Dread on Arrival

by Claudia Bishop

  “Do you suppose the state will honor that?”

  “Do I have a lawyer who’ll sue Carol Ann and the state for the union pension fund if they don’t?” Marge slapped her desk top in satisfaction. “You bet your sweet patootie I do.”

  “So it’s still a three-way race for mayor?” Myles said.

  “Looks like it.” Quill yawned. It’d been a long day and Myles’s call was later than usual. She’d fallen asleep waiting for it and her head felt fuzzy. “I pointed out to Marge that this wasn’t the most honorable way to handle the situation, and Carol Ann is bound to plot some kind of revenge, but she just looked smug and laughed to herself every time I tried to bring it up. I’m not sure who I’d back in a contest between Marge and Carol Ann. Marge is tough, but Carol Ann’s mean. And can a town stipulate how long a person has to live in a place? You said five years. Five years seems excessive.”

  “A town can pass any ordinance the town board approves. It can be challenged, of course, but that’s a lot of time and expense on the part of the plaintiff.”

  “Anyhow. Marge was in such a good mood at the thought of settling Carol Ann’s hash, she agreed to make some calls concerning Tree’s creditworthiness. I told her I was concerned about the huge bills he was running up at the Inn. That’s one of the nice things about Marge. She’s always ready to lend support if finances are involved.” She didn’t mention the rather knowing look Marge had given her when she’d made the request—or the comment: “Detecting again, huh? Well, lemme know if you need to break in anywhere. Kinda got a taste for it the last time we detected together.”

  “We had a good idea about looking for commonalities among the victims,” Myles said. “Did Davy come across anything yet?”

  “He left a voice mail for me. Said he’d bring the information he found to the Slap Down tomorrow night.”

  “I’m going to try to get back earlier than I planned.”

  Quill sat up. “Oh, Myles. Do you think you could?”

  “We’ll see. Things are pretty well in hand here, considering.”

  Quill closed her eyes. She bet it was Libya. But she wouldn’t think about that now. She made an effort and kept her voice light. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. How soon, do you think?”

  “A week or two.”

  “Darn. You realize, don’t you, that you’re going to miss the Slap Down tomorrow night. Although according to Dina, you don’t have to. She can set up her computer so you can watch with the rest of us.”

  “That might not be a bad idea,” Myles said agreeably. “I’ll look in from time to time.”

  “Getting all of this in place is like herding cats. Hissing, cranky cats.”

  “I thought you and Dina had discussed the joys of nonintervention.”

  “The no busybodying rule? That was two days ago. I’d forgotten all about it. I’m going to write it on my bathroom mirror with a piece of soap and look at it every morning when I brush my teeth.”

  “Hm.”

  “That’s a very skeptical ‘hm’. You just watch. I’m taking most of tomorrow off. Jack and I will go to Peterson Park. We’ll wade in the Hemlock River. I will refuse to make campaign posters. I will leave the Trees and the Barcinis strictly alone. What’s more, I will refuse to be made indignant, discomposed, or dismayed by any of their hangers-on. Unless an event directly affects me or mine, I’m out of it.”

  “That’s a promise?”

  “It’s more than a promise. You can’t see it, but I’m raising my right hand. It’s a solemn oath.”

  12

  ∼Zabaglione∼

  2 servings

  4 egg yolks

  ¼ cup superfine sugar

  ½ cup heavy sweet red wine, such as Marsala or port

  Place egg yolks in a metal chafing dish, either copper or stainless steel. Place heat source beneath the dish, either Sterno or a similar high-temperature heat. Whip yolks to a creamy froth. Add sugar in a thin stream, whisking continuously. Mixture will begin to emulsify. When custard is smooth and thick, remove from heat. Beat in wine. Serve warm or chilled with mint leaves and sugar wafers.

  Quill’s new policy of nonintervention lasted until six forty-five Thursday evening when she arrived at the academy for the Tree-Barcini Slap Down.

  She’d spent most of the day with Jack, having little to do at the Inn other than ask Dina to set up a Skype connection to stream the Slap Down to Myles. Everyone was caught up in Slap Down fever. Nobody called. Nobody dropped by. Nobody asked her for her endorsement for their mayoral campaign. Even the kitchen was free of squabbles since Meg spent most of the day at Bonne Goutè with Clare.

  The peace and quiet were absolutely wonderful.

  She was in a relaxed and happy mood when she turned Jack over to Doreen for the night and began to prepare for the event. She wasn’t sure how to dress. Belter would be in his shorts and flip-flops. Edmund and Rose Ellen would look like they were ready for a photo montage in Vanity Fair. Everybody else would be somewhere in between. She settled for a calf-length black skirt, boots, and a cream wool turtleneck sweater.

  Bonne Goutè was lit up like a cruise ship. The parking lot was full. So was the lot around back, where the staff parked. After a fruitless five minutes looking for a parking spot, she tucked the Honda under an oak tree off the road and walked up the circular drive to the front doors. Marco was waiting for her as she stepped inside. He held a clicker in his hand and punched it. “Two hundred,” he said. “That’s it. You’re the last.”

  “There are two hundred people in those kitchens?”

  Marco jerked his chin down in a curt nod. The bulge in his sports coat told her he was armed. The ideal security guard, complete with a no-smile policy. At least he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. “Not counting the ones who tried to get in through the kitchen. I sent Bruce back there about half an hour ago to make sure we don’t get too full. We don’t want to violate any fire codes.”

  “No, indeed.”

  Marco locked the door and followed her as she headed to the back.

  The long hallway to the kitchens held an overflow of people. The air was humid. It smelled sweaty. Quill didn’t like subways, elevators, or crowds very much, and she stopped. “You know, they don’t really need me in there, and one of my employees has her computer set to stream the event, which I can watch just as well from back home as here.”

  “No can do. Ms. Whitman’s set up a spot for you at the judge’s table.” He grabbed her elbow and marched her forward. Quill caught a glimpse of Elmer and Adela, Nadine Peterson, and the Nickersons. All of them waved hopefully at her. Quill couldn’t get her arm raised to wave back. Marco pushed her through the thickest of the crowd—which was clustered at the entrance—and she emerged into the kitchens with a gasp.

  Despite the chaos outside, the room was calm and well ordered. Somebody—probably Rose Ellen, who had a genius for design, had made excellent use of the space available.

  The kitchen had six work areas; each area was a square formed of four stoves, with a prep sink at each end. The work areas faced one another, leaving a large open space in the middle, where Clare and her chefs stood to teach. The open space had been set up with two metal prep tables, angled so that Tree and Barcini could face each other and the cameras. Quill was surprised to see how little equipment seemed to be required to shoot a TV show. There were two small cameras on tripods, a monitor on a stand, and two tall skinny lights, all placed discreetly out of the way.

  Eight of the twenty-four Viking stoves were set up with twelve-inch sauté pans, ready to heat the zabaglione. Bottles of Marsala stood at the ready and the eight food processors were stocked with egg yolks. Brunswick stew bubbled away in pots on the others.

  The metal folding chairs were placed in four long rows around the walls. They were all occupied.

  Meg, Clare, and Raleigh Brewster sat in a row behind a third prep table off in the corner by the refrigerators. Dina sat at one end, her laptop open and pointed center stage. An empty chair was at t
he other end. Still holding her by the arm, Marco dragged Quill over to the judge’s table. Clare smiled at her and nodded at the empty chair. “Last seat in the house.”

  Quill sat down, tucked her tote beneath her feet, and said hi to everyone. She looked at Dina. “Is Myles on there?”

  “I’m streaming it to his computer, but he’s not on, no. I got an email from him. He’ll try to catch us later.”

  “When he comes on, let me know so I can say hey. Wow. I can’t believe how … efficient this all is.” She looked around. “Where are the Trees? Where’s Mr. Barcini?”

  Raleigh rolled her eyes. “Squashed in the office with Madame. They’re going to roll out one after the other as soon as the shoot begins. There was a whole lot of squabbling over who was going to host the thing. Barcini wanted Josephine to do it, since she’s his producer and Edmund flatly refused. Edmund wanted Skipper Bryant to do it, and Barcini flatly refused. So they were at an impasse for a while. Barcini threw a punch at Edmund, but he ducked. Then Marco and Bruce—you know, the security guys—puffed up like a couple of male turkeys in mating season and things got a little dicey. But everyone settled down eventually.”

  “So who’s going to host the show?”

  Meg smiled. “Harvey.”

  Quill laughed. “Hooray for Harvey. I’ll bet he’s over the moon.”

  “He’s the only one,” Clare said. “Edmund said Harvey was too ‘unpolished.’ Barcini said Harvey was …” She stopped for a moment, clearly thinking of a more tactful word—“too effete. Then there was another squabble about who was going to whip up the zabaglione for the masses. Edmund insisted that his staff do it and Belter pitched a fit about how much air time they’d have because it’ll be very dramatic, seeing all those whisks flailing away, so we ended up with a bunch of nonprofessionals making one of the toughest desserts there is.”

  Quill was happier than ever about her day spent in the park. “I’m glad I missed all that. So who’s going to whip up the cream?”

  Clare held up her hand and counted off on her fingers: “Skipper Bryant, Andrea Bryant, Jukka Angstrom, that walking advertisement for Victoria’s Secret … you know, the blonde with the big boobs.”

  “Melanie Myers?”

  “Right. And then Rose Ellen, Josephine Barcini, and Mrs. Barcini. One for each of the food processors. Harvey’s going to pinch-hit. He’s the only one who is neutral.”

  “How’d it go today with the prep? Did the practice recipes taste okay?”

  Raleigh snorted. “The Brunswick stew’s a joke. Fatty, overcooked, no subtlety of flavor at all.”

  “It’s supposed to be fatty and unsubtle,” Clare said. “It tasted delicious, if you want to know the truth. And actually, the amateur cooks practiced whipping up zabaglione all day and they weren’t too bad.” She sighed. “I just wish this was all over. I want my kitchen back.”

  Meg patted her on the shoulder. “An hour or two, at most. Then we can all go home and have a nice bottle of wine. Or maybe two.”

  Somebody clapped their hands with the imperial smacks of a gym teacher calling students to order: “People! People!” Harvey emerged from the director’s office and clapped his hands again. “People! Pay attention, please!”

  “My Lord,” Meg said. “What the heck happened to him?”

  “The chance to be on national TV,” Quill said. “Oh, dear.”

  Harvey’s well-cut sports coats, Brooks Brothers long-sleeved shirts, and Countess Mara ties had been replaced by a look Quill could best describe as Producer Gothic. His blond hair was clipped short. Sunglasses perched on his head. A small gold ring was in his left ear. A day’s worth of beard stubbled his chin. He wore black jeans, tennis shoes, and a slouchy sports jacket. He took the sports jacket off and slung it over his shoulders, revealing a tight black turtleneck and a very nice set of muscles.

  “My goodness,” Raleigh said. “I never knew the guy was built like that.”

  “He’s a regular at the Y,” Meg said.

  Harvey flung his arms out and addressed the camera grip. He snapped his fingers. “Mic?”

  The grip hustled over and attached a clip microphone to his turtleneck.

  “Testing, testing!” Harvey’s voice boomed around the room. The tech at the monitor clapped his hands to his earphone, held up one finger, and fiddled with the monitor. Then he shot his forefinger forward.”

  “Testing,” Harvey said. “There. That’s better. Now. Is everyone in the audience ready for … the Slap Down?!”

  The grip held up a sign that read applause. A scattering of handclaps followed.

  “People! I said are you ready for the Slap Down!”

  The applause increased. Followed by a few whistles.

  “Slap. Down!”

  The grip put his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. The tech rattled a large cooking whisk against the metal monitor cart.

  Harvey moved across the floor like a dancer, swinging his arms. “Slap. Down. Slap Down!”

  A thunder of shouts, yells, and catcalls followed him.

  “Are you ready for this? Are you ready for this?! Men! Ladies! A joint production of Your Ancestor’s Attic and Pawn-o-Rama brings you … Dr. Edmund Tree and Mr. Belter Barcini!”

  Edmund and Belter came out of the office and jogged to the prep tables in the center of the room. The applause was tremendous.

  “Cut,” the tech said. “Let’s do it again.”

  Quill sat back in her chair and sighed.

  “Nuts,” Meg said several hours later. “I should have brought something to read.”

  It had turned into a very long night. Dina played solitaire on her laptop. Clare and Raleigh had dug up a deck of cards and played gin rummy. Quill herself was in a half doze when Meg reached over and nudged her. “They’re getting to actually serve stuff in a minute, so we’ll have to do our judging thing. Are you ready?”

  Quill rubbed her face briskly with both hands. Edmund sat at one end of the stage prep table, legs crossed. He looked amused. Belter leaned forward at the other end, brawny arms extended, intent on the action at the stove. Pietro Giancava (scowling) and Jim Chen (exasperated) stood with some of the Bonne Goutè waitstaff. All of them held large trays filled with small plastic glasses and small plastic spoons.

  “The serving’s going to be the messy part,” Clare observed. “The waitstaff has to hand the samples down the rows to the audience. We’ll be mopping up eggs and stew for weeks. Edmund ordered a tray of punch to go round, too. He says people are going to need to clear their palates.”

  Meg groaned and rubbed her eyes. “I can’t stand much more of this.”

  “Pietro doesn’t look too happy,” Quill said. “Neither does Jim.”

  “Pietro’s furious he wasn’t asked to be one of the whips. Jim’s just disgusted. This isn’t cooking. It’s, it’s … I don’t know what it is. A three-ring circus. I wish I’d never agreed to this.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” Quill said.

  Jukka, Skipper, Andrea, Melanie, Josephine, and Mrs. Barcini stood at the stove, whisks at the ready. Rose Ellen had a long white apron wrapped elegantly around her slender figure. Harvey’s TV host grin was a little rigid by now, but he stood next to Rose Ellen, his hands on his hips and his eyes on the tech at the monitor.

  The tech nodded.

  Harvey’s voice was slightly hoarse. “Now folks, we’re going to bring the cameras over here so we can catch the action as our guest chefs whip Edmund’s dessert into shape. We’ll take a short break, so that we can dish it out, and then I hope you’ll all be ready to vote.” He took a breath, waited for the tech to countdown from five, and said excitedly, “We’ve been waiting for this, folks! Edmund—you’ve seen Belter sauté and chop. Are you ready to whip?!”

  Edmund was. He stood up, gave the camera a superior kind of smile and poured the egg yolks into the chafing dish. Behind him, the assembled amateur chefs punched the blenders into action. It was fascinating, in a weird kind of way, and it was all over
pretty quickly. Edmund whipped the eggs in a very professional-looking way. The crew at the stove flipped on the food processors, then poured the eggy results into the sauté pans and whipped away.

  Edmund gave his eggs one final whip and held up his dish of zabaglione with a graceful flip of his wrist. He offered it to Belter, who hunched over the chafing dish for a long moment, then looked up and blew a loud raspberry.

  “Cut!” the tech said, unperturbed. “Okay—get the samples out here, please.”

  The waiters sprang into action and ladled stew and cream into the cups with astonishing rapidity. The punch was passed around. The audience was served.

  “Take it from the top, Mr. Tree,” the tech said. “Offer the pudding …”

  “It’s a cream,” Edmund snapped.

  “Whatever. Anyhow, offer it to Barcini. Take a taste yourself. Then you’re going to sample a little of each of the pud—creams your amateurs chefs prepared, right? We’re going to do this in one take, because it’s been a long night and we’re all getting freakin’ tired.”

  Edmund offered the cream to Barcini, who declined with another even louder raspberry. He sampled his own pudding, frowned, and added the Marsala and whipped it again. He sampled the cream and smiled triumphantly into the camera. The camera followed him as he tested each of the creams from each of his amateur chefs in turn.

  Edmund stopped a passing waiter and took a cup of punch and drank it down.

  Then he died.

  Horribly.

  He stiffened, suddenly, as though something large and awful had grabbed the back of his neck. He clutched at his throat and gasped for air with great, whooping screams of effort. Foam bubbled from the corners of his lips. He went into another spasm and then another.

  By the time Quill was on her feet, he lay contorted on the floor, his body curved in a final throe that looked like a question mark. She couldn’t make herself heard through the shouts and the screaming. Rose Ellen was on the floor in a faint. Jukka knelt by her side. Melanie was in hysterics. Belter’s mouth was wide open in astonishment. Mrs. Barcini tapped her wire whisk against her teeth and looked interested.