Pie A La Murder

by Melinda Wells

  “Galen Light? I bet he wasn’t born with that stupid name. What’s the story?”

  I kept to the basics: that I’d made an appointment to see Light, who was a well-known television personality. “He’s a life coach,” I said.

  “What the eff is that?”

  “Someone who gives people advice about how to live their lives. It’s the in thing, apparently. A lot people seem to be going to them.”

  Weaver snorted with contempt. “I could do that easy. Somebody comes an’ tells me they’re thinkin’ about doing something. I just say don’t do it, an’ tell ’em, ‘Pay the secretary on your way out, sucker.’ Except I don’t say ‘sucker’ out loud.” Again serious, Weaver said, “Tell me what happened. Details.”

  “We were talking in his office when he grabbed me.” The last thing I wanted to do was relive the experience, but I told Weaver what Light did, and what I did.

  “When I pushed him off of me he fell over and hit his head on the edge of the coffee table. I thought he was unconscious, but he started to move. I ran outside, called paramedics for him, and came here. I want him arrested and charged with . . . assault, certainly. Attempted rape?”

  Weaver looked up from his scribbling. “Let’s see if he’s got a record.” He shoved the report to one side, pulled his computer keyboard toward him, and typed. After a minute or two, he said, “He got a DUI two years ago.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Not under the name Galen Light,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig up about him. Right now, you need to get photographed, then I want a doc to treat those cuts an’ bruises.”

  I extended my hand. “Some of his skin is under my nails. Can you get one of the SID techs to take scrapings?”

  Movement at the entrance to the squad room caught my eye. Simultaneously, the last person I wanted to see at this moment saw me.

  31

  John O’Hara stared at me. “My God . . . What happened?”

  Weaver said, “She got attacked.”

  “But I’m all right,” I said.

  “You’re not all right!” His hand hovered near my bruised cheek; he didn’t touch me, but his hand was so close I was sure I could feel heat from it on my face. “Who did this? D’Martino?”

  “Of course not! How could you even think such a thing?” I pushed his hand away.

  “Kiddies, don’t fight.” Weaver held up the form he’d filled out. “Della made a report. A guy smacked her around and tried to . . . but she got away before he could. It sounds like she gave as good as she got.”

  “What guy?” John stretched for the paper, but Weaver jerked it back, out of his reach.

  “Cool your jets. I’m gonna take a uniform an’ arrest him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” John said.

  “Oh, no. I’m not letting you anywhere near the bastard.”

  Weaver’s tone was so hard it shocked me. All the other times I’d seen them together, he had deferred to John as the senior partner, but now Weaver declared himself in charge. “Stay with her,” he said. “Get pictures taken, have somebody from SID scrape under her nails, then get a doc to treat the cut on her lip.” He said to me, “When the tech finishes, go home and put an ice pack on your face.”

  Through most of the routine of documenting my injuries and taking physical evidence, John was silent. When the SID tech told me he had to take my torn blouse, John got an LAPD sweatshirt from the locker room for me to wear in its place.

  I refused to go to an emergency room just to have the tiny cut on my lower lip looked at. John started to protest, but the SID tech agreed that I didn’t need a doctor. He dabbed the nick with disinfectant from a first aid kit, repeated Weaver’s suggestion about the ice pack, and told me I was good to go. He left with my blouse and nail scrapings.

  Back at Weaver’s desk, I picked up my handbag.

  “I’ll drive you home,” John said.

  “Thanks for the offer, but my car’s outside, and you can see that I’m fine.”

  “Okay. You win. But sit down for a few minutes and talk to me.”

  He dragged the chair Weaver had commandeered for me over to his side of the desk. As I settled into it again, John took his own seat.

  “I’m calm now,” he said.

  “Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry about—”

  He held up a hand in a “stop” gesture. “While you were with SID, I read Weaver’s report. Who is this Galen Light? You were at his house, but it doesn’t say why you went there. Your reason may not be relevant to this complaint, but it is to me.”

  “Roxanne Redding paid him three thousand dollars in two checks made out to cash instead of to his name. He lives only a few blocks from the Redding house. I hoped to learn what kind of relationship he and Roxanne have, and if he could have had a reason to kill her husband.”

  John put his hands on the top of his desk—it was much neater than his partner’s—and laced his fingers together. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “He said he worked hard with her, but that she lacked courage to take risks. I got a definite vibe that there was, or maybe there had been, something going on between them. More than just his giving her advice.”

  “What were you doing when he assaulted you?”

  “We’d been talking about Roxanne, then he went over to one of his bookshelves and said he wanted to show me something. I thought whatever it was had something to do with Roxanne, but it was just a trick to get me out of the chair where I’d been sitting.”

  John was about to say something when Weaver strode into the squad room. He was seething. And he was alone.

  John and I got to our feet.

  “Did you pick him up?” John asked.

  “No. The bastard’s in the hospital. He’s got some scum-bag shyster holding his hand and threatening to sue our friend here.”

  I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Sue me?”

  John said, “Sue her for what?”

  “Assault.”

  I felt like Alice after she’d tumbled down that rabbit hole. For a moment, nothing seemed real. Then my head cleared and I heard Weaver’s voice.

  “Light’s story is that Della came to his house, pretending to want his professional services. She flirted with him, sat with her skirt hiked up, an’ crossed her legs—coming on to him. He said he’d had a little too much to drink an’ made a pass at her because he thought she was inviting it. But instead of her just saying ‘down boy,’ and letting him apologize for misunderstanding, he says she attacked him. She broke his nose, shoved him into a table, and knocked him out. In addition to the nose, he’s got a gash on his forehead, a possible concussion, and swollen nuts where she kneed him.”

  John frowned at Weaver. “Why didn’t you put that he’d been drinking in the report?”

  “She didn’t mention it.”

  “I forgot. I was pretty shaken up when I got here.”

  “But you knew he’d been drinking when you were with him?” Weaver’s tone sounded accusatory.

  “I smelled liquor on his breath, but he was speaking clearly, not slurring his words, and he wasn’t clumsy. There was no reason to think he was drunk.”

  John said, “Even if he was, being drunk is no excuse for sexual assault.”

  “What she says was sexual assault.”

  That made me so angry I practically sputtered. “Hugh! Look at me. Do you think I did this to myself?”

  “Calm down,” Weaver said. “I believe you. But you better get yourself a lawyer.”

  “Why do I need a lawyer? I’m the victim!”

  “Not according to Light’s shyster, Wylie York. He swears he’s gonna make you—an’ these are his exact words: ‘rue the day you did bodily harm’ to his ‘f***in’ client. The ‘f***in’ part’s my word. Between you an’ me, I’d like to shove a big handful of ‘rue’ up his day.”

  I turned to John. “This is outrageous. What can I do?”

  John sighed heavily. “It’s not fair, D
el, but you’re going to have to get yourself a lawyer.”

  I didn’t wait until I got home. As soon as I drove around the corner, out of sight of the station house, I phoned Olivia Wayne.

  “What is it?” she sounded sleepy. “I’m getting a massage.”

  “A man tried to rape me this afternoon and now he’s threatening to sue me for assaulting him.”

  “You may be a one-dollar client, but at least you’re not dull.” The sleepy voice was gone. “Hold on a moment.” I heard her mumble something to the person giving her the massage, then I heard a door close. Back on the line, she said, “Give me the basic facts. I’ll ask whatever I need you to fill in.”

  I gave her the abridged version, and answered her questions.

  “Who’s this creep’s lawyer?” she asked.

  “Wylie York.”

  Olivia hooted. “ ‘Wile E. Coyote’ we call him. He gives ‘sleazy’ a bad name, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Galen Light hit me, tore my clothes, and tried to rape me. How can he possibly sue me?”

  “Being indignant is just a waste of energy, Della. Anybody can sue anybody for anything in this country. The problem with democracy is that it gives people the freedom to abuse the system. Where are you? At home?”

  “In my car, parked around the corner from the Butler Avenue station.”

  “Go home. I’ll see what I can find out.” She disconnected.

  My cheek was throbbing. I felt dirty, and from the smell of the sweatshirt, I realized someone had worn it before me.

  I turned the key in the ignition.

  At least for the moment, my problem was in Olivia’s hands. Right now I needed the cleansing of a hot shower, the comfort of my pets, and the ice pack in my freezer.

  32

  It was eight o’clock and dark by the time I got home. The carriage light glowing over the front door was a cheerful sight, and I could see through the front window that the floor lamp in the living room was on. Tuffy was lying on the couch. He probably had been sleeping, but now he was sitting up, alert. By the time I let myself into the house, he was just inside the door, wagging an excited greeting.

  I stooped down to pet him, and he licked my bruised cheek. That was a surprise because licking my face was something he never did.

  “You trying to heal my wound, Tuff?” I really think that was it.

  I found a note from Eileen on the hall table—our traditional message center—saying that she had given Tuffy and Emma fresh water and food at six o’clock, had taken Tuffy for a walk, and that she would be out for the evening, having dinner and catching a movie with friends.

  I wondered if one of those friends was the man with whom she’d had the coffee date.

  “Eileen deserves some good luck with men,” I told Tuffy. I’ve been talking to him since he was a puppy and he seems to understand most of what I say.

  In my bathroom, I stripped off the LAPD sweatshirt and my underwear and tossed them into the laundry hamper. I folded the skirt I’d worn to Galen Light’s and put it into the bag I used for items to be dry-cleaned, although I didn’t think I’d ever want to wear it again. No, I was sure I’d never even want to look at it again.

  But it’s a good skirt. I’ll donate it to a group that helps women make a new start.

  I took a shower, put on a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft, pale blue Better Living Channel sweatshirt—one of Phil Logan’s new promotional items—and lay down on the bed with the ice pack pressed against my cheek.

  It felt good, but I remembered the rule about ice packs: twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. I glanced at the numerals on the clock radio; it was eight thirty-five.

  When I took the ice pack off at five minutes to nine, I returned it to the freezer. Before the next twenty-minute application, there was a phone call I dreaded, but one I knew I had to make.

  Phil Logan, the Better Living Channel’s head of publicity, picked up his cell on the second ring.

  “Hello, Della,” he said. “Your timing is perfect. I just got in from Vegas.”

  “How did you do?”

  “Better than most, not as good as some,” he said. “On the plus side, I came back with two hundred dollars in winnings—and I met a magician’s assistant. She’s pretty, smart, fun to be with.”

  “That’s wonderful, Phil. I hope you get to see a lot of her.”

  “Their show is going on tour, but I’ll meet her next weekend in San Francisco. Enough about me. What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s not as happy a story as yours.” Briefly, I told Phil what happened at Galen Light’s house.

  He interrupted to ask if I was all right, and if I needed anything.

  “I’m fine, really. But you haven’t heard the rest.” I told Phil that Galen Light’s lawyer was threatening to sue me for assaulting Light.

  He listened quietly. When I finished he muttered, “That bastard. First, you need a lawyer.”

  “I have one: Olivia Wayne.”

  “You couldn’t do better. She’s a tiger. But you need me, too—to keep this out of the media.”

  My mind had been roiling with so many emotions: fear, anger, outrage, the realization of what could have happened to me, that I hadn’t thought about publicity. Having the world know about my experience with Light was the last thing I wanted. A wave of hope washed over me. “Do you think you can do that?”

  “Are basketball players tall? Seriously, I want to jump on this right away before the story gets out.”

  “I’ll be grateful for whatever you can do.”

  “Keeping stories out of the media is sometimes as important as getting stories in. I want to protect you from embarrassment, but if our mutual boss, Mickey Jordan—Mr. Hot Head—hears about this he might go after Light with a lethal weapon. That would be harder to cover up. Okay, I gotta get busy and do damage control.”

  “Thank you, Phil.”

  I took the ice pack out of the freezer and went back to the bedroom to lie down.

  The next thing I knew the phone was ringing and the ice pack had melted on the pillow beside my head. Fighting my way up to consciousness, I squinted at the beside clock: five minutes past eleven. Who could be calling at this hour? I reached for the phone.

  It was Nicholas.

  “Honey, did I wake you?”

  “No. I mean, yes, but I hadn’t gone to bed.” I shook my head to clear it. “Where have you been?”

  “Vienna,” he said. “I took an overnight Friday and just got back about an hour ago.”

  “You weren’t supposed to leave the state! If the police found out you’d left the country—”

  “I didn’t fly commercial. There’s a CEO who owed me a favor—with a private jet big enough for overseas flights. The cops didn’t confiscate my passport.”

  “But if you’re arrested they probably will confiscate it, and then they’ll see the entry and exit stamps.”

  “The trip was worth the risk. Look, Del, I’m parked outside your house. May I come in? Not to stay, just to talk for a little while?”

  I wanted to see him—of course I did; my heart did an automatic flutter when I heard his voice—but I didn’t want him to see my face and have to explain what happened. But I couldn’t think of any way to avoid seeing him tonight. And, I wanted to know what he was doing in Vienna.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Are you mad at me, hon? I didn’t call from Vienna because I couldn’t afford to have any record that I was out of the country. If you didn’t know where I was, you wouldn’t have to lie.”

  “I understand,” I said, but my tone was cool. “Come to the door so I can let you in.”

  Emma stayed curled up in the wing chair next to my bed, but Tuffy escorted me to the front door.

  33

  Before I reached for the doorknob, I turned the hall light off, but I left the living room light on because Eileen hadn’t come home yet.

  I greeted Nicholas in three-quarter profile, managing to keep the br
uised part of my face averted.

  “Hi, honey. Hi, Tuff.” He brushed my forehead with his lips and gave Tuffy a quick ear scratch.

  I said, “You look exhausted. Coffee?”

  “Thanks. I feel like I’m running on empty.”

  It wasn’t going to be possible to keep my injury from him. As soon as we reached the bright lights in the kitchen, I turned to face him.

  His eyes narrowed with concern. “Della—what happened?”

  “I’m all right. It’s just a bruise. Tell me about Vienna.”

  Using the knuckle on his index finger to gently lift my chin, Nicholas studied the damage. “You first. Were you in a car accident? Or are you going to joke about it and tell me I should see the other guy.”

  “That’s not funny. Sit down and I’ll tell you everything. The coffee’s ready to go. All I have to do is push the button.”

  He straddled a chair, watching me as I moved around the kitchen.

  I asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “No. Talk to me.”

  As soon as I sat down across from him, he reached for my hands and covered them with his.

  “I’ll get to what happened, but I have to explain something first. I’ve been trying to turn up other people who might have had a motive to kill Alec Redding.” I told him about my session with Roxanne, and the financial records Liddy found, which led me to Galen Light. He listened quietly up to that point, but when I told him what Light tried to do, his face hardened and his fingers tightened on mine.

  “I got away from him,” I said.

  “How?”

  Showing my bruised knuckles, I said, “A punch in the nose and a knee in the groin. I went to the police station to swear out a complaint. Now here’s the punch line, or as you writers might say, the twist to the story. Light is claiming that I attacked him. He’s threatening to sue me for assault.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nicholas said.

  “So I thought, but Olivia’s taking it seriously. She’s going to handle it. Somehow.”

  I saw fury in Nicholas’s eyes. “I’ll go have a talk with Light.”