinner-wear” thanks to a fashion editor who had two pages to fill and no budget for travel. A blancmange Mortimer’s, reservations were agonized over before being approved. To be seated in the front room, where everyone wanted to be, no more than three degrees of separation were allowed. Diners were sorted not by area code, former marriages, or defense attorneys, but by color. Once the word was out, smart matrons who wanted to lunch near the front door arrived in packs of pastels.

  Isidore, the maître d’, put a hand to his forehead as Natasha walked in wearing her red St. Laurent miniskirt and red wool tunic. “I didn’t know today was the Puerto Rican Day parade.”

  “Actually, I was on my way to Grandmother’s house.”

  “Droll as ever,” he said without smiling. “Fear not, Miss O’Brien, I know that beneath all that blinding primary schmutz there beats a heart of white.”

  “Don’t count on it, blondie. I’m here to meet Mr. Hawthorne. Has he arrived?”

  “I seriously doubt it. But he has been seated.” Isidore hesitated. “Listen, I didn’t know he was meeting you.”

  Natasha smiled. “What happened? You put him in Siberia?”

  “In Siberia they still need sunblock.” Isidore led Natasha along the white floor of a white lacquered room filled with white tables and chairs covered in white linen. As they crossed the threshold to the back room, the patrons’ apparel grew more colorful. Isidore muttered, “Welcome to our Crayola Corner.”

  Roy, who fancied himself a master of disguise when reviewing restaurants, wore a curly wig, sunglasses, and a false beard. He had been seated between the men’s room and the service area. As Natasha approached, he stood up and kissed her.

  Isidore folded. “I beg you. Let me move you up front.”

  “And miss all the farting?” Roy snapped.

  Natasha waited for Isidore to leave. “It’s your own fault. No one would seat Roy Drake where they put Mr. Hawthorne. If you insist upon appearing incognito — ”

  “I’m doing it for my own protection. Not only did the cops in Dallas bring me in, but after Neal was killed they questioned me in L.A. Apparently they think I’m Public Enema Number One.”

  She was startled for a moment. Davis had picked up fast on the fact that she had assigned Roy to profile both of them for the magazine. No wonder he had been so eager to bring her in for questioning. She was the missing link between the victims. But there was one thing Davis didn’t know: she had also assigned Roy to profile Whitey.

  “Poor darling,” she said, “you must have been through hell.”

  “Let’s just say I’m not hiding behind this beard because I’m afraid of the White Queen.”

  But more than Roy’s appearance had changed. “Who are you afraid of?”

  He hesitated, fingered the menu nervously, and then put it down. “You. Listen, the only reason I came to New York was because I’m late on this dumb piece.”

  “I don’t recall contracting for a dumb piece.”

  “You want to bet?” He tapped his finger on the menu. “Veal with vanilla? Cornish hen stuffed with popped corn? Buttermilk pasta with white truffles? Almond-coated onions? Cream of wheat mussel chowder? What do you call that?”

  “One of the most unique menus in town.”

  A muscular young waiter brought a tray of steamed bread and crisp thin sesame sticks. “Good afternoon. May I get you something from the bar? Perhaps a champagne au lait?”

  “A what?” Roy asked.

  “It’s a glass of champagne with a jigger of Pernod that turns it all milky white.”

  “Two, please,” Natasha said.

  “And I’ll have a Chivas on the rocks.”

  “We don’t serve Scotch. We have white rum, vodka, gin . . .”

  “Red wine?”

  “White wine.”

  “Just bring me the water list,” Roy said.

  “We don’t have a list.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Saratoga and Deer Spring.”

  “Saratoga. Neat.”

  “And one champagne au lait?” Natasha nodded yes. “Would you like to hear our specials for today?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Natasha added quickly. She was stalling for time, not knowing how to pick up where Roy had left off. She wanted him to talk more about the murders. Although she was almost certain it was Roy, she needed a better motive than the profiles. It wasn’t enough that she had always thought he was crazy because he lived in Los Angeles.

  The waiter cleared his throat. “For starters, we have a brilliant Brie souffle.”

  “How much?” Roy asked.

  The waiter looked stunned and put his hands together to approximate a portion. “About this much? Perfect for an appetizer.”

  “I mean, how much does it cost?”

  Natasha hadn’t seen Roy behave this way in years. Not since he couldn’t get his novel published and he began reviewing books instead.

  Roy leaned forward. “Surely you don’t buy things without asking the price?”

  “I think it’s $12.95.”

  “You think?”

  “I can check.”

  “You don’t buy a car from a salesman who says, ‘I think it’s twenty thousand,’ do you?”

  “I can’t afford a twenty-thousand-dollar car.”

  “Perhaps you could if you were a better waiter.”

  “I’ll get the drinks.” He paused. “The bread is free.”

  Roy watched the waiter walk away and then smiled at Natasha. “He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

  “So that explains it.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I never mix food with pleasure.”

  Natasha reached for his hand. “Roy, I’m worried about you.” She was more worried about touching the hand that might have killed Parker and Neal. “You’ve been under such a terrible strain.”

  His fingers tightened around her wrist. “You don’t know the half of it. The torture I’ve been through. Being dragged down to police stations. Sitting in dirty smoky little rooms with incredibly hairy detectives. I tell you, the hair was coming out of their collars and cuffs. It curled around their watches. I don’t know how they could see the time. The same questions over and over again. Hour after hour of good cop/bad cop. And thinking that at any moment they were going to strip-search me.”

  “I’m
so sorry.”

  He shook his head from side to side. “Why do you think they didn’t strip-search me?”

  The waiter returned before Natasha could answer. “Here’s your champagne au lait.” Then, putting a glass in front of Roy, he narrowed his eyes and said, “And your $3.50 two-cents plain in a complimentary stemmed glass. The Brie souffle, mea culpa, is $14.75.”

  Roy stared at the waiter. “If you give it to me for $ 13.50, I’ll order it.”

  The waiter was expressionless. “Our entrees today are baked fish loaf with mashed potatoes and steamed white radishes . . . at a very reasonable $19.95, and white eggplant lasagna with goat cheese, smoked sturgeon, and jicama. $22.00 firm.”

  Natasha stepped in. “Darling, why not let me order?” Before Roy could object, she said, “Bring him the Brie souffle, and I’ll have the mussel chowder. And then, to make things simple, let’s have the two specials.” She turned to Roy. “Is that all right?”

  “Since you’re paying, I’d like to taste the buttermilk pasta.”

  “Since I’m paying, we’ll share an order.”

  The waiter nodded. “And may I bring you the wine list?”

  “No,” she said. “We’ll each have a glass of sherry with our appetizers —”

  “La Ina,” Roy specified.

  “ — and then, as I recall, you have a very buttery Napa chardonnay.”

  “William Hill,” the waiter said.

  “Make sure it’s not overchilled,” Roy added. The waiter groaned and left.

  Natasha was anything but overchilled. She was hot to stop Roy. “Darling, somehow I get the impression you don’t really want to do a piece on Whitey.”

  “I’d really rather ask the waiter what time he gets off work.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Good. Would you ask him for me?”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m having second thoughts. Perhaps The White Chic is too chic for Middle America.”

  Roy smiled. “Be still my heart. You’re offering me a kill fee?”

  His words gave Natasha goose bumps. Suddenly “kill fee” had an ominous ring. All it meant was paying a writer half his normal rate and canceling the article. “Yes.”

  “Have you told Victor Vanilla?”

  “There’s plenty of time for that. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Done!” He looked at his watch. “I can make the seven-o’clock and be back on the Left Coast faster than Wolfgang can open a new restaurant.”

  Natasha had expected more of an argument from Roy. She had just pulled the pins out from under him. No Whitey, no profile. No profile, no murder.

  Roy leaned across the table and whispered, “Bobby thinks my screenplay is the best thing I’ve ever written. More important, so do Fox, Paramount, and Columbia, who, even as we speak, are in a bidding war.” He began to giggle. “And I haven’t even killed my third chef yet.”

  There it was: Roy’s motive. As clear as simple syrup. His screenplay. “Roy, being that we’re such good friends, I’ve hesitated to say this . . .”

  He stiffened. “Perhaps you should stay a good friend.”

  “No, I’d never forgive myself if I weren’t absolutely honest. Don’t you think your screenplay is somewhat . . . derivative?”

  “ ‘Derivative’? What does that mean? Everything is derivative! Hollandaise and béarnaise are derivative, but no less individual or brilliant!” He sat back, his face flushed with anger.

  They stared at one another as the waiter brought them each a glass of sherry. Natasha wasn’t sure what she had accomplished. If Roy no longer had a motive to kill Whitey, who would he kill? Finally she raised her glass, hoping Roy wouldn’t notice that her hand was shaking. “To your third murder.”

  * * *

  ROY LEFT THE RESTAURANT before Natasha. She made excuses about having to powder her nose. In truth, she didn’t want Roy to know that the police were parked outside. As she walked toward the car, she saw that there were two men waiting.

  Natasha opened the back door and sat down. “Detective Davis, just the man I want to see.” She handed the doggie bag to the driver. “Here, Sam Spade, this is for you. Rabbit poached in eau-de-vie with a superb cucumber cream. Of course, if I’d known you were here, Detective . . .”

  Davis grabbed the bag from the other man. “Miss O’Brien, we are not running a free limo service.”

  “Well, then, what the hell are you running? Certainly not an investigation. You just let the key suspect walk away.”

  Davis didn’t even look up from opening the bag. “What key suspect?”

  “Roy Drake. The man in the beard. He left before I did.”

  Davis turned to the driver. “You eat rabbit?” The younger man stuck out his tongue. “Me neither. Miss O’Brien, is that what they serve in those places? Bunny rabbits?”

  “Listen, Inspector Clouseau, you don’t understand — ”

  “I understand that Roy Drake is writing a screenplay about the murders. So what? These days, that’s what writers do. If it were a crime to write about murder, we’d have half the Authors’ Guild locked up for life.”

  “But Roy Drake is crazy!” she shouted.

  “Probably from eating bunnies. Yuck! What else did you bring?”

  “Buttermilk pasta with shaved truffles.”

  “Those funguses pigs dig up?” He handed the bag back to Natasha. “No thanks. For the food and the suspect.”

  “But the Dallas police and the LAPD both questioned him.”

  “I know. He made a pass at one of the detectives.”

  “Look, I hired Roy to do a piece on Parker and he was killed. I hired Roy to do a piece on Neal and then he was killed.”

  Davis turned around and looked at Natasha. “So far you’re batting a thousand.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re following you and not Roy Drake.”

  “You think I’m the copycat killer?”

  “I didn’t say that. But Drake has airtight alibis and doesn’t fit any known profiles. On the other hand, maybe you don’t want your ex-lovers around while things are heating up with Mr. Ogden.”

  “I never went to bed with Neal Short. You can ask anyone.”

  “Anyone but Neal Short.”

  There was a long silence just crying out for the swell of background music. It was a moment from what they used to call a “woman’s picture,” in which the star was passionate, misunderstood, accused of a crime she didn’t commit, fighting for survival against seemingly insurmountable odds. Or Claude Rains. “I have a good mind to get out of this car and take a taxi.”

  Davis softened. “Seems like a real waste of money. You want us to take you home?”

  Natasha didn’t want Davis to see her crying. She took out her handkerchief and pretended to blow her nose. “In the middle of the day? Back downtown, Philo. I’ve got a Christmas-cookie tasting I can’t afford to miss.”

  COPY / MENTAL HEALTH FOOD / O’BRIEN

  (Alec, I’m terribly sorry the editorial is so late. I can’t seem to catch up with myself. Hopefully, you’ll be able to close out the issue today. Thanks to you, it’s going to be truly wonderful. You seem to be able to read my mind. All of your suggestions have been right on target! Ironic, isn’t it? It was my idea to tout comfort food. But between you, me, and the tapioca, everything but Rose’s Christmas cookies conjures up such horrible images these days. I suppose If food is love ~ then why not murder?)

  Mental Health Food

  I love food, and I’m tired of feeling guilty about it.

  I love reading cookbooks and eating birthday cake and setting my mouth on fire in yet another valiant attempt to find the best chili this side of the Pecos. I check my sun signs for compatibility with the Union Square greenmarket, Jeremiah Tower, and Orwasher’s bread. I talk to my butcher as intensely as patients confer with their cardiologists. When friends arrive from distant ports, my second question is always about restaurants.

  By clinging
to the old chestnut that if it makes you feel good, it must be bad, high-cal hysterics have given food a bum rap. If Oliver Twist were alive today, they’d toss him into rehab because he asked for more. Given half a chance, those nervous Little Nells would put the tyke in stir-fry for the rest of his life.

  No one is ever going to talk me out of food for comfort. When I find that my broker didn’t sell short, or the VCR breaks just as Bette Davis says, “Fasten your seat belts . . .,” or someone down at the Unisex suggests I might try a rinse for those gray hairs -- I’m in no mood for tofu. No siree, boys and girls. This is a job for chocolate pudding!

  After all, we’re in the nineties, and if there’s one thing we should have learned it’s how to skate on thin ice cream. The key to better mental-health food is being in control of being out of control. Know what you want before you want it. The minute you find yourself staring open-mouthed at the candy counter as though reading the Kama Sutra for the first time, you’ve lost it.

  Do not wait until the quenelle tolls for thee. When you turn to food for solace, it doesn’t matter whether your idea of nosh nirvana is a Big Mac or a Big Macrobiotic. Don’t hate yourself if Tuna Crunch makes the earth move for you. So what if happiness is a knish in the dark? Remember: The founding foodies gave you the right to whatever turns you on within the privacy of your own mouth. And that’s what this issue is all about.

  In the beginning, there was mother’s milk. Aside from its triumph of packaging, it was the quintessential nourishment for body and soul. It still is. We’ve stirred up some of America’s great chefs for a new spin on good old Mom Cuisine.

  Not surprisingly, they all had one ingredient in common: nostalgia. Each recipe serves six as well as the emotions, proving that we’ve come full circle. Food as power. Food as currency. Food as theater. Food as love. No one can resist its obsessive allure. When the going gets tough, even the tough eat.

  Chapter 6

  NATASHA HAD INVITED ALEC to dinner to discuss the Culinary Olympics. But her agenda had changed somewhat since Davis told her Roy was no longer a prime suspect. The case against Alec built in her mind all afternoon. Alec had worked in the shadow of Achille, admiring him, perhaps even secretly wanting to be him, until finally Alec snapped and his life became a giant sheet of tracing paper. She took a deep breath before opening her apartment door to the man who had murdered Parker and Neal.