Mumbo Gumbo (20 page)

“You and Tim? You mean, romantically?”

“We suddenly realized what we really wanted was to get married,” Susan explained, looking quite pretty in a dazed way. “We might have never figured it out, if
it hadn’t been for this trouble he got himself into. He was always a guy who liked to date around but never wanted to settle down. I am pretty much the opposite type. I don’t think I’ve had a date in two years. But then, things changed. He’s been under this incredible stress. He’s had time to think. He said he’s probably loved me all along.”

“Oh, Susan.”

“And he loves my dogs.”

“Oh, Susan.”

“But it’s horrible, Maddie. Now that we know what our big dream really is, and I love him and he loves me, Tim may have disappeared for real. I’m afraid they may catch him soon and kill him. And I don’t know what to do, so I’m here, working my tail off to keep my mind off what I can’t do anything about, and hoping for a miracle for Tim and me.”

“I had no idea,” I said. “And you really don’t know what extra job he took on or who is after him?”

“I promise and I swear,” Susan said. “If you can help us, Madeline—you may find something here in the office, or you might hear something. I don’t know—but if you can possibly save Tim, I’d do anything. Say the word. I’d owe you.”

“Would you knit me a vest?” I asked her, trying to keep it light.

“I’d even dye it Berry Blue,” she said and rushed over to give me a hug.

“I’ll keep my eyes open, Susan.”

“You’re the best,” she said and, checking the watch she wore around her neck on a chain, hurried out the door.

Tim Stock and Susan Anderson. I suppose even the
worst predicaments bring with them a spark of enlightenment. I told myself to remember that the next time I was in a jam.

But just what kind of trouble had Tim found while earning extra income? I thought over all that Susan had told me and kept coming back to Berry Blue Kool-Aid. I pulled the Xerox copy out of the desk drawer again, and smoothed it on the desktop. Could Tim have raised $50,000 in Kool-Aid sales? One hundred Berry Blue packets at $500 a pop would do it. And lacking the real deal, had Tim indulged in a little phony Kool-Aid fraud?

I reviewed the facts. Tim knew he could get $500 for a packet of the rare drink mix. Susan said Tim had found a way to make a lot of extra money recently. Had Tim found a way to make some “creative” sales? On the road to riches, had Tim Stock unwittingly cheated the wrong guy? Was there some incredibly vicious Koollector out there right now—set up by the promise he could own a “Smiley,” and then bitterly disappointed and scammed—lurking in the shadows, out for unsweetened revenge?

F
ive days passed, and getting ready for “
Food Freak
Revenge: The Final Food Fight” kept us all busy. On such a short schedule, the preproduction staff simply had no time to relax. Just like in the catering business, the traditional hours of business were not observed. Everyone was at his or her desk, working, every minute of every day. No one in the office remarked as Saturday and then Sunday flew past. No one even looked up at the clock each evening as the windows in our office went from bright to black. Everyone who worked on
Food Freak,
from the question-writing staff to the PAs, was focused on getting the script in order and the production team coordinated. Script changes were rushed out to Chef Howie’s house in Beverly Hills by runners. Shopping lists were filled by the PAs. Contestants were treated like stars, with the contestant staff ordering limos to pick up each of the returning champs and guarantee their safe and prompt arrival at the studio. Time was a fixed commodity. We had to be ready by Wednesday at six.

“You got it, sweetie?” Wes asked Holly, patiently, as the three of us representing Mad Bean Events had a final
meeting to lock down details for
Food Freak
’s rescheduled wrap party.

“Yes,” she said. “Everything except the time thingie.”

Taking into consideration the country’s four time zones, and the TV scheduling quirk of prime time starting at eight
P.M.
everywhere in the country except the Midwest, where, for some early-to-bed reason, it starts at seven
P.M.
, broadcasting a live one-hour program in key viewing time across the nation was not altogether possible. Therefore, the final
Freak
was going to be broadcast live only to the East Coast and Midwest, at nine
P.M.
and eight
P.M.
respectively. The show would be taped and rebroadcast to the West Coast three hours later, airing at nine
P.M.
here. It meant that even though our “live” show was being produced in California, it wouldn’t be viewed in this time zone live. But, of course, it was more complicated than that. Any folks who had satellite hookups, and could figure out the hieroglyphics in their program guide, could view the East Coast feed, which meant they could actually watch
Freak
live at six
P.M.
Wes and I had to explain this mathematical insanity to Holly several times, and she still looked uncertain.

“See, Holly. It’s airing at nine
P.M.
here. That’s all you need to remember,” I said, trying again.

“But you’re shooting the show at six. And it’s live, right?”

“Yes,” I said kindly, “but not live to the West Coast.”

“Oh,” she said. “I see.”

I looked at Holly. Her white-blond hair was artfully gelled into asymmetrical peaks and spikes. The low-cut V of her skinny black tank dress was covered at the moment by a bulky magenta ski parka. The studio was kept extra cold to offset the heat of the lights. When
the full stage lights weren’t on, it was like a meat locker. Holly’s lips were slightly blue and her brow was furrowed.

“Don’t worry, Hol,” I said. “We’ll tell you when it’s on so you can watch it.”

“At nine?”

“Right.”

“So we’ll be able to watch the final episode at the wrap party,” Wesley explained to her once again. Some of us have a talent for time, but Holly clearly had that timeless quality.

“And that’s why we needed to rent giant-screen TVs,” she said. “So the crew can watch the show as it airs here in L.A. Got it.”

The three of us were seated in the empty Kitchen Arena on
Food Freak
’s soundstage. The set for the program was a giant in-the-round theater. Audience seating was designed in a full circle around the stage, extending upward in tiered levels. On this Wednesday morning, the three of us sat huddled together in the semidark in the front row. Wes and Holly would be directing our catering staff to load in the party tables and chairs immediately after the live broadcast was finished.

“How much time will we have for setup? We’ve got to roll in ten tables and eighty chairs, and load in the bar and three buffet tables.” Wes was checking his yellow notepad.

“And we need time to decorate.” Holly was using a stylus on her little electronic notebook Palm device.

“You can’t take more than an hour,” I suggested. “Less if possible. We can ask the cast and crew to hang around outside. Maybe get a bar set up out there?”

“Good idea,” Holly said, tapping the screen on her
PalmPilot. “The waiters can pass hors d’oeuvres outside, too, so no one has to starve.” She looked around the stage below us and made a broad gesture. “Do you think we need to dress up the stage here?”

“No,” I said. “But the stage crew will be cleaning up the kitchen sets while you are doing your thing with the tables and buffet. After the final cook-off, these kitchens are a mess.”

“Good point,” Wes said. “But with the set as our backdrop and the professional lighting already in place, decorating for the party will be simple. The table linens. The flowers. The centerpieces. The gift bags. It’s done.”

As centerpieces, Wes had found neon-colored DVD racks and had filled them with dozens of the latest movies on DVD as well as the hottest new video games. As gifts, Artie had approved those video-game consoles that double as DVD players. Boxes of them were wrapped by our crew and would be in place at every seat. We’d also ordered special
Food Freak
T-shirts and baseball caps for all the show’s staff as well as our own party crew. Wes was wearing his. The T-shirt had the slogan
IF YOU CAN’T STAND THE HEAT
on the front, and on the back,
GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN ARENA!

“Is the mobile kitchen up and running?” I asked. Wes was supervising construction of a temporary kitchen and grill that were being built outside on the street next to soundstage 9. An orange-and-white-striped tent was going up at the moment, which would allow our eight chefs a place to work on last-minute dishes. The fresh-baked items and desserts, as well as all the prep work, like marinating and chopping and
making sauces and salads, happened at my kitchen, only five minutes away.

“We seem to be on schedule,” Wes said. “No worries. So, how are things going with the show? We’ve hardly seen you all week.”

“I know,” I said, pulling my sweater tighter. I had learned to keep an old sweater at the office for those times when I had to come onto the freezing set. “It’s been frantic around here, but no one is losing it. I think we would have had a much easier week if we hadn’t lost so many key people.”

“And if you weren’t under so much pressure, what with shooting a live show, with no margin for any slipups,” Holly added. “Except that it’s not really going to be ‘live,’ is it? So I don’t know why everyone is in such a fuss.”

Wes and I let that one go.

“I better go. I’ve got to get back,” I said.

“See you later,” Holly said, head still bent over her electronic planner.

I left the two of them to finish up the party schedule, feeling that awkward feeling like when you graduate from sixth grade. All of a sudden you realize you don’t belong to that old school. I wasn’t the party planner today. I was responsible for writing a game show.

I opened the heavy stage door to the outside and walked into another brilliantly sunny day. Yet today I wasn’t warmed. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was stepping away from my comfortable old life and walking into some new disaster.

In the five days that had passed, the police had kept a tight lid on the information they were gathering on the previous Wednesday night’s death at 12226 Lemon
Grove Drive, in Studio City. At the
Freak
offices, no one spoke about it. It was still assumed that Tim Stock had died in that fire. But I got a few updates from Honnett along the way. By Tuesday, the identity of the dead man had been confirmed. As I’d suspected, the victim turned out to be Quentin Shore. But Quentin hadn’t been killed by the fire. The coroner determined the cause of death as blunt-trauma injury to the head. The fire damage had occurred after death. Honnett reminded me not to discuss this information with anyone on the staff, so as the days wore on, I felt even more detached from the people I worked with at
Food Freak.

As I walked down the block, I made a quick decision to talk to Chef Howie. His star trailer was parked up ahead, its chrome accents gleaming in the sunlight.

“Hey, Madeline. Come in,” Chef Howie said, answering his own door. “Good to see you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped into the RV and noticed that Chef Howie was barefoot. It was much too early for him to change into the clothes he wore on camera. He had on a tight black T-shirt that said, “Greengrocer from Hell,” and a pair of running shorts. The show wasn’t due to shoot for another few hours, so he had plenty of time to get into his Chef Howie gear, the famous silver lamé chef’s jacket, tight black jeans, and cowboy boots. I looked around the trailer and noticed we were alone. “Where’s Fate?”

“She’s over at the office building meeting with Artie, I think,” he said. “Sit down a minute. I’ve been working on my lines.” Howie had been seated on the white leather love seat, and a mass of script pages and note cards littered the white marble coffee table that was
attached to the floor. “I’m really not sure about doing the show live,” he mumbled.

“Really?” I hadn’t realized that Chef Howie was nervous. “It should be fine. Almost the same format you always do, right?”

“But there’s no chance to stop and start again,” he said, laughing. “I’m out there all alone. It’s pretty intense, when you think about it.”

“You’ll be great,” I said.

“Here’s hoping,” he said, and he drained a long-neck beer. As I observed more closely, Howie didn’t seem all that great. His face was worn out, haggard, beat. At the moment, his not-quite-shaved beard gave him a look that was closer to hobo than rock ‘n’ roll.

“You okay?” I asked. “I just wanted to see if there was anything you needed. I know this has been an unusual week.” Talk about your understatements.

“Tim’s dead,” Chef Howie said, scratching at his long sideburns. “I still can’t believe it. That guy was a prince. He was a hell-raiser when he was out drinking, but he was a real good guy. Did you know him?”

I shook my head no.

“That’s too bad,” Howie said. “He was a great guy, Madeline. I don’t get why God makes one guy dead and not another.” He shook his handsome head and after a moment of reflection looked up, noticing me again. “Hey, sorry if I’m getting too heavy. I have this spiritual side to me. Fate doesn’t always think I do, but I do.”

“The death of a friend can be devastating,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“You can say that again,” he said. “I’m all torn up. Tim Stock was my buddy. That guy looked out for me
so the scripts made me look good. The world is gonna miss that guy. I’m gonna miss him.” He opened another bottle of beer and took a long swig.

I sat there wondering what I should say. It was awkward listening to this eulogy for a guy I knew wasn’t actually dead. And Howie was so broken up about Tim he was drinking pretty hard. He was knocking back beers with a recklessness I was sure Fate would have stopped had she been there. It was maddening. Some folks enjoy secrets, but I find withholding the truth almost too hard to bear. I figured this did not make me a great cop candidate.

I stood up and cleared my throat. “Well, I had better get—”

“Stay a minute, Madeline. It’s good to have someone to grieve with, you know?”

I sat back down slowly.

“Say,” he said, looking nervous, “have you heard from any of the others?”

“Who?”

“From Greta or from Quentin?”

“Greta is suffering from exhaustion.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t heard. So is she, like, in a hospital?”

Greta had checked into a rehab clinic to fight an addiction to painkillers. Now, it had never been established that she actually had such an addiction. Apparently no one who knew her had suspected such a thing. No intervention had been performed by anyone on the
Food Freak
staff. However, after Artie fired her, she dropped out of sight. Next thing we heard, she was out in Palm Desert fighting a painkiller problem.

“I think she’s in a hospital, yes,” I said.

“Pills?” Howie asked, looking concerned. “Booze?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“Think she’s really out there getting a lift?” he asked.

“A face-lift?”

He nodded, as if any of those things—pills, booze, face-lifts—were the sort of occupational hazards for which television producers might be sidelined.

“I really don’t know.”

“What about Quentin?” he asked, changing the subject and looking into my eyes. That interested me. If Fate Finkelberg’s visions of her husband cheating on her were true, I doubted Chef Howie was having an affair with Greta. His reaction was just the right unstudied mix of being out of the loop and of low-level interest.

“Oh, I wonder if you could do me a favor,” I asked suddenly. “Do you think you could give me Susan Anderson’s home number? I told her I’d bring over some toys for the boys.”

“Does Susan have children?” Howie asked. “I didn’t know that. I know she has sheep. She knitted me a chef’s hat out of some special wool. It was incredibly sweet of her, not to mention weird as bat poop.”

I laughed at that. “No, she doesn’t have kids. She has three gorgeous dogs. She calls them her ‘boys.’ ”

“That so? Susan is a nice gal, but I had to tell her I couldn’t wear her knitted chef’s hat on the air. It gave me a rash.”

Fate Finkelberg was paranoid. Susan was not the object of Chef Howie’s affections, either. Susan had just found love with Tim Stock. And Howie showed no special interest in Susan. He didn’t recognize “the boys,” and what was more, he was allergic to wool! I felt foolish even considering Fate’s charges.

I supposed Fate had been working herself up over nothing in a fit of control-mania. She couldn’t stand Howie making up his own special sign-off signal. Rather than accept the fact that her husband wanted a little autonomy, she had to manufacture some deeper betrayal—like an affair at work.