Slice and Dice (2 page)

The little boy handed the feather to Connie, looking uncertain.

“Aren’t you cold?” asked Pepper. “Come get under the covers with me and we’ll watch the waves together. I’ll tell you a story about when I was a little girl.”

Hesitantly, the boy got up and stood next to the chair.

“That’s all, Connie,” said Pepper dismissively, taking several swallows of her rum and Coke — her third of the afternoon. “Come back in half an hour. We’ll be ready to go in by then.”

Connie nodded, looking hesitant herself. Finally, giving a tiny wave to Paul, she turned and walked back up die steps to the house.

Once Paul was bundled up next to her, Pepper stroked his hair and said, “You know Mommy loves you more than anything else in the whole wide world.”

He made a movement that was part nod, part yawn.

Pepper had lived her whole life on Lake Minnetonka. As a child, she’d discovered a secret: The lake had a heartbeat. Sometimes it was wild and roaring, sometimes it was buried under layers of ice and snow, but it was always there, full of spirit, strong, and insistent. Now the sound of it gave her courage. “Mommy’s been sick for a long time,” she said, kissing the top of her son’s head, “but she’s going to get better.”

“Can we play in the park tomorrow?”

“No, not tomorrow.” She sighed, realizing she’d disappointed him once again. “But soon. Very soon. I promise.”

He buried his face in her sweater. “Okay.” His tiny arms hugged her tight. “I love you, Mommy.”

Her heart nearly broke. “Don’t ever forget this moment,” she whispered, her arms wrapped around him. “And please, Paul, whatever happens, don’t ever forget me.”

Journal Note

Friday, 3
P.M.

No sign of her yet. I’ve registered at the hotel under an assumed name. I’ll go with my standard game plan this time and reserve using my real name until later. I shouldn’t have any trouble passing as just an ordinary tourist.

Tomorrow I start planning the preliminary interviews. I’ve spent months reading everything I could get my hands on about Constance Buckridge, America s culinary sweetheart. Books, articles, old television programs — getting the facts and figures straight. But this is where it all began. Ground zero.

My own personal “Deep Throat” inside the Buckridge camp insists that the bodies are moldering beneath the floorboards, just waiting for me to dig them up. He hasn’t been specific, but he’s promised me that my time will be well spent. I have a good feeling about this project. The hero with clay feet — my specialty. More later.

M.

Sophie had hoped that after a couple of martinis and a plate of the Belmont’s famous tiger shrimp on a bed of spicy couscous, Bram would be in a good enough mood for her to drop the bomb. She’d been preparing her speech all afternoon — ever since she’d talked to her son, Rudy. Rudy was currently biking and backpacking his way across Europe with his partner, John Jacoby. On the phone, they’d made an important decision, one she needed to tell Bram about right away. However, not only were the tiger shrimp no longer on the menu, but the usually prompt and friendly service at the restaurant was tonight a study in indifference. Any good mood the drinks might have engendered had been destroyed by the annoying boy-waiters buzzing about the dark, intimate dining room.

Neither Sophie nor Bram had eaten at the Belmont since last fall. Almost all the old wait staff was gone, replaced by a more youthful crew, lads who seemed to think having fun was the essence of their job description. They clumped together at the wait stations, chuckling at little in-jokes, and occasionally, when the mood struck, wandered off toward one of the gilt-edged mirrors to check their look. They were exceedingly adept at pouring water, but that was about the extent of their skills. Initially, Sophie and Bram were so amazed by the staff’s bustling inactivity that they hardly noticed that their waiter had hardly noticed them.

Twenty minutes after their arrival, having received nothing more than two glasses of water and a couple of menus, Bram reached his limit. At first he tried some polite arm-waving, but when that was ignored, he stood, placed two fingers between his teeth, and gave a piercing whistle. Not only did that catch their waiter’s attention, but every other eye in the place as well. Most of the other diners nodded their approval. Some even clapped.

According to local restaurant scuttlebutt, the Belmont, an institution in downtown Minneapolis, was currently having problems. This was clear not only from the lax service but also from the wilted rose on the table, as well as the pile of dry toast and a slice of bland paté the waiter brought them when he finally sauntered over to take their order.

“What the hell’s happened here?” muttered Bram as the young man strolled off toward the kitchen.

Sophie just shook her head.

Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont since the early Fifties, was an old poker-playing buddy of her father’s. They were both Finlanders from the Iron Range, both born and raised in Hibbing. During the past winter, Sophie had been sad to see a restaurant review in the
Times Register
trash the food at the Belmont. She couldn’t believe the place had sunk that low, especially since she knew the bias of the reviewer, a man with whom she rarely agreed. And yet, perhaps in this one instance, the review had foundation. For the first time, Sophie felt as if she was sitting in the faded glory of what had once been a premier restaurant in the Twin Cities.

That wasn’t to say that Harry hadn’t done his best in the last few months to stem the tide of decline. First, he’d hired David Polchow as the new head chef. Arriving with the highest of recommendations, David was a graduate of the New Orleans Cooking Institute and had studied under some of the best chefs in Europe. He’d worked at Sur la Mer in Boston before coming to Minnesota. His attempts to improve the food service at the Belmont, however, didn’t seem to be working. Sophie couldn’t understand how a chef of his caliber could have produced such an insipid pate, though perhaps it was an off night. Or, more likely, die rest of die kitchen staff wasn’t working at his level. He could do his best to educate and make demands, but he couldn’t do all the work himself.

Harry had also begun to modernize the interior, though interior decorating seemed to be the least of the restaurant’s problems. It was true, of course, that the wine-colored leather booths, once the height of elegance, had begun to look a bit tired. So had the pool-table-green walls and the heavy-handed gold accents. In an earnest attempt at modernity, Harry had replaced the carpeting, a bold playing-card design of clubs, hearts, diamonds, and spades, with a dreary putty color, all wrong for the more aggressive Las Vegas-style ambience. And plants, totally unnecessary greenery, seemed to be starving for light in every corner of the room. The Belmont had history and tradition going for it. It had a flavor, a style. All it needed was some retouching — not a whole new look. Ferns and minimal furnishings belonged in a more self-conscious Uptown bistro. A less self-conscious, more overt Fifties take on opulence was the name of the game here. Why not appreciate it for what it was?

“A piece of rancid pate for your thoughts,” said Bram, gazing at Sophie over the rim of his martini glass.

Her smile was wistful. “Oh, I was just thinking about what this place used to be like.”

“You came here with your parents a lot when you were a kid, right?”

“In those pre-cholesterol-conscious days of yore.” She sighed.

“Well, at least there’s one upside to the evening. We’re not here so that you can review the place. That headache is finally behind us.”

Sophie did her best to hide her startled look. “You never told me you hated my reviewing.”

“I didn’t
hate
it, but on those rare occasions when you convinced me I had to come with you, you insisted I wear one of those silly disguises, too. It made me feel like a freak — not, I might add, the best way to enjoy an evening out with one’s wife.”

“Come on,” she said, smiling and chucking him on the arm. “Restaurants today are theatre. You simply have to think of yourself as one of the cast.”

He grunted. “I never understood how you could enjoy eating a meal dressed like a biker’s moll.”

“I had other costumes.”

“Right. The professor with the beard and pipe. Very sexy.”

She was beginning to believe that he really had hated her reviewing. “But, honey, I needed to keep my identity a secret. When you came with me, you did, too. Otherwise we’d get the royal treatment. I wouldn’t be able to report accurately on the food or the service.”

“Well, now you don’t have to report on it at all.” It was Bram’s turn to chuck her on the arm. “We also won’t have to put up with irate restaurant owners and chefs calling you in the middle of the night to rant about how you slandered their béchamel sauce — or whatever.”

She had to admit that she’d never much liked that part either.

Last fall, Sophie’s parents announced their intention to retire and spend some time traveling around the world. In a matter of days, Sophie found herself the surprised and somewhat bewildered new owner of the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul. She’d been playing catch-up all winter, trying to get a handle on the day-to-day running of a large metropolitan hotel. Bram had grumbled every now and then about how much time she was spending in her office and how little time she was spending with him. His job as a talk-show host for a local radio station didn’t consume him in quite the same way Sophie’s new position consumed her.

Sophie was a perfectionist. She also couldn’t stand the thought that she might fail her father, a man who had total confidence that his only daughter could take over the reins of the hotel and run it profitably and well. During the winter, she’d let every nonessential part of her life slide, including her occasional restaurant reviews for the
Times Register.
She simply couldn’t do everything. Her editor at the paper hadn’t wanted to lose the column. Since she’d begun writing it five years earlier, Sophie had developed quite a loyal following, and that kind of interest sold newspapers. But she had to put the hotel first.

Once she had everything in order at the Maxfield, she’d promised Bram, she wouldn’t put in such long hours. She’d already begun to ease up on some of her duties. For the most part, Bram had been a good sport about the extra workload, because he expected their lives would get back to normal sooner or later. And that was Sophie’s dilemma now. How could she tell him about the phone call she’d received yesterday?

“You seem kind of preoccupied tonight, honey.” Bram gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

She tried a smile but knew it was a weak attempt.

“You know, Soph, when you get that look on your face —”

“What look?”

“The one where your eyes get all big and round and… well, you start to look like some tragic Dickensian waif. Sometimes I get the irresistible urge to find you a bowl of gruel.”

“Cute.”

Unfortunately, Sophie knew Bram’s description was accurate. She’d looked like a waif ever since she was a small child .The fact that, barefoot, she was just over five feet tall only added to the image. Actually, her Tiny Tim face, as she thought of it, was why she favored tailored “power” clothes, spike heels, and a sophisticated and short cut for her strawberry-Monde hair. “How nice that you see me as such a strong, independent woman.”

“But I do,” he protested. “You’re beautiful. Sexy. Everything a guy could want. I just see other sides of you as well. Sometimes, when you get upset, flustered that maybe you’re not doing the right thing, that’s when Oliver Twist appears.”

Tiny Tim,” she muttered, correcting him.

“Whatever.”

“And what side of me do you see tonight?”

“The one that wants to tell me something but is afraid I won’t like what I’m about to hear.”

It galled her that she was so transparent.

“So, tell me, Tim, what’s the big secret? Once it’s out in the open, we can have our argument, and then, when I’ve won, you can enjoy your sea scallops in lobster sauce and I can enjoy my steak.”

Sophie knew the humor and the smirk were intended to lighten the mood, make it easier for her to say what she had to say. Bram was essentially a kind man, though he hid it well on his radio show, where raucous opinion was the name of the game. “First you’ve got to promise you won’t get mad. That you’ll think about what I’m going to say before you respond.”

He touched his fingers lightly to the knot in his silk tie. “1 am the picture of rationality, as always.”

“Finish your drink.”

He eyed her a moment, then downed the martini in two quick gulps.

“Good. Now…” She took a deep breath, then began. “Yesterday afternoon I got a call from Yale McGraw.”

“Managing editor at the
Times Register?”

She nodded. “It seems George Gildemeister announced last week that he was going to retire.” George had been the food editor and primary restaurant reviewer at the paper since the mid-Seventies. He also happened to be the man who’d written the negative review of the Belmont.