Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  Hedy glanced behind me to the lights and soft sounds of the party. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen Babs use any drugs. It was a figure of speech. From television shows. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “Thanks, Hedy. Have a safe trip. Tomorrow is another cook-off event for you contestants, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you preparing?”

  “I’m not certain. Sometimes I can’t always get the ingredients I need for my special dishes.” She shrugged. “I guess I can always make something chocolate. That’s popular with the judges.”

  “Interesting choice.”

  4

  When I got up, an issue of the Zinnia Dispatch, special delivery arranged by Cece, had been slid under our hotel room door. Rather than party last night, Cece had bustled back to Zinnia to lay out the newspaper. Tinkie’s front-page photo—Babs clawing at her head—was centered at the top of the page. Inside, Cece had also done a spread in the society section with numerous party pix from the Madison plantation reception.

  Looking over the photos, I was proud to acknowledge Tinkie had a knack for capturing action and a flare for composition. Cece had chosen the shots wisely, and the photos were supported with great copy.

  As it turned out, Babs’s condition wasn’t life threatening, or even severe. Someone had combined red pepper and a caustic irritant in her pump hair spray bottle. Though the reaction had struck at a truly inappropriate time, there was no permanent damage. Babs had lost a great deal of her hair, but it would grow back. The paramedics had treated her on the spot and released her to go straight to The Split End for a thorough shampoo and oatmeal scalp treatment.

  A smaller front-page photo showed Babs exiting the EMT vehicle. Her head looked like she’d walked into a stump grinder, but the caption contained her vow to be at all remaining pageant events. “Someone desperately wants me to drop out of the competition, but that’s not going to happen,” she was quoted as saying. “I’ve been assured this incident won’t be held against me, and according to the pageant rules, I’m still very much in the running.”

  One contestant had plenty to say about that.

  “While it’s obvious I won the ‘Poise and Confidence’ category, I don’t mind that the other girls will have another chance. Even if it is, technically, unfair. But the judges have ruled,” Karrie Kompton was fool enough to say. “Bring on the talent competition. But just a helpful hint: The others should spare themselves humiliation, pack up and go home. I’m taking this crown.” The photo of Karrie made her look like she’d bitten into a green persimmon.

  Karrie might have swayed the judges with gifts and fake niceness, but she hadn’t fooled Cece or Tinkie. Karrie was going to be hot when she saw the Dispatch, and somehow I knew Tinkie was going to enjoy jerking her chain.

  I put the newspaper on the foot of Tinkie’s bed. She snoozed away, and I decided to take a quick elevator ride to the fourth floor for some caffeine. A big urn of steaming coffee, as well as a laden buffet, waited in the dining area, and I could almost smell the delicious brew. My morning couldn’t start without a cup of java.

  After my jeans and shoes were on, I eased out of the room and down the hall to the elevators, pondering whether I should bring Tinkie a cup. We’d stayed up late, gabbing and laughing about the contestants, Tinkie’s newfound talent as a photographer, and the dynamics of the strange world of pageants.

  In high school, Tinkie had been selected a freshman, sophomore, and junior maid, crowning those glories with the title of Sunflower County Homecoming Queen her senior year. She was a finalist in the statewide Junior Miss contest and voted Miss Cotton, representing the entire Delta as the fairest of the bolls in the state.

  I gently teased her about those high school tiaras, but I also respected her insight into the mindset of the pageant contestants.

  “There’s a lot at stake here, Sarah Booth,” she told me. “Think how people talk about professional athletes and how short their careers are. They’re over the hill at thirty-five, or that’s what a lot of people say. It’s so much worse for beauty contestants. They’re done at twenty-four or -five. And these girls here—for some of them, this is the final shot at a title that offers real money. This is deadly serious.”

  I thought about that as I ambled down the hall to the dining area. I caught a whiff of strong coffee and I sighed in anticipation. Six steps outside the dining room, I heard Karrie Kompton’s crisp enunciation.

  “That bitch got what she deserved. I hope to God someone videotaped her wallowing around on the floor screaming like she was possessed. I’ve never seen anything that funny in my life.”

  Karrie and Voncil Payne stood at the breakfast buffet. Karrie had a plate of fruit. Voncil, who’d hung up her crown years before, had loaded up with eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits. She had to have one helluva metabolism to eat like that at her age.

  Voncil, rumpled and blowsy in the morning light, followed behind Karrie, talking to her back. Karrie’s sundress, sandals, and makeup defined perfection, as usual. By talking with the girls and pageant staff, I’d learned that Voncil was a sort of housemother to all the girls, though she made it clear Amanda was her priority. Mothering Karrie would be tantamount to nurturing a pit viper.

  “Amanda was really upset,” Voncil said. “She likes Babs, and she was distraught that someone would play such a dreadful prank on her.”

  Karrie rolled her eyes. “Like Amanda wouldn’t take out Babs if it moved her closer to winning. Amanda can pretend to be nice, but every girl here is cutthroat when it comes to this title. There’s too much money on the line.”

  Voncil popped a bite of bacon into her mouth. “When I was younger I was like you, Karrie. Ambitious. Amanda is . . . softer.” She lifted one shoulder. “But we need this title. Financially we’re up against a wall. So it’s up to Amanda to take this crown. When she gets the scholarship, she wants to go to medical school and study childhood diseases.”

  “Hold the ‘save the little children’ speech for the judges. It doesn’t fly with me.” Karrie stepped closer. “Just remember, Backstage Mother of the Year, I’m going to win, and anyone who stands between me and that title will get crushed.”

  Voncil looked as if she’d been slapped. Karrie executed an about-face but stopped when she saw me. “Well, if it isn’t the Over-the-Hill Eavesdropper.” She made a show of peering behind me. “Where’s your Wealthy Sidekick, the one who foots all the bills for you?”

  “Desperation isn’t your color, Karrie, but green with envy suits you well. I guess you’ve worn it enough.” I sashayed to the stack of cups and grabbed one.

  A giggle erupted from Voncil, and she fled in the opposite direction.

  “That old bag,” Karrie said with a sneer. “If she doesn’t stop clogging her arteries with fat, she won’t live long enough to see me crowned.”

  “How charming of you to care.” I walked past her to the coffee urn. The aromatic black liquid filled my cup. No sugar, no cream—just coffee. I lifted the cup and inhaled.

  “I don’t care if she drops dead this second,” Karrie said. “Amanda doesn’t stand a chance. She’s too mousey and always trying to be friends with all the girls.” Her smile was feral. “She doesn’t understand this isn’t about bonding and friendships like some teenage church group. It’s about money and who’ll make the best spokesperson.”

  “What do you know about Babs Lafitte’s bad luck?”

  Karrie put down her fruit plate and looked around before she spoke. “Hedy made a Cajun dish yesterday that required a special red pepper, one she dried and ground herself. The dish was so hot, the judges broke into a sweat.”

  She aimed the smoking gun of pepper at Hedy without hesitation. Which made it mighty convenient. Besides, Karrie didn’t strike me as someone who would do me a good turn out of the kindness of her heart. If her information was accurate—and that was a big if—she’d done it only to promote herself. By knocking Hedy out of the competition, she bettered the od
ds.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Will you look into Hedy?”

  “No, I’m going to look into why you’d point me at Hedy. She must be a top contender.”

  “Bite me.” Karrie abandoned her fruit plate and stalked off toward the elevators.

  When I got back to the room, Tinkie was in the shower warbling “Old Man River.” I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the entertainment. The newspaper was scattered around the room, indicating she’d already perused her latest journalistic coup.

  My cell phone rang. Graf was calling. Eager to hear his voice, I answered.

  “How’s my fiancée?” The baritone timbre of his voice made me close my eyes in pleasure. I could see his eyes, his thick dark hair, the way his top lip gently dipped beneath his nose. He was classically handsome, and his voice conveyed it all.

  “I’m better,” I said, realizing it was true. “Tinkie’s master plan is proving effective.”

  “Is that her caterwauling in the background?”

  “She’s showering.”

  “Maybe you could ask to have the water pressure increased, drown her out a little.”

  “I’m actually enjoying it,” I said. “I adore show tunes.”

  “You always loved them.” There was a pause. “Do you want to go back to Broadway, Sarah Booth?”

  “Heavens no,” I said in all sincerity. “I want to head out to Hollywood with you. Film is where your career is, Graf. That’s where I want to be.” I meant every word. I just wasn’t ready. “Maybe in a few weeks.”

  Silence filled the line and I knew he was wondering if my delay was real or some unspoken message he should be trying to read.

  “I’m healing,” I said softly. “It’s taking longer than I thought, but it is happening. Doc says the arm will be one hundred percent in a week.”

  “You take your time, Sarah Booth. Everyone here understands, and most of all, I do. This film will wrap soon. Then, if you aren’t ready to come out here, I’ll return to Zinnia. We’ll work it out.”

  His calm reassurances were exactly the balm my wounded heart needed. No pressure, no guilt. He knew how to make me want him even more.

  I filled him in on my progress—or lack of—at the cooking school, and also about the Miss Viking beauty contest and spokesperson competition. He found the red pepper prank amusing. “That probably ate her scalp up,” he said. “It’s terrible, I know, but the way you describe it is funny.”

  “Tinkie got some great photos.” When I told him about her newfound profession, he was strangely silent. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m glad Tinkie has found something else to do.”

  On the surface, the remark was harmless, but on a deeper level it concerned me. “This photography thing is just temporary. We’re here and can help Cece out, but this isn’t a career move.”

  “Oscar would be happy if Tinkie became a society photographer.”

  “When did Oscar decide this?” The question flew out of my mouth and down the phone line, and I knew my tone was all wrong. But the idea that Oscar and Graf had discussed Tinkie and her future as if she were a child struck me as peculiar.

  “He hasn’t decided anything. When I spoke with him this morning, I could tell he was pleased at the photographs. That’s all I’m saying.”

  But it wasn’t. He was saying a whole lot more. I started to ask him why he was calling Oscar, but such a question would put me firmly in the camp of the churlish. “How’s the weather?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah Booth?”

  “Nothing, Graf. I just think we should leave Tinkie alone to decide what her career might be.”

  “And I agree with that. She’s an adult and deserves to make her own choices.”

  The bathroom door opened, and Tinkie came out in a towel. She took one look at my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I pinned on a smile. “Graf was just saying he spoke with Oscar. It’s good the two of them are becoming friends.” I said it into the phone.

  “That terrific.” Tinkie grabbed some clothes. “Tell Graf you have to shake the lead out and get ready for our cooking class.”

  “I heard her,” Graf said. “Have fun, Sarah Booth. I love you.”

  “And I love you.” I flipped the phone shut. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  Tinkie gave me a quizzical look, but she didn’t press the matter. “I think it’s salad day, but it might be soup. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  The engineers who designed the Viking equipment had to be female, because things worked the way a woman wants them to. Even with my weak arm, I could manage. When help was needed, a chef’s assistant magically appeared to hold my bowl or help me. A girl could get used to such attention.

  It was indeed salad-preparation day, and while I’d torn many a head of romaine or iceberg lettuce into bite-size pieces and thrown in a handful of other traditional salad components, I didn’t know salad played a long role in history.

  Chef Alana, our specialist for the day, told us that the word “salad” comes from the Latin sal, meaning “salt,” because the dressings often included brine or salt.

  Using the Encyclopedia of Food and Culture, Alana clarified the long debate from the idea that salad should be the opening of the meal (harkening back to Hippocrates and Galen, who believed raw vegetables eased through the digestive tract and so should be served first) to other opinions that the vinegar in the dressing destroyed the taste of the wine served at the meal, and so therefore the salad should be served last.

  As I prepared a basic “backyard salad,” Tinkie took on a more ambitious and exotic selection. I was charmed to learn that at one point in history, tossed plates of mixed greens were considered messy and disorderly. This concept of an “out-of-order” salad really appealed to me, and perhaps explained my dislike of molded gelatin salads—which Chef Alana noted offered “maximum control.” I loved it. Maximum control of salad greens!

  Alana taught from Perfection Salad: Women and Cooking at the Turn of the Century, by Laura Shapiro. “ ‘The object of scientific salad making was to subdue the raw greens until they bore as little resemblance as possible to their natural state. If a plain green salad was called for, the experts tried to avoid simply letting a disorganized pile of leaves drop messily onto the plate. . . . This arduous approach to salad making became an identifying feature of cooking school cookery and the signature of a refined household.’ ” This approach to salad contrasted the “natural” against the constructed and designed. Messy, as in natural, was unacceptable in “refined” households. I connected the dots quickly: Salads, like women, should be rigorously bound and controlled. Women’s clothing of that era reflected the same mentality.

  Well, “refined” was never a word that applied to me, and I had a sudden overwhelming attachment for the raw leaves and vegetables of a messy green salad.

  “I’m going to pen an ode to the green salad,” I told Tinkie. “Maybe one of the contestants could recite it as part of her talent.”

  “Save me from salad poets and SaladShooters,” Tinkie said, making the sign of the cross.

  I feared Alana would lose her patience and exile me from the school, but it didn’t happen. Tinkie and I sampled each other’s dishes before we hit the street just after noon. We were too full to think about eating lunch, so we strolled along Howard Street, finally stopping at Turnrow Books.

  A reading was in progress, and we listened to Jack Pendarvis share his dark and hilarious visions before I bought his book, eased out of the store, and went back to the hotel. The concierge allowed me computer access, and I did a bit of basic research on the pageant.

  The title of Miss Viking was brand spanking new, so there was no history or scuttlebutt to find on the Internet. To fill the time until the talent competition, I started a search of the various contestants, beginning with Karrie Kompton.

  She was a professional pageant contestant who’d started as a toddler. Her mother had once been her manager, but th
ey’d split when Karrie was seventeen. Since then, Karrie had charted her own career. She was a professional dancer, a passable singer, and had some acting credits in regional TV ads. She’d also done a stint as a weather girl on a Memphis TV station. Her tenure there was short-lived, due to an altercation with the news anchor.

  There was little or nothing on Hedy Lamarr Blackledge. Her “official” Web site was one page and simply contained a photograph—albeit a striking one—and the personal comment that she’d been named for the famous movie star because Hedy Lamarr had been her grandmother’s favorite.

  Janet Menton had professional representation and a list of acting credits that covered regional stage and TV ads as well as a nine-week guest appearance on a daytime soap opera as a femme fatale. She was a beautiful girl with mocha skin, hazel eyes, and a dazzling smile. Whether she won Miss Viking or not, this girl had a career in film. The camera loved her.

  Crystal Belle Wadell had numerous regional titles to her credits, as did Gretchen Teatree. Both were accomplished chefs. Regina Jones was clearly the academic star. Brook Oniada, a resident of Hawaii, had plenty of credits in dance, acrobatics, and performance. Rita Tierce was a former child-figure-skating star.

  To my surprise, Amanda Payne had the most impressive string of accomplishments. She’d played supporting roles in two independent Florida films, earning good reviews and a high level of respectability. She’d also composed and sold several country songs, two of which I recognized. Big-name stars had cut them.

  And Babs Lafitte was the darling of Jackson, Mississippi. She was a featured singer at Bessie’s House of Blues and linked herself to the pirate Jean Lafitte. All in all, she was a colorful character who now owned half interest in a French Quarter cabaret club, where she performed on a regular basis. Duly noted was her turn on a number of cooking and fashion shows, including the run-up to the Oscars the previous year, where she dished the dirt on red-carpet dresses and shoes with Joan Rivers. At twenty-five, she was the oldest of the finalists, so this was truly a desperation year for her.