A Corpse in the Soup (20 page)

Goldie frowned as she resumed reading. “Okay. Here’s what we know: he left his wife after beating her up and she never recovered from her injuries. When she died a year later, the kid, Wesley, got farmed out to relatives and who knows what else happened to him. I agree with Angel. We definitely need to find him, but the question is, where? Did he try to put as much distance between himself and his past as possible? Maybe he saw his dad on TV one day and decided to come looking for him. Try to squeeze some money out of him—he sure deserves it.”

Godiva nodded. “Let’s hope Angel can track him down. I don’t have the first clue where to start looking for him, so let’s focus on the people we
do
know how to find.”

“Right. Well, of course there’s Biff’s feud with Caesar. We’ll get to that later. But I got to thinking, what about the other two chefs? They were pretty overshadowed by the California celebrities...still, both of them are stars in their own right. Could be the jealousy angle...”

“But anyone at Food Broadcasting could spot Toulouse Jankowski in a heartbeat...”

“Hey, take away the striped pants, the polka dot jackets and what is he? Just another guy. Put on a pair of overalls and he slips in and out more easily than Uncle Sterling. Same for Moishe Matsumoto. Outside of their outfits and entourage, nothing is that memorable about either one of them.”

“Good thinking. I didn’t even consider that.”

“Okay, next we have Caesar’s ongoing feud, which certainly gave him the motive, and he had the opportunity since everyone saw him at the studio. Most incriminating of all, several witnesses heard the shouting and threats sometime before Wellington hit the soup. But, I don’t know, Sis. Even if Edgar told him that Wellington paid him to pull those dirty tricks, I just don’t picture Caesar as a killer.”

“The man is way too sexy to be a murderer! Besides,” Godiva said with a wink, “I have other plans for him.”

“So, either way he’s a marked man?” Goldie mused as she made a few more notes on the yellow pad.

Godiva nodded. “Looks like Lieutenant Adams wants him as much as I do.”

“For different reasons...”

“Caesar is such an easy choice she’s blocking out anyone else as a suspect. I’ll bet she’s never considered the other two chefs. I wonder if she’s even tried to find Wesley.”

“She must be looking for next of kin.”

Godiva ignored her sister’s interjection and babbled on, “What a coup it would be for her if she solves this case quickly. ‘Celebrity Chef Romano Butchers Rival’...this could make her a star. I’ll bet she’s rehearsing her press conferences, shopping for an outfit that will look good on TV and heading out for the hair stylist as we speak.”

Godiva started pacing around the kitchen. “Everything will be wrapped up in a pretty package with a great big bow and handed to the prosecutor and the media.” She paused to weigh what she’d just said. “Damn. Unless we can figure out who did it, Caesar’s the one in the soup now.”

“Well, don’t forget Candy Vanderloop. Wellington treated her pretty badly too, you know. And she was there.”

“That asshole may have been verbally abusive, but I don’t think calling her a bimbo would make her mad enough to kill the guy. She isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but she’s not a wacko either.”

“Mom and Uncle Sterling saw Wellington and Candy really going at it...”

“Yeah, but having an argument and plunging a knife into someone’s back are two very different things. Besides, lots of people saw her leave before Caesar. Still, I guess we should keep her on the list for now.”

Goldie returned to her notes. “...then there’s the gofer, Chris Cross. Mom said Wellington was terrorizing him.”

“True, but Uncle Sterling described him as a trembling wimp. Didn’t they say he scampered behind the door when the insults started flying? He might have witnessed something,
but I don’t see him as a suspect. After all, he only worked there a few weeks, didn’t he? Probably didn’t know Wellington long enough to hate him, let alone kill him.”

Goldie nodded. “Then again, I guess it wouldn’t take long to learn to hate ol’ Biff. Okay, back burner for Cross, too.”

“Now, who else?”

“I’ve been looking through the file of clippings Angel gave us and look at this,” Goldie said handing Godiva a small clipping from the file. “It’s a celebrity gossip column from two months ago hinting that Wellington might be in negotiations for a network show. To become some kind of foodie action hero, no less. Can you believe that?”

“Gotta admit he had the build and appearance for it.” Godiva smiled wickedly.

“You’re right. Now, think about this. Wellington is a big ticket for Food Broadcasting. If he left they’d probably lose quite a few viewers.”

“Yeah. But it wouldn’t make sense to kill him just because he wanted to break his contract. Wellington isn’t worth two cents to anybody now that he’s dead.”

Goldie pondered that for a moment and then ventured, “So scratch that, too?

“Your call, it’s your list.” Godiva examined her nails and mentally noted to make an appointment with her manicurist. She glanced at her watch. “Time to go.”

Goldie scooted her chair back from the table.

It was a glorious Southern California day, with sun shining and the smog just beginning to lift. Rarely seen small bits of azure blue sky peeked through the patches of customary gray. They pulled up in front of the Spanish style Good Shepherd Church on Santa Monica Boulevard. With so many celebrity funeral services, weddings, and christenings held there, the church administrators were experts in crowd control.

Today was no exception. Just as Godiva predicted, a curbside valet service whisked their car away. TV reporters hovered near the entrance, waiting to grab a sound bite from anyone worthwhile. A sleek brunette shoved a microphone at Godiva chirping for the camera, “...and here’s Godiva Olivia DuBois who writes the popular new advice column
Ask G.O.D
...excuse me, just a word please. Your
friend,
Chef Romano, entered the church a moment ago with his pretty new assistant...”

Godiva stared right through the pushy reporter as Goldie hustled her along. She persisted, trotting right next to them. “Is there any truth to the rumor that you’re secretly engaged to Chef Romano? That Chili Pepper is your daughter?” That was too much for Goldie.

She grabbed the mike from the startled reporter and smiled at the camera. “Look, honey, do me a great big favor. Go peddle your stuff somewhere else, okay? In case you hadn’t noticed, my sister and I have a funeral to go to.” She put the mike back in the woman’s hand, shoved her out of the way, grabbed Godiva’s elbow and purposefully strode toward the huge double wooden doors of the church.

CHAPTER 36

Goldie couldn’t help comparing Wellington’s funeral to Ringling Brothers Circus meets Geraldo Rivera.

The media, celebrities and fans circled each other outside the church in a publicity feeding frenzy, elbowing, pushing and melding into shoving masses of foodies, celebrities and reporters. The inside of the church was transformed from a holy place into a Hollywood travesty, with the mourners disrespecting the dead in fifty different ways.

It was a perfect send-off for the obnoxious Chef Wellington, wherever his destination might be.

Chili took a seat and fanned herself with the funeral program. “What a zoo. Can’t wait to tell Grandma Belle.”

She did a double take when she realized that the man seated across the aisle from her was the Polish Cajun. Dressed in a somber black suit, Jankowski’s only concession to flamboyance was a single hot pink and orange flower decorating his black silk tie. His normally wild hair was slicked back with so much pomade it resembled a patent leather beanie.

Speeches and memories were recorded on strategically placed cameras and then the priest managed to give a brief, tasteful eulogy.

After the services, mourners crowded around the front of the church waiting for their cars to be delivered for the caravan to Forest Lawn Cemetery. Reporters and newscasters hovered like jackals, pouncing on celebrities to record sound bites for the four o’clock news.

Jankowski’s pomaded hair sparkled in the sunlight. A perpetually smiling reporter thrust a microphone at him and tried to get him to say something derogatory about Wellington. The Polish Cajun glared at the young newshound, grabbed the microphone, looked directly at the camera and sputtered, “I’ll give you a statement, lady! Maybe Biff Wellington wasn’t da best radish in da bunch, but he was a great, innovative chef. Dat’s why I’m here and I still can’t believe dat he was killed with his own knife.”

Undaunted, she hurled provocative questions at him.

He adjusted his tie. “Mam’selle, dat is all I have to say. Where’s your respec’ for da dead? In Nawrlans we celebrate de departed. We don’ speak ill of dem. Seems here all you care ’bout is scandal.”

With that he shoved the mike back at her, threw her a choice finger and got into his rental car, leaving the reporter standing red faced at the curb.

Goldie shook her head, not quite believing that she’d actually been part of this charade.

Candy Vanderloop minced along on stiletto heels, hanging on to the arm of a thin young man in a poorly cut charcoal gray suit...the kind that comes off the rack complete with shirt, tie and belt for only eighty-nine dollars.

Candy looked like she had been poured into her dress. Only the color was somber...the neckline plunged nearly to her waist. Goldie watched in awe as she wiggled to the curb. “Hey, Sis, look at Candy. I wonder what keeps her breasts from just plopping out...”

Godiva paid no attention to her sister and tugged at Caesar’s sleeve. “Who is that with Candy?”

Caesar looked at the nondescript young man for a moment before his eyes lit with recognition. “Him? That’s Wellington’s gofer, Chris Cross. I’m surprised he even showed up. Wellington treated him like dirt, you know. I must say, dear Candy doesn’t seem to be very upset...but then after the way I saw him rant and rave at her, I wouldn’t be surprised if Candy plunged the knife in herself. Guess those two are just trying to grab their own moment on camera.”

Caesar’s mustache twitched the way it did when he got excited. “Wait...look...clever little bitch! Now I see why Candy’s dressed like that. See?” He pointed in Candy’s direction. “She’s sidling up to Manny Manicotti and Sam Ziti. It looks like she and young Cross are actually trying to pitch something to them.”

Goldie craned her neck to get a better look. “Seems like the big boys aren’t giving them the time of day.”

A reporter shoved a mike at Sam Ziti, and although they couldn’t hear what was being said, he clearly didn’t look happy. Manicotti turned purple and Ziti grabbed the mike from the newsman. He swung around to point at Candy’s ass, gesturing suggestively. Then for some reason Sam pointed in the direction of Caesar, who was standing with Goldie, Godiva and Chili as they waited for the valets to bring their cars.

Caesar’s car came first. Goldie thought the valet looked familiar. Something about him caught her eye, but she couldn’t place him and finally put it out of her mind.
Probably just an out of work actor picking up some extra money.

As they tried to get into their vehicles, the unrelenting news vultures clamored for statements. Romano slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, but before he could close the door Lieutenant Crystal Adams reached for the handle.

Seeing the commotion, the reporters all rushed toward them just in time to hear Lieutenant Adams, who looked very chic in a semi-fitted pinstriped black suit and white silk blouse, say, “Chef Caesar Romano, please step away from the car. You are under arrest for the murder of Biff Wellington.”

Turning to the cameras and smiling, she finished the Miranda. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney...”

Godiva and Goldie were stunned. Godiva said, “Hmmmph. Couldn’t have been a more dramatic arrest if I’d planned it myself. And, get a load of the great outfit and hairdo. She was ready for the press...I’ll give her that.”

Chili started to cry. The din of the crowd grew with each moment. Lieutenant Adams placed her hand on top of Romano’s head, guiding him into the back seat of the police car as he shouted to Godiva in desperation, “Find Oscar Goldensheim.”

Flash bulbs popped. As the taillights of the squad car became distant red spots, everyone whipped out cell phones while the minicams feasted on this unexpected bonus.

Godiva turned away in disgust. “I’ve seen all I need to see of this sappy sendoff. Forget Forest Lawn. You can drive, Goldie, while I call Oscar Goldensheim on the cell. We have work to do.”

CHAPTER 37

They were worn out, bummed out and grossed out. The hype and horror of the last few days had sucked all the fire out of Chili. The excitement of being courted by a dashing new beau, only to see him arrested for murder, plunged Godiva into a blue funk. Witnessing and taking part in the disgusting fiasco billed as a memorial service had left Goldie with a rotten taste in her mouth.

“I’ll never go to another Hollywood funeral! Respect for the ‘dearly departed’, what a load of crap!”

“Look at it this way, Goldie, it was a great example of poetic justice. I mean Wellington got just about as much respect as he deserved.”

They waited on the steps for Chili as she dragged herself up to the front door. “Guess I’ll just sack out for a while. Poor Caesar. I still can’t believe it...I really can’t...I...” Her voice faded out of range as she trudged from the hall up the stairs and into the purple bedroom.

Godiva put her arms around her sister and the two hung onto each other in a weary embrace. “Come on, let’s grab a cup of tea and map out our next move.”

Moments later they sat in the breakfast nook with the yellow pad in front of them.

Godiva grumbled, “This sort of changes the order of things, doesn’t it? Think we should call the police station and see if we can at least find out what’s going on?”