Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  Two: Never order the most expensive wine on the list. It’s often there simply to be the Most Expensive for those who need to spend a fortune to know it’s good. Not that there’s anything wrong with the best. But buy the best at a wine shop and serve it under more controlled conditions at home. The sad truth is that few wines brought to the table are served properly: invariably the white wines are served too cold and the red wines too warm.

  THE ONE UNBREAKABLE RULE IN TOWN: DON’T DARE TAKE THE SOMMELIER’S ADVICE IF THE ONLY WINE SUGGESTED IS FROM THE MOST EXPENSIVE HALF OF THE LIST. Unless he comes up with a vineyard from the low-rent district, he’s trying to pad your bill or cover up the fact that he’s been buying inferior wines. Either make your own educated guess or invest in research and order something you’ve always meant to try. Better still, cut out the middle man and ask the chef to recommend a bottle in your price range.

  When the wine arrives (it should be brought to the table before your meal in order to give it a much-needed gulp of fresh air and to give you time to send it back), most people taste it, feign a look that’s appropriately quizzical, then smile and nod their approval. If that sight has ever impressed you, READ THIS CAREFULLY.

  The key factors in evaluating a wine are color, clarity, smell, and taste. Instead of reaching for the glass, pick up the cork that was taken out of the bottle. Sniff it. Does the cork smell fresh? Or is it sour? Check to see that the cork has been pulled out cleanly.

  Then take the glass (by the stem, please) and hold it to the light. Good wine is always clear -- no cork, no sediment, no nothing. Swirl the glass and inhale the scent. Not to evaluate its degree of complexity or to compare it with other wines, but just to be sure it’s sound.

  Now for the moment of truth. Your last chance to send the bottle back is your first sip. Protect your investment by knowing precisely why you’re wetting your whistle. Whether you like the wine or not isn’t the sommelier’s problem. His only concern is to ensure that the wine you have hasn’t turned sour, not that you like it. Tasting wine is not like tasting steak and then deciding you should have ordered chicken. You’re tasting it only to make certain you got a good steak.

  A final note: One of the best-kept secrets is the pleasure of a good dessert wine. Coffee is never the beverage of choice unless (heaven forfend!) you skip dessert altogether and munch absently on a generic cookie or two. Frankly, if you’re that far into self-deprivation, pass up the almond tuile and put a quick splash of cognac in your espresso.

  Let’s face it, that great humanitarian Marie Antoinette didn’t say, “Let them eat cookies.”

  Chapter 5

  “WILD FUNGI” PHIL, a professional food forager, had arrived for the shoot at American Cuisine in full safari garb, including a feathered hat whose broad brim was tucked up on both sides. But his long, unruly beard shattered the bwana image and made him look instead like the chief rabbi of Nairobi.

  “Hey, like it’s not written in stone,” he said, holding up a morel he had picked in Central Park. “I mean, I could care less. If you want flowers and berries . . .” He half smiled as he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I just thought we’d do mushrooms because, well . . . my name.” Natasha looked at Alec and gave him the go-ahead. She was in no mood to play footsie with Phil. It had been only a week since Parker’s funeral, and she was just beginning to get back in stride.

  “Alas, Fungi old chum, the consideration is not your name but ours,” Alec said.

  “Like, it isn’t important, but my friends usually call me Wild Fungi or just Phil.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t important. What matters is that this is a magazine, not a restaurant. We are dependent almost exclusively upon visual stimulation. A double-page spread of Mother Nature’s edible tumors, however thrilling a montage for the New England Journal of Medicine, has far less eye-appeal than a cranberry-and-black-walnut pâté or a wildflower tart.”

  Phil held up his hands. “Hey!”

  Natasha’s purse rang. She rummaged through it until she found her cellular phone. “Yes?”

  “I know you said not to call.” It was Ester. “But that happily married man in advertising . . .”

  “Bud Reilly?”

  “I think so. All happily married men sound alike. He wants to bring someone up to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Some commissar wants to take ads but first he wants to see Arnold’s layout. Him and me both.”

  Natasha made a fist at the phone. “Ester! When are you going to learn to get people’s names?”

  “Such a tone. We could have used you in Interrogation. If it’s important that I humiliate myself, I’ll call back and ask.”

  “Tell Bud to bring him in. Fast.”

  “I already did. They’re in your office.”

  Natasha put her hand on Alec’s shoulder. “If I’m not back in five minutes, come and rescue me.”

  NATASHA MARCHED down the corridor, annoyed that she’d have to do her dog-and-pony show for yet another advertiser, but at the same time, she was adding up the pages. And the number of times Alec had come to the rescue.

  Ester jumped up from her desk as Natasha approached. “He’s gorgeous. Like the morning sun on Saint Basil’s.” Pushkin looked up from the IN basket and yawned. “Wait until you see his manicure.”

  “Pervert!” Natasha walked past her and swung the door open. It took a moment for her heart to catch up with her brain.

  Bud smiled as she walked in. “I’d like you to meet Max Ogden of American Good Foods.”

  Natasha didn’t miss a beat. She extended her hand. “Haven’t we met before, Mr. Ogden?”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  What the hell was Millie pulling? She was furious with him. No, she wasn’t. She was furious with herself for being so glad to see him. “I’m not married.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were,” Millie said, sitting down.

  Bud tried to interrupt. “I’ve told Max all about — ”

  “I was married,” she said, ignoring Bud.

  “Widowed?”

  Natasha smiled. “No such luck.”

  “I know just what you mean. My ex-wife is driving me crazy.”

  Bud reached for the dummy issue. “Max, just take a look at this — ”

  “Really?” Natasha asked. “And how does she drive you crazy?”

  “Oh, you know the type.”

  “It’s the first time anyone’s done the White House kitchen!” Bud exclaimed, turning pages rapidly. “We even got a shot of the cat!”

  “Do I?”

  “She was so beautiful that every time I looked at her my heart would stop.”

  Natasha felt herself turn to jelly. How could he still make her feel that way? Didn’t she have any moral fibre? “Bud, I hate to bother you, but I’d like to show Mr. Ogden your projection.”

  “Sure. I’ll bring it right in.”

  Natasha and Millie stared at one another until Bud left. Without breaking eye contact, she picked up the phone and buzzed Ester. “Mr. Ogden and I don’t want to be disturbed.” She hung up. “Actually, I find myself very disturbed.”

  “Actually, I know a cure for that.” He walked to the desk.

  “Actually, I’m not sure I want to be cured.” She stood up.

  Millie put his arms around her. “Actually, it doesn’t always work.” He kissed her.

  “Actually, you’re wrong,” she whispered. “That’s my problem. It always works.” They kissed again.

  “It didn’t work in court,” he said, holding her close.

  Natasha put her arms around his neck. “You mind telling me why you’re here?”

  “I want to advertise in your magazine.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It’s exactly what Bud told you. I just wanted to see the dummy.”

  “And now that you’ve seen her?”

  “I swear on a stack of Aunt Jemima’s, I came to see the layout.”

  Was that goo
d news or bad news? She stared at Millie as though he had a caption beneath him that read, What’s wrong with this picture? “Oh.”

  “There’s no law against that, is there?”

  “No. You’re entitled to see it. All the advertisers have asked to see it.”

  “Well, there you are.” He shrugged. “I only want what I’m entitled to.”

  “And that’s all you’re going to get!” She pushed Millie into a chair and threw the layout at him.

  He stared at her. There was a long silence. “I lied.”

  Natasha stood angrily in front of him. A moment later, she sank down into his lap and put her arms around him. “You bastard.” Natasha froze as she heard a voice bellow out from behind her.

  “Ah, the cupcake king!”

  Natasha and Millie stared at one another, the same thought crossing both their minds. They turned around. Alec stood in the doorway, looking every bit as shocked as they were.

  “Who the hell are you?” Millie asked.

  Natasha got up quickly. She began to laugh from the tension. “Alec, you should have heard yourself. You sounded just like — ” Natasha shook her head as though to shake the thought from her mind. “Didn’t Ester tell you . . .”

  “Ester wasn’t there.” He started to close the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt — ”

  “Wait a minute,” Millie said angrily. “Why did you call me the cupcake king?”

  Natasha took a deep breath. “Alec Gordon, this is Max Ogden.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” Alec said, offering his hand. “I remembered overhearing Mr. van Golk at Lucullus. It just slipped out. I didn’t expect to see you here . . . with Natasha in your arms.”

  “Alec worked at Lucullus.” Why the hell did she feel she was on the witness stand?

  Millie stared at Alec. “I don’t recall meeting you.”

  “Neither did I,” Natasha said defensively. “But lots of people worked for Achille. Even I worked for Achille.”

  Tentatively, Millie shook Alec’s hand. “I didn’t ever expect anyone to call me that again.”

  “Mr. van Golk was very fond of you.”

  “The hell he was,” Millie said.

  “He may have had difficulty expressing his true feelings . . .”

  “My spittoon runneth over,” Millie said. “Look, I’m sure you mean well, but — ”

  “Where is Ester?” Natasha asked, pressing the buzzer.

  Alec edged toward the door. “Pushkin had an accident on the Roy Drake article.”

  “Everybody’s a critic!”

  Millie turned to Natasha. “Roy Drake? You hired that nut too?”

  Natasha saw red. She slipped her arm through Alec’s. “Perhaps you should get back to Mr. Mushroom.”

  Alec whispered, “I came to save you.”

  Natasha led him gently toward the door. “Alas, Galahad, you’re too late. Besides, there’s nothing going on here that I can’t handle.” She opened the door and found herself face to face with a stranger wearing a pair of high-intensity glasses that magnified his watery blue eyes. “Why do I even bother to have a secretary?” she asked, looking around for Ester.

  “I don’t know,” the man said, flashing a badge at her. “Detective Davis, NYPD.”

  Natasha tightened her grip on Alec’s arm, a move duly noted by Davis. “I think we ought to be alone.”

  Natasha motioned for Alec to stay. “It’s all right, Detective.”

  Alec introduced himself. “Alec Gordon.”

  “You her lawyer?”

  Before Alec could answer, Natasha snapped, “Why? Does she need a lawyer?”

  “May I?” Davis walked into the office before Natasha could answer. He saw Millie. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Millie said, extending his hand. “Max Ogden. The cupcake king.”

  “Oh, yes. The ex-husband.” Davis turned back to Natasha. “Are you sure . . .”

  “No. I’m not sure of anything,” she said, closing the door. “Except that you mean trouble.”

  “I was contacted by the Dallas police . . .”

  Natasha sat on the arm of Millie’s chair. “I told them all I knew when I was down there.”

  “. . . and then I was contacted by the LAPD. They suggested I speak to you.”

  “Why? Someone hold up a Seven-Eleven?”

  “There’s been another murder.”

  Natasha slid down onto Millie’s lap and stared at him. “Yes. I knew there would be.”

  “You knew?” Davis asked.

  “I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t all happening again,” she said, still staring at Millie. “But here I am.” She looked over at Alec. “You were my ace in the hole. I hired you to prove I was wrong.”

  Davis pointed his finger at Alec. “Who is he?”

  “Is that the only reason?” Alec asked.

  “Alec, don’t look at me that way. Hiring you made me feel I had finally put the past behind me.”

  “I know a better way,” Millie said.

  Davis was impatient. “I don’t have all day here. Can the group therapy wait?”

  Alec cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  Natasha began to sob. “And miss the best part? We’re about to find out who’s been murdered. You know, Agatha Christie was all wrong. She told you who the victim was right away. As though the only thing that mattered was who done it.” She leaned her head on Millie’s shoulder.

  Detective Davis shook his head in disbelief. “This is the nuttiest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t you want to know who was killed?”

  Natasha, Millie, and Alec all said “No” at the same time. As her eyes filled with tears, Natasha held up her pinky. “Make a wish.”

  Davis couldn’t take it any longer. “Neal Short was murdered. Decapitated.”

  Natasha clutched Millie as though he were a life preserver.

  Reading from his notes, Davis continued without emotion. “The killer sliced off his nose and lips and dug out his eyeballs. He arranged them on a sausage, onion, and tomato pizza dripping with cheese and oil.”

  Millie winced. “I don’t remember seeing that on the menu.”

  “According to the report, the killer wanted it to look like a giant face.”

  Natasha put her arms around her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.” As Millie helped her up, she looked at Alec. “You’re shaking,” she said.

  “I thought you were shaking,” he stammered.

  Natasha held out her trembling hand. “No, I’m steady as a rock. It’s you.”

  Davis stood over them accusingly. “We’re sure there’s a connection between the murders.”

  Millie shrugged. “For that you went to detective school?”

  Davis didn’t smile. “No. You three are what I went for.”

  Alec moved away from Natasha. “You’re wrong. What you’re thinking is wrong.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” she asked.

  “It’s written all over your face. You’re convinced that we’re doomed to relive the past. That Achille is out there somewhere. But he isn’t. Achille van Golk is dead!” Alec shouted.

  Davis narrowed his eyes. “The department thinks this is the work of a copycat killer. Possibly someone who knew van Golk. What we’re looking for is someone with limited imagination. Someone bereft of an original idea. Your basic parasite.”

  “A critic!” Natasha blurted out.

  “Roy?” Alec whispered.

  She became flustered. “No, I don’t mean Roy. Roy would never kill anyone.” Natasha and Davis glanced at one another.

  Davis flipped the pages in his pad. “Roy Drake?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Detective, forget about Roy. He’s nothing but your everyday restaurant reviewer: an angry, bitter, vengeful man who hates chefs. I hired him to do some interviews for me.”

  “Parker Lacy?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Neal Short
?”

  “The only way Roy kills is with words! He has a poison pen, not a cleaver.” Natasha was very tense. “Besides, he’s too busy to kill people. He spends all of his time working on a sequel to — ”

  “A sequel to what?” Davis asked.

  She hesitated. “I can’t remember,” she said. “Moby Dick!”

  Davis sighed and turned to Alec. “Immigration tells me you’ve been abroad, Mr. Gordon.”

  “Yes.”

  “‘We don’t seem to have very much information about you.”

  “My thought exactly,” Millie said.

  “I worked in London.”

  “You worked for this van Golk.”

  “Yes.”

  “How closely?”

  “Pretty damn close, from what I hear,” Millie said.

  Davis turned to Millie. “Do you mind?”

  “My office was just across the corridor.”

  Davis smiled. “And you never knew he was running around killing chefs?”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Millie said.

  “Achille van Golk confessed, was sentenced, and later died,” Alec said. “That part of my life is over.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. Must have been a pretty exciting time for you.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Natasha said. “I worked for Achille too. You don’t suspect me.”

  Davis was silent.

  She was outraged. “You might as well suspect Millie!”

  Davis nodded. “We do. He was around for all those other murders. Not that I’m trying to reopen the van Golk case. But I’ve got a hunch someone else is.” He took out his notebook. “Now, why don’t you tell me a little more about your relationship with Mr. Ogden?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. We were married. We were divorced.”

  Millie raised his hand. “But we were almost married again.”

  Natasha shrugged. “Almost doesn’t count. I was out of my mind with worry. First Louis was murdered, then Nutti . . .”

  “That was when you and Mr. Ogden had a reconciliation.”

  “Yes.”

  “Murder always brings us together,” Millie said.