Authors: Kerry Greenwood
‘And there won’t be anything wrong with this Eggs Benedict,’ I replied in an undertone. ‘Lance is interrogating every leaf. Personally.’
‘And so far it is telling the truth,’ she observed gravely.
Had solemn Bernie just made a joke? I looked around. She was smiling. I returned the smile.
What presence she had, this actress. Enamelled, perfect, from the immaculate hair to the delicate red shoe. She beckoned to me and I hurried over.
Up close, one could see the cracks. The little lines around the eyes and the slackening of the jaw. I wondered how old she really was. In calendar years, not actress years.
‘Has your partner found anything yet?’ she asked.
‘He is making progress,’ I told her, striving not to curtsey. ‘Shall I fetch him? He’s somewhere around.’
She nodded regally. I went in search of Daniel. I found him talking to Ali, the sound man.
‘Daniel, you have been summoned to the royal presence,’ I said. ‘She’s in the kitchen and I have to warn you . . .’
‘She’s in a mood,’ he finished my sentence for me. ‘I know. I’m coming. Right away.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Ali.
Daniel could soothe the Big Bang. He went to Ms Atkins, took the scarlet-taloned hand in his, and leant down to talk. He was a reassuring presence. The kitchen calmed as well, now that it was not being glared at. Ms Atkins’ breakfast was assembled and she was escorted out to eat it. Daniel went with her. There was a collective exhalation of relief.
‘Well, one thing, it wasn’t us,’ said Bernie, picking up her icing syringe. ‘We have been together all morning.’
‘Happened before we got here,’ I agreed. ‘Before Daniel got here, too. Which might be significant. Well, that’s my pastry all rolled out. Pass me some fillings, and let’s get this show on the road.’
I made all my pies and quiches. While they were safely stowed in the oven I left Bernie to her own devices and wandered over to talk to the most unregarded people in any kitchen, the washers-up, known dismissively as ‘dish pigs’. There were three, clustered around the big machines. I introduced myself.
‘You make the pies,’ said one, identified as Santo. ‘You make grouse pies.’
‘Excellent,’ agreed the second, who said his name was Rai. Now that I looked at Rai, I was not sure as to his or her gender. Stringy hair, ribby body, loose T shirt and apron. Epicene. The third was a young woman who told me that her name was Laura. They were all university students, hoping to graduate in this kitchen to chopping and dicing before they graduated as accountant, lawyer and business administrator. I asked them how they liked their work.
‘It could be worse,’ said Rai. ‘The leftovers are ours. I’m putting on weight, I’m sure. I’ve worked in places where you were forbidden to touch a crumb and anyone found chewing was sacked.’
‘Me too,’ said Santo. ‘Mind you, some places you wouldn’t want to risk the food. George Orwell talks about it in
Down and Out in Paris and London
. Gross. Tommy’s strict—you should have heard her create when that fork went out with dried egg on it—but she’s fair. When one of the machines broke down and we had to wash a whole lunch by hand she gave us a bonus. Also, she sends her green waste to be composted and the untouched leftovers to Feed My Lambs who put on meals for the homeless. All her produce is organic. This is an eco-friendly business.’
‘True,’ agreed Laura. ‘And they do nice vegetarian food. Usually I have to live on mashed potato and wilted salads.’
‘Any idea about who’s playing tricks with Ms Atkins?’
‘Rotten bitch,’ said Rai heatedly. ‘Rotten, rotten bitch. She deserves worse.’
‘Oh?’ I waited to hear more.
‘She nearly got me sacked over that eggy fork. You know what egg’s like. Sticks like superglue. I only missed it once. Anyone else would have just got another fork. But because God hates me, she got the fork and she went on as though I’d tried to poison her. Demanded that Tommy fire me right away.’
‘Yes, but Tommy didn’t fire you,’ said Laura patiently. This, evidently, was a conversation which had happened many times before. ‘Tommy said it was an oversight and that we’d be more careful in future and she let you stay. Get over it!’
‘It wasn’t fair,’ muttered Rai. I was coming to the conclusion that he might be male, after all.
‘Chill,’ advised Santo. ‘Who’s doing it? I dunno. Could be anyone. As you can see, Ms Atkins has a real talent for making enemies. And before you ask, it wasn’t Rai. Rai was with us and has been all morning. But I reckon,’ he added slowly, ‘that you are looking in the right place. It must be someone in this kitchen. And who knows what he or she will do next? It’s all been annoyance level up until now. What if it’s drain cleaner or rat poison next time?’
‘You spend too much time on Second Life,’ scoffed Laura.
‘It isn’t Second Life,’ he said. ‘It’s detective stories. You don’t read enough of them. It’s all fantasy with you.’
‘Spooky,’ said Rai.
‘You know,’ said Santo, ‘I thought that one of us might be Ms Atkins’ lost baby.’
‘Does everyone know about this?’ I demanded.
‘Of course. This is a kitchen. But I can’t work out who. Maybe Emily?’
‘Find someone else,’ I advised. ‘The baby was a boy.’
‘Oh,’ said Santo. ‘Another good theory down the tube. There must be some other reason that Emily stays with Ms Atkins, then.’
‘Must be love,’ said Laura.
They laughed. I left. It was time to rescue my pastry.
With all my productions safely cooling on the bench, I cleaned up. Bernie was decorating cupcakes. I asked her if she had any suspects.
‘No,’ she said, distracted by confections. ‘Well, no, not really. Can you smash this toffee for me?’
‘Finely powdered or just broken into bite-size bits?’ I asked.
‘Bite-size,’ she replied.
I took my trusty rolling pin and pounded. Very satisfying. Toffee breaks like glass. In fact, I believe that film windows were made of sugar at one time. Ideal. You do the stunt and get to eat the pane without the inconvenience of bleeding to death.
Bernie scattered the toffee over her cinnamon and apple muffins. I memorised the idea in order to tell Jason. Then I remembered that Jason was working at the chicken shop and sighed. What a waste!
On with the feast. I had completed my part of it, so I went into the studio to find out how Daniel had fared with Ms Atkins.
I saw him from a distance in close conference with Ethan. Daniel appeared to be unscarred. No visible claw wounds. Rehearsal was going on so I sat down to watch. I was becoming addicted to this sort of drama. It was so . . . dramatic. Cheap emotions and crude writing but it had power. Like cocaine. Or gin.
Today’s plot concerned the organisation of a huge wedding with multifold difficulties: namely the bride’s mother, the groom’s father, a bunch of relatives and the bride herself, who was having second thoughts about this enormous bash and was trying to opt for a quiet celebration with a few friends and lunch in a restaurant. Ms Atkins as Courtneigh Yronsyde required that the huge bash go ahead, as she was getting commissions from everyone from the celebrant to the man who put up the tents. The dialogue in this episode was fast; the tension was improving the performance, not damaging it.
‘But of course, if you want a
little
wedding,’ Ms Atkins purred, ‘we can arrange that . . .’
I wanted the bride to stand up to her and tell her to go ahead with a little wedding. But the bride crumbled.
‘Well, maybe you were right . . .’ she temporised, and was lost.
I went back to the kitchen, determined never, ever, to get married. To anyone. Not even the delicious Daniel, who was standing beside Ethan as the camera was operated. Was Ms Atkins’ baby—now nineteen—on the set? Who could it be?
Harrison did rather obtrude. He was gorgeous, an actor right down to his skin-tight briefs, clearly visible through the lycra bicycle pants, and as self-centred as a gyroscope. A good genetic match for Ms Atkins. Did we know anything about Harrison? I couldn’t engage him in conversation now, he was on set.
I had a thought. Now might be a good time to go down to Simply Simon and check out the waste disposal. It was a nice day for a walk.
Daniel sighted me and hurried to the kitchen door.
‘Going somewhere, beautiful lady?’ he asked.
‘Thought I might wander down to Simply Simon in King Street,’ I said, melting.
‘Good notion,’ he approved. ‘I’ll accompany you to the car park, my phone has been buzzing like a hyperactive bee.’
In the car park Daniel consulted his phone. He scrolled through the texts. Then I watched the blood drain from his face.
‘What?’ I demanded.
‘Lena. She’s disappeared. That was her mother. Oh Lord.’
‘So we have to find Lena as well as the documents?’
‘Yes, and the way to do that is to hack into her Facebook page and her blog. Can you go and ask the Lone Gunmen to start work on that? Here’s the details. Soon as they can.’
He kissed me and whisked back inside. I thought that I might as well do the King Street search first. The Lone Gunmen would not be awake yet; they did not come out of their hobbit-holes until the day was comprehensively aired.
King Street is not a charming street. It bears no resemblance to the avenues of Paris. It is lined with industrial and office buildings, built to no aesthetic principle that I have ever discerned. But it was a nice day, for a change, not too hot. I and my sunhat strolled towards Simply Simon, a forest green block in the middle of wasteland.
And outside it was a large, walk-in skip, emblazoned with recycled office supplies—help yourself. Aha!
The skip was stacked with paper. I sampled the stacks. Documents by the thousand. But which ones were Pockets’ documents? Here were government reports, copies of letters, résumés, even what seemed to be a good half of a novel, students’ essays, children’s drawings. My own accounts for Earthly Delights were there. The whole documentary life of the city was in that skip. Someone might have written a rather good philosophical thesis on it.
I had truffled around in the skip for fully an hour before I remembered that everything Pockets had handled before was smeared with filthy fingerprints, so I began to look for them. It was hot inside this metal prison and I was beginning to lose patience with my quest when I found a neat pile particularly marked with whorls.
It would be very nice to produce the missing bonds to Daniel, I thought as I ruffled through the dirty pages. Copies of letters from—aha again!—Mason and Co, the firm of accountants for which Lena worked. I sorted to the bottom of the stack.
No bonds. I sorted again to make sure that I had not missed them. But they were not there. Nor was another nursery rhyme clue. Dead end. Damn.
I took a bundle of letters out into the street to read through at my leisure. I still have an accountant’s eye. I skimmed the trans- actions. I noted the dates. I read them again.
Then I stuffed the correspondence into my shoulder bag and walked softly away. Today was not the day to drop in on Simply Simon and ask for the grand tour. I had to think about this.
Meanwhile I had the Lone Gunmen to see and I ought to get myself some lunch. The breeze blew onto my sweaty forehead and cooled me. Something had to . . .
And where was Lena? Even now she might be holing up in some unsavoury den to complete that suicide which had been interrupted before. Daniel would have to go and interview Pockets again. He had left us no further clues. Which was annoying of him. Still, not much can be expected of one to whom the Lemu- rians are delivering instructions. I wondered if we could contact the aliens and ask them where the bearer bonds might be. It seemed our best shot at present . . .
I bought one of Uncle Solly’s famous salt-beef-on-rye sandwiches for lunch. Uncle Solly eyed me shrewdly.
‘What’s the matter, dollink?’ he asked. ‘That Sabra giving you grief? You send him to me. I set him right.’
‘No, not him.’ The shop was empty and I needed someone to confide in. Who better than the wise and extremely well-connected Uncle Solly? Uncle Solly heard everything. He might not have been the local representative of Mossad, as popular rumour said. But then again, he might. And this was the financial end of town.
I told him the tale of Lena, Pockets and the bearer bonds.
‘Bad,’ he said. ‘You sit, have glass tea, eh? We talk about this.’
I sat. I had a glass of lemon tea. Uncle Solly could not be hurried. Several customers came in, were served, went out. I lingered over my tea and was about to unwrap my sandwich when he came back.
‘I heard of this shemozzle,’ he told me. ‘Everyone has seen Daniel tracking this poor old mad man across town. All I know is, there is something
schmutzig
about that firm. They do the books for all the foodies. Foodies, pah,’ he added. ‘They never want to taste my food. Their taste is rotten. All chilli like will burn out their bellies in the end. Better they eat honest food and keep the laws.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Fashion will make dyspeptics of us all.’
‘What you say,’ he agreed. ‘I ask around, dollink. I let you know. But the word is that firm is in deep. In deep what, I find out. Everyone talks to good old Uncle Solly, what can I do?’ He spread his hands, grinned a very dark grin, and let me go.