Someone Is Killing the Great Chefs of America

by Nan Lyons

  While it is difficult to imagine the degree of outrage that van Golk felt because of the current trend toward lighter cooking -- there is no denying the emotional price of undergoing so radical a physical change -- we have been unable to come up with any other motive for the murders.

  A very puzzling case. There is no evidence that van Golk/ Gordon actually killed the three chefs. I am relieved that we do not have to bring this case to trial. Even the positive identification by the bakers that van Golk/Gordon was the person who bought out their cakes on the same days as the homicides merely places him in those cities on the dates in question.

  The final irony in this matter is the fate of American Cuisine. Evidently, van Golk/Gordon was instrumental in helping to focus many of the features that caused the magazine to become an overnight success. Sadly, Natasha O’Brien has not been around to enjoy the fulfillment of her vision.

  As requested, I have enclosed all of the recipes from the White House dinner - you just can’t get a copy of that first issue anymore.

  PROMPTLY AT NINE A.M., Natasha sat down on her new bed and began to work. She opened the large envelope with the layout that Ester had messengered over the night before. As usual, there was a note.

  Happy Anniversary. It is three months since you got out of the hospital. It didn’t take Gorbachev three months to get over Yeltsin.

  Natasha closed her eyes. Of course not. Gorbachev hadn’t slept with Yeltsin.

  The physical injuries she had sustained in Paris had healed quickly. The problem was the trauma of what had happened in New York. Not even scraping the floors, painting the walls, or buying a new bed had helped. She was still devastated by the knowledge that she had slept with Achille.

  More than feeling that she had betrayed the chefs who had been killed, Natasha felt she had betrayed herself. She could no longer trust her instincts. Possessing the same visceral energy that had once propelled Icarus toward the sun, Natasha was accustomed to jumping off cliffs and landing on her feet. Suddenly, she realized she could not fly.

  The phone rang. She sat back and waited to hear the message. It was Millie.

  “Oh, come on, Nat! Pick up the damn phone. I can’t go on leaving messages and sending faxes. We’re communicating without communicating. Babe, please! I miss you!” He waited and then slammed down the receiver.

  Millie had stayed on with her in Paris. He was at the hospital every day, fielding questions from the police and keeping the reporters at bay. He brought her back to New York and humored her determination to stay in a hotel while the apartment was renovated. Like fugitives, they slept in one another’s arms without ever once mentioning the horror from which she had escaped, without ever once allowing empathy to escalate into passion. She could not have survived without Millie.

  By noon she had edited the piece on “Pennsylvania Dutch Treats” and approved the layout. Reluctantly, she got dressed and went downstairs to Café des Artistes.

  Jenifer Lang hugged her. “George says hello from Budapest.”

  “Why didn’t he take me with him?”

  “Over my . . . oops.”

  Natasha smiled. “Thanks for the chicken soup.” She sighed. “I’m here to meet something named Bobby Silverstein.”

  “You’re kidding!” Jenifer rolled her eyes. “They’re over in the corner,” she said, leading the way toward the table.

  They? Natasha wondered. She had agreed to meet Roy’s agent for a drink. He had said it was about Roy’s future. How could she refuse?

  Bobby, wearing a heavy knit cardigan over his shirt and tie, stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “Natasha, at last we meet.”

  She smiled uneasily, waiting to be introduced to the very elegant couple at the table. The woman was gorgeous. Very willowy. Milk-white skin, long blond hair, bright green eyes, and a Kay Kendall nose. The man stood up. He was tall and lean. The deep cleft in his chin led to a firm, square jaw. His handsome, tanned face was framed by a mane of silver hair.

  “You know Nan and Ivan, don’t you?” Bobby asked.

  “Who?”

  “The Lyonses. The people who wrote Someone Is Killing . . .”

  Natasha couldn’t believe it. The Lyonses were the last people she wanted to meet. Ever. “Oh, yes. How do you do?” Natasha pretended not to notice Ivan extending his hand. She sat down and turned quickly to Bobby. “You have news about Roy.”

  “They’re letting him out of the white hotel next week. I don’t know why. I did my best to convince them that he wasn’t fully cooked yet. It looks as though we’re going to have to be very supportive of poor Roy.” Bobby winked at her and smiled. “Actually, I was hoping to get all this business settled before they put the dumb schmuck back on the menu.”

  “All what business?”

  Nan leaned toward Natasha. “I want you to know how sorry we are about all you’ve been through.”

  “It’s an incredible story,” Ivan said.

  “He doesn’t mean incredible,” Nan interrupted.

  “What’s wrong with incredible?” Ivan snapped.

  “Astonishing, fantastic, remarkable — but not incredible. Incredible implies a lack of believability.” Nan patted Ivan’s hand patronizingly as the waiter came over to take their drink order.

  “Miss O’Brien, the usual?”

  “No. Just bring me a Perrier, please.”

  “Ice and lime?”

  That was all he said: ice and lime. Natasha suddenly felt as though she were playing the last scene in Brigadoon, where every word brought back memories that were supposed to have been buried a hundred years ago. Ice and lime. Alec and Achille.

  “Miss O’Brien?”

  “No ice. No lime,” she said for her own ears as well as the waiter’s.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Lillet,” Nan said.

  Ivan began to laugh.

  “What’s wrong with Lillet?” she asked.

  “It’s such a retro drink,” he said. “Pure sixties.”

  Nan smiled. “Natasha, don’t ever work with your husband.”

  “I don’t have a husband.”

  “Smart.”

  Ivan shook his head. “As though I were the difficult one.” He turned to the waiter. “I’ll have a Pernod. Perrier instead of water. Reverse the proportions. And I’d like it in a stemmed glass filled with ice.”

  The waiter nodded and looked at Bobby. “Sir?”

  “Diet Pepsi. And don’t forget the straw.” Bobby put his hand on Natasha’s. “I gotta tell you the truth. I didn’t come here just to talk about Roy.”

  “Really?” Natasha pulled her hand out from his, pretending she had to brush the hair away from her face. “And what did the Lyonses come here not to talk about?”

  “We came here to talk about you.”

  Natasha smiled nervously. “Then perhaps I should leave.”

  Bobby put his hand on her arm. “Listen, I’ve been taking meetings with the Disney people about Roy’s screenplay, and my nose is growing longer every day. Their lawyers think I have a release from you.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “I don’t want a release from you.”

  “Well, then, there’s no problem, Mr. Silverstein. I’m not going to give you one.”

  Bobby leaned close. “I want more. I want to buy the rights to your life.”

  Natasha was stunned. She didn’t know what to say. She stared at him until she found the right word. “Incredible.”

  “Let me explain,” Bobby continued. “Nutsy squirrel had it all wrong. We don’t start with a screenplay. We start with a book.”

  “Enter the Lyonses,” Natasha said.

  Bobby smiled. “Who said all dessert chefs were stupid?”

  “I’m sure it was you, Mr. Silverstein.”

  He laughed. “This way we get the book, we get the paperback, we get the movie, we get the movie tie-in. I guarantee you’ll be on television for years.”

  Natasha shook her head. “Interviewed by Barbara Walters again.”r />
  “And Donahue. And Oprah. And Sally Jessy. And Jay, Arsenio, Letterman. You name it.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Silverstein. You say you want to buy the rights to my life?”

  “It’s done all the time. Otherwise you’d turn on the television and see nothing but test patterns.”

  “Do you want my past, my present, or my future?”

  Bobby narrowed his eyes and thought. “I want it all. God knows what could happen to you tomorrow.”

  “And it’s cheaper to buy my life than to have me sue.”

  Bobby leaned back and smiled at Nan and Ivan. “What did I tell you?” He tapped a finger against his forehead. “She’s got a tookis and a half, this kid!”

  Natasha still couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You want me to sell you my thoughts and my feelings?”

  “Sweetheart, what good are they doing just sitting around in your head? Don’t go melodramatic on me. It’s only research.”

  NATASHA SAT BACK on the bed, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. She switched on the phone machine. Millie.

  “You won’t believe what happened. Fuji Food just bought AGF. Mrs. Nakamura also rises. Nat, I don’t know what to do with my life. I put so much of myself into this damn company. I know it’s crazy, but I feel as though Fuji Food just bought me. Please pick up. Help!”

  The next message was also from Millie.

  “Today’s sermon, boys and girls, is about life after sushi. Look who I’m talking to. Nat, come out from under the covers. I need to see you. Pick up the phone, please! You can do it. That’s right. Move your hand over to the receiver . . . Nat, remember me? I saved your life! Okay for you. Next time you’re dipped in chocolate, call Milton Hershey!”

  That was the whole problem, she thought. Even as a child, Natasha had been warned about the “next time.” As though it were inevitable. Why hadn’t her parents taught her about good times, new times, the best of times, instead of just the worst of times?

  “Nat, let me in!”

  She looked at the phone machine and suddenly realized Millie’s voice was coming from downstairs. He was knocking on her door.

  “Goddamn it, open up! I’ve got to talk to you!”

  She hurried down and without a word opened the door. They stared at one another.

  “I got good news and I got bad news.” Millie took a deep breath. “Nat, I’ve been fired.”

  “And what’s the bad news?”

  “Are you gonna let me in or what?”

  Natasha didn’t move. “The bad news is?”

  “My wife doesn’t understand me.”

  “You don’t have a wife. You don’t even have a job.”

  “Says who?”

  “You said you were fired.”

  “Fired and hired. It’s like love and marriage. You can’t have one without the other.”

  “Hired by whom? Don’t tell me. Colonel Sanders? Burger King? Domino’s Pizza?”

  “Nat, I’m in a whole new area of junk food. Television! VP for daytime programming. Soaps, cooking shows, reruns.”

  “Don’t talk to me about reruns. They’re already planning Natasha Two.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re not going to let them — ”

  “No, I’m not going to let them.”

  “Good. There’s a whole world out there, Nat. It’s time to move on.”

  “No more next times.”

  Millie took her in his arms. “Besides, I’m still in love with Natasha One. Let’s finally put the past behind us.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s what I’m trying to do. It’s what I want most in the world.”

  Brushing her tears aside, he said, “You’ve got a pretty good track record for getting what you want. Babe, it’s all out there for the taking.” He whispered, “Take me. Let’s get married and start all over again.”

  “Oh, Millie.” She put her arms around his neck. “You know what I love most about you? You never listen. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said in years. You can’t imagine how comforting that’s been. You never took no for an answer. I could always count on you.” Natasha’s tears gave way to a smile.

  “You still can.”

  “That’s my whole problem.” She put a hand to his cheek and kissed him gently. “I’ve got to start counting on me. I’ll always love you, Millie, but I’ve finally learned that some things have to come to an end. I made a promise to myself. No more sequels.”