A Corpse in the Soup (11 page)

“Okay.” Vinny spread his chubby hands on the desk. “You wanna know about the deliveries, right?”

The twins both nodded.

“So, my guy, Paulie, he goes to the loading dock in the back of the studio. Unloads all the boxes, one for each of the chefs, puts ’em on a dolly and takes ’em to each kitchen set.”

Goldie’s eyes focused on the little man. “You mean he just walks in? No guards? No paperwork?”

“Well, you know, he’s got a vendor’s badge. And the guys in shipping all know him anyway. Yeah, you might say he’s got the run of the place. And there’s always somebody on the sets to sign for the stuff. So, you see it just sits there and, like I said, anybody who knows the routine could do a switcheroo.”

The sisters thanked Vinny and stood to leave. Vinny’s eyes brightened and he snapped his fingers. “G.O.D. That’s it! Hey, I knew you was someone special. I love your column. On your way out have a couple a cantaloupes on me.”

CHAPTER 21

Gourmet Gladiator
banners had been fluttering along major boulevards for days. Black with silver lettering on Santa Monica, fluorescent yellow on Sunset, deep purple on Wilshire and orange and pink on Melrose.

Then, on Monday, a billboard featuring a thirty-foot-tall Biff Wellington clad in brilliant blue spandex appeared above Sunset Boulevard and Crescent Heights. Muscles rippling and eyes snapping, his feet were firmly planted on the stylized letters that read “The Next Greatest Gourmet Gladiator.”

Further south, where Wilshire Boulevard runs through Beverly Hills, a lifelike mannequin of Chef Caesar Romano stood beside a red Viking stove in the window of Saks Fifth Avenue.

Wearing an Armani tuxedo with a red cummerbund and bow tie, he was suspended in time sautéing a faux fish in a two-hundred-twenty-dollar RomanoWare frying pan. A discreet placard declared the tuxedo was available for a mere seventeen hundred fifty dollars. The silver candelabra on the dining table could be purchased for only nine hundred thirty-five dollars. Middle-aged women crowded around the window mooning over the Romano mannequin, as if it would spring to life at any minute.

Similar displays were in every Nordstroms, Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s across the nation. Even the housewares departments of Target and Wal-Mart featured life-size cardboard cutouts of Romano wearing his
Gourmet Gladiator
medals beside his budget line of pots and cooking gadgets.

All week long non-stop crowds gathered around a large troupe of Matsumoto look-alikes performing on the Third Street Promenade. Dressed in full karate regalia, including Matusmoto’s signature gold yarmulke and prayer shawl adorned with the rising sun, they brandished cooking utensils and nunchucks as they performed intricate martial arts movements in perfect time with the background music of “Hava Nagila.”

Operating on a limited promotional budget, Toulouse Jankowski, the Polish Cajun, was only able to afford one big blowout for the day before the event.

Sitting atop a giant sausage float he led a parade of strutting jazz musicians and bouncing accordion players along Melrose Boulevard just south of Hollywood. Queen Ida’s zeideco songs and rollicking Polish polkas rang out as they danced and pranced down the eclectic street. Pretty girls in Mardi Gras costumes handed out goodies from little Cajun food carts on the sidewalks.

Unfortunately for Toulouse, people in outrageous outfits of every description normally congregated along Melrose Blvd., so even in his top hat, plaid pants and polka dot shirt he looked like just another guy in the crowd. The giant sausage, however, turned out to be a stroke of PR genius, and people flocked around his float.

Following the music, the throng of cavorting pedestrians whirled into the middle of the street. Traffic came to a standstill when a few motorists actually abandoned their cars and joined the melee. No one heard the sirens as police cruisers arrived to break up the festivities. With camera crews close on their heels, the colorful chaos made all the national news programs.

Flossie plopped into the kitchen chair, exhausted from coaxing Waldo in and out of the ‘disappearing’ box at their afternoon performance. The twins were nowhere to be found. She glanced at the TV in the kitchen and switched it from a Spanish soap opera to the
Two O’clock News
. There was the Polish Cajun waving at her from atop a giant kielbasa.

“
Oy vey!
” She motioned to Godiva’s part-time cook. “Martina, I think it’s time for a good pot of chicken soup. When poor Caesar sees this guy on TV, he’ll need a big bowl. Nothing calms a man’s nerves like chicken soup.”

A smile spread across Martina’s handsome features. “Oh, Senora Flossie, I am so happy to make this for the handsome
jefe de cocina
. No one makes the Jewish
soupa de pollo
like Martina!”

The older woman sighed. “I’ve got to admit, you make my own recipe better than I do!” Then she called out to Guadalupe, who was in the pantry restocking the shelves. “Lupe, honey, do me a favor. Go to Nate and Al’s Deli, you know that one on Beverly Drive, and get me a fresh loaf of
challah
.”

“Si, Mama Flossie, the bread, it is so good I bring two, okay?”

Flossie clapped her hands together. “Good! You girls have everything under control, so I’m going to take a little nap.”

Lighter than air
knadelachs
floated in the huge tureen of chicken soup. Beside it, a woven silver basket was filled with fresh
challah
, a wonderful egg bread that tastes like cake. Caesar looked a bit embarrassed as he finished his third helping.

Flossie patted his hand like a mother hen, delighted that the famous Romano was so taken with her family recipe. “Eat, darling, eat. When Martina makes this soup, even a Rabbi couldn’t tell she isn’t Jewish. Such a cook, that woman. And, did you know that chicken soup brings you good luck?”

“Lord knows I could use some luck.”

“You can say that again, old boy.” Sterling waved his spoon at their guest, dripping broth across the pristine white linen tablecloth. “Just wait till you hear what me and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes discovered yesterday!”

“Don’t tell me you old ducks are at it again, Unk.” Godiva’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “Okay, let’s have it.”

Flossie darted her glance back and forth between her daughters before finally resting it on the bowl in front of her. “Now, dears, don’t get so excited. We just dressed up like cleaning people and slipped into Biff Wellington’s office over at Food Broadcasting. That’s all.”

“That’s all? The man is dangerous.”

Goldie broke off a little piece of
challah
. “Typical. You order us to keep out of trouble and then you go poking around yourselves.”

Torch leaned forward. “Gramma and Unk can take care of themselves as well as anyone in this family. So let’s have it, what did you undercover agents discover?”

Sterling cleared his throat. “Not much really. Just a poster.”

“
Oy
!” Flossie patted the chef on the arm again. “You were so handsome in that picture, Caesar, with that lovely tuxedo on and your
Gladiator
medal around your neck.”

Romano’s swarthy face reddened. “Wellington had my poster....”

“He sure did and I don’t think you’d like what he did to you. It was covered with darts, and a knife was stuck between your eyes with blood dripping down...” Flossie shuddered, and Sterling jumped in to finish.

“...and he wrote “DEAD MEAT” in great big letters right across your face.” The old vaudevillian rapped his knuckles on the table, satisfied that he’d delivered the final gruesome detail.

Caesar’s eyes popped. “DEAD MEAT?”

“Yep, that’s not all.” Sterling drew a big breath. “He scribbled a big black arrow pointing to the medal—”

“Yeah,” Flossie squeaked. “And he wrote ‘THIS IS MINE’.”

Romano’s face turned crimson. “That flaming asshole! If I could get my hands on him…”

“Calm down, Caesar.” Godiva stroked his back. “You can’t let that guy get to you. He’s trying to rattle your nerves. You need to be at your best tomorrow, dear.” She served him a slice of Martina’s apple pie. “Here, try some of this.”

As Caesar picked at the dessert, his color slowly returned to normal until Torch’s untimely announcement. “Did anyone see the big splash the Polish Cajun guy made on the news today? What a lucky break for him. Money can’t buy publicity like that!”

Flossie handed some pie to Sterling. “I saw it on the two o’clock. It looked like a lot of fun. He was riding on a big hotdog and everyone was dancing. If I wasn’t so pooped I would have liked to shake a leg myself.”

Goldie looked at Caesar. “Do you think Jankowski has a chance? My mother-in-law Belle watches his show and, even though I hate to say it, he’s pretty entertaining.”

Romano relaxed into a smile. “Goldie, a good entertainer isn’t necessarily a good chef. To answer your question, NO. He doesn’t stand a chance against me or that blow hard Biff. On the other hand, Matsumoto could be a sleeper. You know, sushi is really getting to be the thing. But realistically speaking, this year the contest is still between Biff and me.”

Tomorrow the circus would really begin when the challengers entered the Kitchen Coliseum heralded by the
Gladiators
marching band dressed in Trojan helmets, togas and sandals.

But tonight everyone sat glued to the big screen TV in Godiva’s family room. Romano was on the Jerry Leonard show and they were all waiting for his banter with the wacky host. Since it was taped earlier in the day, Caesar sat next to Godiva, his arm draped across her shoulder. No longer masking his feelings, he cuddled her close. Basking in contentment, she laid her head on his shoulder.

During the week, Leonard featured one of the chefs on his show each evening. Trying to keep a straight face, he said to Romano, “Our undercover cameras caught you and Wellington yesterday discussing the tournament.” On cue the TV screen rose behind them.

The spoof video featured a look-alike Caesar in Roman armor facing off against a muscular Wellington double in a helmet and loincloth. With great fanfare, they both unsheathed oversized foam rubber kitchen knives and began sparring as the camera zoomed in on Leonard decked out in a toga and a laurel wreath, surrounded by pretty ladies in scanty outfits. He cupped his mouth and cried, “Food fight!”

After he stopped laughing, Romano extended a gracious hand. “Brilliant, Jerry. And we tried so hard to keep that a secret.” He beamed at his host, oozing Latin charm.

Leonard clasped Romano’s hand in both of his own. “Good luck tomorrow, Caesar”. The credits ran while the audience chanted “Ro-ma-no, Ro-ma-no...go...go...go.”

Sterling clicked off the TV and he and Flossie bid “Good night and good luck” to their new friend. They left the main house to retire to their own cottages, heads close together discussing the day’s events.

CHAPTER 22

Candy Vanderloop poured herself another glass of Chardonnay, took two swigs and said, “I know it’s my big chance, Chris, but it’s sooo hard not to just walk out. I keep telling myself to keep my mouth shut while that...that conceited bastard blames me for everything he can possibly think of!”

Chris Cross looked around her West Hollywood apartment, taking a moment to think before he answered. It reminded him of an old Marilyn Monroe movie set accessorized by Pier 1 and Lila’s House of Velvet.

“Yeah.” Chris nodded. “I know, Candy. Nothing is ever HIS fault.”

Candy’s eyes welled with tears. “That’s right. Mr. Perfect can’t admit he’s responsible for anything. Ever. When something bad happens, it’s always some other guy’s fault...”

Chris moved a little closer to her. “...even if no one else is involved.”

Candy took another big gulp of wine and pouted. “You’re the only friend who understands what I mean. He treats you even worse than he treats me, Chrissy.”

Because you have a beautiful bod and I’m a scrawny wimp.
He patted her knee but quickly pulled his hand back. “Look, Candy, just keep your cool. We both know he’s a first class idiot, but he’s your ticket to the future. You come out ahead whether he wins or loses tomorrow.”

“Win or lose? I don’t get it.”

He took both of her hands in his and tried to make her understand. “If he’s beats Romano, you’re working for the winner. If he loses, you still performed in front of all those important people and millions of viewers. See, that’s what I mean. You’re a winner either way.”

She downed the rest of her wine and squeezed his hand. “I didn’t even think of that. I’m so glad you’re my new friend.”

He thunked his goblet down on the carved coffee table. Droplets of chardonnay splashed across the pink tile top. “Don’t worry, Candy, someday he’ll get what’s coming to him. Guys like Biff think nothing can happen to them, but they’re dead wrong.”

“Yeah, almost like one of those comic book bad guys,” she said with a nervous giggle. “Acting like they are so big and suddenly the superhero smashes them flat.”

He pulled his fingers from her grasp and offered her a weak smile. “Okay, Wonder Woman. You’ve got what it takes even if that bastard doesn’t, so don’t be nervous tomorrow. By the way, what do you think of Romano’s new helper?”

Candy thought for a moment. “Too pretty, too young...and...I hate her. Besides, she...she doesn’t love him like I do...d...did.”

“Oh, hey now, Candy, when you’re a star he’ll be in a rocking chair at the old folks’ home. Why, Romano must be fifty-five or sixty already. How much longer can he have? Chef Wellington is only...” He scrunched his forehead as he calculated. “Well, somewhere in his early forties, I’d guess. Spend a few years with him and move on to your own show. You can do it.”

“I could get my own show? Maybe like
Candy Vanderloop, Queen of the Kitchen
?”

“I have some ideas. We’ll talk about it after the tournament is over, honest. Right now, Miss Aerobic Chef’s Assistant, you need your beauty sleep for the big day. Not that a little sleep could make you any more beautiful than you already are. I can’t wait to see you in your new outfit. I don’t think our boss wants me at the Kitchen Coliseum tomorrow, so I may have to sneak in.”