Bone Appétit (6 page)

As I prepared a basic “backyard salad,” Tinkie took on a more ambitious and exotic selection. I was charmed to learn that at one point in history, tossed plates of mixed greens were considered messy and disorderly. This concept of an “out-of-order” salad really appealed to me, and perhaps explained my dislike of molded gelatin salads—which Chef Alana noted offered “maximum control.” I loved it. Maximum control of salad greens!

Alana taught from
Perfection Salad: Women and Cooking at the Turn of the Century
, by Laura Shapiro. “ ‘The object of scientific salad making was to subdue the raw greens until they bore as little resemblance as possible to their natural state. If a plain green salad was called for, the experts tried to avoid simply letting a disorganized pile of leaves drop messily onto the plate. . . . This arduous approach to salad making became an identifying feature of cooking school cookery and the signature of a refined household.’ ” This approach to salad contrasted the “natural” against the constructed and designed. Messy, as in natural, was unacceptable in “refined” households. I connected the dots quickly: Salads, like women, should be rigorously bound and controlled. Women’s clothing of that era reflected the same mentality.

Well, “refined” was never a word that applied to me, and I had a sudden overwhelming attachment for the raw leaves and vegetables of a messy green salad.

“I’m going to pen an ode to the green salad,” I told Tinkie. “Maybe one of the contestants could recite it as part of her talent.”

“Save me from salad poets and SaladShooters,” Tinkie said, making the sign of the cross.

I feared Alana would lose her patience and exile me from the school, but it didn’t happen. Tinkie and I sampled each other’s dishes before we hit the street just after noon. We were too full to think about eating lunch, so we strolled along Howard Street, finally stopping at Turnrow Books.

A reading was in progress, and we listened to Jack Pendarvis share his dark and hilarious visions before I bought his book, eased out of the store, and went back to the hotel. The concierge allowed me computer access, and I did a bit of basic research on the pageant.

The title of Miss Viking was brand spanking new, so there was no history or scuttlebutt to find on the Internet. To fill the time until the talent competition, I started a search of the various contestants, beginning with Karrie Kompton.

She was a professional pageant contestant who’d started as a toddler. Her mother had once been her manager, but they’d split when Karrie was seventeen. Since then, Karrie had charted her own career. She was a professional dancer, a passable singer, and had some acting credits in regional TV ads. She’d also done a stint as a weather girl on a Memphis TV station. Her tenure there was short-lived, due to an altercation with the news anchor.

There was little or nothing on Hedy Lamarr Blackledge. Her “official” Web site was one page and simply contained a photograph—albeit a striking one—and the personal comment that she’d been named for the famous movie star because Hedy Lamarr had been her grandmother’s favorite.

Janet Menton had professional representation and a list of acting credits that covered regional stage and TV ads as well as a nine-week guest appearance on a daytime soap opera as a femme fatale. She was a beautiful girl with mocha skin, hazel eyes, and a dazzling smile. Whether she won Miss Viking or not, this girl had a career in film. The camera loved her.

Crystal Belle Wadell had numerous regional titles to her credits, as did Gretchen Teatree. Both were accomplished chefs. Regina Jones was clearly the academic star. Brook Oniada, a resident of Hawaii, had plenty of credits in dance, acrobatics, and performance. Rita Tierce was a former child-figure-skating star.

To my surprise, Amanda Payne had the most impressive string of accomplishments. She’d played supporting roles in two independent Florida films, earning good reviews and a high level of respectability. She’d also composed and sold several country songs, two of which I recognized. Big-name stars had cut them.

And Babs Lafitte was the darling of Jackson, Mississippi. She was a featured singer at Bessie’s House of Blues and linked herself to the pirate Jean Lafitte. All in all, she was a colorful character who now owned half interest in a French Quarter cabaret club, where she performed on a regular basis. Duly noted was her turn on a number of cooking and fashion shows, including the run-up to the Oscars the previous year, where she dished the dirt on red-carpet dresses and shoes with Joan Rivers. At twenty-five, she was the oldest of the finalists, so this was truly a desperation year for her.

I exited out of the computer. Poking around in the pageant was fun, but it wasn’t a paying case, nor was anyone in trouble. Tomorrow, if I was still curious, I’d continue with my research.

I ran into Tinkie in the lobby and helped haul the load of books she’d purchased on the history of cooking back to our hotel room. At last, massage time. As the strong hands of the masseuse worked out the kinks in my back muscles, I drifted between reality and dream.

I was in the kitchen at Dahlia House, and a slender woman wearing a long dress stood near the kitchen counter whipping a bowl of something with a wooden spoon. When she turned around, I saw it was Jitty. Instead of her usual coif, her hair was bound in a calico cloth, but the smile was unmistakable. Behind Jitty, the oven had disappeared and in its stead was a wood-burning stove.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven,” she sang.

“You’re out of era,” I told her. “That’s a slogan song from the 1960s for Pillsbury.”

She shrugged. “How can you expect me to keep all that minutia straight? And who cares?” She put down the bowl of yellow batter, and I slipped a finger into it for a taste. She tried to whack my hand with the wooden spoon, but I was faster. “What’s cooking?” My cleverness knew no bounds.

“Coker loves pound cake, and since you’ve set me loose in the land of dreamy dreams, I thought I’d take the opportunity to make him one.”

Coker was Jitty’s husband, who’d died in the War Between the States with Great-Great-Grandmother Alice’s husband. But one thing I’d learned from Jitty: The rules of the Great Beyond were even more confusing in a dream state. “You’re both dead. Can’t you see him whenever you’d like?”

She turned away and looked out the window. “It’s complicated.”

I could see it wasn’t a happy subject, so I let it drop. “I’m healing,” I told Jitty.

“I can see that.” She rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them on a cloth.

“So this is what the kitchen looked like when Great-Great-Grandma Alice was alive.” The room had been modernized at least twice. Electricity had been added, running water, stainless-steel sinks. But even without modern conveniences, the room had a big, airy charm.

“It was Alice’s favorite room.” Jitty opened a cabinet to reveal neatly lined jars, each labeled corn or tomatoes or pickles. “We put up our own food.”

Imagining the work that had gone into simple food preparation made me tired. That generation of women worked.

“Why are you visiting me?” I asked.

“If I have to put a reason to it, your brain won’t get any exercise at all.”

“Great, a cryptic ghost. Just this once, can’t you just tell
me?” Soon, the dream would fade and she would vanish. If I didn’t get an answer now, I likely never would.

“The key to being a great cook is to know what you wish to prepare,” she said. “Like any other endeavor, cookin’ requires clarity.”

“Gee, thanks.” But she was already fading and I was back under the pummeling hands of the masseuse and the annoying ring of my cell phone. Without a word the masseuse handed me a towel and stepped from the room while I took the phone call from Cece.

“I’ve had the most brilliant idea, dahling,” Cece drawled.

“What?” I was excited just by her tone.

“I’m bringing Madame Tomeeka with me tonight. She’s going to
predict
the winner of the pageant! I included a notice of her pending forecast in this morning’s paper.”

“Brilliance!” Cece was a genius. That would boost readership of the paper by at least 20 percent. “Have you told Tinkie?” I asked.

“You tell her, dahling. We’ll be there at seven for the talent competition.”

Cece’s press credentials garnered us front-row seats. I noticed reluctance on the part of Madame Tomeeka, Zinnia’s resident psychic and my school chum, whom I knew as Tammy Odom. Tammy had a true gift, and more than once she’d shared her prophetic dreams with me, warning me of impending danger. Or heartbreak. Or both. Living with Jitty, I had no reason to doubt that messages from the other side could be sent to us. Tammy was the perfect conduit, but the drawback was she couldn’t force the spirit world to comply with my need for information. Like Jitty, the visions of Madame Tomeeka came at their own whim.

I sat between Tinkie and Tammy, and we had a clear
view of the judges, seated right in front of us. Sun-kissed and blessed by the gods with good looks, abundant hair, and a body that would inspire a sculptor, Clive whispered with Belinda and Dawn. The female judges were obviously charmed. Harley sat it out alone.

“I’m sorry for those girls,” Madame Tomeeka said. “Dawn Gonzalez and Belinda Buck are old enough to take care of themselves, but those girls . . . Clive is irresistible, and trying to get his attention is one more way for them to short sell their value. A number of them will give away another little piece of themselves.”

Tammy spoke from bitter experience. Maybe bringing her to this event was not Cece’s best idea, though it had certainly appealed to me, too. Nothing like handicapping a pageant with help from a psychic.

“Hush!” Cece ordered. “We have to concentrate.”

While I’m no advocate of pageants, I had to admit the energy generated onstage as the girls pranced out was exciting. As they performed a musical number from
Hello, Dolly!
they all managed to act like this was the best moment of their lives. Whatever the truth, the girls appeared to be having fun and reveling in their shared moment. Such is the illusion good theater is able to create. I had no doubt that behind the black velvet curtain, ruthlessness ruled.

They finished the number and rushed backstage for a costume change. Mrs. Phelps took the microphone and enumerated the rules of the talent segment. Any talent or combination was acceptable as long as it was suited for a general audience. The girls had been allowed to bring their coaches, makeup artists, and backup musical accompaniment, whether recorded or live.

Finally, the first competitor was called. Regina Jones, first in the lineup, was an accomplished pianist. But as soon as Karrie Kompton walked onto the stage, I forgot
the first contestant. Karrie had presence, and when the music started and she gave a bump-and-grind medley of Broadway numbers, I was wowed.

She had no real competition until Brook Oniado came out dressed in a grass skirt to the beat of Hawaiian drums. Before she started her number, ten waiters clad in bright island shirts rushed through the auditorium distributing grilled chicken and fruit kebabs and trays of pineapple daiquiris.

“I made the appetizers myself,” Brook said, “honoring my father’s island heritage. My act is a tribute to him and my people.”

She carried three fire batons—and she hulaed, twirled, and juggled simultaneously. Though she was slender, the vigorous motion of her hips could churn butter. Her act brought down the house, and I watched the judges nod and beam, marking on their pads. Brook had propelled herself into a top slot. The refreshments were not only delicious but a stroke of brilliance for someone who wanted to represent a company that specialized in cooking.

The audience finally settled down, and Hedy walked out with a stool and a violin. She sat without fanfare or introduction and began to play. The haunting music swelled over the audience. I saw Tammy wipe a tear from her eye. Hedy demonstrated a talent worthy of a concert tour. She drew a standing ovation at the conclusion. She was definitely in the running.

To my surprise, Amanda Payne belted out a Dolly Parton song that had the audience on its feet stomping and whistling. Who would have thought such a big voice would come from such a tiny and timid young woman. Whatever self-confidence issues Amanda had, once she hit the stage, they evaporated and she was 100 percent dazzle.

Babs Lafitte, wearing a wig, had recovered enough to
participate, and the audience welcomed her with thunderous applause. Everyone in town knew what had happened, and her “the show must go on” attitude made her a favorite. Not to mention that she could play the piano with real talent. Her medley of raucous blues tunes had the audience whistling and begging for more.

The last of the girls I’d placed in my top five, Janet Menton, did a dramatic monologue from a play I adored, called
’night, Mother
. I couldn’t fault her performance, which was Broadway worthy. The level of talent made me feel sorry for the judges. How would they possibly pick?

Cece made copious notes, and Tinkie rushed up and down the stage taking photographs. As the competition drew to a close, all of the girls came out on stage in a lineup that made me realize that each one deserved to win.

“What did you think?” I asked Tammy. I meant it as casual conversation.

“I think there’s bad energy in the group. I smell tragedy in the air. Someone is about to get hurt.”

While Tammy had the gift of second sight, she wasn’t in the habit of predicting doom and gloom, at least not for people other than me. Her words stopped me short. “What did you see?”

Tammy stood up. She moved slowly, her attention focused on the stage.

“Tammy?” I tried to grab her hand, but she shook free. “Everyone! Get out!”

For a moment no one paid her any attention. The judges slowly turned to frown at her.

“Hush up,” Harley Pitts hissed.

Tammy ignored him. She eased past my knees and stepped into the aisle. “Get those girls off the stage!”

I scrabbled out after her. “Hey,” I said, grabbing her elbow. “What is it?”

“We have to get out.” She started toward the exit, visibly upset. Halfway down the aisle she paused, obviously torn between leaving the auditorium and breaking up the last of the pageant. “Get off that stage!” She tried one more time.