Mumbo Gumbo (24 page)

“The police are probably all over this studio by now.”

“I know a shortcut,” Artie said. “I just need to gather my thoughts. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

I watched as Artie Herman moved the chair aside and slipped out of the prop room. I ran to the door, but when I opened it, he and the guard were gone.

I put my cell phone to my ear, so relieved it was over and Honnett had heard the whole thing.

“Honnett? I’m safe.”

“Maddie!” The voice was not Honnett’s. It wasn’t even a male voice. And there was a hint of an Asian accent, too.

“Who is this?” I asked, shocked.

“This is Anna,” said the voice. “What is going on there? We were worried.”

I looked down at my phone. I had not redialed Honnett’s number. Oh my God. I must have hit the speed dial button by accident. All the time I’d been pushing Artie to confess, I’d been connected to the receptionist at the May Moon Nail Salon.

T
his is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

I turned and saw a good-looking guy, tall and thin, dip his spoon into the steaming bowl of gumbo. He was leaning against the wall next to the buffet table, chatting to Holly, who was serving up hearty bowlfuls to all of the cast and crew of
Food Freak.

“I’d marry a woman who could cook like this,” said the tall blond guy.

Holly grinned and pointed to me. “There she is.” The tall blond guy looked over at me and smiled. His eyes were friendly and I tried to place where I’d seen him before. Obviously he worked on the crew of
Food Freak,
but he didn’t look like crew. He looked more rock and roll. That was it. He was one of the musicians in the show’s band.

As wrap parties go, the one for
Food Freak
was looking to be a knockout success. After slaving away to prepare the “Final Food Fight” episode, we were all long overdue for a celebration. Our decision to serve Cajun cuisine turned out to be extremely popular after that night’s cook-off. It seemed everyone’s appetite had been whetted watching the contestant chefs preparing their versions of the spicy stew. Gumbo, as I
wrote in my first and, alas, last job as a TV writer, is a Louisiana soup that blends the rich cuisines of the Indian, French, Spanish, and African cultures.

Holly left her post behind the buffet table and joined me as I scoped out the party in progress. “Hey,” she said, as we walked together to get drinks. “You got yourself a very cute fan back there.”

“He looks young,” I said, smiling.

“He looks gorgeous,” Holly replied. “If I didn’t have extreme news right this very second, I’d go for him myself.”

“News?” I stopped. We had come to the area near the stage where the bar had been set up. “Wait a sec,” I told her and then I ordered a Diet Coke from the gal who was tending bar. “Want one?” I asked Holly.

But she had moved over to the punch station. Wesley had designed a display that featured a series of retro punch bowls, which had been artfully lighted. In the center of each bowl was a different culinarythemed ice sculpture. One sculpture showed the
Food Freak
logo; one was of Chef Howie’s head. The crystal punch bowls contained different flavors of Kool-Aid.

“This is so neat,” Holly said, filling her cup with a ladleful of bright blue liquid.

“Did you know that Kool-Aid twists come in Berry Blue again?” I asked her, excited to share the news. Wes and I had gone on the Web and had just found out. “Isn’t that awesome?”

“Why, Maddie. I never realized you were such a connoisseur of packaged powdered beverages.”

I laughed. The things I had gotten into.

“And did you know,” she asked me back, “that Kool-Aid makes a new Magic Twist that starts out one color but then changes into another color?”

“Whoa!” I realized I was in the presence of someone who had an even deeper knowledge base. “I defer to your greater wisdom on this subject.”

“Schnitzel!” Holly cursed. “Oh, rats! This sweater is brand new.”

She had turned too quickly and a slosh of Berry Blue Kool-Aid had splashed out of her cup and onto her white silk sweater. “You think that will come out?”

I smiled up at her. “Not a chance.”

The music had been going strong throughout the night, but now that dinner was being served, the four big-screen televisions had been tuned to the network as the final episode of
Food Freak
aired on the West Coast.

“What’s your news?” I asked Holly, hoping to take her mind off her turquoise-spotted sweater.

“Oh, Mad. I’ve got to get Donald. We’ve got to tell you this together.” She looked over the crowd and waved. Donald, dressed in black, crossed the floor to meet up with us at the Kool-Aid bar.

“Sweetie,” Holly said. “You’ve gotta taste the Berry Blue!” And she turned and ladled him a cup.

“Hi, Maddie,” he said to me. “So, what do you think?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” Holly said.

“Holly and I are getting married,” Donald said, with a big smile.

“We’re driving to Vegas tonight,” Holly added, giggling and handing over the cup to Donald. “Isn’t that the best news you ever heard in your life? I’m so happy!”

“Honey!” I said, hugging Holly and then hugging Donald.

“Do you give us your blessing?” Donald asked, beaming. Just then Wesley walked up to our group.

“Hi, kids,” he said. “Well, I can’t believe the buzz we’re getting over the Kool-Aid. It’s just hitting everybody’s spot. Mad, you are a true kitsch genius.”

“Did you hear Holly and Donald’s big news?” I asked, still stunned. “They are getting married.”

“No!” Wes said, as shocked as I was.

“Tonight,” Holly added.

“Get out!” Wes said, shocked even more.

“We’re eloping,” Donald said. “Isn’t that fun?”

“But, Holly,” I said, whining a little bit. “I want to see you get married.”

“Both of you come with us,” Donald offered. “It’ll be great.”

“Well,” I said, looking at Wesley.

“Well, why not?” Wesley answered. “We’ll be dead tired, but why not?”

On the big screen nearest us, I noticed that the first segment of
Freak
was just ending. Randy East’s voice was describing the perfect recipe for guacamole. When I heard him read off the ingredients, I became quite still. I turned to see if Honnett had made it to the party yet.

There he was, standing toward the back of the large room, apart from the crowd.

“Later,” I told Holly and Donald and Wes, and I walked over to talk to the cop in my life.

“Say, it looks like one hell of a party,” Honnett said when I joined him.

“Wes did most of it. It’s been fun, for once, to be a guest at one of our parties.”

“So you know we took your boss in for questioning.”

“Artie? I figured you would.”

“He was unexpectedly candid in his statement. I believe I’ve got you to thank for that. He seemed under the impression I’d already heard it before.”

“A gift,” I said, unwilling to go into further details about my manicurist.

“We’ll need to get a statement from you, but right now I’m not sure we can charge him with much more than accessory to murder-for-hire on one of the hits.”

“Will you let him make a deal?” I asked, aware again of how much life imitates game shows.

“We’ll see. Probably. Doesn’t look like we can prove he had any idea what those recipe-addresses meant until after the woman was killed in Burbank. We’re better off getting him to help us put away the drug dealers. They are the guys we want off the street.”

I nodded, thinking of how everything in life seems to be a trade-off. “Once you make L.A. safe from drug traffickers, you can then move on to cleaning our streets of game-show producers. It’s priorities.”

Honnett gave me a wry smile. “Glad you understand how it works.”

“Have you figured out any reason why Quentin Shore was over at Tim’s house last Wednesday night?” I asked Honnett.

He just shook his head. “We may never know. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

Over at the bar, there was a commotion as a short, heavyset young man was complaining about his drink to the bargirl. I was surprised to see such ugly behavior at a private party where, at any rate, most of the staff had just started drinking. “I’d better go see what that’s about,” I said to Honnett.

“No, wait,” he said. “That’s the guy I’m looking for.
That’s Neal Herman, the son. Looks like he’s pretty wasted.”

“That’s Neal Herman?” I looked at him and realized there was a resemblance to Artie there. Neal was like a fleshed-out younger version. “You know, he’s listed as one of the writers on the show.”

“His dad sends him his paycheck. That’s about the extent of his involvement,” Honnett said. “That, and dragging his father down with him. I’m going to take him downtown and get his statement, too.”

“You’ve got to go?” I turned and held Honnett’s arm, looking up at him. “I wish you could come to Vegas with Holly and the rest of us. She’s getting married tonight. Isn’t that insane? I don’t know whether I should try to talk her out of it, or just keep my big mouth shut. It’s not like I’m one to give advice about relationships.” I gave him a smile. “Although we’re doing pretty well, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Maddie.” Honnett looked away. “You are not making this easy.”

And then I woke up. Something had been strained between us, but I’d thought it was a little something. I sipped my Diet Coke and waited.

“Look, Madeline, I have to tell you something. It’s not about you and me. It’s about the other part of my life.”

“You being a detective, you mean?”

“Well, no. About my wife.”

“Your…wife?” I have prided myself in handling shocking news. I love nothing more than being truly accepting of life’s slings and arrows. Stay detached, that’s my motto. What goes down must come up. But all the platitudes and Buddhist sayings in the world had not prepared me for that one word.

“My ex-wife,” Honnett corrected. “I told you I had a past. You knew I’d been married before.”

“Ye-es.”

“I’ve been married twice. I told you that.”

“So what is it with your ex-wife, then?” I asked, my voice sounding tenser to my ears than I’d hoped.

“Well, not exactly ‘ex’ yet. Marie and I have been separated for two years. And now she wants to see if we can give it another try.”

“What? What are you telling me?” I looked at him hard. “Are you saying you want to go back to your…your
wife
? I can’t believe we’re actually saying these words. I can’t believe you lied to me. You said you were
divorced.
Twice.” I have zero patience for women who date married men. And now, it turned out, I was one of them. “Damnit, Honnett! You said you were divorced twice. What was that? A convenient way to seduce me? You’re a freaking cop, Honnett. You’re not supposed to lie!”

“I said I’d been married twice, Maddie. I didn’t say I was divorced. I told you I’d been living on my own the past two years. I didn’t lie.”

I stared at him, my eyes stinging. “You didn’t lie? What did you think? I would date some guy who still had a wife?”

He looked away.

“Look,” I said, calming my voice the hell down through an extreme exertion of will, “I can’t talk about this right now. I’ve got to help—”

“Madeline!” Greta Greene walked into the party and spotted me off to the side.

I turned to Honnett and said, “Good-bye. Good luck.”

“Maddie…,” he said, taking a step after me, but I
wouldn’t turn back. I couldn’t bear to look at him, with his beautiful eyes and his sexy cheekbones. Instead, I made myself walk over to greet Greta.

“Maddie, I can’t believe how brilliant this party is!” Greta was celebrating, and not with plain old Kool-Aid. “See, I told you we’d do it up right, and you certainly did.”

“How are you?” I asked, making it all the way over to where she was standing without looking back. Greta, her petite figure enhanced by a stylish emeraldgreen pantsuit, lifted her glass of champagne in a toast.

“Here’s to a dozen years at the top,” she offered. I clicked my Diet Coke glass to her champagne flute. “Artie called me an hour ago,” she said. “All is forgiven, he said. He wants me back. He’s made me executive producer, and get this, he’s retiring.”

I realized Artie was true to form. After humiliating Greta and firing her in a rage, he now needed her more than ever.

“He’s so sorry he unloaded on me, but you know, sometimes these creative guys can really lose it.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Did Artie mention anything about the police?” I asked.

“No. Why? Is this about the fire at Tim’s house?” she asked, suddenly very interested.

“You’ll hear all about it later. So,” I said, adjusting to the fact that Greta was back, again, “did you see the final show? Did you like it?”

“It’s horrible!” Greta said, aghast, pointing her champagne flute in the direction of the giant television monitor closest to us. “The music’s not bad, but the look is all wrong.” We watched a little of the program together. On camera, the contestants were just learning
that the surprise dish they would be preparing was gumbo.

On camera, a very relaxed and charming Chef Howie was explaining, “Gumbo is a Louisiana soup that blends the rich cuisines of the Indian, French, Spanish, and African cultures. The word ‘gumbo’ is derived from an African term for okra, ‘gombo,’ and the very first recipe for this dish appeared in print in 1805. One of your most important ingredients in preparing gumbo is filé powder, which we use as a thickener. It is actually made from ground sassafras leaves and came to the recipe from the Choctaw Indians. There are no hard-and-fast rules for making gumbo beyond the basic roux, okra, filé powder,
and
your imagination. So get ready! There are probably as many distinctive recipes for gumbo as there are cooks in Louisiana. Or cooks right here, in
Food Freak
’s red-hot Kitchen Arena!”

“I wrote that,” I blurted out, unable to shut up about what little parts of the show had been my personal contribution.

“That was delightful,” Greta said kindly, and I instantly suspected she didn’t really mean it. Ah, well. “I knew Artie would go down the toilet without me,” she continued, returning to her original point. “But, next season we’ll get back on track. My only foreseeable problem is Fate Finkelberg. God save me from Fate!”

I toasted her on that one.

“Oh,” she added, in great spirits, “did you hear Chef Howie’s news?”

I shook my head.

“He’s been cast in the new Spielberg.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid an old friend like you,” she said. “I
believe they are doing a remake of
Marty
and they want Chef Howie to be Marty.”

“No way,” I said, laughing. “Will Chef Howie play the Ernest Borgnine role?” I couldn’t stop laughing at the picture of the pretty-boy chef playing a lonely aging momma’s boy. What a town.

On the big monitor, the last episode of
Food Freak
was still playing. The show had progressed to the part where the contestants had begun the final cook-off. I was mesmerized by how different the show looked from how I remembered it. As I had watched it during the taping, it seemed like a manic play. I was struck by the energy of the room, the reactions of the audience, the live spectacle. On the screen, now, I noticed that the show was more about fancy handheld camera angles and quick cuts. I had to admit, the close-up views of butter melting in a black skillet juxtaposed with hands sprinkling flour a little at a time to make the basic roux and then a quick cut to the faces of each of the contestant-chefs was effective. With the rockmusic background, the final cook-off looked like a great big sexy rock video where gumbo was the star. This must be part of the attraction of this series. The director, Pete Steele, deserved a lot of credit. I thought I’d look for him and tell him.