Cooking the Books (33 page)

Jason gave me a look in which pride and pleading were nicely mingled. Then I did stand up and hug him. He hugged me back, enthusiastically. He still stank of frying oil and chicken. ‘Besides, this fried chicken game’s got whiskers. I dunno how people eat that shit,’ he concluded.

That’s Jason. A pragmatist.

‘Very well, Midshipman, report to the bridge on the second of February at the usual hour,’ I said briskly.

Jason gave a strange two-handed salute, rumpling his curly blond hair.

‘Aye, aye, sir, Cap’n!’ he said, and grinned.

Then we all had to sit down and have a celebratory drink (beer for Jason and Daniel, fruit juice for me) and somehow, by the time Jason had departed with my copy of
The Forme of Cury
, we both felt better.

‘How on earth is anyone who can’t really read modern English going to manage medieval English?’ asked Daniel.

‘He won’t have any problem with the spelling,’ I told him. ‘And he might come up with something for Bernie.’

‘What say we go for a walk?’ suggested Daniel. ‘I want to drop in on Uncle Solly, maybe pick up a little delicatessen. And you want to ask him about Lena.’

‘Lena?’

‘Yes, we have to get her out of Mason and Co and find her a new job.’

‘So we do,’ I agreed.

So we did. The New York Deli was busy and we idled around the shop, picking up some bagels and cream cheese and asking one of the nephews to cut us some smoked salmon. I wondered at the amount and variety of things which could be pickled. Finally Uncle Solly called us over to his corner and offered us lemon tea. Which we accepted.

‘Dollink,’ he told me, ‘that firm? Snookered. Or maybe stonkered. You got anyone in there, you get them out.’

‘That was what I wanted to talk to you about,’ I said, grabbing at my opportunity. ‘Do you know of a nice firm who would like a good accountant intern who has been much bullied because she is plump?’

‘Hum,’ said Uncle Solly. Momentarily, he looked like an Old Testament prophet confronted by a complex theological problem involving camels. We drank our tea in silence. Then he smiled. The camels were clearly not kosher and all was cleared up. ‘Just the place,’ he said. ‘Wait, I give you address. You call. Take them your girl. Tell them Uncle Solly sent you. And you want the bagels and the lox?’

‘We do,’ I said, accepting one of his cards with something scribbled on the back. ‘Thank you, Uncle!’

‘We are put here to help each other,’ he said, making a broad gesture. ‘Otherwise, why?’

Why indeed. Well, now we had dinner and a solution to Lena’s problems. I believed in Uncle Solly. Out in the street, I read the legend on the card.

‘Parmenter and Co,’ I said. ‘Shall we go and collect Lena and drop in on them now?’

‘Getting late,’ said Daniel. It was. Another day had galloped past without me really noticing it.

‘All right, I’ll ring them and set up an appointment. You ring Lena and tell her to write her resignation and get it into an express post envelope right away. Whatever happens, she isn’t going back to Mason and Co.’

‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ said Daniel. People were obeying me a lot lately. It was very gratifying.

The pleasant female voice at Parmenter and Co announced that the firm needed an intern and anyone recommended by Uncle Solly was all right with them, at least for an interview. I agreed to bring Lena to them on the morrow. Then I conveyed this to Daniel, who was on his phone, talking to Lena.

‘This is all a bit high-handed, though, isn’t it?’ I asked him as we carried our bagels home.

‘Get involved with humanity and you find yourself morally compromised,’ he said, unencouragingly.

Still, Jason was back and we had bagels and lox for supper. Life wasn’t all bad. We went home for further research on the father of Ms Atkins’ child. Surely he couldn’t be at Harbour Studios as well.

A plane would be crashing into the place any minute now, I could tell . . . Sharks were about to be jumped.

Daniel was in for a long night scrolling though teh interwebs, so I went down to the bakery to have a look at tomorrow’s baking list and decant my mother of bread into various mixers. Jason was back! I could have danced a jig, or possibly a pavane, which is more suited to my size.

All I had to do was solve the mystery of the trickster and I could brush the dust of Harbour Studios off my stout baking shoes and resume my life, which I liked and I had missed. Technically, it was Daniel’s mystery, of course. But we were as one. That solved, with any luck, I would never have to meet an actor again.

That was the trick, as Han Solo had remarked. I thought about it as I sloshed and the mixers rumbled. Not Bernie, I supposed, as she had been with me when the latest offence had been committed. I would have noticed if she had introduced wasabi into my nice clean bakery. Bernie was certainly driven enough to carry out almost any request from someone who would offer her a position as pastry cook. You could taste her desperation to succeed, like chilli oil on the shrinking palate. But surely the tricks would have stopped when Ethan offered her a chance to establish her shop in LA? In which she appeared to wholeheartedly believe. No, not Bernie.

I felt better. I liked Bernie and did not want to believe her to be so nasty. The rest of the kitchen had been more or less exonerated on the basis of motive. I could not imagine why any of them would want to ruin Tommy. Admittedly Lance the Lettuce Guy and the fish chef were both temperamental and as touchy as those blue papers on fireworks—you didn’t even have to light them before it was wiser to retire immediately—but touchy was not uncommon in kitchens. Of course, if one of the kitchen staff was Ms Atkins’ lost Zephaniah, they could be trying to draw attention to themselves. Some of them were the right age and Daniel was looking them up as I worked. In default of further information I decided to consider the actors.

What a collection! I set the females on one side. Zephaniah was a boy. Therefore there were only a few possibilities. Harrison had been adopted, but his adoption was well documented and his adoptive family were the stage people Harrisons, not the over-religious Smiths. He had been with them since he was eleven days old. Harrison was not Zephaniah. Ali was also well documented. Devout and pleasantly comfortable religious family who came to Australia from Jordan many years ago. Ali was actually born in Australia. Married young to a nice Jordanian girl and had two children. Ali was not Zephaniah either. In fact the place was replete with people who were not Zephaniah. The writers, Gordon and Kendall, were too old. But what about Elton Karneit, who played the neurotic office boy Matthew? I had paid no attention to him. How old was Elton? I would have to check on Daniel’s cast list.

The Mouse Police, emerging from their cave between the dryer and the washing machine, demanded an extra ration of kitty treats to compensate them for their disturbed slumber. They slept all day, reserving their evenings for ratting. I complied. The Mouse Police worked very hard.

It occurred to me, as I went up the stairs again, that there might be one or more tricksters. Operating independently or in concert. Which made the problem impossibly complex.

I shelved it and went to watch the first
Star Wars
film again in the hope that it might clear my mind. It stood up well to the effluxion of time, but my mind was no clearer as I went to bed and slept badly, dreaming in snatches and pieces of lost children in dark tunnels.

Which meant that I rose grumpy and continued grumpy. Daniel was asleep on the couch. He must have gone out again to search for the missing bonds. I did not wake him when I put on the kettle, toasted my leftover bagel and found the cherry jam. Munching and sipping, I inspected the newspaper, then put it aside as too misery-inducing for early morning. The sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window. Another beautiful day, drat it.

Bernie was waiting when I opened the street door and let the Mouse Police out. They had had a good evening, spurred on by extra kitty-dins. Four big rats, seven mice, some a little nibbled. I disposed of them, wishing that I had an owl to feed them to; I hate waste. Didn’t I recall a recipe for rats from a Patrick O’Brian book? Squeakers in onion gravy. That was it. I had a feeling that it was not going to feature in my menus any time soon.

Bernie accepted coffee and refused conversation, which was refreshing but a little worrying. Surely her romance could not have gone wrong so soon? It had just started!

But I don’t like to talk in the morning anyway. Bernie got on with compounding Middle Eastern cakes and I got on with my kneading. Jason came in as Bernie was laying out her filo pastry under a damp tea towel. She had only met it a few days ago and was now making her own. Bernie deserved to succeed. Jason had never seen filo before and was fascinated. Bernie started to tell Jason all about filo, baklava and similar confections.

It was nice to see her thawing from her frozen calm. Frozen calm is more acceptable than hysteria but neither is nice to be near. I was listening, because Bernie was describing making her own filo and I didn’t know anyone who went that far. The process sounded dire, as peasant processes often are. You wouldn’t want to undertake making paper unless you had a chunk of time on your hands. Or, come to think of it, cider or pickles. Or anything.

My mind does tend to wander while kneading. I slung the dough into tins and shoved it aside to prove. There were savouries to be made and I looked hopefully at Jason.

‘Feel like compounding a few muffins?’ I asked.

‘What sort?’ he asked briskly.

‘Cheese,’ I said. ‘Zucchini and parmesan, onion and poppyseed . . .’

‘Sweet,’ he said, and went to wash his hands.

Jason was back! I could have danced except that I don’t, not at that hour of the morning. But I did start to sing.

Jason and I have found a mutual liking for work songs. So it was to the accompaniment of ‘Go Down, Moses’ and ‘Deep River’ that Bernie made her syrups and Jason made his muffins and I supervised my bread. Bernie did not know the songs but, after an astonished pause, began to join in. She had a light, small soprano voice which went well with Jason’s tenor and my alto.

The Mouse Police woofled their noses at the scent of lemon and rosewater. Now they would have been an appreciative audience for rat baklava. I could not see it catching on, though. Not even with Bernie’s scented icing.

‘
Go down, Moses! Way down in Egypt land, tell ol’ Pharaoh to let my people go . . .
’

Bernie was getting into the swing of it and we sang lustily as the confections emerged: spicy, sweet, salty, tangy with parmesan and ground pepper.

Someone joined in from the street door. It was Mrs Dawson’s thready elderly voice, as true as it had been when she had learnt music as an extra at her finishing school in Switzerland. She was immaculate in a light tracksuit in beige with an apricot silk scarf. We finished the song and grinned at each other.

‘Ah, Corinna,’ she remarked. ‘I know you are not open for business, but would you have a loaf of that rye to spare perhaps?’

‘For you,’ I said, imitating Uncle Solly, ‘the world.’

Mrs Dawson took a deep sniff of the bakery air.

‘One of the best smells in the universe, baking,’ she told me. ‘Ah, Jason, there you are. So nice to see you back in your rightful place.’

Jason ducked his head and muttered something. Mrs Dawson examined him with those sparkly old eyes which could effortlessly see through a steel door or the pretensions of any grandchild who was telling fibs about the provenance of her toffee apple. He evidently passed her examination, because she gave me a charming smile and the correct sum for the rye bread, which I had wrapped for her.

‘Corinna, a word?’ she said, and I went with her into the darkness of Calico Alley.

‘Sylvia?’ I asked. I still had to concentrate not to call her ‘Mrs Dawson’.

‘I understand that you are looking into the affairs of a certain Margaret Atkins,’ she said.

I was taken aback. I would not have thought that Mrs Dawson and Ms Atkins shared any social circles. Mrs Dawson was diplomatic and academic; Ms Atkins was a working-class girl and an actor.

‘Yes, she has asked Daniel to find her missing baby.’

‘That used to be common,’ observed Mrs Dawson. ‘So hard to explain, now, to the new generations. The position of a young girl at the time was dire. Help was not going to be forthcoming. They really had to do as they were told.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. I was wondering where the conversation was going. Mrs Dawson usually got right to the point. And I still had loaves in the oven.

‘I used to know Molly,’ said Mrs Dawson. ‘A long time ago we were known to each other. And if you are looking for that baby, there is something you should be told. Perhaps you would be kind enough to convey this information to Daniel. In confidence, of course.’

‘Certainly,’ I assured her. ‘What is it?’

And she told me. Thereafter I went back to the bakery and worked the rest of the morning in silence.

Gosh. That was a piece of news and no mistake . . .

Bernie and Jason completed the preparations and loaded the van, chatting pleasantly about
The Forme of Cury
. Apparently they had discovered a pear honey cake which ought to take LA tastebuds by storm. It did sound delicious, though honey is hard to manage; as Bernie had said, give it half a chance and it burns and few people go out of their way to taste black cakes. Then Jason went into Insula to go back to bed, having consumed a pile of leftovers and taking a basket of others to feed his never-failing appetite. Jason suffered not only from night starvation but from morning starvation and afternoon starvation as well. Poor boy.