MURDER by DEATH
by Lisa Polisar
September/October 2003
Good evening, and thank you for taking an interest in New Mystery Reader magazine. My name is Lionel Twain and I will be your host for tonight’s dinner. Please, do sit down. May I bring you a glass of Port?
I have four regular guests for my monthly dinner parties, all of whom share the characteristics of a prestigious occupation, unconventionally flamboyant wealth, and an uncommon lust for two things: books … and murder. With that in mind, let me introduce the inmates, ah, I mean guests:
Ø Mr. Googel, my blind butler (sometimes calls himself Jeeves)
Ø Genevieve Champlaine, Editor of the London Times (nickname: “the whiner”)
Ø Scarlet Powers Bison, NYC Publisher, guest of Ms. Champlaine ("horsie")
Ø Val O’Leary, owner of Oxford Books (a/k/a “pompous windbag”)
Ø Nicos Parapoulas, multi-millionaire and owner of Athens Cruise lines (boozer)
Ø Gigi Chandler, Board Chair of the British Museum (“lipstick goddess”)
We are somewhat of a book club, I suppose, of the absolute loftiest kind. Set within an atmosphere of pernicious backstabbing and biting sarcasm, we (on occasion) manage to report on different kinds of mystery novels, and other times, well...let’s just say that last month’s discussion about “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” was particularly fitting.
Tonight’s Guest Chef is none other than an authentic, working Spanish matador who will treat us to a traditional, gourmet Catalan cuisine. Sounds divine? Well don’t get too excited. With four mentally ill guests, a blind butler, and a bullfighter, I’m sure we’re in for some extraordinary madness.
*
My butler is staring down the hallway.
“You alright, Googel?” I ask.
“Are you asking in a general way, sir? I have had a bit of a col—”
“Care to serve us some drinks? You ARE the butler.”
“Thank you, sir. Always nice to be reminded of one’s place in the world.”
I sit down at the head of the table, looking over the motley collection of fake hair, face lifts, bleary eyes and seething animosity. I swig the contents of my glass quickly.
“Save some for us, dear chap,” says Nicos nervously.
Genny Champlaine stands, beaming her yellow-toothed smile. “I would like to introduce my guest, Ms. Scarlet Powers Bison, a New York publisher!”
Nicos stares at the guest. “That’s really her name?”
Ms. Bison wriggles her considerable girth up into a standing position. “Yes, that IS my name, thank you very much.”
Nicos, pouring drink number two, leers at her. “Have you got any special powers? Like lifting a man over your head with one hand, or--”
“Maybe she’s got x-ray vision,” Val pipes in.
Nicos bites his lip. “Let’s hope she’s not looking at you then.”
Gigi now: “Scarlet Bison sounds rather like an infant disease.”
“No, exotic cuisine,” Val says in a singing voice. “Tangy bison freeze with a raspberry scarlet compote.”
Googel pours wine into Ms. Bison’s glass.
Nicos says, “She’s got a bit of a horse face, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Val agrees, “but her hips are quite buffalo-like.”
Ms. Bison cocks her head sideways. “I’m sitting right here!”
“That’s quite enough,” I say, finally. “No need for blatant rudeness.”
“Since when?” Val chuckles. “Rudeness is the single tenet on which this perverse club is based.”
“Yes, well, even so, it’s time to introduce this month’s guest chef. Googel, bring him out, would you?”
Googel, from the doorway, says, “I believe he’s picking lint off his Mascot Head, sir.”
“His what?” Genny exclaims.
For a single, glorious moment, all is completely silent in the dining room. Then Googel drags a colorfully dressed man from the shadows of the doorway. “May I present,” he begins, “our chef for this evening - Alessandro Dominguez Golondrinas.”
The three women gasp as the gentleman moves to the head of the table. And then…it begins.
“I’m assuming he doesn’t speak English.”
“Look! A…bullfighter!”
“The correct term is matador.”
“Well where’s your sword?”
“It’s a banderillas, dear. Keep up, now.”
Nicos pours more wine into everyone’s glass, but only to the halfway mark. He fills his own to the top, glances around, and then swigs from the bottle.
“Savage!” Genny shrieks.
“Where’d you get those pretty tights? I want some of those!” Nicos addresses the chef, walking around for a closer look.
“Imbecile,” Val whispers. “Don’t you know anything?”
Gigi breaks into hysterics. “You…in Toreador pants? I’d give a month’s salary to see that.”
“Don’t make it sound like you actually WORK,” Genny says with a demonic grin.
Val jumps into the mix. “I dare say she’s right, old chap – don’t think your back side would fit very comfortably in them.”
Nicos swaggers toward Val. “Well that’s the kettle calling the pot black, you haven’t even seen your feet since 1980.”
Chef Golondrinas rounds the table and stops at Gigi’s chair, kneels, and takes her hand. “Senora, encantado de conocer una huested tan hermosa.”
Gigi blows him a scandalous kiss.
“And you, Madame,” he says to Genny, “such a sophisticated face on such a youthful body.”
“Oh, my…”
“Oh my is right,” Gigi says. “Good thing he can’t actually SEE your body.”
The Chef stops at Ms. Bison’s chair. “Ah, you are not English, Madame. Yes?”
For a moment, Ms. Bison refuses to speak. Then, “I’m a New Yorker.”
“What’s the subway like at night?” Val asks Ms. Bison.
“You mean when the air conditioning breaks down in the middle of August? Let’s just say you’d excise a digit in exchange for antiperspirant.” Scarlet gazes into the Chef’s eyes. “You know, your face is…so familiar. Have we met?”
“Certainly not – I would never forget a face as distinguished at yours.”
Genny leans toward Nicos. “What’s he mean by that?”
“Equine-like…”
The Chef leans down closer to Scarlet’s face, and starts touching her hair. Val gestures at him to Nicos. “Look at that. This is not a hotel!”
Nicos glares at the Chef. “I believe he’s trying to mount her right here in the dining room.”
Gigi now. “Mount what? The…horse?”
“Excuse me,” Genny says, “but I demand you treat Ms. Bison with some common decency.”
Scarlet lights a cigarette. “It’s alright, I’m thick skinned.”
Val now: “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Hey, fatty, put a lid on it. I’m here to provide enlightening information on the publishing industry.”
“Industry? Don’t make it sound so lofty. It’s become like cockfighting these days.”
Scarlet: “I beg your pardon!”
*
The Chef, unclenching himself from Ms. Bison, disappears down the hallway and returns with a large tray. “I’m pleased to present the first course - Tapas and gefilte fish terrine.”
“Gefilte fish?” Genny wrinkles her already wrinkled brow. “Last time I had that was at a Passover Seder. Gefilte fish isn’t Spanish, is it?”
Gigi rolls her eyes. “The tapas are Spanish. Stop complaining.”
Chef Golondrinas starts pouring a thick, red paste from a pitcher into tall glasses. “And now–”
“I’ve just had one bite of this filtered fish,” Genny stammers. “Could you wait a damned minute?”
“Gazpacho MUST be served at room temperature – not one degree above or –”
Googel starts laying plates on the table a la narration. “Seafood paella, fried calamares, pan de horn…”
Nicos carves himself out a monstrous glob of paella. Half spills onto the tablecloth, the remainder spills on his lap with a tiny speck landing in his dinner plate. He looks up at the Chef. “Where’s your cape, matey?”
“Caputo,” the Chef answers absently, while spooning paella into my plate. “Besides, I only wear that when first walking onto the arena.”
“You mean before the bull gives you a…how shall I put it…”
“Involuntarily vasectomy?” Val suggests with his mouth full.
“Enough about bullfighting,” I say, standing at the helm. “As you all know from the email I sent, the theme for tonight’s –”
Val chuckles softly. “You don’t actually think I turn on the computer, do you?”
“…is Religious Thrillers. Now, without spilling the food out of your frenzied mouths, go ‘round the table and say your favorite book of this genre.”
“May I just say that I hate that word?”
I look at Val and secretly wish he were dead. “What word?”
“You know, genre. All those words from The New Yorker that seem to, by mere mention, distinguish one as part of a certain intellectual strata. Mélange, rubric, insouciant, loquacious, ursine…”
Gigi gently puts her name on Val’s forearm. “In the words of that misanthrope Austin Powers, dear, would you kindly ZIP IT???”
“Ah!” Val claps his hands. “Misanthrope, that’s another one!”
Gigi hangs her head. “Fine, I’ll start. The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco. Fantastically grisly Italian thriller.”
Val raises his hand. “What about The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown? Seems like another Holy Grail book but it’s all anyone’s talking about these days. Been on the bestseller list now as long as Harry Potter.”
I look at Scarlet and nod. “Ms. Bison? Any religious favorites?”
“Only the most amazing book of all time - The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez Reverte. A delicious literary mystery about a bibliophile and a book that summons the devil.”
“Very good,” I say. “Nicos?” Yet I noticed that he’s passed out with his head on the tablecloth. “What’s your contribution to this conversation? Oh forget it!”
“Where’s the west of the rine?”
I stare at the empty carafe in front of his dinner plate. “Cut him off, Googel.”
“Yes sir.” Mr. Googel points in Val’s direction, and says, “You are hereby cut off, sir. No more wine for you, and to bed without dessert.”
Nicos bangs on the table. “Over here, dear chap. And, don’t you know, I never go to bed?”
“So you’re a vampire, sir?”
“Ah – speaking of which, I’ve got a book in mind,” Genny says, wiping her mouth. “Interview with the Vampire by Ann Rice.”
Val wrinkles his brow. “In what possible way does that qualify as a religious thriller?”
“Vlad the Impaler, the first recorded vampire dating from the 15th century, happened to be extremely religious. A Catholic, if I’m not mistaken.”
Val gasps and starts coughing spasmodically. “Don’t be absurd, Catholic vampires???” More coughing. “Cut her off too, why don’t you.”
“Let’s call her Vlad from now on,” Nicos taunts. “Vlad, Vlad, the tawdry old bag – ha ha!”
“In fact,” Genny persists, “vampires have been closely linked with pagan religi-”
Gigi waves her off. “I’ve got one that beats all of you – The Exorcist.”
“That’s a movie, not a book!” Val pours himself another helping of gazpacho. “Doesn’t count.”
“Have you not heard of William Peter Blatty? What the hell is wrong with you people? Have you taken to smoking crack?” Disgusted, she clangs her fork against the dinner plate. “This used to be a scholarly club.”
“Ah! I’ve got one - what about The Flying Nun???”
Gigi slides her gaze toward Genny but doesn’t look. “Just kill me now. Put me out of my misery.”
“Even I know that’s not a mystery, Genny,” Nicos says. “It’s not even a book!”
“Who cares?”
“We are a mystery BOOK club!” Val explodes. “That’s it – you’re out.”
“What—”
Val looks at me for support. “Flying Nun? Interview with a Vampire? Enough is enough. Googel, escort Ms. Champlaine and her equine-guest-”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Val, but this is my horse, I mean house. No one’s going anywhere.”
Chef Golondrinas brings in the dessert course of flan, and Googel follows him with a tray of coffee and cups and saucers. As the guests watch him silently, the decanter slides to the other side of the tray.
“Good God, I’m going to start eating on the way here from now on.”
Gigi, looking at Val, says, “You already do.”
“At least I eat. Your vanity won’t permit more than a thousand calories in your mouth on any given day. Why should you need to weigh 110 pounds anyway? Men like women with a little meat on their bones.” Val nudges his head at Scarlet Bison.
“Yes, well, meat is one thing but …”
Scarlet Bison stands, rather suddenly, and puts her hands on her hips, nodding at Chef Golondrinas. “I know who you are now!!”
The Chef’s face turns a milky shade and he backs up two steps.
“Chef Alessandro Golondrinas? What kind of chef serves gefilte fish and Manechevitz with authentic Catalan cuisine? Think perhaps your name is…Alex Goldsmith???” She holds her hand out to the group. “This large, exquisite diamond was bought in Manhattan in the diamond district – and YOU helped my husband pick it out!!”
The chef retreats into the kitchen. Val touches the diamond. “Are you saying that Lionel’s hired a Hassidic matador as our gourmet chef? Better than a hot dog vendor, I suppose.”
Nicos stands with his hands on the edge of the tablecloth. “Who cares who he is? Let’s play bull!” Then he yanks the tablecloth out in one quick thrust. All the dishes spill, everyone jumps up screaming and swearing. Chef Golondrinas re-emerges from the dark hallway in response to the commotion. Nicos folds the tablecloth and hands it to the chef.
“Your muleta, sir?” The chef smiles at him. “Do the honors for us?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Nicos looks around room, takes a set of horns off the wall and puts them on his head. The chef waves the muleta in front of him, beckoning Nicos and his horned head. Nicos ploughs into the muleta and starts making bull-noises and kicking his feet forward and back. He runs the other way, now, his head vanishing in the folds of the tablecloth-muleta. “Oh—what was that?” He falls to one side with his hand on his lower abdomen. “God almighty – I’m … bleeding!”
The three women shriek.
And so ends our book club meeting and initiates our monthly descent into the gates of hell. An ambulance is called for Nicos’ stab wound and our Hassidic matador chef is taken into custody by the local police. Sitting back watching them, I find myself wondering whether they didn’t all actually come from the insane asylum, or if perhaps I’m ready to go there myself.
* * * * *
So until next time, I remain your host, Lionel Twain.
Blind, us humans, to bleak and folly
Escape our fate by the devil’s breath
Live tales of dread and fear unholy
But escape not a Murder …by Death.
Adieu!