by Cassie Page
Rowena looked as though she might cry as she stared at the computer. “Last week’s menu had Marco’s special baby onion soup. We don’t have any baby onions today. What will we do if someone asks for it. We were supposed to make minted pea soup today.”
For a sous chef, Rowena didn’t seem to have much backbone. She’d never make executive chef if she couldn’t step up to the plate without weeping. Tuesday made an executive decision.
“The people who come in here are more interested in schmoozing and being seen than eating. Give them pea soup. They’ll never know the difference.”
“Oh no,” Rowena said, stuffing her mousy brown hair under a chef’s toque. “Marco will be furious. He planned the menu last night. You don’t know how he is.”
Clearly, Marco led by terrorizing his employees. And he had the perfect assistant, someone who wouldn’t challenge his authority.
“Well if Marco cares about his kitchen so much,” Tuesday said, pointing to the soup recipe on the screen and giving Rowena the keep it moving signal, “he should show up for work on time. It’s pea soup or nothing today.”
Rowena gave a reluctant nod of agreement. “But Marco is not going to be happy when he gets here.”
“I think Marco is going to have enough on his hands dealing with Natasha when he arrives. She will be all over him for being late. So let’s get to work.”
Chapter Fourteen: Crazy Kitchen
The Café started to fill up. Tuesday followed Rowena’s instructions and got food onto plates, but servers complained about the presentation. She heard That’s not the way Marco does it a lot. She answered well that’s the way Tuesday does it a lot.
Tuesday heard a commotion in the front dining room. A guest had arrived with a small entourage. Outside a press posse had followed her up to the door with microphones and cameras.
One of the servers remarked, “That’s the wife of the director whose movie is cursed. Somebody got killed on the set. That’s what he gets for making those sucky zombie movies that make a gajillion dollars. What’s she’s doing here for lunch? She’s usually a dinner guest.”
Someone answered, “She’s trying to put on a good face.”
That’s being a supportive wife, Tuesday thought. She stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Vitale. She felt as if the dead actress was stalking her.
Rowena barked that the lemongrass chicken for Table 9 was plated. “Pick up your orders, people, before they get cold.”
The sous chef seemed to have grown a bit of backbone with her new authority. Tuesday returned to the kitchen without catching a glimpse of Mrs. Vitale. However, the servers at the pickup end of the counter had a clear view of the brunette with the black vampire lipstick. One of them said, “She looks like Cruella de Ville. Maybe she bumped that actress off.”
Another said, “And shoot herself in her financial foot? Not fricken likely.”
Tuesday wondered how he knew Ariel had been murdered. As far as she knew her death was still being reported as suspicious with no definite cause of death. The rumor mill, she guessed. A customer who had just had her tea leaves read by Natasha walked by, all fluttery. She said to her companion, “She said I was going to meet a tall dark stranger.” Her companion answered, “And you’re fantasizing it’s Johnny Depp, right.”
Marco finally arrived, an hour late. Natasha flew into the kitchen behind him, mid-reading, the customer staring bewildered from the inside of her teacup, up, to Natasha’s back and into the cup again. Marco looked as green as the pea soup Rowena was dishing into a bowl. He pleaded food poisoning to the raging Natasha. To prove his point he turned, cross-eyed, and vomited into the garbage can next to him.
He seemed to recover somewhat after that and shooed Tuesday out of the kitchen with a sneer. Despite his size, he didn’t intimidate Natasha. “Are you sure you can cook?,” she asked. “I don’t want you throwing up all over my customers’ lunch.”
Marco may have been ill but he wasn’t the least bit chastened. “Of course I can do it.” His barking tone matched Natasha’s. “It will take more than a touch of food poisoning to keep me from my art.”
He snapped his fingers at one of the dishwashers, told him to get rid of the vile smelling trash bag.
He looked very wobbly to Tuesday and she gave him a wide berth in case his stomach let loose again.
“Food poisoning?” sneered Natasha. “Are you sure it isn’t a hangover?”
Natasha rushed out of the kitchen as soon as he started yelling about his chipped chef’s knives in the sink.
Tuesday returned to her table, happy to leave the crazy kitchen. She apologized to the customer Natasha had abandoned and explained that she would pick up where Natasha left off. The reading would be free of charge. The woman left a sizable tip, seemingly pleased to know from Natasha that travel was in her future and that she needed to be wary of a possible female visitor. Tuesday softened that blow by telling her that it is possible the woman may have a change of heart. The female visitor image struck a painful chord with Tuesday. She wondered if she was interpreting the message as referring to her own mother.
She cleared the tea things from the table and readied herself for her next reading.
Diners had the option of having Tuesday read at their table so their friends could sit in on the predictions. This had the advantage of pulling in new customers. “Oh, read me next,” was music to Tuesday’s ears. Her preference, though, was to have Mohammad come to the mountain, where Tuesday could do the reading at her own corner table with a measure of privacy. She didn’t have to edit out what she thought the customer would not want her friends to hear. Private readings often led to standing appointments. Now, though, no one had signed up for a reading for the next fifteen minutes and she relaxed into her chair.
She looked around the busy room, diners blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding in the kitchen or the police visit before the Café opened. She recognized the faces of a few celebrity customers from People Magazine and the tabloids, as well as a few regulars. From her table she had a good view of the director’s wife, Mrs. Vitale. She wondered if the severe lines around her eyes were from the realization that her life was about to change if her husband was tagged with a cursed set. Hollywood was a superstitious town and this would not be good news for a director on the hunt for backers for his films. The wife had a lot riding on the police finding the killer fast and proving they were unrelated to the film project.
Just then a server came up with a receipt and said a customer had paid for a reading, so she got back to work.
At the end of her shift, Tuesday dialed Olivia’s number but got voice mail again. She looked through her emails for news updates, but didn’t see anything she didn’t already know, which wasn’t much.
Cable news outlets flashed images of Ariel, stock photos of the generic blond starlet on the red carpet. But the big news was her mug shot taken two years ago and a video someone had obtained of the police frog walking her into a police car after her arrest for battery. Typical headlines played on her dubious celebrity. Vampire star does death scene.
No information on how she died, though, or why the police were investigating. The anchor kept referring to suspicious circumstances. What could they be, she wondered.
Tuesday scrolled through the rest of her texts, then she dialed Holley’s number to confirm the date with Detective Jameson. She hoped she wasn’t zoned out on Xanax. Or her high colonic.
Holley picked up on the first ring sounding lucid but fragile.
“Do they still want to interview you?”
“Yeah, but they put it off until the end of the day.”
Tuesday liked the later time. It gave her ninety minutes to spare until she had to meet Holley.
She asked, “Have you heard anything on the news about how Ariel died? How are they so sure it’s murder and not a drug overdose or undetected heart condition.”
“Poison.”
“No!” Tuesday shuddered. That’s what had killed the
victim in Darling Valley. Why was poison in her aura? “Is that what the police are saying?”
Holley mentioned that a talk show host was making that argument. “Holley, you know what she’s like. Anything sensational for a story. You can’t depend on anything she says.”
Yet the idea of poison rocked Tuesday. That here it was again in her life. She believed she could keep out negative elements with clean living. That’s why she preached an organic, pesticide free, sugar free lifestyle. Sometimes she went as far as to try vegan and macrobiotic diets, but those whims didn’t last long. So she ate some sugar now and then. Was that so bad? She’d start her cleanse tomorrow and get back on track. Only positive input from now on. For sure. But for now, she reached into her tote for a second candy bar that she kept on hand for emergencies, like this moment when she needed to boost her endorphins.
Tuesday could hear Holley weeping. “Listen Honey Bunny, pull yourself together. We don’t have any official word that Ariel was poisoned.”
Now Holley was sobbing openly. “They’re probably just not releasing the information. You know what this means, Miss Tuesday. Somebody is killing off the crew and I may be next.”
Tuesday put the phone in her lap. Of course she had considered this, But holy fricken bodyguard. How was she going to make sure her client was safe? She took a deep breath to gather her thoughts. “Holley, are you alone?”
“No, Mr. Gregory is here.”
It took Tuesday a long second to remember the neighbor. The gardener, Mr. Lily Expert. Tuesday had a bad feeling about him. “What about someone who knows you better. A good friend.”
“Yeah, don’t worry. Roger is coming over later, too. He’s freaked out by Ariel’s death and called me. I told him misery loves company. He should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
The stalker again. Why was he hanging around Holley? She shouldn’t give him so much encouragement if she wasn’t interested, but Holley seemed to think he was harmless. Tuesday didn’t like all these men flocking to her side. She feared they were taking advantage of her, if not now, in the future.
“Okay, sweet pea, she said, resigned that there was nothing she could do about it now. “I’ll see you at the police station later.”
“Right. And one more thing Miss Tuesday? Goren, the director? He’s having a gathering at his house tonight to honor Ariel. She was in two of his films. We can bring a plus one. Will you come with me? You make me feel so strong.”
A morbid gathering of low level actors and production assistants who will probably get either tanked or high to cope with the tragedy was not what Tuesday had in mind for her evening. But she was feeling pulled into Holley’s life like an overprotective parent. She said okay.
“Thank you so much, Miss Tuesday. You’re the best.”
Tuesday mumbled, “Tell that to Miss Natasha,” and hung up.
Chapter Fifteen: Designer Considers
She had an hour and a half. Her choices were to head home to finish unpacking, stock up on her herbal treatments at the organic pharmacy or go shopping. No contest. She headed towards The Designer Considers boutique in a strip mall on the way to the police station.
Originally, the shop had been called Designer Consigners. But when they finally earned enough money in the early days for better signage, the signmaker had misspelled it the name. Marci and Darci each had a foot in the 60’s and fancied themselves as kooks, a favorite word of Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pac. So they decided the offbeat name suited them and kept it.
Aging identical twins in real life, Marci laughingly called herself the considerer and Darci was the designer. During their twenties they worked as extras in noir films, with occasional speaking parts. These days they peppered their sales pitches with stories of dinner parties with Cary Grant and Lana Turner, and secret rendezvous with muscled stunt men and wealthy producers. Now as seniors they earned a far better living collecting the castoff threads of the rich and sold them to the wish they were rich who came for the stories of Hollywood gone by as much as for the cheap used clothes. Tuesday was such a reliable customer that they put on hold any items they thought she would love. They rarely nailed her taste, but she was very good at finding treasures on her own.
“Tuesday, our favorite fortune teller,” enthused Marci, or was it Darci? Tuesday was never sure since they continued their mother’s obsession of dressing alike and wearing the same shades of lipstick and foundation. They even had identical patterns of wrinkles cascading down their cheeks and necks. Now they wore glittery creations from their racks with orthopedic shoes.
“Hi, girls.” Tuesday held out her arms for hugs and air kisses. “Do you have anything special for me? I don’t have a lot of time today.”
Out of courtesy, she tried on the outfit Marci/Darci held out for her. A duo from the old I. Magnin’s, a cashmere twin set with pearl buttons and an a-line skirt with a front pleat that was all the rage in the 60’s. Tuesday could go retro, but she wouldn’t be caught dead as a Jean Harris head mistress look alike. She’d have killed the doctor, too, if he had encouraged her to wear those threads.
Thankfully, the ensemble didn’t fit, even though Marci, or was it Darci, gushed, “It’s you, honey. Makes me think of that time I met Doris Day at a pool party. She was wearing the same shade of cashmere.”
But Tuesday shook her head. “And I bet she rocked it. Great stuff. Real finds, girls. But I’m too short in the waist for the sweater and skirt look. So sorry. But I’ll look around.”
Marci slitted one appraising eye and said, “You ever think of trying a little Dutch boy bob?”
Tuesday pretended not to hear while she pawed through piles of sweaters and shirts, racks of suits, gowns and cast off but almost new jeans. As she shopped, the twins tried to pry some gossip out of her.
“Read any interesting tea leaves lately, doll?” asked Marci, smiling a wicked grin, garish orange lipstick smeared across her teeth.
Interesting? Actually, Tuesday had discovered that the woes and anxieties that drew celebrities for a reading were the same as ordinary folk. Will he call? Will I make my mortgage payment this month? Should I take an expensive vacation or save for the kids’ braces? Nothing that would make the evening news.
Tuesday always kept her client’s confidentiality, but to appease the twins she made up a story about seeing a ménage a trois in the cup of a famous actress.
“I can’t give names, you know that,” she said with a conspiratorial frown. “But the next time you see a blond in Stella McCartney on the red carpet you’ll have to wonder.”
Lurid enough to chew over with their customers without putting the privacy of Tuesday’s clients at risk. Tuesday was sure her fibs were not as big as some of the ones they told about dating the Hollywood superstars of old.
Darci/Marci returned a conspiratorial tilt of her eyebrows. “I bet I know who you mean. She comes in here. Gets comps on her gowns for openings and then sells them to us.”
Tuesday gave a noncommittal nod. “You didn’t hear it from me,” she said, modeling a man’s cerise smoking jacket in the floor to ceiling mirror.
But the other sister, Marci/Darci, shook her head. “No, it’s not that one. It’s the girl that had the one night stand with that director. You know, the one that’s casting the new vegetarian zombie movie?”
Tuesday dropped a clutch of hangars she was so surprised. How many vegetarian zombie movies could be in production right now?
“His assistant’s PA and I go to the same shop to have our nails done.” She flashed her blood red claws for emphasis.
It jogged Tuesday’s memory. She recalled Holley saying Zora had her own personal assistant.
“She was telling someone on the phone while she was in the chair next to me that the director was fooling around. She didn’t name names, either. But I knew. I know them all. No class, these girls coming up. Not like Sandra and Tuesday”
“Sandra? Tuesday?”
“Sandra Dee and Tuesday Weld. Isn’t that who you named
yourself after?”
“My mother named me. Maybe that’s who inspired her.” Tuesday tried to ignore the thrip in her heartbeat whenever the subject of her mother came up.
“So what’s your last name, honey?”
Tuesday just gave her a mysterious smile. She didn’t want to say that her mother never knew which of the men she courted fathered her, so she never gave Tuesday a last name, not even her own. She’d only told her that she was born on a Tuesday and Tuesday’s child was full of grace.
Tuesday didn’t want to think about her mother anymore, or ponder why she hadn’t received a follow up to Tessa’s mysterious e-mail, “Surprise.” So she ended the conversation by dumping her armful of multicolored, multi-patterned, beaded, sequined, feathered and embroidered treasures of dubious provenance on the counter and searched in her bag for her credit card. While she waited for the charge to clear, she wondered if the one night stand Marci/Darci were talking about could be the jealous type. Could she have arranged to have some lowlife threaten Holley to keep her away from her lover? And what did Goren’s adoring wife think about his philandering? Assuming she knew.
How could she get the name from Marci/Darci? To help her think, she pawed through the sale jewelry next to the cash register. Darci saw her interest in the gaudy baubles and rushed over. Or was it Marci?
“Honey, we got some new pieces this morning. We haven’t even tagged them. Let me show you.”
Tuesday nodded eagerly, and the elderly woman hobbled into her back room. Tuesday took the opportunity to drop the name of the star of a futuristic TV show to the other sister. Holley had mentioned her name a few times, that she was struggling in the ratings.
“What about her, dearie? Oh, you mean is she the girl balling the director? Nah.”
Did Marci know how she dated herself using that expression from the sex, drugs and rock and roll days in the seventies? Who said balling any more?
Marci pulled out sheaves of tissue paper and began wrapping Tuesday’s items as she continued. “You wouldn’t believe it from the roles she picks, but that girl’s one of those ‘I’m saving it for marriage,’ religious types.”
