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willy-nilly, some crushed, some in bits. “You get one for your entry fee. With a certificate of authenticity.”
    â€œAnd what about the museum?”
    â€œThat’s comin’ along. We had to jump on this, you know. It’ll take some time to pull it together.”
    â€œI can see that.”

Chapter Five
    â€œDangerous dining? What do you mean by that?”
    Anton was getting used to the question.
    Hy had waited until the rest of the media had stopped hounding Paradis before she went down and knocked on his door. She had an idea that she could shill this story to a number of media outlets. It intrigued her. As someone who couldn’t cook, she was always interested in how others did it.
    â€œJust as I say.” Anton shook his head. In Europe, people, police, and the media would know exactly what he was talking about.
    â€œDangerous food, carefully prepared, amuses the experienced palate. Adds a thrill to the menu, to the dining experience. Green turtle, monkey brains, blowfish, a variety of mushrooms, of course.”
    Hy screwed up her nose.
    â€œDo they taste good?”
    He shrugged. “Not always. The allure is the flirtation with death.”
    â€œMan, that’s jaded.”
    He shrugged again.
    â€œI couldn’t possibly compete with other restaurants that attract the level of clientele I desire. The only way is to have a unique brand. Mine is the dangerous dinner. It’s why I chose this location. So many deaths, in such a short period of time, in such a small place. The perfect ambience.”
    Hy looked at the dining area that joined the two wings of the house. It was long, and barely wide enough to accommodate a table and chairs for ten. Once people were seated, it was impossible for serving staff to move behind them.
    Following her glance, Paradis pulled out the chair nearest him.
    â€œYes, only room for the diners. That means they must serve themselves. The restricted number makes it more desirable. The exclusive schedule – no more than twelve dinners a year – whets their appetite. I have watched the rich at close quarters. I know what attracts their imagination, their constant desire for new experiences, the next thing their money can buy.”
    â€œHow much do you charge? It must be prohibitive if you’re to make any money.”
    â€œAs they say, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
    Paradis didn’t know anything about what Hy called her nest egg, grown to a substantial sum in royalties from her mother’s seminal back-to-the-woods best seller, A Life in the Woods. The book was hewn out of her hippie experience, written in homemade ink, illustrated with charcoal from the woodstove, made public at the cost of her life and very nearly Hy’s. Hy had money because she was careful with it. She’d never blow it on a dangerous dinner. She was such a bad cook, she could flirt with danger any day of the week in the comfort of her own home.
    â€œHow much? Let us say…a lot,” he said finally.
    â€œHundreds?” Hy felt foolish even as she asked. It was bound to be more. Paradis smiled.
    â€œThousands,” she ventured, not questioning. Maybe thousands. He inclined his head, but the gesture, like the sum, seemed incomplete.
    â€œNot tens of thousands?”
    The eloquent shrug. Anton knew how to work the media.
    â€œIt depends what they eat. How hard it is to get. Our peppers, bananas, spices, all come from the rainforest. They are not farmed. People must go there to gather them. There are many dangers in the rainforest – insects, snakes – all this is taken into consideration in pricing. If we lose someone –”
    â€œLose?”
    â€œIf someone dies in pursuit of an item on the menu, of course there’s an extra charge, including costs for printing a memorial biography for the deceased worker. Our patrons will appreciate this fine touch.”
    Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.
    â€œSo