A Healthy Place to Die

by Peter King

  I told him of the main factors to consider, starting with location. I asked about Stan’s history and the discussion went on through my fennel stuffed with feta and Kalamata olives followed by haddock in rice paper with a shallot, red pepper, and soy sauce. At the end of it. I had to tell him that it sounded chancy. He sounded disappointed, and I told him by all means to get further opinions. On the other side of me, the Japanese lady was anxious to ask me what I thought about her nephew’s future if he persisted in wanting to marry high technology to the fishing industry. I was cautiously optimistic, and she nodded in satisfaction, though it might have been at her grilled mahimahi with green tomatoes rather than my advice.

  After the meal, I saw Elaine. She was deep in conversation with two men and seemed to be doing most of the talking. I was leaving the table when Janet approached me. “Have a good meal?” I asked her.

  “What? Oh, yes, it was fine.” She didn’t sound inclined to describe it any further than that and stepped aside from the others leaving the table but stood facing me.

  “Can we have a chat? There are some points we need to discuss.” She was brusque, and tension showed in her voice.

  “Certainly,” I said. “I have a session at two-thirty and I need to run over Carver’s notes first. Can we talk afterward?”

  “All right. I’ll attend the session. Which conference room are you in?”

  “Six A.”

  She hurried out and I stared after her, wondering what was behind this request.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE AFTERNOON SESSION WAS by special request. A number of guests had said that they had specific questions, and Caroline and her team thought the answers might be of interest to all. Consequently, a panel was put together consisting of Michel Leblanc, Leighton Vance, and myself, with Caroline de Witt as the chairperson. At least I supposed that was what she was, though I was judging by her manner and bearing, which were certainly autocratic even if I had no way of classifying her as unduly feminist.

  “Tell us about stir-frying,” invited a woman with a Scandinavian accent. “It’s not a cooking technique that most of us grew up with, not having been born in the Orient. Cookbooks don’t help—they just say ‘stir-fry.’”

  Caroline looked at the panel for an answer. Leighton Vance looked airily at Michel, who answered. “A Chinese wok is a very good investment. A heavy frying pan will do, but a wok is certainly the best. It was designed exactly for the job, which is a very rapid transfer of heat.”

  Vance didn’t seem inclined to continue so I went on, “Stir-frying has the advantage of being fast, as Michel says. Its disadvantage is that the preparation time is longer because all the ingredients need to be chopped finely. Frozen vegetables, by the way, can be used frozen, they just take a few seconds longer. The order of stir-frying the ingredients is important. The vegetables should always be cooked first. The sauce should be added next. Some recipes don’t call for one but I always like to use one, as vegetables are dry without a little liquid.

  “The basic sauce consists of chicken or vegetable broth with cornstarch or flour to thicken and a little soy sauce. It is important to remove this before introducing the meat, chicken, or shellfish, otherwise there is a tendency to overcook.”

  Michel added, “Stir-frying is very simple and it is preferable to use a wok or a pan that you can hold comfortably in one hand so that you can use wrist action to stir with the other hand.”

  “What are sweetbreads?” Tim Reynolds asked. “I’ve always wanted to know.”

  There came a few sympathetic laughs, no doubt from others who didn’t know either.

  Leighton Vance was ready with the answer for this one. “It’s the thymus gland of a lamb, calf, or young steer. When animals grow more than a year old, their thymus gland shrinks and disappears.”

  “What’s a thymus gland?” Tim persisted. Someone laughed, and Tim turned and shrugged. “I’m not a chef, that’s why I asked the first question. I’m not a doctor either.”

  Michel stepped in at this point. “It’s a small gland in the neck. It helps make white blood cells.”

  “I never did see a good reason to eat it,” Tim called out.

  “They have to be eaten immediately, as they are extremely perishable,” said Michel. “Sweetbreads are a good source of protein, but, sadly, they are very high in cholesterol.”

  Caroline looked over the room and selected another raised hand. “What exactly are ‘andouilettes’?” was the question. “We see them on menus in French restaurants and here in Switzerland too, but we’re not quite sure what they are.”

  Leighton looked disdainful, as if he felt that anyone attending these classes should know the answer, so I answered.

  “They’re called ‘chitterlings’ in English. Pigs’ intestines. They are seasoned and then shaped like sausages. They are poached, cooled, and then grilled. Lyonnaise and Strasbourg styles are the most popular.”

  A string of other questions followed. One interesting one was, “Is it all right to drink a cocktail before dinner? It doesn’t spoil the taste of the food?”

  “Certainly not,” I said promptly. “A good cocktail puts you in the mood for a good meal and stimulates the appetite. My only rule is not to drink gin before having a meal with red wine.”

  “I drink only wine,” Michel said. “Perhaps being brought up in a region full of vineyards is the reason rather than any matter of choice. I have tasted martinis and don’t like them.”

  Leighton Vance declined an answer, and no one pressed him.

  “Is it acceptable to use frozen foods?” someone asked.

  Leighton came to life on this one. “You will find no frozen foods in our kitchen, nor do we microwave,” he said firmly.

  Michel Leblanc disagreed. “Some frozen products are very good—you have to be selective, of course.”

  “As many of us cook at home,” I added, “it’s reasonable to keep a supply of frozen foods there.”

  I hadn’t noticed Helmut Helberg, but he spoke up now from a seat near the back. “The sale of frozen foods in our markets continues to increase. Convenience is a big motive for many people, and this segment of the market must be catered to—but besides this, frozen foods can be kept a long time. They are high in nutrients and not harmed by storage.”

  Other questions referred to specific dishes and how to cook them, but before they could be answered, Caroline rapped on the table. “We have had numerous requests of this type,” she said, “and here’s what we are going to do. The day after tomorrow, we will give demonstrations of cooking as many of these dishes as we can. These will run throughout the day. A schedule will be posted so that you can pick the time that a certain dish will be demonstrated.” She consulted her notes. “So far, we have cheesecake, fondue, cassoulet, and if there are any more requests, please let me have them right away.”

  As we began to break up, Caroline came over to us before we could leave the podium. “Which dishes would you like to cook?” she asked with a smile, looking from one to the other.

  “Leighton should take fondue, as it’s a Swiss dish,” I suggested. He nodded, without enthusiasm but with no objection either.

  Michel smiled placidly. “Cassoulet must be my fate, surely?” he acknowledged.

  “Inevitable,” I told him. “I’ll do the cheesecake.”

  “Good,” said Caroline, the perfect organizer. “If each of you gentlemen will let me have your list of required ingredients, we will see that they are all waiting for you.”

  I had noticed Janet, but though she had been attentive, she had not said a word. We moved on a converging course as we approached the door. As we walked along the corridor back in the direction of the lounges, one of the blond staff girls came out of a doorway and was walking near us. Janet looked straight ahead stiffly.

  When the girl turned off, Janet said quickly to me in a low voice, “I’ll meet you in the herb garden in ten minutes.” I had time only to nod and she was gone, walking on past me. I had been inte
nding to visit the herb garden, but this was the first time that the opportunity seemed to have occurred. I had asked an herbalist once, “What is an herb?” and she had replied, “An herb is a plant that makes you feel better and become healthier.” Some of the herb garden was outdoors, neat squares of leafy green plants with pods and seeds and flowers of numerous hues.

  A much larger area was a minijungle—or so it appeared at first glance. Closer acquaintance showed it to be well tended and lush, with herb- and spice-bearing bushes. Some of these rose waist high but would recede with the season. Splashes of blue and purple accentuated the deep green of the foliage and splotches of red and yellow made it as good to look at as it undoubtedly was for the health. I could see rue, coriander, annato, cumin, and vivid yellow patches of saffron. I knew that Saffron Guilds still existed in all the major Swiss cities, and the national crop continues to increase.

  I could see no sign of Janet, but the large greenhouse where the more delicate herbs were being raised was probably where I would find her. She had worn a definitely clandestine air when I had left her after the session and was no doubt keeping out of sight.

  The greenhouse was a large building, as big as an aircraft hangar. The big glass panes were scrupulously clean—although I would expect no less in Switzerland. They were misted, though, enough to obscure vision and I could see only blurry green vegetation inside. I went in—in to a humid, fetid atmosphere. The temperature was clearly controlled and then I realized that the humidity was probably at a high level, as many of the plants in here would be from tropical climes. Still, it seemed hot and sticky after the cool, clean Alpine air outside.

  Plants in boxes and barrels filled the place, while around the glass walls, shelves held trays of seedlings. The atmosphere was a jumble of aromas—so many that none stood out. It was rich and sumptuous, heady and almost overpowering. People obviously didn’t stay in here very long.

  Right now, no one had stayed, it seemed. I could not see people or hear voices. Janet was in here somewhere, though, and I set out to look for her. Moving was like forcing a path through thick aromatic smoke, and I was aware of perspiration prickling out all over my body. I called out, but the dense air choked the sound. I came to a turn near the glass wall and the first objects I saw were two bare legs.

  They stuck out from a spiky green bush. I pushed the stems aside. Janet was there, eyes closed, and I could not tell whether she was breathing. She was wearing short khaki shorts and a white halter. I was trying to lift her to a sitting position when I noticed a hissing noise. At the same time, I became aware of a sweetish, cloying smell, certainly not that of a plant or herb.

  The atmosphere was getting thicker by the second. It was impeding my breathing, and I was having to take big gasps to get more air. I hadn’t taken many gasps when I knew that this was a mistake. The hissing noise was the release of some kind of insecticide spray, and at the speed with which the greenhouse was being filled, the spray was soon going to be equally lethal for humans. I tried to hold my breath as I pulled Janet’s body out of the undergrowth and in the direction of the door.

  I was drenched in perspiration by now. It dripped off my face as I bent over her body, desperately dragging her along the floor. She seemed unbelievably heavy, I thought. My progress was too slow, and I would never make it to the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ONE MORE TURN AND I would reach the door. …

  Almost there—with nearly my last gasp I grabbed the knob and twisted. Nothing happened. Frantically, I twisted, turned, pulled, pushed—even kicked—but without result. Again and again I tried, unwilling to believe that the door would not open. Finally, out of breath and desperately tired, I collapsed on to the floor beside the inert body of Janet.

  At ground level, there was miraculously a little more air. Evidently the sprinklers were on the ceiling, and the chemical spray took a little time to settle. I gulped in a life-giving lungful of air, let it rejuvenate my blood, exhaled, then inhaled again as deeply as I could. It gave me a brief respite, and I had to make the most of it. I battled with the door again. Still without success.

  Furious and angry, I kicked at the nearest glass panel—then let out a yelp as pain stabbed through my ankle. The glass remained unbroken. I dropped to the floor, positioned myself as carefully as impatience and fear would allow, aimed both feet at the panel and lunged with all my body weight. Pain jabbed through both ankles—it was either unbreakable glass or an extremely tough plastic.

  I heard a moan of anguish. It was a strange sound and it took a few seconds to realize that it was coming from me. I collapsed on to the floor again, this time awkwardly. I found myself turned away from the door and through the fog of insecticide, still thickening insidiously, I saw a partition with various dim shapes near it.

  I crawled a few yards closer so that I could make out the shapes. They were various pieces of equipment, evidently used in maintaining the grounds. The nearest of them was a lawn mower.

  It was the type with a big engine and a seat. I felt a surge of hope. Somehow, I found a tiny reservoir of energy to crawl nearer and pull myself on to the saddle of the machine. Surely it was too much to expect that the key was in the ignition?

  It was too much to expect. The key was not there, but my eye fell on the partition wall. A panel mounted there had what looked like dark clusters on it. Could they be keys? They were, and I fumbled for the nearest bunch.

  The greenhouse was growing darker, and I knew I was close to losing consciousness. The keys did not fit, and I threw them aside. Another key hanging by itself looked to be the right size, and with panic closing in, I knew I was almost out of time.

  The key slid into the lock and I twisted it furiously. To my indescribable relief, the engine fired at once. The machine was parked facing out of the storage area and I rammed a foot down where the accelerator should be. The mower leaped forward like a spurred racehorse. Barrels crashed, boxes burst, and stands crunched as we lurched across the greenhouse, bouncing and skidding. I caught a glimpse of light coming in through glass panels, and I wrenched the steering wheel, heading straight for it.

  I went through the transparent wall in a cascading shower of glass shards. The wave of fresh air hit me like immersion in icy water, and I almost passed out. Then my vision began to clear, and I breathed deeply to get the contaminated air out of my lungs. I was bouncing over a grassy slope. The release from the choking confines of the greenhouse was intoxicating. The mower raced on faster and faster.

  My mechanized steed went roaring down the slope, which was getting steeper by the second. Too late, I remembered that my foot was still flat on the accelerator. A silvery gray mass ahead of me was spreading like a huge stain. It spread faster, filling my vision.

  It was the lake, and I was too close to do anything but plunge into it.

  The cool Alpine water was a wonderful stimulant. My head went under and something hard bumped against my knee. It was no doubt the magnificent machine that had saved my life. I had not had time to take a breath, and I was gasping for air as I broke free of the surface and saw that I was only yards from the edge. A few strokes was all it took, and I was wading in mud and then onto the springy grass.

  I struggled up the slope. I had thought that the air and the water had revived me, but I found that the fumes had taken their toll. I was utterly weary but I couldn’t stop, for Janet was still in that deadly greenhouse. I battled my way uphill.

  It wasn’t that far. The nightmare conditions of my desperate escape and the suffocating effect of the fumes had made it seem much farther. I reached the hole in the wall of glass. The lawnmower had done a spectacular job, and the hole looked to be four or five times larger than the projectile that had made it.

  The atmosphere inside was largely clear already, the fumes seeping out into the evening air. There was still an unpleasant chemical smell, like a mixture of hospital carbolic and rotting vegetation. I kicked aside broken herb containers, pieces of splintered wood, and shatte
red shelving, following my way back to the storage shed where I had found the mower.

  From there, it was only a short distance to where Janet lay.

  Or should have lain.

  She wasn’t there.

  Perhaps I had miscalculated or my memory was faulty. I searched all around in a pattern that took me to the glass walls on the nearer sides. Still nothing. I set out on a search that led me up and down every aisle in the building. Perhaps she had crawled away, trying to escape. I realized that now I was assuming she was still alive, whereas I had thought before that she was dead.

  The whole scenario was assuming a definite aura of déjà vu.

  To be certain, I covered the greenhouse again. No body.

  Had the crash of the glass been heard in the main building complex? I wondered. No one had shown up to investigate. The hydrotherapy units were farther away, and the noise had probably not reached that far. I went out through the jagged glass hole and to the main entrance of the greenhouse. It was still locked, but there was no key.

  It was then that I saw a large sign erected outside the door.

  WARNING! ACHTUNG! AVIS! AVVERTIMENTO!

  During the next three days, the automatic insecticide spray treatment will be in effect in this building. Patrons of the spa should not enter the greenhouse during this period, as the chemicals used in the insecticide may be harmful to humans.

  The notice was repeated in German, French, and Italian. If they needed any confirmation of just how nasty the chemical was to humans, I would be able to provide a testimonial. That might not be a good idea, though. The notice had not been there when I had gone in, and the door had certainly not been locked.

  Someone wanted me to have an “accident” … but was it me? Maybe it was Janet they were after. She must have come in first. So where was she now? If the attempt had been successful, why had the body been removed?

  It was not just déjà vu. There was a precedent for it. Kathleen Evans had been killed in the Seaweed Forest and she had disappeared. It couldn’t be coincidence. There was definitely a pattern emerging. First a columnist from Good Food magazine and now its editor.