A Corpse in the Soup (12 page)

“Well, you just wait right here. I’ll be back in a flash.” As she darted through the bedroom door he caught a glimpse of her zebra striped and pink boudoir. A few minutes later she waltzed out in a flame red leotard with red tights featuring golden flames climbing up her legs. A miniscule apron stopped just below her cleavage. Perched on her blond curls was a custom made red hat—a short version of a chef’s toque—embellished with a golden “W”.

“Wow! Golly! You look s-s-sensational. How will anyone focus on the food?” He glanced at his Timex. “Would you look at the time?” Rising from the silky ivory loveseat he scuffed his shoe against the thick shag carpet and tripped over his shoelace. Candy gasped as he almost knocked over a large Betty Boop floor lamp. He threw an “Oops...sorry...G’night!” over his shoulder and sprinted from the apartment.

When he opened his door, the light on the answering machine was winking at him. The bulb in the entryway fixture was burned out again so Chris used the tiny red flash as a beacon in the pitch-dark room. He groped around for the TV-tray that supported his telephone, and switched on the worn lamp next to it. The weak glow illuminated a lumpy gray couch that had been blue before the sun bleached it out.

It took a scant second to check the fridge for something edible. The lone carton of orange juice would have to do, because the bleu cheese had gone black. Too ripe even for his taste. He swigged directly from the carton, plopped down on the sagging sofa and punched the button on the machine.

Chris clenched his fists when he heard Wellington shouting at him.

“Hey, geek. Don’t come by the Coliseum tomorrow. I don’t want your skinny ass anywhere near me. I need you at the studio in the morning, so come in at the regular time. Then you can take the rest of the day off for all I care. And listen, kid, I’ll tell you one more time, everyone on my crew has to look pumped. If you expect to stay with me start buffing up. Later.”

Heart pounding, Chris punched the erase button and listened to the next recording. There was no mistaking the owner of the voice purring at him. “Hey, Chrissy Crossy! Thanks for being such a good friend. You’re not like the other guys. They only want to get in my pants. Glad you liked my outfit. Night.”

He flicked on the TV but it was the usual wasteland. Then he picked up the Times and leafed through it, flipping to the section with his favorite new feature, the
Ask G.O.D
. column.

Dear G.O.D.,

No matter how good things get, all I can think of is revenge. I’m obsessed with getting even when any little thing goes wrong and that messes up every relationship. I need your advice. Don’t tell me to go to a shrink. I am one!

—Seething in Sedona

Dear Seething,

Hey, buster, revenge can get you into trouble so don’t do anything stupid. Anger is a poison, you need an antidote and this is it. Get your butt into the office of a fellow shrink and stop behaving like a terrible two year old.

—G.O.D.

Chris threw the paper on the floor, gulped more juice from the carton, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. “Anger
is
poison,” he muttered as he crumpled the now-empty juice container, threw it against the kitchen wall and watched it rebound into the trash.
What kind of shrink would be writing to an advice columnist, anyway?
Suddenly very tired, he stretched out on the sofa, closed his eyes and drifted off.

CHAPTER 23

The sun was just peeking over the horizon and Goldie’s eyelids were still at half-mast. She sat at the kitchen table and dialed the number at the top of her pad.

“Vinny, this is G.O.D.’s sister.”

“Hey, Toots, nice to hear from you. How’d ya like them cantaloupes?”

“Huh? Oh, they were great, Vinny.” She visualized him sitting in his big leather chair, his feet dangling several inches above the floor. “Listen, if your driver Paulie is around, could I talk to him for a minute? I’ve got a question about that mushroom delivery.”

“You dolls ain’t gonna let go of that, are ya?” He put his hand over the receiver and Goldie could hear his mumbled words. “One of the other drivers says Paulie just came back from the studio run, so if you wait a minute...”

After a muffled exchange of gruff voices, Goldie heard, “Yeah, this is Paulie, what can I do ya for?”

She explained about the mushrooms and Vinny’s switcheroo theory. “...So, I’m wondering if you noticed anyone hanging around Romano’s set that day.”

“Well...ya know, it’s been a while. I don’t think there was anyone. I mean, no one except the little mail guy. He was there. Course he don’t count, I mean no one who means anything was there.”

“Well thanks, Paulie, it was just a try.” She hung up, looked at the list she’d made before going to bed and circled “mailroom worker”.

Guadalupe shuffled into the kitchen, her shiny black hair still in a long braid down her back.

“Lupe, my sister’s going to need a double espresso this morning. Will you fix one while I go upstairs and drag her out of bed?”

For the second morning in a row, Godiva slumped in the cushy seat of the Towncar as Goldie coasted down the driveway. “So, I made a list last night of all the people at the studio who could go in and out of Romano’s set without being noticed. You know, the lighting people, the gaffers, the cleaning crew. Any one of them could have sabotaged the prep food.”

Godiva yawned. “Wait a minute, I can’t wrap my mind around this until the coffee kicks in.” She took another sip from her travel mug. “Run it by me again.”

“While you were sawing logs I was talking to Paulie, Vinny’s delivery man. He confirmed my suspicions. Someone was there, but Paulie thought he was barely important enough to mention. It was the guy from the mailroom.”

“Ah, so Wellington might think the same thing...a little
noodnik
who needs money and no one pays any attention to him?”

“Exactly. That’s why we’re here so early.” They pulled into the parking lot beside the Food Broadcasting Studios. “He might be the one doing Wellington’s dirty work. If he is, we may be able to stop whatever they have planned for today.”

“My God, look at all these people.” Godiva studied herself in the visor mirror, fluffing her barely-combed hair. “I had no idea that there would be so many eager beavers here at eight o’clock. You go in, Goldie. You don’t need me. It’s your idea anyway.”

“No way. I may be worried about Chili, but we’re also trying to save your new boyfriend’s butt. Just leave your hat and sunglasses on.” She exited her side of the car and went around to Godiva’s.

“Wait a minute, Goldie, this isn’t the vegetable mart. There are real people here.”

“Come on, Madame Pompadour. Let’s go save your handsome chef.”

The receptionist sipped her coffee and blinked twice when she saw the twins. “Good morning, Millie,” Goldie said looking at her nametag. My sister and I are friends of Chef Romano...”

“Ohhhh, that’s it! One of you must be his new girlfriend. I heard the chef was seeing G.O.D.” She giggled. “At first, when I heard it, I thought it meant he was born again. Ha, ha, can you imagine how dumb I felt when he said it was the newspaper writer?”

Goldie cracked up, but Godiva managed only a crooked little smile. “This is going to seem strange, but we actually came here to talk to the person who delivers the studio mail.”

“That’d be Edgar, I’ll buzz him.” She punched a few buttons, asked for Edgar and began to frown. Millie hung up and turned to Godiva. “That’s weird. Edgar usually comes in at six thirty to sort the mail, but Buddy says he didn’t show today. No call. Nothing.”

Goldie put on her most angelic, sympathetic smile. “You don’t happen to know where he lives do you? Or maybe you have his phone number?”

“Nope, I’m not allowed to give out that information. But his last name is Flappsaddle. He’s in the Hollywood phone book. How many Edgar Flappsaddles can there be?” She shrugged. While Goldie looked up the listing, she added, “If you see Chef Romano at the tournament today, tell him I wish him lots of luck. I hope he pulverizes Wellington!”

Edgar’s phone rang twelve times before Godiva flipped the top down on her cell phone. “Alright, Goldie, 6733 Yucca. It’s not far from here. I’ll drive.”

Two police cars blocked the street in front of the seedy apartment building. A body was being loaded into the coroner’s vehicle and two or three curious neighbors milled around speaking in hushed voices. Godiva parked a few doors down and the sisters walked over to the area marked by yellow tape.

“Sorry, ladies, you can’t go in, there’s been a homicide here.” A chunky Latino in an LAPD uniform blocked their way. A birdlike old woman trembled on the sidewalk, her yellow cardigan held together with a big safety pin.

“Isn’t this just awful? This used to be a safe neighborhood. Poor Edgar. I went to take out the trash and there he was. Oh, what a sight! All covered with blood!” She held her head. “I thought it must have been a robber. But what did the poor soul have to steal? The policeman said his wallet was still in his pocket.”

Goldie pointed to the gurney with the body bag. “You mean that’s Edgar Flappsaddle? When did it happen?”

“Oh, it must have been late last night or early this morning....head bashed in, poor Edgar. Such a meek little man, what kind of monster would do something like that?”

The twins exchanged knowing glances.

The Lincoln Towncar zipped along Sunset. “Look how late it’s getting. I’ll never have time to do my hair and touch up my nails by one o’clock.”

“Godiva! This is serious. This is not about your hair and nails. Edgar is dead! Wellington is dangerous. We need to warn Caesar. We need to....to...”

“No! We are not going to worry him at the last minute. We are going to go home, make ourselves beautiful, go to the Kitchen Coliseum and be on our guard.”

“Godiva, how can you say that? Edgar told us what we needed to know in the worst possible way. The poor little guy probably was Wellington’s worm. If he killed Edgar, what might he do to Chili or Caesar...”

“I don’t think he’ll pull anything at the tournament. It’s too well guarded and besides everyone would know who did it.”

“But we can’t just forget about this. Don’t you realize that Chili’s in danger? Wellington might go berserk and bash in Caesar’s head, too.” Goldie’s breath was coming fast and furious. “We have to call the police, tell them what we know, get some protection—”

Godiva stopped at a traffic light and held up her hands in a “T” formation. “Time out, Goldie. I guess I need to ’fess up...”

“...what do you mean ’fess up?”

“Do you remember my old boyfriend Ricky Thompson?”

“The one who opened beer bottles with his teeth? Didn’t he join the Army? Some kind of career guy?”

“Special Forces. He’s retired now. Runs a bodyguard service.”

“You’re still friends with him? Geez, I thought you guys had a big fight thirty years ago.”

“Don’t even ask. I guess you could say we’re still friends, sort of. Anyway, I called him when we got back from Cotati and, well, I guess you could say I hired him.”

“You what?”

“I’ve had him and his men guarding Chili and Caesar for about a week. Of course they don’t know it. Ricky and his boys could steal the pants off the Pope and no one would notice.”

“You went behind my back? You conniving, two-timing, underhanded...” Goldie blustered. “Hey, wait a minute, does the Pope even wear pants?”

They found their way back to the dressing rooms. Goldie popped in to wish Chili good luck, while Godiva eased open the door to Caesar’s dressing room and watched for a moment as he put the finishing touches on his makeup. She smiled to herself. He
was
a very attractive man even under layers of pancake foundation. She planted a kiss on the only exposed but unmade up part—the back of his neck.

He turned to face her and caressed her cheek. “Godiva, you look amazing. Deep purple is definitely your color.” She pressed her face down toward his. “But careful, love, don’t smear my makeup.”

She broke into laughter. “Shouldn’t that be my line, Caesar? Oh the indignities of dating a star.”

A knock on the door was accompanied by a shrill nasal voice. “Ten minutes, Chef Romano. Ten minutes.”

Godiva blew him a kiss, went to the next room, wished Chili luck, and dragged her awestruck twin away from the bustling backstage.

They just had time to get settled at one of the VIP café tables encircling the astounding Kitchen Coliseum. Godiva overheard people taking bets on which one was G.O.D. ...the one in the lavender or the one in the deep purple.

She whispered to Goldie, “See the Roman guard at the edge of the podium?”

“You mean the stocky blond? Don’t tell me that’s Ricky?”

“No, he’s the one on the other side who looks like Steven Seagal.”

“Wow, he sure has changed.”

“Now, look over there by Wellington’s kitchen. The guy who looks like Hulk Hogan. The one with the dumb look holding the dumbbells? Well he’s not so dumb. That’s Ricky’s right hand man, Ivan Popovich. Got a PhD in criminology. Ricky calls him Ivan the Terrible. So don’t worry about Chili. His assignment is to keep an eye on Wellington.”

Goldie squinted to get a better look at Ivan and noticed the janitor with the fancy crucifix that she’d seen at Food Broadcasting. “Is that fellow next to Ivan one of Ricky’s men, too?”

Godiva shrugged. “Nope, never saw him before.”

“Well, you never know. I bumped into him at the studio last week and it just struck me that he might be one of Ricky’s men. But I guess he’s just a cleaning guy.”

CHAPTER 24

The flashy
Gladiators
’ orchestra marched into the arena blasting the theme from
Rocky
. At the same time a mighty roar arose from the audience. Camera operators glided around the floor shooting from every strategic angle. Finally, the crowd settled down and
Rocky
gave way to rousing background music.

Cranston Hollingsworth, the velvet-voiced announcer for
Gourmet Gladiators
, strode across the stage, took microphone in hand, tuned up his magnificent vocal chords and officially opened the tournament.