Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  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 thought you’d never ask.”

  “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.”

  “Don’t you believe 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.”

  “Precisely.”

  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.

  AME
RICAN CUISINE

  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

  FAX

  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 regio
nal 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.”