Three Blonde Mice Page 18

  How to plate the dessert

  From Chef Arena: “Put the beet-and-raspberry sauce on the plate with some finesse. You can paint it onto the plate with a paintbrush or make designs with it or whatever you like. Then put the marquise down on the sauce. It’s a mousse-like cake, so it can be cut into rectangles, squares, even rounds. Next goes the cremeux. I’d do a quenelle or a nice dollop right on top with the pistachios cascading over it all. Enjoy.”

  Acknowledgments

  Researching a novel about cooking and eating delicious, fresh-from-the-farm food wasn’t exactly a chore, but the farmers, chefs, and restaurateurs I consulted made it an absolute joy. Thanks to Laurence Hauben whose Market Forays in Santa Barbara, CA, took our group on a guided tour of the fish market and farmers market and then on to her French country home for a lesson in tossing off the perfect lunch. Thanks to Jean Jones and Sherry Swanson at Jones Family Farms in Shelton, CT, for teaching our class how to cook a true farm-to-table dinner. Thanks to the legendary Dan Barber and his team at Blue Hill at Stone Barns in Pocantico Hills, NY, for the ultimate education in sustainable farming. My meal there was a night to remember. Thanks to everyone at the Silo at Hunt Hill Farm in New Milford, CT, for letting me play farm-to-table chef for a day. Thanks to Clint and Kimberly Thorn, who create magic at their Thorncrest Farm in Goshen, CT. Clint showed me how to milk a cow and Kim showed me how to make cheese from the milk, and I had a blast doing both. And a huge thanks to Dan Magill, executive chef at Arethusa al tavolo in Bantam, CT, one of the best restaurants anywhere, for spending his valuable time explaining the facts of farm-to-table life. Thanks to his pastry chef, James Arena, for creating the chocolate dessert that appears in this book (recipe included). And thanks to the farmers at Arethusa’s dairy farm, who introduced me to the most well-groomed cows I’d ever seen, one of whom was getting a pedicure.

  Thanks to Lori Frisbie not only for her ingenuity in interior design but for coming up with the title “Farm Fatales” for this book. I ultimately decided to use Three Blonde Mice, but I marvel at Lori’s creativity.

  Thanks to all the remarkably good natured people at Diversion Books, especially my smart editor, Randall Klein, and Diversion’s production overseer, Sarah Masterson Hally, for putting up with my constant queries.

  Thanks, always and forever, to my friend and literary agent, Ellen Levine, for simply being the best.

  And thanks to my husband, Michael Forester, for being my date for all the scrumptious dinners we had while I researched this book. On second thought, he should be thanking me.

  About the Author

  Jane Heller is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over a dozen titles, including hits like Female Intelligence, Name Dropping, and Some Nerve. She has been translated into several languages around the world, and nine of her novels have been sold to Hollywood for film and television. Also known for her non-fiction titles, You'd Better Not Die Or I'll Kill You and Confessions of a She-Fan, Heller has been critically adored for over two decades.

  Connect with Jane on her website (www.janeheller.com), Facebook (www.facebook.com/JaneHellerBooks), and Twitter (@janeheller1).

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Princess Charming!

  Prologue

  At six o’clock in the morning on a snowless, frigidly cold day in January, a man stood at a pay phone at the corner of Seventy-first Street and Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. He looked to his left, then to his right, and when he was sure he would not be overheard by passersby, he stepped closer to the phone and picked up the receiver.

  He listened for a dial tone and nodded with relief when he heard one. He knew how rare it was to find a public phone that worked. That was the irony of the “high-tech” nineties. You could reach out and touch Sharon Stone on the Internet, but you couldn’t call your goddamn mother from a pay phone.

  The man took a deep breath and punched in the numbers he’d written on a small scrap of paper. He pressed his ear to the phone and waited. After only one ring, someone answered.

  “I’m here,” said a man who sounded as if he was expecting the call but dreading it. “What is it?”

  “You’re going to do something for me,” said the caller.

  The man on the other end of the phone was silent for a moment. “What’s the ‘something’?”

  The caller cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and said in a hoarse whisper, “You’re going to kill my ex-wife.”

  “Kill your ex-wife?” The man was dumbfounded, nonplussed.

  “Yeah, why did you think I was calling you at six o’clock in the morning? To hire you to mow my lawn?”

  “No, but I didn’t think we were talking about a hit here. That’s out of the question.”

  “There’s always the alternative,” the caller taunted.

  The other man was speechless.

  “So. Here’s the plan,” the caller said when there seemed to be no real resistance. “My ex-wife is taking a cruise next month. One of those seven-day trips to the Caribbean with her two girlfriends. The Three Blonde Mice, they call themselves.” He smirked as he pondered the nickname. Sure, all three women had blond hair, but the mousy part was debatable. The Three Blond Barracudas would be more accurate. “The name of the ship is the Princess Charming,” he continued. “It leaves Miami at five p.m. on Sunday, February tenth and returns there the following Sunday at seven a.m. I want you to take that cruise and kill her before the ship is back in Miami.”

  “You want me to kill her while she’s on the ship?”

  “You’ll probably have to use a cover with the other passengers,” said the caller, ignoring the man’s question. “Hand them a line about why you’re taking the cruise. But you’re a good liar. I ought to know, huh?”

  “Look, I—”

  “The main thing is, do it and don’t get caught,” the caller interrupted. “What do you say?”

  Say? What could the man say?

  “She deserves to be killed,” said the caller, as if reading the man’s mind. “You’ll be performing a public service, believe me. Besides, killing her won’t take up all your time on that cruise. You’ll be in the Caribbean in the middle of winter, the envy of all your friends. You can hang out at the pool, eat as much as you want, do the shows, the casino, the disco scene. It’ll be a goddamn vacation.”

  There was another moment of silence while the man contemplated the unfortunate situation in which he found himself; he wasn’t exactly flush with options.

  “I’ll do the job,” he said finally. He did hate cold weather and he did need some sun. So he’d have to kill the woman. At least he’d get a tan while he was at it.

  Day One: Sunday, February 10

  1

  “How are you today, Mrs. Zimmerman?” asked the ticket agent for Sea Swan Cruises as he examined the small packet containing my tickets, passport, and Customs forms. He couldn’t have been more than twenty; he looked callow, unripe.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I said, mildly irritated that he had referred to me as Mrs. Zimmerman. There was nothing in my documents indicating that I was married, nor was I wearing a wedding band, and yet—

  Well, he wasn’t the first one to make the mistake. If you’re a woman of a certain age, it probably hasn’t escaped you that men—particularly but not exclusively young men—automatically call you “Mrs.,” whether you’re married or not. It comes with the territory, like receding gums.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Zimmerman,” he said as he continued to inspect my papers.

  “Take your time. I’m not in any big hurry.” I sighed, wondering what on earth I was doing in the Sea Swan Cruises terminal in the first place.

  Actually, I knew full well what I was doing there. I was embarking on a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean aboard the Princess Charming, the crown jewel in Sea Swan’s line of 75,000-ton “megaships,” because my best friends, Jackie Gault and Pat Kovecky, had talked me into it. The three of us had taken a week’s vacation together every year since w
e were all divorced. We’d gotten herbally wrapped at Canyon Ranch and gone white-water rafting on the Colorado River and run with wolves at some New Age place in the Catskills whose name I’ve completely blocked out. We’d been skiing in Telluride, sunning in Anguilla, shopping in Santa Fe, you name it. The expression “Been there, done that” just about summed it up—except for a cruise. We’d never done that. Until Jackie suggested it back in October, while the three of us were discussing our vacation options.

  “Well, why not?” she said when I didn’t look especially enthusiastic. “Cruises are supposed to be incredibly relaxing.”

  “Not if you get seasick,” I said.

  “You won’t get seasick, Elaine,” Jackie said. “The ships come with stabilizers now. And even if you did get seasick, they’d give you a pill or something. They do everything for you on cruises. You don’t have to lift a finger.”

  In her professional life, Jackie lifted more than her fingers; she lifted pots of geraniums and bags of fertilizer and saplings of various species. She was partners with her ex-husband, Peter, in “J&P Nursery,” a landscaping and garden center in Bedford, New York, a tony Manhattan suburb that was all the rage with upwardly mobile corporate executives, Martha Stewart acolytes, and deer. Jackie spent her days knee deep in dirt—pardon me, soil—planting flowers and shrubs for newly minted thirtysomethings who had houses the size of Versailles and didn’t know a Venus flytrap from a pussy willow. As a result of the hard, physically punishing work she did, she always lobbied for the sort of vacation that involved no labor whatsoever—an environment where she would be ministered to.

  I turned to Pat. “What do you think? Are you in favor of spending a week on a boat with the Great Unwashed?”

  She considered the question. For what seemed like an eternity. Far be it from Pat to act impulsively. She weighed every decision as if it were momentous, irrevocable, her last, which could be painfully frustrating if all you wanted to do was pick a movie or settle on a restaurant.

  “Jackie’s right,” she said finally, nodding her head for emphasis. “Cruises offer their passengers complete spoilage.”

  Pat was the queen of malapropisms as well as the slowest decision maker on record. In this case, what she’d meant, of course, was that cruises spoiled you. Pampered you.

  “They look after your every need,” she said. “Diana and her husband take cruises and seem to enjoy themselves very much.”

  Diana was Pat’s younger sister. Her much more socially active younger sister. When they were babies, their parents had labeled Diana “the outgoing one” and Pat “the shy one,” and the labels proved self-fulfilling and next to impossible to shed. But Pat’s shyness was deceptive; she didn’t say much, but she was unwavering in her decisions, once she made them. For example, it had taken her ex-husband, Bill Kovecky, their entire four years of college to convince her to marry him. Yet once she’d agreed, she was his forever. Through his stint in medical school, his internship, his residency. Through the births of their five children. Through his metamorphosis into Dr. William Kovecky, the God of Gastroenterology. Through his speaking engagements and television appearances and trips to exotic foreign countries to deliver speeches on ileitis. Through his self-absorption and withdrawal from his family. Even through the divorce. Pat remained loyal to Bill through it all, was still deeply in love with him. She may have been “the shy one,” but she had a steely determination, and one of the things she was determined about was winning Bill back. Jackie and I shrugged whenever the subject came up. We weren’t exactly experts on winning back ex-husbands, since neither of us wanted ours back. Besides, Bill hadn’t married anybody else in six years, so maybe Pat wasn’t in total denial. “Yes,” she said again. “I think a cruise is a fine idea. Just what the doctor ordered.” Since Bill was a doctor, she liked dragging the word “doctor” into as many conversations as possible.

  “A cruise?” I groaned. “I really don’t think I’m the type, you two.” I had nothing against being pampered or spoiled or ministered to. I just didn’t want the ministering to take place on an oceanic vessel from which I couldn’t escape, should I not be enjoying myself.

  “Not the type? What type?” Jackie protested. “From what I’ve read, there really is no stereotype when it comes to the passengers. Cruises attract a broad cross-section of people.”

  “‘Broad’ is the operative word,” I said. “You take a cruise and you’re stuck on a floating cafeteria for seven days. The food they throw away could feed a small country.”

  “All right, let me put it another way,” said Jackie, in her husky, ex-smoker’s voice. “I haven’t gotten laid since George Bush was President. I would like to end the drought before one of George Bush’s sons is President. Now, I happen to know that single men take cruises. I would, therefore, like to take a cruise. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said. Jackie was so earthy. “But you’re forgetting something. The single men who take cruises wear jewelry.”

  “There you go again with your stereotyping,” she said.

  “And black socks with brown sandals,” I said.

  “Elaine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

  “And they look like Rodney Dangerfield,” I added for good measure.

  “Perfect. I could use a good laugh when I’m having sex for the first time in years. I’ve probably forgotten how to do it,” said Jackie. “Look, I think we’d have a great time if we took a cruise, I really do.”

  “According to Diana, there’s a lot to do on a ship,” Pat stated, then launched into a laundry list of the activities they offered on cruises. “You wouldn’t be bored, Elaine. I’m quite sure of it.”

  The debate had lumbered on for another hour or so. Jackie and Pat insisted we’d have the time of our lives and I anticipated everything that could go wrong the minute we left dry land. I was a creative, imaginative thinker, which came in handy in my career as a public relations executive but wreaked havoc with my emotional life. You see, my creative, imaginative thinking all too often took the form of what my ex-husband, Eric, used to call my “bogeyman obsession”—incessant forebodings of disaster. What Eric didn’t realize was that I was right to be obsessed by the bogeyman because he turned out to be one. But more on that later.

  In the end, I’d been outnumbered. I’d come to the conclusion that the only way to shut my dear friends up about taking a cruise—they were dangerously close to sounding like a Kathie Lee Gifford commercial—was to say I’d take one.

  “It’ll be a kick, lying around the pool, not a care in the world, having handsome young studs fetch us piña coladas,” Jackie said.

  “I suppose I could catch up on my reading,” I said, caving in. “And I could jog around the ship’s Promenade Deck every morning—unless, of course, the guard rails aren’t high or sturdy enough and I fall overboard.”

  “Oh, Elaine. Get real,” she said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you on the cruise. It’ll be fun. Something different for us.”

  “Yes, something different,” Pat agreed.

  How different, they had no idea.

  So there I was in Miami that Sunday afternoon in February, standing at the ticket counter inside the Sea Swan Cruises terminal. The Princess Charming wasn’t shoving off until five o’clock, but our nonstop Delta flight from LaGuardia and shuttle bus ride from Miami International Airport had deposited us at the Sea Swan terminal at twelve-thirty.

  “My God. Would you look at that,” I’d said when we stepped out of the van and caught our first glimpse of the ship. The brochure had said she was fourteen stories high and nearly three football fields long, but nothing had prepared me for the sight of her as she rose out of the water like a Ritz Carlton with an outboard. The thing was spectacular looking, its white facade and Windexed portholes glistening in the afternoon sun.

  “It’s majestic,” Pat whispered, gazing up at the ship with genuine awe. “And so state of the artist.”

  After spending a few more minutes gawking a
t the Princess Charming, we’d gone inside the terminal, walked through the same kind of security x-ray machine they have at airports, taken our place on line, and waited. And waited. Ordinarily, I like arriving early for things. When you arrive early, there’s no chance of missing the boat, so to speak. But now that I had finally advanced from the line to the ticket counter and was still waiting while the agent examined every comma on my Customs form, I was growing restless, grouchy, grim. There was nothing to do but stare at the 2,500 people with whom I would be trapped for a week, searching their faces as they stood in line, wondering which of them—if any—I would befriend over the course of the trip. They came in all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds, ages and affects, the only common denominator being that the vast majority of them were wearing polyester warm-up suits. I wondered what they were warming up for, and then I remembered the ship’s fabled midnight buffets and guessed they were warming up for those.

  I checked my watch as the ticket agent continued to pore over my documents. I was itching to ship out, get under way, get the whole business over with. Truthfully, I was already thinking ahead to the vacation we would take the following year, the destination I would suggest. A theater trip to London, perhaps. Or a week in Key West. Or maybe a trek through Costa Rica. Yes, that was it. Costa Rica. Everyone was going there now. It was a country that was said to be so…so…real.

  I closed my eyes and pictured myself on the patio of some rustic yet terribly posh Costa Rican inn, mingling with sophisticated foreigners, trading smart little anecdotes, exploring—

  “Next!” the ticket agent called out, bringing my reverie to an abrupt end. He handed me back my papers and motioned for Jackie, who was next in line, to approach the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gault,” he greeted her after glancing at her passport.