Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  “You and who else.”

  “Who else?” Millie asked, pulling away.

  “Le gendarme. Some wussy detective. I sat him next to Ivana. Max, I can’t believe Natasha did it.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, please. I was here.” Isidore shook his head. “She came in a couple of days ago and, God forgive me, I sat her near the men’s room.” Isidore gave a “case closed” shrug.

  “Who was she with?”

  “Roy Drake.” He rolled his bloodshot eyes. “But he likes sitting near the men’s room.”

  “Is Roy here?”

  “He wouldn’t dare show his face. Not after the fight he had with Whitey.”

  “About what?”

  “Roy came back the next day to interview him. Blah blah blah. And then it all started again.” Isidore sighed. “Over me. Whitey and Roy had a thing going until Whitey came east.” Isidore raised his eyebrows. “In Roy’s case, a very small thing.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Max, baby, Roy couldn’t kill anything but a good time.” Suddenly Isidore gasped. He was staring at the entrance to the restaurant. “Oh my God!” he groaned, heading toward the door. “It’s Maria!”

  Millie edged his way past Bobby Short and Diane von Furstenberg to reach Detective Davis, who was holding a plate of caviar and a cup of coffee. “Can’t drink on duty.”

  “Where is she?” Millie asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I hope so.” Davis spoke between hurried mouthfuls of caviar. “We never even saw her leave the office. Some getaway. A real pro.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She left for Paris last night. Must have worn a disguise.”

  “Paris? Why the hell aren’t you going after her?”

  “What for?”

  “To protect her!”

  “I’m not in the protection business. I investigate crimes, I don’t prevent them. At this point, I don’t have anything to hold her on. Her secretary said she left because of a problem with the . . . Culinary Olympics? There is such a thing?”

  Millie nodded. “Every four years. A high-class Pillsbury Bake-Off.”

  “According to the secretary, Miss O’Brien and Mr. Gordon — ”

  “Not Alec Gordon?”

  “Not Flash Gordon.”

  “Son of a bitch! I knew there was something about him. . .” Millie handed Davis a napkin. “Your tie. A material witness leaves the country and you stand here dribbling Beluga on your Ralph Lauren knockoff.”

  “I’ve notified the Sûreté.”

  “That’s as good as putting up a No Fucking notice in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to get her the hell away from Alec Gordon.” Having said it, Millie knew that was something he had to do himself. Davis wasn’t in love with Natasha; he was. Davis didn’t think of Natasha every morning when he got up, every time he went to bed with another woman, or every time he ordered dessert. Impulsively, Millie grabbed hold of Davis and hugged him. “You’re right! I’m leaving for Paris immediately.”

  Davis pulled back and looked around nervously. “Keep her away from Roy Drake.”

  “I knew it!” Millie said. “I knew it was Roy. Have you got him locked up?”

  “LAPD has him under surveillance.”

  “What does that mean? Everybody is under surveillance in L.A. It’s either the studios, the 1RS, the Enquirer. . .”

  “I have no proof.”

  “Who needs proof? L.A. lives on innuendo. It’s the capital of half truths. Davis, trust me. Get the LAPD to pick this guy up for jaywalking and he’s a shoo-in for the gas chamber!” Millie began edging his way through the crowd.

  “Max?”

  Millie was face to face with Benno St. Louis, owner of the exclusive Jean Valjean Bakery. “So who’s minding the store?” Millie asked.

  Benno’s eyes were red. His cheeks were tear-stained. He put an arm around Millie. “A terrible thing to have happened.” Then he leaned closer. “You hire anyone yet?”

  “Et tu, Benno?”

  “I’ve had it with the bakery business. It’s too crazy for me. I might as well head production at Fox.”

  Millie had had it too. He was tired of everyone’s using Whitey’s memorial as an excuse to make a pitch for the job. Not that he’d lose any sleep over the loss of a one-trick pony like Whitey. But still. “So, Benno, I hear the police are looking for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s probably just the old ‘round up the usual suspects’ business. I’m sure you have an airtight alibi for where you were when Whitey was killed.” That ought to shut him up for a while, Millie thought, scanning the crowd for Isidore. He was only half listening as Benno spoke.

  “Oh, I know where I was, all right. I was with Jeanette. Screaming at her for putting the cherries upside down on top of a Saint-Honoré. As though I had to bother. In walks this guy, and without even looking, he buys out all my cakes. Voilà!”

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Private Line Fax

  TO: Bobby Silverstein

  FROM: Roy Drake

  I’ve got it! The last chef to be killed! It’s going to be a woman!

  ROY WAS ALMOST an hour late for his meeting with Bobby. As he rushed down the corridor, Mae Sung looked up from reading The Good Earth. Without a word, she offered him the dish of fortune cookies. “ ‘A wise rider selects a speedy horse.’ ”

  Roy brushed it aside. “A wise canary knows when to shut up.” He nodded toward Bobby’s office.

  “He’s talking to Paramount. He’s been frantic. I haven’t seen him this worried since the day they gave away his table at Morton’s.”

  Roy opened the door to find Bobby on the speakerphone, playing darts, a lemon-colored cashmere sweater tied around his neck. The couch was filled with open boxes of tennis shorts from Tommy Hilfiger. Each of the television sets in the bookcase had a different video game on screen.

  Seeing Roy, Bobby clutched his heart and rolled his eyes. He offered him one of the remote controls while continuing his conversation. “No, I don’t want Bisset again. I want someone more nineties, like Melanie, Michelle, or Demi, and what does Penny know anyway?”

  Roy stood in front of Bobby’s desk, which was littered with dozens of packages of sweat socks rather than scripts. “Get off the phone,” he said.

  Bobby looked up in surprise. Without taking his eyes from Roy, he shouted into the speakerphone, “Gotta go, bubbala. I’m late for my facial.”

  “You hear the one about the Polish starlet?” the voice on the other end asked. “She slept with the writer.”

  Bobby laughed, switched off the phone, and became serious as he motioned for Roy to sit down on the couch. “It’s time this business got back on track. All this crap about film being a director’s medium. Tell that to Selznick, Goldwyn, or Thalberg. You heard it here: Film is a producer’s medium! The producer is the auteur! So. You got more pages?”

  Roy didn’t move. He motioned toward the couch. “Get rid of this garbage so I can sit down.”

  “Sure.” Bobby hurried over, picked up the boxes, and threw them in the corner of the room. “Say, babe. How about something to drink? I got some brand new water. From Utah, yet.”

  “I want a Chivas. Neat.”

  “Coming up.” Bobby turned on the intercom. “Get me a case of Chivas and a glass.”

  “A case?” Roy asked.

  “Whatever you don’t drink, you’ll take home. So. You got more pages?”

  “No, I don’t got more pages.”

  Bobby sat down next to Roy. “Boychik, all you got to do is kill off the lady chef. One more measly little murder. You can do it.” He reached for one of the boxes on the floor. “What size shorts do you take?”

  Roy slid off the couch and began pacing. Things were heating up too fast. First he had the police breathing down his neck, and now Bobby was breathi
ng down his shorts. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Paramount.”

  “And you’re talking casting with them?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you told me they came in with the lowest offer!” Roy shouted.

  “Only for the screenplay.”

  “What the hell else am I selling them?”

  “Hey, babe. You gotta learn something. In this business, it doesn’t pay to be greedy. You have to give a little. Everything isn’t me, me, me. Film is a collaborative art.”

  “Apparently so is deal-making.”

  Bobby walked over to his desk and sat behind it. “You got enough socks?”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Sounds like writer’s paranoia to me.”

  “I want to know why you’re ready to take the lowest bid. How is that in my best interest? Do you have any idea what I’ve had to do to write this screenplay?” Roy covered his eyes for a moment. No, not even the police really knew. No matter how many times they had dragged him down for questioning. “I don’t want my deal screwed up because the agency is packaging it.”

  “Where does it say that? Did Chuck Heston leave that one up on the mountain? Forget about the agency. They’re not packaging it. I am. Yours truly is the bow on this little package. You and these beautiful dead chefs are my ticket out of the agency and onto the lot. So stop worrying and get back to writing. The whole world isn’t screwing you. If anybody’s screwing you, I am.”

  “You want me to make a deal with Paramount because they’re going to let you produce.”

  “Hey! You’re getting smart. You could be a waiter at Le Dôme.”

  “But you’re supposed to be working for me! You’re supposed to be looking out for my best interests!”

  “Tell me, genius, how better can I look out for your interests than to be there all the time?”

  “But producers hate writers!”

  “Not as much as agents do! You people think we should bottle your every fart and get Elizabeth Taylor to endorse it.”

  “Does that include Chefs?”

  “No. Chefs is a good idea.”

  “Bobby, you just don’t know what I’ve gone through on this one. You don’t know what it’s cost me.”

  “And the reason it’s a good idea is because it was my idea!”

  Roy smiled bitterly. “You bet your ass it was your idea.” He pointed his finger at Bobby. “You remember that. You tell that to the jury. You hear me?” Roy shouted. “You tell them it was all your idea!”

  “What does the Writers Guild do? They make you take an oath to be ungrateful? You haven’t even finished the script and already you’re suing me?”

  Roy held on to the wall for support. “Bobby, I’m in trouble.” The evidence was mounting. Not that they had enough proof to charge him formally, but he was the last known person to have seen Parker. His review of Neal’s pizza had been interpreted as a confession, and somehow the police had found out that the article on Whitey had been canceled the day before. Roy hadn’t covered his tracks. But what the hell did he know about being a killer?

  “Sit down,” Bobby said. “We’ll work it out. I told you. I’m on your side.” He picked up a package from his desk. “Kiddo, are you sure? Nobody ever has enough socks.”

  Roy sat down. He knew he had to be careful. Bobby would turn him in faster than a Stroganov curdles.

  “All right. So tell me how the lady chef gets killed.”

  “I don’t know,” Roy said, unable to stop his voice from trembling. “I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

  DRAKE / SCREENPLAY /

  SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF AMERICA

  FIRST DRAFT / SCENES 101 - 109

  101. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS - TEST KITCHEN -- DAY

  CAMERA FOLLOWS Lucinda through the smoke and steam as she runs tearfully past dozens of chefs toward Robby. She

  wears an apron over her Givenchy gown.

  LUCINDA

  Oh, Robby. You came. I was hoping against hope.

  ROBBY

  What a fool I’ve been. Lucinda, you’re the only

  thing in my life that makes eating worthwhile.

  LUCINDA

  But darling, what about your lunch? The twelve-

  course tasting at Tour d’Argent?

  ROBBY

  My place is here. Now that we’ve finally found one

  another, not even the most famous restaurant

  in Paris can keep me away from you.

  LUCINDA

  I’ve no right to ask that of you. Your work is

  too important, my darling. All of America is waiting

  for your review.

  ROBBY

  (smiles)

  Frankly, Luclnda, I don’t give a damn!

  102. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS - AWARD AREA

  MUSIC UP as the PRESIDENT OF FRANCE kisses Lucinda on each cheek. He reaches for the GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD.

  103. CLOSE SHOT -- GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD

  We HEAR a ticking.

  104. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS -- AUDIENCE

  Robby, eating a croque-monsieur as he watches, signals “thumbs up” to Lucinda.

  105. CLOSE SHOT -- GOLDEN TRUFFLE AWARD

  President’s hand touches the award. More ticking.

  106. CLOSE SHOT -- LUCINDA’S TEARFUL FACE

  She is overwhelmed as president hands her the award.

  107. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM -- PARIS -- AWARD AREA

  As ticking grows louder, Lucinda clutches the GOLDEN TRUFFLE to her breast. She smiles at Robby.

  108. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM - PARIS -- AUDIENCE

  The killer’s gloved hand holds a detonator. We see his fingers tighten and HEAR an explosion.

  109. INT. OLYMPIC STADIUM - PARIS - AWARD AREA

  SLOW MOTION as we see part of Lucinda’s dress floating in the air.

  “MISS O’BRIEN’S ROOM, please.”

  “Merci, monsieur,” the switchboard operator said.

  Millie paced back and forth in his suite, staring out the window that overlooked the lake. Although he would have preferred the Hilton, he had switched reservations to the Beau Rivage. It had been Achille’s favorite hotel in Geneva, and somehow that seemed fitting. If not fitting, at least appropriately vindictive.

  “I am sorry, monsieur. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Millie slammed down the phone. He had already left four messages and was beginning to think he should have gone straight to Paris instead of stopping in Geneva. But he was sure that Enstein, after years of treating Achille, would know what the copycat killer might do next. Presuming that he hadn’t done it already. Damn! Where the hell was Natasha?

  “Bonjour. Clinique Enstein,” the operator answered.

  “Dr. Enstein, please.” There was a long pause. “Hello? Dr. Enstein?”

  “One moment, monsieur.”

  Millie turned on his laptop computer and logged on to Infotel for the Geneva-Paris airline schedules. “Hello?” he shouted.

  “Clinique Enstein,” another voice said. “May I help you?”

  “I want to talk to Dr. Enstein!”

  “May I ask what it is in reference to?”

  “Just tell him it’s Maximilian Ogden. I’m sure he knows who I am.”

  “Monsieur, I must ask what this is about.”

  Millie growled as he said, “It is about Achille van Golk.”

  A pause. Then, “One moment, monsieur.”

  He should have gone to Paris, picked up Natasha, and brought her with him to Geneva. No one ever got killed in Geneva. People died of boredom, but no one ever got killed.

  “Guten Morgen, this is Herr Doktor Konig.”

  “I didn’t ask for Dr. Konig. I asked for Dr. Enstein.”

  “So I understand. But in life we do not always get what we ask for, ja?”

  Millie took a deep breath. “May I please speak to Dr. Enstein?”

  “You wish to speak with him
about Herr van Golk?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is too bad. I am afraid Herr van Golk is dead.”

  “I know he’s dead! I still want to talk to Dr. Enstein.”

  “I am afraid Dr. Enstein is also dead.”

  Millie sat down. “What did you do? Get a discount at the cemetery?”

  “Herr Doktor was killed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Millie glanced at his laptop for the next plane to Paris. “What happened?”

  “His head was bashed in.”

  “By whom?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “Enstein collected strays and misfits the way a dachshund collects fleas. He had a crackpot theory that he could change behavior patterns. I told him it was impossible. But he wouldn’t listen. It was his own fault. It wasn’t my fault that he died, ja? I told him that even a dummkopf like Freud knew that people were driven to do the same things over and over again.”

  “Dr. Konig, there must be a clue of some kind.”

  “I tried my best. I warned him to be more careful.”

  “What about his files?”

  “He kept no files. Everything was in his head.”

  “When did he die?”

  “It is about two months now.”

  Then it couldn’t have been Achille. But Millie was still convinced there was a link between the killings of the American chefs and those of the Europeans. And perhaps even Enstein. “Doctor, there must be a clue.”

  “I did everything I could,” Konig repeated. “Was it my fault he wouldn’t listen to me?”

  “Doctor, think back to the day he died. Did anything unusual happen?”

  “Nothing. I tell you what I told the polizei. Nothing happened. I saw no one. It was a very ordinary day. The most exciting thing that happened was that the town bakery sold out all its cakes.”

  Something flashed through Millie’s mind. He closed his eyes, trying to recall where he had heard that before.

  “Herr Ogden,” Konig continued, “one more thing you must know.”

  “Yes?”

  “To avoid any false conclusions, I was born in Zurich. I am not German.”

  AS MILLIE TURNED from the cashier’s desk, he caught sight of a woman dressed in black. A large black hat covered most of her face. He stepped aside and watched as she crossed the lobby, almost certain that he knew her. He did.