A Corpse in the Soup (9 page)

The magnificent stone picked up sunlight streaming through the windows, sending off a thousand rainbows, as Godiva gestured to Angel. “Like I said on the phone, I really need your special computer skills, Angel. I’m a complete washout at things like that.”

Angel called over her shoulder to the girl at the desk, “I’ll be busy for about half an hour, LaVonda. Just in case you didn’t know it, this is G.O.D. and her clone.” Shepherding the sisters toward the elevator, she said, “The cafeteria will be pretty empty and I didn’t have breakfast this morning. Hope you don’t mind. We can talk about what you need while I’m feeding my face, Okay?”

Goldie liked this girl. She had spunk. “Let’s get one thing straight, Angel, I am definitely not a clone. Once you get to know me you’ll see that Godiva and I are only alike on the surface.”

Angel demolished a raspberry truffle muffin and a large coffee, but didn’t miss a snippet of the twins’ story, and occasionally her gulping sounds were augmented by “Really?” or “No way!” until the whole of it was recounted.

She chugged the last of her coffee. “So, let me get this straight. You think this muscle-bound hunk, Biff Wellington, is somehow sabotaging your friend, Chef Romano, and you need me to help you find out more about this guy? Piece of cake.”

“Find out everything you can about Wellington since he left Cotati. We’re afraid of what he might do next. My daughter is Romano’s new assistant, and I’m pretty worried about what kind of nut case this guy really is. What if he does something vicious?”

“Okay, ladies. Let’s go ask the electronic brain.”

They followed her to the elevator and then to the area affectionately known to staffers as the morgue. Angel seated herself at a computer and her fingers started to fly over the keys.

Goldie shook her head, “Boy, this is a far cry from the
Cotati Clarion
. It’s like going from the middle ages to the space age in just two days.”

The printer spewed out pages as Angel hit the print key and pretty soon there was a pile that summed up most of the known facts about Biff Wellington, the Aerobic Chef. The sisters each grabbed a sheaf of papers and rifled through them.

Goldie waved one of her sheets in the air. “Here’s one we missed. It wasn’t in the Cotati paper. Tells about how Biff got his start cooking on camera. Dated August, 1983. Says here, ‘young Biff, a fry cook at the Polka Pot Diner and son of Accordion King Buck Wellington, did such an impressive job with his food concession that he caught the eye of a San Francisco reporter who was covering the Accordion Festival.’ Apparently, this guy was so taken with Biff’s food and good looks that he called his buddy, a TV news guy, who sent in a crew to cover it.”

Godiva held out a paper of her own for Goldie and Angel to peruse. “Here’s one from the San Francisco Chronicle. Looks like it was written while he was still in Cotati. ‘Former Fry Cook’s Creations Sizzle’.” The article featured a photo of a toddler wearing a chef’s hat, sitting in a big cooking pot surrounded by carrots and celery stalks. The caption read:
A Unique Creation by Chef Biff Wellington.
The article went on to say that the young boy was Wellington’s son Wesley, grandson of the Accordion King. It was noted that since the TV interview Wellington was becoming known for his signature style of doing aerobic exercises while creating culinary delights.

Several more articles spanned the intervening years and covered cooking contests up and down the West Coast, each one showing their subject looking bigger and buffer as he captured yet another coveted award.

“Ooh! Here’s a more recent one. It talks about him being the new sensation on the cooking show circuit and a serious challenger to Romano,” Godiva said.

“This one’s dated last week,” Angel read from the paper in her hand. “Biff Wellington, the world renowned Aerobic Chef, one of the top contenders for the title of Greatest Gourmet Gladiator, is not only one of the hottest celebs to hit the food circuit in years, but one of L.A.’s most eligible bachelors.”

The three women scrutinized the photo accompanying the article. Biff sported a skintight tee shirt emblazoned with the ‘Wellington Crest’—a crossed barbell and broccoli floret. At his side was a very seductive looking Candy Vanderloop; her matching tee was several sizes too small. There was no mention of her in the caption and only one small reference to her in the article as his new assistant.

Goldie looked at her watch. “Hey, Godiva, we’ve gotta get going. We’ve got just enough time to get to the studio.” Goldie scribbled Godiva’s cell phone number on the back of one of her antique shop business cards and handed it to Angel. “If you find anything, call us right away at this number.”

Angel snapped to attention, and gave a mock salute that almost knocked her glasses off. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Godiva saluted back. “You’re a good trooper, Angel. I have no doubt that if there’s anything to find, you’ll find it. Talk to you later.”

Before leaving the building they ducked into the ladies room where Godiva helped Goldie freshen up her makeup and hair. “Sorry, Goldie, we’ll have to put the top up. We don’t want our hair blown to bits.”

CHAPTER 17

Goldie pulled down the visor and checked her face in the lighted mirror. She fluttered her mascara-clad lashes and pursed her shiny lips trying to get used to the slick makeup job her sister had insisted on doing for her.

They headed north on the 101, inching along at a snail’s pace.

“Good thing we left plenty of time to get there. It’s no mystery why people get road rage. I’m pretty jittery and I’m not even driving.”

“No wonder you’re nervous. I get such a kick out of your ‘rush half-hour’ in Juneau. That little clump of cars traveling back and forth on one dinky road...”

“Hey! Egan Drive is a modern highway.”

“No, Sis. This is a modern highway.” Godiva pointed out the window. “Packed with cars morning, noon and night. It never stops!”

“Glad it’s your problem and not mine. So what do you think Mom and Uncle Sterling are doing today? I hope they aren’t out cruising in this mess.”

Godiva honked at a driver trying to cut in front of her. “I won’t even venture a guess. I’ve tried and tried to hire a car for them, but Unk insists on driving that old Cadillac around himself...”

“Well, Mom said something cryptic about digging a little deeper...”

“Let’s hope by ‘digging’ she meant she was going to help Sterling plant those imported tulip bulbs. He was so tickled when he opened the box, just like a little kid with a Christmas gift. It sure doesn’t take much to keep the old dear happy.”

They got off at Cahuenga Boulevard and covered the few miles to the studio quickly, arriving with time to spare. Romano had arranged a special parking pass, so Godiva just flashed it and pulled into a reserved space right near the entrance to the building.

Heads turned as Godiva, looking like a fruit smoothie in a peach-colored suit trimmed with delicate seed pearls, and Goldie, sporting an eye-popping mauve and gray number, made their way to reserved seats.

Goldie couldn’t help wondering what disaster Wellington had cooked up to disrupt Caesar’s last show before the tournament. Although the sisters seemed calm, they were as nervous as a couple of long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.

The music began and Romano strode down the aisle with confidence, throwing kisses to the audience while crooning, “Welcome to
Flirting With Food
!” Chili bounced behind him in a crisp white mini-apron wielding a wooden spatula as though it were a royal scepter. Goldie beamed with pride as she watched her daughter and then glanced at Godiva who seemed to be sizing up Romano as a potential lover.

He flashed a brilliant smile as he said in a rich baritone, “Today we will create a traditional Hungarian dish, Chicken
Paprikash,
followed by
Almatorta Citromjeggel
, a sensational apple torte with lemon glaze.”

Goldie leaned toward Godiva and whispered, “I just hope the dessert doesn’t blow up.”

Godiva nodded. “After everything we learned about Wellington, I’m halfway expecting the chicken to jump out of the pan with an Uzi under its wing.”

The audience was on edge. They had seen the exploding Baked Alaska, they had heard the threats, but of course, like spectators at the rim of an erupting volcano, everyone wanted a front row seat for the action.

Chili was one step ahead of the process all through the show. It was a lucky thing, because a moment before Romano was due to season the chicken with copious amounts of paprika, she had time to check the contents of the spice bottle they used earlier to season the precooked entree.

Goldie watched her daughter turn away from the camera and put a dab of the red powder on the tip of her tongue. She almost jumped out of her seat when she saw the look of pain and horror cross Chili’s face just before she motioned to the floor director who switched to camera two.

During the commercial break Chili threw back three glasses of water, spilling half of it on herself in a rush to get it into her mouth. The stage crew rustled up a fresh apron. Romano had all he could do to keep his composure in front of the audience. “Good call, Chili,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You headed him off at the pass. We’ll show the finished Paprikash, but we won’t serve it. Let’s pray there’s nothing else.”

The rest of the program was uneventful, Caesar called on three members of the audience to taste his side dishes and dessert, carefully avoiding the entree. After tasting the
Almatorta Citromjeggel
, a pinched little woman—who looked as though she had eaten sour lemons before coming to the show—brightened and looked almost happy.

The other tasters were probably brothers, two very cheerful Asian tourists. The older one, chubby and balding, wearing a sweatshirt with palm trees and “HOLLYWOOD” written on it, said he had never tasted Hungarian food, “But I hungry enough to try it!” he exclaimed.

The other brother, clad in a black shirt with yellow hibiscus, reached for the plate with vigor. “I have Hungarian wontons one time. They called something else, but they look like wonton with some kind red sauce. Good, very good.” He bobbed his head up and down.

Godiva and Goldie exchanged great sighs of relief at the end of the show, although the spectators seemed almost disappointed that nothing disastrous happened.

CHAPTER 18

On Tuesday, while Goldie helped Godiva plow through the stacks of mail, the old-timers sat in Adirondack chairs outside Sterling’s cottage planning a covert operation.

Tea splashed on the table as Flossie plunked her glass down. “Look at it this way, Sterling. The girls have their hands full sifting through all that mail. Just because nothing bad happened on Friday’s show doesn’t mean that a
schlemiel
like Biff doesn’t have more tricks up his sleeve.”

Surrounded by hundreds of fragrant roses, the ancient vaudevillians sipped iced tea and debated. Their friendly quarrels had gone on ever since Flossie married Sterling’s brother sixty years ago.

Flossie wiped up the puddle of tea and pinned Sterling with a defiant look. “I’m right and you know it. That guy is dangerous and I say we find out more about him before Chili gets hurt.”

“Don’t worry, old girl, Goldie and Godiva will be doing plenty of snooping as soon as they have those letters under control.”

Flossie’s eyes snapped as she glared at Sterling. “I don’t want to wait for them get caught up. We could sniff around ourselves, you know.” She reached out to cradle the head of one of the nearby roses and pulled it to her nose inhaling deeply. “And I don’t mean sitting here in the sun sniffing your precious roses.” She paused for a moment, inhaling again. “Although they do smell good. Remember that time we played the Rose Theater in…”

“...Stay on track, Flossie...”

“I’m trying to, Sterling, but you’re such a stubborn old coot. Our little Chili’s life may be on the line here and we’re lounging around like a couple of useless
alter kockers.
For all we know, Wellington is planning something awful!”

“Flossie, don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m not one to just stand by and watch when I’m needed. See here, woman, after Max died didn’t I take on the responsibility of watching over Godiva and Torch? Okay, it’s true I was getting tired of living in a condo and these gardens were calling to me, but the important thing is I took action, sold the condo and moved here...”

“Not to mention that the gardener’s cottage was free...”

“That’s beside the point. We’re talkin’ about action, here, Flossie. And you didn’t jump in when Max dropped dead, you waited until that damn clairvoyant told you to move.”

“
Oy
, that Max. Some son-in-law! Such a loudmouth. And, all the risks he took...”

“...And all the money he made.”

“Well, he was always lucky. Who would have believed...”

“Lucky, yeah. Even when he dropped dead in Vegas I guess you could say he was lucky. He went out a winner.”

“I should be so lucky! Put a dollar in the Wheel of Fortune and win five million dollars. And even then, did he say anything sensible, like ‘Call a doctor, I’m having a heart attack’? No! He says, ‘Made five million on a buck...’

“And then he was gone.”

“At least Godiva didn’t have him buried at that Elvis Mortuary for High Rollers with the Elvis pallbearers and Graceland mausoleum.”

Sterling thought about the way his poor grieving niece and her six-year-old son, Thomas, whom Sterling nicknamed Torch, had been left to fend for themselves with only four servants, three acres in Beverly Hills, and holdings worth slightly less than thirty-five million.

Caressing the silver stubble on his chin, Sterling mused, “Ya know, Flossie, all things considered, it’s gone pretty well with us living here. You got the guest house, I got the gardener’s cottage and Godiva is happier without that
schmuck
.”

“Well I hate to admit it Sterling, but the roses have never looked better.”

Flossie’s still-sparkling blue eyes glazed over for a moment. Her focus wasn’t what it used to be.