Dead Heat (31 page)

Spraggue said, “Garbage. I pity the police department that tangles with you, lady.”

She sat up straighter. “Okay. Report. Hillman to Spraggue. I shall try to be as factual and succinct as possible. If I stray, bear with me.”

Spraggue kept a grin off his face with effort. “Shoot.”

“Wednesday morning—let me see, it was ten o'clock because the stock exchange had just opened—I got a phone call that Pierce insisted I take. It was Dora, sounding quite odd. She's worked for me for what? eight years now, cooking beautiful food and only complaining when I don't entertain enough, and never getting persnickety about adding more garlic if I like. A gem. Well, in all that time she never asked for a vacation, just took her days off when I traveled. I mean, it must get so dull for her, cooking for an elderly widow, when she used to awe the New York restaurant critics. But she insisted she liked the slow pace after so many years of hullabaloo. I kept urging her to take a trip, put a little excitement in her life, and finally, last week she asked if it would be all right if she went to New Orleans for some cooks' get-together bash and, of course, I was delighted. Pierce and I can get by on our own, although my cooking is dull at best and his is distinctly bizarre. All that curry—”

Spraggue cleared his throat. Mary's cheeks grew pink and she said, “I'm wandering, aren't I? Well, back to basics: Dora's phone call. She asked me—begged me—to come down to New Orleans for a day or two. Now normally that would be out of the question, but there was something in her voice, and, well, when someone has worked for you for eight years and never said a word about her personal life and never asked even a tiny favor—well, I was intrigued. So I came. I said nothing to you because I assumed I'd be back long before our next dinner date with some fascinating tale, instead of being just old stick-in-the-mud me.

“Pierce arranged everything. The airplane. The suite at the Imperial Orleans. I was delighted at the prospect of meeting all those marvelous chefs, tasting their cooking. Dora must have been quite a rising star when she cooked in New Orleans to be included in such select company. Denise Michel—you know, the one who wrote
A Taste of France in New Orleans
—and Paul Armand and Joseph Fontenot—the things that trio does with oysters alone! Well, Dora said she couldn't meet me at the airport because she was helping her friend, Denise, by giving a workshop, something to do with knives, worse luck. But Pierce thought of everything and I had a lovely limo ride to the hotel and got settled in and then there she was.

“Now I expected Dora to be forthcoming in New Orleans. I thought she hadn't wanted to talk about her difficulties on the phone, but would certainly spill the beans in person. Then, when I saw her in the hotel, she clammed up. Said absolutely nothing, except that presently I would understand and I should please be patient. I suspected her of some sort of practical joke. If it had been my birthday, I would have assumed she was in league with you and Pierce to do something drastic, pop me out of a cake, or worse. She invited me to attend the chefs' annual dinner, an awards banquet, that night—Thursday night, you see, I couldn't get out on Wednesday. Too much to finish up—and she said I should dress nicely and the food would be superb and I would be seated at her table and would I please listen closely to the conversation.
Take special note of the conversation
, she said.”

Aunt Mary pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “How detailed do you want me to get?”

“If you're too tired—”

“If I did it for the police, I can do it for you. It's just that I don't know if I'm remembering what happened, or parroting what I told the police. It's all muddled.”

Exactly, Spraggue thought. Just what that cop should have known. The first time is always the hardest. The second time, you turn into a bad actor, repeating the words instead of reliving the action.

“Close your eyes,” he said gently, “and put yourself back into the time right before the banquet.”

“Actor stuff,” Mary said, suspiciously.

“Yep,” Spraggue said. “It works.”

“I feel silly. Like I'm pretending to go off into a trance.”

“Try it.”

Mary pressed her hands against her head. “Michael, it's all whirling and confused—colors and lights and people—”

“You're doing too much at once. Where were you when you first saw Dora on Thursday night?”

“Let me see … She knocked on my door, a quiet sort of knock. I was early, already dressed in my gray suit, this one. I remember I had trouble tying the bow, but finally it came out right. I was sitting on the sofa, hoping I wouldn't wrinkle—the suit, that is. I was—”

“Try it in the present tense, Aunt Mary. I
am
—” Spraggue kept his voice low, unobtrusive, an “actor-coaching” voice. He remembered the first director who had used it on him, back in his Royal Academy of Dramatic Art days. After a while it became part of you, a subconscious voice … part of you, and separate.

“I
am
reading Lillian Hellman.
Pentimento
. And Dora knocks. I'm expecting the knock. Hoping she'll tell me more about this ‘conversation' I'm supposed to note so carefully. I open the door. She looks very nice. No makeup, but a touch of lipstick, which means she considers the occasion as formal as an occasion can be—and she's wearing her beige crepe dress. A very good dress, must have cost a great deal, but not her color at all. Just one of Dora's fade-into-the-background outfits.…”

“Does she come in?” The words slipped in easily, prompting, but not breaking the flow of information.

“She says we should start on down. The banquet is in the grand ballroom, on the mezzanine. My suite is on the sixth floor. I remember looking—no, I look into the mirror while we're waiting for the elevator, and Dora's face seems, oh, kind of strained and gray. I put my hand on her shoulder, and, Michael, she clutches my arm, holds it so hard I wince. But then her grip loosens. Still, she keeps her hand on my arm—here—as if I'm her anchor, as if she's a little girl afraid of getting lost in the crowd.… And there was—”

“
Is
, Aunt Mary.”

“There is a crowd. People streaming up the staircase, all the men wearing dinner jackets, some of the women in long gowns. Flashes of jewelry. Spurts of conversation and laughter. There's a rather unruly mob in front of the doorway. It's not wide enough to accommodate the flow of guests. There's a coat rack filled with coats and I smile because no one in the North would wear a wrap on such a balmy evening.”

“Dora, does she speak to anyone?”

“Not a soul. She clings to me, and I say what a beautiful room it is and things like that, to try to put her at ease. It is a lovely room, all gold and ivory, with a pink-and-gold carpet. The chandeliers must have been cleaned the day before. So sparkly and bright. Ten, maybe twelve round tables, and one large rectangular table, raised on a dias. White tablecloths and pointy folded napkins. Cut-glass vases bursting with yellow roses.…

“There is an archway into another room, a smaller room hung with banners and signs. The display room. Full of cookware, pots and pans, and food processors and whisks. Knives …” Her voice faltered. “I want to look, but Dora pulls me to our table. She's still so quiet.”

“How did you know which was your table?”

“Dora knew. It was as though she was taking steps she'd rehearsed before. We were—are—at Table One, which surprises me. Not the big rectangular table, but the one closest to it, on its right. The big table is for the judges and the master of ceremonies. Our table is filled with big shots. Denise Michel herself is there. She's the host of the entire event, and the chef in charge of tonight's meal. A huge woman. Not fat, but tall. Six feet, maybe more. Solid. Strong craggy face, beaky nose. Quick smile. I like her. I like her handshake and her deep voice. She takes over from Dora and introduces me to the others.

“Michael, there's a whole flock of strangers. You know how I hate things like that. I smile and nod and only get them sorted out much later. Four are chefs, five counting Dora. Five chefs. Me. That's six. There are eight at the table. That leaves two more. Oh, you know who was there, sitting right across from me? That food columnist-critic fellow, what's-his-name? You can't turn on the TV without seeing the man. Harris Hampton, that's the name. A disgusting man, really. So smug and superior. Fat and loud and, oh, kind of smarmy. Too genial by half, like some foot-in-the-door encyclopedia salesman. You can tell that no one at the table likes him. And every once in a while he takes this notebook out of his pocket and makes some sort of scribble about the food. Very secretively, you know, like a precocious second-grader guarding his spelling test.”

“Who else is at your table?”

“Let me see. Five chefs! Me. The horrible food critic. And there's one spouse, also a chef, but I get the feeling she's not really in the same league as the rest. Jeannine Fontenot. Joseph's wife. Buxom. Dark-eyed. Quite handsome. Wearing very regal burgundy silk. She's quiet, possibly a little shy.”

“Tell me about the chefs.”

“Denise Michel, I've already described. And Dora. Paul Armand. Taller even than Denise. Thin. Very distinguished. Continental manners. You've tasted his food. He owns the Café Creole.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Indeed. Then there's Henri Fiorici, from Fiorici's in New York. I don't know if he happened to be in town or if he came down for the dinner. One of those tiny vain men. A popinjay. Scarlet cummerbund and polka-dot bow tie. Very dapper. And so polite. He keeps trying to smooth over all the awkwardnesses—But I'm getting ahead of myself.

“The last chef is Joseph Fontenot. A fat, ugly man. No, I shouldn't say ugly. He's hiding behind a bushy mustache and heavy glasses, and he seems ungainly because he walks with a cane. But he might have been attractive if it weren't for the way he argued. And now when I think of him, I keep seeing him dead.”

“Mary, maybe you ought to take a break—”

“Don't treat me like some elderly aunt,” she snapped. “We'll just skip any more comment on Joseph Fontenot and I'll go on to the conversation.

“Well, first it's desultory, bursts and silences. Fontenot says something about a funeral, the funeral of an old friend, I think, and that goes over like a brick. No one wants to discuss death over dinner. Someone chimes in with a story about vegetables, how hard it is to get good fresh vegetables anymore. I get the feeling that everyone else knows why we've been chosen to sit together. You know, usually at a big affair, they seat everyone from Peoria together, or everyone who holds office. And after a bit, I decide that all the people at our table, except me, of course, must have been involved in some sort of seminar that afternoon. Because they start an argument, and I get the feeling that it's a continuation of one that's been going on for some time.”

“What about?”

“Food processors and knives and graters. It seems a traditional Luddite-versus-Progressive battle to me. And I keep wondering
why
Dora should want me to take special note of whether Joseph Fontenot prefers puréeing through cheesecloth to blending in a Cuisinart—Mr. Fontenot is very vocal in all his opinions and seems to believe he has a direct line to the God-in-Charge-of-Food. Well, I'm keeping track of everyone's rambling, when over the entrée—a trout almondine even murder couldn't make me forget, one of those traditional New Orleans deep-fried trout, perfectly done with a lemony tang—Dora sort of pokes me in the ribs. It's the signal that I should start my careful listening. I'm a bit indignant, having already absorbed all that food processor rigamarole, but I'm also intrigued, so I rev up my concentration.

“Denise Michel starts asking questions. Now Denise is not a social butterfly. She is formidable. Each time a dish comes, she tastes it first, and I get the distinct impression that she disapproves of all this chitchat. It detracts from the food. Which is spectacular. Do you want to hear more about the food?”

“Later. They fed me a sawdust omelette on the airplane.”

“Sorry. Denise puts down her fork and knife and begins a formal inquisition. Her target is Joseph Fontenot, although every now and again she'll aim a question at Fontenot's wife. And it's obvious that the whole thing is planned. I mean, the woman has no social graces at all. She doesn't toss these questions into a general flow of wondering how everyone got started in the business. No, she just baldly demands answers. How long have you been married? How long have you lived in New Orleans? Where did you work in 1962? 'Sixty-four? 'Sixty-six? I don't know what to make of it.”

“Does Fontenot?”

“I think so.” Mary sat very still. “Yes. I think it amuses him.”

“And Dora?”

“Keeps getting paler and paler. She's next to me, so I can't see her all the time, but once she squeezes my hand under the table, and her fingers are icy.”

“Go on.”

“Denise leads him through this catechism and when he's fed up with it, he stands. Doesn't even finish his trout, which Denise takes as an insult. Says something about greeting a friend at another table. Takes off. I'm relieved. I catch Fiorici's eye and I can see he's relieved as well. He smiles and tries to talk to Dora, something about old times in New York. But Dora is practically mute. Denise returns to scrutinizing the salad. A few of the others,
after
they've finished their fish and complimented Denise, take off to socialize, but they all come back quite swiftly. None of us really notice that Fontenot hasn't returned until dessert is served. You've heard of Michel's soufflés? She's made individual raspberry and white chocolate soufflés, and they are spectacular, white and pink like the room, garnished with sprigs of mint. Someone at the head table starts applauding when the trays come out, and Denise blushes brick-red, not at all attractive, you know. And we keep applauding until she stands up. You can tell how pleased she is, even though she's embarrassed. The desserts are served and then we have a problem. You see, our table is polite. We've made a habit of waiting until all eight of us are served to pick up our spoons and forks and dig in. But Joseph Fontenot is not there. Mrs. Fontenot giggles and urges us to go ahead without him. But Denise glowers. So we sit. And it gets quite uncomfortable. And then after a minute or two, Dora bolts. She looks unwell and I ask if she's all right, and she summons up a ghost of a smile and begs me please, not to
dérange
myself. So now we have six squirming diners and eight soufflés that are about to topple.