The Ides of Matt 2015

by M. L. Buchman

  The cut hose inside the sealed grill had filled the interior spaces with five gallons of compressed propane gas. The small spark she ignited lit it off. The explosion, assisted by some small charges of TNT, ripped open the remaining internal tanks. Fifty gallons of propane were involved in the next stage of the flashover.

  The explosion shredded the grill, the sitting area, the tastefully curtained upstairs bedroom, and then blew the glass pavilion outward in a vast cloud that would have been a disaster for several neighbors except that the glass had been mostly reduced to the size of sand by the scale of the blast.

  The outer fifty feet of the dock simply disappeared, the light chop on the Lake soon extinguished then buried the stubs of the shredded pilings.

  Penelope wasn’t vaporized, not quite. But she was burned to a crisp except for her breasts, which melted. As she had pressed the switch, she’d been thinking about the boy slipping into her as nicely as a slab of gator into her jambalaya.

  Penelope never quite completed that thought.

  2

  -Four weeks earlier-

  The Top 10 Ladies of Chowder Cook-off had flowed seamlessly. Kate Stark had rented a ballroom at The Lenox Hotel located in the heart of Boston’s historic Back Bay. She’d made sure there was a good supply of champagne and light canapés and they’d had a wonderful time which made for great film.

  On the back of that success, Kate had put her head together with her program director Mac Olson.

  “Oh, honey,” he’d flapped a hand at her to make sure he had her attention even though they were the only two passengers on her private plane back to New York. “Oh, I’ve got it. The Ten Belles of the Hot Grill Cook-off. Can’t you just see it? We find a simply gorgeous Southern estate, line up ten grills, and ten Southern women. They always make such great theater. They’ll dress for it in proper Southern style.”

  “None dressed so finely as you though, Mac,” she’d teased him.

  “Well, of course not, honey. They don’t stand a chance. But these Boston women today, such understated elegance that it was almost invisible. Why if I hadn’t been there to help them out…” his deep sigh clearly stated what a mortal disaster that would have been. “Oh, I can’t wait. Make sure there’s a lake and a broad stretch of lawn for the ten grills. Just imagine the visual contrast between today’s formality of The Lenox and the Southern sunshine.”

  Mac had painted such a picture in broad gestures that she’d bought in. By the end of the flight home they even had a list of names; one per state from Virginia to Florida to Texas. Texas made it up to thirteen which was just too many. They dropped the unlucky contestant thirteen and made tentative plans for Ten Women Who Bring the Beef Cook-off to cover Texas and up through the Midwest.

  “Twelve, we can manage twelve.”

  Kate’s location scout had a site in mind the moment he saw the list of chef’s names. There was a reason she hired the best in the business.

  The selected estate belonged to Chef Dee Dee DeRue—what kind of a name was that? Though she was certainly 3D, barraging Kate in every way imaginable: phone, e-mail, and social media. She called Kate hourly to check on everything from the plantings in her garden to the best shade of highlights for her hair.

  Kate had a network to run and had finally palmed the woman off on Rikka, her top freelance camera operator. Whether the “direct access to the source of knowledge” had calmed Dee Dee down, or Rikka had threatened the woman’s perfect facial construction until she shut up, didn’t matter. The problem was off Kate’s desk.

  3

  -Today-

  Dee Dee’s estate was perfect. Kate, with Rikka at her side, wandered about wondering if she’d stepped into some fantasy kingdom. Mac was going to be so sorry that he missed this shoot but his schedule hadn’t allowed it.

  The requisite pond—“heavily stocked with trout for Daddy James (who turned out to be Dee Dee’s husband) and his friends”—was gorgeous, a shimmering mirror of blue South Carolina sky. It also included a fishing boat that might have been better placed in a body of water a few thousand times the size of the pond. But it was decidedly picturesque.

  The landscaping was so suited to her needs that Kate finally decided it had to have been freshly planted by Dee Dee for the occasion. On the perfect green lawn at the shore of the pond stood a semicircle of a dozen evenly-spaced Georgia Pines, each exactly the same twenty feet tall. At the base of each tree were planted identical clusters of wildly blooming bushes of pink and red azaleas and blue hydrangea.

  A grill had been parked in front of eleven of the twelve pine tree-and-blooming bush plantings, each on its own red-brick pad.

  “So we can wear our heels while we cook, sweetie,” Dee Dee explained to Kate, showing off her Jimmy Choos. “A girl always needs to look her best.”

  The plantings of only one grill position, Dee Dee’s, also sported yellow and purple azaleas—which had caused quite the furor among the other women. It was only partly mitigated by the fact that her dearest friend Priscilla Danz’s was set up next to hers and sported a few purple blooms in addition to the normal landscaping. “Friendly competition and all, honey pie.”

  Kate was going to “honey pie” her in the nose quite soon.

  The twelfth pine-and-azalea setting had no grill on it’s red brick pad. The tragedy of Penelope Boudreaux’ death yesterday had shocked everyone. In place of the missing grill Dee Dee had set a tasteful wreath, spray painted black, and a small vase of the yellow and purple azaleas cut from Dee Dee’s own backdrop.

  The eleven grills that the contestants had brought were even more of a spectacle than the landscaping.

  In Boston, the chowder cooks had brought a favorite pot, knife, and cutting board; all the worse for wear.

  Spread across Dee Dee’s lawn were eleven of the most ostentatious grills Kate had ever seen. They all shone as if never used, though all of these women present had at least state fair-winner level credentials. Three had their own local TV shows and two had managed to tap regional networks.

  Kate wasn’t above finding a new Southern cooking grill show if she found the right host.

  One grill had side-mounted warmer plates, a wok burner, an auxiliary hibachi-sized grill, and so many other attachments that it looked more like a rock-and-roll drum set than a cook’s station. Several sported an array of spatulas, forks, and brushes sufficient to stock a restaurant supply store. Dee Dee’s own grill was gold-colored with that burnished brass look—at least Kate hoped it was brass. It was blinding to look at in direct sunlight and would be almost impossible to film well. Thankfully that was Rikka’s problem.

  The one from Georgia, Priscilla Danz’s, was a monster that could cook a whole side of beef. It sported four propane bottles, all tastefully tucked out of sight behind burled redwood paneling.

  In an odd fit of consideration, Dee Dee confessed to Kate, “Let Priscilla start first. She’s so famous, you’ll want to get your best film of her.”

  Priscilla’s Red Hot Grill show was undeniably popular—her Atlanta show had been picked up by three stations already. Mac had found a tape of one of her shows for Kate to watch. The woman was a fine presenter. She also sported a long flow of bleach-blond hair and a cleavage just as long and nearly as well-exposed.

  “Is she selling a side of food with that sex?” Rikka had whispered merrily.

  The pre-filming dinner overshadowed everything else. North Carolina still hadn’t showed up. She’d sent her grill by truck yesterday but was supposed to drive down today. They decided not to wait.

  What had been a charming affair in Boston turned into the “Dinner Before the Battle.”

  Rikka hung in the background as the ten chefs graced the long cherrywood table beneath a line of crystal chandeliers. The room itself had all the ostentation of Tara, the Gone with the Wind mansion—marble floors, white dining chairs, damask wallpaper, and gold-framed oil painti
ngs of vistas of the estate grounds.

  Any spouses who had tagged along had been relegated to Daddy James’ boathouse, an air-conditioned man cave that included pool and poker tables, a massive television tuned permanently to ESPN, and a full wet bar.

  By the time the ever-so-polite passive-aggressive sniping kicked in—somewhere between sitting down and picking up their napkins—Kate decided she’d have been better off joining the men.

  Afterward in the shared suite in the East Wing—everyone else except best friend Priscilla had been shooed off to the Hilton in town—Rikka had suggested that they skip out before the debacle of tomorrow’s cook-off. “I have plenty of film to launch a catfight soap opera.”

  “We’re in the cooking show business.”

  “You always were stubborn, Kate. They’re going to shred you tomorrow.”

  Kate looked down at Rikka who was most of a foot shorter. “They wouldn’t dare; they all want their show on my network too much.”

  “If you say so,” Rikka shrugged from where she dropped down to slouch on a divan covered in brocaded roses. She was wearing her typical black jeans and t-shirt. She propped her black sneakers on an oak coffee table that might have been fake Edwardian, or perhaps fake Grecian. With her straight, jet-black hair, her narrow Asian face was the only part of her that really showed. That and her white hands dipping into a bag of Fritos, that she’d scrounged from who knew where, and her electric blue socks.

  “Disaster, you think?” she’d learned to trust Rikka’s instincts in such matters.

  “Duh!” Rikka found a remote control and flicked around the channels until she found something with women’s screams and 1950s giant rubber monsters. “I love cable.”

  Kate considered, then picked up the phone and began placing calls.

  4

  Paul Stark rolled into the compound shortly after dawn. His twin sister had called for help, which he knew was hard for Kate. She’d done it perhaps a half dozen times in his whole life. Whereas he was always…

  At the airport he’d debated over the rentals. A Mazda Miata was an amusing sports car and about as good as airport agencies ever got. He considered the high-end rental guy in town, had used a Ferrari when he’d been seeing the Governor’s daughter a few years back. She’d definitely thought of some fine ways to thank him for showing her a little style.

  But this crowd sounded like a problem seeking a different solution. He called in a few favors and rolled up under the estate’s Greek-pillared porte-cochere in a cherry-red Cadillac XLR convertible.

  The ladies were having morning tea out on the sun porch and every eye had tracked his arrival. He pulled off his caramel sports jacket, tossed the Oliver Spencer negligently back onto the car seat, and moved up the broad, white marble steps to join them.

  He walked by without acknowledging a one of them, not that he hadn’t learned to peg most women on first glance.

  There were ten of them, all very well tended. Twenty-six or so, up to mid-fifties—most of the latter had purchased the figures of their younger counterparts. Three clearly authentic, pure-to-the-core bitches—they were the ones who owned the money rather than their husbands and wielded it ruthlessly. Two more that fit the same bill, but without the wedding band—I’m just temporarily between men, dearie. Care to fill some of my lonely hours? He knew that line well enough and was usually plenty glad to oblige. Have to see how today turned out.

  The last five looked more sane if no less well tended: two decent spouses, two inherited estates, and one he couldn’t quite read—which made her the only interesting one in the crowd.

  Money did strange things to women, except for his sister.

  Kate had been the same woman since they’d come out of the womb together. She was now one of the wealthiest women on the planet and managed the most successful television network out there, cooking was only one of the many channels in their “family business.” And her dry comment of, “Rikka says I need a pro to handle these women,” had been absolutely right. Kate was way too trusting. After all, she kept trusting him and he knew just how bad a bet that was.

  So, he walked right up to the most beautiful woman in the crowd and kissed her on both cheeks, “Hey, Sis! Thought I’d drop in and see what you do for a living when you’re not busy making us disgustingly wealthy.”

  The atmosphere on the porch shifted abruptly.

  Moments before, they’d all been carefully poised and positioned looking for the inside track with the owner of Cooks Network. His little speech had deflected most of the attention toward him. He flashed one of those casual smiles he’d tested on every girl since kindergarten. Except he aimed it at Rikka instead of the other women, which should make most of them even crazier.

  “Hey Rikka.”

  The only woman on the planet consistently resistant to his charm offered back a sneer.

  Yep! Everything was in place.

  He clapped his hands together and rubbed them happily. “So when do the games begin?”

  A sleek, and very well-muscled, very male personal assistant came hustling up to one of the first-category women, rich-bitch-in-control-of-the-purse-strings, and whispered something in her ear.

  She went sheet white.

  “What is it, Dee Dee?” Kate was moving forward rather than watching the crowd.

  Three in the crowd looked unconcerned, one of whom had been looking away, so she had an excuse. There was also that one woman he couldn’t get a read on.

  And then “Dee Dee” apparently unable to speak, waved a hand at the man-servant.

  He cleared his throat, “Chef Tessie Cummings of North Carolina won’t be joining us. While on her way here yesterday, her car was in a very bad accident and she burned to death before they could save her.”

  5

  Kate suggested shutting the competition down, but the ten remaining chefs inundated her with their pleas.

  “No, Tessie and Penelope would have wanted us to soldier on.”

  It was ghoulish, not helped in the least by the male secretary/boy toy’s next question which had been to ask if he should order a second wreath to set on Ms. Cumming’s grill.

  “In its place, dear boy,” Dee Dee purred. “Have her grill packed for return shipment.”

  Kate had been about to shut the contest down despite their protests, when Paul pinched her arm.

  “Let it run,” Paul dragged her away from the crowd and led her down to the screened gazebo that overlooked the pond.

  She inspected him closely. “This isn’t another one of your games, Paul.”

  “But it’s such great theater,” he waved grandly.

  “Which in this case sucks for television.” She pretended to sound like an announcer, “Tonight we feature a cooking competition in which two contestants died before they even arrived at the show. Look at these totally tasteless black wreaths we’ve put on the set of our merry cooking show to commemorate the event.”

  “You mean memorialize.”

  “I chose my word carefully.”

  “C’mon Katydid, don’t you want to know who did the deed?”

  “What deed?” Why were all conversations with Paul like this?

  “The dirty one.”

  “Why, how many of them are you planning to have sex with?”

  “None. Well maybe…but that’s not the point. I’m talking about the other dirty deed.”

  “This,” Rikka said from close beside her elbow, scaring the crap out of Kate. She could sneak up on anyone, anywhere, and was always doing it to Kate just to make her completely crazy. “This is why I had you call Paul.”

  Kate looked from Rikka to Paul and back. “Why? What am I still not getting?”

  “You’re way too nice, Sis. Not a foul thought about anyone.”

  “I have a couple about you at the moment.”

  Paul sighed. “Don’t y
ou want to know which of those women killed the other two chefs?”

  Kate stopped at that and considered the statement. It wasn’t…wholly irrational, just mostly. But what if it was the case? “You think one of those women is a murderer?”

  “Yes—” Paul started.

  “No!” Rikka cut him off. “Not a murderer. A well-tended murderess in Armani slacks.”

  “See, you’re too nice for this, Sis. Two chefs burned? Not too likely. Gas grills are incredibly safe, yet Ms. Louisiana blows herself off the face of the map. Ms. North Carolina is toasted in a ball of car fire. C’mon!”

  “From what the other ladies are saying,” Rikka picked up, “the two that are gone were top contenders. Possibly the only ones to take on Priscilla and Dee Dee. I’m betting one of them is in on it.”

  “Or both together, best friends and all. You need an underhanded sneak like me to find out what’s happening.” Paul furrowed his brow in concentration. “I need to find a way to get in close with these ladies.”

  “He’s good at that,” Rikka commented with a dry tone of disgust. “So, what order are you going to take them out joyriding in your car?”

  “Eww!” Paul gave a fake shudder. “I prefer to make sure a woman isn’t looking to kill me before I invite her into my bed. Doesn’t always work out, but I try.”

  “Up close and personal?” Kate could feel an idea forming. An idea that Paul and Rikka were going hate, but she actually was feeling pretty good about.

  Since their parents’ death, Paul had left the network completely up to her to run. She’d made them both wealthy, while he’d gone gallivanting off in every direction. Which didn’t bother her, much.

  “I know that look, Katydid.”

  “What look?” Rikka circled around to look up at Kate’s face. “Ooo, the evil plan look. I love that look.”

  Paul had surprised her. He’d done well during both the fiasco with the North Koreans and that thorny mess with the G-8 meeting in Scotland. Maybe…