On the other end of the line I heard an exasperated sigh. “Feminine intuition? The spouse-as-most-likely-suspect theory?”
“I can’t explain it so it will make sense.”
“Is there something you’re holding back?” I heard his voice start to rise in anger. “If you’ve found evidence—”
“No, I haven’t got any evidence. What can I say that will get me an escort? Feminine intuition? Or that I’m clinging to the spouse theory?”
A moment of silence.
“Hugh and I are too busy. So is Keller.”
“What about Officer Willis?”
“Let me see what I can work out. Call you later.”
He did call later, and told me that it had been difficult because of budget cuts and new deployments at the department, but he’d talked privately to Officer Willis, and Willis had “volunteered” to accompany me.
“He doesn’t go on duty until four,” John said, “so he’ll be in street clothes. He’ll pick you up at your house at nine forty-five, drive you there and back.”
“Thank you, John. Name the night and I’ll cook dinner for you and Shannon. I’ll invite Liddy and Bill, too. Like old times.”
John didn’t ask if Nicholas would be there. He just said he’d talk to Shan and let me know.
At a few minutes past six that evening, when I reached the security gate at the Better Living Channel’s taping facility in North Hollywood, I asked, Angie, the desk guard who’d answered my buzz, to have one or more of the stagehands meet me in the back because I had a lot of food to carry inside.
“You got it. What’s the best thing tonight?”
“Sweet potato pie. I’ll have some saved for you in the on-set fridge.”
“You’re a doll, Miss Della. Hey—your Mr. D’Martino? I saw his daughter’s picture in the paper. She could use a good whuppin’ right where they put that black bar across the page.”
“I’m afraid it’s much too late for that, Angie.”
“Well, that picture really wasn’t so bad. You kin tell him for me we’ve all seen worse.”
“He’ll appreciate that,” I said, although I didn’t intend to relay the message.
Driving onto the channel’s property I saw people in line, waiting to get into the audience part of the studio for the seven PM broadcast. Although I drove facing forward, in my peripheral vision I recognized several of my cooking school students, but I pretended not to see them.
At the back of the airplane hangar-shaped building, I stopped next to the big double doors that opened onto Car Guy’s garage set. Two men, wearing the navy blue uniforms of the BLC’s stagehands, came outside. Theirs were familiar faces; they knew how to unload the custom racks I’d had installed in the Jeep behind the rear passenger seats.
“You got a lot of stuff today,” the one whose name was Roy said. “It’ll take us a couple trips. Why don’t you go inside and when we finish I’ll put the Jeep in your parking place.”
I thanked him, and gave him the keys.
When I made my way between Car Guy’s stacks of tires and past his hydraulic lift, I saw the gaffers were just finishing the lighting of my kitchen set. A quick check of my preparation counter showed that a production assistant had laid out the ingredients and seasonings I would use on the show, plus the necessary bowls and spoons, and the hand mixer.
I greeted my regular camera operators, Ernie Ramirez and Jada Powell, waved at our TV director up in the glass booth above us, and showed the stagehands where to place the premade pies and stacks of tortilla sandwiches.
Not because I don’t trust our excellent crew, but because I try not to leave anything to chance if I can help it, I checked that the oven was preheating, the refrigerator was working, and the electrical outlet for the hand mixer was functioning. I was relieved to find that everything was operating perfectly.
A few minutes in the tiny dressing room behind the set to refresh the makeup I’d applied at home, then out onto the set where I stashed my handbag below the preparation counter. I put in the earpiece that connected me to the control booth, and told both the director and the camera operators that I was ready to run through the movements I’d be making as I cooked.
Six fifty-nine PM. I stood behind the back wall of the kitchen set, peeking through the crack that allowed me to see the audience. My cooking school students were in the first row. Harmon Dubois was sitting right in the middle, clutching a bouquet of peach-colored roses.
Six fifty-nine and fifty seconds. My theme music began. So did the countdown from the control booth that I heard through the earpiece concealed under my hair.
“Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”
I walked out onto the set, smiling.
“. . . four . . . three . . . two . . . Go!”
“Hi there, everybody. I’m Della Carmichael. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della. I have to share this with you—I’ve just had a delightful surprise. Walking out here, I see that people from my Santa Monica cooking classes are with us here in the studio tonight. Ernie, can you turn your camera around and let my guys wave hello to the folks at home?”
Of course, that had been prearranged with the director. As Ernie made a show of reversing the position of his camera, simultaneously the lights on the audience came up from low to transmission bright.
“Aren’t they a nice looking group there in the front row?” I lifted an eyebrow at them and joked, “Because you didn’t let me know you were coming, I’m going to make you all wash the dishes after our next class.”
The audience—both students and strangers—laughed and applauded.
“Okay, now.” I looked into Jada Powell’s lens while Ernie pivoted back into his usual position facing the set. “We’ve got a lot to do tonight, so . . . let’s get cooking.”
More applause.
I quieted them and explained that tonight’s show was about “Budgeting Your Calories” and explained what I meant.
“Dessert tonight is a fabulous sweet potato pie. That’s not exactly on anyone’s standard weight-loss diet, but you can spend some of your calorie budget on a piece if you ‘pinch’ your calories, like you pinch your pennies, on the rest of the meal. Naturally, I don’t mean to suggest this to anyone in the audience who might have a particular medical challenge or prohibition—you should follow your doctor’s instructions—but for the rest of us who really like to eat but want to stay in reasonable shape, this is how I do it.”
As I talked, I filled a pot with water, put it on the stove with the burner turned to high, and demonstrated what I was explaining. So that the studio audience had no difficulty seeing exactly what I was doing, two large TV monitors had been set up.
“The sweet potato pie takes the longest,” I said, “so we’re going to make it first and get it into the oven. While the potatoes are cooking, I’m letting the stick of butter and the two eggs we’ll need get to room temperature. As that is going on, we’ll make the crust for our pie. Don’t worry if you can’t write the directions down. Tonight’s recipes will be up on the Web site tomorrow.”
I said it was perfectly okay to use a prepared piecrust, but that I liked to make my own, and explained how simple it was. As I worked with the flour and the shortening, I gave Mira credit for the sweet potato pie recipe, and told them a little about my actress friend who was also a great Southern cook. . . .
During the commercial breaks, I stayed on the set and answered questions from the audience. Happily, all of the questions were either about cooking or planning meals. No one mentioned the story in the Observer.
After the pie went into the oven, I told them about the low-calorie main dish I suggested pairing with the dessert.
“I call what we’re going to make now a Greek Chicken Tortilla Wrap. Simple ingredients, and they won’t bust either your household budget or your calorie budget: Greek yogurt, chopped cucumbers, some fresh dill, cut-up grape tomatoes, salt and fresh ground black pepper, a couple of cups of leftover chopped-up chicken—or you can get a little rotisserie ch
icken already cooked at the market. Actually, think of this as a Greek salad with chicken, all wrapped up in a whole wheat tortilla. If you try to explain it to your friends, say it’s a kind of Greek salad soft chicken taco. . . .”
The pie I’d made on the set came out of the oven a couple of minutes before the show ended. Just in time for what’s called the “beauty shot,” where the cameras focus on the dishes that have been prepared during the show.
As the end credits rolled on the TV screen, but while we were still on the air, I said to the people in the studio, “Now comes your reward for being such a great audience. We get to eat!”
The red lights on the cameras went out. We were off the air.
Studio staff came onto the set and began unwrapping the sandwiches and cutting pieces of the pies I’d made at home.
While paper plates and napkins were being passed out in the audience, and the food served, I put the pie I’d just made and eight of the sandwiches into the refrigerator where the crew knew to go to help themselves. They also knew to take food out to Angie at the front desk.
I was still on the set when Harmon Dubois put his piece of pie down on his front-row seat and came toward me with the bouquet of roses.
“These are for you,” he said. “From my garden.”
“They’re beautiful, Harmon.”
“They’re a special type, called brandy roses because their color looks like a snifter of brandy if you hold it up to the light.”
“That’s fascinating. Thank you.” I made sure I wasn’t near a live microphone, but I lowered my voice anyway to tell him that I appreciated his thoughtfulness in tipping me off about the class visit.
Harmon beamed. “You really did look surprised. Nobody would know you expected us.”
It was almost an hour before the last of the studio guests had gone and finally I was able to leave. No longer having to smile and perform, I realized how tired I was. All I wanted was to go home, take Tuffy out for a quick march around the block, and fall into bed.
Only a few cars were left in the BLC lot when I climbed into my Jeep, and the traffic on Ventura Boulevard and through Beverly Glen Canyon was moderate. The drive was so unexciting that I put on the car radio, to an all-news station, to stay alert. Fortunately, none of the “Breaking News” segments involved anything relevant to my life.
I was on Liberty Avenue, a dark street with mostly closed shops, south of Wilshire Boulevard when I braked for a red light.
Suddenly, I was thrown forward against the chest strap on my seat belt.
A car behind had rear-ended me.
After the first moment of surprise, I realized that it wasn’t a bad collision. Probably minimal damage.
I pulled over to the side of the street. Through the rear-view mirror I saw the car behind me pull over, too. It looked as though there was only the driver in it, a blonde woman.
After taking my insurance information from the glove compartment and the wallet with my driver’s license out of my purse, I climbed out of the Jeep. I imagined the conversation to come: She would apologize, tell me her husband was going to be upset with her, and ask plaintively if we really had to get insurance companies involved.
The blonde woman who emerged from the car looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t see her very well because some bureaucrat I considered an idiot had replaced the streetlights all over Los Angeles with much weaker bulbs.
Tanis? Hair the same shade of blonde, and cut shoulder-length. She was turned partially away, searching through her handbag that she’d placed on the hood of her car.
“Damn it, I can’t see anything in this stupid light,” she wailed.
It wasn’t Tanis. No pretentious mid-Atlantic accent.
I was within three feet of her when she looked up, and I saw that the “blonde” was Roxanne Redding.
At that same moment, I felt a sharp poke in the small of my back—and heard Galen Light say, “Payback time.”
45
Roxanne Redding and Galen Light. Together—and surely planning to kill me.
It was the two of them against me, and Light had a gun.
Tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Drops of icy perspiration formed on my scalp and begin to trickle down my back. My heart thumped so hard in my chest I thought they would hear it. I willed myself to slow my breathing.
Act calm. Fake it until it’s real.
The area we were in offered no realistic help. Liberty Avenue was crowded and busy during the day. It took too long to drive its length then, but at night, with the businesses closed and traffic sparse, it was a quick route from Wilshire Boulevard down to Montana Avenue.
The perfect place to stage a minor nighttime auto accident.
The few drivers that passed us took no interest in three people standing between two parked cars. Why would they? There was no visible accident, no shower of glass in the street, no body to be gawked at.
At least, not yet.
Galen Light dug the barrel of the pistol deeper into my back.
“Ow! That hurts. Just tell me what you want.”
“Walk around to the passenger side. Get in the backseat,” he said.
Roxanne joined us on the sidewalk and opened the rear door. “Wait a minute.” She snatched my wallet out of my hand, dropped it into her purse and took out a man’s necktie.
“Hands behind your back. Wrists together,” she said.
While Light held the gun on me, Roxanne tied my hands tightly.
I asked sarcastically, “Did the hardware store run out of duct tape?” I was pleased I’d been able to keep a tremor out of my voice.
“Silk ties don’t leave a trace,” she said.
“People who watch CSI make it tough on us hostages.”
“You won’t be a hostage for long.” Light gave a raspy chuckle.
There was no one to hear me scream. No possibility of overpowering this man whose tone communicated his hatred of me. Sandwiched between two probable killers, I did as I was told. The way our bodies were positioned on the far side of the car, even if drivers going by glanced at us, they couldn’t have seen what was happening.
With Light facing me now, I saw the weapon in his hand was a Glock. An easy pistol to recognize. Mack had had one. I’d given it to John after Mack died.
Light had a heavy plaster bandage over his broken nose. The hatred I’d heard in his voice was visible in his eyes. His pupils were constricted; I wondered if he was high on pain pills. Those eyes frightened me more than the gun he pointed at me.
Stay alive as long as you can. Look for any chance to escape.
Roxanne pushed me into the backseat. Light climbed in close beside me. Roxanne got behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and accelerated out into the empty street.
Using his free hand, Light buckled the seat belt around me.
I made my inflection humorous. “So you don’t want me to get hurt before you murder me?”
“Shut your smart mouth before I shut it for you.”
Observe. Memorize as many details as you can.
The car was a heavy sedan, a late model something. Dark blue outside. Pale blue interior. Full size. Luxurious. This wasn’t either of the vehicles I’d seen at the Redding house: not Alec’s black SUV, nor Roxanne’s tan Lexus. I don’t know what Light drove, but they surely wouldn’t stage a kidnapping and murder in a car that they owned. This vehicle must either have been stolen, or rented. I hoped it was a rental because I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t kill me in a car that could be traced back to one of them.
However long this ride takes, is how long I have to live.
Could I have avoided getting into this mess? I didn’t think so. If I had seen a man driving the car that rear-ended mine, I wouldn’t have gotten out of the Jeep to exchange information. Not at night, on a street with few other vehicles. I would have made sure my doors were locked and called nine-one-one—or, if I had sensed danger—I would have driven away fast to the nearest police station to report the
accident and explain why I was afraid to stay at the scene. If possible, I would have memorized the offending car’s front plate number. If I couldn’t do that—if there was no front plate, or if my vision had been obscured—then I would have paid for the necessary repair myself. That was a better choice than having my insurance rates go up, and a much better choice than getting out of my car at night on a quiet street to talk to a strange man.
But I had seen only a woman by herself in the other car. We weren’t in a gang area. Exchanging information hadn’t seemed dangerous. For a moment, I’d thought the woman was Tanis Fontaine, the former Mrs. Nicholas D’Martino. We weren’t that far from the Olympia Grand Hotel.
Surprise! It was Roxanne Redding in a blonde wig.
Light must have been crouched in the back of this car, and slipped out while I was climbing down from the Jeep. With my attention focused on the woman, he’d been able to get around behind me.
Roxanne was driving south, keeping to the speed limit, obeying traffic laws. With my hands tied behind me, my torso secured by the seat belt, the doors locked, and Light beside me with the pistol pointed at my chest, I doubted that even Houdini could have escaped.
I’d have to wait until we stopped somewhere.
Make conversation. “Where are we going?”
“A place where we can talk,” Roxanne said.
“We can talk here. Why do you have me trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?”
“Because you nearly ruined everything,” Light said. “You kept Rox busy while your friends searched her house.”
“I realized that when I found some of my things out of place after you left. There was no one else in the house,” she said.
“You sent that girl to spy—”
Roxanne glanced back at us. “That’s enough, Galen. We’re talking too much, like some stupid TV show where everything is explained to the victim.” She turned back to concentrate on her driving. “God, I hate those shows. Idiot scriptwriters who don’t know how hard it is to—”
Pie A La Murder Page 25
