A Healthy Place to Die

by Peter King

  No matter. I turned to Kathleen and reached for her pulse again. Just as I did so, I heard the rustling again, only this time it was immediately behind me. I started to turn, but a wave of sweetish-smelling vapor hit me in the face even as I swung around. The stuff was extraordinarily fast acting because I passed out before I could see who was behind me. Fast as it was, though, I was aware of a slight eucalyptus undertone to the odor, evidently the professional receptors working even as they lapsed into inactivity.

  When I came around, it seemed like only a minute or two later. Whatever the anesthetic was, it left no aftereffects, and I was able to recall instantaneously my thoughts as I went under. My first thought now, though, was the registration of the fact that Kathleen was gone. I was sprawled against one bank of flagellators, and as I struggled upright I wondered if I had been moved and was perhaps out for longer than I had supposed. If so, maybe Kathleen was still here.

  I listened carefully. All was silent. I looked for a weapon of some kind but there was nothing. I went on down the tunnel, examining every inch, but there was no sign of Kathleen. From the distance I had gone once I reached the end, I was sure I had not been moved—and if I had not, Kathleen had. There was no one here, neither her nor anyone else.

  Out of the tunnel, it was already twilight. The open air was a wonderful relief after the dim, dank confines of the forest. I breathed easier, but I didn’t think it safe to hang around. I grabbed my clothes and headed back to the main buildings.

  The grounds were still and beautiful in the fading light. Outside the conference facility was a kiosk with two phones. I snatched the nearest, punched zero for an inside line and then eight for reception. A cool feminine voice answered.

  “Get somebody out to the Seaweed Forest at once,” I said, still slightly breathless. “There’s been an accident.”

  I hung up without waiting for a reply. A low profile was the best approach until I learned more of what was happening. Switzerland was a peaceful, law-abiding country, but maybe it stayed that way by having a vigorous police force. I pulled my clothes on quickly and strolled back to the reception area as nonchalantly as I could.

  Reception was a wooden Alpine building, spacious and bright. The floors were inlaid wooden tile, paintings hung on the walls, and a vast tapestry was above the enormous stone fireplace. On one side of it, a number of leather armchairs and sofas adjoined a rack of newspapers in a dozen languages. The information desk was quiet. There was only one person at the cash desk and that looked like a routine currency-changing transaction. A young man and a young woman were at the reception desk, immersed in their routine duties. All looked quite normal.

  Bursting with curiosity but aware that perhaps news of a dead body had not yet hit the fan, I settled in one of the armchairs. I had sat with a copy of the Stockholm Tagblatt for some minutes before I remembered I did not read Swedish. I looked around the area. No one could have cared less. At the reception desk, a calm work environment continued. A phone rang and the young woman answered it, but it was evidently a guest asking a routine question.

  I picked up a newspaper I could read and tried to concentrate on it. Time passed. Nothing happened. No alarm, no one rushing in disheveled to report a body, no security officers hurrying through, hastily patting their hip to make sure their sidearm was still there. I read the sports news and the fashion news and an article on the economy of the Philippines. The large clock on the wall said half an hour had now elapsed.

  Certain that police would burst in at any moment, I read about electric cars and voice-actuated computers and the dwindling llama population of Peru. The time stretched out into the longest hour I could remember. Past ten o’clock, my nerves had settled but my mind was boggled. Had the staff member who took my call thought me a crank? Or was the spa so prestigious and powerful that it could gloss over a dead body? And if so, why?

  I went to bed, brain still churning.

  On my way to the breakfast room, I went through the reception area again. After so many hours I hardly expected to see any turmoil, and there was none. If there had been any action, it would have been during the night hours. All was orderly and tranquil, quintessentially Swiss.

  Millicent Manners, princess of the soap operas, was already at breakfast, which surprised me. I would have guessed her to be a late riser, but she explained that she was so used to being on the set early that she could not sleep past six o’clock. She used the hour after that for her daily aerobics, she said. Helmut Helberg, the supermarket king, was partway through a plateful of ham, salami, prosciutto, sausage, and three different kinds of cheese. “I like a German breakfast,” he explained as he called for another cup of coffee.

  To my table came a couple from Minnesota who said they were fanatical about food and were really looking forward to the classes. They were both retired schoolteachers and became involved in a long conversation with an earnest young Swiss who wrote for a newspaper in Berne and had persuaded his editor to let him cover the conference.

  As far as last night’s dramatic event was concerned, it had not happened. At least, there was no sign of any disturbance, no police presence, no investigative activity. The place ran as smoothly as clockwork (Swiss clockwork). Nothing ruffled the placidity, and I rattled my brains to figure out why. Had anyone been to the Seaweed Forest to check out my call? If not, had no one yet been there on a legitimate visit and run out screaming upon falling over a dead body?

  Classes were due to start at nine-thirty, and I had a little preparation to do. I entered the kitchen at about nine o’clock, but I need not have worried. The ingredients were all lined up, cooking utensils were neatly laid out, burners were on low, and even so early, half a dozen eager and would-be cooks sat at desks waiting.

  I put the red peppers in the oven and adjusted it to 190 degrees centigrade. The notes I had submitted on arrival had been neatly typed and gave the conversion as 375 degrees Fahrenheit. I shelled most of the large shrimp, being careful not to remove the head and tail. I left the rest of the shrimp to be shelled as part of the demonstration. I sliced onions, covered them to keep them moist, and sliced some tomatoes.

  People were drifting in now, and Caroline de Witt came in to wish me good morning. She would be introducing me, she said, and asked if there was anything else I needed. By nine-thirty, about twenty people had assembled. Caroline quickly checked names, told me all were present, and gave them my background. I was pleased to note that she concentrated on my past as a chef and made no mention of any detection activities.

  I began by explaining that I was going to prepare shrimp Nissarde, a quick and easy dish but an award winner and one that permitted the imparting of a few chef’s secrets. I shelled the remainder of the shrimp, pointing out that leaving on the head and tail makes for a more impressive final presentation. I took the red peppers from the oven and immediately wrapped them in newspaper. This is a trick of Provence chefs, I said. Condensation inside the paper wrapping lifts the skin away and makes the peeling process simple.

  I put the sliced onions and some unpeeled garlic cloves into a bowl, then when the timer announced three minutes, I removed the newspaper and chopped the red peppers and added them. A frying pan was already warming up on a burner, and I poured in some olive oil and added the shrimp. “Be careful not to handle the shrimp too roughly, as they can easily break at any stage in the cooking,” I advised.

  I cooked the shrimp for two minutes, added salt and pepper, then turned the shrimp over for two more minutes. “The shrimp should now be a pale yellow-orange color,” I warned, then poured in rum. “Be sure to use Barbados rum,” I told them.

  “The rich, heavy-bodied rums are best, as they give a more full-bodied final taste.”

  I touched a flame to the pan and moved the shrimp around for about fifteen seconds until the flames had almost subsided. “I am giving the pan a quick shake to extinguish the dying flames,” I explained, “and make sure no combustion products remain.” I removed the shrimp and added the onions
, peppers, and garlic. “I am using the unshelled garlic rather than the chopped,” I explained, “as it gives the dish an aroma rather than a strong garlic flavor.” I added bay leaf, thyme, and rosemary, simmered a moment, and added the tomatoes and almost a cup of dry white wine.

  After simmering a few minutes, the sauce had acquired a rich brown color, which I showed to the assembly. I added some basic fish sauce and simmered another two or three minutes to reduce the volume. I mixed in some fresh parsley and chervil and invited a woman from the front row to taste. She proclaimed it superb. I put the shrimp on a serving dish and poured the sauce over them.

  “Finally,” I said, “I’m going to drizzle some fresh olive oil over the entire mixture. When preparing tomato sauces with oil, uncooked olive oil added at the end lends a subtle freshness to the flavor.”

  Someone commented on how wonderful they looked, and all clamored for a taste. In five minutes, the serving platter was empty, and fresh-baked, crisp-crusted French bread was being used to mop up the remnants of the sauce.

  After a few questions, I went on to mention the more exotic ways of preparing shrimp, an extremely versatile food. Piri-Piri style shrimp from Mozambique, which uses a marinade of garlic, peanut oil, and red chillies, are grilled very hot and served with a lemon butter sauce poured over them. Bengal style is cooked in a sauce of mustard, coconut, turmeric, and coriander, and Greek style with onions, tomatoes, garlic, oregano, cream sherry, and feta cheese. These mouthwatering mentions brought a flood of questions, which took us well past our eleven o’clock finishing time.

  Caroline had left after watching me get well into the presentation, but she returned before the end and helped wind up what she described as a great start to the week. “I suppose you’re ready for lunch after that,” she commented. It was the first glint of humor I had seen from her. “I think a few lungfuls of this magnificent Alpine air is what I need,” I told her. I went out into the bright sun and cogitated some more.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  COGITATION WAS GETTING ME nowhere. That was the only conclusion to which my cogitation brought me. Had Kathleen’s body been found? Reception must have acted on my call. Someone must have gone to the Seaweed Forest, and if they had gone there, they must have found her body. Further doubt began to creep in at this point. Had she been dead? I had been feeling for a pulse when I had heard the rustling sound and the voice. Could I be certain that she was dead? Or had she recovered and hurried out?

  I was reluctant to accept the latter. I recalled seeing a red danger line on the control panel. If someone had pushed the lever past that line, could the increased flagellation have caused asphyxiation?

  Working with insufficient facts was not an efficient way of working. That sounded like a quote from Charlie Chan, and like most of the bons mots from the Honolulu sleuth, it had some validity. How to get more facts? Back to the reception area …

  The young man at the desk was busy with a guest, and so I approached the young woman. Her name badge said she was Monique. “Is there a message for me?” I asked and gave her my name. She checked and came back with a sad negative. “That’s strange,” I said. “I had arranged to meet Kathleen Evans for lunch and I can’t find her anywhere.”

  A slight frown creased Monique’s smooth features. “Evans …” She mused. “I have just seen that name.” She quickly found it. “Yes, Evans, Kathleen … she checked out this morning.”

  That caught me off balance. “She couldn’t have—she—” I recovered and smiled a plastic smile. “She wouldn’t have left without explaining why she couldn’t keep our lunch appointment.” Monique looked sympathetic. “It must have been something urgent,” she suggested. “But let me look again.” She did so and came back with the same answer. “She definitely checked out.”

  “Do you have the time logged?”

  She conferred with the cashier. “Six-twenty this morning.”

  “How did she leave? Can you find out?”

  Monique nodded and picked up the phone, talked briefly. “A taxi made a pickup here at six-thirty. That must have been for Ms. Evans. She went to the airport.”

  I thanked her. This was getting fishier by the moment. I walked over to the travel desk. “What flights have left the airport since seven o’clock this morning?”

  A large woman with a competent air answered me without even checking. “The first flight was to Frankfurt at eight. From then until noon, there have been flights to Copenhagen, Milan, Paris, Stuttgart, and Vienna.”

  “Can you tell me which airlines those flights were?”

  “Swissair, SAS, Swissair, Air France, Lufthansa, and Swissair,” she replied without hesitation. While talking, she was pushing a pad and a pencil toward me. I jotted them down and headed for the public phone outside.

  It took half an hour, and at first I was Kathleen’s fiancé, then I became her brother when I found that a close family member got better attention. The passenger list for the Air France flight to Paris included the name of Kathleen Evans. Had she been on it? I persisted. The aircraft was fully loaded, I was told.

  Alice was right. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  It was enough to suppress one’s appetite, but my life consisted of eating and activities connected with it, so I headed for the restaurant. Besides, I wanted to continue to perform normally. Did I need to? I wondered. Who might wish me harm? Whoever had killed Kathleen, was the answer, but had she been killed after all? And if so, how did she take a taxi to the airport and a flight to Paris?

  As far as my involvement was concerned, no one else knew I was meeting her in the Seaweed Forest. I might have been seen but—ah! there was something. I knew of only one person who had seen me—one of the young blond staff women. True, I hadn’t told her I was going to the Seaweed Forest, but all the hydrotherapy units were on the path where we had met.

  I had a quick lunch—Strudel di Fritatta, a dish from the Italian part of Switzerland, although variations of it can be found in different regions of Italy. It is a rolled omelet with a filling of creamy goat cheese mixed with arugula. A sauce of egg yolks, cream, and a Swiss white wine helped the omelet provide some mental stimulation, or so I hoped.

  At two o’clock, it was back to the schoolroom. I noticed that Marta Giannini was there, and so were Tim Reynolds, the golfer, and Elaine Dunbar, the lawyer who had made the dramatic late entrance. Michel Leblanc, the chubby chef from France, was the first speaker in the lineup.

  “You must learn to prepare food before you can cook it,” he told the class. “Preparation is mostly cutting. You must become a human food processor. You must learn to chop, slice, mince, dice—vegetables, fish, meat, poultry—all need cutting and in different ways.”

  He gave a demonstration with a large snapper. “Two hundred and fifty species of this fish,” he said. “It’s found in oceans everywhere. Every one needs cutting.” He held it supported by his two hands. “Handle it only like this. A fish can bruise easier than a person.” He laid it on the block and showed how to fillet it, pushing in the knife under the gill and from the backbone, slicing through it with one stroke. “Take care to remove all the bones. Filleting means ‘all bones.’”

  When the fish had been removed to be baked that evening. Michel went on to demonstrate poultry cutting—not carving, “that is for the table only,” but cutting it into the many shapes needed for cooking. It was a fine presentation, and although I was not involved, I enjoyed sitting in the audience and absorbing it all.

  The question-and-answer session was lively. One lady asked a particularly relevant question. “If I ask for a steak in a restaurant,” she said, “it’s reasonable that the waiter asks me how I want it cooked. But if I’m asked the same question when ordering seafood, I really don’t know what to say. Surely fish should never be undercooked—isn’t the risk of bacteria too high? No one wants fish overcooked. So isn’t there a stage at which fish is thoroughly cooked? Then why the question?”

  Michel smiled obligingly. “This is the outcom
e of the interest that Paul Bocuse, Alain Chapel, and other French chefs have shown in adapting features from Oriental cooking. Some diners have learned to prefer fish such as tuna and salmon cooked rare, and you have to remember also the influence of Japanese cooking. Sushi and sashimi are raw fish dishes.”

  “How come people who eat those in Japan don’t get sick?” asked another voice.

  “Within minutes of being caught, fish in Japan are flash frozen at very low temperatures, and this kills the bacteria. That is how they can serve it raw.”

  Caroline came in just before Michel finished. She was evidently going to all of the classes being held, and they were timed for her to have a fifteen-minute presentation between speakers and demonstrators. It was an informative quarter hour during which she covered a number of topics. She referred again to the food served at the spa. It gave the appearance, she said, of having no regard for calories, cholesterol, or fats. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Fat-free products were widely used where they did not affect taste. Yogurt replaced cream in most dishes and no one could tell the difference. White flour products and white sugar products were avoided. All breads were natural, all game was wild, and poultry was not fattened for the market. A large number of fish dishes appeared on the menus, the spa grew its own vegetables—on which no insecticides or fungicides were used—and it also grew its own herbs and spices, many of which were used in place of salt.

  The presentation was something of a commercial for the spa, but it could also be used as a plan for anyone really interested in a healthy diet. Questions flooded in, and Caroline had to cut them off in order to keep to her schedule, promising to answer them all during the week. As she left, I saw Helmut Helberg, the supermarket-chain owner, come in and sit at the back of the room. I was on next. Carver Armitage had elected to speak on shellfish, and as the rest of the program had been formulated, I had to stay with his choice. I had already talked on shrimp, so now the topic was lobster. Two of the spiny creatures lay on the table before me.