Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery)

by Domovitch, Monique

  “Fine.” She marched out, leaving Charles and me staring mutely at the door as it swung shut.

  I recovered my voice. “What the hell was that?”

  Charles let out a long breath. “Now there goes what I call a raving lunatic.” He attempted a smile. “As scary as she was, I doubt she’s dangerous, just nuts. With all the hospital budget cuts, the mentally ill have nowhere to go, so they wander the streets. Nothing to worry about.”

  It was easy to be brave now that she was gone.

  He gave my shoulder a pat. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? By tomorrow morning you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

  I nodded slowly. “But the real question is, will she have forgotten about us?”

  suffocating in a cloud of mac translucent powder

  I arrived at Global TV promptly at seven the next morning. From the street, the industrial building didn’t look any different from the others in the area. But inside was a different thing. Rows upon rows of autographed celebrity pictures covered the walls. In the center of the hotel-size foyer, a large circular reception desk held center stage. Sitting behind it was a security guard who must have been a fullback in a previous life. This was more how I’d expected a television station to look.

  He peered at me. “Yes?”

  “Uh, I’m here for the Lauren Live show.”

  “Talent or audience,” he growled. It took a moment for me to understand this was a question.

  “Oh, uh, talent I guess.”

  He asked for identification, checked it against a list and then directed me back outside the building and around to a side entrance. “You’ll see a door that says Makeup. That’ll be the one.”

  I thanked him and hurried back out into the freezing cold. I walked briskly to the correct entrance, rang the bell and was buzzed into a long narrow room. Two other doors were marked Greenroom and Studios. At one end of the room were wall-to-wall mirrors, sterile Formica counters and a row of bright makeup lights. Half a dozen guests were in various stages of makeup.

  “Will you close the damn door before we all freeze to death?” yelled a young man with long blond hair.

  “Oh, sorry.” I shut it and stood there unsurely.

  “Take off your coat and grab a seat,” the same fellow said.

  I sat in an age-crackled leatherette salon chair, feeling like an overstuffed sausage in the bodysuit I was wearing under my clothes. I’d bought the garment because it guaranteed to make the wearer look ten pounds thinner instantly—which, considering the weight I’d gained, should make me look my normal size. I’d originally planned to wear only a waist cincher but nixed that idea when, two minutes after struggling to get it on, the damn thing suddenly snap-rolled to my waist.

  I pinched myself, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was about to sit on the famous lime-green guest chair of the one and only Lauren Long. I, Nicky Landry, was about to go live on national television. To what extent would it boost our restaurant business? If the dinner shift became as profitable as our noon shift, that would be amazing. On the other hand, we could barely cope with the hard work involved with one crazy-busy shift a day. Correction, I could barely cope. Toni had a knack for getting out of hard work.

  As I waited for my turn with a makeup artist, I looked up and down the row of guests being painted and powdered. All the women looked so beautiful. I would look so plain next to them. I was getting more nervous by the second and beginning to feel awfully hot under those makeup lights. I only hoped I wouldn’t sweat through my nice silk sweater. Damn Toni for getting me into this. She didn’t need me. She could have done it by herself.

  Speaking of whom, if this was such a great opportunity, where the hell was she? I glanced at my watch—seven-thirty. She should have been here by now. Before my concern could turn into full-blown worry, a cadaverously thin young man with jet-black hair and dark eye makeup wandered over. My first impression was of a male punk version of Morticia Addams.

  “Good morning, darling. I’m Keith, your makeup artist,” he said, leaning in and studying me. “And you are?”

  “Nicky. Nicky Landry,” I said, slightly uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

  Makeup boy lifted my chin for an even closer look. “Hmm. I’ll just have to work my magic.”

  The way he said this made it plenty clear that he had grave doubts about the outcome.

  “Not to worry. I’ll have you looking gorgeous in no time.” He turned away and rummaged through something that looked like a giant tackle box full of cosmetics. He selected a bottle and shook it. He leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re going to want to buy some of this. It makes pores the size of Ontario disappear.”

  “I have large pores?” I wondered why I’d never noticed that. On the other hand, I was a chef. I worked in a hot, steamy kitchen. How could my pores not be large?

  “Gigantic, darling. Simply gigantic.”

  Normally, any criticism about my looks would have sent me shoveling through a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia at the speed of a wood chipper, but I happened to like my complexion. It was the one thing about me that Toni envied. God knows there was nothing else I had over her, except maybe bigger boobs. But then, everything about me was bigger. Besides, there were worse things in life than having large pores—like makeup-artist boy’s enormous nose for example. I decided to not point that out since whether I looked good or not before an audience of millions rested entirely in his hands.

  “Earth to Nicky!” He abruptly brought me back to the here and now. “When was the last time you had a facial, darling?” He was seriously beginning to get on my nerves.

  “Mmmph.”

  He proceeded to slather foundation all over my face, including my lips. “Don’t try to talk.”

  He dropped the container of foundation and picked up a concealer stick, which he smoothed under my eyes, much the way a pastry chef would use icing to smooth out cracks in a cake.

  “So what are you being interviewed about?” He pulled out some kind of strange contraption, clamped it onto my lashes and squeezed.

  “Ouch, ouch!”

  “Sit still. How am I supposed to make you look gorgeous when you won’t stop squirming?”

  “I won’t be beautiful if you pull out all my lashes. What the hell is that thing?”

  “This?” Keith looked stunned. “Haven’t you ever seen an eyelash curler?”

  I shook my head mutely and he rolled his eyes. For the next few minutes I kept quiet, praying the torture would soon end. At last Keith stepped back—not a minute too soon—and cocked a hip. “I asked you a question, darling. What are you being interviewed about?”

  “Oh, er—my partner and I are the owners of Skinny’s on Queen.” At his blank look, I explained. “It’s a new low-calorie restaurant.”

  Keith said nothing but I noticed his eyes traveling up and down my body.

  “I just lost twenty-five pounds,” I said.

  “Good for you, darling. I can’t imagine having to diet.” He patted his ironing-board stomach and shrugged. “I have absolutely no willpower. I eat like a horse. I’m just naturally thin.”

  That information didn’t make me like him one bit more.

  He picked up a brush the size of a duster and fluffed loose powder all over my face until I was suffocating in a cloud of translucent powder. By the time I was able to breathe again, I was beet red under all the spackle.

  At that moment, the door marked Studios swung open and an officious-looking brunette carrying a clipboard came charging in. “Toni Lawford? Nicky Landry?”

  Shit. Where was Toni? At this point I wasn’t sure whether I should be angry or worried. Possible scenarios flashed through my mind. Had she made it safely home last night? The image of a masked man pointing a gun to my girlfriend’s head popped into my mind. I just as quickly dismissed it. No way. If Toni had been even five minutes late getting home, Steven would have called in a panic.

  Maybe she’d had a car accident. God kno
ws she drove that red BMW of hers way too fast. On the other hand, she was also one of the best drivers I knew. Besides, even if she had totaled her car, Toni would have climbed out of the wreckage, brushed off the debris, hailed a cab and hightailed it over here. She might show up late for work, but never for a TV appearance. Maybe she was busy doing her own makeup. Now that was more likely.

  “Right here, darling.” Keith raised his hand. “This gorgeous creature is Nicky. I’m almost done with her.”

  The woman hoofed it over, tapping her pen against the board. “I’m the floor director.” She pointed her pen at me. “You’re on in twenty.” She looked up and down the row of people in various stages of makeup. “Which one is your partner?”

  “She’s not here yet, but I’m sure she’ll...”

  “She’s what?” For a second, I thought floor-director woman would explode. Her face turned an ugly shade, but just as I expected steam to start blowing out of her ears, she stopped abruptly, took a deep breath and said tightly, in a low voice. “I will remain calm. I will remain calm.” She pulled herself together and tapped her watch. “If she’s not here in—”

  At that moment the exit door opened, letting in a drift of snow and an unhurried Toni. She finger-combed her hair. “Sorry I’m late,” she said as casually as I might say, “Would you like the dressing on the side?”

  The floor director turned to face her and I steeled myself for fireworks. But the woman took one look at Toni and smiled. “Oh, you’re already made up. That’s great. You’re on in eighteen.” She turned and marched back out.

  Toni shed her alpaca coat, hung it on a wall hook and turned toward me, revealing a blue shrink-wrap dress and skyscraper heels.

  “Didn’t you wear boots?” I was shocked. “How can you walk around only half dressed in minus-ten degree weather?”

  “I hate boots.” She walked languorously over, giving her blond mane a toss. “Besides, the important thing is I look good, right?” Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes in the room zoomed over to her. I had a flash of my own appearance when I’d walked in—a down-filled coat reminiscent of the Michelin man, a wool cap pulled to my eyelids, a thick scarf wrapped around my neck and up to my nose, and boots that would have kept me warm at the South Pole. I had to hand it to Toni. She sure knew how to make an entrance.

  I started getting out of the chair. Keith pushed me back in. “Not so fast. You still need eyebrows, dear.” He leaned over with a sharp pencil. “Will you puh-leaze stop wiggling? I’m almost finished.” He smiled sweetly to Toni. “Have a seat, darling. I’ll be right with you.” Toni settled in the chair on my left.

  From my right, an elegant silver-haired woman smiled at me through the mirror. “First time on TV?” Her makeup artist—pleasanter-looking than mine—pulled the paper towels from around her collar.

  Keith was now painting my mouth, so all I could do was convey my fear with a series of panicky blinks.

  The woman chuckled. “Don’t worry. All you have to remember is to follow Lauren’s lead.” She inspected herself in the mirror. “Think of it as a pleasant chat with a girlfriend.” Yeah, right. A chat with a girlfriend—with millions of people watching. “And if you feel nervous, just take a deep breath.”

  I would have taken a deep breath right now, except that anything more than shallow breathing was impossible in my bodysuit from hell. I couldn’t wait to get out of it. Any exercise more strenuous than a casual stroll would put me in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen.

  The woman stepped out of her chair and headed for the door to the greenroom.

  Keith stood back and gave me the once-over. “Now you are perfect.” He smiled with satisfaction. “Damn, I’m good.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel and moved on to Toni. “Hello, darling. You’re already all done. I’ll just touch you up a bit.” He selected a long thin brush from his kit.

  I looked in the mirror. To my surprise, I looked...amazing. On my lids, Keith had used smoky café-au-lait shadow, giving my eyes depth and bringing out the green. I leaned closer and noticed that my lashes looked extra long and super thick. That contraption was not solely an instrument of torture after all. Keith may have been a bit on the bitchy side, but he knew what he was doing. “Wow! You are good.”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Told you.” He rummaged through his tool kit again and pulled out a small jar. “Trust me. I’ll make you gorgeous too, darling,” he told Toni. In her case it would take no effort at all. At that moment, his eyes grew wide. “Oh my God. You’re Toni Gordon, the supermodel.” I wondered why Toni hadn’t changed her name back to Gordon after her divorce. Had she subconsciously known that she and Steven would someday be back together?

  Toni smiled humbly. “I haven’t been a supermodel in a couple of years.” The last time she’d been on the cover of a magazine was closer to ten years than two, but I wasn’t about to point that out.

  “I have all your Looks covers,” Keith continued to gush as he refreshed her lipstick. “Every cover you’ve ever done, I’ve collected. If I’d known I was going to meet you today, I would have brought them for you to autograph.”

  Toni looked as if she’d died and gone to heaven. “Tell you what. Stop by my restaurant sometime and I’ll autograph them for you.” She handed him a business card and one of what I liked to call her professional smiles—a dazzling, teeth-baring smile that stretched just a bit too far and flashed just a tad too bright.

  After powdering her nose, Keith pulled the tissues from around her neck and stepped back. “Voilà. Now, you are perfection.”

  Toni glanced at herself in the mirror, inspected her teeth for lipstick and nodded with satisfaction. “How’s it going with you and Mitchell?”

  I frowned. “I haven’t heard from him in a few days. Mind you, with the schedule I keep, it’s a wonder I ever see him.” And then, as an afterthought, I added, “You don’t think he’s losing interest in me, do you?”

  Toni looked at me with knowing eyes. “There you go, being insecure again—insecure and jealous.”

  “I am not jealous,” I snapped.

  “Of course not.” She rolled her eyes. “I bet you have to stop yourself from following him when he leaves his house, don’t you?” I must have looked guilty because she added, “Like I always say, jealousy is just another form of insanity. Better keep your insanity to yourself than to speak and remove all doubt.”

  Toni had this habit of reeling off an endless series of clichés. Before I could think of a snappy comeback, the floor manager showed up.

  “You’re on next.” She waved us over to the door marked Studio. “Come with me.”

  She guided us through a long dark hallway littered with coils of large black cables. We emerged onto the set and sat in the famous lime-green leather armchairs next to Lauren Long.

  Lauren, an attractive woman with intelligent eyes and a great smile, had been on TV for as long as I could remember. At the moment, she was busy conferring in whispers with a young man wearing very tight jeans and a very tight white T-shirt. If I had a butt like his, I would wear tight jeans too.

  “Give me softer light,” she was saying. “And move the floodlight a bit to the left.”

  Next to me, Toni leaned in and murmured, “She’s got to be fifty if she’s a day, and there’s not a wrinkle on her. I wonder who her surgeon is.” The way she was studying Lauren made me wonder if she was thinking of getting a face-lift. I wouldn’t have been surprised. Toni was constantly considering some kind of cosmetic surgery.

  Before I could ask, a stagehand approached. He crouched, pinning a tiny microphone to my sweater. “Move forward.” He went around to my side and attached a battery pack to the back of my waistband. “Try not to touch the mike. It’s extremely sensitive.”

  Beyond the set, three large cameras were gliding across the concrete floor as smoothly as Zambonis on ice. Behind each was a technician wearing earphones and peering through a viewfinder while handling a series of knobs, buttons and dials. Farther back
, employees were running around, barking orders at each other. “Give Lauren softer light.” “Where’s that makeup girl? There you are, sweetheart. Go powder Lauren’s nose.” And even farther back was the studio audience, a hundred or so people avidly watching our every move. I felt a wave of queasiness.

  The director approached, holding a black-and-white clapboard in front of Lauren. He counted backwards, “In five, four, three—” just like in the movies. He slowly backed out of camera range, “—two, one,” and gave it a sharp clap.

  “And we’re back.” Lauren smiled at the camera, speaking in a husky voice a good two tones deeper than it had been during the commercial break. “For those of you who are just joining us, today’s topics are nutrition and weight loss. Our next guests are two lovely ladies, owners of Skinny’s on Queen. Take note of that name, because trust me, you’ll want to experience that restaurant.”

  On the monitor a few feet away, the screen changed to a picture of our restaurant. The old brick storefront had a wide window decorated with black-and-white striped curtains, and the name Skinny’s on Queen was spelled out in curly red neon lettering at the top. It looked good, really good. My heart leaped and for a moment I almost forgot to be nervous.

  Lauren was speaking. I snapped back to the present. “Please welcome Toni Lawford and Nicky Landry, chefs and co-owners of Skinny’s on Queen, and creators of their wonderful Skinny menu.”

  Applause lights flashed on and off, and the audience clapped energetically.

  When the room quieted, Lauren turned to us, still beaming. “Good morning and welcome. How did you come up with the idea of opening a low-calorie restaurant?”

  From the corner of my eye I spotted one of the cameras gliding silently over, a red light flashing above it. It was focused on me. Crap! What am I supposed to do? I smiled—or at least tried to. But I just knew I looked like a deer caught in headlights. The right corner of my mouth began twitching, and it was a moment before I realized that Lauren was looking at me. What did she just say? My mind drew a blank.