Pie A La Murder

by Melinda Wells

  As she logged onto the Internet, Liddy told Shannon, “Del wouldn’t let me try to find out what I could about Nick’s ex, but this is different.”

  Shannon and I moved over to watch the monitor as Liddy began her search.

  “Ah! Here it is!” By typing in Freddie’s name and “Bavaria,” she’d found a recent photograph of von Hoffner at some gala in Vienna.

  “That’s Tanis,” I said, pointing. “The blonde on his right.”

  “Bingo,” Liddy said. “We got ’em both.”

  She copied and pasted the picture into e-mail, edited out the other people in the shot, enlarged the figures of Tanis and her prince, and printed three copies of the page.

  “Don’t delete that picture of the two of them,” I said. “Let’s send it to Nicholas’s lawyer. I’ll call her office to get her e-mail.”

  “While you’re doing that,” Liddy said, “I’ll put on my private-eye outfit.” She took her garment bag and went into my bedroom to change.

  Shortly after I’d sent the picture of von Hoffner and Tanis to Olivia, Liddy returned to the kitchen. She, indeed, looked “businesslike” in an attractive dark gray skirt suit with a cream silk blouse and black pumps with two-inch heels.

  “You’re the star’s representative,” Shannon told Liddy. “Make a point of not introducing me.” She gave her luxuriant hair a fluff. “Let the hotel manager think I’m the star’s ‘bit on the side.’ ”

  “We’re off, Della,” Liddy said. “What are you going to do?”

  “Focus, no pun intended, on Roxanne Redding.” I believed I had come up with the perfect cover story excuse to spend some time with her.

  18

  It appeared I wasn’t going to see Roxanne Redding after all. At least not this morning.

  From the street corner stop sign a few doors down from 190 Bella Vista Drive, I spotted an SID van and an LAPD Crown Victoria parked in front of the Redding house. The Crown Vic was the unmarked car used by John O’Hara and Hugh Weaver while they were on duty. It was easy to recognize, even if it had been in the middle of a dozen similar Crown Vics, because I had been on the scene the afternoon a few months ago when Weaver pressed a “Ban Politicians, Not Guns” banner to the rear chrome bumper. One corner had been scraped off, but the glue must be superstrong because the message was still clear.

  The front door had yellow crime-scene tape hanging from the far side of the entrance. I presumed it had been put up after I left last night, and taken partway down with the arrival of SID techs this morning.

  I was in the middle of a U-turn to go back to Sunset when in my rearview mirror I saw the Reddings’ front door open and Hugh Weaver come outside.

  Before he saw me, I completed the U-turn, but instead of fleeing down to Sunset, I steered my Jeep into the street between the boulevard and the Redding house. I was looking for . . .

  And there it was: the trash pickup alley that ran behind all of the houses on the Reddings’ side of the street, as well as behind the houses that faced out onto the next block.

  I pulled to a stop just short of the back gate of 190. It was crisscrossed with more yellow crime-scene tape. Clearly, I wasn’t going to be able to visit Roxanne Redding until the techs had finished their work. I gave a silent prayer that they would find evidence implicating someone other than Nicholas.

  I backed up, turned around, and returned to the mouth of the alley. Concerned that some householder, nervous because there had been a murder in their neighborhood last night, would see me parked and call the police, I took the Thomas Guide out of my glove compartment, and pretended to be looking up a location.

  With the thick, spiral-bound book of street maps propped in front of me on the steering wheel, I bent my head over it, but kept Bella Vista in my peripheral vision. In less than a minute, I saw the Crown Victoria heading south toward Sunset.

  Hugh Weaver was alone in the car.

  Where is John?

  Another question occurred to me: Where was Roxanne Redding? If the techs were still going over her home, perhaps she hadn’t stayed there last night.

  I dug into my handbag for the piece of paper on which I’d scribbled Alec Redding’s phone number and address, found it, and dialed it from my cell.

  What I got was a mechanical voice telling me that calls were being forwarded to another number. I heard a few rings, and then a woman answered.

  “Hello. Who’s calling?”

  The voice sounded subdued, but I recognized it.

  “Mrs. Redding? I’m so sorry to bother you during this difficult time, but I have one quick business question to ask. May I?”

  “What is it?” She sounded curious, and a little less subdued.

  She was on my line, so to speak; now I hoped she would swallow the hook I was about to bait.

  I said, “I had been planning to make an appointment for photographs with your husband, but now . . .” Faking embarrassment, I said, “I feel terrible about asking you this, but it is a professional emergency. Could you tell me who you might recommend as a photographer?”

  “I do portrait sittings,” she said.

  I knew that because Liddy had told me, but I pretended to be surprised. “You do?”

  “I’m a photographer, too. My husband was the celebrity, but my work is the equal of his. He often said so, bless him. I’ll be happy to show you a sample portfolio.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Redding. I’m sure your work is excellent. I’d be delighted to have you take my photographs.” I heard the Call Waiting signal in my ear. “Someone’s trying to reach me. May I contact you later, to make an appointment?”

  “Yes. I’ll have some time next week.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Fine. Oh, what is your name?”

  Instead of answering her then and giving her time to find an excuse not to see me, I disconnected, and pressed the “Answer” button.

  “This is awful!” It was Shannon, sounding frantic. “I’m at the hotel. Johnny caught me!”

  “Oh, Lord—I’m so sorry, Shan! Where are you now?”

  “In the restroom. He told me to go home. I didn’t tell him that I can’t because I came with Liddy. He doesn’t know Liddy’s here, too.”

  “Where is Liddy?”

  “Still in the Queen’s Suite with the manager, I think. Unless he found her, too.” She took a deep breath. When she started to speak again, she sounded calmer. “I was going down to check out the underground parking garage when that private elevator door opened and—whoosh! There was Johnny!”

  “What did you tell him?”

  She chuckled. “I’m kind of proud of this. I said I was looking for a special suite we could rent for a night to celebrate our anniversary next month.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t know. Johnny had his poker face on. He didn’t challenge me about it, but maybe that was because he was with a young man who looked like a lawyer. You know the type: suit, tie, briefcase, doesn’t look like he’s out in the sun much. Running into Johnny like that made for a pretty awkward moment, but he recovered quicker than I did. He introduced me to the guy with him. Name is Leary, or Cleary, or maybe Drury. I was so shocked I’m not sure I heard it right.”

  “Currie? Could it have been Stan Currie?”

  “Yes . . . that was it. Currie. Do you know him?”

  “Only slightly. He’s an assistant district attorney. If he’s there with John, it may be to stop that quartet in the Presidential Suite from leaving the country tonight.”

  “Let’s hope,” Shannon said.

  “Do you want me to come and pick you up?”

  “Liddy and I made plans to meet at her car after she finished looking around upstairs and I scoped out the garage. Which I’m going to do right now. Della, I have to tell you, this little adventure is making me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months.”

  “I’m glad, but are you sure you want to check out the garage today? What if John goes down there, too, and s
ees you again?”

  I heard her chuckle again. “What can he do? Arrest me?”

  After we ended the conversation, I looked at my watch and saw it was twenty minutes before twelve.

  It wouldn’t be long before John and Weaver arrived at Olivia Wayne’s office for their noon interview with Celeste.

  Nicholas had said that he and Celeste were together at his place last night until just before he arrived at Redding’s. I’m sure he said that only to protect Celeste.

  Later, Prince Freddie told me that he, Tanis, and Celeste were together in the Presidential Suite playing cards all evening. I didn’t believe him, either—or his butler—but I had no idea whom he might be trying to protect by lying.

  Shortly, Celeste would be giving her statement to the police. I had no idea what she was going to say, but I was sure that it wasn’t going to be good for Nicholas.

  There was no time to think about that now. I had to get back to my house. Phil Logan had me scheduled to do radio phone-in interviews from home with stations around the country from twelve thirty until two PM. I’d be talking to the various hosts about the national bake sales for charity that I was encouraging. Radio technology was so good that it sounded as though the show guest was right there in the studio with the host.

  I had to stop thinking about murder and plan how to promote our bake sale contest.

  19

  Before I went to bed last night I’d gone on the computer with the list of cities I’d be speaking to, learned something significant about each of them, and made notes. While waiting for the first call to come in—from a station in Chicago—I reviewed them, and put the pages in order.

  When the phone rang a few minutes before I was to go on the air, I was ready.

  Not so the producer on the other end of the line.

  “What are you going to be talking to Chet about?” he asked.

  Chet? That’s not the name of the host on my list.

  I said, “I thought I was supposed to talk to Bob Roman.”

  “The Big BR’s out sick. Chet is subbing today. He’s our sports guy.” I heard the producer mumbling to someone in the background. When he spoke to me again, he said, “You’re up right after this commercial break. Stand by.”

  While a man’s voice urged listeners to “start looking like one of life’s winners by purchasing a pre-owned Mercedes,” I tried to figure out what I would talk to a sports guy about.

  Commercial over, the producer came back on the line. “You’re up next, Delta.”

  “It’s Della,” I said.

  The producer said, “Huh. Are you sure? It says here on my sheet—”

  He was interrupted by a burst of lively music. In a few seconds, I heard a hearty male voice.

  “Hi, there, folks. Welcome back to the dugout. You’ll know you’re listening to live radio because we’ve got a guest on our inside line, but there seems to be some dispute about her name. Hello, mystery guest. Am I talking to the actress Delta Burke?”

  “No, I’m Della Carmichael.”

  “Who?”

  “I do the TV cooking show In the Kitchen with Della on the Better Living Channel.”

  “Hey, pretty good! You got the plug in smooth as a thirty-foot outsider in the last five seconds of the fourth quarter. What sport do you want to talk about, Miss D on the BLC?”

  “Baking.”

  “When did baking become a sport?”

  “Just recently. Since my network and I proposed national bake sales to raise money for charity. In the Kitchen with Della is sponsoring a competition for teams of four to see which team can raise the most money for their charity. Competitive baking is an indoor sport, with the finals played outdoors when it’s time to sell the baked goodies. Your listeners can find the rules on the Better Living Channel’s Web site.”

  “Cute,” he said, chuckling. “I never thought of baking as a team game, but then I didn’t predict synchronized swimming would come to the Olympics, either. Well, why not? All we sports people like to raise money for good causes. Give us the stats again, Miss D. You got twenty seconds before the buzzer. Go!”

  I went. Watching the second hand on my kitchen wall clock, I repeated information about the bake sales, and stressed that to win, a team had to produce a valid receipt as to how much money was turned over to their charity. I finished my spiel in exactly twenty seconds. It wasn’t hard, because I was used to timing things down to the second for the TV shows.

  The host said, “While you were talking I looked you up. You’re the cooking babe who brained Dodger pitcher Tony Cuervo last year!”

  He must have Googled or Binged me and found out about one of Phil Logan’s early publicity stunts where he had me suited up like a Los Angeles Dodger so his photographer could take a picture of me holding a baseball bat. My unexpectedly connecting bat to ball resulted in my picture on sports pages around the country. Some headlines read: “Cook Creams Cuervo.”

  “I only hit Tony Cuervo on the ankle during batting practice, and he wasn’t hurt, just surprised.”

  “Well, it’s been fun having you on the show, Miss D from the BLC. Time now for the latest news. This is Chet Wall filling in for Bob Roman, the Big BR, who should be back in this oversize chair tomorrow.”

  A woman’s voice came on with news headlines, the line disconnected, and my first radio phone-in of the day was over. After making a note of the name of the substitute host so that I could e-mail a “thank you” note to him, as I would to the other interviewers, I poured myself a glass of water and reached down to pet Tuffy. While I waited for the call from the next radio show, I couldn’t help wondering what was going on in Olivia Wayne’s office, where John and his partner were interviewing Celeste.

  What was she saying?

  While I was talking to a show host in Boston—my final interview of the day—my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I had to ignore it then, but the moment my interview was over, I accessed the message and listened while I made a fresh pot of coffee.

  Liddy had called. She sounded breathless with excitement.

  “I didn’t get to see inside the Presidential Suite,” she said, “but the Queen’s Suite, which I did tour thoroughly, is laid out exactly the same, according to the manager. Living room, guest bath, kitchen, butler’s pantry, dining room, three bedrooms, each with a bathroom. Del, there is a back entrance. It’s a rear elevator that goes right down to the underground garage without stopping on any other floor! Zip, zoom, and out. Even though there’s one private elevator that goes to the fifteenth floor, there’s a separate back elevator for each of the two suites! The manager described that as ‘a little amenity’ for famous or important guests who need to bypass crowds in the lobby or outside the hotel’s entrance.”

  My spirits soared. What Liddy had learned shot the prince’s alibi full of back-elevator-size holes.

  Liddy took a breath and continued. “At the west end of the corridor there’s also an elevator that’s used by the kitchen and housekeeping staffs for transporting meal tables and laundry and cleaning carts. But that elevator stops on every floor, and it goes down only as far as the ground floor kitchen. There are kitchen workers on duty twenty-four hours a day, so that’s not a secure escape route. Bottom line of this report is that any one of them—Tanis, Celeste, the prince, or the butler—could have left the hotel without being seen. This is Agent 003—licensed to snoop—signing off. Let me know what my next assignment is.”

  End of message.

  “Good job, Liddy,” I said to the dead phone in my hand.

  I wonder if Shannon was able to find a walk-out exit in the hotel’s basement garage. For reasons of employee safety, there must be one.

  Before I had a chance to call Liddy back, someone at my front door was ringing the bell with an insistent series of sharp jabs.

  I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  My heart lurched with anxiety.

  What now?

  20

  I looked through the front window to see who w
as treating my doorbell like a punching bag for the index finger. I’d been afraid that it was John, furious because he’d discovered that I’d been investigating his murder case, so it was with a combination of relief and puzzlement that I discovered my visitor was female, and a stranger.

  She appeared to be in her early twenties, with the muscular build of an athlete. Her brown hair was cut short and feathered into wisps framing a round face devoid of makeup. She was neatly dressed in a chocolate brown skirt and a pumpkin-colored jacket. While her right hand stabbed my doorbell, her left clutched a bulky leather shoulder bag. I thought she might be one of Eileen’s friends, another recent graduate of UCLA.

  I opened the door and said, “Yes?”

  “You’re Della Carmichael.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes. And you are . . . ?”

  She pulled a slim wallet out of her bag, and opened it to flash a Los Angeles Chronicle press card. “I’m Gretchen Tully. Phil Logan arranged for me to interview you.”

  Like the great Yogi Berra had said, it was déjà vu all over again. I met Nicholas when he came to interview me in his capacity as a crime reporter because a woman had been murdered during the first broadcast of my television show. He had arrived two hours early, and found me scrubbing the kitchen floor. I looked awful.

  He admitted that he had deliberately shown up at ten in the morning instead of noon, to catch me off guard, because he wanted to meet “the real” me. I told him that I was also “the real me” after I’d had a shower, and when wearing clean clothes.

  Nicholas’s early arrival had been annoying, but Gretchen Tully’s surprise visit was worse because I wanted to talk to Liddy and Shannon, to get details of what they’d learned at the hotel and to plan what I was going to do next. I couldn’t do that with a reporter here.

  I made an effort to sound pleasant as I said, “Our appointment was scheduled for next Thursday. You’re six days early.”