Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories

by Catherine Dain

  "The bomb target was Senator Fordham," Mariana said. "She and her husband occasionally use that particular hotel for a weekend getaway. Several people knew they would be there this weekend. And everybody knows they enjoy late dinners. Nobody raised an eyebrow when a well-dressed blond man with a briefcase parked a Jaguar out front and asked for a table. Nobody noticed when he went to the men's room and didn't come back."

  "So they have Eric Cullen for the bombing, if not his wife's murder. Does David know who the co-conspirator is yet?" Deirdre asked.

  "The FBI is swarming all over the case, but the rumor is that someone wanted to remove the one strong anti-war voice from the Armed Services Committee," Mariana told her. "It centers around the shop. I'm almost certain that one of Cullen's employees is the link. But I've been not-quite-right on so much, starting with my dream of an earth­quake. It felt like an earthquake, but it was an explosion. I think I would have responded differently from the begin­ning if I had dreamed of an explosion."

  "But you still succeeded in saving all those people. Is David ready to admit that he was wrong? That psychics can help solve a case?"

  "He was even cheerful about it."

  "So are you seeing him tonight?" Deirdre sounded like a teenager, and Mariana didn't feel like giggling with her. Not yet.

  "Tonight I'm asking for a dream of Jeannie," Mariana said. "It's time to get it right, time to say thank you, and goodbye."

  Too Many Cooks

  A Freddie O'Neal Mystery

  Freddie O'Neal and a story with a recipe? I wasn't sure how I was going to handle that combination when I received an invi­tation to write a story for Murder Most Delicious, but then I realized that it didn't have to be her recipe. Somebody else could be the cook.

  "You're not what I expected, and I'm not sure this is going to work."

  I could have said the same to her. The woman who had called to make an appointment, and who was now standing at the front door to my house—which doubles as my office door—was Belinda Blackburn, star of "Barbecue with Belinda," a Saturday morning ratings hit on the Public Ac­cess TV channel. I had never watched her show, since I limit my cooking to lifting the corner on a frozen dinner and sticking it in the microwave, but I had seen her picture on posters at the supermarket that sponsored the program. The photos had led me to expect a cheerful woman in her late thirties, with short, dark, flyaway hair, and maybe a little bit of a weight problem.

  In person, Belinda Blackburn did have short, dark, fly­away hair, although a little gray showed. But she was closer to fifty than forty, and nobody that well-tailored would consider weight a problem. Her beige suit must have had some kind of designer label, or it would never have fit both the thin shoulders and the sloping breasts. Where the picture had clearly lied, however, was in the impression of cheer. Her round face, adorned with so much makeup that it seemed permanently camera-ready, was drawn with worry. A furrow between her eyes ran straight into a too-narrow nose. Red lipstick had crept into the lines above her lips, which were pressed tightly together.

  "Do you want to come in or forget it?" I asked.

  "Unfortunately, I don't think I have a choice," she re­plied. "I inquired, and you are the only woman in Reno li­censed as a private investigator. So yes, thank you, I will come in."

  I graciously ushered her to one of the two folding chairs sitting in front of my desk and took my spot in the big leather chair behind it. I had straightened up after she called, but I spied a glob of gray cat fur that I had missed, neatly swept it up, and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  "Why do you need a private investigator?" We could get to the "woman" question later.

  "Someone is sabotaging my show."

  She waited for a reaction, but I couldn't come up with the appropriate outrage.

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Things happen. Once the refrigerator was set to de­frost, so the molded salad didn't gel. Another time, the plug I use for the electric charcoal starter was shorted out, so the coals weren't ready. Two weeks ago, someone substituted turpentine for the white vinegar. Fortunately, I sniffed be­fore I poured." She thunked her handbag onto the desk for emphasis.

  "You do your show live, right? Isn't that the kind of thing that always happens on live television?"

  "I was ready to believe that. But last week I was doing a show featuring game, and when I lifted the lid off the mari­nade, on camera, a dead rabbit was lying there. And not the rabbit the supermarket had provided. This one had fur, ears, and a tail."

  "That must have been upsetting," I admitted, "and it doesn't sound like an accident."

  "No-o-o-o-o," she said, drawing it out as though I were a child. "And that's why I need a private investigator. I want to know who is doing this."

  "The series of incidents, especially the dead rabbit, sounds like you could make a case for harassment. You could go to the police."

  "I could." She nodded, pleased with me. "I could make a report. And the report would be filed, and they might send someone out to question the people who work with me, and they would add that report to the file. And I wouldn't know who was doing it, and they couldn't catch the person that way."

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "I want to hire you as my assistant. Undercover. That way you'll have a reason to be on the set. You can catch whoever it is in the act and make a citizen's arrest. That's why I needed a woman. I needed someone who could be a credible assistant, who knew her way around a kitchen." She smiled expectantly, looking for an instant almost like the "Barbecue with Belinda" ads.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee?" I asked.

  "Why, yes, thank you. If it's made—I don't want you to make a pot just for me."

  "I don't own a pot."

  The furrow reappeared.

  "I make coffee by sticking a cup of tap water in the microwave and adding instant when bubbles appear," I continued.

  Her jaw dropped, and she struggled to pull it back.

  "I understand what you're telling me," she said. "So we have to think of another way to make this work. What skills do you have?"

  My jaw dropped on that one.

  "I'm good at what I do, but I'm not sure how to describe it in terms of skills," I said. "I've never thought of it that way."

  She looked around the office. There wasn't much to see except desk, computer, bookcases, and my Union Pacific poster.

  "Do you type?" she asked. "Can you use a word pro­cessor?"

  I nodded warily.

  "Fine," she said. "You're going to help me with a book. Come to my house tomorrow morning at nine, and we'll work out the details. The meeting to plan this week's show starts at eleven, and I can introduce you to everyone then."

  "Is this a ritual?"

  "Yes. We finalize the menu on Thursday, prepare every­thing on Friday, and tape on Saturday. Every week." She appraised me one more time. "I don't suppose I could ask you to wear a skirt."

  "I'll be there at eleven. In jeans. We can talk after the meeting."

  She pondered that for a moment, then nodded.

  "Do you want a check now?" she asked.

  "Yes, thank you, I do."

  Suddenly I found myself prepared to like her after all.

  After the requisite piece of paper changed hands, she left. I sat there, trying to think of someone I could call to get information about the show, and decided I would have to go to the supermarket. That was as good a place to start as any. I was about to walk out the door when the phone rang.

  "I thought you might want to come for dinner Saturday night," Mom said. "It's Al's birthday, and I'm inviting a few friends."

  "Al will be happier if I'm not one of them. I don't think he considers me a friend."

  Mom had married Al when I was sixteen, and our rela­tionship had never progressed beyond tense.

  "But he does consider you family, and it is his birthday." She said it in her cooing tone, which meant she really did want me to come. "Besides, we just got a new barbecu
e, and Al is having such a good time with it. He really wants to try some of the recipes for a crowd."

  "Barbecue? Al barbecues?"

  "Yes. He decided that if Belinda Blackburn does it, anyone could."

  "Do you watch her show?"

  "Not really, but Al does. I've never been able to get in­terested in cooking."

  "I know." I said it as flatly as I could.

  "That's one of the mistakes I made with you, isn't it?" She was off and running. I could hear it in her voice. "I was exposed to cooking when I was young, and I decided it wasn't something I wanted to do. But I didn't expose you to it when you were a child, and so you weren't able to make an educated decision about it. Especially since by the time you reached seventh grade, girls weren't required to take Home Ec anymore, so you took woodworking instead."

  "It's okay, Mom, I don't build bookshelves, either."

  "No, but at least you had the opportunity. And it isn't too late, you know. You could still take a cooking class. You might like it. An aversion to steam rising from a soup pot isn't in the genes."

  "I'll think about it. What can you tell me about 'Bar­becue with Belinda'?"

  "It's a stupid show, but Al likes it."

  I bit my tongue, and she continued.

  "Belinda Blackburn, who might look all right on televi­sion if she lost forty pounds and got her hair done, pretends every Saturday morning that two dozen people just dropped by for barbecue, and she just happens to have enough bread, salad, dessert, and fresh road kill in the refrigerator to pull it off. With, naturally, the proper wine for each course."

  "The supermarket poster says she shoots it live. Do people actually eat on camera?"

  "Oh, yes. Someone always passes little tidbits for her so-called guests to share. Why do you care?"

  "I don't know. I was sort of thinking about getting a bar­becue." Professional privilege stopped me from telling her the truth.

  "Then you must come Saturday night," she said trium­phantly. "You and Al will have something in common."

  "For the first time," she might have added, but didn't.

  "Okay. I'll be there." Agreeing was easier than arguing, and I could always leave early. Al wouldn't mind.

  I still had to go to the supermarket, because I had to feed two cats who had decided long ago that foraging was better than eating dried food, and I was out of canned. A trip to the supermarket was less work than scrubbing sparrow blood off the carpet.

  The cashier at the supermarket didn't watch the show, so I decided I could play it by ear. Early—for me—the next morning, I hopped in the Jeep and drove to Belinda Blackburn's house.

  Belinda Blackburn lived in the old money section of town, the part of California Street on the hill overlooking Reno High School. Even though I was there only a few min­utes past eleven, the circular driveway was already full of cars. I parked at the curb, under something old and decid­uous. A few falling leaves wouldn't hurt the Jeep. The owners of the Cadillac, the Plymouth, and the two Hondas in the driveway were probably more careful. And especially the owner of the '68 Mustang. That stopped me for a mo­ment. I used to own a restored '68 Mustang, and this one was cherry.

  A kid in his late teens, twenty tops, opened the door when I rang. He was a thin version of Belinda, in ragged Levi's and a UNR t-shirt, with sparkling eyes and bad skin.

  "Are you Mom's new assistant?" he asked.

  "How'd you know?"

  "She said to look for a woman with no makeup, long blond hair, and jeans. You're the only one today."

  "You've got me. I'm Freddie O'Neal."

  I held out my hand.

  "I'm Will Blackburn," he said, shaking it. "They're all in back, on the set."

  "The set is here?"

  "Yeah. It costs more to shoot it here than at the studio, but Mom wanted control, and she figured this was the best way to get it. Follow me."

  He led me across the living room—I got a glimpse of fresh flowers and lime-green brocade—and through open French doors to a wide brick veranda. From there we could see the set. Belinda Blackburn was standing with three other people in front of a barbecue big enough for a Brahma bull. A refrigerator was improbably close, framed by a grape trellis, and a long picnic table sat where the orchestra pit should be, with enough concrete around it for two large cameras. A track several feet above the table held still an­other camera.

  Belinda was arguing with three people who were each younger than she was, but that seemed to be their only ad­vantage.

  "Not bear," a woman wearing glasses and carrying a notebook was saying. "I don't care if the Indians ate it, I don't care if Davy Crockett loved the taste, no one is going to come into the store on Saturday morning and ask for bear steak. I guarantee it."

  "What do you suggest then?" The frost in Belinda's voice would have made a strong man long for a blanket.

  "Chicken," she pleaded. "Chicken's always good."

  "Chicken! I've done chicken. Everyone's done chicken." Belinda paused for effect and smiled, sort of. "I want to do bear. And if you won't provide it, I'll find someone who will."

  I wasn't sure whether I wanted to leap into that group. Staying on the veranda seemed safer.

  "Okay," I said to Will. "That one's the supermarket rep. Who are the other two?"

  "The woman in the straw hat is the production manager, and the guy is Mom's gofer," he replied.

  "Does she really want to barbecue a bear?"

  "It's hard to tell. Sometimes she asks for weird things just so another request sounds reasonable."

  "Got it. Thanks." I stepped onto the artistically broken concrete path to the set, and then turned back. "Hey. Is the Mustang yours?"

  Will Blackburn lit up like a Christmas tree.

  "Yeah. She's my baby."

  I nodded. I knew how he felt.

  By the time I reached the group, someone had men­tioned quail, and Belinda was considering the idea.

  "All right, quail," she announced, and with barely time for breath she added, "Freddie O'Neal, I want you to meet Stella Chism, Bobby Archuletta, and Janice Turner."

  "Pleased to meet you," I said. Each one murmured something polite.

  "Freddie is helping me with a book, based on the show," Belinda said, with an amazing confidence that the story would be believed.

  Janice Turner, the supermarket rep, looked surprised, but not unhappy with the idea. Stella Chism, the produc­tion manager, shrugged. Bobby Archuletta looked aghast.

  "A book?" he whispered. "You're doing a book? And you didn't let me know?"

  "I'm sorry, dear," Belinda said, patting him on the shoulder. "I meant to tell you before Freddie got here, but it slipped my mind."

  "We could work something out to trade it for coupons, based on register receipts," Janice Turner said. "Not bad."

  "What do you think of quail, Freddie?" Belinda asked.

  "Kind of messy," was all I could come up with. In truth, I had never eaten one. But quail are common in Reno, and Butch and Sundance like them even better than sparrows.

  "You're right." Belinda was pleased with me. She patted my shoulder this time. "All those tiny bones. But I think we can do it." She turned to the barbecue. "Just imagine all those tiny bodies, bursting with an olive oil and raspberry vinegar marinade, with just a touch of fresh rosemary, stretched across the coals."

  "You got it, Belinda," Janice said, making a note.

  "And watermelon," Belinda added. "Champagne-filled watermelon. Half a dozen should do it."

  "What else?" Janice sighed, but it sounded as if this would be a deal.

  "Herbed rice, grilled corn, sweet-and-sour cucumbers, and chocolate mousse," Belinda snapped.

  "No. Not chocolate mousse." The words sprang from Bobby as if he had been holding them in for days. "I know you like chocolate mousse, Belinda, but God, no, not again. Besides, it's just too rich. Especially after champagne water­melon."

  Belinda faltered.

  "What then?" she asked.

  "Cooki
es," Bobby pleaded. "The cookies will go with the watermelon and the coffee."

  "All right." Belinda sighed. "But choose something deli­cate."

  "Butter cookies, with a touch of Grand Marnier," Bobby insisted. "And we'll dip one side in chocolate."

  "Wonderful!" Belinda gasped.

  Bobby smiled, relieved.

  "I'll work it out with Janice and Stella," he said.

  The group started back to the house. Belinda stayed near the barbecue.

  "What do you think?" she asked.

  "Too soon to tell. I'll have to be here tomorrow, to watch the preparations, and then Saturday for the taping. How secure will the set be tomorrow night?"

  "Very. I have a Rottweiler."

  "Fine. Where is he now?"

  "In the garage. But I let him have the run of the yard most of the time."

  "Okay." That sounded secure enough to me. "When do you start cooking?"

  "The food will arrive around ten, and we'll start immedi­ately."

  "I'll see you then."

  I might have stayed a little longer, to maintain the fiction of a book in progress, but it didn't seem useful. I'd be spending enough time there in the next two days.

  I said good-bye to Will, and good-bye to the Mustang as well. It was still there, waxed and gorgeous, when I got back the next morning, along with the Cadillac and the two Hondas. A supermarket delivery truck was just pulling away.

  Will answered again when I rang.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

  "Is your mother's check any good?"

  "I hope so. You're going to earn it."

  He stepped back, and I could hear raised voices.

  "Lead me to it," I said.

  Belinda's kitchen looked as if she had handed a designer a picture from Better Homes and Gardens and told him to do it, damn the cost. It was bigger than my office, bedroom, and kitchen combined, with skylights and a butcher block working-area in the center, and about everything else a lover of culinary display could imagine.

  Half a dozen watermelons, bright green with faint stripes, lay side by side on the butcher block. Stella Chism was waving a large knife over the first one, not certain where to plunge it in.