Final Roasting Place

by Devon Delaney

  “I had no idea you and Dad knew each other.” Sherry shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Dad’s right over there in the back of the room.” She pointed him out, seated along the dimly lit edge of the studio. Erno was partially obscured by the massive lens of a TV camera. “I’m almost done here. In a minute I’ll take you over to him.”

  After Sherry stored the last of her utensils in her rolling suitcase, she strained to close the zipper, but, a few failed attempts later, she gave up. Sherry turned to Brett. “Follow me.”

  “Watch the cables.” Brett steered Sherry by the arm as they headed over to Erno.

  As she neared her father, Sherry’s footstep snagged a thick plastic-encased wire, and she lost her balance. Brett’s reaction wasn’t fast enough to keep her from pitching forward toward a monstrous camera. Her ribs took the brunt of the blow.

  Carmell Gordy emerged from Erno’s side and steadied Sherry by grasping her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” Carmell’s lips were as puckered as a week-old apple slice. “You were almost breaking news. I wouldn’t want to have to report that the cook-off winner was a casualty.” Carmell released her grip, and Sherry teetered for a split second.

  “Thanks. I’m clumsy. Old news there.” Sherry righted herself. The intensity in Erno’s eyes was that which the little girl in Sherry had seen on a few occasions growing up. That uncomfortable energy he transmitted meant a punishment was about to be doled out.

  “I’m going.” Carmell’s clipped tone was fortified by the harsh tapping of her heels as she strutted away. She stopped and turned her head. “Oh, Brett, Damien took you off the Founder’s Day feature we’re shooting tomorrow. Did he tell you?”

  “Yep. Can’t count on much around here lasting more than a few minutes.” Brett scuffed his shoe on the floor.

  “What was that all about?” Sherry leaned over and put her hand on Erno’s shoulder. “You and Carmell could have toasted my appetizer almonds with the heat generated between you two.”

  “Just a friendly chat.” Erno avoided Sherry’s glare. “We’d met prior to today and were catching up on lost time.”

  “I brought Brett Paladin, Carmell’s co-anchor, over to say hello.” Sherry stepped aside to let Brett slide between them. “He was asking for you.”

  “Good to see you, Brett.” Erno shook Brett’s hand.

  “Good to see you too.” Brett spoke with such urgency his words blended together as one.

  “How do you all know each other?” Sherry pointed from one man to the other. She crossed her arms on her chest.

  Brett rocked forward onto his toes. “Most anyone in town knows your father, I’d say. Probably best our acquaintance wasn’t broadcast ahead of time, what with your being a contestant and all. Of course, my knowing your father had no bearing on the contest judging.” Brett checked his watch. “I’ve got to get going. Nice to spend time with you both, and have a good day.”

  Brett removed his blazer and slung it over his arm. He ran his hand through his pile of hair, before marching away.

  “Ah, there you two are.” Damien Castle rushed toward Sherry and Erno. He was able to navigate his short journey without once lifting his face from his phone screen. “We need to get you on your way. Station security doesn’t allow visitors, even as esteemed as you two, to stay much beyond your allotted segment time. I’ve been sent to find you because you haven’t signed out at the reception desk. The other three contestants are long gone.”

  Sherry and Erno returned to the table in the center of Studio B. Sherry snapped up the handle of her carryall. “We’re all set.”

  “Don’t forget this.” Damien handed Sherry her cook-off trophy. His massive hand obscured the base of the shiny statue. “Do you have your grand prize check?”

  “Right here.” Sherry pulled a small envelope from her pants pocket and waved it in the air. “All two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth. A nice surprise that’ll fund my next recipe experiment. Thanks so much.” Sherry held the trophy up to eye level. She spun it until the inscription faced her. She read the words aloud. “‘Augustin’s Local News Twelve TV, You Watch Us Watch You.’” Sherry clutched the bronze replica of an oversized spatula in the crook of her elbow, before realizing she also had to juggle a tray of leftover appetizers, along with her supply bag.

  “Can I help you?” Before Sherry could respond, Damien snatched the suitcase handle with a swipe of his hand.

  “Thanks.” Sherry tightened the crook of her elbow to keep the trophy from slipping through. The base of the shiny statue rested on her hip and shifted with each step she took. At the same time, she clutched the tray of remaining Spicy Toasted Chickpea and Almond Bites.

  “Right this way.” Damien motioned Sherry and Erno toward the studio exit. He pocketed his phone long enough to turn the lock securing the door shut to unauthorized personnel. “Oh, I almost forgot. If you wouldn’t mind leaving the trophy with the receptionist, we’ll have the engraver put your name at the base of the spatula handle.” Damien let the door slam shut after Sherry and Erno stepped through. “Do you prefer we inscribe your name as Sherry Frazzelle or do you have a middle name you’d like to include?”

  With Damien’s question delivered, Sherry stopped short. Erno clipped her heels. The front row of toasted appetizer took flight from the platter and winged its way across the hall.

  “Sorr y, you caught me off guard. I’m in the process of getting my name legally changed back to my maiden name, Oliveri. This’ll be the first time I’ll officially be an Oliveri again.” Sherry corralled some stray chickpeas with her foot into a neat collection before sidestepping them. “So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer Sherry Oliveri.” Sherry turned toward a door on her right. “This way?”

  “No, that’s the control room. The brains of the operation.” Damien scooted around Sherry to take the lead again. “Down this hallway. We have to duck through the main studio to get to the lobby.”

  Sherry noticed her father examining the next door they approached. “This way, Dad.”

  “Is there a men’s room around here?” Erno asked.

  “Right over there.” Damien indicated the direction with a head tilt as barking erupted from the other side of the door.

  “Bean, keep quiet.” Damien tapped the toe of his shoe on the door. “Carmell’s Jack Russell makes himself at home in her dressing room while she does her show. I need to check her contract. I might want to rescind the perk, citing continual noise violations.” His words had an edge as sharp as Sherry’s favorite paring knife. “Erno, head that way, and you’ll see a men’s room symbol on the door. We’ll wait for you in Studio A. Be as quiet as possible when you come in. They’re on live now.” Damien pointed to the illuminated “Quiet Please” sign at the end of the hall.

  Erno shuffled past Sherry and was enveloped by the dark corridor.

  “I hope my dad can find his way.” Sherry stared into the dingy abyss in front of her before glancing over her shoulder. “His vision isn’t as sharp as it used to be in low lighting. I guess if the governor found the men’s room, Dad can too. Minus the entourage.”

  Damien was too busy checking his cell phone and murmuring to himself to acknowledge Sherry’s attempt at humor.

  Chapter 2

  “What was that?” Sherry’s feet refused another step. She braced her quivering arms against her sides to steady them. She bent her knees and assumed the “ready to bear heavy weight” stance. As her hands lurched backward, a few more legumes and nuts were ejected from the platter she carried. “Did you feel a tremor?”

  Damien’s phone squealed. He scrambled to click a button that ended the shrill alarm. “A tough storm is about to pass over us. I’m getting a tornado warning on my phone. Heavy thunder, intense lightning, and hail possible, imminently . . . well, strike that, right now.” He brushed his finger across the phone screen. “There’s an ominous blob on the local radar. We’re in the bull’s-eye for the next ten minutes.”

  Sherry checked the hallway behin
d her. No sign of Erno. An army of chilling goose bumps advanced up her arms.

  “Listen, I’ve got to run to the control room and make sure operations are running smoothly. Sometimes a surge of electricity creates havoc at a low power station like ours. I’ll get your equipment case to the receptionist where you can collect it on your way out.” Another muffled boom echoed through the hall. “Head straight through those doors and wait in the back of the studio for your dad. Best place is behind the camera operator, Kirin. You won’t be in the way back there. And please, no talking.”

  Sherry jutted out her lower lip. Waves of silent pleas left her brain, begging Damien to stay with her, but his phone was his primary concern.

  Damien took off in the opposite direction and was soon out of sight.

  “If my ex-husband’s connection with me had been as strong as Damien’s is to his phone, Charlie and I would still be married,” Sherry whimpered.

  Sherry was left alone, with the challenge of opening the door to the main studio with full hands. Fort Knox didn’t have such impenetrable doors. A quick survey of her surroundings confirmed there was no one else around to help solve her problem.

  Sherry’s first thought was that, if she had once solved the dinnertime quandary of satisfying her meat and potatoes–craving ex-spouse when her refrigerator contained only one portobello mushroom and a cup of leftover black rice, this dilemma should be a piece of cake. Her second thought was that maybe her spontaneous cooking experiments were another reason why her ex-husband, Charlie, had been dissatisfied with their marriage.

  “Why am I even thinking of Charlie at a time like this? You’re on your own, girl.”

  Sherry set her serving plate and trophy on the floor and leaned on the door latch. No movement, whatsoever. After another rumble of thunder shook the walls, she pounded on the metal door, but was rewarded with only a muffled thud and a sore hand. Sherry set back her shoulders, guided her trophy and plate to the wall with her foot, and stared down the unforgiving barrier in front of her.

  “Let me help,” a boisterous voice chirped.

  Sherry rotated around, arms poised to strike, and whacked Steele Dumont on his forehead.

  Steele let out a gasp. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He waved a laminated card across the sensor. The door unlocked with a resounding click.

  “I didn’t hear you coming.” Sherry puffed out her cheeks, picked up her food and hardware, and walked through the open door. “My dad should be heading this way in a few minutes. Will he be able to get through without some sort of pass card?”

  “There’s always someone coming or going. He won’t have to wait long before he’s let in.” Steele closed the door with slow precision. He put his finger up to his lips. “One more minute and the segment’s over, so if you’ll wait over there, please.”

  Steele indicated a spot next to the giant camera being operated by a woman in a backward-facing baseball cap. “If I don’t get Carmell’s change of lipstick to her dressing room by the end of the next commercial break, there’ll be hell to pay.” Steele’s rubber-soled desert boots screeched without mercy on the linoleum floor as he reversed directions.

  Sherry took her position in the shadows at the back of the live set. As a result of her holding her right bicep cocked in support of her trophy for an extended length of time, a twitch was developing. Might as well try to relax and enjoy the show until Dad shows up. I wish he’d hurry up. Sherry turned her attention to Carmell seated at the anchor desk centered on a slick wooden riser. The woman in pinstripes, garnished with a gemstone statement necklace, delivered the words on the monitor with the smoothness of vanilla pudding.

  “As you can imagine, making a better life for his family was what motivated Andre August Dahlback, a sack of onion bulbs slung over his shoulder, to settle in this part of Connecticut, and aren’t we all better off for his having done so. Augustin’s Founder’s Day celebration is the brainchild of the town historical society. The festivities promise to deliver as many layers of fun as one of Mr. D.’s onions.” Carmell’s head bobbed up and down, as she appeared to agree with her own assessment. Her eyes, the color of kale and the shape of a crosscut carrot slice, enticed the camera lens to move in for a close-up. “After the commercial break, Sunny Side Up with Carmell and Brett will be taking a turn from our, thus far, food-themed show to explore the top five habits people have that unknowingly offend others on a continual basis.”

  Carmell drummed her fingers on the desk. “Wow, I hope our producer isn’t sending me a message with that story.”

  The camera’s red light faded to black. Sherry studied Carmell as the anchorwoman froze her toothy smile until the set lights lowered. As the lights lowered, so did the angle of Carmell’s lips. She pulled her cell phone from under the desk, held the device up to eye level, and shook her head. At the same time, Steele hopped up on set, only to be redirected with a wave of her hand.

  “Brett, four minutes. Be on set in four minutes,” an overhead speaker called out.

  Sherry was fixated on Carmell, who was pounding her fist on the wooden desk. Carmell’s lips were moving as if she was talking to herself.

  “I’m going to roll this bad boy back a few feet to frame a two-person shot. Watch your feet,” warned the woman steering the camera. “Kirin” was embroidered on the side of her cap. The camera operator stepped down from her perch and hauled the equipment backward. The woman hopped back up on her elevated seat and began extending and retracting the impressive lens.

  “Kirin, is that your name? Can I offer you a snack? I was in the cook-off this morning, and I have some leftovers.” Sherry tipped the plate to show off the contents.

  “Yes, I’m the notorious Kirin of Studio A. I didn’t shoot you over in Studio B. My counterpart, Lucky, owns that territory. I see by your trophy you won first prize. Congrats.” Kirin pointed her elbow toward the shiny spatula statue without taking her hands off her camera’s controls. “I suspect there was no giant game show check to go along with the win. Between you and me, this place is a bit strapped for cash.” She let out a puff of air. “Thanks for the snack offer. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until after the next segment. We’re about to resume shooting, and, if my hands are greasy, controlling this monster could get dicey.”

  The words “strapped for cash” landed in Sherry’s ears with the subtlety of Bananas Flambé.

  Sherry pursed her lips. “They’re not greasy, but it’s your decision. I’m on my way out. I could leave a sample with the receptionist out in the lobby. Kirin, I noticed the apron they gave me for the cook-off was printed with Sunny Side Up with Brett and Carmell, but Carmell told me the show’s name was Sunny Side Up with Carmell and Brett. What’s the correct order of names?”

  “Both ways have been correct, but Carmell is on top currently. Brett’s been the morning anchor here for twelve years. Carmell is in her second year. The youngster swept in like a twenty-three-year-old tsunami, and we’re all holding on to her coattails for dear life at this point. She made a suggestion, and the show title changed in an instant. Pretty amazing. I swear she has some invisible force making her quite powerful.” Kirin shrugged her shoulders. “If you think the show’s name change sat well with poor Brett, think again. Damien Castle is her puppet. Don’t even get me started on Truman Fletcher’s role in all this.”

  A thunderous boom turned heads. Kirin mumbled an indecipherable collection of words as she peered into the camera’s massive viewfinder. The overhead lights surged with an impossible glow before flickering and dying out altogether. A despondent curse was exclaimed. A resounding crash and a dull thud echoed through the room. Sherry dared not move, visualizing the spaghetti-like maze of thick cables on the floor, the towering microphone boom at head level, and a landscape of television monitors conspiring to stage a mechanical coup in the pitch black.

  “Attention, people.” The room din ceased. “Remain calm. The storm has knocked out power. We’re not sure why the generator has failed, but we’re
trying to locate Mr. Castle to get some answers.”

  An almost inaudible voice added, “The penny-pinching owner has sure done it this time. You get what you pay for.”

  Kirin began humming to herself. Sherry wished she knew Kirin well enough to ask her to refrain from humming her eerie tune, which, in the enveloping darkness, was as unwelcome as grit on spinach leaves.

  “I can’t hold these anymore, so watch where you step. I have to put my platter down. My arms are on fire.” The lights burst on as Sherry set the platter down.

  “Dear God.” Kirin leapt away from the camera, grazing Sherry’s foot with her combat boot. “Someone help Carmell.”

  There was a piercing scream and pounding footsteps. Sherry blinked hard to acclimate her eyes to the light. As her eyesight adjusted, she witnessed the monitor come to life. On the screen, she was able to make out the anchor desk amidst a flurry of background activity. Sherry pushed her face closer to the screen, in hopes of clarifying what a pile of clothing was doing in the middle of the camera shot. Upon further inspection, she was able to make out a head and a set of shoulders amongst the clothes. Behind the desk, someone had his or her outstretched arms blocking full visual access to the scene. Orders were being barked.

  “This area must be cleared out. We need space.”

  Sherry grabbed Kirin’s arm. “Is that Carmell Gordy slumped over?” Sherry blinked hard in hopes the scene would present itself in a clearer light. “What’s the liquid dripping over the edge of the desk? Reminds me of the red wine syrup I make to go with poached pears.”