Pie A La Murder

by Melinda Wells

  “But you can check that out, John. Maybe they didn’t have life, but it could be they had mortgage insurance.”

  I added that according to the records Liddy found, they were living very high and in debt.

  “Liddy discovered Redding has the same business manager that she and Bill have, a firm called Birnam Woods. And that they have two landlines and three cell phones. I don’t know what it means, but the bills for one of the cells go directly to the business manager and not to the house. You can get the phone dumps. It would be interesting to know who they called.”

  “Weaver’s already on that,” John said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you your job.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and said dryly, “Thanks.”

  “Shannon discovered a box of nude photographs under their bed. Pictures of Roxanne, that he probably took, and shots of a naked man—or at least of his arms and legs and hands. Shannon described them as art studies. Roxanne probably took those. I told you she’s a talented photographer.”

  “Any indication who the man is?”

  “We guessed it must be Redding, but what if it isn’t? Can’t the medical examiner take measurements of Alec Redding’s limbs and hands and compare them to the photos?”

  “I don’t know why I had to spend all that time in the academy, and then the years in uniform, before I got my gold shield.” In spite of his sarcasm, he made another note, then sat back in his chair and looked at me. “I’d like to have your impression of the widow.”

  “Friends again?”

  “We’ll always be friends,” he said. “No matter what.”

  Until that moment, I hadn’t fully realized how worried I had been about that. “That’s a relief. Okay, Roxanne Redding . . . I think she really loved her husband. She said he was her ‘world.’ But people have killed the ones they love before. Does she have an alibi?”

  “She said she was down in Little Tokyo, at a Japanese movie house showing Seven Samurai. She opened the purse she carried that night and found her ticket stub. I put it in an evidence bag to give to Forensics tomorrow. Not that I expect we’ll learn anything useful.”

  “I saw Seven Samurai on TV a couple of years ago,” I said. “It’s a long movie, but it has magnificent black-and-white photography.”

  “Speaking of photography, she showed me the picture Redding took of D’Martino’s daughter, the one with the smirk on her face and the pie in her hand. If a jury saw that photograph, they’d think it could have made D’Martino mad enough to kill Redding to get it.”

  I said, “First of all, if it ever came to a trial, I’m sure Olivia Wayne would get that picture suppressed as prejudicial. Second, if Roxanne showed you the photo, then it’s still in the studio, so whoever killed Redding didn’t take it.”

  “He couldn’t have. It’s on a digital smart card, stored with others in their temperature-controlled wine cellar.”

  “Clever. I thought most people kept their valuables in safes concealed behind paintings.”

  “Old school,” John said. “Movies and TV made that the first place a thief would check.” He gazed at me with concern. “According to the widow, the last picture that girl, Celeste, posed for was her idea. Celeste brought the apron and the pie to the photo shoot with her. Said she wanted Redding to take the picture as a joke. Mrs. Redding said Celeste didn’t tell them what the joke was, but I got it. She was making fun of you, wasn’t she, Del?”

  “That was my guess,” I said.

  “And my guess is she’s not happy about your . . . relationship . . . with her father.”

  “Oh, John, she looks sophisticated and she has an arrogant manner, but she’s just a young girl who was kept away from her father for most of her life. Now that she’s finally getting to know him, it’s only natural that she would be possessive, and hostile to whatever woman he liked.”

  “Must be pretty tough on you,” he said.

  It was, but I didn’t want to admit it to John. “I’m the grown-up. I’ll try to be patient.”

  “Have you seen D’Martino, or talked to him since we were all together at the station Thursday night?”

  “No.” I wanted to get away from that subject, so I pointed to his notebook and asked, “Are you going to follow up on the information I gave you?”

  “It isn’t much, but, yes, I will. And I’m developing some other avenues of exploration. In spite of what you seem to think, I’m investigating this murder with an open mind.”

  I felt a surge of hope. “What have you found out?”

  He tucked the little book into his jacket pocket and shook his head. “You should know I can’t share information with a civilian.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I’m not some stranger.”

  “You’re not on the job, either.” He stood. “I’m letting you off the hook for what you did today, but I don’t want any more interfering.”

  “There’s one thing you can tell me,” I said.

  John rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.

  Grinning, I said, “Just one more thing. Promise.” “That is . . . ?”

  “What Celeste said when you interviewed her. Did she claim she was with her mother and the prince in their suite all evening?”

  “No comment.”

  “Oh, John, don’t be so stubborn. Olivia will tell me. I’m still her client, too, from that situation we had a few months ago. You remember.”

  “I remember,” he said grimly. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  “Since she’s going to tell me anyway, why not just save me the time?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “Celeste said she and her mother were out driving in Celeste’s new car all evening, that her mother wanted a tour of the city she’d left a long time ago. They got back to the hotel at ten thirty. Garage attendant confirmed. That blows her father’s alibi right out of the water.”

  “What it means is that none of them have an alibi.”

  “But so far D’Martino’s the one with the motive.”

  “There was a time when the police thought that about you,” I said softly. Without thinking, I reached out to take his hand, but he stepped away quickly.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said, and left without another word. A moment later I heard the front door close.

  I exchanged my slacks for a pair of sweatpants, and the high heels I had worn for the photo shoot for a pair of running shoes, hooked Tuffy’s leash to his collar, and took him for a walk. We were well into the second block when I realized that John had gone without asking me to give him my word that I’d stay out of police business.

  Had he forgotten? Or didn’t he ask because he knew I wouldn’t promise and he didn’t want to fight?

  By the time Tuffy and I had strolled the neighborhood for a good half hour, I had decided on my next move. It didn’t involve investigating; this was personal. Inside the house, I shoved my driver’s license, some cash, and my keys into a pocket of the sweats, and gave Tuffy and Emma good-bye strokes. Climbing into the Jeep, I drove down to the Santa Monica Pier where I planned to spend as long as I could manage working out on their climbing wall. That exercise was not only good for strengthening my legs and tightening my waist, but it was going to keep my upper arms from the dreaded “flapping” that Roxanne Redding had predicted.

  I got home two hours later, my hair damp with sweat and every muscle in my body aching.

  In the kitchen, intending to find something to have for dinner after I showered, I noticed that I’d left my black suit jacket on the back of a chair instead of hanging it up in the closet with the matching slacks.

  When I picked the jacket up by the collar I got a surprise. It was heavier than it should have been. Looking closer, I saw a bulge in one of the pockets. When I slipped my hand inside, I pulled out the two little spy cameras that had disappeared from the table.

  Liddy or Shannon must have put them there when they heard John at the front door.

  I had no idea what I would find, but after
taking a shower and having something to eat, I planned to carefully go through the pictures they had snapped.

  It was a place to start.

  28

  After showering and taking Tuffy for his final evening walk, I lay down. I told myself that I just needed a few minutes to rest my eyes before beginning to examine the spy photos, but I fell asleep in my clothes with the light on and didn’t wake up until a few minutes before five next morning.

  Tuffy was lying on the foot of the bed, snoring softly, and Emma was curled up on what I called “the guest pillow” beside me. “Guest pillow” was a term Liddy had coined a year after Mack died, when she told me it was time I started to date and “to live again.” It took another year before I could even think about romance. Since then, the only human head that had rested on that pillow was Nicholas’s.

  I thought about Roxanne Redding. Was she lying in the bed she had shared with her husband? Was she sleeping? It was Sunday, the beginning of her fourth day of widowhood.

  When Mack died, I’d lain on his side of the bed for several nights, as though that could somehow reverse time, flip the calendar backward to an hour before his heart attack, when I’d be able to think of something that would have kept him from going out on the jog that killed him. Part of me knew that nothing I did could change what happened, but I wasn’t being rational. The pain of his loss was deeper than I could have ever imagined. I thought I’d never be able to breathe normally again.

  There’s a cliché that claims “time heals all wounds.” Many clichés are rooted in truth, but not that one. Yes, pain fades with time. Even the memory of pain fades, but there are some wounds that become part of who we are. As horrible as it was to lose Mack, it made me stronger. Not tough, but tougher. Short of losing a child, the worst had happened to me, and I survived.

  My faith holds that I’m still here, alive, for a reason. Nobody can tell me what that reason is, but, to me, “faith” means believing what you cannot see.

  I believe Nicholas is innocent of Alec Redding’s murder.

  At the moment, I’d like to thump him over the head with a sauté pan for shutting me out of whatever he’s doing, or feeling. But the reality is that I’ve never hit anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me, so I’ll have to exorcise my frustration about Nicholas by trying to solve a murder.

  John O’Hara made it clear he doesn’t want my help.

  Too bad, John; you’re going to get it anyway.

  Another shower. Put on clean clothes. Clean Emma’s box. Take Tuffy for a walk, and serve breakfast and fresh water to my friends in fur. Feeding them, I realized that I was ravenous; I’d fallen asleep last night without having dinner.

  Passing Eileen’s bedroom door, I heard the sound of her shower running.

  She’s up. Good. I have an excuse to make pancakes.

  I heard her turn off the water, and tapped on the door.

  She called out, “Yes?”

  “Pancakes in ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said.

  While Eileen and I were eating, I told her that I wanted to view some pictures from a digital camera on the computer monitor, but I didn’t know how.

  “It’s easy. People have been doing it for years.”

  “I haven’t. Basically, I use my computer like a typewriter.”

  “You’ve got a USB port,” she said. “All you need to do is attach a cable from the camera to the computer. I know you have a cable.” She gestured toward the desk on which the computer sat. “I saw one in the junk drawer over there.”

  “Oh, right. I’ve got a collection of mystery cables and electronic gizmos.”

  With teasing good humor, Eileen rolled her eyes at me. “Aunt Del, you’re one step away from being a Luddite.” She took our empty plates to the sink to rinse them off and put them into the dishwasher. “Give me the digital camera and I’ll set it up for you.”

  When I returned to the kitchen with the little cameras, Eileen examined them closely. “Where did you get these? Have you been moonlighting with the CIA?”

  “Liddy bought them at a spy shop in Beverly Hills. She and your mother helped me do some investigating yesterday afternoon at Roxanne Redding’s. Your dad arrived and wasn’t too pleased to find us there.”

  “That’s a safe bet. I can just hear him.” She lowered her voice and frowned with ferocity. “‘Della, this is police business. Go home and cook something.’”

  It was a pretty good imitation of John O’Hara and made me laugh.

  Eileen connected the cable she found in the drawer to the first camera, then to the computer’s USB port. “This is all you do.” She turned on the monitor and we saw a panel made up of a dozen postage stamp–size photos. From what I could make out, this camera held Liddy’s photos of the Reddings’ financial records, but they were too small for me to read the information.

  “Enlarge whatever you want by choosing the image, and . . .” Eileen moved the cursor to the first of the little images and clicked the mouse. “There.”

  The first page of a tax return materialized almost life-size on the screen.

  “Looks like dull stuff,” Eileen said, scanning it.

  “Your tax returns and mine are dull,” I said, “but I’m hoping this one has a useful secret somewhere in here.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something unusual, that doesn’t seem to fit with the total picture.” I admitted that I was on a fishing expedition, and the chances were that it would be a waste of time as far as finding a clue to Redding’s killer. “But I have to try.”

  Eileen said, “Dad calls working a murder case a matter of wearing out the shoe leather.”

  I gestured to my chair. “Or wearing a shine in the seat of the pants.”

  “Good luck,” she said. “I’m off to do a little investigating of my own.”

  That yanked my attention away from the computer. I turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Not your kind,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to meet a man for coffee, see if I like him enough to try having a whole meal with him sometime.”

  I saw that her cheeks were coloring.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Eileen straddled one of the kitchen chairs and propped her elbows on the back of it. “He came into the shop yesterday to order a box of cupcakes to take to his parents. He’s a lawyer. Seems nice. He asked me out, but all I agreed to was Sunday morning coffee at that place on Montana and Fifth. After coffee, I’m going to take Mother out to lunch. Daddy’s working today.”

  “Tell your mom from me that she’s been a terrific help.”

  Eileen stood and put the chair back in its place at the kitchen table. “Listen, I know you and Daddy are on opposite sides of the fence about this, but I’m really hoping you, or somebody, can prove Nick didn’t kill that man.”

  “I appreciate that. I know you’re not crazy about Nicholas.”

  “He makes you happy, so I’ve learned to like him. More important, his daughter needs a father.”

  “I love you, honey,” I said.

  “I know. You’re the best second mother and business partner anybody could have. Happy detecting.”

  She gave me a quick hug and was gone.

  I went back to examining the pages and pages of financial information that Liddy had copied. An hour into the tedious work of studying the couple’s financial life line-byline, I saw an item in their list of deductible expenses that snagged my attention. Roxanne claimed $3,000 for “continuing education,” but there was no explanation as to what that meant. Probably nothing, but . . .

  I advanced the frames, hoping that Liddy had photographed their cancelled checks. She had. I went through them quickly, looking for the name of a class or a school. Nothing. But I did find two checks made out to “cash” for $1,500 each. But what kind of “continuing education” had she paid for in cash?

  Eileen had called me a Luddite, and she was partly right. I did prefer some thi
ngs as they used to be done, such as getting one’s cancelled checks back from the bank instead of just a sheet of tiny replicas. By turning over cancelled checks, one could find out who cashed them.

  “Wait. My bank also sends sheets duplicating the backs of my checks. They don’t use the same bank, but maybe . . .” I made a note of the two check numbers.

  I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Tuffy got up from his bed and came over to look at me curiously.

  “Good boy. Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” I reached down and gave him strokes with my left hand while with my right I kept advancing though the photos.

  Yes! There were pages showing the backs of the checks. I skimmed through them until I found the back of the first check number I’d copied. It had been endorsed by a man whose name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.

  The second check for $1,500 had been endorsed by the same man: Galen Light.

  Galen Light? Where have I heard that name?

  “Liddy,” I said to Tuffy. “I think Liddy knows him, or at least has mentioned him.”

  I got up from the computer, reached for my wall phone, and dialed the number I knew as well as my own.

  29

  “Galen Light is famous,” Liddy said. “He’s been on all the daytime talk shows.”

  “I don’t have time to watch. What does he do?”

  “He’s the best known life coach in Los Angeles.”

  I suppose it was too much to hope for that she’d tell me he was a contract hit man.

  I said, “You mean he just tells people how to live?”

  “He does a little more than that. Gives business advice, too. Why are you asking?”

  “Roxanne paid him three thousand dollars and deducted the money as ‘continuing education.’ ”

  “I’m not sure that deduction would stand up if they get audited, but maybe it would—after all, this is California, the fountain of crazy ideas.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t just make out the checks to him instead of to ‘cash.’ I know he got the money because he endorsed the checks.”