by Nan Lyons
“But once the case was solved, you split up again.”
“And so, in order to win her back, I’ve started killing chefs!” Millie held out his wrists to be handcuffed. “Brilliant!”
“And now you have started seeing each other again.”
“Seeing isn’t believing,” Natasha said guiltily.
“You’d be surprised. The nicest people get the craziest ideas. They see something happen once, and they decide to do it all over again. We call it the sequel factor.”
Natasha stared at Davis. “It’s as though Achille were reaching out from the grave.”
“No!” Alec took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow. “That’s not possible.”
“Nat, give up the ghost,” Millie said. “Forget about Achille. You’ve made a fresh start. Don’t take two giant steps back.”
But the sinking feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with Alec or Achille or another murder. Everything Millie said she had already said to herself. It wasn’t a ghost that she couldn’t give up; it was Millie. She had fallen in love with him all over again.
Davis put the notebook back into his pocket. “You going to be around for the next few days, Miss O’Brien?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town.”
“Detective, you don’t really think I — ”
“I don’t know what to think. I’ve got Roy Drake turning up everywhere. I’ve got you and Mr. Ogden playing footsie again. And now I’ve got Mr. Gordon. The only thing I know is that this is somebody’s sequel. The problem is, I can’t tell yet whose sequel it is.”
AS NATASHA WALKED to the ticket counter, Detective Davis’s words echoed in her mind: “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town.” She looked up at the sign: FLIGHT 904: NEW YORK TO ROME.
The young woman behind the counter smiled. “May I help you?”
Natasha glanced around, afraid of being recognized. “A ticket to Rome, please,” she said softly.
“What class? Meat Sauce or Marinara?”
“I don’t care!”
“The fare is $10.95, and that includes a soft drink, pizza bits, antipasto salad with Italian dressing, cheese lasagna, and Italian bread. Today’s dessert is frozen chocolate cannoli pie. If you join our frequent flier program, I can upgrade you to a large soda.”
While Natasha rode the escalator up to the departure gate, she glanced back at the other check-in counters. NEW YORK TO LONDON: fish and chips. NEW YORK TO BERLIN: hot dogs, sauerkraut, and potato salad. NEW YORK TO ACAPULCO: tacos and enchiladas. Pie in the Sky was Millie’s newest fast-food brainstorm after the “cholesterol cops” closed his H. Dumpty omelet chain.
The stewardess greeted Natasha. “Thank you for flying with us to Rome today. Would you like a window seat?”
“I’m meeting Mr. Ogden.”
The stewardess’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes. Marinara class. Just follow me.” She led the way through a “cabin” where people sat in airline seats with fold-down trays. The “windows” showed low-flying aerial views of Rome. Stewards delivered regulation airline meals and rolled carts up and down the aisle with soft drinks. “Here she is, Mr. Ogden. Safe and sound.”
Millie stood up and embraced Natasha. “Babe, tell me what you think. Right off the top of your head. From the moment you stepped in.”
“I feel as though I stepped in something, all right.” Natasha sat in the window seat and automatically started to fasten her seat belt. “What the hell am I doing?”
“You see, it worked. It got to you.”
“It got to me that you must be the Richard Nixon of food. There’s nothing you won’t stop at, and there’s no way to convict you! Where the hell do you get the gall to serve airline food at this altitude?”
“You ought to know. You’ve held them.”
Natasha turned away. “Don’t talk dirty. You know how it distracts me.”
“From what?”
“Millie, however much I’ve tried to convince myself that Parker’s death was just a bizarre coincidence that had nothing to do with remembrances of murders past, I can’t. Not after the way poor Neal died.”
“And so?”
“And so, unlucky Lindy, I’ve narrowed the field down to two prime suspects.”
Millie tugged at his earlobe. “Sounds like?”
“You and me!”
“That sounds like us.”
“The truth is, if I were Davis, I’d arrest me in a minute. Here I am on the verge of a great new career. I’ve sold more ad pages than our projections, the layout is spectacular, the recipes are perfect, and subscriptions are rolling in. What better way to sabotage myself?”
“Is this a multiple-choice question?”
“I’m serious, Millie. You know I’m the most self-destructive human being since Little Black Sambo.”
“Our divorce certainly proves that.”
“It also proves something else. Your motive.”
“Oh, yes. Your theory about my turning homicidal killer in order to frighten you back into my arms.”
“Why else would I be in your arms?”
“Because you — ”
Natasha put her hand to his lips. “Don’t. Not the L-word.”
He kissed her fingertips. “Babe, I asked you here for a reason.”
“Of course you did. To poison me.”
“Before things get any more out of hand, I wanted you to know that I remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
Millie pointed out the window. “Let’s go back to Rome. For real.”
She smiled. “Is that why you asked me to meet you here? The last time we were in Rome together was on our . . .”
“Let’s go on a . . . again.”
She held her breath. “Millie, you’re not asking me to — ”
A man’s head popped up over the seat in front of them. It was Detective Davis. “No. I’m asking you to.” He stepped into the aisle. “Miss O’Brien, I’m taking you in for questioning in the murder of Neal Short.”
Millie sat back smiling. “Isn’t this the part where you tell her she has the right to remain silent?”
“I have no intention of remaining silent! And as for an attorney, the only reason I’ll need one is to sue you for false arrest.”
Millie took her hand. “Nat . . .”
“You see, Detective, as it happens, I spent the entire weekend in my apartment with Mr. Ogden. We never went out once.”
“And so no one saw you?”
“No one had to see me! Millie, tell him!”
Millie looked at Davis and shrugged. “I told you.”
“You told him what?”
Davis slipped handcuffs on Natasha. “He told me you’d say that.”
“Because it’s true!” Natasha struggled with the handcuffs. “Millie!”
A crowd had gathered in the aisle by the time the stewardess spoke over the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we’re experiencing a little turbulence. The captain has asked that you return to your seats.”
“Nat, trust me. I’m doing this for your own good.”
“My God! You’re going to let him lock me up. Don’t you know what this is going to do to me once it hits the papers? Natasha O’Brien collared in the restaurant from hell!” Davis took hold of Natasha’s arm and led her up the aisle as she screamed at Millie. “If you were going to double-cross me, you bastard, you could have at least done it at Lutèce!”
ALEC SAT deep in thought at his usual corner table at Chez René, a small bistro around the comer from his apartment. He had barely touched the Perrier. His fingers moved nervously in small circles on the white cloth, just as his mind turned the same thought over and over again: If I’m not doing it, who is?
He looked up, suddenly aware that Ravi, the waiter, had approached the table. “Sir, for your dining pleasure.” Ravi announced each dish as he put it on the table. “Coquilles Saint Jacques. Escargot Bou
rguignonne. Morilles au Gratin. Saucisson en Croute. Ravioli du Homard. And Foie Gras en Brioche.”
Alec stared at the table in horror. “What are you talking about?”
The waiter smiled. “Your hors d’oeuvres. We thought it best to wait with the pigeon tart and sweetbread crepe.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Well, if you wish, I can bring them out right away. René felt you might start with these six.” Ravi smiled. “Otherwise, the rest will get cold.”
“I didn’t order this!”
“Which one didn’t you order?”
“I didn’t order any of them!”
“But sir,” Ravi said, holding up his pad. “So it is written.”
“I ordered the spa dinner. I’ve been ordering it all week.”
Ravi looked puzzled. “Yes, sir. But you did not order it tonight.” Ravi showed him the pad. “Look, sir. You also ordered vichyssoise, bouillabaisse, and the cream of pumpkin soup.”
Alec grabbed the pad from Ravi and tore the pages out. “You’re mistaken. I never ordered those things!” He stood up and threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table.
“But sir,” Ravi called out as Alec walked quickly to the door. “If you didn’t order them, who did?”
Alec’s heart was beating rapidly, but not from running out of the restaurant and down the street to his apartment. His hand shook as he unlocked the front door.
Once upstairs, Alec ripped off his clothes and threw them onto the floor. He untied his shoes, pulled off his socks and underwear, and held his breath as he stepped onto the scale.
He had gained a pound.
Alec looked up quickly. He heard laughter. He put his hands over his ears. But the voice grew louder. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the laughter stopped.
There was total silence. He was afraid to move.
And then he heard Achille whisper, “At last!”
NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT
Division of Homicide
CASE REPORT NO. 18-5764-8976-3225-AB-218G-445
FROM: D. I. Davis, NYPD
TO: Det. Billy Bob Scooner, Dallas PD/Parker Lacy homicide
Det. Chad Stone, Los Angeles PD/Neal Short homicide
RE: Natasha O’Brien
After a very thorough interrogation of Ms. O’Brien, I find myself harboring the uncomfortable suspicion that despite all evidence to the contrary, including her impeccable reputation, this woman wouldn’t know a good chopped liver sandwich if it fell on top of her.
The bad news is that she’s not the only one.
No offense, but you guys are barking up the wrong tree. O’Brien is no killer.
The problem is that you’ve been looking for answers instead of questions. You want to cut to the chase before you even know which way to run. You don’t have one clue. Not one fingerprint. Not a hair or a key ring or a matchbook. You don’t have a witness and you don’t have a motive.
So how about using what you got instead of what you wish you had?
1) Big-time Dallas chef is barbecued. The poor bastard is covered in molasses and ketchup. How many briskets you seen cooked that way instead of letting the wood flavor the meat? Would a chef like Parker Lacy ever use molasses and ketchup?
2) Famous Hollywood chef gets his head cut off and rearranged on a pizza. What kind of pizza? Deep-dish Chicago type? Or that paper-thin Yuppie crust? One of those fancy all-white pizzas that he’s famous for? No. He’s looking up in horror from an old-fashioned tomato pie slathered with a sloppy red sauce that he’d sooner die than serve.
Seems to me anybody can pull a trigger. But these were real performances. You’re talking more than homicide. You’re talking revenge. Someone with a real grudge against chefs.
Who? The critic? The fast-food king? The frustrated magazine editor? Or maybe some poor son of a bitch like me who doesn’t understand extra-virgin olive oil, gravlax, or goat-piss cheese.
AMERICAN GOOD FOODS had its headquarters on the eightieth floor of the World Trade Center. Natasha was furious as she pushed her way off a crowded elevator and stormed past the receptionist. She had to find Millie as quickly as possible. And then she had to kill him.
“Excuse me, miss. You can’t go in there! Stop! I’ll call Security.”
“To hell with Security. Call the coroner.”
Not that Natasha knew where to find Millie, but she strode down the hall with the determination of a Romanian gymnast. She went into the coffee room and poured a cup. Then she headed toward one of the desks, noting the name plate. “Hi, Beth. Mr. Ogden’s secretary stepped away, and he asked me to get him some coffee.”
“Nice try, honey. I’m his secretary.” Beth picked up the phone. “Is Iron John still in photo?” She hung up the receiver and pointed to the end of the corridor. “However, since we are an equal-opportunity firm and you did go to the trouble of getting all dressed up, go ahead. Only don’t expect too much. He only bonds with men these days. Seems he’s got a bad case of wife on the brain.”
“Any particular wife?”
“The worst. His ex.” Beth leaned forward. “Although from what I hear, she’s really old.”
Natasha leaned forward, purposely spilling her coffee over the papers on Beth’s desk. “No kidding? From what I hear she’s really clumsy!”
“The Fuji contracts!” Beth screamed.
Natasha continued down the corridor, pushing aside the security guard.
“Hey, you! Stop! You in the red.”
“It’s tomato!” Natasha shouted as she broke into a run and threw open the door marked PHOTO STUDIO. SESSION IN PROGRESS. DO NOT ENTER. The lights were blinding. She stopped dead in her tracks and put a hand to her eyes.
“Oh, triple shit!” someone yelled.
“Who the hell is that?”
“The shot is ruined!”
“Nat?”
She looked in the direction of Millie’s voice and picked up the first thing she could find. It looked like a bowl of cereal with milk. But it was too heavy. “What the hell is this?”
“Put it down. It’s Frooties in Elmer’s Glue!”
As Natasha’s eyes adjusted to the glare in the white-walled studio, she saw dozens of spotlights focused on tabletops filled with food. Or at least what appeared to be food. There were two camera setups, numerous stainless steel bank lights, and a small army of people with notebooks, spray cans, and trays of cosmetics.
“Nat, don’t do it! You’ll get glue all over everyone!” As Millie pleaded, the crew backed away.
Natasha smiled. She aimed the bowl at Millie, but instead it hit one of the floor lamps, which fell over and, in domino style, knocked over all the other lamps before shattering on the floor.
“Oh, my God!” a woman screamed. “The Frooties!”
“And this?” Natasha asked, picking up what looked like a pie but was actually merely a crust supported by tissue paper.
“It’s nothing!”
“Good.” She threw it to the floor. “And this?” she yelled, holding up what felt like pumice stone.
“Don’t break my toast!” the food stylist pleaded. “It took days to paint in the right shading.”
The security guard ran into the room. “I’ll get her, Mr. Ogden.”
“No!” Millie shouted. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Go ahead,” Natasha shouted. “Have me arrested again. Maybe this time they’ll hang me!” She hurled the toast like a discus and raised her fist victoriously as it splintered apart on hitting the wall. “Yes!” Then she reached for the turkey.
The food stylist rushed over. “Lady, please, not the turkey! I had to cook forty turkeys to get one to look like that.”
Natasha looked down at her hands. They had turned brown. “What the hell is this thing covered with?”
“Angostura bitters and Vaseline,” the stylist said. “With a touch of Max Factor Tropic Tan.”
“Yuck!” Natasha held the turkey away from her clothes. She smiled meanly and hurled it at Millie.
&
nbsp; The stylist cried out, “Catch it, Max!”
But the guard intercepted and shoved it under his arm like a football. Millie rushed toward Natasha. She picked up a platter.
The stylist began to cry. “Not the platter! It’s my mother’s!”
“Babe, are you trying to tell me something?” Millie asked as he came closer.
Natasha held the platter high. “Stand back. Ain’t nobody gonna take Killer O’Brien alive!”
“Lady, please. I don’t give a damn about the Frooties or the turkey.”
“Nat, I did it to protect you!”
“Protect me?”
Millie started toward her. “Babe, you weren’t just a suspect last time. You were almost a victim. I had to do something to draw attention to you.”
“Oh, you did that all right. First they locked me up, and now I’m being followed as though I were Leona Helmsley!”
“She didn’t want to lend me the platter because it was a wedding present!” the stylist sobbed.
“Who cares why they’re following you,” he said. “I had to be sure you were safe.”
Natasha didn’t take her eyes from Millie as she handed the platter to the stylist. “I think we ought to be alone.” The room emptied immediately. Natasha walked to the next table. She picked up what was supposed to be a dish of pistachio ice cream.
“Green mashed potatoes and shaving cream,” Millie said.
“I thought there were rules about truth in advertising.”
“Not for the Japanese market. My megadeal with Fuji Food.”
“What about the Natasha market?”
“All’s fair.”
“In what? Damn it, Millie. I can never tell whether it’s love or war we’re in.”
“Let’s talk about it at dinner.”
“No thanks. I hate the wine list at McDonald’s.”
He put his arm around her. “I’ve got other plans.”
She moved back. “So do I. I’m having dinner with Alec.”
“Alec? Give me a break!”
“No. You give me a break. Do me a favor and don’t try to help me. Don’t protect me.” Her voice softened. “Most of all, don’t love me. Millie, we both know what’s happening. First Parker. Then Neal. You think I have to call Nick the Greek to find out what the odds are? Don’t you see? The only chance I’ve got is if you stay out of my life.”