Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses (A Happy Hoofers Mystery)

by Mary McHugh

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. I didn’t tell her she forgot to button her blouse.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Powell,” Heidi said, stopping by our table. “Are you all right? Such a shock this morning. Poor Sasha.”

  “Oh, Heidi,” I said, “what’s happening? Do they know who shot Sasha?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “No, I can’t imagine why anyone vould vant to kill such a sweet man. He never said a cross word or did an unkind thing to anybody.”

  “I understand the inspector is going to question us this morning,” I said.

  “Ja,” Heidi said. “This is very difficult for the passengers, so Sergei says he vill give cooking demonstration for anybody who vants to vatch him. Vould be good distraction, I think.”

  “That’s a good idea, Heidi,” I said. “Why don’t you announce it here? People are totally freaking out. This will give them something to do while they’re waiting for the police to question them.”

  Heidi stood up and in a loud voice told the assembled crowd about Sergei’s offer.

  After breakfast, several women in the crowd joined Tatiana and me as we headed into the kitchen. My gang joined us.

  “This is really nice of Sergei,” Mary Louise said to Tatiana. “In the middle of all this chaos, he’s going to give us a cooking lesson. That’s so great.”

  “Sergei is fine young man,” Tatiana said.

  Gini poked me without saying anything, but I got her message: Maybe fine, maybe not.

  About twenty of us crowded into the small kitchen where Sergei was waiting for us. His white jacket was clean, his dark hair neatly tucked under a cap. He spoke in halting English and Tatiana filled in the words he didn’t know.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I make for you Chicken Cutlets Pojarski. Big favorite in my country. Tatiana, you could tell history of these cutlets, please?”

  Tatiana smiled at the group and said, “Long, long ago, in a little town called Torjok, there was a tavern where everybody came. The man who owned the tavern was named Pojarski. He invented this dish, which was originally made of chopped game and beef, and formed into cutlets. Now it’s usually made with chicken and served with a paprika sauce. Sergei will show us how he makes it. He’s made it for me many times and it is really delicious.”

  “OK,” Sergei said.

  He took a mixing bowl from the refrigerator.

  “In this bowl, I have been chilling for several hours chicken cutlets which I ground up and seasoned with salt and pepper, nutmeg, and melted butter. Now I take the cold meat and make first a ball and then flatten out into a cutlet.”

  “How much butter, Sergei?” Mary Louise asked, taking notes.

  “About six tablespoons,” Sergei said.

  “Fat city,” one woman in the crowd muttered.

  “Is not diet dish,” Sergei said, and we all applauded him. “Food should not be punishment.” We clapped again.

  “So,” Sergei said. “You put flour on piece of waxed paper. Next to that, eggs mixed with corn oil and water in a glass dish. Over here at end, you put panko crumbs on large dish. Panko better than bread crumbs because lighter.” He looked at the lady on a diet and said, “Fewer calories.” She smiled.

  “Take chicken cutlets,” he continued, “put first in flour, then in eggs, then in panko. Put in refrigerator for a short time while you make paprika sauce, which is what makes Chicken Pojarski different and so good.”

  “So far, it’s just like the chicken cutlets I make at home without calling them Pojarski,” Mary Louise said to me in a low voice.

  “Well, let’s see what he does with the sauce,” I said. “That’s what makes it a pièce de résis-tance.”

  “Tina, you know I never give up,” she said.

  “OK,” Sergei said. “Sauce. Also not diet,” he said to the butter-resistant woman.

  “First, you chop some onion and cook in butter. Then add paprika, flour, and thyme, and stir, stir, stir. Put in chicken stock. I make from chicken bones, but you can buy in supermarket. Not as good, but OK. Use whisk and stir in stock.

  “You, lady,” he said, pointing to Mary Louise. “Come, pour in stock and stir for about three minutes while it simmers. Don’t stop stirring. Is what makes it good.”

  Mary Louise, who was loving all this, moved to the stove next to Sergei and whisked and stirred the mixture while he beamed.

  “You have made sauce before?” he asked her.

  “Not like this, Sergei,” she said. “But I’m cooking this one as soon as I get home.”

  “You have husband who like Russian food?” he asked.

  “He likes every kind of food,” she said, “as long as he doesn’t have to do anything but sit down and eat it.”

  “You like cooking every night?” Sergei asked.

  “Not really, Sergei,” she said. “But I love him so I cook for him.”

  “Lucky man,” Sergei said, and we all applauded again.

  “OK. Now I show you best part. Again, not diet food. I add to this sauce stirred with special touch of lady who loves husband, heavy cream, and make boil. Careful, so does not—how you say it, Tatiana?”

  “Curdle, Sergei,” Tatiana said.

  “Yes, curdle. Then add lemon juice—about two teaspoons, not too much—more salt and pepper, and the best part, a little cognac. But wait, not finished yet. You add a lot of butter,” he looked up at the lady again. “Sorry. But is necessary. Add butter and finally about a quarter of a cup of sour cream. Bring almost to a boil, but do not boil, or will . . . curdle,” he looked up triumphantly.

  We all applauded, including the low-fat lady, and he said, “I put sauce in little dishes so you can taste.” He passed them around to all of us.

  “This is to die for, Sergei,” Mary Louise said. “I love this.”

  “Is because you stirred in chicken stock,” Sergei said, smiling at her.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Can’t wait to do this at home for George.”

  “Maybe when I get my restaurant in St. Petersburg, you will bring him for Cutlets Pojarski.”

  “I’d love to, Sergei,” she said, adding in a low voice to me, “but I like my cutlets without dead bodies.”

  MARY LOUISE’S RECIPE FOR CHICKEN POJARSKI

  2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts

  ¼ to ½ teaspoon nutmeg

  10 tablespoons butter

  ½ cup flour

  1 large egg

  1½ teaspoons corn oil

  1½ tablespoons water

  1¾ cups panko crumbs

  1. Chop or grind chicken. Add salt and pepper, and nutmeg. Melt half the butter and add to mixture. Mix thoroughly and chill in the refrigerator.

  2. Shape the chicken into small cutlets and dip first in the flour, then in the egg combined with the oil and water, and then into the panko. Put in the refrigerator briefly.

  3. Sauté the cutlets in the other half of the butter until golden brown and serve with paprika sauce.

  Paprika sauce:

  2 tablespoons butter

  3½ tablespoons chopped onion

  2 teaspoons paprika

  1 tablespoon flour

  ½ teaspoon thyme

  ½ cup chicken stock (canned is fine)

  ½ cup heavy cream

  2 teaspoons lemon juice

  1½ teaspoons brandy

  ¼ cup sour cream

  1. Cook onion until transparent in half the butter in a saucepan. Add paprika, flour, and thyme, and stir. Add chicken stock or canned broth, and simmer for three or four minutes.

  2. Add heavy cream and heat until just boiling. Add lemon juice, salt and pepper, and the brandy. Stir in the remaining tablespoon of butter and the sour cream. Heat until just boiling, but don’t boil.

  Makes two mouthwatering, very filling portions.

  Priyatnogo appetita!!! Bon Appetit to you!!!

  Tina’s Travel Tip: If there’s a murder or two while you’re on your cruise, don’t complain to the cruise director. She might be the killer.r />
  Chapter 13

  Just Your Name and Social Security Number

  On the dot of ten, Heidi and a man in uniform came into the Skylight Bar, which was filled with passengers. The man’s dark eyes scanned the room, moving from person to person as if he could read our minds. He was tall and thin with a military bearing.

  The lounge grew quiet as Heidi picked up a microphone.

  “Do not be alarmed,” she said. “Inspector Gregarin would just like to ask you a few questions.”

  She handed the microphone to the inspector, who blew into it, creating an ear-splitting screech of feedback, before he cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Thank you, Miss Gorsuch,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, we were sent here to find some information about the murder of Kenneth Allgood, who was the chef on this cruise. Now it seems we must also ask you if you know anything about the death of your dining room manager, Sasha. We retrieved a body from the river yesterday, and we have reason to believe it was Mr. Allgood. We won’t really know until we have done further tests, but his passport was found on the body. Then, this morning, someone shot Sasha. We’re hoping one of you might have seen something that will help us. I would like to ask each of you a few questions out on deck, so it will be private, and then you will be free to go back to your cabins. Please excuse this inconvenience. We will make this as fast as we can. Thank you for your help.” Looking at the microphone as though it were a snake that might bite him, he handed it back to Heidi.

  One by one, the inspector escorted the passengers and the crew to the deck and spoke to them, seated on one of the wooden chairs. I couldn’t hear his questions or the answers, but I could see the interrogations from my seat near the window.

  He started with Sergei. After a few questions, I could see the sous-chef shouting at the inspector. Red-faced, he jumped up so violently, he knocked over his chair. Tatiana, watching from a chair near me, ran out on deck. She said something to Inspector Gregarin and then put her hand on Sergei’s arm to calm him. She spoke again to the inspector, who dismissed Sergei and then questioned Tatiana.

  When he was through with Tatiana, she followed Sergei back to the kitchen. Gregarin motioned to Barry Martin to come out on deck. He strode out to confront the inspector, who asked him a question. Instead of answering, Barry pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, and began to talk, totally ignoring the inspector. Gregarin waited several minutes for him to put down his phone, getting angrier and angrier. He finally motioned to one of his officers to escort Barry off the deck. Barry tried to pull away and ignore the officer, but was taken back to the Skylight Bar, his phone still against his ear. The inspector clearly was not pleased.

  Heidi was questioned next. We could see her talking earnestly, gesturing with her hands, standing up and sitting down, obviously very nervous and upset.

  The inspector took Heidi’s hand in his and turned it back and forth, examining her knuckles and wrist, tilting her head to look at her Adam’s apple. He pointed to her foot and she took off her loafer. He looked at her ankle and foot and then handed her shoe back to her. She stomped her foot into it, shouting so loudly that we could hear her through the window.

  “Vat are you doing? I had nothing to do with this. I have nothing hidden in my shoe. Do you think I hide a gun in there? Ach! I never should have hired that chef. He was a terrible cook. You should have eaten some of his food. It vas terrible. And Sasha was like my own son.”

  The inspector motioned again to the police officer, who accompanied Heidi off the deck. She came into the bar, still talking loudly.

  “He made me take off my shoe,” she said. “Why vould he do that?”

  The bartender came over to her, put his arm around her, and led her out of the room.

  I turned back to see what would happen next. The inspector talked to each of the waitresses one by one. They still remembered stories their parents told them about police interrogations when the Communists were in power. Even now the country was run by an ex-KGB officer, so they were terrified. It had never been a good thing to talk to the police in Russia.

  After he finished with the waitresses, the inspector saw me watching and motioned to me to come out on deck.

  “You are Ms. Powell? One of the entertainers?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “And it was you who found Sasha this morning?”

  “Yes, my friends and I found him.”

  “What time did you find his body?”

  “About six-thirty, I think.”

  “What were you doing up at that hour?”

  “I usually go for a run early in the morning.”

  “You have trouble sleeping?”

  “No, no. I sleep well. But I only need about six hours’ sleep. Then I’m awake and ready for a run.”

  “You are not worried about anything?”

  “Only the usual things.”

  “What do you mean—the usual things?”

  “Are our costumes ready for the evening performance? Will we remember the routines? Will anybody else be killed on this cruise? You know, stuff like that.”

  “Do you find homicide funny, Ms. Powell?”

  “Of course not!” I said heatedly. “I just don’t know where you’re going with this line of questioning, Inspector.”

  “Did you hear any gunshots while you were running?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, “or I would have called somebody right away.”

  “Was anybody else with you on that run?”

  “Just one of the British passengers and my friends Alex and Gini,” I said. “I’m sure they didn’t hear anything either or they would have done something. Sasha must have been shot before any of us went out on deck.”

  The inspector paused, put on his glasses, and looked at the notes in front of him. “Did you know the chef?”

  “I only met him a couple of times, very briefly,” I said with a grimace.

  “You did not like him?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  An alarm went off in the back of my mind. I heard Peter’s voice clearly: “Tina, just give your name and social security number. Don’t volunteer any information you’re not asked for. It could come back to bite you.”

  The inspector looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Why didn’t you like him?”

  “He was a—he was—he couldn’t cook very well.”

  “So you wished him dead because of his cooking?”

  “No, no, of course not,” I said, stammering. “I didn’t say I wished he were dead. I just wished we had another cook on the ship, that’s all.”

  “Isn’t it true, Ms. Powell,” the inspector said, speaking slowly, “that Mr. Allgood attacked you on deck on your first day aboard this ship? That he tried to rape you after you complained about his cooking?”

  Whooooa, I thought. How did he know about that? Barry maybe. Or Heidi. Does he think I killed that little fink? Watch out, Tina.

  “He was just obnoxious, Inspector,” I said, working to keep my voice steady. “He didn’t try to rape me. Thanks to Mr. Martin, I got away from him.”

  “But you were happy when he was replaced by another chef?”

  “Well, I—uh—I—,” I said. “The food was much better when Sergei started cooking.”

  Inspector Gregarin wrote for several minutes in his notebook. I kept thinking of Peter Falk as Columbo and how he always borrowed a pencil from someone and scribbled away in his notepad when he was talking to people, and how all those scribbled notes led to the murderer. I could just imagine the inspector jumping up and announcing to the other passengers, “We have found the woman who murdered Kenneth Allgood.” Then he points a finger at me and says, “It was Tina Powell.”

  “Do you know anything else about Mr. Allgood that might be useful?” he asked.

  I examined my nails, which could have used a good buffing. “Well, I did hear that he threatened some of the workers in the kitchen with a knife. They were all afraid of him. Some refused to go into
the kitchen with him after that.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of the waitresses told my friend,” I said.

  “Which friend?”

  “Janice Rogers.”

  The inspector said something to the police officer in Russian. The officer went into the bar and brought Janice back with him.

  “May I go, Inspector?” I asked.

  “No, please stay. Would you repeat what you just told me?”

  “You mean that the chef threatened some people in the kitchen with a knife?”

  “Yes, and when I asked you how you knew that, you said that—”

  “A waitress told me that, Inspector,” Janice interrupted. “And I told Brad Sheldon.”

  “Why did you do that?” the inspector asked.

  “I was worried about Brad, so I went looking for him. Just before dinner, I found him in the corridor. He told me he thought the chef was a good person at first because he wanted to visit Brad in New York. But then he talked to some people in the kitchen who said he had a knife. That scared Brad. He was going to talk to the chef after dinner and ask him if that incident really happened.”

  “What was your relationship to this Brad Sheldon?”

  “I met him on our first day aboard the ship. He told me he was an actor, that he had seen me act in a play. He asked if I could help him with a part he was going to play in New York. I promised to help him, but I never got the chance. Do you have any idea where he is now, Inspector?”

  He ignored her question and fixed me with a piercing look. “I have a few more questions for you. Please wait inside, Ms. Powell.”

  I joined my friends while the inspector talked to Janice. She came back in after a few minutes and said, “He wants to ask you some more questions, Tina.”

  “What did he ask you, Jan?” I asked.

  “All kinds of questions about Brad: If he was gay, how long did he know the chef, if I knew him before I got on the ship, if I had a lot of gay friends, if we all had husbands. He even asked me about my daughter! He knew all about her. He asked me if I took drugs too.” She shuddered. “He sounded as if he had already made up his mind that Brad had killed the chef. But I know that Brad could never kill anybody. He must be hiding somewhere, scared to death.”