Toured to Death (19 page)

“W
hat I don't understand, Ms. Arbor, is why your client waited so long before coming forward. It's been over half a century since the alleged theft of her process, the process she claims as hers, took place. Allegedly.”

Amy squirmed. “Yes,” the fake Ms. Arbor said. “You see, my client was out of the country for quite a period of time. She was unaware of the situation until she returned just a few months ago.”

The corporation lawyer regarded her curiously. He couldn't have been more than two years out of law school, she decided, forced to deal with only the most ridiculous claims against the food conglomerate. Amy felt sorry for him but even sorrier for herself.

Fanny, aka Amanda Steiner, sat beside her in the small, windowless office of the Lexington Avenue skyscraper, dressed in a black, shoulder-length wig that had been moldering in a closet since the 1980s. The absurdity of the patently false hair somehow worked. Combined with a darker shade of make-up, it had radically changed Fanny's appearance.

“She was unaware of the existence of Mexican fast food? That's a little hard to believe. We have Tico Taco stores in twenty-nine countries around the world.”

“Twenty-nine. Imagine,” said Fanny. She was enjoying this.

“Mrs. Steiner's family moved to Borneo. There are no Mexican restaurants in Borneo.” Amy had checked this out with three different tourist boards. It was the one thing she said with any degree of certainty.

The young, slightly built man pressed a button on his intercom. “Helen. Check the international lists. Does Tico Taco or any competitor have operations in Borneo?” He lifted his finger. “Is that a country? Borneo? Forgive my ignorance.”

“It's an island shared by three countries. It's part of Malaysia, Indonesia, and the entire country of Brunei.”

The finger descended. “An island. Check Malaysia, Indonesia, Brunei.”

Amy sat straight in her chair. “At this stage, all we want is a meeting with Stuart Romney. If anyone would recognize the validity of Mrs. Steiner's claim, it's him.”

“Mr. Romney is our chief financial officer,” the lawyer explained. “We don't like to bring him in, not in such early stages.”

“You can call Doris Carvel,” Fanny said cheerily. “I'm sure she remembers.” Amy had ordered her to remain quiet but had never for an instant expected her to obey. “Little Amanda Steiner. My parents were friends of theirs.”

The lawyer wrote himself a note. “San Diego friend,” he mumbled.

“I was just a girl at the time.”

Amy cleared her throat. “When we set up this appointment, it was with the understanding that we would meet Mr. Romney personally.”

“Is he out of town?” Fanny asked sweetly. “That might explain why he hasn't returned our calls.”

The lawyer looked uncomfortable. “Uh, no. Mr. Romney's been in the office every day for as long as I've been here. And that's over . . . well over six months.”

“Six months,” Fanny repeated, looking smugly at her daughter and faux lawyer. “And not even a day away.”

“Mrs. Steiner,” Amy said between clenched teeth.

The intercom buzzed. “Yes, Helen?”

“There are two Tico Tacos in Jakarta, but that's not on Borneo. None at all in Malaysia or Brunei.”

“So the answer is no.”

“That's correct, Mr. Weaver.”

Weaver lifted his finger, then seriously locked eyes with Amy. “And Mrs. Steiner never left Borneo? Not once?”

“Not for a second,” Fanny swore. “I adore Borneo. We have the best white-water rafting. It's on our travel posters.”

“All right, Ms. Arbor.” The lawyer sighed. “If you'll wait here, I'll be back.”

Amy waited until the lawyer disappeared out the door. “I thought I told you to stay quiet.”

“What are you talking about? I was brilliant.”

“That was the deal. I impersonate a lawyer and commit fraud and wind up in jail, and you stay quiet.”

“Did you like the way I found out about Romney's whereabouts for the past month? Pretty nifty.”

“Nifty.”

Fanny reached up under a corner of her wig and scratched at her hairline. “You're taking all the fun out of this. You know, Marcus wanted to be the lawyer. He thought this was a great idea.”

“That's because he knew he couldn't come. Romney would recognize him.” She eyed the door. “Weaver's probably checking me out with the New York State Bar Association. I'll be going directly to jail, and I didn't even have the pleasure of seeing you stay quiet.”

As promised, the lawyer returned. “Mr. Romney has a little time between appointments,” he said grudgingly and ushered them out the door and down the hall.

Stuart Romney was waiting in a corner office, a big-windowed, architecturally pretentious room with double doors that opened onto an enclosed outer office, not just an assistant's desk in the hallway. His furnishings seemed out of place among all the chrome and glass. They were pieces from the 1950s, large, well maintained, expensive, and homey, not unlike the executive himself.

Romney appeared to be well past retirement age—a barrel-chested man, but thin through the limbs, if the cut of his suit was any indication. He was as tall as Amy, although an arthritic stoop made him seem shorter. His hair was full and white, which implied either great genes or a good wig, as opposed to Fanny's monstrosity.

He greeted Fanny warmly, calling her Amanda and embracing her hand in both of his. “So you knew Fabian and Doris from the old days. You're going to have to tell me what they were like.”

“I was just a girl,” Fanny said.

“What was the house like? Was it really as tiny as they say?”

“Well, to me it seemed huge,” said Fanny without a hint of hesitation.

Amy would have loved to see her go on but figured that discretion probably trumped curiosity, at least in this case. “I'm sure we don't want to take up too much of Mr. Romney's time.”

“Yes,” Fanny agreed, “although I do love reminiscing.”

“Yes.” Romney paused and grew somber. “Weaver from legal says you have some kind of claim against Food Services Corporation. I have no idea what this could be.”

Fanny turned to her lawyer with a tilt of the head. Amy cleared her throat. “Thank you for seeing us.” She handed Romney a freshly minted business card. “Mrs. Steiner walked into my office with this amazing story. I was skeptical, of course, but she has the proof to back it up.” Amy dried her palms on her black, slim, knee-length skirt.

It had happened over fifty years ago, she explained. Amanda's parents had been friends with the Carvels. The two wives often cooked for each other when their husbands had to work late. Simple, impromptu meals. And little Amanda helped. On the day when they experimented with Mexican cuisine, it was Amanda who accidentally changed the recipe for corn tortillas, and as the shells were cooling, it was she who folded the entire batch to save room on the kitchen counter. The shells, surprisingly, became hard and held their shape. As Amy elaborated on her lie, Romney nodded.

Amy went on. “Everyone ate them. They didn't want to hurt the child's feelings. Mrs. Carvel even took a few of the shells home to show her husband, Mr. Carvel.”

Romney raised his hand. “I don't doubt this for a moment.” He smiled. “What you're saying is that Fabian used Mrs. Steiner's childhood recipe for the hard, prefolded taco shell.”

“Yes.” Amy had been all set to argue. “You don't doubt this for a moment?”

“I don't. Amanda, I'm sure, is a reliable woman with a good memory. And if she has evidence, she has evidence. What exactly? A girlhood diary? Old letters?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“No, of course not.”

Amy found new places on her skirt and dried her palms again. “Uh, shortly after this incident, the family moved from San Diego to Florida. And a year after that to Borneo. You're not doubting it for a moment?”

“No, I'm sure it's true.”

“Oh.”

This wasn't going according to plan. The plan, Fanny's brainstorm, had sounded almost reasonable yesterday.
Reasonable?
That in itself should have sent up warning flags.

By claiming to be the inventor of the prefolded taco, she had hoped to put him on the defensive. Amy the lawyer would threaten to make Romney a codefendant in the suit. And in defending himself, Romney would naturally divulge certain information. Did he have an equity position in F.S.C.? Would he be nervous about opening the company books for Mrs. Steiner's attorney? In short, in the inevitable scrutiny of a lawsuit, would he be anxious to hide anything?

“Just between us?” Romney shrugged. “No, I'm not surprised. From my first days with the company I suspected Fabian of stealing at least one of his ideas. You know what made me suspect?”

“Umm.” Amy was at a loss.

“Milk allergies.” Romney curved his mouth into a boyish grin. “Didn't know that, did you? Fabian was a smart food man and a true innovator. But he was extremely allergic to dairy. His whole life.”

“Allergic,” Amy repeated. “That doesn't make sense. How did he . . . ?”

“Good. You've done your homework. Yes, Ms. Arbor. On that glorious day, the day that's immortalized in every annual report, when Fabian first tasted an enchilada with sour cream folded inside. . . Well, I had my doubts.”

“What?” Fanny rose dramatically to her feet. “Are you telling me people are making enchiladas with sour cream? My God. On that very same night, my mother put sour cream on our enchiladas. We're Jewish. Sour cream on everything.”

Amy's teeth were clenching again. “Mrs. Steiner!” she warned.

“Makes perfect sense,” Romney agreed. “The man stole two of your ideas.”

“You're saying Carvel was lactose intolerant?” asked Fanny.

“I didn't say lactose intolerant.” Romney steepled his fingers. “As Fabian once told me, there are three elements in milk that one can be allergic to.” The steeple collapsed as he ticked off the list. “One can have trouble digesting lactose. One can be allergic to one or more of the milk proteins. Or one can be allergic to butterfat. Each allergy by itself can be fairly benign, or so I'm told. Compared to other food allergies.”

“But Fabian had all three,” Fanny guessed.

“They say he almost died as an infant. The merest taste of milk would give him violent cramps. For years, I kept expecting someone to come forward and take credit for the sour cream.” He sighed. “But I'm afraid you don't have a claim.”

Amy's mouth fell open. “Tico Taco's success was based on those two things. Of course we have a claim.”

“Not really, Ms. Arbor.” Romney's voice lost all traces of warmth. “Sour cream and a folded corn shell are not things you can patent. Believe me, we tried. And even if your client were somehow able to trace a direct link between her recipe and Fabian Carvel, something I genuinely doubt, you would also have to prove that she was intending to profit from her recipe. Otherwise there's no damage, is there? No basis for monetary compensation. You're a lawyer, Ms. Arbor. You follow my logic.”

“Yes, I am. I mean, I do.”

There was a light rap on the door. An assistant discreetly popped her head in. “Your two o'clock is here, Mr. Romney.”

“Ah, the police officer. Thank you, Rita.”

“Police officer?” Amy had a bad feeling.

“Yes. It seems an old acquaintance of mine recently died. Tragic.” He led the way into his assistant's empty outer office. “I'm not sure what I can tell them, but anything to help the police.”

Amy hung back, a move that Romney misinterpreted. “I'm afraid I can't give you any more time, Ms. Arbor. If you insist on pursuing this matter, which I frankly discourage, Mr. Weaver in legal would be your contact.” Then he stepped out into the corridor and glanced left. “Be with you in a moment, Officer.”

“Take your time, sir,” boomed a familiar Bronx-bred voice.

“Come along, Amanda,” Romney said. “I'll walk you to the elevator.”

Instinctively, Amy sidestepped, putting herself in the path directly between Romney and Mrs. Steiner. It was a move that could have been called awkward or rude or perhaps, with some luck, communicative. “Uh, Mr. Romney, could we possibly make use of a telephone? Mrs. Steiner and I?”

“Use your cell, dear,” her mother said.

“I can't. I forgot it,” she said, measuring each word for meaning.

Romney regarded her curiously. “By all means. Use Rita's phone. Nine for an outside line.”

“It was good of you to meet with us.”

“Yes,” Fanny agreed. “Thank you.”

They all shook hands. Then Amy crossed to the console on Rita's desk, prepared to pantomime a phone conversation for as long as it would take to avoid Frank Loyola. The receiver was to her ear and her own home number dialed before she realized that Fanny had followed Romney out into the corridor. “Damn!”

Once, in a mystery novel—someone was tailing someone—she had read that in order to avoid detection, you should never peek around a corner with your head at eye level, since that was where your quarry's gaze would naturally fall. Amy obeyed this instruction and fell to her knees. Her eyes were just inches off the carpet when she poked her head around the doorjamb and gazed down the long corridor.

There it was, the dusty black wig, bobbing its way toward the elevator bank. Escorting the wig was the back half of Stu Romney's impeccably tailored suit. In the distance, standing by an open door, was the front of a decent but cheap suit, inhabited by a presentable Frank Loyola.