Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Part 3

"It's a stupid show, but Al likes it."

I bit my tongue, and she continued.

"Belinda Blackburn, who might look all right on television if she lost forty pounds and got her hair done, pretends every Sat.u.r.day morning that two dozen people just dropped by for barbecue, and she just happens to have enough bread, salad, dessert, and fresh road kill in the refrigerator to pull it off. With, naturally, the proper wine for each course."

"The supermarket poster says she shoots it live. Do people actually eat on camera?"

"Oh, yes. Someone always pa.s.ses little tidbits for her so-called guests to share. Why do you care?"

"I don't know. I was sort of thinking about getting a barbecue." Professional privilege stopped me from telling her the truth.

"Then you must come Sat.u.r.day night," she said triumphantly. "You and Al will have something in common."

"For the first time," she might have added, but didn't.

"Okay. I'll be there." Agreeing was easier than arguing, and I could always leave early. Al wouldn't mind.

I still had to go to the supermarket, because I had to feed two cats who had decided long ago that foraging was better than eating dried food, and I was out of canned. A trip to the supermarket was less work than scrubbing sparrow blood off the carpet.

The cas.h.i.+er at the supermarket didn't watch the show, so I decided I could play it by ear. Early-for me-the next morning, I hopped in the Jeep and drove to Belinda Blackburn's house.

Belinda Blackburn lived in the old money section of town, the part of California Street on the hill overlooking Reno High School. Even though I was there only a few minutes past eleven, the circular driveway was already full of cars. I parked at the curb, under something old and deciduous. A few falling leaves wouldn't hurt the Jeep. The owners of the Cadillac, the Plymouth, and the two Hondas in the driveway were probably more careful. And especially the owner of the '68 Mustang. That stopped me for a moment. I used to own a restored '68 Mustang, and this one was cherry.

A kid in his late teens, twenty tops, opened the door when I rang. He was a thin version of Belinda, in ragged Levi's and a UNR t-s.h.i.+rt, with sparkling eyes and bad skin.

"Are you Mom's new a.s.sistant?" he asked.

"How'd you know?"

"She said to look for a woman with no makeup, long blond hair, and jeans. You're the only one today."

"You've got me. I'm Freddie O'Neal."

I held out my hand.

"I'm Will Blackburn," he said, shaking it. "They're all in back, on the set."

"The set is here?"

"Yeah. It costs more to shoot it here than at the studio, but Mom wanted control, and she figured this was the best way to get it. Follow me."

He led me across the living room-I got a glimpse of fresh flowers and lime-green brocade-and through open French doors to a wide brick veranda. From there we could see the set. Belinda Blackburn was standing with three other people in front of a barbecue big enough for a Brahma bull. A refrigerator was improbably close, framed by a grape trellis, and a long picnic table sat where the orchestra pit should be, with enough concrete around it for two large cameras. A track several feet above the table held still another camera.

Belinda was arguing with three people who were each younger than she was, but that seemed to be their only advantage.

"Not bear," a woman wearing gla.s.ses and carrying a notebook was saying. "I don't care if the Indians ate it, I don't care if Davy Crockett loved the taste, no one is going to come into the store on Sat.u.r.day morning and ask for bear steak. I guarantee it."

"What do you suggest then?" The frost in Belinda's voice would have made a strong man long for a blanket.

"Chicken," she pleaded. "Chicken's always good."

"Chicken! I've done chicken. Everyone's done chicken." Belinda paused for effect and smiled, sort of. "I want to do bear. And if you won't provide it, I'll find someone who will."

I wasn't sure whether I wanted to leap into that group. Staying on the veranda seemed safer.

"Okay," I said to Will. "That one's the supermarket rep. Who are the other two?"

"The woman in the straw hat is the production manager, and the guy is Mom's gofer," he replied.

"Does she really want to barbecue a bear?"

"It's hard to tell. Sometimes she asks for weird things just so another request sounds reasonable."

"Got it. Thanks." I stepped onto the artistically broken concrete path to the set, and then turned back. "Hey. Is the Mustang yours?"

Will Blackburn lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Yeah. She's my baby."

I nodded. I knew how he felt.

By the time I reached the group, someone had mentioned quail, and Belinda was considering the idea.

"All right, quail," she announced, and with barely time for breath she added, "Freddie O'Neal, I want you to meet Stella Chism, Bobby Archuletta, and Janice Turner."

"Pleased to meet you," I said. Each one murmured something polite.

"Freddie is helping me with a book, based on the show," Belinda said, with an amazing confidence that the story would be believed.

Janice Turner, the supermarket rep, looked surprised, but not unhappy with the idea. Stella Chism, the production manager, shrugged. Bobby Archuletta looked aghast.

"A book?" he whispered. "You're doing a book? And you didn't let me know?"

"I'm sorry, dear," Belinda said, patting him on the shoulder. "I meant to tell you before Freddie got here, but it slipped my mind."

"We could work something out to trade it for coupons, based on register receipts," Janice Turner said. "Not bad."

"What do you think of quail, Freddie?" Belinda asked.

"Kind of messy," was all I could come up with. In truth, I had never eaten one. But quail are common in Reno, and Butch and Sundance like them even better than sparrows.

"You're right." Belinda was pleased with me. She patted my shoulder this time. "All those tiny bones. But I think we can do it." She turned to the barbecue. "Just imagine all those tiny bodies, bursting with an olive oil and raspberry vinegar marinade, with just a touch of fresh rosemary, stretched across the coals."

"You got it, Belinda," Janice said, making a note.

"And watermelon," Belinda added. "Champagne-filled watermelon. Half a dozen should do it."

"What else?" Janice sighed, but it sounded as if this would be a deal.

"Herbed rice, grilled corn, sweet-and-sour cuc.u.mbers, and chocolate mousse," Belinda snapped.

"No. Not chocolate mousse." The words sprang from Bobby as if he had been holding them in for days. "I know you like chocolate mousse, Belinda, but G.o.d, no, not again. Besides, it's just too rich. Especially after champagne watermelon."

Belinda faltered.

"What then?" she asked.

"Cookies," Bobby pleaded. "The cookies will go with the watermelon and the coffee."

"All right." Belinda sighed. "But choose something delicate."

"b.u.t.ter cookies, with a touch of Grand Marnier," Bobby insisted. "And we'll dip one side in chocolate."

"Wonderful!" Belinda gasped.

Bobby smiled, relieved.

"I'll work it out with Janice and Stella," he said.

The group started back to the house. Belinda stayed near the barbecue.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Too soon to tell. I'll have to be here tomorrow, to watch the preparations, and then Sat.u.r.day for the taping. How secure will the set be tomorrow night?"

"Very. I have a Rottweiler."

"Fine. Where is he now?"

"In the garage. But I let him have the run of the yard most of the time."

"Okay." That sounded secure enough to me. "When do you start cooking?"

"The food will arrive around ten, and we'll start immediately."

"I'll see you then."

I might have stayed a little longer, to maintain the fiction of a book in progress, but it didn't seem useful. I'd be spending enough time there in the next two days.

I said good-bye to Will, and good-bye to the Mustang as well. It was still there, waxed and gorgeous, when I got back the next morning, along with the Cadillac and the two Hondas. A supermarket delivery truck was just pulling away.

Will answered again when I rang.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"Is your mother's check any good?"

"I hope so. You're going to earn it."

He stepped back, and I could hear raised voices.

"Lead me to it," I said.

Belinda's kitchen looked as if she had handed a designer a picture from Better Homes and Gardens and told him to do it, d.a.m.n the cost. It was bigger than my office, bedroom, and kitchen combined, with skylights and a butcher block working-area in the center, and about everything else a lover of culinary display could imagine.

Half a dozen watermelons, bright green with faint stripes, lay side by side on the butcher block. Stella Chism was waving a large knife over the first one, not certain where to plunge it in.

"The end!" Bobby was yelling. "The plug goes in the end! Otherwise you can't pour the champagne into gla.s.ses the next day."

"The top! Otherwise the champagne leaks during the night, and only half the watermelon is saturated!" Belinda replied in a tone that would have convinced me. "And if you carve it properly, you have a boat for fruit salad on Sunday!"

"Leftovers," Bobby moaned. "You're worried about leftovers. There aren't any leftovers from champagne watermelon. I don't care how many you're serving!"

"Three from the top, and three from the end," Stella said. "How's that?"

"This is my show!" Belinda roared. "The watermelons will be cut the way I say they will be cut!"

"You're right, Belinda," Bobby said meekly.

Stella waited, knife still poised.

"Stella, cut three plugs from the end, and three from the top. We'll start pouring champagne from the three with plugged ends, and we'll leave the other three, in case we want salad boats," Belinda ordered.

Stella nodded and began cutting plugs.

The same scene was repeated, with minor variations, as every item was prepared. Should the corn be cleaned and wrapped in foil or barbecued in its own husk? Should the sweet-and-sour cuc.u.mber have sugar or honey in the dressing? Should the herbed rice have oregano or what? What was the best ratio of olive oil to raspberry vinegar for the quail marinade? Belinda always won, although when Stella was able to come up with a Solomonic compromise, Belinda would take it.

Except for the cookies. Belinda didn't argue over the cookies. It was late afternoon by the time they got to the cookies, but Belinda didn't even have to tell Bobby he could do what he wanted with them. That evidently had been a prior arrangement.

The day had worn on without any formal breaks except for lunch, although coffee was available. Lunch had been kind of a disappointment. Bobby arranged some of the cuc.u.mber slices on white bread, after he cut the crusts off, laid a sprig of watercress diagonally on each, and cut up some carrots and celery ribs. He added small bunches of purple grapes. I couldn't understand how in the world Belinda had expected to pa.s.s me off as her a.s.sistant when she had Bobby, even though he didn't have the t.i.tle.

The plates looked pretty, but I would rather have had the bread crusts, which Bobby tossed out. A lot of food is wasted on a cooking show. After lunch, I still wanted a hamburger.

Stella cleaned up the kitchen while Bobby dropped teaspoons of cookie dough on sheets of metal. Belinda motioned me out into the backyard.

"Well? What do you think?" she asked.

"I think if one of them is messing you up, it's not going to happen while I'm watching. We're going to have to see what goes wrong tomorrow, if anything, and I'll take it from there."

"I'm paying you to see that nothing goes wrong."

"You're paying me to do my best. If the Rottweiler does his, we should be all right."

Belinda pursed her lips and let me go.

I returned at the crack of dawn the next morning, or so it felt. But the worker bees were already hard at it. Stella, again in her straw hat, was giving instructions to the camera crew, and Bobby was carrying food from the kitchen to the picnic table, stopping every second trip to check the coals. Several cl.u.s.ters of folding chairs had been set up on the lawn, waiting for the "guests." Janice Turner was sitting in one, making notes. Belinda was nowhere to be seen, and Will had disappeared after letting me in.

I wandered around, trying to watch everyone and stay out of the way at the same time. If I hadn't happened to stroll behind the refrigerator trellis, I never would have seen it. A watermelon was half-hidden by the grape leaves.