Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  Alec Gordon smiled. “You may have seen me at Lucullus. We were never introduced formally, but I recall your passing through a number of times.”

  Natasha hesitated. “It’s been years since . . .” Not wanting to finish the sentence, she picked up the letter of recommendation and smiled. “I always liked Beauchamp.” Natasha decided to thank him for coming. She’d let him know. Not that her mind wasn’t already made up. It was insane to even consider hiring someone linked to Achille. Achille, Beauchamp, Lucullus — the part of her life she’d worked so hard to put behind her, and here it was staring her in the face. For that very reason, she hesitated. She still had to prove something to herself.

  “Alec, why did you leave Lucullus?”

  “The truth. Miss O’Brien?”

  “The truth, Natasha.”

  “Too many ghosts. I don’t know if you can understand this, but I had to put that part of my life behind me. I’d spent enough time in Europe. I needed the one thing you can get only in America — a fresh start.” He paused, looking deep into her eyes. “I had to prove something to myself.”

  Natasha sat back. What the hell was it about Alec? It was more than his being an attractive man. There was something oddly compelling about him. Almost dangerous.

  “What did you have to prove?” she asked.

  He leaned forward. “The same thing you did. That there was life after Achille.”

  A bell rang. They both looked up, startled. Natasha forced a smile. “It’s the test kitchen. They’re ready for the eleven-thirty tasting.” She pressed the intercom for Ester. “Please tell Grace I’m busy. Ask her to bring in two plates.” There was a long silence as she tried to fathom why she hadn’t used the tasting as an excuse to get away from Alec rather than prolong the interview.

  “I no longer believed in my work,” Alec said, settling back on the sofa. “That slavish devotion to an outmoded concept of food. All those calories. The cream, the butter, the fat. Issue after issue. Such a calamitous way to eat. I know this sounds ridiculous, but the longer I stayed at Lucullus, the more I began to feel that I was killing people.”

  Grace Daniel, the test kitchen director, wore a white lab coat and a permanent expression of intensity. She carried a tray with two plates.

  “Thanks, Grace. This is Alec Gordon. A visitor from the land of Lucullus.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gordon. You’ll be tasting a dish we developed ourselves: Lobster Shortcake with Grilled California Chanterelles and Whipped Tomato Cream.” She was careful to turn each serving for the full effect of the presentation. Before leaving, she gave them copies of the recipe.

  Alec held his plate at eye level while Natasha scanned the recipe. Then she tasted a mushroom and frowned. “The chanterelle needs more of a char.” She picked up her pencil and made a note.

  Alec cleared his throat. “If I may, there’s too much air in the tomato cream. It’s a bit stiff. And I believe someone used brandy instead of cognac.”

  “Did you taste the lobster?”

  “Somewhat overcooked.”

  “And sliced too thick,” she said.

  “By half. It doesn’t cut neatly.”

  Natasha was still writing. “Perhaps we should use lobster tails. They’re easier to portion.”

  “And control cooking time.”

  She looked up. Alec was no tourist. He knew the territory. Natasha felt as though she had just met an old friend in a foreign country. “Like the biscuit?”

  “Not really.”

  “I still say the best biscuits are made with lard.”

  Alec leaned forward intently. “Don’t even joke about it. You’re already using too much butter for the nineties. How about canola oil with a little cayenne to pep it up?”

  Natasha smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re a health nut.”

  “I’m a fugitive from the world of lemon curd, clotted cream, and bypass surgery.”

  “We could use someone like you around here,” she said, suddenly stopping herself. “I mean, that is, if we could use someone like you around here.” She felt her face flush and went back to the recipe. “How about raising the oven temperature to four hundred — ”

  “And baking them in a deep pan for added crispness?”

  Natasha was stuck. She didn’t want him to stay, and she didn’t want him to go. He was too good. It must have been the day for A’s. First Arnold. Then Alec. Perhaps she was on a roll. Even her nail polish was still intact. The ring from her private line shattered the silence. Saved by the bell.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t hang up.” It was Millie.

  “I knew things were too good to last!”

  “This is not about you and me.”

  “Who are you kidding? It’s always about you and me!”

  “Nat, it’s about Parker.”

  Natasha turned away and cupped her hand over the receiver. “Listen, you son of a bitch, you and I are divorced. I can see Parker whenever I want.”

  “Not anymore, you can’t.”

  She put a hand to her forehead. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Parker is dead.”

  “You wish. Sorry, chum. I saw Parker last week,” she said, reaching for her calendar, “and I’ve got a date with him for — ”

  “Dead, Nat. Dead like the other chefs.”

  Natasha slumped back into her chair. All she could picture was Parker in his red, white, and blue shorts. She felt as if her voice were coming from another body. “What other chefs?”

  Millie hesitated. “The police think he drowned.”

  “But Parker could swim.”

  “Not at the bottom of a barrel of molasses and ketchup.”

  “Oh, my God.” Natasha felt her heart stop. “No, that’s not possible. It must have been an accident.” She was trying to buy time. “Parker never used ketchup.”

  “Someone did. And oil and brown sugar.”

  “No. I can’t believe it. Nobody cooks like that anymore.” There was a long pause. “What do you mean, they ‘think’ he drowned?”

  “They’re waiting for the coroner’s report. They’re not sure what killed him.”

  “You mean the molasses or the ketchup?”

  “Nat, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Parker was deboned, marinated, and skewered. They found him roasting over the barbecue.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “In that sauce?” Natasha dropped the phone on the floor. “He’d die if he knew.”

  Alec reached over and hung up the receiver. “Bad news?”

  Chapter 3

  THE HOTEL DES ARTISTES, around the corner from Central Park West on Sixty-seventh Street, was built in 1918 to provide studios for working artists. The lavish wood-paneled apartments had two-story living rooms with spectacular walls of glass, fireplaces, bedrooms on the upstairs balcony, and no kitchen facilities what-soever. The ground-floor café serviced the culinary requirements of tenants such as Isadora Duncan, Norman Rockwell, Noël Coward, and Fannie Hurst.

  George and Jenifer Lang, who re-created Café des Artistes into the most romantic restaurant in town, had found an apartment for Natasha on the sixth floor. On hearing of Parker’s death, they sent up chicken soup and a slice of Ilona torte, her favorite dessert.

  Both sat uneaten as Natasha lay on the sofa, wearing a black sweatsuit and twirling the Stetson that Parker had given her. She stared past the brim to the two-story opaque windows, watching them change color as the clouds passed overhead.

  There was a knock at the door. Natasha closed her eyes. She was in no mood to answer.

  “Nat! It’s me! Open up!”

  “Go away,” she shouted.

  “Let me in!”

  “Or you’ll huff and puff and blow my house down?” she muttered. “How did you get up here?” she asked, leaning against the closed door. “Why didn’t the doorman stop you?”

  “He’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “Millie, for God’s sake, it’s over.” She knew that was
a lie. It had just begun.

  “Come on, babe. Let me in.”

  “How do I know it’s you?”

  There was a pause. “Last year the pizza industry sold eleven billion slices.”

  She unlocked the door. “Please go away.”

  “I can’t.” He pushed the door open. “It’s tradition, babe. We always get together after a chef’s been killed.”

  Natasha had no resistance left. She turned, walked back into the living room, and lay down, dropping Parker’s hat over her face. Millie locked the door and followed her.

  “You moved the sofas.”

  “Parker moved the sofas.”

  “Did he stay here with you?” Millie asked, looking up at the balcony that led to the bedroom.

  “Not often,” she said. “He hated this apartment.”

  “It’s a great apartment.”

  “It has no kitchen.”

  Millie smiled. “That’s why I love it. I’m glad you kept it.”

  “I merely divorced you. I didn’t declare myself insane.” She paused. “It’s not as though I put myself into a clinic in Switzerland.”

  He sat down on the floor next to her. “Nat, I know what you’re thinking, but Achille is dead. That’s all in the past.”

  She took the hat from her face. “Tell it to Parker.” She put her arms around him and held tight. “Oh, Millie, can you die of déjà vu?”

  “Yes. That’s why everything has to be different this time.”

  “ ‘This time’?”

  “We’re going to get married again.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?” she sobbed. “Of course! Getting married solves everything!”

  Millie pulled back in surprise. “Nat?”

  “Let’s not waste a moment. How soon can we set a date?” She got up and began pacing the room. “Well, there are a few things I have to do. For openers, I have to get rid of my brains and cut out my heart. And then I have to decide what color dress to wear. Vanilla? Chocolate? Strawberry? You decide, darling. You know all about that sort of thing,” she said, her voice growing shrill. “What the hell is America’s favorite flavor?”

  “I’ll tell you upstairs.”

  * * *

  NATASHA AND MILLIE lay in bed holding each other for a very long time. Neither spoke. Their eyes were open, and they stared up at the ceiling. “You still have hair on your chest,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “It must be very popular in American households.”

  “My chest?”

  “Hair.”

  “Not with me. I’d hate it if you had a hairy chest.”

  “You’d hate it?”

  “I see you still paint your toenails,” he said.

  “Obsessively.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the time I’ve spent thinking about your toenails.”

  “Millie, be a pal. Don’t tell me.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “Still the same Natasha.”

  “Damn it,” she whispered.

  “I think we’re having two conversations.”

  “We always did.”

  “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “Plus ça change. The moving hand writes and, having writ, writes the same fucking thing all over again.”

  “Nat, it’s time to lose something in the translation.”

  “Why do you think I didn’t marry you in London?”

  “You want to know what my shrink told me?”

  “You went to a shrink? Oh, Millie, I’m so proud of you! Of course I want to know.”

  “He said you were a ballbuster.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “No. That’s why I quit after one session. I knew that you’d been through hell. You just needed some time.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  “But I didn’t think you’d need five years.” He held her face in his hands. “Nat, tell me I’m not crazy. We just had the best sex since Paris.”

  “Oui.”

  He held her close. “You and I fit together. Even the parts that don’t fit, don’t fit better than with anyone else. And God knows, we have better fights.”

  “I can’t argue that. We have great fights.”

  “So how often does that happen in a lifetime?”

  “Millie, you want to know what my shrink said?”

  “You want the God’s honest truth?”

  “Remember when you were a kid?”

  “Uh-oh. You went to a Freudian.”

  “Remember Sunday night? The panic? You hadn’t done your homework. You didn’t study for the big test. And right after Ed Sullivan, it was Monday morning.”

  “You must have spent a fucking fortune.”

  “You promised yourself it would never happen again. All week you promised yourself. And suddenly it was Sunday again. Señor Wences was on and you still hadn’t done your homework.”

  Millie made a fist, moved his thumb, and spoke with an accent. “Easy for you.”

  “Know what that’s called?”

  Millie shook his head. “What did you do? Go every day?”

  “It’s called repetition compulsion. The way some people live their lives making the same mistakes over and over again. Battered wives get divorced and then fall in love with someone who beats them up again.”

  “I never laid a hand on you!”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand. That’s why I was afraid to marry you in London.”

  He stared at Natasha. “But this is New York.”

  “And suddenly it’s Sunday night again.” The phone rang. She didn’t take her eyes from him. “The machine is on. I’m not answering.”

  Millie reached over and picked up the phone. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls. That’s what Conan the Analyst taught me.” He held it out.

  Natasha took the receiver. “Hello?”

  It was Roy. “Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m lying down. I’m in bed. Making mad, passionate love.”

  “Then you haven’t heard.”

  “I’ve heard. Roy, what do you want?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but I was the last person to see Parker alive. Except for the killer. Is that incredible timing or what?”

  “Incredible.”

  “Just between you, me, and your vibrator, I wouldn’t be surprised if those fucking cowboys think I murdered Parker! Anyway, I called my agent immediately and he set up a meeting with Warner’s for Monday morning. It’s the break I’ve been looking for! Sequel heaven! I’m going to pitch a screenplay called Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America!”

  DRAKE / SCREENPLAY /

  SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF AMERICA

  FIRST DRAFT / SCENES 39 - 44

  39. EXT. ESTABLISHING SHOT -- DALLAS RANCH -- AFTERNOON

  A scene as placid as chicken soup -- rustic hut very Ralph Lauren. A bright egg yolk of a sun slips toward the horizon behind an overhead sign that reads THREE TYNE FORK RANCH, L. DEVEREAUX, CHIEF COOK AND BOTTLE WASHER. We HEAR the voice of Tammy Wynette singing “Stand By Your Man.” As CAMERA PANS around to the back porch, we HEAR the voice of LUKE DEVEREAUX as he sings along.

  LUKE (VO)

  (singing out of tune)

  Staaaaaand baaaah yoooooo maaaaaaaan!

  40. EXT. DALLAS RANCH -- BACK PORCH

  Luke, mid-thirties, is devastatingly attractive. He’s sprawled on an old rocking chair, a guitar on his lap. He is dressed in very expensive cowboy togs, including a fringed jacket, $2,500 designer boots, and a pheasant-feathered Stetson. DOG, his old bloodhound, HOWLS along with the music.

  41. INT. DALLAS RANCH -- KITCHEN

  CAMERA moves toward counter from KILLER’S POV. Killer’s gloved hand reaches out and turns on the Cuisinart. SOUND of motor.

  42. EXT. DALLAS RANCH -- BACK PORCH

  Dog stops howling and listens to sound of motor. Dog BARKS. Luke stops singing. He turns of
f the music and listens to the sound of the motor.

  LUKE

  (whispers to Dog)

  It’s the Kyoozeenart!

  Suddenly, Luke HEARS another machine go on.

  LUKE

  It’s mah blendah!

  Another motor.

  LUKE

  (getting angry)

  Mah gelato makuh!!

  Luke gets up and heads toward kitchen.

  43. INT. DALLAS RANCH--KITCHEN

  Luke swings open the door and stares wide-eyed at a counter filled with empty, vibrating machines. A VCR has been turned on with a tape of Julia Child explaining where brisket comes from.

  LUKE

  Whut the hell is goin’ on here? Who’s cookin’

  in mah kitchen? And whut is they cookin’?

  Dog starts to BARK. We HEAR ANOTHER MOTOR go on. Luke turns around.

  CLOSE SHOT of Killer’s gloved hands on a vibrating portable chain saw.

  LUKE

  Who the hell ah you?

  INTERCUT Julia Child trimming a roast with a struggle between Luke and the Killer. We see the horror in Luke’s wildly handsome face and HEAR the barking. Suddenly there is a spray of blood. Luke gasps and falls to the floor. His throat has been slashed with the chain saw. Dog WHINES. Julia merrily cuts away fat and bone on the roast as the Killer rips off Luke’s clothing and exposes the hard, muscular body of a Greek god. As Julia pats the roast to show what a good piece of meat it is, Killer slaps Luke’s taut pink buttocks before turning him on his back and slicing down his middle with the chain saw. Dog BARKS as Killer snaps open Luke’s rib cage, picks up a knife, and begins to debone him.

  JULIA (VO)

  Of course, you could always ask your butcher to bone the meat, but I think it’s much more fun to do it myself.

  44. EXT. DALLAS RANCH -- HILLTOP -- SUNSET

  We HEAR Tammy Wynette singing “Stand by Your Man” as CAMERA PANS up the hill to feature a Scarecrow dressed in Luke’s clothing and then over to a large barbecue on which Luke’s spineless, trussed flesh turns slowly on a spit. His arms and legs have been skewered to his shapeless body. As the spit turns, we see his face -- eyes wide open, an apple in his mouth. Killer’s gloved hand pours on more barbecue sauce and bastes Luke.