Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  “You don’t have to settle for dreams anymore.”

  When Antoine came back with the oysters, Natasha leaned over the platter and inhaled deeply. Then she pushed it away. “Oh, Millie,” she whimpered.

  “What is it?”

  “Life is not a bowl of cherries!”

  FOR ONCE, the line at Berthillon was short. Natasha watched as a little girl came away from the window with an ice cream cone. “I wish I knew what happened to Alec. It’s not like him.”

  “Hey, I thought this was to be our night. No Alec. No Olympics.”

  She nuzzled against his shoulder. “To tell the truth, I could use a little Olympics later on. Oh, God! They have apricot sorbet. My very favorite. I can’t risk it. Millie, let’s go.”

  “Risk what?”

  She grabbed his arm and led him across the street. “Dummy. Three strikes and you’re out!”

  “Listen, I’m starving to death. I am standing in the middle of Paris and I am starving.”

  “Me too.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  Natasha became teary. “I guess we have to try someplace new. Someplace we’ve never been.”

  “I heard about this bistro near Saint Sulpice.”

  “Sure.” Natasha turned back to stare across the street, her eyes following the path they had taken.

  “What is it?”

  She shrugged. “We’re like Hansel and Gretel. Someone has eaten all the crumbs, and now we’ll never get home.”

  HOTEL PLAZA-ATHENÉE

  To Be Opened Only in the Event of My D.E.A.T.H.

  I, Natasha O’Brien, being of sound mind and sound body, wish to apologize to the manufacturers of Milk Duds for all the terrible things I have said about them during my lifetime. If the truth be told, and what better time than this, I have always had a secret passion for their product and most likely would not have seen the ends of such classic films as Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. The Empire Strikes Back, and Gandhi were it not for a secret stash of candy in my purse.

  I also feel compelled to confess that during my tragically short existence, I never really liked radicchio, sun-dried tomatoes, or Godiva chocolates.

  Oh, Millie. What the hell happened to us? It’s easy to blame career conflicts -- even murder -- for playing havoc with our emotions. But every good cook knows how to deal with a sauce that’s curdled. Why didn’t we? Even our bad times were better than most people’s good times.

  What is it, as George S. Kaufman said, that makes one man’s Mede another man’s Persian? And who the hell cares? Barbara Kafka loves her microwave and the Sterns love road food. Does that make them lesser humans? You know what I mean. Taste is subjective, ephemeral, easy to attack and impossible to defend. Perhaps that’s why it is so deadly a weapon.

  We’re all guilty of elevating style and taste to a verdict rather than a preference. The jury is always coming in, breathless with judgment and ready to condemn. Such a waste of energy. Such a waste of time.

  Thank God I’ll be dead when you read this: Millie, you have been the Milk Dud of my life.

  One more thought: what the fuck ever happened to chicken chow mein?

  THE FIVE NATIONS competing in the free-style flambé were Switzerland, Brazil, Italy, France, and the Cherokee. All eyes were on Cooks With A Smile as he rolled paper-thin buffalo filets and doused them with corn liquor.

  The CNN anchor team, positioned above the stage and sharing a camera feed with French National Television, had been covering all the decathlon events. “Irv, the real degree of difficulty in this dish is to flambé those filets without overcooking them.”

  “Yes, Chuck, that’s one of the things the judges will be watching for. Hold on a minute! Bronzini from Italy has just added the grappa to his sauté pan. . . .”

  “Bad luck for Bronzini. His flame is too big for those artichokes. That’s going to cost him points.”

  “What a shame! What a heartbreaker! Especially after the way he cut the lobster medallions. I figured he was a shoo-in for the silver medal. But now . . .”

  “Irv, I think Vilfrido from Brazil is just about ready.”

  “He’s picking up the dark rum.”

  “Checking his bananas.”

  “He’s raising his arm. Will you look at the angle on that bottle?”

  “Not too high over the pan.”

  “And there he goes! Vilfrido is pouring like a real champion. First a dash over the oranges. Then a splash over the cherries. Will you just look at the way that man hits those shrimp!”

  “And up comes the flame! Irv, I think we’ve got a winner here. Not too high. Evenly spread throughout the pan. No question about it, Vilfrido could walk away with the gold.”

  “What an upset that would be for the French and the Swiss.”

  “The word is that they’re just going to cancel each other out. I’ve spoken to the head of the organizing committee, and they’ve never before had two contestants make the same dish.”

  “There goes Dournier from Lucerne. He’s picking up the cognac.”

  “Chapellet just glanced over at him. You can tell this is a grudge match. Chapellet is reaching for his Armagnac . . .”

  “I tell you, Chuck, I wouldn’t want to be one of the judges for this event.”

  Neither did Natasha. She wanted to find out where Alec was. He hadn’t picked up any of his messages at the hotel. Maybe he was avoiding her because he knew she had found out about Beauchamp. How could she have been so wrong about him? And how the hell long was Professor Wladisczeucz going to be at the airport with the Polish team? The last word she had was that they were holding a candlelight vigil for the chickens that were about to be executed.

  The mayor of Dijon shook his head. “The world knows that Rognons de Veau Flambés is a French dish!” he muttered angrily. “This time the Swiss have gone too far!”

  “The only thing neutral about them is that they steal from everyone,” hissed Lady Redfern-Joyce, president of the British Vegetarian Alliance and host of the BBC show Living with Broccoli.

  “No one steals from the Germans!” von Rieber challenged.

  “I said they were thieves. I didn’t say they were crazy.”

  “The Swiss steal from us. We were first to have fondue,” said Uncle Ho. “Mongols bring hot pot in fourteenth century. Then Marco Polo steal noodles from us. All we have left is sweet-and-sour pork!”

  As each chef finished plating his dish and presented it to the judges, the room burst into spontaneous applause. The mayor stood up. “Mesdames et messieurs, je regrette . . .”

  Oh, no! Natasha thought. The son of a bitch was lodging a formal complaint to disqualify the Swiss. Cooks With A Smile frowned. Vilfrido banged his pan on the flambé trolley. And the Swiss chef lunged for the French chef.

  Millie tapped Natasha on the shoulder. “C’mon.”

  “Did you find Alec?” she asked.

  “No. Let’s get out of here.”

  The crowd was turning ugly. Cheers became angry shouts as the applause took on the ominous rhythm of a quickening pulse. She held Millie’s hand as he led the way toward the door, the same question having echoed in her mind for over twenty-four hours: What had happened to Alec? Suddenly aware that someone was following close behind, she nudged Millie with her elbow.

  As they stepped into the corridor, he confessed. “Okay, okay. So I got someone else to watch you.”

  Natasha groaned. “You’ve hired more conscripts than George Washington!” Not that she didn’t love Millie for it, but the more he tried to protect her, the more nervous she became. Assuming that was possible. Extending her hand to the stranger, she said, “Bonjour. Et comment vous appelez-vous? Groucho, Harpo, ou Chico?”

  “Your accent is excellent.” The man smiled. “I am Etienne.”

  ROY WORE A GRAY WIG, a mustache, and sunglasses as he stood on line to buy a ticket at the Grand Palais.

  “Combien?” the cashier shouted.

  “Un, s’il vous plaît.”

>   “S’il vous PLAÎT!” the cashier corrected, giving Roy his change.

  “Gesundheit,” Roy muttered, walking toward the entrance. He stopped short on seeing the metal detectors. Instinctively he put a hand into his pocket and felt for the detonator.

  As soon as he stepped through the archway, the alarm sounded. The young guard handed him a small wicker basket. “Monsieur.”

  Roy had purposely carried a lot of change. He put the detonator into the basket and covered it with coins. Very slowly, making everyone very impatient, he took out his pen, his keys, and slipped off his watch. The guard hurried him through for a second time. No alarm. “Merci, monsieur.”

  Beauchamp watched as the man put the change back into his pocket. Luckily, she had hidden her gun the day before. Not that she was prescient, or had found out that Millie had convinced the organizing committee that such precautions would be necessary. Simply, the gun frightened her too much to carry it around.

  As soon as she was inside, Beauchamp hurried toward the butter sculptures. She turned left at the Little Town of Bethlehem, went two tables past Elvis, and put her hand through the opening in the drapery beneath the Loch Ness Monster. The first thing she felt was the cold steel of the silencer.

  Barely breathing, she kept her eyes on the crowd to be certain no one saw her slip the gun up the full sleeve of her coat and then quickly put her hand into a pocket. With a deep sigh of relief, she leaned back against the wall to steady herself. It would soon be over. It was just a matter of time.

  “I’M RUNNING OUT OF TIME!” Natasha exclaimed as she and Millie stood in front of a white chocolate Taj Mahal. “I’ve got to judge all these sculptures, the next event is the hors d’oeuvre competition, and there’s still no Alec.”

  “To hell with the chocolates, to hell with the hors d’oeuvres, and most of all, to hell with Alec. The only thing you should be worried about is you. Babe, let’s get out of here.”

  “I can’t,” she said between gritted teeth. “I feel as though I’m locked in a chocolate prison on my way to a chocolate electric chair.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I have a chocolate key.”

  “If you really want to help, then please stop hiring bodyguards long enough to hire me a photographer. Alec was supposed to take care of all that.”

  “I ought to let you melt in the chair.”

  “How can I do a cover story on the U.S. team without pictures? I had it all worked out with Alec.” Afraid to say anything more about Alec, she opened her scoring sheets for the chocolate sculpture. Entry No. 400. Bittersweet chocolate bust of Beethoven. Just what the world needed. No matter. It would keep her occupied. As long as she didn’t mention Alec again. “I can’t help feeling that he’s in some sort of trouble because of me.”

  “How come you’re not blaming yourself for the economy?”

  “Millie, we’ve got to call the police. Alec’s been missing too long. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”

  “Don’t look now,” he said, smiling, “but it’s all beginning to make sense.”

  “What is?”

  “Turn around slowly. Two aisles over. Against the wall. Near the butter Churchill.”

  Natasha cleared her throat and tried to look casual as she glanced around, pretending to check the back of her shoe. She turned back to Millie and gasped, “Beauchamp!”

  “Aka Mrs. Alec Gordon.”

  “What is she doing here?”

  “I’d say it was pretty obvious. We couldn’t find Mr. Gordon because he was off making whoopee with Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Alec would never . . .”

  “Sleep with his own wife?”

  “Take advantage of me. Let me down. Marry Beauchamp?” Was that the reason Alec had been avoiding her? Was the sleazeball screwing around with his wife? “Why didn’t he tell me he was married?”

  Millie stared at her. “When he did what?”

  Natasha’s heart began to pound. “Applied for the job,” she said quickly. “I know why! Millie, he had a recommendation from Beauchamp. He couldn’t very well tell me he was married to his only reference.” She looked down at her sheets. Entry No. 401. Chocolate Mother Theresa.

  “He could have told you after he got the job.”

  “What for? It didn’t matter by that time. I don’t care.” It did matter. She did care. “It’s all strictly business between us.” Shut up, Natasha. Entry No. 402. Chocolate Colosseum. “The no-good bastard!” Why didn’t she just hire a skywriter?

  “Is there something I should know?”

  “Don’t you dare ever hide the fact that you’re married to me!”

  “I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. But I’m not.” He stepped closer to her. “Am I?”

  Natasha put a hand on his arm. “Millie, I think I ought to say something to Beauchamp.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like congratulations and where the hell is Alec, you bitch?”

  “And announce that we’re on to them?”

  “On to what?”

  “I don’t know yet. But there’s something fishy here.”

  Entry No. 403. Chocolate octopus. “Oh, my God. Millie!”

  “What is it?”

  “Look. All over the octopus. Teeth marks!”

  * * *

  THE TROISGROS AMPHITHEATRE was filled to capacity as Natasha came onstage. She had changed into her new Valentino emerald-green suede suit, knowing that she would be photographed. “Bonjour and good afternoon. On behalf of the Organizing Committee for the Tenth Culinary Olympiad, I am pleased to welcome you to a most unusual event. Having been recognized for their unique showmanship as well as their brilliant culinary skills, teams from the United States of America and Japan are competing for the highest honor in international gastronomy, a special award last given to Anton Mosimann for his extraordinary bread-and-butter pudding. I refer, of course, to the Golden Truffle.”

  Roy, still wearing his wig and mustache, sat in the second row, just behind the judges. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket and gently fingered the detonator.

  Natasha, while smiling for the cameras, scanned the audience trying to find Millie. Although she had convinced him that she was in no danger whatsoever, she still hadn’t convinced herself. At least not until she had solved the Alec/Achille mystery. “I take great pleasure in presenting Captain Reed Barker and the United States Hors d’Oeuvre Team.”

  Reed Barker was the most successful caterer in Chicago. Michigan Avenue hostesses found his ruggedly handsome twenty- something appearance as exciting as his canapés. Once his business expanded, instead of hiring more cooks, he had recruited Chippendale dancers and turned them into a private gourmet army.

  The audience broke into applause as Reed and his four-man team marched onstage. They wore pumpernickel-colored trousers, salmon shirts, cucumber-colored ascots, and pimiento-red silk field jackets embroidered with crossed celery stalks.

  The team members marched around the prep counter, stamped their feet twice, and stood at attention. Reed shouted, “Mushrooms!”

  As each man was called, he stepped to the counter. “Sir!”

  “Potatoes!”

  “Sir!”

  “Cucumbers!”

  “Sir!”

  “Tomatoes!”

  “Sir!”

  What a to-do, Beauchamp thought as she stood near the door and reached into her pocket for the gun. Quite enough to give her a headache, if she hadn’t already had one. She clenched her fingers around the silencer, eager to get it over with and sit down to a nice hot cup of tea. Of course, she’d have to be very careful to avoid hitting one of those young men. But hadn’t she spent a lifetime typing perfectly margined memos for Achille, filing his correspondence according to major food groups, and keeping complete records of all his appointments, phone calls, and meals? After satisfying his every requirement, how difficult could it be to pull the trigger and fire a bullet through Natasha’s heart?

  “Present arms!
” Reed shouted.

  In rapid succession, each man unbuttoned his holster, took out a sharpening steel, and held it directly in front of his face. Then they all reached for their knives and began twirling them as the audience oohed and aahed.

  “Cleaver!”

  “Slicing!”

  “Paring!”

  “Tourné!”

  Mrs. Nakamura sat back in her seat and smiled as the team began to sharpen their blades. Such children! What did Americans know about knives? No sushi master worth his wasabi would use toys of stainless steel. They were an insult to his ancestors who had forged high-quality carbon steel samurai swords. Hai! It was even an insult to the fish. Her ninja would use a hon-yaki knife sharpened only on a whetstone that had been quarried for its fine grain. A deba-bocho? Or a nakiri-bocho? Either one, a cleaver or a vegetable knife, would cut a single hair as effortlessly as it would sever Natasha’s head from her body. Then Ogden-san would be hers. She had already bought him a new Dupont lighter.

  “Men, name your hors d’oeuvre!”

  The mushroom man took a step forward and shouted, “Hot huckleberry salsa in grilled morilles with deep-fried oregano! Sir!”

  The team stamped two steps in place.

  “Smoked salmon custard in roasted baby red potatoes coated with candied lemon peel! Sir!”

  “Pear pâté on cucumber crescents filled with walnut steak tartare! Sir!”

  “Corn meal-breaded cherry tomatoes stuffed with tequila- rhubarb guacamole! Sir!”

  Roy shook his head in despair. Normally he would have got up and walked out, calling as much attention to himself as possible. But he had to finish the screenplay, no matter how much he hated Reed’s cocktail-party clowns. Too much depended on the last murder. Roy’s killer instincts focused on the Golden Truffle sitting on its pedestal. He saw nothing else as he allowed himself to enter the mind of a madman.

  The audience burst into applause as the U.S. team presented its platters to the jury and exited running double-time around the stage. Natasha signaled to the photographers Millie had hired. She had all the shots she needed. There was nothing to worry about.