by Nan Lyons
It was Beauchamp.
Something was going on. He saw her get into a car and immediately waved over his driver.
“L’aéroport, monsieur?”
“No,” Millie said, quickly getting into the limo. “I want you to follow that car. Schnell!”
The driver turned around and smiled. “Pardon, monsieur, but I was born in Lausanne.”
BEAUCHAMP’S CAR wound its way through the outskirts of Geneva and stopped at a small cemetery. She got out carrying a Fortnum & Mason shopping bag in one hand and some gardening tools in the other. Millie was too far away to hear what she was saying, but her driver looked at his watch, nodded, and got back into the car.
Millie followed her path through a maze of old tombstones. And then he saw it, on the top of a hill, like the moon rising: a huge round slab of white marble shaped like a dinner plate. Emblazoned in gold was the name ACHILLE VAN GOLK, and the epitaph Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.
Millie stepped back to recover from the sudden pounding in his chest. Although Achille had once treated him as the heir apparent to the Lucullus empire, Millie had sworn he would never forgive him, no matter how insane he had been, for trying to kill Natasha. Yet as he stood there, he felt nothing but sadness and regret. He had never made his peace with Achille. So much had been left unsaid. Not that he would dare admit it to anyone, but Millie missed Achille.
“It’s too late now, Mr. Ogden.” Beauchamp shouted over her shoulder as though reading his mind.
Millie walked slowly toward her. She was on her knees, digging up the soil in front of the headstone. “Still the keeper of the flame, Beauchamp?”
“You should have been at the funeral. You above all. It was a disgrace. No one came. Would you mind passing me the tarragon?” Beauchamp was planting an herb garden. Her bag was filled with shoots of dill, rosemary, coriander, thyme, and sage. “You had no right to abandon him.”
“He tried to kill Natasha!”
“Mr. van Golk was . . . confused,” she said, taking the tarragon from him. “You should have been there when he needed his friends.”
“He needed his friends dead.”
Beauchamp began to sob uncontrollably. “I still can’t believe he’s really gone. I don’t know what to do, Mr. Ogden. I sometimes think I don’t want to live if I can never see him again.”
Millie reached toward her but then stopped. “Pull yourself together, Beauchamp. It’s been three years since he died.”
She opened her mouth as if to scream. Instead, she whispered, “He’s not dead!”
“Oh, Beauchamp.” Millie knelt down and put his arms around her. “You really did love him, didn’t you?”
“Mrs. Gordon, are you all right?” It was Beauchamp’s driver.
She nodded yes. “Thank you, André.”
“Mrs. who?” Millie was astonished.
“We’ll be going back now, André,” she said, quickly smoothing over the earth.
“Mrs. Gordon?” Millie asked. “Mrs. Alec Gordon?”
Beauchamp brushed off her skirt and took the driver’s arm as he led her back to the car. “He was particularly fond of coriander,” she said softly.
“NAT?”
“Oh, Millie, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I had an interview on Bonjour Paris and then I absolutely had to buy some clothes.”
“At a time like this?”
“I’ll explain it later. Where are you?”
“Never mind where I am. Where is Alec?”
“I sent him to cover the lighting of the torch. Millie, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s incredible, but — ”
“Nat, I’m at the airport in Geneva. I’ll be in Paris in an hour. Get the hell away from Alec. Don’t let him know where you are. Meet me at Chez Auguste.”
“But Millie — ”
“I know who the killer is!” they both said at the same time.
* Concours Olympique des Cuisiniers *
Culinary Olympics
* Olympiade der Köche * Olimpiade dei Cuoci *
10TH INTERNATIONAL CULINARY OLYMPICS
ROOM 210, GRAND PALAIS
Secretaire du presse: Eve St. Laurent
Office (555-88999); Residence (555-98211);
Lover (555-44326)
PRESS RELEASE/English
GREAT CHEFS FROM 21 NATIONS
STIR UP SPECIAL EVENTS
Over 1,000 cooks will take part in the culinary world’s greatest international competition, being held this week at the Grand Palais. Merely to stroll through the test kitchens and exhibit areas is to inhale a living library of aromas that have seduced diners through the ages.
Chefs will compete in a variety of settings open to the public: national restaurants, catering kitchens, health-food restaurants, an armed forces’ mess, a hospital kitchen, and a children’s restaurant. In addition, there will be hot- and cold-platter displays and galleries for sugar, ice, butter, marzipan, and chocolate sculpture. The best in each category will be awarded bronze, silver, and gold medals, with the highest award given by the sponsors -- the Golden Truffle -- presented in recognition of innovative gastronomy.
The special events to be featured this year are:
THE WELL-LAID TABLE, sponsored by the Lichtenstein Association of Waiters and Skilled Restaurant Staff. This three-dimensional multimedia display has been mounted as a thought-provoking preview of what a well-laid table will look like in the year 2000;
GERMAN ARMY MESS, cosponsored by the Pipeline Pioneer Battalion 850 from Zweibrucken and the Supply and Transport Squadron of Bomber Group 38 from Schortens, will prepare 750 portions of food whose preparation costs less than U.S.$3.25 each;
GLOBAL WARMING BUFFET, sponsored by the Baltic Sea Fishermen’s Association in keeping with their motto of “cold fish with warm thoughts,” will present its award-winning Denizens of the Deep buffet;
INTERNATIONAL LACHS COMPETITION, sponsored by Peer Gynt Carbon Steel Blades, will focus on uniform slicing of smoked salmon;
INTRODUCTION TO DUTCH WINES, a seminar hosted by “the nose” of the Netherlands, Utwe van Snopp;
GREAT MEALS IN HISTORY, a new edition of the award-winning restaurant that has enchanted attendees. This year’s presentations will include the Last Dinner of the Romanovs, Summertime Buffet on Catfish Row, and Brunch with Henry VIII.
THE CHILL, GRAY, OVERCAST SKY had drained all the color out of Paris. Members of the Organizing Committee for the Culinary Olympics, dressed in morning coats, striped trousers, and top hats, gathered in front of an old house in Montparnasse. Alec, his rain-coat pockets stuffed with Pâtisserie Ladurée’s pain au chocolat, watched from a doorway across the street. He was relieved that Natasha had decided not to attend the ceremony. It gave him time to feed Achille and silence the voice screaming inside him.
A young chef, his starched toque square atop his head, hurried down the narrow cobblestone street. After solemnly kissing each member of the organizing committee on both cheeks, he led the way into the old house that served as headquarters for the Académie Nationale des Pommes Frites. Alec brushed the buttery flakes of pastry from his lips and walked to the entrance. He took out his press pass.
“American Cuisine,” he announced to the young man who was checking credentials at the door.
“Monsieur!” the man said impatiently.
Alec showed him the press pass.
The young man stared at it. “Cuisine Americaine?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Impossible!” he muttered under his breath. He forced a smile and looked up at Alec. “Monsieur,” he said, motioning to Alec’s mouth. “Chocolat?”
Alec quickly took out his handkerchief and rubbed his lips.
The man sighed wearily and handed back the press pass. “Entrez, monsieur.”
Following the last of the officials and press, Alec walked through the foyer, across the dining room, and into the kitchen. Two gendarmes stood at attention
on either side of a stove that had once belonged to Escoffier. The president of the Académie, wearing a bright red sash across his chest, looked around the room to be certain everyone was ready. The TV crew focused its camera. Lights were switched on. After receiving a nod, the president struck a long wooden match and lit the fire in the stove. Photographers began taking pictures.
The young chef made his way through the crowd holding Escoffier’s chafing dish. While everyone’s eyes were on the chef, Alec reached into his coat pocket, tore off a piece of croissant, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“I prefer the ones from Pâtisserie Millet,” Achille said.
Alec closed his eyes, thinking that he hadn’t had time to go to the Left Bank and that the ones from Ladurée were excellent.
“How dare you argue with me!” Achille shouted.
Alec gasped as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his head.
The chef stood next to the stove. He lifted the lid from the alcohol burner in the chafing dish. As the crowd edged closer in anticipation and flashbulbs began to pop, the president ignited a wooden skewer from the flame on Escoffier’s stove and lit the alcohol burner in the chafing dish. The room burst into applause. As Alec started to clap, he realized that his hands were sticky.
The young chef, holding the dish aloft, marched toward the door. Everyone filed out behind him. Once on the street, he quickened his pace to a trot amid cheers from the spedators. He was to carry the flame from Escoffier’s stove through the streets of Paris to the Grand Palais for the opening of the Culinary Olympics.
Alec hurried down the street. But no matter how fast he walked, there was no escape. Turning the corner, Alec found a bench and sat down. He took the bags from his pockets, both of which were stained with butter and chocolate. His eyes filled with tears of anguish as he began to stuff his mouth with croissants to silence Achille’s cries for “More, more, more!”
Finally, he burped.
Afraid to think any thoughts that Achille might overhear, he folded his raincoat inside out so that the stains wouldn’t show and carried it over his arm. He got up and walked slowly toward a flower stall. He would take back some flowers for Natasha. But as he approached the stall, he suddenly felt himself go limp. Like a marionette. His head began to bob. His arms swung loosely. The raincoat dropped onto the street. His feet searched for firm ground as he was pulled back from the stall. One foot in front of the other, as though on a tightrope, he was propelled into a small bistro next door.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the waitress said quizzically as he fell back onto a chair. “Voudrez-vous la carte?” She handed him the menu.
Alec whispered, “No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Achille screamed.
“Non?” the waitress asked.
Taking a deep breath and gathering all his strength, Alec was determined to push himself away from the table. Straining against the pressure in his chest, he spoke to Achille for the first time. “This body is mine!”
“Monsieur, ça va?” The waitress stepped back.
Alec held on to the table with both hands, put his feet flat on the floor, and very slowly lifted himself up. Breathless, he paused for a moment and smiled victoriously. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Achille pulled him back into the chair. Again, he held on to the table and struggled to stand on his feet. “It’s not your body. It’s mine. It belongs to me!”
His eyes glazed over from the blinding flashes of light. His ears nearly burst from the roaring in his head. He gasped for air as his throat tightened. He was being strangled from within.
“Mon Dieu!” The waitress ran to the back. “Pierre! Pierre!”
Alec’s face was contorted in pain, the most intense he had ever felt. Unable to open his eyes, he grabbed the edge of the table and pushed against the wind-tunnel force of Achille. “I created this body. It’s mine!”
Inch by inch. Alec made it to his feet again. He lifted one leg and then the other as he walked in slow motion toward the door. As his hand touched the knob, every organ seemed to erupt with pain. The hot lava of Achille’s anger scorched his body as he fumbled with the handle. He couldn’t turn it. His fingers kept slipping. He couldn’t get out of the restaurant.
Alec stepped back and pulled his jacket over his face. He pushed his shoulder against the glass door and, as it shattered, stepped through. The moment his feet touched the pavement, the pain stopped. He opened his eyes and began to run.
Standing in the middle of the street, he waved his arms frantically at a taxi and lunged for the door even before the driver stopped. He fell against the seat cushion, quickly slammed the door shut, and then locked it. He rolled up the windows. “Fermez la porte!” he shouted to the driver, pointing to the front door.
The driver didn’t budge. “Où allez-vous, monsieur?”
Alec opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He couldn’t speak.
“Monsieur? S’il vous plaît?”
Achille’s voice escaped from Alec’s mind and captured his vocal cords. Loud and clear, Achille van Golk told the driver, “Tour d’Argent! And step on it!”
MAXFAX
FROM: Holmes
TO: Watson
Hold the presses! Hold the phone! Hold on to your jockstrap! Alec Gordon gets the Xerox of the year award!
Hiram, baby, add this up on your trusty abacus:
1) Alec worked for Achille
2) Alec left Fergieville without passing Go or collecting $200 and made a beeline for Natasha (don’t get me wrong: not that he’d have a hope in hell with my one and only)
and (DRUM ROLL!)
3) Alec married Achille’s secretary!!!!
The only thing the son of a bitch didn’t do was gain three hundred pounds, and I wouldn’t put that past him.
Looks like the copycat is out of the bag!
Chapter 8
“SOIXANTE,” Natasha announced as she turned out her sixtieth crepe. Sensing that she was being watched, Natasha looked up for the first time since she had begun. The chefs behind the line at Chez Auguste met her eyes, then glanced at one another as she turned out number sixty-one. “Not to worry, mes amis, they freeze very well.”
Auguste was nearly eighty and wore large steel-framed glasses that made his eyes appear twice their actual size. He shook his finger at the piles of crepes in front of her. “But I do not have a freezer!”
He was one of the last of a dying breed who put in eighteen-hour days and was periodically arrested for beating up a member of his staff. Luckily, the local police chief was addicted to his terrine de lapin and wasn’t about to see his favorite restaurant close because of a labor dispute. The most recent aggravated-assault charges against Auguste, for stabbing a waiter in the leg, had been reduced to self-defense after he explained that the son of a bitch had let an order of poularde aux morilles get cold.
Natasha was on her next crepe. “Mon cher, you can fill these with poached fruit or a mousse, even an Italian meringue. Or you can tie the tops and make pouches stuffed with champagne grapes and crème Chantilly. Oh, my darling Auguste, limited only by your imagination, you can go light-years beyond mere Crêpes Suzette. ” Then she muttered, “Who the hell was Suzette, anyway?”
“Un moule!” a waiter shouted as the lunch rush began. “Un coquille, trois escargots!”
“Natasha, mon amour,” Auguste pleaded, “perhaps you would like to peel some potatoes or onions. . . .”
“If I’d wanted to smell of onions and garlic, I wouldn’t have become a pastry chef. Oh, I have such a wonderful life, Auguste. There are days I fairly reek of vanilla beans or strawberries.”
“Hi, stinky.”
Natasha melted into Millie’s arms. “Thank God you’re here.”
He turned her around and kissed her. “Thank God you’re safe.”
Another waiter. “Un terrine, un pâté!”
“I’ve been counting the crepes until you arrived,” she whispered breathlessly as she brought her lips to his.
&n
bsp; “Un saumon, un homard roti!”
Natasha drew back from Millie just far enough for her lips to form words. “We have to talk.” He leaned forward slightly and their mouths touched. “We have to kiss,” she said, pressing tight against him.
“You’re right. First we have to kiss,” Millie said, coming up for air. “Then we have to talk.”
“I know,” she said, kissing him. “There’s so much I have to tell you.”
“Me too.” He kissed her again.
“Huitres, huitres, jambon, timbale, terrine!” a waiter shouted, limping away.
“It’s a matter of life and death, Nat.”
Auguste gently pushed them out of the way as the cooks became busy. “Oui! My life or death! The chief of police is out there!”
Millie turned to Auguste. “We’ve got to speak to him.”
“Non! Impossible! Not while he eats my terrine!”
“But I know who’s been killing the chefs!”
Auguste narrowed his eyes. “Max, you eat too many warm dogs. We all know who killed the chefs. And thank God Achille is dead.”
“No,” Natasha clarified. “Someone is killing American chefs!”
Auguste raised his hands to the heavens. “And for that you wish to interrupt the man’s meal?”
“Natasha is in danger,” Millie said.
“Jambon, pâté, pâté, artichaut!”
Auguste put a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. He spoke softly. “Natasha was in danger when the European chefs were killed. And now she is in danger when the American chefs are being killed?”
“Darling, I was part of Achille’s favorite dinner. It didn’t matter whether I was European or American.”
“And why is someone killing American chefs?” Auguste asked. “Other than for sport.”
Millie pleaded with Auguste. “I have to speak to the police. I know who the killer is, and I’ve got to protect Natasha.”
