Three Blonde Mice

by Jane Heller

  “You must not be reading my magazine, Slim. I’m hurt and offended.” He stuck out his lower lip in a mock pout.

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t tell me. You ran an article about vacation travel involving shooting ranges and gun clubs.”

  “See that? You did miss it. But I’ll forgive you if you tell me why you’re asking about all this.” He set down the whisk, wiped his hands on his apron, and cocked his head to get a good look at me, his blue eyes roaming my face.

  “I saw an episode of CSI: Cleveland where somebody in a cooking class was murdered, and I was thinking about it, that’s all.”

  “Nice try, Slim. There is no CSI: Cleveland.”

  “No? Well, there should be.”

  He reached for my hand and held it. “Why don’t you just tell me about it?”

  I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. But Simon Purdys wasn’t my go-to guy anymore. “Nothing to tell,” I said and left him with the red onions and capers.

  18

  I made a point of sitting next to Beatrice at the dining table, where we consumed large quantities of our dock-to-dish meal to the point that it would be a very long time before I ate fish again.

  “Chef Hill’s a terrific cooking instructor,” I said to Jonathan’s mother as she was tearing off pieces of a crusty French baguette and dipping them in her bouillabaisse broth. She had a great deal of trouble chewing the bread; apparently, she wore dentures and crusty French baguettes were not their friend.

  “Silly little man,” she said, her words a bit garbled as she continued to wrestle with the bread, dentures be damned. She was perfectly turned out as usual—every silvery hair in place, clothes expensive and without a single wrinkle, make-up expertly applied. If she’d been born in a different time and generation, she would surely have been a Sheryl Sandberg “Lean In” type of woman, the type who asks for raises and sits at the head of the conference table, empowered enough not to have to talk about being empowered. “All those ghastly tattoos. Mr. Hill is a fraud, if you ask me. He makes those obsequious young people do all the work for him. I doubt he can even cook by himself.”

  You’re a fraud—100 percent con artist. That’s what the letter said, and now Beatrice had echoed the sentiment.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked. “He’s taught us all these new techniques. Well, they’re new to me anyway.”

  “I say it because he’s running some sort of a conglomerate, but how do we know what Planet Empire really does?” she said. “Arthur, my late husband, used to say that restaurants aren’t cash cows.”

  “So you think Chef Hill has a side business or two?” I asked. “Or maybe a very generous and forgiving backer?”

  “I’m just saying that ‘Planet Empire’ sounds like one of those observatories where people look through telescopes, but what do I know about his business? I’ve only met the man a half dozen times.”

  A half dozen times? We’d had three cooking classes with Chef Hill, not six. Had Beatrice run into him prior to the classes at Whitley?

  “Do you and Jonathan go to many food and wine events down in Palm Beach?” I asked. I remembered that he went with his mother to her charity events, so maybe she went with him to his.

  “Too many,” she said. “I have no choice if I want to see my son for more than the five minutes he graces me with on Sunday afternoons.”

  She sounded like my mother with her “you never call me” whine. The truth was I called my mother nearly every day, just to check in, but it was never enough. “Did Chef Hill appear at any of these events, and did you have a negative experience with him there?” I asked Beatrice.

  She stopped chewing and gave me a cold stare. “I thought you said you were in advertising, Elaine.”

  “PR actually.”

  “You come off like a prosecutor.”

  “Sorry.” I laughed offhandedly. “My friends call me the Grand Inquisitor. I enjoy getting to know people, that’s all.”

  “Look, let’s not beat around the bush.” She put down her bread, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and peered at me again. “The person you really want to know is my son—I’ve seen the two of you making eyes at each other. You’re only interested in me so I’ll put in a good word for you with him.”

  Poor Jonathan. Poor, poor Jonathan. She really was a handful, but I played along. “I confess,” I said with a girlish giggle. “I do like Jonathan, so it would be wonderful if you’d be in my corner, Beatrice.”

  She nodded begrudgingly. “At least you earn your own living—enough to be able to afford this ridiculously expensive week—unlike the gold-digger he married last time. I made sure she and his first wife, the doctor, didn’t take advantage of his good nature.”

  “How? I mean what did you do to make sure they didn’t?” Shoot them with that .38 Special Simon thinks you own?

  “Let’s just say I dispensed with them,” she said and dove back into the bouillabaisse.

  After Beatrice excused herself to repair to her cottage and while Jackie and Pat were focusing on Alex, I went to sit with Connie and Ronnie. The Gumperses must have inhaled the fish courses, because they were well on their way through the blueberry tartlets, which they had buried under an avalanche of whipped cream.

  “Has the trip been a fun anniversary celebration for you two?” I asked them.

  “Since I love to eat, the meals are my favorite part of being an agritourist,” said Connie as she shoveled the dessert into her mouth. “I could just skip the cooking and go straight to the food.”

  “Same here,” said Ronnie with a chuckle, “but I’m always hungry after. The portions at this place leave something to be desired.”

  “And I’m mad at Chef Hill,” Connie added. “I’m so nice to him, and he never says anything nice back.”

  Yup, she’s mad at the chef, I thought. But mad enough to kill him? “He’s kind of brusque with everyone, not just you, Connie,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I’m his number one fan,” she said, pointing to her Who wants to get fishy with me T-shirt. “I’ve been to his appearances and I watch him on TV and I have all his cookbooks. I even met his wife. She’s much nicer than he is. Her name is Kim.”

  “She’s Oriental,” said Ronnie, out of breath after inhaling his remaining bites of dessert.

  “Asian.” Connie elbowed him. “Nobody uses ‘Oriental’ anymore.”

  “Not true, Cupcake,” he said. “Applebee’s uses it. They’ve had their Oriental chicken salad on the menu for years and I know the description by heart: ‘Crisp Oriental greens topped with chunks of crunchy chicken fingers, toasted almonds, and crispy rice noodles tossed in a light Oriental vinaigrette.’ They say ‘Oriental’ two times right there, not ‘Asian.’ That’s why I like them and Olive Garden and Chico’s—none of this farm-to-table bullpucky.”

  Connie winked at me. “Can’t argue with Ronnie when it comes to his favorite restaurants.”

  “No, you sure can’t,” I said, because what else can you say?

  “I wish somebody would make a movie where the hero orders that Oriental chicken salad,” Ronnie mused. “It could be funny, like Jack Nicholson ordering the toast in Five Easy Pieces. And while I’m on the subject, how about that restaurant scene in The Blues Brothers?” He chuckled again. “Jake and Elwood go to a fancy place like this and order everything on the menu, just so they can get the waiter back in the band. Priceless.”

  “Ronnie and his movies.” Connie sighed. “He can tell you who did what in every one of them.”

  The letter writer was a movie buff, I recalled. (“Listen to me carry on about movie villains,” it said in the very first paragraph.) But what possible motive would Ronnie have for killing Chef Hill?

  “Connie, getting back to Chef Hill’s wife,” I said, “you think she’s more gracious toward her husband’s fans than he is?”

  “Very gracious,” she said. “We were at the Chicago food show when I told her how much I loved him. I said, ‘If you guys are
ever in Kenosha, Wisconsin, you’re invited to our house for dinner.’ And you know what she said?”

  “No,” I said, entranced by Connie’s mouth. It was rubbery. It moved vertically and horizontally in a way that was startlingly flexible, like a sock puppet.

  “‘We would love to come. How kind of you, Connie.’ That’s what she said. And she remembered my name is Connie.”

  “You were wearing a name tag, Cupcake.” Ronnie hiccup-belched.

  “I know, but still,” said Connie. “Chef Hill never said my name once that day. And now we’re here this week. We’ve had three classes with him so far, and he still acts like he’s never met me.”

  “And you’re angry,” I confirmed. “Enraged even. Would that be accurate?”

  “Yeah, enraged,” said Connie. “And I’m telling you, his time is running out.”

  My pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

  “That I don’t stay liking someone forever,” she said. “They can hurt my feelings a bunch of times and I’ll keep coming back for more—until I reach my limit. And then they’re dead to me.”

  Two conversations had yielded three possible suspects, and I didn’t know what to make of the situation. But I had to keep going, keep asking questions. When the Gumperses left the table to get second helpings of dessert, I looked around and noticed that Jackie and Pat weren’t in the kitchen, so I decided to squeeze in one more interrogation in their absence.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” I said to Lake and Gabriel when I joined them with my plate of blueberry tartlet. They had been arguing. I could feel the chilly air between them.

  “No,” they said simultaneously in a tone that screamed, “Yes, we mind, but we weren’t raised by wolves so we’ll be polite and put up with the intrusion.”

  “Hard to believe there’s just one more class to go before the Bounty Fest finale on Saturday,” I carried on. “It all went fast, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” they grunted in unison.

  I could see that making conversation with them would be more labor intensive than making cheese. Nevertheless, I tried again. “What do you both think of Chef Hill? He must be a hero of yours, since you’re such advocates of the farm-to-table movement.”

  There was awkward silence until Lake said, as if it were obvious, “Of course he’s my hero. He’s saving the planet, one mouthful at a time.”

  Gabriel nodded sourly. “He’s Lake’s hero all right. Which makes me what, exactly? I’ll tell you what: I’m just her husband, and husbands don’t do anything heroic except pay the bills and make it possible for their wives to volunteer at art museums, have lunch with their girlfriends, and who knows what else when I’m not around.”

  Whatever they’d been arguing about had him mightily pissed off.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Gabriel,” said Lake when I must have looked uncomfortable. “He’s hypoglycemic.”

  Gabriel laughed scornfully. “Yeah, right. What I am is a hardworking guy who plays by the rules. Vanderkloot here doesn’t think I’m out-of-the-box enough.”

  Undaunted by the fact that Gabriel had just used her maiden name in a derisive tone, Lake turned her lollipop head toward me, calm as can be. “Gabriel and I are having a difference of opinion about a life choice, and he’s not handling it well,” she explained, as if I were a member of the family instead of a perfect stranger, either because there’s a certain intimacy between people who’ve milked and foraged together, or because they were a strange, strange couple.

  “Well, I hope you resolve whatever it is,” I said diplomatically, even as I was dying to know if their difference of opinion involved Chef Hill somehow.

  “Not likely,” said Gabriel, his hawkish eyes boring in on Lake. “She’s pretty dug in, and once she is there’s no talking her out of it.”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “You were the one who was pretty dug in about not wanting a kid, remember?”

  “Yeah, but after I changed my mind, you said you wouldn’t take the hormones.”

  Lake, maintaining her oddly serene demeanor despite his accusations, said, “Why should I pollute my own body with hormones when I won’t eat food that’s been polluted with hormones? Doesn’t make sense at all.”

  “What doesn’t make sense is why you’re so reckless about other things,” he said. “And you know what I’m talking about.”

  “That’s enough.” She smacked her hand down on the table, rattling glasses and utensils. So much for the serene demeanor. “I think we should take this back to our cottage—now.”

  “Sure, why not,” said Gabriel. “We’ll kiss and make up like we always do.”

  Yeah, they were a weird couple all right. Maybe Gabriel was the one taking hormones. Maybe he was into testosterone and numerous other fitness supplements, and the cocktail was making him violent. Or maybe Lake was the violent one. Maybe they were both nuts enough to kill Chef Hill, although I couldn’t figure out why. Oh, this whole thing was exhausting.

  19

  I called Jonathan when I got back to my cottage to let him know I was free and ready for our date. His phone went straight to voice mail, so I left a message in my most seductive voice suggesting we rendezvous on the terrace again.

  While I waited, I decided to do more due diligence than merely google Jonathan. I knew one person in Palm Beach—Olivia Martindale—and it made sense to shoot her an e-mail. Olivia ran Pearson & Strulley’s satellite office there, and we’d bumped into each other at various corporate functions over the years. It was her job to know everything about everybody in South Florida, so I asked her for a thumbnail sketch of Jonathan Birnbaum, Esq, explaining that I’d met him on vacation and that a romance between us might be developing. She was British and communicated in clipped, rather abrupt shorthand, but I trusted that she’d tell me if Jonathan had any blemishes on his reputation.

  When he returned my call, he asked if we could meet at my cottage instead of on Whitley’s terrace—“more private,” he said—and I agreed. And then I changed my mind. “You’ve already seen my digs here. I’d like to see yours.” What I wanted to see, of course, were clues that might link Jonathan to the letter.

  “My cottage awaits,” he said. “Come as soon as you can.”

  I changed out of the clothes I’d been wearing, since they had a distinctly low-tide smell after all the fish I’d handled, put on a black V-neck top and white jeans, fluffed my hair, applied lipstick and blush, and dabbed a little Shalimar behind my ears.

  Not bad, I thought as I gave myself the once-over in the mirror above the sink. Not Heidi Klum, but good enough not to scare small children.

  “For you,” he said when I arrived, presenting me with a bouquet of wildflowers in a pretty earthenware vase. Don’t ask me what the flowers were—that was Jackie’s domain— but they were bursting with color and very summery.

  “Did you pick these yourself?” I asked as I set the flowers on the coffee table. He had showered before I came over, judging by the slight dampness at the ends of his hair.

  He chuckled. “I can cook, but my gardening skills are limited. I bought them in the hotel gift shop.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

  “You’re so thoughtful, Jonathan,” I said, and meant it. I’m telling you, this guy would not have given me a microwave for my birthday.

  “Not thoughtful. I just like you, Elaine. A lot,” he said after another quick kiss, this one on the tip of my nose. “I’m hoping this will turn into something.”

  “But we hardly know each other,” I said not for the first time. “And your ex-wives didn’t exactly treat you well, from what you told me. Aren’t you a little hesitant to jump into another relationship?”

  “You’re nothing like my ex-wives,” he said between nibbles on my neck. “You’re steady and dependable.”

  I laughed. “You make me sound like a Maytag washing machine.”

  “I just mean that you’re someone people can count on. Look at your career. Look at your ability to live on y
our own. Look at your longstanding friendship with Jackie and Pat, who, by the way, are terrific.”

  “They are.” I snickered to myself, picturing my friends passed out drunk in the car the night before.

  Jonathan started to kiss me in earnest, and I was enjoying it until I reminded myself I was supposed to be looking for something incriminating. While his eyes were closed and his hands were roaming my T-shirt, I scanned his cottage. There was a laptop on the desk, but that didn’t prove anything, since he was a blogger. There were three of Chef Hill’s cookbooks stacked up on the floor, but that didn’t prove anything either, since one of them was a souvenir in our tote bags and the other two were on sale at the gift shop.

  “Want to dance?” I blurted out, my gaze having landed on the iPod dock on the dresser. I needed to distract him, just long enough to do a little snooping.

  “Dance?” he repeated, seeming more interested in undressing me.

  “Sure. Come on. Pick out something romantic for us,” I said, nodding at the iPod. Normally I was too self-conscious to dance—tall people like me aren’t always the most graceful—but I had a job to do.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” said Jonathan, tearing himself away from me to find us some music.

  While he was otherwise engaged, I casually inched over to the stack of cookbooks and opened one, just because I thought it was a little odd that he owned so many by a chef he was clearly ambivalent about. And the book covers were tattered and worn, not pristine the way they should have been if he’d just bought them. Had he already owned them and schlepped them from Palm Beach in his luggage, and if so why?

  I flipped through the pages and was surprised how marked up they were; Jonathan had highlighted some chapters, drawn arrows pointing to other sections, and written comments next to many of them. Was it simply that there were certain recipes he’d tried at home and wanted to ask Chef Hill about? He interrupted my snooping before I could get a close look at the words he’d written.