Pie A La Murder

by Melinda Wells

  22

  As soon as I got back to my Jeep, I called Liddy and Shannon and asked each if they could meet me at my house this evening to compare notes and plan our next steps. I told Shannon that John would be away from home because he’d begin questioning Nicholas again at six o’clock tonight at the station house.

  She agreed immediately. “He’ll probably get home late, but in case he comes in before I do, I’ll leave a note saying we’re having a girls’ night out and that there’s a plate of cold cuts and potato salad for him in the refrigerator.”

  Liddy was just as eager for us to get together.

  “I’ll have the housekeeper make dinner for Bill, and a giant bowl of popcorn,” she said. “We were just going to watch the latest Iron Man movie on DVD. I usually fall asleep during those big action pictures, so he won’t even miss me.”

  I prepared the world’s quickest dinner for Liddy and Shannon and myself. It also happened to be one of our favorites: linguine with my homemade meat sauce. Because I’d defrosted a quart of the sauce that I’d had in the freezer, all I had to do was cook the pasta. When I make that meat sauce, I always double the amount so I can store enough extra to have for an impromptu meal.

  During the nine minutes it took for the linguine to reach al dente, I put together a mixed green salad and dressed it with the leftover vinaigrette from the panzanella I’d made for Gretchen Tully earlier.

  Liddy and Shannon set the table while they reviewed for me what they’d learned of the layout at the Olympia Grand.

  “Just as I’d guessed, there was a pedestrian exit in the garage,” Shannon said.

  “Four concrete steps up to a plain metal door that leads out to the alley.”

  I asked, “Does it lock?”

  “Automatically, from the inside, but all anybody going out that way would have to do is wedge a piece of paper in there so the door wouldn’t really lock when it was closed. I tried that and it worked.”

  Liddy said, “When I went down to the garage in the private elevator with the manager, he pointed that door out to me and said that all my ‘principal’ would have to do to avoid crowds in the lobby or outside the hotel’s entrance would be to have a car meet him in the alley and ‘his privacy would be preserved.’ That’s how he put it. I acted pleased and told him that he’d be hearing from me about booking one of the suites.”

  “That’s great work, you two.”

  As we ate the pasta and salad, I filled them in on my unexpected visit from Gretchen Tully, and my later conversation with Olivia Wayne.

  Liddy frowned and shook her head in sympathy. “Things don’t look good for Nick.”

  “I know Johnny doesn’t like your Sicilian stallion, but he wouldn’t let anybody be railroaded.” Shannon’s tone was defensive.

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. “What worries me is that with the focus on Nicholas, John and Weaver won’t be able to look in other directions immediately. John would never intentionally arrest an innocent person, but time is critical in a murder investigation.”

  Liddy asked eagerly, “What’s our next assignment?”

  “Roxanne Redding. I’ll be through teaching my cooking classes tomorrow at three o’clock. I’m going to try to persuade her to take publicity photos of me after that. If she agrees, I’d like you two to come with me.”

  “We need cover stories,” Liddy said. “I’ll do your makeup. Shan, you can bring extra outfits for Della to wear.”

  “Okay. That’s how we get in, but what do we do when we’re there?” Shannon asked.

  “I’ll keep her busy taking my pictures. One at a time, you two will ask to use the bathroom. Once you’re out of the studio, I want you to find out where the Reddings keep their bills and the checkbooks.”

  “We keep ours in the desk in the den,” Liddy said.

  “Eileen takes care of our bills twice a month,” Shannon said. “We’ve got a file box for that stuff in the kitchen. “

  I indicated the little desk against the wall. “That’s where I do mine. Everything’s in the drawer underneath the computer.”

  “What do you want us to look for?” Liddy asked.

  I had to admit that I didn’t know precisely. “Anything that seems unusual. Large cash deposits or withdrawals from banks or broker accounts. And I’d like to know who Redding photographed in the last six months. Also, look for their phone bills. How many phone numbers do they have, note the numbers, and see if you spot anything odd when you scan the charges.”

  “Letters!” Shannon said. “I’ll look for hidden letters.”

  “I don’t know anybody who writes letters anymore,” Liddy said. “People e-mail or text. But, hey, maybe they keep copies.”

  “We’ve got to be methodical and not be discouraged if we don’t find something that solves the case immediately,” I said. “What John does, what Mack used to do, was go places, talk to people, check alibis, listen to gossip. If investigators do enough looking and asking and listening, sometimes they find the one significant piece of the puzzle in the middle of”—I lifted a forkful of pasta—“the bowl of linguine that most cases start out being.”

  Shannon said, “I was sick and out of my head for so many years I hardly ever got to hear Johnny talk about his work. How do you know what piece of information is useful?”

  “It’s all useful,” I said, “in the sense that at least it allows you to rule some things out. If you can eliminate one or two pieces of information from the picture, suddenly something else might look more important.”

  “A few years ago I took a sculpting class,” Liddy said. “It turned out I couldn’t even make an abstract that wasn’t hopeless, but I remember something the instructor told us. ‘Look at a block of marble,’ he said. ‘Somewhere inside is the statue of David. Pick up your chisels and keep chipping away until you find him.’ ”

  “I never heard a better description of detective work,” I said.

  “When the twins were babies, a lot of the time Bill and I were too exhausted for sex, so we used to do picture puzzles while we listened for one or both of them to start crying. We wouldn’t look at the photo on the box after we opened it up. Trying to fit pieces together without seeing the overall design, we got a lot of them wrong, but then one part would fit into another, and little by little we began to see what the thing was supposed to look like.”

  We’d finished dinner. As we were clearing the table, I asked my friends, “If I can get Roxanne Redding to photograph me tomorrow afternoon, or even on Sunday, can the two of you get away to come with me?”

  “No problem. Bill’s playing golf all weekend,” Liddy said.

  “I’ll tell Johnny I’m helping you with your publicity pictures. He’ll be happy that I’m keeping busy.” She chuckled. “We just can’t let him know what I’ll really be doing.”

  I said, “If either of you finds anything that looks as though it could help Nicholas by pointing toward somebody else, you have to leave whatever it is right where you saw it. I’ll tell Olivia about it and she’ll have to convince John, or someone, to get a search warrant so the police will find the information legally.”

  Liddy said to Shannon, “There’s a spy shop in Beverly Hills. Tomorrow morning I’ll go get us a couple of tiny cameras.”

  I went to the wall phone to call Roxanne Redding.

  23

  I spent a restless night, worried about Nicholas, but annoyed that I hadn’t heard from him. I tried to watch a movie on TV, but there was nothing that engaged my interest for more than a few minutes. Several times before eleven o’clock, I started to dial Nicholas’s number, but put the phone down each time before I’d completed more than four digits. I didn’t want to invade his privacy, but I was disturbed that he wasn’t reaching out to me when he was in trouble. I hadn’t thought we’d been having a “fair weather” romance, but I knew that I didn’t want one.

  My marriage to Mack had lasted for nearly twenty years, in sickness and in health, and only death had parted us. When
Nicholas was out of danger, I decided that we were going to have a talk about what each of us wanted in a relationship. I wasn’t young enough to be insecure, and I would never be so old that I’d settle for less than a total emotional partnership.

  I went to bed at eleven thirty, dozed, and woke up. At midnight, I decided to iron one of the blouses I’d wear at my four PM photo shoot with Roxanne Redding. Afterward, I slept for a while, but awoke again at two AM. I put a load of linens into the washing machine. While waiting the half hour before I could transfer them to the dryer, I gave myself a fresh manicure.

  Tuffy and Emma, unaccustomed to my restlessness, and perhaps worried about it, snuggled closer than usual to me. The second time I got up, after lifting Emma from where she was curled up beside my neck to the pillow on the other side of the bed, the two of them jumped down and followed me from room to room. Looking at them watching me warily made me feel so guilty that after doing my nails I went back to bed and determined to stay there for the rest of the night.

  The rest of the night didn’t last all that long.

  At a quarter to five Saturday morning I awoke again, and decided to get up for good. I showered, gave Tuffy and Emma fresh food and water, and took Tuffy for a walk. To my surprise, even though I had slept little, I wasn’t tired. I was too on edge to feel fatigue, too eager to find out who killed Alec Redding so that Nicholas would be cleared. Then we would see what a normal life was going to look like.

  I was tempted to call him. I was tempted to jump in the Jeep and go over to his place, ring the bell, and knock on the door until either he opened it, or I was satisfied that he wasn’t there.

  Why didn’t I?

  “Pride,” I said, surprising myself that I’d spoken aloud. But the words I heard jolted me.

  “That’s positively antediluvian,” I said. We were only a few yards from my driveway and I had the keys in my pocket. “Come on, Tuffy.”

  With Tuffy in his safety harness in the backseat, I put the key in the ignition and backed out onto Eleventh Street. Because it was so early, barely dawn, I started out at a fast clip, but then made myself slow down when I realized that while I had my keys, that was all I had with me. No wallet with my driver’s license in it. This was no time in my life to be stopped by the police.

  Nicholas wasn’t home. His car wasn’t in the carport. Nevertheless, I climbed the few steps to his front door and rang the bell. Rang it repeatedly. His doorbell sounded in chimes. I could hear them inside, but, as in that famous poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

  Where would he be at six o’clock in the morning?

  “You looking for Nick?”

  It was a male voice, coming from the sidewalk below me. I turned to see a man with a shock of white hair, clearly well north of seventy, a little stooped, with a small dog on a leash. It looked like a terrier mix.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “He drove out ’bout ten o’clock.” He gestured toward his dog. “Ruby an’ I were just coming back from our bedtime walk. Doesn’t look like Nick’s been home all night.”

  “Did he mention where he was going?”

  “Oh, we didn’t talk. I waved at him, but I don’t think he saw me. If you want to leave him a note, he’s got a mail slot in the door.”

  I came back down the steps. “Maybe I’ll call him later.”

  The man was peering though the Jeep’s window at Tuffy. “That’s a fine-looking dog you’ve got there.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Man’s best friend,” he said.

  “Woman’s, too,” I said, climbing into the Jeep.

  As I drove away, my confusion at not having heard from Nicholas fought with my concern for him. Where was he? What was he doing? If we were meant to have a future together, he would have to understand I would not accept being shut out.

  My impulsive trip didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped, but at least Tuffy enjoyed the ride.

  Home again, I washed my hands and went into the kitchen to make the low-calorie Strawberry Cloud Pie that I planned to demonstrate at the Mommy and Me class at ten o’clock. We would have time to prepare it, and other dishes, during this session featuring low-calorie meals, but the Strawberry Cloud Pie had to be chilled for at least two hours before the moms and children could eat it, so I would bring the finished product with me for them to taste.

  As I was packing the items I’d need to teach both the Mommy and Me class, and the cooking class for adults from one to three PM, Eileen came into the kitchen. Grinning.

  “I just got an e-mail from your friend Carole Adams.”

  I looked up from packing the Strawberry Cloud Pie in a cooler lined with plastic bags full of ice cubes.

  Carole, a friend I’d known since high school, who now lived in Delaware with her husband and two beautiful Korat cats, had created the best fudge—Chocolate Nut Butter—I’d ever eaten. She had given me the recipe. It was the first item that Eileen and I began to sell in our little mail-order and retail dessert business. A few months later, Carole turned her fudge recipe into Chocolate Nut Butter pudding. It’s so delicious we’re selling pots of that, too, along with our line of cakes, cookies, and brownies.

  “You’ll never guess what she’s done now,” Eileen said.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “First thing, she wants me to tell you she’s formed a team to compete in the bake sales for charity contest. She said she looked up the rules on the channel’s Web site and it’s okay that you two are friends because you don’t have anything to do with choosing the winner. It’s all a matter of which team donates the most money to their cause.”

  “Carole has so much energy she might raise enough to win the trip to Hollywood. I’d love to see her again.”

  “But that’s not what I’m so excited about,” Eileen said. “She’s been experimenting, testing versions on her husband and neighbors, and now she’s turned her fudge and pudding recipes into a three-layer pie version. She’s come up with a chocolate nut butter cookie crust on the bottom, then a layer of the fudge, then a layer of pudding on top. She calls it ‘Carole’s Deadly Chocolate Nut Butter Pie à la Mode.’ I think I gained five pounds just reading the recipe she sent us. She warned that it’s addicting.”

  “Sounds as though it should come with a surgeon general’s warning on the plate,” I said.

  “I’m going to the shop to make one this afternoon. While I’m doing it, I’ll cost out the ingredients to see if we can sell it for an affordable price without cutting quality.”

  “Great idea.”

  “Come over after class to taste test.”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment this afternoon for some new professional photos.”

  That surprised her. “You hate having still pictures taken.”

  “Unfortunately, I need them. My hair is longer now than when I started on the show. Bring a piece of Carole’s ‘Deadly’ pie home for me.”

  “If there’s any left. Our employees are all sugar junkies.”

  Gesturing to the cooler and my tote bag, she asked, “Do you want help loading up for class?”

  “No, thanks. I put the rest of what I’ll need in the Jeep earlier, along with my outfits for the photos.”

  “If you’ve got it covered, I’m going to make myself a quick breakfast and get to the shop.” Her tone was full of affection as she added, “Aunt Del, I know you’d rather have a tooth filled than sit for publicity shots, but don’t freeze up in front of the camera. Just be yourself, like on TV.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  Saying that I was going to be photographed this afternoon was true as far as it went, but my lie of omission made me remember the discussion we’d had a few days ago. What I had just told Eileen was another example of “truth with an asterisk.”

  After securing all the food items I’d need in the back of the Jeep, I climbed into the driver’s seat. Before I turned on the ignition, I dialed Nicholas’
s numbers.

  No answer on his home phone. No answer on his cell.

  I didn’t leave a message on either of his numbers.

  24

  My little cooking school, The Happy Table, is located in the rear of a home appliance store on Montana Avenue and Seventeenth Street in Santa Monica. A very nice, elderly Vietnamese couple, Mr. and Mrs. Luc Tran, own the store and allow me to rent what had formerly been a large storage room, where they had lived when they first went into business. As the enterprise became successful, they moved into the apartment upstairs. My good luck was finding that a bathroom and running water were already in the space when I was looking for a location for the school.

  The Trans, refugees from South Vietnam, had spent years either trapped in war or waiting in camps for their turn to emigrate to the US. In spite of the horrors they must have endured, Mrs. Tran’s demeanor was always sunny. Mr. Tran, frail from what she had told me were his several years of imprisonment in North Vietnam, spoke little, but his eyes were warm and kind. I liked them, and admired them. Over the years, when I faced some inconvenience, rather than let it upset me, I reminded myself of the Trans and what they had gone through. It snapped me right out of any trace of self-pity.

  My arrangement with the Trans was that they supplied the six freestanding working stoves on which my students would cook and bake. In addition to the rent I paid, having my school in the rear of the store was to their advantage because it meant that anyone coming to The Happy Table had to reach it by walking a winding path through artful displays of their wares. My students not only bought their merchandise, but often returned with friends to shop for more items for their homes.

  That Saturday, I managed to put worry about Nicholas out of my mind during the classes I taught, and found pleasure in the people who enjoyed learning new things about cooking. It was special fun to watch the children, who were excited to be creating good things to eat with their mothers. Part of the Mommy and Me class was encouraging the “mes” to help their “mommies” neaten up after the cooking and the subsequent eating.