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May 8 - May 10, 2021
Copyright © 2019 by Melissa F. Miller All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
the canyons separating the Hollywood Hills from the commoners below.
But it took a mountain of tangerines and nearly an hour to yield a single pitcher.
the demanding movie star was paying me two hundred and fifty dollars an hour to whip up whatever meals her organic, vegan, gluten-free heart desired. She was my ticket out of debt and the holistic private chef business and back into the chemistry lab where I belonged.
Locally harvested organic mushroom caps stuffed with pomegranate seeds and spinach. They were delicious.
roasting the white sesame seeds for the chili garlic sauce that I planned to pair with the adorable baby eggplant I’d picked up at the market the day before.
My aging hippie parents went for the trifecta and named their three daughters Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme in homage to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.”
Sage was working as a nanny–excuse me, attachment parenting consultant–for a well-heeled Hilton Head Island society family.
The problem was that all that baby wearing, co-sleeping, and playing with Waldorf-approved cloth dolls really ate into her Junior League meetings and charity circuit galas in neighboring Charleston. Enter Sage. For a cool one hundred dollars an hour (plus room and board in the guest house), she did everything short of breast-feeding the Moore brood while their mama kept up her appearances and made the society page every week.
As a chemist turned holistic chef, I can make a compelling argument for eating a locally sourced, plant-based diet. Having been raised on a strict regime of tempeh, homemade yogurt, and very crunchy granola, I can also make a compelling argument for all things in moderation, including the occasional bacon cheeseburger with jalapeños and mushrooms. And by “occasional,” I mean daily.
“Actors don’t eat anyway. They nibble. In extreme cases, they just inhale deeply.” As I shared this sad nugget of information, I reminded myself to contact the inner-city homeless shelters to find one willing to take the obscene quantities of uneaten food that would no doubt be left when the party ended.
But last spring, our parents’ luxury eco-resort ran into financial trouble. Their response? They “gifted” the three of us the business and sailed off on their catamaran into international waters out of the reach of their creditors.
Thyme had been able to find a gig in Manhattan, but Sage and I had both had to say goodbye to our cute single girl pads and pull up stakes.
Out of some strange mixture of obligation and nostalgia, we’d agreed to save the resort.
we met once a quarter for a funereal conference with our grim-faced accountant and a quick tour of the resort to make sure the managers we hired weren’t stealing too much from the nearly empty coffers.
“Feel free to what?” I paused mid-cut and stared right into his emerald green eyes. “To apologize. You said you want to apologize, so go ahead.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’m really, truly, deeply sorry that I snapped at you, Rosemary.” I tried to suppress my smile, but my mouth had its own ideas. “Apology accepted.”
“Are you soaking the eggplant?” He furrowed his tanned brow in apparent confusion. I wanted to tell him to stop that before it wrinkled his skin. Instead I said, “Yes. If you add salt to the water, it draws out some of the bitterness.”
“For Chrissake, Felix, why aren’t you at the studio doing something productive instead of loafing around here bothering the help?”
“She changed her mind. Shocking, I know. She wants to make those roasted vegetable things with the gravy.” I blinked. “The squash boats?” “Whatever you made for Thanksgiving. Make that.” “The whole Thanksgiving menu?” “Did I stutter?”
tried to arrange my face into a serene and spiritual expression befitting a holistic chef.
Who goes from a tapas-based menu to a formal sit-down meal for forty people on the morning of the event? A vapid, self-absorbed twit, that’s who.
Amber wanted what Amber wanted. And she always got it. It was as simple as that.
But then I readily admit the best thing about being a chef is having a bulletproof excuse for wearing Crocs.
equanimity
As a result, I did more loving kindness meditation while working for a Hollywood actress than I’d ever done while living with my parents.
Only in Los Angeles, I thought, would a taco stand double as a juice bar. Everywhere else in America, you get your tacos with a frosty Corona.
I sniffed the vibrant liquid. “Carrots?” I guessed. Miguel nodded. “With some lime juice, cilantro, and fresh ginger. It should pep you up.
“Apple pineapple.” “And a little chamomile and valerian,” Miguel added.
“Yeah, it helps me stay calm. I … well … I can have a bit of a quick temper at times,”
Rosemary is my family’s private chef—a holistic chef.”
He always told me not to count on inheriting his fortune. I figured he planned to blow it on Amber, which was fine with me—until I got to know her.”
“Amber was cheating on my dad.”
He handed me his phone. I stared down at it and realized I didn’t actually know Sage’s cell phone number anymore. I’d become so dependent on my contacts list, I couldn’t have called her if I’d wanted to.
“Now listen up. This is important. In this country, no one is a bad guy until a judge and a jury say so. Understand? And your nanny’s sister, I don’t think a judge and jury will ever say she’s a bad guy. I think she might just be mixed up in something she doesn’t quite understand.”
“If that’s true, I guess I should apologize for my crack about the warrantless search,” I said in a magnanimous tone.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Go ahead?” I echoed. “Go ahead and apologize,” he told me, catching me in the same behavior I’d called Felix on less than twenty-four hours earlier.
I threw back my head and laughed then said, “Well played. Let me clarify. I’m sorry for the crack about the illegal search. And I would really appreciate some help.”
Sage had once informed me that she’d spent three months keeping count: upon hearing our names, eighty-seven percent of men and seventy-two percent of women responded with a lame crack. What she expected me to do with this information, I’d never known, but I figured that’s just the way accountants’ brains work.
“Who else knew about her food allergies? And had access to the kitchen? And had a reason to want to kill her?”
means, motive, opportunity? Any thoughts?”
“Amber made it a point to educate everyone who came into the house as to her food allergies, sensitivities, and preferences.” “What exactly do you mean by ‘everyone’?” “I mean she wanted to make sure that nobody introduced any products that contained nuts or wheat, among other verboten items, into her environment in any capacity. That included her massage therapist, her hairstylist, the maid, and, of course, me. Not only did she not want to eat any nuts, she didn’t want to touch anything that had been remotely near a nut.”
Or she could have simply been being overly dramatic about it because she was overly dramatic about pretty much everything.” Subtlety hadn’t been Amber’s forte.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
unless he figured out who did, it wasn’t going to matter whether he believed me or not. I’d be charged with murder.
“Mr. Patrick is indisposed. Could you come back tomorrow around lunchtime? He’s quite busy with … making Mrs. Amber’s arrangements.” Translation: he’s working his way through a bottle of Hendrick’s and is far too sloppy to be seen at the moment.
“Awfully convenient,” I muttered. “That’s how alibis work, Rosemary. They conveniently make it impossible for the suspect to have committed the crime.
“Is that blasted cop gone?” Pat demanded. “Yes. He just left. Dad, he needs to talk to you.” Felix’s voice was hesitant but determined. Pat wheeled around, red-faced. “I’m not talking to the cops, you moron. I have things to do,” he said.
“I donated them to a homeless shelter. Amber knew that’s what I did with all the leftovers when she entertained.” “Oh. Good idea.”
I’m sort of spatially challenged. As in, whenever I visit Thyme in New York, she threatens to pin an index card to my shirt with her contact information on it in case I wander off and can’t make my way back to her apartment.
