Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  The team returned for another bow and then ran back up the aisle. Beauchamp, still standing near the door, put her finger on the trigger. Hiding the gun behind her purse, she slowly raised her hand.

  “And now,” Natasha began, “it is my pleasure to present the Japanese team, the Grand Sushi Masters of Tsukiji Fish Market, led by Toshio Watanabe, the ‘Gourmet Ninja.’ ” Offstage, the Kodo drummers from Sado Island began their ritual pounding as the barefoot four-man Japanese team marched onstage in single file. They wore judogi, traditional white judo outfits, with bright red sashes around their waists and foreheads. The ninja wore a black sash.

  Preparing to read her narration, Natasha moved to the side of the stage. Perfect, Beauchamp thought. With Natasha right there, she wouldn’t have to worry about hitting any of the Japanese gentlemen.

  Kabuki-like figures dressed in black marched out from the wings carrying trays of live fish. The drumbeats had reached a nearly deafening pitch as the ninja raised his cleaver and shouted a bloodcurdling “Hai! Hai! Hai!”

  Beauchamp gasped and leaned back against the door. At that precise moment, Millie swung it open.

  “Beauchamp?”

  Screaming as she lost her balance, Beauchamp fell back into Millie’s arms and accidentally pulled the trigger. A bullet sped silently across the auditorium. Only the ninja, who could hear smoke rise and the sun set, looked up. The bullet hit his cleaver and propelled it out of his hand. The knife spun in circles, dancing in slow motion toward the audience. People began shouting as they scrambled back from the oncoming knife. They rushed up the aisles to the doors. Millie dropped Beauchamp and headed for Natasha. But he couldn’t get through the oncoming crowd.

  Roy pushed his way across the aisle, tripping over a Japanese woman who refused to get out of her seat. The detonator dropped to the floor. He had no time to stop and look for it.

  Natasha stood frozen as she watched the knife spin out of control. The pounding of the Kodo drummers echoed the beat of her heart as a gray-haired man ran toward her.

  “Natasha!” Roy shouted, ripping off his mustache and wig.

  “Natasha!” Millie called out.

  “Natasha,” Beauchamp muttered as she ran from the auditorium.

  “Na-ta-sha,” Mrs. Nakamura chanted as the knife fell to the floor a few inches from her feet. She reached over to pick it up and noticed an odd-shaped small metal object.

  Roy took hold of Natasha. “Come with me.”

  “Millie!” she screamed.

  Roy glanced out at the audience and saw the Japanese woman pick up the detonator. “Oh, my God! We’ve got to get out of here!” He shoved Natasha into the wings and toward the side door.

  Millie turned quickly as he saw Roy grab hold of Natasha. He pushed his way out the exit, planning to circle backstage and reach them.

  Mrs. Nakamura was the only person still seated. The Kodo drums had stopped. The ninja, disgraced, bowed very low and walked backward into the wings. Mrs. Nakamura flicked her thumb absently against the piece of metal she had picked up. Her thoughts filled with the bitter realization that Millie’s old Dupont lighter still worked.

  She was alone in the Troisgros Amphitheatre as the Golden Truffle exploded, destroying most of the stage. Looking up, as though the blast were no louder than a whisper, Mrs. Nakamura began to laugh.

  * * *

  NATASHA TRIED TO GET AWAY as Roy pulled her down a flight of stairs. “You need help, Roy. I know someone. I can get you into the Menninger Clinic. I hear the food is terrific. Oh, my God, Roy, please don’t kill me!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got to die,” he said. Suddenly the stairs shook from the explosion. They stopped and stared at one another. “You hear that?” he shouted. “That was my ending. Now I have to start all over again.”

  “Roy, you’re crazy!”

  “Crazy like a fox! It was a brilliant ending!” Natasha began to scream for help. Roy put his hand over her mouth. “Now I’ve got to figure out some other way to kill you. Natasha, you have no idea what pressure I’m under. Paramount wants to call in Billy Crystal for a rewrite. Can you believe that? After I murdered three chefs! Listen, you’ve got to pull yourself together and help me find a fun way to kill you. Natasha, what are friends for?” He peered down the hallway he had gone through looking for Etienne. It was empty. Everyone had left after hearing the explosion.

  Natasha gasped for air and nodded frantically.

  “You’ll help me?” he asked. “No screaming?”

  She nodded yes, still hoping to reason with him.

  “You promise not to ask for shared screenplay credit?”

  She nodded again.

  Roy opened the door to one of the kitchens and led her inside. Natasha was convinced that she’d never walk out alive. She had gone from the fire into the frying pan. Parker, Neal, and Whitey had been killed in the kitchen. As he took his hand away from her mouth, she knew that she was about to die.

  “How are you going to do it?” she asked softly.

  Roy sat down next to her. “Well, that’s what we have to figure out. I need a dynamite ending.”

  “You just had a dynamite ending.”

  He banged his fist on the table. “For God’s sake, will you take this seriously?”

  “All right! But give me something to work on, Roy. At least give me a motive.”

  “A motive? What the hell do you need a motive for? This is a movie, not Psych 101!”

  “Roy, this is my life!”

  “Oh, please!”

  Natasha stopped breathing as she saw the pantry door behind Roy slowly begin to open. Afraid that he’d seen the look of surprise on her face, she said, “I’ve just had an idea.”

  “Tell me.”

  The door kept opening as she spoke. “Now listen carefully.” It had to be Millie. “Suppose you were to bake me in a pie?”

  Roy shook his head. “I already baked Neal in a pizza. I need something more imaginative!”

  “Well, then, what about a cake?” It wasn’t Millie. “Or you could chop me up in tiny pieces and put me in pastel-colored petits fours.” It was Alec!

  “No, no, no!” Roy said. “We’ve got to think big. This is the end!”

  Alec put a finger to his lips as he stepped quietly toward Roy. He was holding a heavy copper skillet.

  “I need something splashy,” Roy said.

  Natasha became giddy. “How about my doing the backstroke in a bowl of vichyssoise?” Alec stood in back of Roy. That’s what he must have been doing all along, following Roy. No wonder she hadn’t been able to find him. “Or you could bury me in a tiramisu.” Alec raised the skillet. Natasha smiled nervously. “Then again, I’ve always wanted to be a marron glacé.”

  Before Roy could respond, Alec struck him on the head. Natasha watched Roy crumple and fall to the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she rushed into Alec’s arms. “Oh, Alec. Thank God you found me. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “Nor I. You know I detest tiramisu.”

  His voice was cold. Different but strangely familiar. It didn’t matter. She was so relieved to see Alec that she began to laugh despite feeling somewhat uncomfortable in his arms. Not half as safe as she had expected. Understandably. So much still had to be resolved. “I ought to let Millie know I’m all right.”

  “Dear heart, give yourself a moment to ripen.”

  The voice was unmistakable. Natasha pulled back slowly. It was then that she noticed that Alec’s shirt was torn. Some of the buttons had come off. His face was bloated and puffy. Jowls had begun to obscure his jawline. Something terrible had happened to him.

  “I must look awful,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  Alec smiled. “You just need a handkerchief.” He turned around and reached into his pocket.

  Natasha glanced at Roy, still unconscious on the floor. She began to tremble. Roy was not the killer.

  Alec walked toward her, clutching his handkerchief. “Let me take care
of it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, backing away.

  “I insist.” He brought the handkerchief to her face.

  Immediately, Natasha knew it was chloroform. She tried not to breathe as she struggled to free herself. But it was no use. Her lungs gave out. As she inhaled deeply, she looked helplessly at Alec, hoping for an explanation. Those eyes — it couldn’t be. . . .

  Achille caught Natasha as she collapsed. Triumphantly, he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the dessert trolley. “Marron glacé, indeed!”

  HE HAD TO WORK QUICKLY. The first thing he did was fill four cauldrons with water and put them on the stove. Then he put Natasha onto a display table and took off all her clothes. While the water came to a boil, Achille picked up a cleaver in each hand and began chopping blocks of bittersweet chocolate coating, the couverture that contained the chocolate flavor, the liquor, the cocoa butter and sugar.

  He lowered the flames beneath two of the cauldrons to keep the water from boiling. Then he put the chopped chocolate into two large copper bowls and floated them over the boiling cauldrons. As the coating began to melt, he poured more chloroform onto the handkerchief over Natasha’s face and wheeled her into the large walk-in freezer to lower her body temperature.

  Achille hurried back to the stove with a dry wooden spoon in each hand to stir the coating. He stirred and tasted. Not his preferred Valrhona, but it would have to do. Impatient for the chunks to melt, he put down the spoons and plunged his hands into the bowls to work the shards of chocolate into a thick mass. Once the coating was melted, he tested it between his thumb and forefinger to be certain it would tighten and shrink away from his fingertips. It was ready.

  First he ran his hands along the rim of the bowl to scrape off the chocolate. Then he licked his fingers and cleaned them on the front of his shirt. The clothes didn’t matter; he’d soon be buying new ones in a larger size. He took the bowls from the cauldrons of boiling water and put them over the warm water. The melted chocolate had to maintain a temperature close to forty degrees centigrade.

  Wondering if Natasha was dead, he wheeled her out of the freezer. No, not yet. But her breathing was very shallow. He put his hand to her stomach. She too was the right temperature.

  Of all the murders, Natasha’s was to be his masterpiece. He had slowed down her respiratory system with the chloroform. Once he had clogged her pores with chocolate, she would, quite painlessly, quite beautifully, and quite publicly, suffocate. The display card for Entry No. 489 in the chocolate-sculpture competition had been lettered with great care. It read

  NU AU CHOCOLAT

  Achille rolled Natasha close to the stove. He plunged his hands into the melted chocolate and slathered her shoulders with the coating. Working quickly, he moved down her breasts to her stomach and then around her legs. Once he had covered the entire front of her body, he licked the chocolate off his fingers and gently turned her over.

  He positioned Natasha’s head on its side and bent her knees slightly, giving a more graceful curve to the buttocks. Since this was the side of her that would show, he applied the coating with a pastry brush, leaving her head for last. There was just enough chocolate to mold her hair into a sensuous swirl.

  As he stood admiring his creation, chocolate still dripping from his fingers, Achille became melancholy. If only there were some way for Natasha to appreciate the poetic justice of her death. How often she’d said that when her time came, she wanted to be chocolate-covered. His moment of nostalgia was interrupted by the sound of someone opening the door in the next room. Holding his breath, he covered the drip marks on the table with a cloth and wheeled her body into the corridor.

  Two uniformed porters were watching him. Achille snapped his fingers. “Portier, portier!” They walked over, smiling at the sight of the sculpture. One of them extended his hand toward her buttocks. “Non! C’est un oeuvre d’art! Vite, vite, vite! Pour l’exhibition du chocolat,” he said, pointing upstairs. “Tout de suite!” The porters shrugged and wheeled Natasha toward the elevator.

  Achille went back to the kitchen and into the room in which he had left Roy. But Roy was no longer alone.

  “Beauchamp!”

  “Where is she?”

  Achille smiled. Good old Beauchamp. Leave it to her to turn up just when he needed her. “Who?”

  “Natasha. I saw her come in here with someone.” She motioned with her head toward Roy, sprawled on the floor with a pool of blood near his head. “Him.”

  “My God, Beauchamp! You think she did that?”

  “No.” Beauchamp took a step back. “Look at you. You’ve got chocolate all over yourself. What have you been doing?”

  “Oh yes, Beauchamp, do look at me. I’m practically plump!” He pointed to the bulges beneath his shirt and showed her that his trousers were tight. “I am getting to be more myself with every passing meal.”

  “Not as long as Natasha is alive.”

  “Precisely! That’s why I had to kill her.” Achille put a hand to his stomach. It was rumbling again. “Dear me, it must be nearly tea-time.” He headed for the refrigerator. “Come along, Beauchamp. I shall need a hand with the zuppa di pesce. Or should we have the cannelloni alia napoletana? I tell you, the Italians have been cooking brilliantly this year. I had a polenta con funghi for breakfast that was pure ambrosia.”

  “You killed her? I wanted to kill her.”

  “Don’t be a gnocchi,” he said, stepping into the refrigerator. “You haven’t nearly my imagination.”

  She followed him inside and took the gun from her pocket. “But I do have this.”

  “Wherever did you get . . . oh, dear. You’ve been going out with that waiter again.” He reached for a Genoa salami and inhaled it. “I simply must have some while we wait.” He held it out toward her. “Here. Cut me a dozen thick slices. Can you believe Natasha credited my most politically significant murders to date to a mere critic?”

  Beauchamp raised the gun and pulled the trigger. She shot the salami out of his hand.

  Achille was stunned. His eyes narrowed. “I wanted you to slice it, not kill it.”

  “They’re going to take you away again,” she said softly.

  “Only for a short time. You know the American court system. I plead temporary insanity — although, let’s face it, Beauchamp, killing the American chefs was the most rational thing I’ve done in years. They had to die. They had all but renounced the Holy Trinity of eggs, butter, and cream. Whatever happened to respect for classical traditions? These New World nincompoops have nearly brought decent cuisine to its knees with their trendy, flash-in-the-pan nonsense. In any event, I shall throw myself on the mercy of the ACLU and hire von Bulow’s lawyer. Do you recall whether he’s the one who defended that wonderful woman who killed the diet doctor?” Achille turned back to the shelves and held up a large tureen. “Let’s be really wicked and have a bit of risotto Milanese too.”

  She raised her gun and aimed at the container.

  “Beauchamp, this is no time for games! I am trying to get back into shape. Have you any idea what hell my life has been? First I had to endure that fool Enstein’s spa cuisine. It was barely sufficient to sustain a rabbit in a coma. Then I land in America. A most disagreeable place. Its restaurants are filled with people who bite off less than they can chew.”

  “I can’t let them take you away from me. Mr. van Golk — Achille, my darling — I can no longer live without you.”

  “Well, if you must, go ahead and blow your brains out, Beauchamp. But for heaven’s sake, spare the poor innocent risotto!”

  She pulled the trigger. And missed.

  Achille put his arms around the tureen. “That does it, you old hag. You’re fired!”

  “I was aiming at you!”

  “At me?” Achille trembled as though the air had been knocked out of him. He dropped the risotto, felt his knees give way, and sank to the floor. “Beauchamp,” he gasped, staring at the blood rushing from his chest. “What have
you done?”

  She kneeled beside him. “ ‘Where is my Romeo? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die. . . .’ ” Beauchamp kissed Achille. But instead of poison, she tasted chocolate. Picking up the gun, she whispered, “ ‘O happy dagger!’ ” She held it to her forehead. “ ‘This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.’ ”

  Beauchamp pulled the trigger and fell on top of her Romeo.

  Achille opened his eyes. He had never been so cold. Each breath was like the North Wind howling through an empty cave. His lips were dry. His throat was parched. His voice was barely audible. “Is there any risotto left?”

  MILLIE WAS FRANTIC. Natasha was nowhere to be found, and he could only blame himself. The police circling the Grand Palais hadn’t seen her leave. She had to be inside. But he’d spoken to everyone she knew, and no one had seen her. All he could think of was to retrace their steps.

  It was on the second time around that he saw a crowd gathering at the chocolate sculptures. Millie pushed his way in. They were standing over a life-size reclining sculpture of a nude woman. “Oh, my God!” he gasped, staring at her buttocks. “I’d know that ass anywhere!”

  “Mon Dieu!” said the man next to him. “It’s breathing!”

  NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Division of Homicide

  CASE REPORT NO. 18-5764-8976-3225-AB-218G-445

  FROM: D.I. Davis, NYPD

  TO: The Commissioner

  J. Oiseau, Sûreté

  D. I. Carmody, New Scotland Yard

  Det. Billy Bob Scooner, Dallas PD

  Det. Chad Stone, Los Angeles PD

  RE: Achille van Golk/Alec Gordon

  Enclosed, for your records, are the statement taken from Ogden upon his return to New York, the deathbed testimony of Mme. Beauchamp van Golk Gordon, and, although she was barely coherent at the time, the testimony of Ms. O’Brien as last rites were being administered.

  While we have to wait for the Crown’s decision to indict van Golk’s solicitors as accessories to fraud before all the loose ends can be tied up, Beauchamp’s testimony at least gives us a motive, not to mention her bizarre theory that inside every thin person there is a fat person trying to get out.