She was thinking about the 1930s pastel stucco on Martel Avenue with its layered shingled roof, stained glass front window and little turret.
Not long after Sterling moved to Godiva’s estate, the quirky members of her Clairvoyant Canasta Club held a mystical séance in her old living room. The medium felt a
presence,
and a voice that sounded like her dear Harry urging Flossie to take a chance and change her life.
The very next day a porn movie producer offered her more than five hundred thousand dollars for the kitschy cottage she and Harry bought in 1951 for ten thousand dollars. Flossie took his offer right then and there.
Now, sixteen years later, on a beautiful morning in Beverly Hills, Flossie and Sterling Silver sat sipping their iced tea in the little pocket garden, and Flossie gave it her final shot.
“So, Sterling, I think we have to do it. Sneak into Food Broadcasting. We’ll have to work undercover. Wear disguises, janitors or something. If the girls suspect anything they’ll try to stop us.”
“All right, Sherlock Holmes, you win. By the way, what are we looking for?”
CHAPTER 19
Caesar took Chili’s arm and steered her through the tangle of workers bustling around the massive sound stage.
“Rufus, bring that pipe over here,” shouted a burly guy in a rumpled green shirt with “Charlie” embroidered on the pocket. Arms flying, he directed several workers laying special water and gas lines for the sinks and stoves as electricians ran wires overhead and underfoot.
Sunset Plumbing
, arched above a setting sun on the back of his shirt, bounced up and down.
Chili stared at one beefy plumber kneeling on the
Gladiators
set whose high-rise tee shirt and low-slung pants revealed a prominent butt crack.
As the plumber rose and turned around, she grabbed Caesar’s arm and gasped, “Omigod, Caesar, look at that big guy...he’s a woman!” Romano chuckled and kept moving.
At least twenty carpenters were hammering and measuring as they assembled prefab counters and cabinetry made of fiberboard and faux stone. Others constructed platforms for four individually themed kitchens. Forklift operators moved sixty-inch commercial stoves with six burners and dual ovens into the arena. Behind them came the folded bleachers.
Chili pointed to an area that now looked like a bona fide kitchen. “They’re not real kitchens at all! I thought it was a permanent set. It...it’s like the backside of a phony street in a western movie.”
“Welcome to show biz, Chili. This is one of the biggest stage facilities in Hollywood. They film everything from rodeos to replicas of the Sistine Chapel here. New sets are constructed all the time.”
In one corner a classy bistro with seating for celebrities was taking shape. During the competition, the bleachers would be packed with ordinary spectators creating the atmosphere of an actual coliseum as roving CraneCams covered the scene.
Banks of TV monitors had been installed out of range along the back wall for the floor directors to review each camera shot.
“Think of it, Chili, by the time I hang my new medal up with the others, this will all be torn down. Who knows? Next week they’ll probably be filming some arctic dog sledding scene with soap flake snow and papier maché icebergs.”
Chili couldn’t even answer...all she could do was stare.
“So, Romano, this must be your new hot tamale.”
Wellington gave Chili a quick once-over, flexed his muscles to show what a buff guy he was, and sidled close to her. She tensed and moved back a step. “Say, baby, you
are
hot. Too bad I didn’t spot you before this greasy Italian did. You’d look great in spandex!”
Trailing behind him, Candy Vanderloop couldn’t look directly at Romano, but she had no problem shooting visual daggers at Chili.
“Miss Vanderloop, where are your manners?” Biff snarled. “Introduce yourself to the competition.”
Chili wanted to smack him, but then put on her little Mona Lisa smile and didn’t say a word.
“Let’s start this duel on a friendly note.” Biff held out a beefy hand to Romano who ignored it. Then said to Chili, “Trust me, cutie, tomorrow you won’t be feeling so smiley. By the time the sizzle leaves the pan, Romano will be eating crow and I’ll be on top of the world.”
Wellington flexed his biceps once more and pushed Candy toward their part of the rapidly developing kitchen battleground. Candy gave Romano a wistful look and then said to Chili through clenched teeth, “Just wait till Friday. The cameraman will be following me...not you.”
Meanwhile, that afternoon Flossie and Sterling carried out their plan to sneak into Wellington’s office.
They looked like two over-the-hill maintenance people, she in a full apron over her dowdy flowered housedress and he in his gardening overalls. No one paid a bit of attention to them as they wandered through the halls of the Food Broadcasting building. Pushing the industrial type vacuum cleaner they’d borrowed from the main house and a little cart filled with other supplies picked up at the nearby Ralph’s market, the old couple stopped at the door with the crossed barbell and broccoli logo.
With the air of a cat burglar, Sterling checked out the hall, tested the knob and zipped the cleaning supplies into the outer office. “Boy, this guy’s got some ego! Looks to me like most of his muscles are between his ears. Look at these walls! Covered with nothing but him. Posters, clippings, photos. Yep, this guy definitely loves himself.”
They crept into what turned out to be Biff’s private office, looking over their shoulders, halfway expecting someone to burst in on them. Sterling sat down in the big chair behind the desk. Flossie was shuffling some papers on the credenza when she heard Sterling gasp.
“I’ll be damned! Flossie, come over here. Quick.” He motioned her around to where he sat. As she turned, she saw what Sterling was staring at—a life-sized poster of Caesar Romano mounted on the back of the door. Their impeccably dressed friend was wearing a tuxedo and last year’s Greatest Gourmet Gladiator medal around his neck. The image was riddled with darts, a kitchen knife imbedded in the wood right between his eyes. Drops of blood drawn in red felt pen trailed down the nose, chin and front of the tux with the words, “DEAD MEAT printed across the smiling face. A black arrow pointed to the medal. “THIS IS MINE” was scrawled in big capital letters.
Flossie covered her face. “Dead meat?
Oy vey!
”
“Hurry, old girl. Let’s see what else we can find.” A clatter in the outer office startled them and they bumped into each other. “Damn. I knew it! Someone just came in. Here, grab this dust cloth. We’ll stroll out there like we just finished cleaning this clod’s office and then we’ll get the hell out of here before we get caught.”
Sterling pushed the vacuum in front of him as they shuffled from Biff’s office into the reception room, surprising a slim young man who sat at the desk fingering some envelopes.
Sterling greeted him in his best old geezer voice. “Didn’t hear ya come in, young fellah. Hearing’s not so good these days. Well, we’ll come back to do this room later. Thought everyone would be gone with that
Gladiator
thing comin’ up and all.”
“Yeah, right. Mr. Wellington and Candy might be at the Kitchen Coliseum, but I still have my work to do.”
Flossie chimed in. “Bit of a task master, that Mr. Wellington, isn’t he? Heard he has quite a temper.” She made a swipe with her rag at a speck of dust on the desk. “We’ll be going along now, leave you to your work.” Flossie and Sterling edged toward the door.
The young man sniffed in disgust. “Taskmaster. That’s a good one. No, actually he’s more of a pompous asshole.” His eyes widened in alarm. “Hey, you didn’t hear that from me!”
Sterling winked. “Don’t worry, young fellah. Our sentiments exactly.”
The old sleuths beat a hasty retreat and giggled like a couple of teenagers all the way home, reliving their escapade over and over. Romano was probably right about the sabotage. The mutilated poster proved that Wellington hadn’t mellowed with age.
When they arrived home, the twins were nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER 20
Goldie looked at the kitchen clock, scowling.
Seven forty-five. I should have known.
She stomped up the stairs to Godiva’s bedroom.
“Forget the hairdo and the makeup, Godiva, Vinny’s only there until nine o’clock. Put on a hat and sunglasses, we’ve gotta hit the road.” Goldie dragged her sister away from the mirror.
“What if one of my fans sees me? I look just like you!”
“You always look just like me, Godiva. The fancy shmancy clothes and cosmetics don’t disguise that fact.” Goldie, dressed in another mismatched ensemble of Goodwill and Gucci, dragged Godiva down the stairs as she was still buttoning her Ralph Lauren tunic. Guadalupe was waiting at the bottom with a travel mug of strong Blue Mountain coffee. Godiva smiled gratefully as her sister herded her out the door.
“What’ll it be? The Mercedes? The Towncar? Give me the keys, Godiva, you’re not awake enough to drive.”
Still half asleep she shrugged her shoulders, handed over the keys and slumped down in the Lincoln’s comfortable leather seat as they made a beeline for the produce markets of downtown L.A.
Goldie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “You know, Sis, we should have checked this out before. How the hell did those mushrooms get into Caesar’s kitchen?”
Godiva yawned and patted her mouth. “If they did come from Vinny, do you really think he’d tell us?”
“It doesn’t hurt to ask. Besides, he wouldn’t dare lie to G.O.D.”
Flossie shivered and pulled her violet-festooned cardigan a little tighter. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that poster all night, Sterling. It really gave me the creeps.”
“Yeah. Me, too. That guy is no damn good. We’ve got to tell the girls about this.”
“Wait a minute, Watson. To do that we have to admit that we broke the cardinal rule. I can just hear my two little watchdogs saying, ‘You old geezers. How many times do I have to tell you to quit snooping?’”
“Yeah, Sherlock. Like they’re not chips off the old block. Never saw two girls stick their noses into other people’s business like those two.”
Flossie opened the back door. Guadalupe had Waldo all spiffed up wearing a bright red bow, wiggling like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Wheeerre weeerre youuu?”
he whined.
Sterling patted him and scratched behind his ears. “You love going to the Has-Beens as much as we do, dontcha, Wally old boy?” He turned back toward Guadalupe. “Hey, Lupe darlin’, are the girls up yet?”
“Up, senor? They up and gone. Before eight o’clock. Senora Goldie drive big car. I theenk Senora Godiva, she have to finish her beauty rest.”
Sterling’s eyebrows jumped up to meet his receding hairline. “Eight? Where in the devil would they have gone this early?”
“Does it matter? Wherever they went, we won’t be able to tell them about the poster until dinnertime. Come on, Sterling, grab Waldo. Our public is waiting.”
Goldie had never seen so many fresh vegetables in one place. “Man, this is so huge it looks like Covent Garden in London. Where do you suppose we’ll find Vinny?”
“Easy, since he’s the owner he’s probably the only one who isn’t wearing an apron.”
“Could it be that guy?” Goldie pointed to a short, round man standing on a vegetable crate inspecting some cantaloupes. He was only five feet tall and he was just about that wide. A bilious green plaid jacket, that did nothing to flatter his square form, topped jeans that were probably bought in the Husky Boy section of the children’s department. As he turned, they could see a few sprigs of curly black chest hair sprouting above the neckline of his open polo shirt.
Godiva nodded agreement. “That’s the one. Don’t you hate it when bald guys pull what’s left of their hair back into a ponytail?”
“He probably started wearing it in the days when he had hair.”
Spotting them, he broke into a grin exposing teeth the color of fossilized ivory. He jumped off his perch and sauntered over their way. “Ladies, what can I do for you? New restaurant? Caterers? Health food store? We supply the best.” He clasped his hands and rubbed them together.
“Sorry, none of the above. Are you Vinny?” Goldie returned his effusive greeting.
“Hey, ain’t you some sort of newspaper babe? Restaurant reviewer maybe?” Vinny stared at Goldie like a hunter closing in on his quarry. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Couldn’t be. I’m from Alaska. My sister...” She pointed to Godiva hiding behind her sunglasses. “...does a little column for the
Times
. Maybe you saw her picture there.”
Godiva jumped in and took charge. “We’re both friends of Chef Romano and that’s why we’re here. We met him when I was poisoned by mushrooms on his show.”
“Look, ladies.” He put his hands up in a stop signal. “Romano talked to me about that right after it happened. I’ll tell you what I told him...them mushrooms weren’t from Vinny’s.” He waggled a stubby, cigar-scented index finger at them. “Yeah, we delivered mushrooms that day, but I personally called every other customer that got some and there was no trouble.”
He tapped his temple. “Don’t think you’re gonna sue me for big bucks. Personally, I think someone pulled the old switcheroo on the Chef.” He turned to leave.
Goldie reached for his polyester-clad arm. “Wait a minute, Vinny. Nobody wants to sue you. We think you’re right about the switch. That’s why we’re here. We want to find out how the vegetables are delivered to the studio.”
Vinny turned, all bravado seeming to leave him as he huffed a big sigh. He shifted his eyes around the room, before leaning close to the women. “Let’s go back into my office where we can talk.”
He led them to the back of the warehouse where he had a lavish hideaway filled with oversize furniture. Behind the desk, a big contemporary affair made of polished black granite and wood, was a leather executive chair. Vinny hopped onto the chair, pulled the lever for the pneumatic lift and was elevated to the right height for the desk. Goldie assumed his feet must be dangling several inches off the floor.