Mumbo Gumbo Read Online Free PDF Page B

when she actually meets them, saying “stupidfan things” and kicking herself for days after. She’s hopelessly devoted to just about every celebrity she has ever met, and indiscriminately adores the guy who’s on Angel, the guy who wrote the song “Short People,” and the gorgeous guy who played the Royal Canadian Mountie on some long-canceled series.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” I said warily.
    “Please, Mad,” she whispered, moaning. “I am going crazy. I can’t find a single job. Can you believe it? I’ve spent the entire weekend helping Wesley move furniture around his spec house. If he tells me to hold the mirror an inch lower one more time…”
    “Maybe I can get you a temporary gig here,” I suggested. I could imagine that Wes and Holly needed a little breather from each other. He was probably overwhelmed with details before the real estate brokers held their open house tomorrow.
    “Could you?” she asked. “That would get me onto the lot. I could scout around and see what other interesting productions might be going on over there.”
    “I’m sure. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you soon. Don’t drive Wes nuts.”
    I trotted back up the stairs and reentered the writers’ meeting. Greta was still on the phone with Artie and I noticed that Susan Anderson, the able first PA, had also taken advantage of their long conversation to take a quick break.
    Quentin refused to look at me, but Jennifer brought me up to date. Artie was worried about Chef Howie’s performance or some such thing. The star was unhappy.
    Greta hung up her receiver and smiled at us. “Sorry. So many decisions and nothing, apparently, can wait. Let’s get back to the fun stuff—the material.”
    Together, we discussed what recipes would work well, which ones had been done before, what recipes couldn’t be repeated, and so on. The show was based on a simple concept: the celebrated star of the show, Chef Howie Finkelberg, challenged two small teams of contestants, talented home chefs, to cook extreme meals from Chef Howie’s own stunningly fabulous recipes. Of course, it was our job to concoct those recipes, a job that I considered incredibly easy. But then, I was the new guy. Jennifer and Quentin had already worked for an entire season, coming up with hundreds of recipes. They were professional, pragmatic, experienced, expedient. By this time in the long season of shows, they were partially burned out. When my offering at this meeting, an off-the-wall recipe for Chef Howie’s Confetti French Toast was praised and scheduled into the show’s script, I felt terrific. I was having a ball.
    Greta turned and said, “I am so glad you are here, Maddie,” as she closed the meeting. The truth was, so was I.
    As we all got up, and chatted, and stretched, and began filing out of her office, Greta held me back a moment.
    “Do you have plans for lunch today?” she asked me quietly.
    Quentin, who was hanging back, heard Greta’s invitation and his shoulders seemed to sag beneath his heavily starched shirt.
    “No plans,” I said. “Would you like to discuss the new wrap party?”
    “Fine. Let me take you out to lunch. I have something else I’d like to ask you about, too,” Greta said.
    She grabbed her purse and we walked togetherdown the hall. My office—Tim’s office, really—was three doors down, about thirty feet away. As we approached it, we both noticed something odd.
    “Your door…,” Greta said, her voice perplexed.
    I reached it first. The door to Tim’s office was not completely shut. Greta looked up at me sharply. “Didn’t I tell you that we always keep our office doors locked? It’s a security issue. A precautionary measure when the game material is around.”
    “I usually pull the door shut and it automatically locks.” I tried to remember if I’d done that this time.
    Greta didn’t look particularly disturbed but I made a mental note to double-check the door each time I left the office. Because