by Nan Lyons
Natasha burst into tears and threw her arms around Millie. “It’s no use. You can’t protect me from myself. It’s happening all over again. Here we are back in Paris. In the same oppressive, hot, filthy little kitchen where we worked.”
Auguste’s eyes widened in shock. “Hot?”
The limping waiter laughed as he picked up his oysters.
“My whole life is back just the way it was five years ago. Nothing has changed.”
Millie opened his arms broadly. “Was Freud a genius or what? I’ll bet he could do a whole chapter on your friend Alec.”
Natasha was terrified. What did Millie know? More to the point, had Millie somehow found out that she had slept with Alec?
“I knew you shouldn’t have hired him,” Millie said.
“Why not?”
“You mean, just because he’s a killer?”
Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. Millie didn’t know. “Alec may be a lot of things,” she said, thinking of all the things Alec was, “but he’s not the killer. It’s Roy.”
“Oh, yeah? Davis said he was looking for a copycat.”
“Just because Alec worked for Achille doesn’t make him —”
“Babe, wake up and smell the café au lait! Friend Alec is married to Beauchamp. What the hell does that make him?”
Natasha’s head began to swim. The real question was, What the hell did that make her?
AUGUSTE GAVE THEM a table from which they could watch the police chief as he ate lunch, on the condition that they didn’t approach him until after le fromage. Natasha sat staring at the menu. She couldn’t look Millie in the eye.
Suddenly all the players had changed roles. No one was who he or she appeared to be. Least of all Natasha O’Brien. But come hell or high water, she had to put things back in perspective. She had to tell him the truth. “Millie, there’s something you don’t know.”
He took her hand. “Don’t tell me. You married Beauchamp too?”
“What’s the big deal about Alec’s marrying Beauchamp? What possible difference could it make to me? It doesn’t matter. Why should it? I hired Alec because he was the best person for the job. Period. My only concern is getting the magazine off the ground. And if I had to, I’d hire Achille himself!”
“That’s what you had to tell me?”
“There’s more. Roy is working on a sequel to Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe. All of the victims in his screenplay die the way Parker, Neal, and Whitey did.”
“So?”
“So?” She was beginning to hyperventilate. “Roy is more of a copycat than Alec.”
“The hell he is! He didn’t marry Beauchamp!”
“There you go again. Beauchamp, Beauchamp, Beauchamp! As though that had any relevance to my life. I told you, I don’t care. What I care about, Millie, darling, is that the next chef to die in Roy’s screenplay is me!” She sat back triumphantly. “I rest my case.”
The limping waiter stood ready to take their orders as they looked at the menu.
“I’m not hungry,” Natasha sighed, putting the menu down. “Bring me a dozen oysters.”
The waiter looked around to see if he was being watched. Then he shook his head no.
“Really?” Natasha picked up her menu. “Well, thank you. Then the pâté?”
The waiter shrugged and motioned “mezzo-mezzo” with his hand.
“What about the terrine?” Millie asked, nodding toward the police chief’s table.
The waiter stuck out his tongue.
Natasha took both menus and gave them back to him. “You choose.” Once the waiter left, she leaned forward. “You ever see me do that before? There’s your evidence. My priorities have changed totally. All I care about is the success of American Cuisine. And anyway, how do you know for certain that he’s married to Beauchamp? Maybe it’s just an old maid’s fantasy. I mean, you can’t deny that Alec’s an attractive man.”
“I can’t or you can’t?” He took her hand. “You always were a lousy poker player.”
She slumped back in her chair. “That list gets longer daily. All the things I’m lousy at.”
“Well, let’s face it. You sure as hell screwed up our divorce.”
Natasha smiled. “I was up against impossible odds.”
“Such as?”
“The statistics. Do you have any idea how many divorces end in marriage?”
“Next.”
“Bastard. You’re really going to make me crawl, aren’t you?”
“On your belly.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “What happened, Nat? Alec made a pass at you? Then you find out he’s married?”
“Something like that.” If she couldn’t convince herself, how could she convince Millie? “Stay with me. I’m at the Plaza.”
“I had my bag sent to your room.”
Natasha sat back in her chair. “Damn. Am I that easy?”
“Not for everyone.”
“Then why do I feel like such a sitting duck?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Not as long as I’m around.”
Natasha shook her head. “Alec said he’d call Davis after we arrived in Paris and I was safely away from Roy. But you know me. I called Davis just to be sure. Apparently, so had Alec.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it does. It proves that Alec isn’t the killer. Otherwise why would he have called Davis? Not that the call did any good. No matter what Roy wrote in his screenplay, Davis said nothing could be done until he actually made an attempt on my life.”
“What makes you so sure Roy was writing about you?”
“Beautiful, witty, wildly successful pastry chef? Not that he even began to do me justice.”
“How did Roy . . . in his screenplay . . . how did he . . .”
“Kill me? He didn’t get that far.” She shrugged. “Not yet, anyway.”
Millie glanced over at the chief of police. “I don’t suppose the gendarmes are going to be too sympathetic either. Nat, I want you to go home.”
“And walk straight into Roy’s arms? No thank you. Roy tore up his contract for the article he was going to do on the Olympics. I’m safe in Paris. For the moment, we have nothing to worry about.” She looked at her watch. “Except that I’ve already missed the opening ceremony, I’m supposed to meet Professor Wladisczeucz, and I have a judging at three o’clock.” She forced a smile. “Besides, Roy doesn’t kill the world’s most gorgeous dessert chef here.” She looked away quickly, afraid her eyes might betray her. “Now, where the hell is that waiter?”
As she looked around the room, the waiter walked in through the front door, making certain that everyone in the restaurant saw him. He proceeded solemnly to their table and, in front of each of them, dropped a bag from McDonald’s.
ROY GOT OFF the plane in Paris after nearly eleven hours of unrelenting turbulence. He had spent the entire flight from L.A. in white-knuckled terror. It had been years since he’d flown in coach, and the thought that he might have to do it again filled him with dread. But he had come to Paris on his own agenda. There was no one else to foot the bill.
Before leaving, Roy had resigned from the paper. His screenplay had become too demanding a mistress — his Mrs. Simpson. And he, like Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor, had abdicated his kingdom and his power. No limo to the airport. No first-class ticket. No stewardesses hovering over him. No messages for Mr. Drake to report to the Courtesy Desk. He was a commoner.
But not for long. Roy was determined that his life would change as soon as he had accomplished what he had come to Paris to do. If he did it right, as seamlessly as he had done the others, he would soon become part of another royal family.
INT. NIGHT. DOROTHY CHANDLER PAVILION. THE OSCARS. Meryl Streep opens the envelope nervously and takes out the card.
MERYL
(bursts into tears)
And the winner is . . . Roy Drake!
In the meantime, there was no
driver holding up a card with his name on it as he cleared Customs. Roy headed for a phone booth and dialed the number he had committed to memory.
“Oui?’ the man’s voice answered.
“Etienne? C’est Roy.”
“Moment, s’il vous plaît.” Then, “I wanted to turn on the scrambler. Where are you?”
“At the airport. I just arrived.”
“Bon. I am working at the Grand Palais as an electrician. Go to the service entrance and ask for me. They are expecting you.”
“Who do I say I am?”
“Louis Quatorze.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Couldn’t you come up with a better name?”
“You didn’t pay for a better name.”
“What about the — ”
“I have everything. Except the money.”
Roy hesitated for a moment. “You said it would be quick.”
“Monsieur, she will never know.”
Roy hung up the phone and hurried out of the terminal. He got into a taxi and told the driver, “Hotel Plaza-Athenée!”
“HOTEL PLAZA-ATHENÉE,” Alec said breathlessly as he sat back in the taxi. The moment the driver pulled away from Tour d’Argent, Alec loosened his belt and opened his collar, grateful that the pounding in his head had stopped. Achille had been fed. Alec put a hand to his stomach. It was bloated and aching as it pushed against his shirt, pulling at each button to create horizontal fault lines in the broadcloth.
Again, his first thought was to call Enstein. But the old man would most likely insist that he return to the clinic for further treatment. No, he would fight Achille on his own. And somehow he would lose the weight he had gained. As they neared the hotel, Alec grimaced in pain as he battled his own flesh to fasten the collar button on his shirt.
Exhausted by the day’s confrontations with Achille, he picked up his keys at the front desk, eager to go upstairs and rest. But then he saw Roy at the registration desk. Roy wasn’t supposed to be in Paris. Why had he come? Alec’s heart began to pound. He knew precisely why Roy had come. The question was how to prevent him from killing Natasha.
“Mr. Drake,” Alec said brightly. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Roy turned quickly, at first not recognizing him. “Oh, yes. Alec, isn’t it?”
“Natasha will be so pleased to learn you’re here. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Roy nodded. “Yes. I’m planning a murder,” he said, nodding toward the front desk. “My room isn’t ready yet.”
“Well, that’s a stroke of luck for me. I’m such an admirer of yours. May I buy you a drink while you’re waiting?”
THEY SAT AT A CORNER TABLE in the downstairs bar. The waiter brought over small plates of green olives with stems and freshly made potato chips. “Messieurs?”
“I’ll have a Negroni,” Roy said.
Alec ordered a Fernet Branca.
Roy smiled. “I prefer Underberg for hangovers.”
“I don’t have a hangover. I need a digestive, and they don’t stock Stonsdorfer.”
Roy nodded approvingly. “You’re certainly up on your bitters. But I suppose you’d have to be, working for Natasha. By the way, where is — ”
“I don’t know. Have a chip.” Alec watched as Roy took the plate from him, lifted one chip, and cocked his ear as he broke it in half. Then he looked at his fingertips and rubbed them together to test for grease.
“The chips are better at the Crillon,” Roy said.
“I thought you preferred the Bristol.”
“You seem to be up on everything.”
Alec smiled. “I try.”
“Hard to believe you don’t know where she — ”
“Have an olive?”
They stared silently at one another as the waiter put down the drinks. Nodding, they raised their glasses and each took a sip.
Roy sat back. “I still say they make the best Negroni at the Mammounia.”
“Better than Harry’s Bar in Florence?”
“I’m glad you didn’t say Venice. What a trap.”
“What a trap,” Alec repeated, suddenly wondering who was the spider and who was the fly.
“So you say you’re an admirer.”
“For years.”
“Well, I’ve always maintained that a critic’s responsibility is to keep his readers reading. No matter how many chefs are sacrificed in the line of battle, the critic must keep his readers amused. Otherwise he’s out of business.”
“Mr. van Golk claimed that no one could savage a chef like you did.”
“You worked with van Golk?”
Damn. Now Roy would start hurling all the usual accusations. How could Alec not have known about the monstrous things Achille was doing? What clues did he have to Achille’s madness? “I worked in London for a number of years. But I. . .”
Roy’s face was beaming. “Well, no wonder Natasha hired you. You were privileged to work with the master. Whatever drove van Golk to do what he did, the man was an absolute genius . . .”
Alec felt a twinge in his stomach.
“. . . a blaze of brilliance shining above a sea of mediocrity.”
Next, a nervous thumping in his chest.
“Why didn’t Natasha tell me? She knew van Golk was my idol. How adroit he was in the use of power. There wasn’t anyone he couldn’t break. God, I admired him for that, for never hesitating to bite the hand that fed him.”
Alec’s mouth became dry. The twinge in his stomach gathered force and became more intense as it pushed against his skin. He downed the Fernet Branca in a single swallow.
“I tell you,” Roy continued, “to my dying day I’ll regret never having had the honor of meeting the great Achille van Golk.”
Uncontrollably, Alec’s hand swept across the table and took hold of Roy’s hand. Roy looked up in surprise. Alec couldn’t let go. His fingers were locked in place. His arm refused to be pulled away. And then suddenly both men watched in astonishment as, one by one, the buttons on Alec’s shirt began to pop open and plink plink plink their way onto the table.
* Concours Olympique des Cuisiniers *
Culinary Olympics
* Olympiade der Köche * Olimpiade del 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
WORLD’S GREATEST GOURMET
REGAINS HIS MEMORY AND RETURNS
TO THE WORLD OF FOOD
“Something inexplicable drew me here,” said Achille van Golk, renowned publisher of Lucullus magazine, who had been reported dead for the past three years. To the astonishment of the entire gastronomic community, van Golk turned up early this morning on the steps of the Grand Palais, banging on the door ^ %$$YOU’LL NEVER GET AWAY WITH THIS = %@
Looking drawn and undernourished, van Golk could not remember where he had been. “The last thing I recall is tasting an almond tuile that had been sent to me by the King of Spain -- you know, that is his favorite cookie -- although I do vaguely remember someone screaming, ‘Fire!’ I must have run from the clinic and afterward they found some poor soul and thought he was me.” According to van Golk, he cannot remember his identity during this blackout period & %YOU BASTARD +)(
“As Shakespeare said, ‘What’s past is prologue.’ One must focus on the future. So many meals, so little time. It is only fitting in this year of the Olympiad that I should return to my former self.”
*& ^ BUT WHAT ABOUT ME#@%
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 sp
ace. 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!”
