“I’m the production assistant. Come on down to the Green Room, and I’ll get the staffer handling support cast to go over the waivers with you.”
With that, she nearly skipped out of the room. I followed, trying to avoid the cables snaking this way and that, and to process what I was seeing as we sped through the hallways. Open crawl spaces and exposed duct work made the place look more like an electronics warehouse than the prestigious venue of a renowned cooking competition.
The Green Room was pale peach. A woman at a desk, hunched over a laptop, turned to us with an annoyed look that she didn’t bother to wipe off, even after Skippy the P.A. introduced me.
The sourpuss staffer’s name was Mare. “I’ll get you a copy of the script and some releases you need to sign,” she said. “Emmett emailed me that he’ll be the primary assistant and you’ll be the second. Hope you can take pressure.” She and the young girl walked off discussing the problem of teams poaching one another’s shelf space in the refrigerators.
Emmett had called to say he was on his way over to drop off overly large ingredients needing refrigeration, after which he wanted to show me around the studio kitchen. I needed to at least look competent. Later, we’d go do a dry run of the actual dishes back in Chef Clyde’s kitchen to ensure the recipes remained secret.
I plopped down at the desk in the peachy Green Room, thinking for a second of tossing the drawers. Before I could act, Mare walked back into the room, handed me the documents, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said. “I was hoping you’d answer a couple of questions.”
“Why would I help you help Clyde? He never did anything for me but put me down, work me to death, and take all the glory for himself. Seems that’s a habit of his, so watch out.”
“Nobody told me you used to work with Chef Clyde.”
“Used to, and I’d cover the show of every prima donna chef on this network before I’d work one more minute for Shelbee.”
“Look, I’m just trying to do a good job.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against the door jamb. “Hell, you seem like a nice person, but you are one soufflé away from a collapse if you don’t get out now. I’m deadly serious. Ask yourself why Pilar would disappear just days before a contest she worked her ass off to win.”
Less than a minute later, Emmett came through the Green Room door, brushing right past Mare. At the sight of him she began to sidle out of the room.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye. “Mare! Thanks for getting Nonni the releases.”
“I don’t understand how you can still work with him, Em. And drag this gal into it.” Mare was scowling and shaking her head.
Emmet set his packages on the counter. “We owe it to Pilar.”
“Don’t hand me this ‘we’ crap. How sick is it if she’s not here to enjoy the triumph won with her dishes?”
“We don’t know for sure that she won’t turn up before taping.”
Mare held up her hand. “I don’t have time to go into this with you right now.” She looked at me and said, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” Then she was gone.
“If everyone thinks I’m incapable of handling this,” I said as huffily as I felt, “why keep me on?”
“We all want to find Pilar. I’m too visible, too suspect, to be of real use. We need you to poke around and uncover the truth.”
In the back of my mind, I wondered if suspect might be the perfect word for Emmett. It had been his idea to step in as first assistant. How’d he put it? “Like back in the old days.” Did he maybe think he wasn’t visible enough?
* * * *
A couple hours later I had my first lesson in the chef’s kitchen: how to scrub my hands until they were raw and cram all my hair up under a hideous cap. The trouble began when they tried to teach me the difference between a utensil and a serving piece. If only the contest could be about the variable microwave warming times of say, frozen entrees versus leftover lo mein…
“I’ve already removed the entrails, glands, the head, and the tail.” Chef Clyde’s face was as red as the carcass on the counter. “I don’t understand why you won’t look at the ’possum. How do you expect to pass yourself off as my assistant if you won’t even look at it?”
Pissed, the chef charged out of the room. Emmett gave me a look of sympathy and then followed.
With my lessons apparently over, I wandered over to some nearby shelves with cookbooks, awards, and framed photographs, including several pictures of Pilar and of Pilar’s culinary school roommate. Denise wore a chef’s hat and was holding up a trophy, posing with Chef Clyde in what looked like a studio kitchen. Why hadn’t she mentioned she did the same job as Pilar? Was being an insider the reason she knew the chef was guilty?
* * * *
The next morning, I went to the studio early, hoping to get comfortable enough with the set that I wouldn’t screw up later during rehearsal. I approached the door to the dark lobby of the studio. The security guard and his desk, however, were lit like the display window of an anchor store at the mall. He kept his head down even as I popped off my last acrylic nail jerking on the door handle. I rapped on the glass with my car keys, and he let me in.
“The morning crew hasn’t come in yet,” he said as he returned to his seat and the electronic game he obviously found so enthralling. “They usually don’t turn on the lights until seven.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “I just wanted to get more familiar with the equipment before…”
I shut up and headed to the set because he was intent on the game again. I took this opportunity to slide into a couple of storerooms along the way, as well as some offices, but I didn’t turn up any clues to help me find Pilar. I hoped I’d find something on the set.
The only light on the kitchen’s set was the wavy red glow of the exit signs and the LEDs of the electronics equipment. When Emmett had shown me around the day before, the lights had been blinding, coming at me from every direction, and they were hot, too. I preferred this low-watt mode, and only switched on a light above a sink.
Separate areas of the kitchen had been assigned to each team. I went to stand at our deep stainless-steel counter with its sink, stove, cutting board, and so many sharp knives it looked like we were filming an Xtreme Autopsy show. Right behind me were the refrigerators. I had a cheat sheet with the locations of our ingredients in the open cupboards under the counter. I did a quick inspection then came back to turn the stove’s burners on and off, try the faucets, and practice controlling the high-powered hose attachment that could fill a large pot with water fast.
Every sound I made seemed unnatural, echoing down low at first, then rising to be abruptly absorbed and dampened by the high ceilings, really rattling my nerves. It was dawning on me that the closer we got to taping without Pilar showing up, the more likely it was that I’d have to take the stage, risking exposure.
Opening refrigerators required bracing myself. I couldn’t actually see
