by Nan Lyons
SOMEONE IS KILLING
THE GREAT CHEFS
OF AMERICA
By Nan and Ivan Lyons
Novels
Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe
Champagne Blues
Sold!
The President Is Coming to Lunch
Nonfiction
Imperial Taste: A Century of Elegance at
Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel
New York City
NAN and IVAN LYONS
SOMEONE IS KILLING
THE GREAT CHEFS
OF AMERICA
The authors wish to thank Jim Dodge, Dean Fearing, Larry Forgione, Bradley Ogden, Paul Prudhomme, Wolfgang Puck, and Jimmy Schmidt for graciously sharing their recipes — and themselves. The recipe in chapter one is published with the permission of Jim Dodge.
Copyright © 1993 by Nan and Ivan Lyons
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency, 928 Broadway, Suite 901, New York, NY 10010.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the authors’ imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
print ISBN: 978-0-7867-5457-1
ebook ISBN: 978-0-7867-5458-8
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
This book is for Samantha,
our best sequel
“Never eat more than
you can lift.”
MISS PIGGY
SOMEONE IS KILLING
THE GREAT CHEFS
OF AMERICA
Chapter 1
ACHILLE VAN GOLK wore only gray velour sweatpants and a pair of hospital clogs. He sat bolt upright as Dr. Enstein taped the electronic sensors to his head and neck and then tightened the straps across his muscular chest and flat stomach. Neither man spoke. For five years they had done nothing but talk — two hours in the morning, one hour after lunch, one hour after dinner. There was nothing left to say.
Enstein placed the suction discs over Achille’s heart, inserted the temperature probe under his arm, and wrapped the blood-pressure sleeve around his firm bicep. Achille stared straight ahead, careful to avoid eye contact with the only person who really knew him.
The doctor sat down at the computer console and turned it on. There was the hiss and buzz of electronic chips and semiconductor parts and then simultaneous flashes as three screens lit up to monitor the polygraph readings for blood pressure, heartbeat, breathing, and perspiration; the Zeiss-Freimeister test for brain waves; and the Bell evaluator for irregularities in the voice. Enstein picked up a glass and slowly sipped his Perrier, giving the printer stations a full minute in which to establish normal patterns against which Achille’s reactions would be compared.
Enstein tapped his finger on the microphone and glanced over at the dials on the tape deck. Finally he ran a nervous hand through his unruly white hair and picked up the list of questions he had been preparing for years. He knew how much depended on the answers — a man’s life.
Enstein spoke with a soft German accent. “What do you think of when I say crème brûlée?”
Achille paused. “Politics.”
Enstein searched the monitors for the slightest sign of irregularity. “Please. Go on.”
“It is not of French origin. Grilled cream originated in the seventeenth century at King’s College, Cambridge. A rather simple-minded variation on vanilla custard, it first appeared in America on Thomas Jefferson’s table. In my opinion, his cook Julien gave the dish a French name, crème brûlée, to make it more digestible for the anti-British ruffians.”
The readings on Enstein’s printout were steady. He looked down at his notes. “How do you feel about beef Wellington?”
“A notorious waste of foie gras. No one with an IQ above that of an anchovy would consider eating such a disaster. Its day, like the dinosaur’s, is over.”
Enstein sighed with relief. The horizontal centerings had not shifted. All parameters maintained their original zones. He cleared his throat. “Lobster bisque.”
“Crayfish is superior.”
Enstein held his breath. There was a sudden jump in the brain-wave pattern. “Go on.”
“It has to do with the difference in shells. You see — ” Then Achille’s memory caught up with the waves. “There’s something else. A dream.”
Enstein looked up quickly. “Please.”
Achille hesitated, knowing that his response had already registered on the monitor. He had no choice but to go on. “I dreamed that I was floating in a ramekin filled with crème anglaise.”
Enstein tensed. There were marked changes on all three screens. The graph pens arced dramatically. “And?”
“I opened my mouth to taste it, and I drowned.”
Enstein’s eyes filled with tears. “What a gift from your subconscious! When did you have this dream?”
“Some months back.”
“So you see,” Enstein announced triumphantly, “it has been there all the time!”
“What has?”
“The proof of the pudding!”
Enstein had begun gathering proof five years earlier. Achille, after killing three of the greatest chefs in Europe, had entered a plea of insanity in return for which the Crown had agreed to his being remanded to Enstein’s clinic near Geneva. Indeed, the Crown would have sentenced him to the Bridal Suite at Claridge’s to avoid a public trial. Anything to spare further embarrassment to the Royal Family. Achille had been a frequent dinner guest at Buckingham Palace.
Although Enstein’s theory of a link between criminality and obesity had been ridiculed throughout Europe, Achille had continued to fund the research. Enstein was convinced that intensive analysis coupled with a traumatic change in physical appearance would liberate the healthy side of the psyche — the thin person screaming to get out. Indeed, the documentation was all there. As Achille spent year after year modifying his eating habits, he began to lose his psychotic tendencies. He had passed dozens of psychological evaluations with flying colors.
Enstein was about to declare that the former homicidal maniac, and ex-publisher of the world’s leading food magazine, Lucullus, had been cured of the delusion that he could not survive without gorging himself. Trim and repentant, no longer a threat to society or to himself, Achille had been brought back from the obese. Enstein had given him a new life.
Enter Alec Gordon — his new life. Achille van Golk, according to a bogus death certificate signed by Enstein, had died three years earlier. “Enstein’s monster,” as Achille had referred to Alec, would soon be free to go among the gourmets in peace.
The doctor’s voice was tense. “Please watch the overhead screen.” There was still one final test.
Achille looked up, narrowing his eyes as that infamous headline from the London Daily News flashed on the screen — SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF EUROPE. Then a photo of Louis Kohner, smiling, followed by one of the London police removing his charred body from an oven.
Enstein scanned the printouts and monitors, hardly daring to breathe. The next image was the bloated body of Nutti Fenegretti being lifted from a fish tank by the police in Rome.
The parameters held. No erratic activity.
Then the monitors exploded with images of Jean-Claude Moulineaux, his head crushed in a duck press. No discernable reaction.
“Excellent,” Enstein whispered. All the readings were normal. The doctor’s red-rimmed eyes fixed on the graph pens and their plotter points. He held his breath and asked, “Did you kill the great chefs of Europe?”
; “I did not.”
“Who did?”
“Achille van Golk.”
“Where is Achille van Golk?”
“He is dead.”
“What is your name?”
Pausing to modify his voice, Achille spoke in the newly acquired American accent he would use from that moment on. “Alec Gordon.”
“What does the name Achille mean to you?”
“Fat.”
“What does the name Alec mean to you?”
“Thin.”
“Alec, do you understand your dream now?”
“The crème anglaise?”
“It was no coincidence that you remembered the dream today. I have always told you to listen to your inner voice. It is the voice of truth. But you were not ready until now.”
“Until the crème anglaise?”
“Exactly. You said you were floating in a pot — ”
“I said a ramekin.”
“You open your mouth . . .”
“Yes?”
“And you drown.”
“Yes.”
“You eat the pudding, you die.”
“Yes,” Achille said.
“Extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary.”
All the readings were perfect. Enstein pressed the button for the last slide — a picture of Achille that had been taken nearly six years earlier. He waited for a response as Achille stared at his former self.
The man strapped in the chair not only had lost 175 pounds, but also had undergone an arduous exercise program, countless liposuction treatments to remove the last traces of fat, months of extensive plastic surgery to tighten his skin, and even a hair transplant to achieve a full head of dark brown waves streaked with silver at the temples. Achille studied the photograph of someone he had not seen in years. Someone he viewed as a total stranger. “Odd.”
“What?” Enstein asked. “What is odd?”
“How much I used to look like Robert Morley.”
Enstein’s eye began to twitch with excitement. The reversal was complete. There was nothing further to be done at the clinic. It was time for his patient to be exposed to a new environment, after which Enstein would gather the final results that were sure to make medical history. He walked over to Alec Gordon. Without a word, he removed the sensors, the pressure sleeve, and the straps. Enstein’s eyes filled with tears. “I have delivered lectures to thousands of psychiatrists eager to unmask me as a fraud. But now my theory has become reality. At the moment of my greatest triumph, facing not my critics but my creation, I am suddenly at a loss for words.”
Alec stood up and drank a glass of Perrier in a single gulp. He took a deep breath and, feeling the flush of victory, turned and smashed his glass in the fireplace.
Enstein embraced him. “My dear Alec, you are every bit as sane as I.”
ALEC GORDON, the thin man who had struggled to get out, was out. He left the Enstein Clinic on foot. He carried with him no baggage, nothing but the clothes he wore, which had been hand-tailored to lie flat against the muscular geometry of his new physique. He had left behind everything connected to his former life. Soon even the memories would begin to fade.
It was a beautiful day. He walked along an Alpine path that led to town. He heard cowbells in the distance and stopped to listen, enjoying most of all the luxury of time. His own time.
The path led to a paved road, and the road turned off onto a winding cobblestone street. Intuitively, Alec raised his wrist to check his watch. He smiled. It would have taken a calendar to time the walk from the clinic.
Alec stopped at a flower stall to buy a red rose for his lapel. A little girl standing nearby watched him. He bowed slightly and offered her the rose, pausing to bask in the warmth of her smile. He continued down the street straining to catch shards of conversation that never once mentioned inner voices, compulsions, or the subconscious. As he turned the corner, Alec found himself standing in front of the town bakery.
He went in.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the baker’s wife said. “How may I help you today? We have some beautiful napoleons. Eclairs. A gâteau aux marrons? Tarte aux fraises?”
“How much?”
“For the tarte, monsieur?”
“No.”
“The éclair?”
“No! All of them.”
“You wish to buy all my éclairs?”
Alec banged his fist on the counter, nearly toppling a tray of petits fours. “No, you cream-filled cretin! I wish to buy the éclairs and the napoleons and the tarte. And the gâteau. All the gâteaux! I don’t suppose you have a Schwartzwalder kirschtorte tucked away somewhere?”
The baker’s wife stood frozen. “You wish to buy everything in my bakery?”
“At last, the dough has risen.”
She reached nervously for a stack of boxes. “It will take time to wrap them.”
“Don’t be a danish,” Alec snapped, shoving her aside as he stepped behind the counter. “I’ll eat them here!”
NATASHA O’BRIEN ran along the jetway as the ground crew held the cabin door for her. It was an old trick she had learned while working for Achille: a call to the head of public relations was sure to open a five-minute window.
“You were great!” one of the stewardesses called out. Natasha had just appeared on the eight-thirty segment of the Today show. “I couldn’t believe what you said about Martha Stewart.”
“Please thank Captain Foster,” she said breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind her. “They’re waiting for me to make dessert at the White House.”
The stewardess’s eyes opened wide. “Really?”
“I guess they’re tired of Hillary’s cookies.” As Natasha was led into the first-class cabin, Barbara Walters looked up, caught her eye, and smiled.
Natasha wondered if the smile was because Barbara remembered her or if it was simply one of those “I’m worth it!” glances women give each other going into and out of ladies’ rooms at expensive restaurants.
“Hello,” Barbara said, reaching for Natasha’s hand. “You’re looking wonderful. And doing wonderful things, too, I hear.”
Natasha tried not to look as stunned as she felt. It must have been five years since the interview. “You were so kind to me that day,” she said, gently squeezing Barbara’s hand.
Natasha was suddenly uneasy as she walked down the aisle to her seat. How many people must that woman have interviewed over the years? How could she have remembered? Not that Natasha could ever forget. There it was again, that ache in the pit of her stomach. It made no difference how hard she had worked to put her life back together: Barbara Walters hadn’t forgotten.
Natasha sat down, careful not to crush the jacket of her favorite mauve Chanel suit. Slipping off her raspberry suede Ferragamos, she reached into her matching purse for a tissue. Natasha was eager to remove the rouge on her cheeks and the lip gloss. Although nearly forty, she looked more suited to the cover of Vogue than Gourmet. She rarely wore makeup. Certainly never lip gloss. Except on television.
After returning from Europe, Natasha had been eager to keep a low profile. But that was nearly impossible. The gruesome killings had made international headlines. Natasha had narrowly escaped being murdered herself. She was news. The call from 20120 implied that, in the national interest, she had to allow Barbara Walters to interview her.
But at the last minute Natasha felt she couldn’t go through with it. Entering the studio, she saw photos of the mutilated bodies of Louis, Nutti, and Jean-Claude on the monitors. Then the footage of Achille, his massive, bloated frame coming toward her just as he did in her nightmares.
Natasha grabbed hold of Barbara’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t do it.”
Barbara embraced her and spoke softly. “Trust me. This will help put it behind you.” She smiled. “By tomorrow, it will all be yesterday’s news.”
She had been right. There was something cathartic in reliving the horror in front
of millions of people. The demons, no longer locked up inside her, became public domain. As did Natasha herself. The world was eager to give her a second chance. But it wasn’t until she received the news of Achille’s death that Natasha finally put the past behind her. Determined to create a new image, she turned her back on the classic cuisine of Europe and embraced American regional cooking. She began with a PBS series on American chefs, published two cookbooks, and then took on the most difficult challenge of all: creating the first magazine devoted solely to American food.
As Achille had always told her, there was no place to start but the top. It had taken nearly a year, and her last penny, to raise the financing for American Cuisine. The cover shot firmly in her mind (Natasha surrounded by half a dozen of America’s great chefs), she convinced the White House to break with tradition and serve an all-American state dinner.
Natasha couldn’t help smiling. It was a coup worthy of Achille himself. If only he knew. He’d turn over in his grave.
NATASHA WALKED ALONG the ground-floor corridor toward the White House kitchen, flanked by two Secret Service agents who had numbered and photographed each of the knives in her case. She felt as relaxed as Clarice on her way to interview Hannibal Lecter.
The only sound she heard was that of her own footsteps. They passed the White House florist, and a bouquet of inquisitive eyes looked up. Natasha suddenly had a sense of impending doom, as though she were walking the last mile. But then the familiar scent of onions sweating in a sauté pan wafted over the five-and-a-half-foot wall to her left. She breathed a sigh of relief.
The White House kitchen was smaller than those of many restaurants and had a permanent staff you could count on one hand. But it had been transformed into a six-ring circus presided over by six superstars of American cooking.
Natasha stood in the doorway and allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. There they were: Wolfgang Puck, Paul Prudhomme, Bradley Ogden, Larry Forgione, Jimmy Schmidt, and Parker Lacy. It was like opening a box of Cracker Jacks and finding it filled with prizes.