Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online

be finished.”
    “So,” I said, realizing they were waiting for my reaction, “you are having trouble finding good contestants.” I hoped that was right. My mind had been racing around and around Greta’s current problem. Thank goodness Nell and Stell weren’t discussing something really complicated, like the weather.
    “Girl, we gave up on ‘good’ last week. We’re settling for live ones just about now.”
    “That’s rough,” I said, beginning to warm to this new problem. I had no idea it was a chore to find game-show contestants. It seemed like everyone I knew wanted to be on Freak. Of course, most of my friends loved to cook, but still. Who wouldn’t want a chance to win half a million dollars just by cooking a nice meal? “Say, I could call some of my friends,” I offered. “I know lots of excellent cooks.”
    “Aw, that’s sweet,” Stell said, twinkling her brown eyes at me. “But you work here now, pumpkin. Your friends are not eligible to be on this show anymore, now that you work here as a writer.”
    “It’s in the rules,” Nell said. “Those rules we all sign.”
    “The 509,” I said, nodding in agreement, hoping no one suddenly wondered if I’d ever been obliged to sign them.
    “Right,” Nell said.
    I realized, just then, the price my friends were now forced to pay so that I could work on a game show. I should have thought this through earlier. Heck, Wesley and Holly, my two closest friends, were excellent cooks. They could have come on this game show and won half a million. It seemed, suddenly, like such a better deal than having me work here for a tiny fraction of that jackpot. D’oh!
    The door to Greta’s office swung open and we all turned to look. I expected it to be Greta, ready to call a staff meeting, ready to announce what had happened in there, in that office down the hall.
    Instead, in popped the star of Food Freak himself—Chef Howie Finkelberg. He and I had met only once before, but since the special episode was being taped this week, he would be in the studio a lot more.
    “Hi, girls,” he said. “Anyone know where Greta is?”
    “No. We’re all looking for her,” Susan said and then, the gracious hostess, she said, “Chef Howie, have you met Madeline Bean yet? She’s been writing for the show this past week.”
    “Hello, Madeline.” The star of Food Freak turned to me and gave me his full attention. He was the sort for whom tight Levi’s had been invented. He was dressed for the taping, wearing a custom-made chef’s coat, cut to show off his muscles, over the aforementioned jeans. It was his trademark to leave the collar unbuttoned. Preteen girls pinned up “Chef Howie” posters on their bedroom walls and dreamed of crèmebrûlée and Chef Howie. “So good to meet you,” he said, his contact-lens-enhanced green eyes meeting mine. Clearly he did not remember that we had been introduced the previous Monday. I chose not to remind him.
    “My God,” he said, never breaking our intimate eye contact, “you are gorgeous. That hair! You should be on camera! Do you act?”
    “No,” I stuttered, shocked. “Never.” Can you believe this guy? How corny was that? What sort of green, new-in-town, stars-in-her-eyes, aspiring-actress type did he take me for?
    “You’re laughing,” he said, amused. “I mean it, Madeline. You’re a highly regarded chef in your own right, yes? You are a hot young Hollywood caterer. You are simply perfect.” Howie spoke in a low growl. He did not stop looking at me.
    “He’s right,” Susan said, a hint of excitement in her voice.
    Nell and Stell kind of gasped, taken in by the power of Chef Howie’s voice.
    Here I was, my native skepticism on hyperalert, but how flattering, really, that Howie knew about my culinary business. Of course I was an event planner, not merely a caterer, but he still seemed to know me by my reputation.
    I realized they were all staring at me, smiling at me, seeing me in perhaps a whole new light.