Romano’s eyes flashed as he watched the news clip. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I could just kill Wellington. I guess he thinks discrediting me will get me so rattled that he’ll be able to take away my title. Candy is probably filling him in on my weak spots.”
Goldie wondered if Caesar was overreacting. “Why would she do that, Caesar? I thought you said she had a hopeless crush on you.”
“She does, and that’s exactly why. You know that saying,
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
She wasn’t very happy when she left and I’m sure she never thought I’d replace her so quickly with someone so lovely. Candy’s probably furious, but she certainly doesn’t have the know-how to rig explosives in my Baked Alaska. Torch, you’re the expert—tell us what you found.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it, dude! It was a set up.” Torch started to describe the chemicals he found on the melted meringue and incinerated pears along with a technical explanation of how it was done.
Godiva strode over to the sofa where Romano sat steaming, slid down next to him and held a hand up to her son in a “stop” gesture.
“Enough, Torch. None of us can follow your pyrotechnic mumbo jumbo. Are you sure someone put explosives in the dessert just to ruin the show?”
“You got that one right, Mom. Clearly calculated to disrupt without causing major collateral damage.”
“What do you mean no collateral damage? What about my Donna Karan suit? And the St. Laurent that Goldie borrowed? And, for that matter, what about Caesar’s eyebrows?”
Caesar raised his no longer luxuriant eyebrows. “There, there, my dear. The studio will cover the suits and my eyebrows will grow back.” Caesar stroked Godiva’s silver hair, a not-so-discreet motion noted by everyone in the room. “One thing we know for sure now, that was no accident!”
Sterling looked pointedly at Caesar. “So, let me get this straight. You think that either Wellington sneaked into the studio or paid someone to do this? Is that right?”
“Not a shadow of a doubt.”
Flossie perked up at that. “Sterling, do you remember when we were working with that...oh I forget his name...something like Fritz the Firemaster...well, he...”
“Flossie.” Sterling wagged his index finger at her. “I remember Fritz the Fire Eater, he was a great character, but does this story have anything to do with what’s been happening on Caesar’s show? We need to stay on target here.”
Flossie examined the flowers on her skirt. “Um, probably doesn’t apply here, but it was a great story.”
Waldo the Wonder Dog padded over and placed his huge head in Flossie’s bony lap. He looked up at her and made soft guttural dog sounds that sounded mysteriously like, “
Goood storrrry
.” She leaned down and lifted one floppy brown ear, and stage whispered, “I thought so too!”
CHAPTER 12
As the Hollywood hoopla for the
Gourmet Gladiators Tournament
built to hurricane proportions, billboards and banners appeared everywhere proclaiming it to be the “Event of the Year.”
Goldie was exhausted. She had been driving around in Godiva’s huge Lincoln for the past few hours so that Chili could see what was going on. “Chili, this is insane. We’ve driven down Wilshire, Sunset, Santa Monica and Melrose three times already, it’s getting late, let’s go back to Godiva’s...”
“But, Mom, this is so exciting. I mean, look at these banners! Like each chef has a different color and those wild costumes...it’s so far out. I just can’t believe I’m part of this. My friends in Juneau are going to flip out.”
“Welcome to tinsel town, honey. I’m glad I escaped to Alaska before you were born.” Goldie reached out to turn up the radio. “Hold on, Chili, it’s another commercial for
Gladiators
.”
“See what I mean? C’mon, Mom, you’ve got to admit it. Aren’t you just blown away? The way Caesar and Biff are threatening each other on TV, all those challenges and the chest thumping...”
Goldie turned off Wilshire at Rodeo Drive. “I feel kind of sorry for Jankowski and Matsumoto. I guess the press doesn’t find the Polish Cajun and the King of Kosher Sushi as interesting as our two dueling chefs. They aren’t getting much publicity at all.”
“Caesar says they have lots of fans in New Orleans and New York. They even, like, started local guerilla campaigns. Grammy heard them insulting each other on talk shows in four different languages.”
They turned down Godiva’s street and Chili’s eyes bugged out. “Oh no! Not paparazzi again...”
The flaming hair news clip turned Chili into an overnight celebrity. Obnoxious photographers had lurked outside her aunt’s estate for several days now. Chili couldn’t even go shopping without being swamped by “foodies”.
“Quick, honey, put on that awful black wig that Grandma gave you.”
Chili rooted around in her big tote bag and pulled out something that looked like it was worn in the Zeigfeld Follies. She tucked her copper curls under it. “This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this...”
They slipped in the front door and hurried across the foyer to Mission Central where everyone was sorting the never-ending stacks of letters.
“Well, well, you must have taken the long way home.” Flossie wrung her hands. “I was beginning to worry, maybe that bully blew up the car or something...”
“Don’t get so melodramatic, Mom.” Godiva pursed her lips, “Where have you guys been?”
“Don’t ask.”
“How’s the mail going, Auntie? I’m sorry I haven’t been much help...”
“Don’t worry about that, Dear, I’ve got enough material to fill next week’s columns. Your Mom’s been helping and, guess what? Turns out she’s a whiz at this. We actually have a few days free to take that little trip to Northern California.”
Flossie perked up. “See, Goldie, I told you that speed reading course in high school would pay off someday.”
Godiva hadn’t stopped complaining since Goldie dragged her out of her silk-sheeted bed at five in the morning. “I don’t know why we couldn’t have booked a later flight. This is practically the middle of the night.”
Even after slathering on layers of cosmetics, Godiva still didn’t look bright and perky.
“Sis, you knew we would have to leave at seven to catch a 10:15 flight, and it takes you two hours to get ready, so quit complaining. Any later than that and we might as well write off the day. By the time we rent a car in San Francisco it’ll be close to noon anyway.”
“Okay, okay. No sweat. You know I’m impossible if I get up early. I’ll be myself after a few hours.”
True to her word, Godiva was back to normal by the time she had consumed her third cup of black coffee. She was even cheerful and looking forward to the adventure.
They completed the papers for a Lincoln Town Car at the San Francisco airport and headed north on Highway 101. As they approached San Rafael, Goldie saw a sign for Andy’s Antique Depot and insisted that Godiva pull off the highway. Much to her surprise, there was no protest.
“Look, Goldie, we can eat first. I’m starved.”
Godiva zipped down a side street and angled the car into the parking lot of Grandma’s Country Kitchen, an attractive little restaurant with bright green eaves and matching curtains. A huge Quonset-type building across the street sported the sign Goldie had seen from the freeway.
The heavy china plates and mugs with a dark green stripe around the edge matched the eaves and curtains. Very ’50s. Over lunch the ladies worked out their game plan. A little snooping, a little shopping, a little time to unwind.
Open-faced turkey sandwiches with all the fixings and apple crisp pie for dessert tasted as if Grandma, in her ruffled gingham apron, had been cooking for hours. On the way to the cash register, they peeked through the open kitchen door and discovered that ‘Grandma’ was actually a burly, bearded black man with a greasy apron wrapped around his ample belly.
They ventured across the street to the Antique Depot and Goldie spent about two hours picking out far more than she had expected to find. She slapped sold labels on all of the items she had selected and then sweet-talked Andy into an additional twenty percent discount with free packing and crating. Stumbling across some real bargains this early in the trip took the pressure off. She agreed to end the day’s hunt and just enjoy the drive through Napa Valley. Godiva kept spotting wineries that might have offerings worthy of gracing her table as they cruised north in the comfortable car, passing through Novato and Haystack.
After sampling vintages at several tasting rooms, Godiva eased back into the plush passenger seat and yawned. “I didn’t realize how wound up I was. There’s nothing like a leisurely drive through this beautiful wine country to calm a person down, but I’m glad you’re the one driving now. Have I been unbearable?”
Rolling along at the posted legal speed limit as cars whizzed past her, Goldie chuckled. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that you might ask to take the wheel and you’re in no condition to do that.”
“Well, you are just crawling along...”
“What? I’m going sixty-five! Juneau drivers are so much more responsible than you Californians. Where’s the fire, anyway?”
“Poor little country mouse!” Godiva patted her on the arm. “There’s a great big world out there. Of course you drive slower in Juneau. At sixty-five miles an hour, you would run out of road in forty-five minutes!” She leaned her head against the cushiony seat rest. “I’m gonna take a nap.”
By the time they reached Petaluma, Godiva was snoring loudly. Instead of arriving in Cotati early in the afternoon as planned, they finally pulled up at the bed and breakfast about eight in the evening. Godiva seemed to be feeling no pain thanks to the multiple wine tastings along the way. She had spent more on cases of wine to be shipped home than Goldie spent on stock for her store. For a fleeting moment Goldie envied the way Godiva could throw away money like that without a second thought.
Godiva wrinkled her nose at the dilapidated façade of the Oldtime Squeezebox Bed and Breakfast. “Jeez, this place is a real dump.”
“Godiva, you’ve become a spoiled Beverly Hills dowager. This isn’t so bad. It’s...it’s quaint.”
“All you antique dealers use words like ‘quaint’, and ‘collectable’, and ‘vintage’ when you really mean ‘old piece of junk’. This place is barely habitable.”
“Come on.” Goldie headed for the rickety stairs. Today’s horoscope had told her she would find the answers to her questions in an old place and this certainly fit the description.
Godiva, the official wine taster, was just about as wobbly as the railing she was hugging for support. The sign taped to a cracked pane of stained glass told guests to “Come on in” so Goldie pushed open the ornate door. A little bell tinkled as bits of peeling paint landed on the hall carpet.
Their hostess materialized through a faded portiere curtain in the same way that a ghost would appear in a Hollywood movie. Her dress, almost the same fabric as the door hanging, made her seem vaguely translucent at first glance.
“Well, well, how do you do?” The old woman blinked and wiped her glasses “
Himmel
! I must be seeing double...oh, you’re the sisters from Los Angeles.” She screwed up her birdlike face, “Twins!”
“Yes, I’m Goldie Silver and this is my sister Godiva.”
“I’m Hilda Hammacher.” She held out a gnarled hand for a delicate little shake. “Your room is ready, top of the stairs. Sorry, I can’t help with your bags.”
“’Sno problem, we can handle ’em.” Godiva wove back and forth, tucking her Louis Vuitton valise under her arm.
“You girls go up and get settled. You can come down later and fill out the registration card. Just ring this bell when you’re ready.” Their hostess clanked the little cowbell on the corner of her reception desk. Godiva winced at the racket.
Goldie took the key, grabbed her own suitcase and guided her sister up the stairs. The door to their room, the first of five doors on that floor, was ajar. Godiva stumbled into the room first and surveyed her surroundings with a critical eye. She clicked her tongue, “My, my, how verrrry quaint.” She put extra emphasis on the last word.
“Come on, Sis, it’s not so bad, it seems to be clean anyway. What in the world are you looking for?” Godiva was circling the ell-shaped room, peeking into alcoves and corners, releasing a little cloud of dust from the shabby yellow curtains when she peered through them.
“The bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall, no doubt, this is a bed and breakfast, Godiva, not the Waldorf.”
Godiva turned up her nose as she ran her finger across the wainscoting and came away with a thick layer of grime.
Goldie took it all in with the eye of an antique appraiser and felt as though she was sitting on the stage set of
Arsenic and Old Lace
. Godiva, however, plopped down on one of the beds and stretched out. “Whew! There’s even dust on this. And it’s lumpy to boot!” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “The bed is lumpy, I mean. Not the dust. Yep...gotta hand it to you, Sis. You really found us a lumpy, dusty dump.”
Goldie rolled her eyes. “I’ll go back down and take care of signing us in. You’re in no shape to navigate the stairs again.”
Or be trusted to hold a civilized conversation with that sweet old lady.
CHAPTER 13
Goldie jingled the little cowbell and Hilda Hammacher floated into the entry hall in the same magical way she had before.
“Well now, dear, is everything satisfactory?” Her cheeks were as rosy as the potted begonias beside her desk. “I do the best I can these days. You shouldn’t have any trouble using the bathroom. There’s only one other guest. Nice old gent, goes by the name of Pearly Buttons. Used to be an old character here at the Accordion Festival. Moved to Seattle where his daughter lives, but he still comes a couple times a year. Visits his sister in the nursing home, you know.”
Goldie took an immediate liking to the chatty old woman who was vaguely reminiscent of her mother-in-law, Belle. “Oh, yes, I look forward to meeting him.” She filled out the registration card. “You have such a lovely old home, I’m sure we’ll enjoy our stay here.”