“He’s disappeared,” NDM said.
“George could have killed Mimi, I suppose,” I said. “He knew about her allergy; he could have ground up peanuts and put them in the mousse without being seen. But it bothers me that there was a week between her refusal to lend him money and her death. It would be easier to believe that George is the killer if it had happened when she said no, but what good would her dying a week later do him?”
“Nobody knows where Hopkins is. Vanishing makes him look guilty.”
“Couldn’t he be hiding from the gamblers?”
“He could,” NDM said. “We should know pretty soon, because the story’s going to be in tomorrow’s papers. If he’s innocent, he’d be smart to come forward.”
“And get killed?”
“Nobody forced him to lose everything. I’m not sympathetic to reckless gamblers.”
I was surprised by the bitterness in his voice, and wondered if at some time NDM had had an experience with a sick gambler. “But I admit that the time lag bothers me, too,” he said. “There’s another possibility I’m investigating.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m giving a hard look at Mickey Jordan’s business dealings. He’s done some pretty ruthless things to get where he is. It’s possible that an enemy is out to ruin him by destroying the Better Living Channel. There’s been a big uptick in subscriber numbers, but our business guy tells me that if there are rumors of financial or management problems, stockholders could start running. I’ve got an article tomorrow, speculating about that.”
“Isn’t it early to put that theory in the paper?”
“It’s covering several bases,” NDM said. “If the killer isn’t George Hopkins, and it isn’t someone out to torpedo Jordan’s cable network, then the real murderer is likely to feel safe because he’ll see us looking in these other directions.” NDM paused and rotated his shoulders to ease tight muscles. I saw the tension in his body begin to lessen. “If he believes our focus is elsewhere, he won’t need to target you. Tomorrow, after the paper comes out, I think you’ll be safer than you are tonight.”
Tonight…
“I’d like to stay here to protect you tonight.” He raised his right hand in a three-finger pledge. “Scout’s honor—I won’t make a move on you. Your couch doesn’t look very comfortable, but we’re adults. We can share a bed, and just sleep.”
“Do you mean it? We’ll spend the night together as friends? Like buddies? Nothing else?”
“Not unless you start something,” NDM said.
We played three hands of gin rummy—I won two of them—and together gave Tuffy his final walk of the night.
In the bedroom, NDM stripped down to his shorts, laid his clothes neatly across the chaise next to the window, and got under the covers.
I undressed in the bathroom, put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, and joined him in bed. We were on opposite sides, with at least eighteen inches of space between us.
Tuffy settled down on the carpet next to my side and Emma curled up on top of the television cabinet. NDM and I said good night, turned away from each other, and fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, and while not fully conscious, one of us touched the other and “started something.”
I awoke to find my hand caressing NDM’s bare chest and his hand slipping up under my T-shirt. The sensation of his fingertips stroking my breasts was electric. The touch of my hand was having a similar effect on him. Slowly, with gentle exploration, our kisses deepened, our clothing was peeled away, and we were naked in each other’s arms.
This time, we talked a little.
34
Movement on the opposite side of the bed awakened me. In moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, I saw NDM in silhouette, reaching for his clothes. I turned my head and peered at the glowing green numerals on my bedside clock.
“It’s only four thirty,” I said.
“It’s seven thirty in New York. My business sleuth is already in his office, where he’s digging for more information about Mickey Jordan’s enemies. Go back to sleep.”
Instead, I turned on the night table lamp. “Be careful not to step on Tuffy or Emma.”
Indicating Tuffy with a nod, NDM smiled. “I’m grateful he didn’t go for my throat in the middle of the night.” He fastened his belt and leaned over to give me a light kiss on-the forehead. “I’ll let myself out.”
“Bye.”
At the doorway he turned. “What time is your Chronicle delivered?”
“About six A.M.”
“Good,” he said, and was gone.
I turned off the light, lay down, and snuggled my head into the pillow, luxuriating in the warm sheets, and the faint, pleasant scent of NDM. It had been a long time since two human beings had shared this bed.
Within a few minutes, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. There was too much to do this morning. Even though I had taped a pair of half hour shows on Tuesday and two more yesterday, today was Thursday, and this evening would be my second live TV hour.
Has it only been one week since my debut? I feel as though I’ve lived a year in these seven days. Two women have been murdered, my car was blown up, and I’ve been to bed—twice—with a man I hardly know.
Wryly, I remembered many years ago, in elementary school, receiving this comment on my report card: “Della makes good use of time.” I was proud of that.
By five fifteen I had showered, shampooed, dried my hair, dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, plugged in the coffeemaker, and given the pets their breakfasts and fresh bowls of water. I fastened Tuffy’s leash to his collar and headed out the front door to take him for his morning walk.
Tuffy and I were halfway down the path to the sidewalk when I recognized the man sitting in a not-very-new black car with red and yellow flames painted along the side parked outside my house. He was wearing a wrinkled Los Angeles Lakers jacket zipped up to his chin, and he needed a shave.
“What are you doing here?” I asked the channel’s redhaired daytime security guard, Stan Evans.
“Hi, Ms. Carmichael. You’re up early.”
“Yes, but why are you here, Stan?”
“Mr. Jordan told me to come watch your house last night. He’s paying me extra.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
Stan cocked his head and squinted at me with an expression of concern. “You okay, Ms. Carmichael?”
“I was just surprised to see you.” I couldn’t tell him what was funny to me: that the lie I’d told Shannon and John O’Hara to keep them away last night—about Mickey Jordan having hired security to guard me—had turned out to be the truth.
“What about your job at the studio?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry about me. Mr. Jordan said I could leave here at six. I’ll catch a few hours sleep and get to the studio at ten. Al Franklin—the night man—he’s going to fill in for me from eight to ten this morning.”
“Look, I’m about to take Tuffy for a walk. We’ll be back in a little while and then you come inside with me. I’ll make you a hot breakfast.”
“Gee, thanks, Ms. Carmichael!”
Last night, before NDM came over with the pizza, I’d defrosted the Barbara Rush chili, so I heated it this morning to go with the omelets I made for Stan Evans and myself. While I poured us each a second mug of coffee, I asked, “I wonder how Faye Bond is doing. Have you seen her again, since the other day at the studio?”
“No, ma’am. Not since I left her with you in the parking lot. I don’t really know her. I just happened to be around when she came in crying.”
“This must be a hard time for her. In the space of a few days, she lost both of her mother figures.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. It startled Stan so much he spilled coffee on the table.
“Oh, Jeez, I’m sorry!”
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” I grabbed the roll of paper towels from next to the sink.
The doorbe
ll rang again, more insistently.
“Let me clean it up,” Stan said.
I handed him the roll and hurried toward the front door. It still wasn’t quite six A.M. yet. Who in the world…?
A glance through the living room window revealed the channel’s publicity man, Phil Logan, fidgeting impatiently at the front door.
I opened it just as he aimed an index finger at the bell again. Under his other arm, I saw several folded newspapers, and in his free hand was my copy of the Los Angeles Chronicle in its red plastic wrapper.
He smiled broadly. “Oh, boy, have I got a surprise for you!”
“Good morning, Phil. You’re here early.” I moved aside to let him in. He fast-stepped past me, sniffed the air and said, “Is that coffee I smell?”
“We’re having breakfast. Come join us.”
The light in his eyes brightened; he looked as eager as Tuffy waiting for a treat. “‘Us’? Is Eileen here?”
Before I could answer the question, we were at the kitchen door. Phil stopped so abruptly on seeing Stan that I expected to find skid marks on the floor when I looked down.
I didn’t want Phil to misunderstand the young man’s presence in my house at this hour. “Mickey hired Stan to sit in his car and guard the house last night.”
“Oh…good. Hi, Stan.” Phil acknowledged Stan with a nod.
“Hi, Mr. Logan.” Stan stood up. “I gotta go. Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome, Stan.” Before I could thank him for doing guard duty, he was out of there.
With Stan gone, Phil was all business. “Wait ’til you see what I’ve got.”
I took a coffee mug from the cabinet, but before I could pour some for Phil, he’d spread out the front page of a copy of the Los Angeles Chronicle.
“You’re above the fold! Look!”
I did—and gasped. The upper part of the front page featured a picture of me holding Mia’s newborn. NDM must have taken it with his cell phone camera. I was so focused on what was happening with Mia that I hadn’t seen anything else.
Beaming, Phil read aloud, “‘In the middle of yesterday’s massive tie-up on Los Angeles’s one-oh-one freeway, the Better Living Channel’s new cooking star, Della Carmichael, forty-seven, was the heroine of the day when she climbed over stalled vehicles and forced open a car door to deliver the baby of Mrs. Mia Nugent, twenty-three, wife of Sergeant Andrew J. Nugent, currently deployed in the Middle East. Without help, supplies, or equipment, Carmichael brought infant William Chang Nugent safely into the world. Emergency Medical Technician James Gibbons, twenty-seven, who arrived on the scene following the birth, said of Carmichael: “That woman did a good job.” Carmichael, who hosts cable TV’s In the Kitchen with Della, is no stranger to dramatic events. During the airing of her first show, Mimi Bond, the network’s previous West Coast cooking personality, died on camera when…’” Phil looked up. “Yada, yada, yada. It goes on from there, talking about the murders.”
My immediate reaction was monumental embarrassment. “I’m not a heroine, Phil! Nature mostly delivered the baby. I didn’t do much more than be there. Did you persuade him to write that?”
Phil guffawed. “You don’t know that guy very well. I couldn’t persuade D’Martino to take a drink if he was thirsty. He wrote that story the way he saw it.” Frowning, he added, “I wish he hadn’t said you’re forty-seven.” He shrugged. “But the forties aren’t as old as they used to be. Lots of gorgeous actresses are admitting to it, even to being older.” Phil pointed to another part of the page. “Look, he wrote a sidebar from the interview you gave him, about how you come from a family of accountants and doctors, but you became a school teacher, married a cop, and run a cooking school. We struck publicity gold today. No, platinum, or whatever’s better than platinum. Aren’t you glad I gave D’Martino a week’s exclusive with you?”
Hearing that, I felt a sudden chill. “An exclusive? What do you mean?”
“To get you—formerly a total unknown—some ink in the Chronicle, I gave him a week when I wouldn’t schedule any other interviews for you. Believe me, this was a good deal; the Chronicle’s one of the most important papers in California. Online it goes all over the country. The wire services are already picking up the baby delivery story. And what perfect timing this thing is, because you go on the air again tonight. I bet your numbers will get a big bump.”
Phil gulped down half a mug of coffee. “Here are three copies of the Chronicle, and the one I picked up from your lawn. I thought you might like a few, to send clips to your family.”
After hurriedly swallowing the rest of his coffee, Phil said good-bye and left, jaunty and smiling.
I sat down with the paper and read the story to the right of the piece about Mia’s baby. Below a wide helicopter shot of the wreckage on the flatbed tow truck and the backed-up traffic behind, the accompanying article had few details. I was relieved to see that it said that the mess on the freeway had been caused by the explosion of a car being transported “to a repair shop.” Detective Hall had managed to keep the word “bomb” out of the paper, and there was no mention of who owned the car. I was thankful for that.
I made myself read the baby article. It was just as embarrassing as it was when Phil had read it, but now I saw at the bottom of the story, in small print, the words “related article in C 1.”
Quickly shuffling through the paper, I found Section C: Business. There on the first page was another D’Martino byline, this time speculating about what affect the murders of Mimi Bond and Lulu Owens would have on the stock price of the Better Living Channel. The piece stated that two theories of the crimes were currently being pursued by the police. One was the possibility that the killings were linked to business enemies of Mickey Jordan. The second centered on TV producer George Hopkins.
It had been learned that Hopkins had sought a substantial loan from Mimi Bond and been refused, and that Hopkins, who was known to be a serious gambler, had disappeared. Hopkins was urged to contact the North Hollywood Division to arrange to come in for questioning. The information was attributed to “knowledgeable sources close to the case.” When asked, Detective Emil Hall, in charge of the investigation, “replied with a terse ‘No comment.’” The article was accompanied by headshots of Mimi Bond, Lulu Owens, George Hopkins, and Mickey Jordan. The photo they used of Mickey was a candid, scowling shot that made him look sinister.
I put the paper down and thought about the fact that Phil had given NDM a week’s “exclusive” with me. Now the week was over.
Would I see NDM again?
Did I want to see him again? I didn’t know the answer to that.
There was no time to think about it now, with several hours of baking and decorating to do to prepare the finished exhibits for tonight’s “Halloween Cakes and Cookies” show.
With the investigation focusing on Mickey Jordan’s enemies and on George Hopkins’s personal problems, I had the sense that things were coming to a head.
35
Before I managed to get the first batch of cookies into the oven, Liddy called. She’d seen the front page of the Chronicle and wanted to hear all about how I managed to deliver a baby. Eileen was on an extension, so I was able to tell both of them at the same time that the story was greatly exaggerated. I said that what little I knew came from being in the delivery room with Liddy twenty years ago. They laughed when I added that finally I was grateful that Bill Marshall was a dentist who got queasy at the thought of birth, otherwise he would have been with Liddy and I wouldn’t have known anything at all about the process.
“What are you going to do about a ride?” Liddy asked next. “I can take you to the show tonight.”
“That would be great,” I said. “I plan to start looking for a car tomorrow.”
“Don’t get another Mustang,” Liddy said. “That car was Mack; it wasn’t you. Besides, you need something bigger for all that you’ve got to haul around.”
“More space would be useful,” I said.
“A Jeep,” Liddy said. “What about getting a Jeep?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I like the look of Jeeps, and it would be the right size.”
“One of Bill’s patients has a Jeep dealership. Believe me, the guy will give you a bargain.” Liddy chuckled. “We’ll make sure he gets the message that if he doesn’t treat you like a member of his own family, he won’t enjoy his next visit to Bill’s office.”
On Liddy’s extension, Eileen giggled. “That’s scary.”
Because I hadn’t yet fallen behind in any bills, my credit rating must be good enough to get financing, but it had been years since I bought a car. Liddy, who changed vehicles every two years for both herself and for Bill, was an experienced negotiator.
“That would be a huge help,” I said.
“We’ll go tomorrow morning. Now, when shall I pick you up for tonight? Same time as last week?”
“Perfect. By the way, because it’s a Halloween show, the audience will be made up mostly of people I invited by e-mail from the Mommy and Me classes. And Detective Hall and some of his people will be there.”
“Then there probably won’t be another murder tonight,” Liddy said cheerfully.
“Don’t even joke about that.”
Liddy, Eileen, and I said good-bye, and I went back to work.
When the phone rang a few minutes later, it was a four-way conference call set up by my sister Keely for herself, our sister Jean, my mother, and me.
“I found the story on the Internet this morning when I logged on to check my e-mail,” Keely said. “‘Cook Show Host Delivers Baby!’ Why didn’t you call and tell us?”
I repeated that the paper’s version of events was a major exaggeration, and that I didn’t deserve the credit I was given. Reassuring them that all was well with me, I changed the subject to tonight’s TV show. “It’s a Halloween theme.”
Jean asked, “What kind of a costume are you going to wear?”
Killer Mousse Page 22
