Turkey Flambé Page 2
“Way to go, Carolyn,” Luz whispered into my ear. “How did you manage that?”
Of course, I had no idea. I’d flambéed things before, though not willingly because I don’t like fire; I don’t even have a gas range, which is unheard-of for a woman who writes about gourmet cooking. But nothing untoward had happened during my previous ventures into setting fire to food.
“Petronius Haverford, what do you think you’re doing?” called the commanding voice of Mrs. Christopher, the white-haired, stately lady who had been the executive assistant to the publisher for forty years and pretty much ran everything and everybody at Pettigrew’s, according to Loretta, my agent. She had warned me not to get on the wrong side of Mrs. Christopher, who was called Terri by Mr. Pettigrew and, presumably, her late husband, but absolutely no one else.
However, Mrs. Christopher didn’t manage to stop Petey, who had thrown open the French doors and rushed out with his flaming turkey held high. I could see the burn marks along the ceiling that marked his passage, and Roland followed him with the second turkey. “Roland, come back here,” Mrs. Christopher ordered.
“Well, those two are in deep shit,” said Luz.
“Maybe the turkeys will burn out quickly,” I replied, wishing Jason were here. He’d know whether that was likely.
Roland’s turkey evidently triggered the sprinkler system, but not before he got out the open door.
Luz had been edging me toward the doors on the wall perpendicular to the one that had provided escape to Petey, Roland, and the two turkeys. My lovely silver velvet dress, which Loretta had personally picked out for me at her uncle Bernie’s wholesale establishment, now hung off me, damp, unsightly, and uncomfortable.
Everyone else was trying to get away from the fires and the water, pushing and shoving, reporters calling in stories on cell phones, photographers snapping last pictures of the growing conflagration, ladies weeping, men cursing. It was a disaster. No one would ever buy my book after this debacle, and there was the publisher’s chef trying to carry away the third turkey, which was not on fire. I yanked my arm away from Luz’s grip and headed back. “Stop that, Franz,” I ordered and wrested the turkey away from him.
He wouldn’t let go. “Vill burst into flames,” he predicted. “Must be get rid of it.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, and stamped on his toe, which made him relinquish the last bird. “Someone has tampered with my turkeys, and this one is evidence.”
“For God’s sake, Carolyn,” hissed Luz, “let’s get out of here before the damn draperies catch fire and trap us, and the worthless sprinkler system ruins my dress.”
The sprinkler heads certainly weren’t covering the room. Everything to which the turkeys had set fire was still burning, but Luz’s dress, lucky her, hadn’t been caught by the water like mine, so I allowed myself to be tugged out to the balcony that fronted the side street. But I didn’t give up the third turkey, and it weighed twenty pounds. At Thanksgiving Jason always carries the turkeys for me. So where was he when I really needed him?
2
Chaos in the Streets
Luz
A balcony on the twelfth floor of a New York building in November is frigging cold, I can tell you. I was about to freeze my ass off, and Carolyn was wet and shivering, but it wasn’t like we could go back inside when the place was in flames. Where was the damn fire department? Most of the people must have been on the flaming-turkey balcony, because I could hear the racket. Maybe they’d found a fire escape and were fighting to get on. Well, I could elbow my way through any crowd of foodies and writers, but I wasn’t real sure my knees would carry me down twelve flights of fire escape or that Carolyn would be willing to give up the turkey, which she still clutched to her chest with both arms.
Greasy turkey after falling water was going to do in that dress. I’m happy to say mine, which a cruise line had provided me after losing my suitcase, had survived the turkey roast and sprinklers. Not likely I’d ever be able to afford another dress even close to it; I’ll still be wearing it when I’m eighty, if I live that long. My arthritis meds are bad for the health, even if they do keep me moving.
But I was going to have to kick off my fancy shoes and leave them behind; no big loss. The sandals with their frigging high heels hurt like hell. So why had I worn them? Pride! One of the seven deadly sins. I hadn’t wanted to seem like some wetback country bumpkin in the big city. I’d have to go to confession when we got home, and Father Gabriel would say, “About time, Luz. So get on with it. I always look forward to hearing about your sins.” He’d love this confession—I’d shacked up with the ship’s doctor on that cruise. Well, nobody can say traveling with Carolyn Blue isn’t interesting. Better than sitting home with a narc dog, who’s in worse health than me.
“Get a grip on your turkey, Carolyn. Let’s go see what all the noise is about on the front balcony.”
She hefted the bird, arms circling it, fingers laced, like it was a big brown sack of cement, and followed while I cut a path through the people standing on our side of the building. I could hear sirens now. About time! Some of the shivering guests tried to stop her. The dumb shits wanted to know why she’d “attempted to burn down the publishing house with flaming turkeys.” At least she didn’t answer: Either she was furious or in shock.
We rounded the corner and got caught in a bigger crowd, lots of them hanging over the edge of the balcony, looking down. I spotted the owner’s assistant and figured her for the most sensible person there. She was standing in front of the French doors, arms crossed, face set in stone, keeping one eye on the gawkers and the other on the smaller amount of fire still flickering inside. Evidently their useless sprinklers had done some good. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said politely. “What’s happening?”
She turned to us. “Petronius and Roland threw the turkeys off the balcony. I believe it has caused problems down below, but I didn’t care to view the damage, whatever it may be. Mr. Pettigrew is not going to be pleased.” Then she studied Carolyn. “Why are you carrying that turkey, Mrs. Blue?”
“It’s evidence,” said Carolyn through chattering teeth.
“She’s in shock,” I added hastily.
“I’m not surprised,” said Mrs. Christopher, who was always polite to the authors and addressed them formally, unlike her treatment of the Pettigrew employees. Carolyn’s weird agent had told us this on our first day in New York, when we visited her office.
“There’s a bench over here, Mrs. Blue,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down? Your turkey must be heavy.”
“The chef tried to make off with it,” said Carolyn indignantly. “I’m not letting it go until the authorities arrive.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Christopher nodded. “Come along. There’s room for you and the turkey on the bench.”
For a wonder, Carolyn went off with her. Courtesy works pretty well with Carolyn, which is why we sometimes get into it. She thinks I’m rude. Go figure. I went off to find Petey and the fat editor. Also, I wanted to see what was happening in the street, and it wasn’t pretty. Fire engines, two of them, with crews of guys in hats and raincoats dragging out hoses. One police car and more coming. I could see their flashing lights both up and down the street.
There was a car on fire in front of the building and a wrecked limo that had squashed a lavender metallic VW bug. I wouldn’t have expected a lavender car in NYC. El Paso, yeah. The Hispanic population is into color, but I’d figure New Yorkers would think lavender was tacky. They’d probably faint if they saw some of the bright blue-green or red low-riders at home. The owners like to drag race in the streets and get themselves busted by the cops.
Firemen were trying to cut into the VW while medics waited to get in and pull out victims. Guys wearing Yassar Arafat headdresses and fancy New York suits surrounded the limo, shaking their fists and yelling at the cops. Other cars had smashed into one another or run up on sidewalks behind the first wreck. And all these people spilling out of an Irish pub—that’s what dumbhead Petey called it. They were carrying beer mugs, singing, laughing, and generally getting in the way. “So, Petey, did you see the whole thing?” I asked. “How did it go down after you pitched the turkey? Think they’ll arrest you?” I asked.
Petey looked like I’d just told him his fly was unzipped. What the hell did he figure was going to happen when the cops found out he’d dropped a flaming turkey into the street?
“Why would they arrest me?” he asked. “Roland and I just tried to save the building. Wow! Did you see those turkeys go up? And the tablecloth? This is the most exciting party Pettigrew has ever thrown.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Petey. This may have ruined the book launch,” said Roland, “and I talked your uncle into paying for it. People will be laughing at Carolyn rather than buying her book.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but maybe Carolyn had, and that explained why she was so glum.
“Well, how were we to know that the turkeys wouldn’t go out on the way down?” said Petey. “You’d think the wind or something would put the fire out.” He looked back at the room from which he’d run with the turkey held over his head. “Roland and I saved people’s lives. And now the fire’s stopped burning inside…well, almost.” Then he looked over the balustrade. Several people had managed to get out of the VW with help, but a crumpled figure in the driver’s seat had to be removed.
“I don’t think anyone was hurt in the car that caught fire,” he said kind of hopefully. “One of the turkeys went straight down, hit someone on the sidewalk, and bounced under the car. It was parked illegally. You should have seen the people inside scrambling out.” He started to laugh and then noticed a reporter listening and scribbling notes. “Very frightening,” Petey added, looking at me. “You can imagine.”
“Damn right,” I agreed. “Not every day a flaming turkey rolls under your car. Frigging hilarious. What happened with the limo and the VW?”
“Well, that was my turkey,” said Petey. “I didn’t realize I had such a good throwing arm. Adrenaline, I guess, although I did play cricket at Cambridge. My turkey hit the windshield of the limo, and the driver tried to swerve out of the way and smashed into the VW in the opposite lane, ramming it into another car. If he’d just kept going straight, the turkey would have rolled off the hood, and there wouldn’t have been an accident. Limousines always have unbreakable glass.”
“Maybe the guy panicked when he saw a flaming turkey heading for his windshield. He might have thought it was a firebomb.”
“Or a meteor,” suggested Petey enthusiastically. “Something to tell his grandchildren.”
“Are you out of your mind, Petronius?” demanded Mrs. Christopher, emerging from the crowd and tapping him smartly on the shoulder.
“Come on, Mrs. Christopher,” he said plaintively. “You’ve known me since I was a little kid. Couldn’t you call me Petey?”
“I could not. You have a perfectly respectable name. You were named after the famous Roman satirist and arbiter of taste, Gaius Petronius, the Emperor Nero’s arbiter elegantiae.”
“And look what happened to him,” Petey whined. “Nero made him commit suicide.”
“But he did maintain his dignity by satirizing the emperor in his will. No one ever accused Gaius Petronius of creating an embarrassing situation by throwing burning turkeys onto a busy street.”
“All those people and cars shouldn’t be down there,” said Petey defensively. “It’s a weeknight.”
“Corrigan’s is celebrating a saint’s day. St. Laurence O’Toole, a twelfth-century Bishop of Dublin,” said Roland. “Imagine leaving one’s home to drink Irish beer and eat Irish food. One wonders about the deteriorating taste in this city.”
I figured Roland was making that up. I’d never heard of any saint named Laurence O’Toole, and my mom used to read us the life of a different saint every night. Not that I listened: After a hard day of punching out little boys who got smart with me or hassled my sisters, I usually fell asleep before Mom finished the latest grisly tale of sainthood.
“If you knew the street would be crowded, Roland, why did you throw that turkey?” asked Mrs. Christopher, her mouth grim. “Both of you, and the publishing house, may be sued for property damage and personal injury.”
You had to like the woman even if she was prissier than Carolyn. She wasn’t letting the two idiots talk their way out of this mess. But then she turned to me, and I figured I might be in for a tongue-lashing, too, although I’d had nothing to do with any of this. I was just here letting my curiosity get the best of me, like any former cop would.
“Ms. Vallejo, I suggest that you rejoin your friend and take her back into the room. The fires have subsided, and she’ll be more comfortable out of the cold.”
I did that while Mrs. Christopher herded the other guests inside. I could hear Petey, that bastard, saying, “It was Carolyn’s fault. They were her turkeys.”
3
Pestered by Pettigrews
Carolyn
I don’t know why Luz and Mrs. Christopher thought I was in shock. I wasn’t! Well, maybe a little. It had, after all, been a terrifying experience, seeing my beautiful turkeys turn into firebombs while those rivulets of fire ran across the tablecloth where I’d spilled the cognac. And then shivering in a heavy, wet dress on a cold balcony while my publisher’s party room, not to mention my career, went up in flames. Under the circumstances, I could hardly be blamed for feeling shaken. I shivered and hugged the last turkey close lest someone else try to take it away from me. I’d been sabotaged. I had no doubt of it, and I was furious, not to mention determined to find the villain.
Luz and I would investigate. When I looked up, she was standing in front of me like the good friend she was, ready to help me prove my innocence. “Let’s get in out of this frigging cold,” she said, as foulmouthed as ever, and I didn’t even mind, for once. “Between the sprinklers and the guy in the tall white hat with the fire extinguisher, the fire’s out.” She helped me up and didn’t even try to take away my turkey, although I might have let her carry it for a while if she’d asked. It was awfully heavy.
“So he was willing to help with the fire once he realized he couldn’t get the evidence away from me,” I muttered. I had settled on the chef as the most likely culprit. His attempt to make off with the third turkey was an excellent clue. I wasn’t sure just how he’d managed to ruin the flambéing ritual. Maybe he had tampered with the cognac, but if so, why did he want to take the last turkey? I hadn’t poured anything on that one.
Maybe he’d slipped something inside the turkeys that would explode once I set them on fire. If so, he couldn’t afford to let anyone find the bomb or whatever it was. I’d made the stuffing and basting sauce myself and stuffed the birds early that morning, then painted a mustard paste on the hot turkeys before turning down the temperature. I was then assured that I could leave the roasting and basting to the staff in the kitchen.
That’s when Luz and I met Loretta at her uncle Bernie’s to shop for my gown. Luz and Loretta’s uncle talked arthritis while I tried on everything my agent chose, most of which I wouldn’t have worn to a dinner party at a house of ill repute—not that I’d ever willingly enter a house of ill repute. The silver dress, with its gold embroidery, had been the only acceptable choice, but now it clung damply to my forty-something figure and made me look like a bedraggled sheep.
“Don’t admit to anything,” Luz whispered into my ear as we edged into the dripping room where all the food, including my lovely dressing, had been removed or destroyed. However, the liquor flowed freely under Petey’s enthusiastic direction.
I wanted to ask what she meant by that. Admit to what? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I—“Carolyn,” Petey cried and threw his arms around me. “Jolly good party. Best we’ve ever had up here. Uncle Claudius usually opts for more sedate affairs. Let me take that turkey. Your arms must be—”
“No,” I snarled and pulled away from him. Had he been the one? Playing some kind of stupid joke, on which he was now congratulating himself?
“Well, okay, dear heart. How about some champagne? Or a cocktail? You must be parched after all your good work.”
“I’ll have a bourbon and Coke,” I said, remembering how good that had tasted when I was hiding out in a thriller writer’s cabin on a cruise ship and just horribly traumatized.
Petey gave me a surprised look and sent a waiter away to fill my order. Roland had rushed up, overheard, and admonished me: “You’ll never build a following of real gourmets if you drink things like that, Carolyn. Bourbon and Coke is so tacky. Take my advice and have something fashionable.”
“I took your advice about flambéing the turkeys, and look what happened,” I retorted. “I could order bourbon and…and sewer water, and no one would buy my book now.”
“Nonsense,” my agent intervened, having joined our circle. “Any publicity is good publicity. Everyone in the business knows that. Well, plagiarism doesn’t go over well, but—”
“Isn’t Carolyn a delightful dark horse?” exclaimed Petey. “I’d never have expected her to be so much fun. Tell me, Caro—May I call you that? I heard your Chicano friend—”
“No,” I snapped. “And you’re an idiot!” I didn’t care if he was the publisher’s nephew and probable heir to the kingdom, not after he’d thrown the turkey over the balcony and my editor had followed right after him.
Petey Haverford laughed and said I wasn’t the first woman to call him an idiot, but that everyone agreed he had the best eye in town for a bestseller. “Do you know any fun writers of bestsellers?” he asked. “If you do—”