Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Even more reason to pass along the compliment,” Durand smirked.

  “Where in France are you from, Chef Durand?” Stella inquired.

  “The world capital of gastronomy, Madame. Lyon.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about Lyon,” Stella replied. “It’s one of the few French cities I have not visited.”

  “Then you must correct that in the future. It is at the crossroads of the finest produce France has to offer: vegetables from farms in Bresse and Charolais, game from the Dombes, lake fish from Savoy, spring fruits and vegetables from Drôme and Ardèche, and wines from Beaujolais and the Rhone Valley. Il est paradis sur terre.”

  “Sounds as though you love it there.”

  “Oui. Yes. I return once a year to visit my mother and catch up with old friends.”

  “What made you move to America in the first place? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

  “Certainement pas. Of course not. To put it in a word, ‘L’amour.’ Love. I fell in love with, and later married, an American girl. She was at university and visited Lyon as a student, much like Mademoiselle Meagan when she visited New York City. Young, beautiful, long brown hair. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her – it is always like that with me, malheureusement!” Despite the lamentation, Durand sported a vague smile. “I loved her, deeply. And, for a while, she loved me, but, alors, the marriage did not last – we divorced after eight years. However, my romance with America still burns brightly.”

  There was a brief pause as the group finished their first course and allowed Durand to collect his thoughts. It did not take long. “I confess, however,” he went on, as the gramophone began to play a jaunty version of “It’s De-Lovely,” “that it was touch-and-go in the beginning. My wife was from Pennsylvania and so we spent our newlywed years in her hometown of Lancaster. O lo lo! From a city with a thousand restaurants to a horse and buggy town known for molasses pie, outlet shopping, and scrapple. L’horreur!”

  “Scrapple?” Aurora repeated. “That is the word game, yes?”

  Chip Carlson gave a slight chuckle and then kindly corrected his fellow Creator. “No, Scrabble is the word game. Scrapple is… ummm…”

  “Inedible and unfathomable,” Durand filled in the blanks with disgust. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Yes, but what is it?” Aurora persisted.

  “Offal,” Durand answered. “Frattaglie. The scraps from pigs are stewed, pureed, and poured into a mold.”

  “Sounds like Pâté de Campagne to me,” Aurora dismissed.

  “Pâté de Campagne? Signora! Please! Not with buckwheat and cornmeal mixed into it.”

  “Buckwheat? Il grano saraceno?”

  “Si, Signora. Oh, and then it is sliced and fried.”

  “Sliced? E fritte?” Ms. Marici invoked the Holy Trinity. “Il cielo ci aiuti!”

  Carlson chuckled even louder.

  “What is so funny?” Durand challenged.

  “Nothing.” Carlson struggled to regain his composure. “I’ve just never seen anyone so completely incensed by a variety of food before.”

  “I am incensed because the preparation of food – no, the proper preparation of food – is my life’s passion. For me to be subjected to a culinary abomination such as scrapple is like… eh, like someone using your laser beam gramophone to play Justin Bayer…er…Biber…er…Barber records.”

  “First, it’s Justin Bieber. And second, way to make me feel your pain. The thought of Justin Bieber wafting through the horn of a vintage Steampunked Victrola? Well-played, sir.” Carlson raised his glass of wine in deference.

  “Hear, hear,” Morehouse resounded as he too raised his glass. “I didn’t invent the device, but the thought of using it to listen to some juvenile delinquent screeching makes me cringe.”

  “Well, sometimes in an argument, one needs to, as the Americans say, ‘not pull the punches.’” Durand mirrored the other men’s gesture and the three of them drank the remnants of their glasses.

  Just then, the waitress began clearing plates in anticipation of the second course.

  “Thank goodness another course is on its way. I could do with some food,” Ms. B. Ology sighed in relief. “I’m not sure what’s more nauseating: the description of scrapple or these three guys singing Kumbaya.”

  When the laughter of the table died down, Morehouse urged, “Come now, B., Don’t be a spoilsport. There must be something in this world that offends your artistic sensibility.”

  “Like someone throwing a rock through the exquisite stained glass at Sainte-Chapelle, perhaps?” Durand suggested with a sly grin.

  “Or taking a gondola oar to the contents of the Murano Glass Factory,” Morehouse proposed.

  “Or the Boston Globe reviewer who called the latest Chihuly exhibit ‘tasteless,’” Carlson offered.

  Ology gasped. “You boys do know how to go right for the jugular, don’t you? Yes, to all of those scenarios, of course. However, I admit that, like the good chef, I too have had my culinary senses assaulted from time to time.”

  “Pray tell, Mademoiselle,” Durand goaded.

  “Well, as some of you may know, I’m a pescetarian.”

  Aurora Marici’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Pesce… the fish?”

  “Yes, exactly. I eat fish and seafood, and grains and vegetables of course, but no other meat from animals,” Ology explained. “So I was in this restaurant once – Japanese, maybe? I can’t remember – and asked the waiter what the specialty of the house was. He tells me it’s sannakji, or something like that. At least I think that’s how it was pronounced. Anyway, when the dish arrives, it’s a bowl of live octopus.”

  “Live?” Stella questioned.

  “Live, as in tentacles still twitching. Can you believe it?”

  “I have heard of this dish,” Durand nodded. “It is a hazard to eat as the suction cups on the tentacles can stick to one’s throat and cause asphyxiation.”

  “Seriously? Oh my God! Thank goodness I didn’t eat it.”

  “Oui, you were lucky. Although I have heard that it is quite tasty. Oh, and for future reference, the restaurant was Korean, not Japanese. Sannakji is a dish served exclusively in North Korea.”

  At this sentence, a loud crash emanated from Kenneth Zolar’s end of the table. A broken wine glass lay on the table before him and the young man was in the act of mopping the spilled beverage from the tablecloth with his napkin. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “not much of a drinker.”

  “Was it the wine? Or did an octopus knock over your glass?” Ms. B. Ology teased.

  Zolar shot her a nasty look.

  “Hey, I was just trying to have some fun,” she said defensively. “It’s Friday, the start of the weekend.”

  “Yes, a very important weekend for some of us,” he grumbled before storming out of the room.

  “Oh come on, Ken,” B. Ology whined in exasperation. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

  Morehouse held a hand silently aloft and stopped her as she rose halfway from her chair. “No use in chasing him. He’ll come back. He always does. And, if not, it’s his loss.”

  While the gramophone launched into a jaunty rendition of “I’ve Got my Eye on You,” B. Ology, wearing a large frown, sat back down in her seat. Carlson watched with a disapproving gaze as the young woman folded and then refolded her napkin before placing it back on her lap.

  Morehouse, meanwhile, directed the young platinum haired waitress, who he called Amanda, to tidy Zolar’s area once she had finished serving the next course.

  With a polite smile and a nod of the head, Amanda first delivered a tiny pumpkin on a plate to Meagan and then Stella. Stella lifted the lid and inhaled the contents.

  “Miniature pumpkins filled with a stew of fennel, parsnip, celery root, carrot, shallot, and seitan. And, for those of you who have finished the first wine, I have a lovely 2012 Gewürztraminer made, of course, at the neighboring vineyard using grapes raised here at
Vue Colline.”

  Nick looked across the table at his wife, his eyebrows raised and his face a question. He was not the only one mystified by this unique ingredient.

  “Seitan? I have not heard of this? What is it?” Aurora spoke up.

  “Seasoned gluten or umm, ‘wheat meat,’ as it’s known in some places,” Stella answered.

  “Very good, Mrs. Buckley,” Morehouse stated appreciatively. “I am impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I’m simply a Food Network junkie,” she explained modestly. “Well, former junkie since we don’t have television reception at our new house.”

  Nick, meanwhile, was still focused on the seitan. ‘Wheat meat?’ he silently mouthed to Stella in horror as he picked at his plate with his fork.

  Stella rolled her eyes in Nick’s direction before attempting to turn the topic of discussion to something other than alternative forms of protein. “Mr. Morehouse has provided Nick and me with a brief glimpse into what everyone here has already created – robotic suits, glass cadavers, laser powered record players, fiber optic fashion – it’s all very exciting! But I have to wonder: what is everyone working on now? If you’re at liberty to tell, of course.”

  “What a marvelous question,” Morehouse decreed. “I know Mr. Carlson has been working on a film about H.G. Wells. I think we’d all like to hear more about it.”

  “I wish there were more to tell,” Carlson lamented. “I created mock-ups of various sets and gadgets – airships, bicycles with wings, a variation on a time machine – if it was in a Wells story, I tried to create it. But, the producers lost one of their backers and ultimately decided that it was cheaper to do everything CGI. Cheaper for them, obviously; I, however, had gone to considerable lengths to get those comps done quickly.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Chip.” Morehouse sounded genuinely sympathetic.

  “Yeah, that really sucks,” Ms. B. Ology rejoined. “Can you possibly use those mock-ups for another project?”

  “Sure. If you happen to hear of someone looking for a miniature steam powered airship, tell them I’m their guy.”

  “I guess that was kind of a stupid question,” Ology frowned.

  “No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry for being flippant. It was quite rude of me, especially when you were trying to put a positive spin on things,” Carlson smiled.

  “Can you recycle some of the materials you used for the comps?” the Salvage Guy suggested.

  “Some, but other things are very specific to the project, unfortunately.”

  “If you don’t mind, maybe I can stop by your studio and give those things a listen. If they sound good, I’ll buy them off of you and use them in my show.”

  “That’s very kind of you Dan,” Carlson began, “But you don’t have to –”

  “I know I don’t ‘have to.’ It’s just what I do.”

  “He’s right, you know? A few months ago, he swung by to help me move to my new apartment,” Ms. B. Ology offered. “In addition to doing some of the heavy lifting, he took an old set of skis, my first Macintosh computer, and some old beach chairs. I didn’t have to haul anything to the dumps or pay extra for special garbage pick-up!”

  “A beach chair you take,” Durand challenged the Salvage Guy, “but the tempered glass lids from my old cookware you left behind?”

  “I turned the beach chair frame into a support system for my junk instruments. Lightweight yet sturdy,” Dan rallied. “Sorry Chef, your pot lids didn’t sing to me. But I took most of the pots and pans, didn’t I?”

  “You did, my friend,” Durand laughed. “And you gave me free tickets to see those pots and pans in use. It was, as you young Americans like to say, ‘Ah-mazing.’”

  “No fair!” Ms. B. Ology exclaimed. “I didn’t get free tickets to see my beach chairs and skis.”

  “You don’t need them,” the Salvage Guy grinned. “They, along with the old Mac, are outside under my tent. Come by tomorrow whenever you have a chance. I’d be happy to jam with you.”

  “Aw, thanks,” Ms. B. Ology replied gratefully as she lapped up the rest of her vegetable stew.

  “You’re welcome. And to get back to Mrs. Buckley’s question, I may have indicated as such earlier in the evening, but with the cuts to arts programs in schools, I would like my Salvage Symphonies to become a national, and possibly global, education program.”

  “Da-a-a-n,” Morehouse nearly sang.

  “Come on, Phil. It makes sense. You know it does!”

  “I’m with Dan on this one,” Ms. B. Ology chimed in. “Today’s kids are so focused on testing that they’re missing out on some important lessons. That’s why I’m looking to take my school presentation to the next level. In addition to the anatomical elements of my program, I’ve been working with a local sculptor to provide rubber cases for my cadavers. The cases are made in every flesh tone imaginable, but when you peel that case, or skin, back, the glass components beneath it all look the same, proving that it doesn’t matter what we look like on the surface. I think it’s a great thing to be able to market that to kids – the idea that inside we are all the same. Our bodies, our hearts, our minds all operate the same way, ya know?”

  “It sounds like a highly commendable project,” Morehouse stated diplomatically. “However, I hope you realize that it cannot be connected with the Creator’s Cavalcade. Our organization is not about politics or platforms. We cannot get involved with school policies or race arguments or budget cuts. We can only do our best to educate while entertaining, and we can only hope to provide some inspiration along the way.”

  “I’m not looking to denounce school policies or address budget cuts, Phil,” Dan nearly shouted. “I’m just looking to expand my act through the entire country instead of limiting it to the Northeast.”

  “Dan, I’ve already told you that Creator’s Cavalcade doesn’t have the budget to sponsor your long distance travels. Air or train fare for you and your,” Morehouse cleared his throat, “Urm, instruments, is extremely cost prohibitive. The organization simply doesn’t have the money. Am I right, Mark?”

  “My step-father is absolutely correct, Dan. Creator’s Cavalcade does not currently possess the funds to ship you and your instruments to venues and schools across the United States. Our organization did, at one time, enjoy those resources,” Mark Rousseau’s eyes briefly slid toward Kenneth Zolar, who had since returned to his seat and was engaged in the simultaneous activities of eating vegetable stew with his right hand and cradling his phone with his left, “but that cash has since been dedicated to other concerns.”

  Dan cleared his throat, pushed his plate of stew away, and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

  “So why did you turn down a position on my board, Philip? Politics? Policies? Lack of finances?” The lilting Italian accent of Aurora Marici suddenly filled the room. As if on cue, the record player reached the inner run-out groove, the static, thumping rhythm encompassing the room.

  Carlson quietly excused himself from the table to flip the album to the other side.

  “Et tu, Aurora?” Philip objected with a heavy sigh. “That’s simply not fair.”

  “My new product, which Philip introduced to you both,” Aurora gestured to Stella and Nick as she spoke, “is designed to save lives. Combining fiber opt-eek materials that monitor the pressure of the blood and other vital statistics, with the comfort that is lightweight and also very fashionable. Not like the pants for the yoga that you Americans wear even when you’re not doing yoga. Ugh! My clothes will make people look good and feel good, inspire them to get healthy. I call my company Luce Della Vita – the Light of Life.”

  With that statement, a jazzy version of “Just One of Those Things” began to play.

  “Your idea for the company is, indeed, a brilliant one, Aurora,” Morehouse said. “However, I turned down the Board membership because I simply no longer have the time. My life has changed a great deal in the two years since I visited Florence. When I met you, I was still grieving for my wife, and
I put my work first. But I now have a new and glorious future with a woman whom I adore. My goal is to dedicate my entire being to her happiness.” Morehouse beamed at his bride-to-be.

  Mr. Carlson, meanwhile, had returned to the table to face the questioning gaze of Ms. B. Ology. “I didn’t choose the song,” he whispered with a shrug. “I just placed the needle on the record and prayed we wouldn’t hear ‘Love For Sale.’”

  “How could I possibly make an argument against a sentimente so… so riscaldamento cuore… “ Aurora asked dramatically, “so touching to the heart? I do hope you know how lucky you are, Signorina McArdle, to have such a man as Signore Morehouse.” Although curled into a bedazzling smile, Aurora’s upper lip twitched ever so slightly.

  “I do, Signora Marici,” Meagan McArdle answered while gazing across the table at her future husband. “I am very fortunate, indeed.”

  Durand cleared his throat and abruptly rose up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the main course. Helen may require some assistance.”

  With Durand’s departure, an awkward silence descended over the room.

  “So, when is the happy day?” Stella inquired, partially out of genuine affection for nuptial celebrations, but mostly in an attempt to restore a livelier mood to the evening’s festivities. “The wedding, I mean?”

  “We haven’t set one yet,” Meagan replied between sips of Gewürztraminer. “With all the Cavalcade preparations, there’s been little time to discuss wedding plans.”

  “Meagan hasn’t even taken to wearing her engagement ring on a regular basis,” Morehouse complained.

  “Philip,” she sighed wearily and placed her wine glass on the table. “We’ve already discussed this. First, there is the rare occasion when I need to do some hands-on work at this event; I don’t want my ring to get scratched or damaged.”

  “It’s a diamond. And I don’t mind paying to have the ring repaired should something happen to it while it’s on your finger,” he placed special emphasis on the last five words of the sentence.

  “Secondly, there’s perception. Although I’ve worked for the Cavalcade Foundation for years, I’ve been your assistant less than a year. Lots of our Creators or their friends and family interviewed for my position; I don’t want them thinking that I got the job based upon anything less than merit.”