by Nan Lyons
They entered from the side and walked up the steps to the stage. She walked briskly and took the electric mixer that was already on the counter and moved it away so that he could put the new one down promptly. St. Clair sighed as he let go of it, careful not to shake it and distress the beaters. The auditorium, which sat about four hundred, was dotted with cleaning ladies, cameramen, and florists.
“Put the other machine backstage,” he said. “I don’t want any slip-ups.” His secretary nodded and disappeared with the old mixer. St. Clair plugged in the replacement and turned it on to ensure that the outlet was working. He then turned it off. “Attention please, ladies and gentlemen. I have an announcement to make.” He waited for all eyes to be turned toward him. “No one is to touch any of the equipment onstage. I have myself positioned and checked everything. The success of our demonstration today depends upon your cooperation in each keeping to his own task. Thank you.”
There was a slight murmur and then the cleaning ladies went back to dusting the chairs, and the cameramen began shouting as they set up their lights. St. Clair took a deep breath. Opening-night jitters. Clearly that afternoon’s special event would be a milestone. Never before had the BBC covered one of these events, and word was spreading that St. Clair was due for a position on the board. “The programs,” he shouted as his secretary walked back onstage, “where are the programs?”
“They’re here, Mr. St. Clair,” said a clerk in the auditorium. “I’ve just begun putting one on each seat.”
“Good,” St. Clair said. “Nothing must go wrong today.”
St. Clair and his secretary left the auditorium and went back to their office. The young man worked his way across the front row. On each seat he carefully put a program. The cover said:
Harrods,
in co-operation with LUCULLUS magazine,
are proud to present
Miss Natasha O’Brien,
famed international food expert,
in a demonstration of the dessert
prepared for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II
LA BOMBE RICHELIEU
The cover had on it a large picture of Natasha. Smiling.
Bill Darling,
Oh, for the life of a literary agent! Just sitting there while all your slaves work and send you ten percent. Well, sweetness, if you’ve been expecting ten percent of my fee for the Good Morning Show, cancel your order for monogrammed jockey shorts.
I don’t know how much news has hit New York, but my stepfather and two dear friends have been murdered rather brutally in what appears to be a vendetta against the great chefs of Europe. Even more extraordinary is the fact that yours truly appears to be a) the prime suspect and/or b) the next victim. (My God I’m not even a citizen of the country of Europe!)
Here’s what I want you to do for me:
1. Call the network. I can’t do the script or the show. I don’t even know when I’ll be back.
2. Call the papers. I’m on extended holiday or something. Anticipating your grubby mentality, I do not want to do restaurant reviews while I’m sitting around waiting to be shot. Nor do I want to write about the current state of gastronomy in Poland, or the problems of this year’s rosé vintage. I want to do nothing for a while. Presuming I have a “while” in which to do nothing. (Won’t you cry like a baby if this is my last letter before I’m brutally bumped off? Well, comfort yourself, I’ve left you my avocado plants and roaches.)
3. Call the publishers. If I live, I want to do a book called “Three Cooks” in which the recipes and lives of the three murdered chefs will be chronicled. There’s a good deal of interweaving to be done, and I think we can hit both the cookbook and nonfiction markers. There now, doesn’t that make you feel better? I bet you’ve got an erection already. Speaking of which,
4. Call your doctor. Find out about having yourself circumcised. Would you believe there are circumcised Italians? (Or am I just naïve?)
Well, there you are. (All shrunk up by now, eh?) I want to do the book very much. I have no doubt they will pick it up. After all, what has Simca got that I don’t?
I know. Julia.
Write to me. But check the obits daily. No sense wasting postage.
The late Natasha O’Brien.
Dear Mrs. Benson:
Enclosed you will find a check for next month. I don’t really know when I will be back, since some pressing matters have developed. I want to be sure you’re sending the mail to my attorney, and, most of all, feeding Arnold. I miss him so. Strange how you can get attached to a plant, but maybe that’s a sign of maturity. Anyway, please write and tell me if he has any new shoots. Also, have you been taking your arthritis pills? I shall be very angry with you, dear Mrs. Benson, if you are not able to go square dancing with me when I come back. Please drop me a line.
Natasha O’Brien
Dear Legal Eagle:
Is it adultery if you sleep with your own ex-husband?
How do you annul a divorce? (Have you fainted?)
What the hell have you done about the papers on Louis’ estate? And the trust fund for Hildegarde? How much money do I have in the bank? Are you paying my bills? (Be sure you pay Bloomies; they get cranky the quickest of all.) Have you opened any of my love letters? Did I get any love letters?
How often must a U.S. citizen return to the U.S. in order to keep citizenship? Have you missed me? Wouldn’t you just drop dead if I remarried Millie?
What would you do if I were the next one killed? And how would you help me if I’m arrested on suspicion of murder? Do you have any colleagues over here who could help me?
Why don’t I hear from you?
N?
Dear Craig:
It seems there’s just no way I can make your annual clambake. Please extend my thanks and apologies to Pierre and his family. Big kisses to you, and keep the South Shore on its toes.
Love,
Natasha
Dear New York Times Delivery Service:
Please stop.
Ms. N. O’Brien
Chapter 16
Natasha and Max were facing one another as they lay in bed. The telephone rang.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ogden. Nine o’clock.”
“Thanks.” He hung up the receiver and put his arms back around Natasha. They had already been awake for an hour.
“You know,” Max said quietly, “the nice thing about our getting married, and getting divorced, and then getting married again is that your initials stay the same. You don’t have to change anything that’s monogrammed.”
“I didn’t say I’d marry you.”
“You will.”
“My initials are still NO.”
“Let’s face it. You’ll eventually marry. It might as well be someone with the right initials. Of course, you could marry Laurence Olivier or David Oistrakh or Peter O’Toole. But you can’t marry anyone without an ‘O.’”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“But you have to,” Max said. “I’m pregnant.”
She smiled and put her hand to his face. “How do you know?”
“Clearly,” he said, hugging her tightly, “I am with child.”
“That’s a sexist remark.”
“I know. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“I know. I love you anyway.”
“There. You’ve said it.”
“I do love you, Millie. But I don’t want to marry you.”
“Well,” he said, getting up, “what the hell. You can still scrub my back. C’mon.”
They walked into the bathroom. Natasha turned on the shower and let the warm water comfort her. Max stood next to her and massaged her neck for a moment. Then he took the bar of soap and lathered the washcloth. Once the cloth was soapy, he began rubbing her back, and then her arms. “Okay,” he said. “Get ready for another sexist remark. It is time,” he sang, “to shine up your medals. Turn around.”
Natasha turned to him and Max gently put the cloth to
her chest. While holding her shoulder with one hand, he rubbed the cloth first on one breast and then the other.
“Millie,” she said, leaning her head on his hand, “you’re a nice man.”
“But?”
“No buts. I’m grateful to have you as a friend.”
“Jesus. Overheard at Mayerling.”
“I can’t say what you want me to say.”
“Then shut up,” he said, handing her the washcloth and turning his back to her, “and scrub.”
Natasha and Max, like two friendly cats of the same sex, washed one another. Each was confident about his own body. There were no secret blemishes, no unexplored areas, no limitations. Max washed every part of Natasha’s body, and she did the same for him. They were caretakers, each tending a valuable property they coveted but did not own. It was a time in which to share self-pride, not mutual admiration.
Drying, however, was different. It was a time of isolated reflection. Natasha would feel her breasts, run her hands over her buttocks, rub her stomach, and press her palm against her vagina. Max would slap his chest, sometimes comb his pubic hair (once he had tried to part it in the center), pull gently at his penis, and while he dried himself he would cup one hand under his testicles and press them firmly.
They shared the mirror as he shaved and she combed her hair. “Are you very uptight?” he asked.
“Very.”
“But you understand you’re frightened by the concept, not because there’s any imminent danger?”
“Yes.”
“But knowing it doesn’t help because you’re giving me monosyllabic answers.”
“Right.” She leaned against his back, putting her arms around his waist. “Rationally, I know nothing will happen to me today. Rationally, I know I’ll see you for dinner.” She extended her hand down to his penis. “Rationally, I know we’ll make love tonight. And tomorrow we’ll go to the police.” Feeling the start of his erection, she took her hand away and stepped back from him. “But rationally, I also know that someone wants to kill me.”
“Then let’s go to the police today. Now. To hell with Harrods. The ladies in funny hats can survive without your recipe.”
“But I can’t survive without them. I need to go, Millie. Fear has taken away my independence. You, of all people, know how I’ve fought for that independence. I’ve got to get back to who I am. I need to be in control of some part of my life again, even for only a few hours. Otherwise, I might as well be dead.”
There was a knock at the door. Max wrapped a towel around his waist and opened it. The breakfast waiter stood next to his table while Lucino lifted the cloth and searched the utensils. “I will take it inside,” Lucino said slowly. “You wait there.” Then he looked at Max. “Where is she?”
“In the bathroom. She’s fine. Everything is okay, Lucino. Thank you.”
“Miss O’Brien?” he called.
“Good morning, darling,” she replied. “Don’t they ever let you sleep?”
“I told you,” Max said. “She lives. Lucino, I’m on your side,” Max confirmed. “Now thank you very much. And thank you, too,” Max said to the nonplussed waiter standing in the hall. “Lucino,” he said softly, “you’d better tip the waiter.” Max closed the door.
“What’s happening?” Natasha called.
“Nothing. It was just Lucino frisking the com flakes.”
Natasha sat on a pink velvet chair in the lobby, waiting for Achille. She wore her pink Chanel suit, and held tightly to her pink suede Hermés purse. At her feet was the red alligator knife case. She sat bolt upright, moving only her head as she watched people walk across the lobby. Max and Lucino were standing behind her, on either side of the chair.
“I feel as though we should have our picture taken,” Max said.
“Do not take any pictures of me,” Lucino warned.
“Right,” Max said. “No pictures. No, sir.”
“Millie, what time will you be back?”
Max bent over and kissed her. “I’m not going to Paris. I’ll cancel. I’ll stay with you.”
She leaned toward him. “No, you mustn’t. I’m safe today. Nothing can happen. Or don’t you believe what you’ve been telling me?”
“Of course I believe it.”
“Then go. If you stay, you’ll only make me think there’s something to worry about.”
“That’s not it. I just want to be with you. I know you’re upset.”
“Then give me confidence. Go to Paris.”
Rudolph walked through the swinging door and came over to them. “Good morning,” he said brightly. “Mr. van Golk is in the car.”
“Good morning,” Natasha said, getting up. She took a deep breath and smiled at Max.
“So gimme a big fat one,” he said, leaning over to kiss her.
“You already got a big fat one,” she whispered. Then, without turning back, Natasha walked through the swinging door. Max waited in the lobby, watching as Rudolph opened the door and Natasha stepped into the black Rolls. Lucino sat up front with Rudolph. As they drove away, Max felt increasingly uneasy. Was he just lonely? He decided to call Paris and cancel his appointment. He would follow her to Harrods.
“Good morning, Citizen Publisher,” Natasha said, settling in next to Achille. “Off to Madame La Guillotine?”
“I think not”
“Ah, but do you speak for yourself or for all of France?”
“I speak for the police.”
“What do you mean?” she asked anxiously. “Have you thought of whom it might be?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes what?”
“Yes. I have thought about it.”
“And?”
“And I in fact do know who the killer is.”
She was afraid to ask. Suddenly she didn’t want to know. Her eyes were riveted on Achille.
“The killer is Arnold Victor Tresting. A madman who was treasurer for LUCULLUS. I dismissed him recently for gross insubordination. Seeking his revenge, in a manner befitting a treasurer, he determined to destroy those things I treasure the most. He is now in the custody of New Scotland Yard, having made a full confession.”
Her mind repeated over and over again what Achille had just said. Arnold Victor Tresting. Treasurer. Confession. Arnold Victor Tresting. Destroy the Treasures. In Custody.
“Tresting never appeared to have any more imagination than an artichoke. I still cannot believe he was capable of such brilliant executions.”
“He killed Louis, and Nutti, and Jean-Claude?”
“It appears he is a compulsive litterer.”
“He confessed?”
“He confessed.”
“And the police have him?”
“Must I hire a scribe?”
“Achille, is all this true?” She began laughing and crying. “They have the killer? I don’t have to be afraid any longer?”
“My dear, I have personally seen to everything.”
Natasha took a handkerchief from her purse. “Not that I was ever really frightened.” She blew her nose and began crying loudly.
“I would never have credited Tresting with such creativity. However, after your having presented me with the theory that the killer was someone who wished revenge against me, I thought immediately of Tresting. I recalled that when I had dismissed him, he became enraged and shouted that he would have his revenge upon me. At the time, he was having an affair with one of my proofreaders. A match made in minutia heaven. She confirmed for him my preferences in chefs.”
“Was he planning to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It was his plan to lock you in a freezer.”
“A freezer?” She put her hand to her mouth. “Where?”
“Presumably in London. Although his ingenuity is difficult to anticipate.”
“Ingenuity? He’s crazy!”
“The man is a genius!”
“Achille,” she said angrily. “Three men have been killed.”
/>
“Indeed. But you must admit he performed with great éclat.”
“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re obviously very upset, Achille.”
“Of course, I’m upset. This is rather an embarrassment for me. A member of my own staff.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Oh, poor Millie, he doesn’t know. Why did you wait to tell me?”
“I have just come from Scotland Yard. In truth, I was instructed to say nothing. There is still the possibility, albeit remote, that Tresting did not act alone. Therefore, we must not relax our security, or risk the possibility of a leak.”
“The proofreader?”
“She has not been located as yet.”
“Then I’m not safe?”
“You are perfectly safe. We are simply taking precautions. No mere proofreader could have devised such a plan. For the time being, no one must know about Tresting. Especially Lucino. His mentality can deal only in absolutes.”
“Mine, too.”
“He is in custody. Tresting cannot harm you.”
“Tresting has already harmed me.”
“I do not want anything said until we are out of Harrods. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But the moment I’m through, I’m calling Millie.”
“The moment you’re safely out of Harrods, you may do anything you wish.”
“Does he have a family?”
“Tresting? Yes.”
“How terrible for them.”
“I suppose you wish me to initiate a trust fund for Kids of Killers.”
She smiled and sat back thinking how lucky she was to have a friend like Achille. Perhaps he could help her reconstruct her life. Perhaps she’d take a job at LUCULLUS, live in London, near Hildegarde, and begin repairing the damage she’d caused. And she’d be close enough to Max not to have to marry him. She thought of Louis. Would she ever stop thinking of Louis? Someone had stolen him from her past and made him an intruder on her future. “Achille, I keep thinking that the name Arnold Victor Tresting means nothing to me. What does he look like?”