A Corpse in the Soup (15 page)

Candy’s spine stiffened and she stepped into the fray. “Biff! Stop it! They’re a couple of poor old people trying to earn a living.” He whipped around to glare at her. She backed up. “I mean, uh, you don’t want them having a heart attack in your office on your big day, do you?”

Flossie eased herself past Candy with more speed than Sterling thought she had left in her old legs. He followed right behind pulling the cart with the mop and trash bag. Damned if that hadn’t been a near disaster. Plenty ventured, but nothing gained.

“What now?” Flossie’s startled eyes looked like ping pong balls behind her bifocals.

“Now we—” Sterling froze. “Oh Crimeney! I think I hear Caesar coming.” He turned an ear toward the corner, trying to focus on the shouting in the hallway, but Biff, bellowing in his office, made it difficult to hear.

The oldsters made an about-face, and began to scrub the wall with cloths. Wellington’s voice continued to reverberate, “Don’t even come near me, you worthless bitch. Listen to me. Just turn your fine tits and fancy fanny around, go to the kitchen set and start chopping vegetables. Do something creative if you can manage it. I
do
need an assistant, you know.” He slammed something down on the desk inside. “Too bad I didn’t get a crack at that redhead before I stole you from Romano.”

“You didn’t steal me,” Candy wailed. “I called you, remember? I thought I was making a good move. Shows what I know. Maybe I am as dumb as you say.”

“Turn off the waterworks, Miss Candyass. You know you’ll put up with me because you know I can make you a star. But right now it’s time for me to cook Romano’s goose. The clock is ticking, Toots. Get out of my way.”

Sterling tensed as he heard the thundering footsteps coming closer and loud muttering that sounded like Italian profanities.

Across the hall, Wellington raged on. “We can’t afford to go with the Sorghum Seafood Soufflé and Macrobiotic Mackerel Mélange I’d planned for today. I need something ‘phenomenal...spectacular...
piece d’resistance
’, understand? When I’m done with him, Caesar the Geezer will be lucky if they don’t break his contract. In other words, my sweet, I’m gonna wipe the floor with him.”

“You’ll do
what?
” Romano hissed as he rounded the corner. “You glorified fry cook! You’re just a flash in the pan. Listen up, Buddy Boy! I know what you’ve done and I’m going to sauté your hide.
Hear me
? I’ll chop you into mincemeat and feed you to the press. I’ve got proof, you bastard. Trust me,
You’re dead!
”

Romano’s booming voice echoed through the open door, broadcasting down the hall. People stopped in their tracks to listen to the battle while Flossie and Sterling slunk toward the rear exit, thankful that Caesar was so angry he hadn’t even noticed them. Romano slammed Wellington’s door and strode toward his own office.

They put everything in the trunk. Flossie and Sterling sat in the old Cadillac for a moment waiting for the trembling to stop and their blood pressure to return to normal.

“Well, old girl, all we found out is that Biff is even more of a bastard than we thought he was, and our friend Caesar has quite the temper himself, although you can’t really blame him. I’ve got to confess, I’m more than a little afraid for Chili. Should we tell the twins what happened?”

“Not unless you want your wings clipped, you better not. You know what Godiva said.”

“Yeah, yeah, no more snooping. Well, let’s get back and get cleaned up, I feel like a real
schlepper
.” He sniffed his armpit. “All that excitement and it isn’t even nine o’clock.” He turned to his sister-in-law and grinned. “Bet the girls never even knew we were gone!”

The fragrance of Sterling’s beloved flowers filled the air with a delicate perfume. Goldie and Godiva sat beside the lush tropical foliage surrounding the pool picking at French toast and sipping coffee. Little ripples played across the water creating a soothing “whooshing” sound. Waldo was snoozing nearby, letting out the occasional little snuffle that almost sounded like “
heaaaven
”.

Guadalupe leaned over Goldie’s shoulder to freshen her cup and then padded away in silence. Just for a moment Goldie felt envious of the luxuries Godiva took for granted, but quickly pushed it out of her mind reflecting upon how much more genuine her way of life was. Still, being waited on hand and foot and having unlimited funds did have some merits. Her sole employee, prickly-tempered Rudy Valentino, was no substitute for Guadalupe, not to mention the cook and the three Mexican gardeners.

Flossie, decked out for her weekly trip to the hairdresser, and Sterling, outfitted in his L.L. Bean gardening clothes, plopped down on the empty chairs. It was almost eleven o’clock.

In mock indulgence, Godiva took a long look at her diamond-encrusted Rolex watch. “Well, you two lazy old farts. I release you from mail duty and you sleep all morning!” A conspiratorial look passed between the elders. “Torch drove Chili to the Kitchen Coliseum and I really didn’t see any need to wake you. We figured you’d make it down here eventually.”

Godiva blew an exaggerated kiss toward the octogenarians. “Good thing you’re not planning to sneak over to Food Broadcasting for a little snooping again. Look at this!” She shoved the newspaper across the table and pointed to a small article on page four.

“Police Investigate Murder in Hollywood.” Sterling’s voice trailed off as he read the headline. “So?”

“Well, Unk, the guy who was killed, it was a fellow who works in the mailroom at Food Broadcasting. Goldie and I think he was Wellington’s stooge. And now he’s dead.”

Flossie grabbed the paper. “
Oy vey!
Dead!”

Sterling said, “Could be a coincidence. How did he die?”

Godiva wrinkled her nose, “His head was...bashed in. They were carrying him out of the alley just as we drove up to question him yesterday. The police said nothing was missing, so it wasn’t a robbery.” She stared at Sterling, jabbing her finger at him. “Just keep out of this, okay? I don’t want to worry about the two of you getting hurt.”

CHAPTER 28

Already running a few minutes late, Godiva honked and gestured furiously, scattering a group of frenzied foodies congregated near the parking lot. She slid into the parking space marked by a sign that read, VIP PARKING.

As they got out of the car, Matsumoto’s New York supporters were facing off against Jankowski’s eclectic Polish and Cajun cheering section, hurling slurs at each other. A healthy looking group in dressy workout suits emblazoned with Wellington’s coat of arms exercised together chanting, “Tall and tan! Biff’s our man!”

Caesar Romano’s
Flirting with Food
fans clicked their tongues and murmured little phrases to each other such as “Circus freaks!” “How low class!” and “Well, I never...”

“Wow. What has my daughter gotten herself into? If it weren’t for Caesar and Chili I would never go to something like this. I swear Red and Belle won’t believe it. Quick, Godiva, pull out your little digital camera.”

Godiva rummaged in her bag and brought out a tiny, state of the art Nikon. “Get the lady in the polka dot hot pants hitting the trumpet player with a sausage. Red should like that one. And over there, the geisha holding the banner.”

Godiva stifled a giggle and read, “Arigato and Mazeltov, Moishe.” She shrugged, “Well, I guess he needs all the help he can get!”

“This is incredible, Godiva. How do you live in this crazy town?” Godiva was still taking pictures. “OK, you can quit snapping. I think I have enough to convince everyone this really happened. Come on, the VIP entrance is open. Let’s get away from this mob.”

Fifteen minutes before curtain time, the judges and celebrity guests started to settle into their places. Guards stood at the doors ready to herd rowdy fans into the arena.

Goldie spotted Ivan the Terrible in a toga, standing beside a Roman chariot filled with mackerel on ice, and then checked out the rest of the arena.

In the far right corner Chili looked composed while Romano paced like a caged lion. On the far left, Moishe and his geishas seemed to be having a heated discussion punctuated by polite bows and graphic hand gestures. In the third corner, Toulouse wore a matching pair of hot pink pants and chef’s apron with luminous orange stars and stripes. His Cajun cuties were bouncing around practicing their polka routine.

In the corner closest to the twins, where Wellington should have been, a forlorn Candy stood all alone desperately searching the crowd. The Aerobic Chef was not there.

Backstage Manny Manicotti began to panic. The founder of Food Broadcasting and producer of
Gourmet Gladiators
sputtered. “I don’t get this! That muscle head’s too full of himself to be late. Whadda ya say, Sam?”

Sam Ziti, the assistant producer, gulped and cleared his throat, “Manny, I tried Biff’s cell phone and his beeper—nothin’. Maybe he had a car accident or a watermelon truck overturned on the freeway, or...or he was kidnapped by aliens. All I know is he ain’t here.”

“Did ya try the studio?”

“No point in that, Boss, he wouldn’t be there...”

“Sometimes I don’t know about you, Sam. I got millions riding on this event and you didn’t even try the studio? Gimme that phone.”

Manicotti placed a frantic call to the main office at Food Broadcasting and insisted that Hal Collins, the studio manager, check Wellington’s kitchen set.

Collins called him to report back a few minutes later. In a shaky voice he blurted out, “Boss, Wellington is in the studio all right, but he’s face down in a bowl of some kind of
Bouillabaisse
! Th...There’s a big carving knife stuck in his back.”

Manicotti’s face turned beet red. “He’s where? He’s what? But that can’t be...he’s a
Gourmet Gladiator
. He’s due on stage at the Kitchen Coliseum in ten minutes. We can’t hold up the show for him.”

“You don’t understand Mr. Manicotti,” he squeaked. “The man is dead as a mackerel. D-E-A-D. He can’t come to the Kitchen Coliseum, he can’t cook on your show, and he’s not goin’ anywhere except the morgue.”

Large patches of sweat appeared on the producer’s shirt. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened and closed like a carp out of water. “You’re sure? You touched him? He’s dead?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m still on his set. I’m about to call the police, the medics, the swat team, the FBI, I don’t know what all. I’ve never seen a corpse in a soup bowl, ya know.”

Manicotti’s massive jaw went slack. “Wait, Hal,” he shouted into the phone. Then, looking around, he cupped his hand over the receiver and lowered his voice. “I’ve got an idea. How would you like to make a cool ten grand? Under the table, right now?”

“What are you talking about, Boss? I gotta get off the phone and call the cops. What do you want me to do?”

“Nuthin’. For about three hours I want you to do absolutely nuthin’. That’s all. Lock the door to the set. Don’t touch nuthin’. Don’t tell the staff, don’t call the cops. Don’t call the medics. I mean the guy’s dead anyway, right? It’s not like there’s an emergency, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hal gulped, “Mr. Manicotti, I can’t believe you’re saying this...”

“Calm down, Hal. Here’s what I want you do. Go to your office, have a cuppa coffee and shuffle a few papers around. Then at five o’clock you can unlock Wellington’s set and panic all over again. That’s when you discover the dead body, call the cops, the medics, hell, call the National Guard if you want. Do this for me and by tonight you’ll have ten grand in cash. Simple as that.”

“Uh, I don’t know, Boss...I mean...”

“What’re you worried about? You didn’t kill him. You’re just puttin’ him on ice. Word gets out Wellington’s dead, I’ll have to cancel today’s show. The sponsors, the advertisers, the promoters, they’ll all sue our pants off. It could wipe us out. If he’s just missing, the show goes on without him. People are entertained, the sponsors are satisfied. Ya see, we still delivered. It’s gonna be a nightmare anyway, but we can save the day here. Whadda you say?”

Hal bit his lip; his voice cracked. “Okay, Mr. Manicotti. You know my kid’s been sick, I could use the money. I just hope I can pull this off.”

Manicotti thrust the phone back into Sam Ziti’s outstretched hand and threatened him with instant death if he breathed a word about Biff’s murder until after the show.

The main doors all opened at the same time and the arena filled with cheering, taunts and shouts. Suddenly the Wellington group looked confused. A roar of protests immediately followed their stunned silence. Where was he?

Manicotti jotted down a note and sent Sam Ziti to deliver it to Cranston Hollingsworth who was nervously pacing behind the podium. “While you’re out there, get that ditzy girl Candy and bring her backstage.”

The announcer glanced at Manicotti’s note, did a double take and read it again, slowly. As he stepped up to the mike, Ziti led a distraught Candy out of the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that there will be a slight change in the program today,” said the suave MC, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Um, The Aerobic Chef, Biff Wellington, has unexpectedly withdrawn from the competition. Therefore, the three remaining world famous chefs, Romano, Matsumoto and Jankowski, will compete for the title. Without further ado, let the battle begin.”

Dumbfounded, the chefs looked from one to another and then to the empty corner. The judges were all abuzz. Goldie whispered something to Godiva and then settled back.

Grumbles echoed throughout the cavernous hall. Many of the spectators in Wellington’s cheering section left their seats and stormed into the lobby.

“For starters,” Hollingsworth shouted over the noisy audience, “please welcome the fantastic Polish Cajun, Toulouse Jankowski...” The orchestra struck up the chords of the
Pot Boiler Polka
and Chef Jankowski smiled for the cameras while he polka-stepped to his cooking station.

Reporters covering the event rushed out of the stadium, participating in yet another contest...the race to scoop each other with the news of Wellington’s no show.