Sympathy for the Devil: A Culinary Mystery

Chapter 1

"Any last words?"

A puff of dense steam clouded the hot kitchen as the young man pulled the lid off an enormous stainless-steel stockpot. His remark had been addressed to a tank filled with ten dozen live Maine lobsters.

In the warm air, the pungent smell of garlic and hot frying butter mixed with countless other delectable aromas, blanketing the crowded room with the fine perfume of many cooks’ efforts. I stepped into the din and swirl and heat, instantly embraced by the heady atmosphere.

Madeline!

Wesley, half a head taller than any of the assistant chefs in the room, saw me at once and met me at the door.

The truffles never arrived. Fifteen pounds for the love of France! Wesley checked his watch, the kind with a digital readout and timers and buzzers. It’s seven. The schedule’s shot. There goes the artichoke and Swiss cheese tortellini topped with fresh truffle shaved to order.

I met the eyes of Wesley Westcott, my dearest friend and business partner. Wes was usually granite right before guests arrive, when it’s one hour to dinner and counting, but this was the first time we’d spent fourteen thousand dollars on one fragile ingredient.

Wes…

Coming through! Our assistant backed her way into the huge kitchen, leading three young men. Each pushed handcarts stacked with crates marked PERISHABLE and AIR FREIGHT.

Who’s got the crowbar? Holly’s strong voice rose above the commotion of thirty cooks and helpers hard at work.

I said to Wes, The truffles have arrived fashionably late.

Ah. Good. He rechecked his digital. Fine.

Someone moved aside, and I felt a blast of smoky air from the fireplace where several legs of lamb were roasting on a spit. I was getting high breathing in the succulent aroma of rosemary-scented lamb. I love this. The fun, the noise, the smells, the elevated temperature, the sensuous pleasures of cooking.

I smiled at Wes and he seemed to relax a notch. After all, the truffles had arrived.

Our track record for keeping some of Hollywood’s biggest stars happy at their own parties, perhaps even more than the excellence of our cuisine, was adding to the growing word-of-mouth popularity of our company, Madeline Bean Catering.

And this is a great town for caterers. Here, clients desire parties that are extraordinary and are prepared to pay the extraordinary costs. It’s this outlandish disregard for thrift that the small-business person such as myself can come to appreciate in their clientele. And such parties!

Wes and I once set up a bar mitzvah for the son of a talent agent in a mock rainforest. It included a parrot that recited the first line of the bar mitzvah boy’s Hav Torah. In Hebrew. And the L.A. Times wrote up our wrap party for Mel Gibson’s last action movie. We blew up the catering truck right after dinner.

Tonight we were standing in the kitchen of TV producer Bruno Huntley’s grand estate, on the evening of October thirty-first, preparing dinner for six hundred guests. And as for our reputed ability to soothe cranky hosts, this evening could be the acid test. If we could keep a famous asshole like Bruno Huntley happy at tonight’s Halloween party, we would soon achieve a new personal best.

Hey, Madeline!

Manny Martinez, working on the other side of the kitchen, was waving his wooden spoon at me. He didn’t appear happy.

Holly flattened herself against the crates she was working on as Wes and I squeezed by.

Close up Manny looked more worried. Taste it.

I picked up a fork and dipped it into the souffle he proffered. It flaked. It crumbled. It pulled away from the sides of its dish pathetically. Too dry. Too brown.

Overcooked.

Wes grabbed the fork. Is this the arugula and chevre souffle?

It was something less than the golden, well-puffed mixture of garden greens and goat cheese that was our hostess’s favorite dish.

It was fine when it came out of the oven, Manny said. But now…

I pointed at the pretty round baking ramekin decorated with hand-painted black cats. It’s the dish.

Wes considered. It’s the right shape, he said. Its sides were straight and tall and in the correct proportion to send the fluffy mixture towering skyward as the beaten egg whites expanded in the heat of the oven.

I clinked the side of the dish with my fingernail. I loved the fine art of detective work and I loved being right. It’s stoneware.

Wes began to nod. Stoneware retains more heat than porcelain. It’s still cooking after it’s out of the oven.

Manny, I advised, your eggs are getting scorched by the dish.

I knew I didn’t overcook nothing, Manny pointed out. We cooks have egos more delicate than, well, a souffle.

So we adjust the recipe for stoneware. Make a note. Wes turned and gave me a fond smile. Oh, you’re good.

And then the screaming began.

Oh no! Oh my god!

First a woman’s guttural shriek. Then men shouting.

Get them off me! Get them off! Jeez!

I turned quickly and spied Holly, usually calm as toast, now swatting at her legs in a panic, swearing like a teenager.

She had pried open one of the crates marked PERISHABLE. Instead of containing outrageously expensive delicacies air-shipped from the Perigord region in France, the crate had instead disgorged thousands of wriggling earthworms.

Freed from their wooden prison, they had oozed out onto the floor, squirming in their peaty-smelling packing earth, and over the shoes of Holly and several of her mates.

Wes was all business. Okay. Get them the hell out of here. Then I want the floor bleached and sanitized. Got it? Oh, and all those of you who have been… He smiled graciously. …wormed, please change out of those clothes and shoes as soon as the creatures have been removed.

A few nods as those on the front lines now stood their ground, six Levi-covered legs holding back the tide of earthworms until they could be contained and removed.

I was already on the phone calling to the airport. Ah. A mixup at LAX. Our two hundred and forty ounces of irreplaceable gourmet fungi were, at this moment, being trucked to a bait shop near Long Beach.

I signaled to the guys, who had renailed the crate shut. Holly, drive the worms back to the airport. They’ll radio the truck that took our truffles to meet you there.

Right. Holly pulled off her apron and ran for the van.

I started to laugh. We’re always looking for new and exotic ingredients. Wes and I liked to provoke each other.

Wesley was now back in his element and he grinned at me while he stirred a pot of pasta. There he stood, tall and thin as a strand of spaghettini. Wes is really very nice looking. He has good hair, straight and brown and immaculately cut, and even better clothes. This evening it was khaki slacks and a starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A short, black, mannish apron was his sole protection from flying tortelloni and splattering pumpkin seed oil as he worked the room.

The kitchen in the Huntley house was wonderfully equipped with two of everything: two dishwashers, two double sinks, two ovens, two icemakers in two separate sub-zero freezers. It had been remodeled in recent years, after Bruno wed Wife Number Three.

Since he had moved all his wives into the same historic mansion, it had become something of a tradition in Bruno’s world to allow each new wife the pleasure of spending unquestioned amounts of money to redo the kitchen. And so, just days after returning from her honeymoon in Greece, his newest young wife and her decorator got to work. They turned the twenty-by-forty-foot space into an English fantasy, complete with two-hundred-year-old wooden beams shipped from Gloucester, and about a hundred thousand dollars worth of honey-colored pine cabinets made in London by Smallbone.

As I surveyed all the activity in this dream kitchen, I heard a distant wail. The door flew open, and a small, red-faced boy darted into the crowded room. He was running hard, heading straight at me. Then, to my astonishment, he ducked between my legs, jumped into the bottom cabinet, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Now, technically, on party day, the kitchen is mine and the kitchen’s actual owner and family are encouraged to stay out. On party day, perfectly nice families can turn testy. I didn’t even want to think about what it could do to a family like the Huntleys.

Just then, a petite woman rushed into the kitchen. Wile E. Coyote, I guessed, in the chase scene in progress. Her entrance had silenced the throng of hurried, concentrating chefs. The noise of knives hitting chopping blocks halted as everyone waited for the requisite cartoon anvil to drop.

Babalu? she called, her voice heavily accented with Spanish inflection.

Wesley and I shared a look of appreciation. It’s not every day that one is treated to a tribute to Desi Arnaz.

I’m Madeline Bean. Can I help you in any way?

She turned to me like to a life preserver. Sounds of chopping resumed as my staff remembered their deadlines.

I’m sorry Missus Madeline. It’s my Babalu. Little Lewis. He is running away from me, she explained. It is the Gummi Worms. I say, ‘No, no, Babalu! You have too many.’ But he don’t like me to say this.

A dispute over candy worms. A particularly unsavory mental picture in light of our recent visitors.

And in an evening of dramatic entrances, the swing-door banged open on its antique hinges yet again.

Where in the goddamned hell is he?

In strode Bruno Huntley, producer of soap operas and T.V. movies. He liked to claim that his version of the Joey Buttafuoco story pulled damned decent ratings, despite having been the fifth one to air. It was his lavish dinner party we were all working on tonight, so I guess he figured he could yell if he wanted to.

The kid is four goddamned years old! he bellowed. Find him and I’ll thrash his butt til it bleeds, dammit! I’m ready!

And, I swear, the man unbuckled his belt, shouting obscenities and threats, and ripped it from his jeans. The room went stark quiet as Bruno Huntley, apparently gone berserk, began swinging the lizard belt in frantic arcs over his head.

The heavy brass belt buckle swung low and knocked a glass crashing from the counter. And as it whipped by again, it just missed the nanny’s face by inches.

Chapter 2

Bruno Huntley was a tall man, about six foot two or three, lean and paunchless even in his late sixties. He wore tight, faded, hundred-dollar jeans. With his flinty blue eyes, thinning gray hair, and overtanned face, he liked to comment on his perceived resemblance to whatever elderly movie star he admired at the moment. Imagine Clint Eastwood in some kind of red-faced, spitting rage, recklessly swinging a snakeskin lariat in an overcrowded room.

With a flourish, he released the belt, letting it fly. It struck my shoe as it whipped across the floor, its lethal buckle etching skid marks into the terracotta tiles.

You! he said, pointing at the woman whom he had very nearly whipped. Then he changed his mind once again and decided to share his ire with the rest of us.

Rosalinda here lost the boy again, Bruno complained. She can’t keep up with a toddler, for Christ’s sake! Most of my staff were studiously avoiding the shocking scene.

I’m so sorry, Mr. Bruno, Rosalinda began. Please…

"Ah, cut the crap! I-want-the-boy-found-now! Comprendes?"

"Si, señor," she whispered. She knew where to look.

"No! No! No! The boy was yelling and hitting at his captor. No Rosa, let me go!"

Lewis must have bit Rosalinda, because she let go fast and cried out in pain. Bruno moved closer to the action.

H-e-e-ey, buddy? In a dizzying instant, Bruno’s tone of voice changed dramatically; his deep voice now hearty after all that out-of-control wrath.

Meanwhile, I helped Rosalinda wash her injured hand in cold water. Wes took injustice very seriously. He told the young woman she should leave, but she protested. Then he gave her our business card. Call Madeline, he urged her. She can be a good friend.

Rosalinda stared at me.

Bruno ignored our scene at the sink and moved to the cabinet.

Hey little man! Come on out of there! Bruno overpowered the boy and dragged his uncooperative body from its hiding spot.

Lewis was a beautiful child with long blond bangs. He wore a pale flannel shirt, tucked into crisp white overalls. The tiny clothing was stamped with the words baby armani, like some upscale gang had tagged him with their Beverly Hills graffiti.

It’s Halloween, pal! Time to get into your costume.

No! Lewis squirmed in the old man’s tight grasp. Then he stared defiantly at his father, puckered his beautiful mouth, and spat.

Saliva dripped down Bruno’s cheek.

It was bad enough having to silently witness Bruno’s horrible temper as he abused his staff, but I honestly didn’t know how I’d react if he hit his son. I’d never walked out on a client before. My hands clenched. That’s how tense it was in that kitchen.

But Bruno Huntley, erratic as ever, simply laughed. Hey, you want to dress up as a sprinkler?

Lewis jumped up into his dad’s arms. I heard Wes take a deep breath, watched Rosalinda stop shaking, and realized that we had all been poised on the sharp edge of that ugly, dangerous moment.

And if my no family in the kitchen rule hadn’t already been shot to hell, into this overcrowded set walked the newest Mrs. Bruno Huntley. Her name was Lily.

Lily Pamela Goldman had become a Huntley almost six years ago, but due to her youth in contrast to her husband’s advanced age, it was still hard for the casual observer to distinguish her from one of Bruno’s grown children. He had two sons, now in their thirties, from his first marriage. At family outings, I imagined Lily looked a little younger than their wives.

Lily was dressed in a white cashmere sweatsuit, although I could never actually picture Lily working up a sweat, and certainly not on the cashmere. It was the sort of outfit I imagined Nancy Reagan wore when she was at home. It seemed an odd choice for such a young girl, but I had heard people describe Lily as twenty-five going on fifty.

Her pale, waist-length hair had expensive streaks of blonde, but now it was twisted in a knot at the back of her neck. She looked apologetic. She knew my rule about family in the kitchen.

Hi, Madeline. Did you find everything you need?

Of course she has! Bruno answered her, gruffly. But what’s your problem, huh? Why haven’t you gotten your son dressed? And look at you! You look like hell. Where are the costumes? For nine grand I want to see them on you!

We’re getting there, dearest, she answered in a little-girl voice, smiling sweetly at him.

Bruno unloaded the child into his mother’s arms. And as for you, little buckeroo… Bruno smiled and winked at Lewis. He seemed calm now after the violent storm.

Yes, Daddy?

The father drew back and spat hard into the boy’s face. Funny, huh kid?

I heard a gasp and a cry coming from my startled crew. Lewis began to wail. And Lily, followed by the nanny, left the room quickly, cooing loving words into her son’s ear.

During the fracas, Wesley had moved out into the butler’s pantry, a small service room connecting the kitchen to the formal dining room beyond. I joined him.

That man. Wesley was truly angry. It’s less than ideal working conditions when one of the caterers hates the client. If Wes didn’t walk out, it was only to make me happy. So, you going to defend him? Again?

It was complicated. At his worst, Bruno could be a monster. Every nasty thing people said about him was probably true. But he and I had our own odd history, which had to be factored in.

I owe him, I remarked. He gave us our first important job.

Yeah. Right. You’re probably the finest chef who’s willing to do crew lunches. And for the first few years, what Huntley paid us was a joke. I think, my dear, what you ‘owe him’ is a bill.

The door to the butler’s pantry was on a swing-hinge, and our privacy was interrupted by three young women balancing trays with dozens of tiny, lit candles destined for outdoors. The candles would illuminate hundreds of miniature pumpkins along the walkways.

Right behind them came Bruno.

There you are! You guys need anything? Hey, Wesley, how’s it going, guy? Madeline! His voice, booming in its loud hearty way, was much too big for the small room. It looks great outside. I love it. Our efforts had transformed the expansive grounds of his estate into an eerie, haunted landscape.

You need anything, just let me know, huh? He grinned at the kids holding their trays of candles. Hey, did you gals know I discovered Madeline slaving away at a stove at some hole-in-the-wall bistro seven years ago and made her a star?

He stood there, master of the tiny room, beaming. He clearly thought he was charming.

Bruno turned to me. Say, what’s up with that fellow of yours—he gonna marry you, or what? You’ve got to nail that son-of-a-bitch down and set the date! You hear? I want to buy you a big, fat wedding present!

Bruno grinned at my workers. Hey! Am I right?

They giggled.

Thanks for the romantic advice, Bruno.

The thing is, my relationship with Arlo Zar is on the complicated side. Arlo is a writer for that popular sitcom, Woman’s Work, the one about a feisty lady lawyer. Writing for prime time means he works sixteen-hour days. What with my nights and weekends schedule, finding time together is a challenge.

Bruno was having a great old time, probing for a possible sore spot. Listen to me, girl! You’ve got to hog-tie that runaway dogie and bring him back to the fold. Beautiful girl like you, no husband, that’s alarming! Am I right, Wes?

I held my breath at how Wesley might react. Would he kid around with the now playful Bruno? The pause was long.

I’m alarmed, Wes said, with no inflection at all.

We had gotten past a bad spot. I sent Wes a grateful look as I endured more of Bruno’s legendary wit.

What are you now? Thirty-three?

He was doing this on purpose, deliberately adding a few years.

Not yet.

See there? She can’t even admit her age in public! Bruno chuckled and gave me a fond look. This is the way he treats the people he likes. So what can I do for you? Any problems?

We’re fine, Bruno, thanks, I said.

What about Holly leaving? Wasn’t she going to be the soothsayer tonight? asked a cobweb girl. Bruno had wanted a fortune teller at the party and Holly volunteered for the part. Now that she was returning worms, we were short one soothsayer.

We’ll be fine, I said quickly. Too late.

Leave it to me. Bruno loved to take charge. There’s a gal I know who is a terrific little actress. She’ll fill in for us.

Bruno pushed on the swinging door into the kitchen and held it open. There, making a grand show of his largesse to all the kitchen staff, he yelled back, I’ll take care of everything.

I was all set to turn him down when Wes said, Thanks.

That’s what I’m here for, pal, Bruno said, beaming, to help my friends!

The fact that not one person laughed at the insanity of that statement was proof of just how adept in the ways of Hollywood my young staff had quickly become.

Chapter 3

You haven’t seen upscale real estate until you’ve gazed at the enormous hacienda-style mansion at 32 Winding Oaks Drive. The house, perched on forty expensive acres, is located in Los Feliz, an old L.A. neighborhood rich in film-land history. Movie idols and studio moguls from the golden age of the silver screen built their posh mansions here. The charming twisted streets of Los Feliz are studded with these residential jewels, the brick and stone rewards to Hollywood’s first superstars for inventing themselves.

The magnificent Los Feliz estates, as befitted the giant egos that had them built, seem more the product of set designers than architects. As the building boom spread from the 1920s into the 1930s, impossible Tudor castles elbowed aside giant Mediterranean villas until they ran out of space on the Hollywood Hills.

Los Feliz (which the natives pronounce Fee-liss, blissfully bludgeoning its proper Spanish pronunciation) is one of my favorite areas of the city. I cater a lot of parties here, since new Hollywood has moved in where old Hollywood moved out, and, as befitting their own egos, remodeled big time.

I stood at the top of the driveway, in front of the ten-foot-tall arched mahogany door that was set into the main entrance of Bruno Huntley’s estate. The cars for tonight’s party would never be brought up here. The driveway was built in 1928, like the rest of the house, and it was too steep to provide safe passage for all the modern exotic cars that were expected. From where I was standing, I could look down the pitched hillside to the narrow street below where the valet action was taking place in the winding streets of Los Feliz. In the still night, a wind gusted against my white dress, and although it wasn’t cold, I shivered.

It was 8:35, and guests were arriving in serious numbers. It’s a perverse law in Hollywood: No matter how unlikeable an important host might be, it never seems to affect his popularity. Men like Bruno can be so