Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  I couldn't resist the impulse to participate in the fun. "There's a Lyonel Feininger quality to the layering of paint, don't you think?" I suggested thoughtfully.

  "It doesn't look like Feininger at all," protested the acrylic lady with knowledgeable indignation.

  "I'd call it a postmodern Renoir," Jason chimed in. He was now definitely on the verge of laughter.

  "I can't detect a redheaded girl anywhere in that paint­ing," I objected enthusiastically. There's nothing more exhilarating than talking absolute nonsense, something grown-ups so seldom get to do.

  "Oh, stop it, you two." Carlene grinned at us, then turned to the maftre d'. "I want to buy it."

  Poor Broder groaned as if he thought the college educa­tions of his remaining offspring would come to an abrupt halt because of his wife's spendthrift impulses. However, I knew what a broomstick skirt cost. Carlene was wearing an­other of her collection. She must have saved a fortune on clothes over the years with that posthippie wardrobe. Enough so that she deserved to buy a painting if she wanted to, even if it didn't look like a chemical to me.

  Carlene went off to complete her purchase, calling over her shoulder, "Just order that filet for me." The rest of us re­treated to our table and perused the menu. Broder was hor­rified at the price of the steak, so much so he didn't notice that it came with sauce, mushrooms of an oriental variety, and garlic in the mashed potatoes. Claiming to have my book in mind, Jason ordered an entirely different entree, an assortment of seafood cooked in a clay pot with vegetables. The broth, according to the waiter, was flavored with, among other things, cilantro, which is very popular in El Paso.

  "I read in the paper the other day that the Mexican drug cartels have been smuggling cocaine into the United States in shipments of cilantro," I said conversationally.

  Broder looked horrified. "You mean there might be co­caine in our steak and potatoes?"

  "Not at all," I assured him. "If there's a problem, it will be with Jason's seafood stew. Perhaps we should watch him closely to see if he shows signs of drug overdose."

  The waiter looked bewildered.

  'Thanks a lot," Jason said dryly. "Maybe we should call one of your acquaintances on the police force to bring in a drug dog to sniff my seafood."

  "I assure you, sir—" the waiter stammered.

  "You poor man," said Carlene, who had taken her seat during the cocaine remarks. "Pay no attention to these peo­ple. They're mad scientists, except for my husband, who is a thrifty Calvinist, and this lady, who is a mad food critic."

  Then we ordered three filets in cabernet sauce, plus Jason's seafood flavored with possibly dangerous cilantro, and fell to discussing Julienne's disappearance. Carlene again assured me that the body I viewed could not have been our friend. She insisted on the logic of her contention. But Broder, surprisingly, made the argument that really res­onated with me. He said that had the alligator-savaged woman been Julienne, my heart would have confirmed it.

  "I have always felt that there is a continuing bond be­tween the living and the dead when they have been close in life," he told me. "Do you really feel convinced that Juli­enne is dead?"

  Did I?

  "What did you feel when you viewed the body?"

  "I threw up," I admitted. "In the men's room."

  "Caro!" Jason exclaimed. "What were you doing in the men's room?"

  "Really, Jason," Carlene chided. "Surely, you've noticed that there are always lines outside ladies' rooms while the men's rooms are always empty. What was she supposed to do? Throw up on the woman in front of her in line rather than use the men's facilities?"

  "Insensitive of me not to have anticipated that situation," Jason admitted. "Sorry, Caro."

  "I should think," said Carlene, a bit smug at having made her point. "I hope you're supporting the movement for equi­table public toilet facilities for women." She was looking at my husband.

  "I didn't know there was one," Jason replied.

  At this point, I was feeling a bit conscience-stricken. Car­lene was berating poor Jason when I had used the men's room because I hadn't seen a ladies' room. And in fact, the men's room hadn't been empty as Carlene assumed. There had been the unfortunate policeman urinating when I reeled in. I had to stifle an unseemly chuckle at the thought of his horror and indignation when he found himself sharing the trough with a retching female.

  "At any rate," Carlene continued, "vomiting was simply a result of physical repulsion at a terrible sight. I think Broder has a point. Aside from the horror you felt, did you think you had lost your childhood friend? Do you have the feeling that Julienne is dead? I know I don't. I keep expect­ing to see her walk around the corner, grinning and apolo­gizing for having missed my plenary address."

  Actually, I didn't know how I felt. Having been con­sumed with worry for five days, buoyed one minute by op­timism, then plunged the next into dread, my strongest emotion was confusion, which isn't so much an emotion as a mental state. Carlene and Broder might be right. Surely, I would have recognized my friend, no matter what the con­dition of her body. Surely, I would have experienced over­whelming grief. "Maybe she is alive," I said, feeling my spirits lift.

  "Let's hope so," said Jason. He covered my hand with his own.

  "We might as well expect the best as long as there's no reason to grieve," said Broder.

  "Imagine. Optimism from a man who believes we're all destined from birth for heaven or hell," said Carlene.

  "I've never really understood the idea of predestination," I chimed in, glad to change the subject. "Does that mean you can sin indiscriminately, and if you're predestined for heaven, you'll still get there?"

  Before Broder could answer me, the waiter began to serve our entrees. Conversation pretty much ceased after that as we concentrated on our dinners, which were mar­velous. Jason's crustaceans in a clay pot, the broth flavored with lime, chili, and cilantro, had the intriguing tang of a ce-viche I've eaten in Juarez on one of those rare occasions when the drug wars abated enough for dinner excursions across the border. If any cocaine had fallen off the cilantro into the broth, I couldn't tell. I believe cocaine is supposed to induce a feeling of exhilaration, but I must say I had found our foolish conversation about Carlene's painting more exhilarating than Jason's entree.

  As for the filets—ah, heaven! I had asked for mine medium rare, and medium rare it was. Between us, Carlene and I had managed to convince Broder not to order his filet mignon well done, although medium was the pinkest he would agree to, but Broder loved his dish as well. I even no­ticed him surreptitiously wiping up the last of the rich, fla­vorful wine sauce with a piece of bread and eating every mushroom. When he first spotted them on top of his beef, he claimed to be completely unfamiliar with shiitake mush­rooms and to be suspicious of mushrooms in general, hav­ing heard from colleagues of Carlene's about a group of biologists in the Northwest who had been poisoned by eat­ing gathered mushrooms.

  We assured him that the event in question had been years ago and that efficient Japanese harvesters, who wouldn't dream of poisoning a customer, had undoubtedly gathered his shiitakes. I had to signal Jason to silence when he launched into a discussion of Japanese culinary toxins. The subject, which would not calm Broder's fears, was puffer fish orfugu, a favorite Japanese sushi, known not only for its nerve toxin, but served to special customers with enough poison left in the fish to give them tingling lips without killing them. At least that is the expectation.

  I include the recipe for Chef Richard Hughes's filets with shiitake mushrooms for those who are overcome with a de­sire to spend several days in the kitchen. Otherwise, fly to New Orleans and visit the Pelican Club.

  Filets Mignons with Shiitake Mushrooms and Cabernet Sauce, and Garlic Mashed Potatoes with Roasted Onions

  To Make Filets for A:

  Preheat oven to 350° F.

  Brown four 8-oz. filets mignons on all sides in 2 tbs. of butter in a heavy, ovenproof skillet.

  Bake in oven for 8 to 10 minutes o
r until medium rare.

  Set filets aside and keep warm.

  Transfer filet pan to burner on stove top, add 1 tbs. chopped shallots and 1 cup stemmed and sliced Shiitake mushrooms, and saute until shallots are translucent.

  Add 2 tbs. bourbon, protect face, ignite bourbon with long match, and shake pan until flames sub­side.

  Add 1/2 cup demi-glace (recipe follows), 1/2 cup Cabernet Sauvignon, and 1/4 cup Madeira or dry sherry, and cook over medium heat to reduce until thickened, 5 to 8 minutes.

  Stir in 2 tbs. of butter, salt and pepper to taste.

  To Make 1 to 1.1/2 Qts. Demi-Glace Sauces

  Place 5 Ibs. cut veal marrow bones in large baking pan and roast in a 400° F oven until brown, 30 to 40 minutes.

  Add 2 cups peeled, diced carrots, 2 cups diced onions, 2 cups diced celery, and roast 20 minutes more.

  Add 2 tbs. tomato paste, stir, and continue roasting 10 minutes.

  Place on stove top, pour in 2 bottles Cabernet Sauvignon and 1 bottle Madeira wine or dry sherry, and cook over medium heat, stirring to scrape up brown bits from pan bottom.

  Place in heavy stockpot, add 1 gallon water, 8 gar­lic cloves, 1 fresh thyme sprig, 3 bay leaves, and simmer 24 hours.

  Strain through fine-meshed sieve and cook over medium heat to reduce to consistency of heavy cream. Unused sauce may be frozen for later use.

  To Make Mashed Potatoes:

  Preheat oven to 375° F.

  Rub olive oil on 1 unpeeled onion and 2 garlic heads with outer papery husk removed, and roast 30 minutes or until slightly browned and softened.

  In large saucepan, boil 3 large white, peeled and cubed baking potatoes in salted water to cover until tender, 20 minutes.

  Peel onion and puree in blender or food processor.

  Slice garlic heads in half crosswise and .squeeze out garlic cloves; combine with onion puree.

  Mash potatoes with onion-garlic mixture until soft. Add 6 tbs. butter, 1/2cup hot milk, and salt and pep­per to taste.

  To Serve:

  Pour sauce over filets and serve the warm mashed potatoes alongside.

  While Broder was devouring his last bit of Cabernet sauce-soaked bread and wearing the expression of a man who would have patted his tummy in satisfaction had he thought his wife would let him get away with it, I managed to talk the waiter into a four-profiterole dessert plate. It ar­rived promptly, a lovely sight. Each profiterole was filled with homemade ice cream and topped with chopped pecans and a creamy chocolate sauce, the whole garnished with sliced, fresh berries. I do love the combination of raspberries or strawberries with chocolate. Combined with the last few sips of my red wine, the dessert was delicious.

  "In answer to your question about predestination," Broder said to me over dessert, "I like to think that a soul predestined for heaven shows itself in the admirable behav­ior of its owner."

  "So we can tell that a man like Linus Torelli is destined for hell because he was slandering Julienne while having an affair with his chairman's wife?" I asked.

  Three pairs of eyes turned in my direction.

  "Where did you hear that?" Jason asked.

  "Nils told me. Someone in their department named Mark says that Torelli wasn't having affair with Julienne; he just acted like it to cover up the fact that he was—ah—intimate with his chairman's wife."

  "You can't be serious!" Carlene exclaimed and started to laugh. "That must be some exciting department to work in. So why did he take off for Sweden so suddenly?"

  "Because the chairman's wife heard he was having an af­fair with Julienne and threatened to have him fired by her husband."

  Carlene nodded. "Hoist on his own petard, as it were. What does that mean anyway? What's a petard?"

  "It's from Hamlet" I said absently. "A petard is a thing for blowing holes in castle walls."

  "I was asking a rhetorical question, not expecting an an­swer. How in the world would you know something like that, Carolyn?"

  "Because I wasn't a science major," I retorted, laughing. "Anyway, this Mark told Torelli he'd never get tenure with the chairman's wife on the warpath, so Torelli took the job in Sweden. Now Nils is feeling terrible because he accused Julienne of being unfaithful when she wasn't."

  "I never cease to be shocked at the sexual scandals in uni-versities, where one would least expect to find them," said Broder, shaking his head over the sins of academe. "Hap-pily, we don't have those problems at smaller colleges of re­ligious origin."

  "Oh, come off it, Broder," said his wife. "Have you for­gotten the dean who used to pinch bottoms at faculty par­ties?"

  "He was very old and somewhat senile," said Broder, "and he was gently nudged into retirement."

  "Gently nudged, my eye," his wife retorted. "I saw that he got the boot after the he pinched me."

  "He pinched you?" Broder looked very unhappy to hear it. "Well, I'm sorry you had to put up with that sort of thing, Carlene, but I doubt that you were responsible for his resig-nation. Our president at that time, a man of great rectitude, got wind of the dean's problem and—"

  "The president was moved to action at the insistence of his wife. The last time the dean pinched me, I walked her over to his circle, and of course he pinched her. Voila! That was it for the Dean of Bottoms, as we wives used to call him."

  "I see." Broder looked stunned. Evidently, a lot went on at his college of which he was unaware. Hastily, he turned to me and remarked that, having heard about Linus Torelli's lamentable lapses of morality, he now wondered whether the young chemist might not have had something to do with Julienne's disappearance. "A man of loose morals might do anything," said Broder ominously. "And sinners do like to blame their own falls from grace on innocent bystanders. No doubt, he blamed Julienne for the very problem he created himself by slandering her."

  I did not find that conjecture very reassuring, having, at that point, managed to convince myself that Julienne was probably safe and avoiding, with the help of her brother, un­deserved recriminations from her drunken husband. There­fore, I made my last notes on the dinner with a heavy heart.

  "Didn't you enjoy your food, Mrs. Blue?" asked the maitre d', looking somewhat alarmed. He must have been alerted by my glum expression.

  "If the rest of my visit to New Orleans had been as de­lightful as this dinner," I assured him, "I would be a happy woman."

  The poor man didn't seem to know what to make of that accolade from a food critic who claimed to like his cuisine but looked anything but pleased.

  28

  The Faux Priest

  I sat dispiritedly in the Cafe du Monde drinking a latte, munching on hot beignets, and wondering what to do. Of course, Julienne didn't appear at the cafe. I'd given up ex­pecting her to. Philippe didn't answer his telephone. No sur­prise there. And the truth is, I had run out of ideas. I didn't know where to look next. Once again I brushed powdered sugar from my black raincoat, which, for a change, I didn't need. There was actually a stray sunbeam escaping from the usual umbrella of rain clouds that hung over the city. For lack of inspiration, I took my trusty Frommer 's New Orleans from my pocket and thumbed through, scanning for likely investigation sites.

  The French Market! Julienne had mentioned it. Although I didn't think I'd find her there, it would at least provide a destination. I followed Decatur Street from Jackson Square, entered the French Market, and wandered in and out of stores, looking but not buying, then moving on to the farmer's market portion as I imagined how it had been in the 1700s when it was an Indian trading post at which Creoles could barter for sassafras from the Choctaws. The Spanish had put a roof over it, German farmers had supplied the pro­duce as it evolved, and Italian immigrants sold food in its stalls, structures now swathed in garlic strings and offering, twenty-four hours a day, the most delicious in seafood, fruits, vegetables, and spices. The chef that cooked our meal last night must shop here, as well as many a New Orleans housewife who wanted to buy the freshest of food for her family.

  I looked to my hear
t's content, then purchased some crab boil in cellophane packets. Jason would like that. The text on the label informed me that I could also use it for shrimp, lobster, and crayfish, whatever crustaceans I could find. Good! El Paso had shellfish but not always just what one wanted to buy at the time one wanted to buy them.

  Then I spotted fresh pralines and purchased two. Some­thing sweet to nibble on will often raise my spirits. Beyond the farmer's market was the flea market. My enthusiasm began to pick up, sparked by the pralines and the offerings. Table after table covered with merchandise that might or might not please friends and relatives beckoned to me. I'd buy a few mementos to take back home. I browsed. I picked things up and put them down, discovering that putting an item down lowered the price. Interesting. If I wanted to buy something, I'd be expected to bargain, not a talent at which I have any practice. Still, I was game.

  On the edge of the pavilion a little Asian lady, wizened and in need of orthodonics, presided over a table of cloi­sonne pillboxes. Excellent presents for one's aging friends and even those not so old. I picked up a box decorated with a multicolored dragon and pressed the button that released the lid. The proprietor scowled at me. Evidently one wasn't supposed to open the box. I soon found out why. Once opened, it popped open again when I tried to close it. I put the dragon box down. She plucked up a prettier model with butterflies on it and handed it to me. Wiser as a result of my first experience, I persisted in testing the release and locking mechanism. This one worked. "How much?" I asked with a smile.

  "Five dollar," she replied.

  I put it down.

  "Four dollar."

  I shook my head.

  "Tree dollar."

  At two-fifty I bought five boxes in varying patterns, but I had to test eight to find five that worked, and every time I popped a lid open, she scowled at me. Still, they were pretty, and perhaps the pillbox lady had had a very sad life and had forgotten how to smile. Or maybe the state of her teeth made her self-conscious. Or her feet hurt. Mine certainly would if I had to stand behind a table of pillboxes all day. I planned to keep the blue and green one for myself. Maybe I'd keep two. One for Tylenol, a second for antacids. If any more friends disappeared on me, I'd be needing something for an upset tummy.