A Corpse in the Soup (16 page)

Backstage, tears welled up in Candy’s big blue eyes as she listened to the furious producer explain that by not appearing for the show Wellington had forfeited his chance for the title.

Manicotti became impatient as she babbled, “I can’t believe it. I saw him at Food Broadcasting just before I came over here. He told me to get things ready and he would be right behind me.” She began to sob. “Did anyone call the studio? This is so important...
where is he?
” Mascara ran down her cheeks. “I’m supposed to be in the spotlight with him today. I even got a new outfit. My career is on the line...”

Manny Manicotti stared at her. “
Your
career? We can’t find Wellington, millions of viewers are up in arms all over the world and all you’re worried about is your insignificant little career? I don’t believe this!”

The sweaty producer motioned for Sam Ziti, who stepped in and calmed the hysterical Ms. Vanderloop. “You just calm down, Candy dear.” He handed her a couple of harmless looking pills and a cup of water, then led her to the settee. “Take these and lie down here. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.” Candy took his advice and within five minutes the strong sleeping pills had sent her to dreamland.

“That should keep Sleeping Beauty out of the way for a while,” he said to Manicotti as he covered her flaming spandex with his sports jacket.

CHAPTER 29

Trying to bring some semblance of order to the taping, a desperate Cranston Hollingsworth paced back and forth throwing his hands in the air, palms out, pleading for the audience to calm down.

Godiva leaned toward Goldie cupping her hand over her mouth as she tried to make herself heard above the deafening roar. “What do you suppose happened to that pompous ass?”

“Who cares?” Goldie raised one disapproving eyebrow. “The big blowhard was probably afraid he would
really
lose to Caesar. And on worldwide TV, no less.”

“Or...” Godiva shuddered, “Maybe he didn’t show because of something more important, like Edgar’s murder!”

Finally the few scattered spectators left in Wellington’s cheering section stopped shouting. Hundreds of Biff’s hardcore groupies were out in front of the building staging a dramatic protest. They formed a solid line of aerobic exercisers doing jumping jacks and chanting, “Whoa, whoa, Biff will show! Don’t begin, Biff will win. Hell no, Hell no...hold the cameras, hold the show!”

Meanwhile, inside the arena the battle for the title was in full swing as the cameras rolled.

With Wellington’s unprecedented withdrawal from the competition, each of the three remaining chefs now had a better chance. During their feverish chopping, braising, sautéing and baking, the coliseum commentators spent more time speculating about what could have caused Wellington’s mysterious disappearing act than they did commenting on the chefs.

Chimes sounded signaling the final five minutes.

Chili pranced around in her cute little Roman tunic adding the garnishes that would turn Caesar’s dishes into presentation showpieces.

Jankowski two-stepped around his cooking area as his assistants passed platters back and forth in a crazy kind of kitchen polka.

Matsumoto seemed to be alternately bowing and praying over beautifully laid out creations as the Jewish geishas mopped his brow.

Lights flashed, bells rang and Hollingsworth called for the entries to be delivered to the judges.

Mouth-watering images filled the huge screen above the main stage and the audience oohed and aahed as the cameras zoomed in on each presentation.

After each sampling, Lulu Lavelle rolled her eyes, batted her lashes into the cameras and held up her scorecard. Toulouse Jankowski’s supporters went crazy when she gave him a nine.

Always the businessman, Justin Tyme seemed to be calculating the cost to duplicate each recipe at home. He gave Jankowski and Matsumoto scores of seven each. Then he licked his lips and held up his card once again with a solid nine for Caesar Romano.

Forrest Forsythe didn’t even blink an eye. He tasted everything politely, but gave Romano a huge lead with a ten.

Dr. Arrup Gupta was solidly behind Matsumoto giving him an eight; his next best score of seven went to Romano and the lowest mark of five to Jankowski.

There was a hush as Madeline Mandingo held up her card, seductively flirting with Romano while showing a perfect ten for him, a seven for Jankowski and a six for Matsumoto.

With a flash of his super white teeth, Hollingsworth advanced toward Romano holding out the green Gladiator’s laurel wreath. The coveted golden medallion sparkled in his other hand, suspended from a black velvet ribbon. He placed the laurel wreath on Romano’s head, hung the medallion around his neck and gave Chili a big hug and a smaller assistant’s medallion. Then he congratulated Jankowski and Matsumoto for their spectacular efforts.

After uttering a few guarded comments about the unexplained withdrawal of the Aerobic Chef, he expressed his hope that whatever the cause had been it would be quickly resolved.

Chef Romano smiled for the cameras, glorious in his Roman toga. He raised his clasped hands signaling victory, the orchestra blared forth with a rousing rendition of the theme song from
Goldfinger
and the tournament ended with a drum roll and great crash of cymbals. Thanks to Manicotti, the spectators and advertisers got their money’s worth. And, thanks to Sam Ziti, Candy slept through everything.

The
L.A. Times
switched the
Gourmet Gladiator
story from the Food Section to the front page, with “Wellington Wimps Out, Romano Rules Again” in a sixty-point banner above the fold. A mere half an hour later, a nerve-wracked FBN employee named Hal Collins placed an emergency call to the LAPD that would change everything.

Following Manny’s instructions, he waited three hours to the minute before calling the police. It wasn’t hard to sound panicked. Hours spent agonizing about the consequences of being an “accessory after the fact” lent a tremor-filled timbre to his voice during the call.

“He’s...he’s got this big knife sticking out of his back,” he squeaked into the phone. Despite the veneer of authenticity and despite knowing he’d get ten thousand dollars as a payoff, he was still having trouble keeping his breakfast down.

Within minutes sirens were wailing and shocked employees of the Food Broadcasting studios streamed into the hallways, wringing their hands, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. A few young women who had not actually worked with Biff and had no idea of what a jerk he really was, even had tears running down their cheeks. Police quickly cordoned off the hallway that led to the door with the Wellington coat of arms and no one was allowed to leave the premises.

CHAPTER 30

As top homicide investigator, Lieutenant Crystal Adams ruled her domain with the fervor of a Russian Czar. The Lieutenant would have been an attractive woman if she weren’t so determined to prove that she was a better “man” than anyone on the force. At the moment, she was busy making life hell for junior officer Nathan Neiderlander, who tried in vain to explain everything he had done to secure the scene since picking up the call.

She ran her fingers through short blond hair. Her smoldering black eyes bored through him with the look other officers at the Hollywood precinct had come to dread. “Are you Sid Malone’s new partner?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Almost a year, Ma’am.”

“So, where the Hell is Malone?”

“Um, well it’s like this, Ma’am...” The young officer scratched his head. “...he, uh, hurt his back last week and went to the chiropractor...”

“Probably got drunk and fell on his ass.” Lt. Adams snorted and put her hands on her hips.

When she saw the desperation she’d been waiting for cross his face, she leaned in for the kill. “Let’s get something straight, rookie. Ma’am is not a rank in the LAPD.” She spat her words at him. “I am
Lieutenant
Adams.” Nathan looked like a kid who had been hit on the knuckles with a ruler. “The rest of the team here feels this scene’s been tampered with. Did you follow protocol?”

“Yes,
Lieutenant
. I most certainly made sure no one entered the area. M-m-maybe some stuff was moved before anyone reported the crime?”

She glared at him, leaving invisible powder burns on his forehead. A celebrity case like this had the potential of huge press coverage, and could either make or break her. She wasn’t about to let a rookie screw things up.

“What took you so long to get here?”

“Pardon me, Lieutenant?”

“You heard me. My guess is this guy’s been dead for some time because not only was he supposed to be cooking up a storm at that big tournament this afternoon, he was the odds-on winner. But he never showed up. Sooo...”

“So what?”

“So, you idiot, it’s obvious he didn’t make it to the tournament because he was lying here dead before it even started. I repeat, what took you so long?”

Neiderlander shifted from foot to foot. “Well, I rushed right over as soon as I heard the 10-72 call reporting a knifing, Lieutenant.” He glanced at his notebook. “That was 5:03 p.m. It only took me a few minutes so I guess no one found him until after the tournament...”

“Are you saying that none of these jerks even thought of checking his kitchen set till the whole thing was over?” The right corner of her mouth curled in disbelief.

“Yup. That’s what I’m saying. According to the guy who finally unlocked the door, he found the chef in the soup. Dead as a mackerel.”

“‘In the soup’, Officer Neiderlander? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Um, Lieutenant, excuse me, I’m not trying to be funny. Follow me and I’ll show you. He’s in there face down in a bowl of soup. It smells fishy.”

“Fishy? As in something seems out of kilter?”

“No. Fishy as in it stinks, um, sorry Lieutenant, smells like fish.”

They lifted the band of yellow police tape and entered the set, the Lieutenant striding toward the body and meek young Neiderlander trailing along. She saw that the scene was just as he described.

The muscular chef was slumped forward on a stool at the counter, a spoon still clutched in his stiff hand, his face planted in a large bowl of bouillabaisse. An impressive kitchen knife protruded from his back. Neiderlander was right on another point. The splattered bits of fish and soup had begun to spoil in the warm studio and the place did, in fact, stink.

After the medical examiner arrived on the scene, Lt. Adams paced impatiently as he studied the moribund chef.

Finally Dr. Winkle cleared his throat and turned back to them. “Well, rigor mortis has set in, but the body’s still warm. Offhand, I’d say our boy’s been dead somewhere between three and eight hours.”

He paused and studied the scenario. A mischievous smirk played around his mouth. “Once we get this chef into
our
kitchen and fillet him out, a little slice and dice of our own you might say, we’ll be able to pinpoint it much more accurately.” His unbusinesslike wink made Lt. Adams wince.

The evidence techs took photos from all angles and everything from knives, to spices, to lint was bagged and tagged. If the LAPD learned one thing from the O.J. Simpson case it was the importance of keeping a very precise chain of evidence.

Lt. Adams turned her attention to other matters. “Where’s the man who found the body?”

Hal Collins, reduced to a quivering blob of Jell-O, stepped forward and pointed to himself. “It was me, Ma’am, um Officer, uhh, Lieutenant. I unlocked the studio and, omigod! There he was! Dead in the soup!”

“And, Mr. Uhh...” She glanced at the clipboard in her hand.

“Collins, Hal Collins.”

“And, Mr. Collins, I understand you’re the studio manager. Perhaps you can tell me why no one checked this set earlier. According to Dr. Winkle, the man’s been dead for several hours. Surely you knew that Mr. Wellington never arrived at the Gourmet Gladiator Tournament? Didn’t you receive frantic calls? Weren’t people trying to find him?”

Beads of sweat appeared on Hal Collins’ forehead, “Well, uh, yeah...I did get a call from Mr. Manicotti over at the Tournament. Him and Mr. Ziti were lookin’ for Biff all right, but you see, uh, the door to his set was locked.”

“And you didn’t see fit to unlock it and look inside? Pretty important missing person, don’t you think?”

“But, you see, Ma’am, uh, Lieutenant, this wasn’t just
any
chef. This was Biff Wellington. If the doors were locked, you knew he wasn’t there. You never, ever, unlocked his studio without his permission. He lit into me a time or two, hollerin’ and swingin’ his knives around like Genghis Khan. No, Ma’am, I wasn’t about to open that door.”

“But you finally did. What changed your mind?”

“I got to thinkin’. It didn’t make any sense him not showin’ up for the big event. What if he burst a blood vessel or had a heart attack or somethin’, what with all his jumpin’ jacks and gyrations?” A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and landed with a splat on Lt. Adams’ note pad. “So I thought I would just have a peek...” He looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes and his face went slack as his words trailed off.

“You may sit down for now, Mr. Collins.” She shielded her papers from him as she recorded the gist of their exchange. His blank stare and perspiration did not go unnoted. “I’ll speak to you at greater length when you’ve calmed down.”

One by one the employees were questioned in a room at the other end of the building. Each had a little kernel to offer, and as expected, the statements sometimes contradicted what another eyewitness had seen. But despite the small discrepancies, a picture of the event started to come clear.

“Terrible fight. You could hear it all the way down the hall. Not really like Romano at all. He’s quite the gentleman, ya know.”

“Slammed the door and hightailed it out of there he did. Yeah, Wellington didn’t come out, but I could hear him bellowing something.”

“I saw Candy Vanderloop leave before Romano left the building. Poor kid. She’s probably out of a job now.”