“When I left for the cafe, everyone left to go to the hotel and change clothes. We’ll meet at the restaurant,” Pauline said. She had been subdued in the van. Now she looked pale, her eyes still glazed. “I don’t feel good. I’m going to the bathroom,” she mumbled and ran hurriedly in that direction.
Heaven chuckled. “You’ll feel better if you just go ahead and throw up. It’ll give you a new start,” she called after her.
Heaven walked over to the worktable where twenty or so loaves of bread in assorted shapes were resting, sitting next to three big hotel pans of something with a crust over the top. Heaven, using her usual technique, carefully pinched off a chunk of crust and peeked in. She fished out a slice of apple and popped it in her mouth, then replaced the bit of crust. “Um. Local ‘Jonathan’ apples I bet.” She automatically started putting clear plastic film over the cobblers so they could be transported. She smiled as she worked, thinking about Pauline, usually so sedate, getting drunk in the afternoon.
Then Pauline screamed, loud and long. Heaven rushed toward the scream, looking around for the bakery workers who were now nowhere to be seen. Heaven could have kicked herself. She should have checked them out immediately. Maybe they weren’t really bakery workers at all. Maybe they had done something terrible to Pauline. Maybe they were robbing the place. Maybe …
Heaven found Pauline outside the bathroom door, staring at the floor. There, the bakery cat was having a fit. The pretty calico jumped like an electric shock had been passed through her body, then went into convulsions. “It was rolling around on the floor, screaming, and I tried to pick it up.” Pauline showed Heaven the underside of her left arm. There was a vicious scratch with blood oozing from it.
Heaven put her arm around Pauline. “You poor baby. We’ll take care of that when we get back to the cafe.”
The cat was meowing loudly now, and writhing in what Heaven guessed was extreme pain. She wondered if it had got into the mouse poison that she assumed was around the bakery somewhere. Suddenly the cat ran up the wall, or as far up the wall as it could get. Hair standing on end, it fell on its back with a yelp, then clawed up the wall again. Heaven and Pauline watched in helpless fascination. Suddenly Pauline burst into hysterical tears.
Heaven was losing control of the situation. She was concerned about the cat of course, who was banging its head against the wall, literally. She certainly wasn’t going to do the same. And trying to pick it up, like Pauline had, was out of the question. They had a party to put on.
“Pauline, let’s go find those two guys that work here and tell them their kitty is loco. Stop crying right this second. How’s your tummy?”
“Upset,” Pauline blubbered.
The cat, in one last burst of energy, chased its tail for a few seconds, then collapsed in a convulsive heap.
“Is it dead?” Pauline looked fearfully at Heaven, as if she were afraid she would be the next one to climb the walls.
Heaven firmly turned Pauline in the other direction. “Not quite yet. We’ve got to get out of here. Come on now, please pull yourself together. You were so happy at the cafe. I can tell you’re not used to drinking during the day.”
Pauline clung to Heaven’s arm pitifully. “Dieter is dead,” she cried. “The guy was sweet to me, we hung out so much this weekend, I just can’t get over it. What do you think happened, H?
“I think we’ll know more after the medical examiner does all the tests. Bonnie is going to keep tabs on all that for us. Now, let’s go find those dough boys. Can you carry a big bag of bread?”
* * *
Once Heaven and Pauline got back to the restaurant, Pauline seemed to rally. She went to the bathroom often but other than that, was calm. The cafe looked great, the crew had repaired the damage Pauline did to the centerpieces and had set up the bar. Some of the ARTOS folks were already arriving. To the man, they had the same giddy energy that Pauline had exhibited earlier. Of course, they had been through some harrowing experiences since coming to Kansas City. It was no wonder they had had a drunken time at the bakery today. They were all probably eager to leave town, get back to their own businesses and write their stories for Food and Wine magazine, or whatever. Heaven shuddered at the thought of how this conference would look in print.
“Heaven, can I ask you a favor?”
It was Patrick Sullivan. He was shaking. His light blue polo shirt had big sweat marks in the middle of his chest. His face was coated with a sheen of sweat and his hair was mussed.
“Patrick, what in the hell … What’s the matter?”
Patrick didn’t seem to realize how rough he looked. He just blinked. “Nothing. I just wonder if you could turn up the heat. I’m freezing.”
“You’re freezing, and you’re covered with sweat. You must be coming down with something. I’ll turn on the heat, but it was in the high fifties today, perfect September weather.”
Patrick looked at her as if she had questioned his parentage. “It’s not just me,” he snapped. “Everyone is cold. I just decided to do something about it.”
Heaven eyed him as she moved toward the thermostat. “Don’t take that turn with me, young man. I know this has been a rough time for you, Patrick, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you compromised your principals by going to work for BIG BREAD. I’m sorry they made you their patsy at this artisan bread conference. I’m very sorry that Dieter Bishop was found dead in the dough in your proofing room. Now let’s just try to remain civil for two more hours, and then this unpleasantness will be behind us, OK?”
Patrick looked as though he was going to burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Heaven. Since I moved to Kansas City I’ve been wanting to meet you, maybe be friends. Now I’ve messed it up. I don’t know if I can make it two more hours.”
“Oh, buck up. If you can sell that air-filled, chemical-filled shit you call bread, you can hold yourself together two more hours. Jesus, what did you guys drink today? Pauline was a mess too.”
“Just some bottles of wine with lunch. Something from the Rhone, I think. And some Möet Chandon that Gail Gand from Chicago brought. She’s real nice. Everyone is wound up, what with the general and Dieter. It was relaxing to get back in a real bakery and do what we do best, bake bread. Or rather what they do best.”
Heaven cut in quickly. “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself again. Just answer a couple of questions. Was Walter Jinks at the bakery today?”
“Yeah, he was there. Ernest Powell too. But Ernest left around noon. Said he had to get home in time to do the chores. His wife and neighbors had been covering for him.”
“I don’t see Walter,” Heaven said as she scanned the room.
Patrick lurched towards the crowd, unsteady on his feet. Heaven was almost sorry she had read him out. “I’m sure he’ll be here,” Patrick said. “He did an experiment.”
Heaven didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of experiment?”
“He and one of the bakers, I can’t remember which, baked some bread out of his grain mixture.”
“Mixtures like the ones we had at his farm?”
“He said these were made out of a special mix. They had been working on it night and day, he said. He wanted to surprise us. It’s a secret.”
“What’s a secret?” Heaven asked.
“Which loaves are made out of the regular wheat flour and which are made out of the special Walter mixture. He’s sure no one will be able to tell.”
“It must be a hell of a lot better than the stuff we had Thursday. Well, that will give the bread experts something to do tonight. Patrick, just remain calm,” Heaven said as she headed for the kitchen.
“Wait,” Patrick shrieked. The crowd turned toward them and Heaven returned to his side.
“Wait, what?” Heaven snapped. “What is your problem? And keep your voice down.”
Patrick tried a stage whisper. He cupped his hand around his mouth. “I’m so sorry about the rats. I didn’t know you were terrified of rats, I just wanted…”
Heaven jerked Patrick’s arm and pulled him close. She didn’t want him yapping about rats and getting everyone all whipped up. “What are you saying?”
“I thought if I did something that would make people sorry for BIG BREAD, like we were being threatened,…” Patrick lurched into a chair. “And everyone knows who you are so I thought.…” His head hit the table and he moaned. “I don’t feel good.”
Heaven leaned down and picked up Patrick Sullivan’s lolling head by the hair, removing his glasses and putting them on the table.
“I need my glasses,” Patrick said fearfully.
Heaven leaned down near his ear to talk. “Okay, now, listen to me. Don’t start spilling your guts about your stupid rat stunt. These people will be gone tomorrow and they don’t have to know you’re the jerk who played a lousy sympathy scam. I’ll deal with you later. Now, put your addled brain on rest for a minute,” Heaven said as she let go of Patrick’s hair and his head fell down on the table. “Yes, ma’am,” his muffled voice said pitifully.
Heaven was furious with Patrick but also relieved that one part of the puzzle was cleared up. At this point, Heaven had to concentrate on feeding the ARTOS crowd and getting them out of there. She slipped back in the kitchen where Iris was busy, frying the batter-dipped green tomato slices. She looked up and smiled at her mother. “So, how’s Pauline?”
“I think she might be having the first daylight hangover of her life. She’s calmed down. People are arriving. Why don’t you go out and help Murray play hostess. You know who everyone is, and he doesn’t.”
Iris quickly took her apron off. “Gladly. It’s hot over this grease.”
Heaven tilted a big pot of greens sideways and spooned them out in a huge crock bowl. She looked up as Iris headed out to the front. “Thanks for helping today. We didn’t even eat lunch. Are you hungry?”
Iris smiled back at Heaven. “I made a sandwich with some of Dieter’s sourdough while you were gone and I had a piece of fried chicken. I’m glad I’m here for the denouement. I want to see this ARTOS conference to the bitter end. But I also want a beer, bad. I’m off to the bar.”
* * *
Out in the dining room, Robbie Lunstrum, dishwasher and chicken fryer extraordinare was blushing. Heaven had insisted he put on a clean apron and come out in the dining room to accept kudos. The bakers had been blown away by the whole meal, but the chicken had definitely been the hit. Heaven refused to take credit for Robbie’s good work. He stood by the end of the food table, ducking his head when someone gushed over his crispy crust. Heaven overheard him being vague about what he fried in. Maybe chef’s pride made every cook keep their secrets, or maybe Robbie sensed this group might freak if they heard the word lard.
While Robbie was out front, Heaven handled the dishwashing machine. She didn’t want to stay here a minute longer than necessary. If she let the dishes pile up, Robbie would be here till midnight. That meant she would too, so she loaded dirty dishes cheerfully, thinking of what she would do to Patrick Sullivan to get even.
All of a sudden, Murray pushed open the swinging doors to the kitchen and stuck his head in. “Hey, Boss,” he said with worry in his voice. “You better come out here.”
“Because?”
“Because something’s very wrong. People are starting to get stomach pains. And chills. And I think they’re all drunk as skunks, is what I think. Did we give ’um some bad chicken?”
Heaven gestured for Murray until he stepped all the way into the kitchen. Then she frowned and started scolding him. “Don’t joke about that kind of shit. For your information, food poisoning is very rare, and food-borne illness takes time to develop. If they’re getting sick, it’s definitely not from the chicken. Quick, go get Robbie. I don’t want anyone to accuse him. I’m where the buck stops.”
Murray disappeared and came back with Robbie. “As you know, Heaven, I’m an expert on drunkenness,” Robbie said with good humor. “And I think we’ve got a roomful with a snoot full.” Robbie was a sixty-something alcoholic who had been sober for enough years to talk with authority about both sides of the picture.
“Robbie, no one said anything about the chicken making them sick, did they?”
“No, Heaven, that would require higher reasoning. I’m glad to have been a part of this night, no matter how many hangovers occur tomorrow. Now I see what a pleasure it is to cook for those that appreciate it. I’ll go back to my dish machine now,” Robbie said with his usual dignity.
Heaven kissed him on the cheek. “You the man, Robbie.” Then, taking a deep breath, she followed Murray out into the hot air of the dining room.
The scene reminded her of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings, some netherworld of lost souls.
Heaven didn’t know where to start. How many things were wrong with this picture? She took Murray’s hand and they walked the room together.
“Oh, God, I’m so cold,” Patrick Sullivan mumbled. He looked worse than before, elbows on the table with his hands holding up his head. He looked pleadingly at Heaven. “I think our lunch must have made us sick. You look OK, and you weren’t there. I’ve thrown up twice in the last thirty minutes.”
Heaven quickly went behind the bar and put ice in a bar towel. She gave the ice pack to Patrick. “Put that on the back of your neck for right now. What did you guys have for lunch anyway?”
“One of the chefs made a big batch of white veal stew while we were working the sourdough. Nothing special, no weird ingredients.”
Heaven moved on. Next were two bakers from Chicago writhing on the floor. Next to them and totally ignoring them were a dozen people engaged in animated conversation, eyes shining with religious zeal as they discussed various flour mills. The way they were “rapping,” Heaven would have sworn they were on cocaine. She looked closely at the eyes of the talkers. She found the opposite of what she had expected, instead of pinpoint pupils, their pupils were huge.
Heaven looked around for Pauline and finally found her sitting on the floor in the corner of the dining room. “Pauline, what are you doing, honey?” Heaven said gently as she knelt beside her friend.
Pauline closed her eyes for a moment and then looked up at Heaven with terror in her eyes. “Room spinning. And it got bigger. Room was too big. Everybody was laughing at me, and they made the room go too fast.”
Suddenly there was a crash of dishes. A tiny woman, a bakery owner from Aspen, had pulled one of the vintage tablecloths off the table, sending dirty plates and wine glasses everywhere. Some of the bakers around her laughed maniacally, others didn’t even seem to notice what she’d done. Swirling the tablecloth above her head she yelled, “All these flowers! Aren’t they beautiful? Look how fast they’re growing. Aren’t these the most beautiful flowers?” Suddenly she was rolling on the floor, the tablecloth wrapped around her like a shroud.
Chris and Joe and the rest of the staff had been trying to help those that were sick to their stomachs make it to the bathroom, but the smell of vomit was strong. Robbie had come out of the kitchen when he heard the sound of broken dishes. “Maybe I was wrong. They don’t seem drunk anymore. Did my chicken…”
“Of course not,” Heaven assured him. “It must have been something from breakfast, possibly dinner last night. Actually, I don’t think it’s food poisoning at all. Murray, when did this situation get out of hand? How come you didn’t tell me sooner?”
“Heaven, I swear. One minute the whole crowd was having a ball, the next it was 1967 all over again.”
Joe and Chris backed up Murray’s version of events. “You’re right, Murray,” Chris said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were tripping.”
Murray and Heaven, thinking of the general, gave each other meaningful looks.
“Heaven, I think you should call Hank,” Joe said soberly. “Whatever is making these people sick is making their sweat smell terrible, like dead mice kinda. It must be something bad. I don’t know how much longer we can be of any help.”
Heaven looked around the
room. It was like a B movie version of an insane asylum. One of the bakers from Los Angeles was tearing the shirt right off his body, weeping as he did so. People were on the floor, some curled up in a fetal position, some crawling around on all fours. The talkers were still at it.
Heaven stepped over to the phone on the bar and called home. “Hank, I’m sorry to wake you but we’ve got a situation here. This whole group of bakers has gone nuts on us, and they’re sick to boot.”
Hank’s voice sounded tense when he responded. “How are they sick?”
“Throwing up, chills, some of them act like they just snorted a gram of cocaine, some of them seem paranoid. I think some might be hallucinating.”
“Heaven, I think I know what’s the matter with them. I’ll be right there but then we’ll have to call the hospital for help. You might want to call your police friend.”
“Bonnie? I’d ask you why but that would take too long. Just hurry, please.” The phone was dead before Heaven could say good-bye.
Murray had been making ice packs as Heaven talked to Hank, Chris and Joe had been passing them out. All of a sudden Chris started, as if he had suddenly remembered something. “Heaven, where’s Iris?”
Heaven felt like she had been struck by lightning. How could she have overlooked her own daughter, or her daughter’s absence? Frantically she ran to the kitchen. Maybe Iris had gone back to help Robbie and hadn’t come out to see what the commotion was about. She wasn’t there. Quickly Heaven checked the bathroom. Two women from Florida were being sick in the two stalls. They started pleading for assistance but Heaven didn’t even stop to reassure them. She wheeled around the room, spotted Pauline still crouched in her corner and made a beeline for her.
“Pauline, have you seen Iris?”
“No, just these wonderful sunflowers,” Pauline babbled. “See how tall they’ve grown? No iris, no roses, just sunflowers.” She pointed up at the ceiling.
Bread on Arrival Page 17
