Pie A La Murder (17 page)

“The Big BR’s out sick. Chet is subbing today. He’s our sports guy.” I heard the producer mumbling to someone in the background. When he spoke to me again, he said, “You’re up right after this commercial break. Stand by.”

While a man’s voice urged listeners to “start looking like one of life’s winners by purchasing a pre-owned Mercedes,” I tried to figure out what I would talk to a sports guy about.

Commercial over, the producer came back on the line. “You’re up next, Delta.”

“It’s Della,” I said.

The producer said, “Huh. Are you sure? It says here on my sheet—”

He was interrupted by a burst of lively music. In a few seconds, I heard a hearty male voice.

“Hi, there, folks. Welcome back to the dugout. You’ll know you’re listening to live radio because we’ve got a guest on our inside line, but there seems to be some dispute about her name. Hello, mystery guest. Am I talking to the actress Delta Burke?”

“No, I’m Della Carmichael.”

“Who?”

“I do the TV cooking show
In the Kitchen with Della
on the Better Living Channel.”

“Hey, pretty good! You got the plug in smooth as a thirty-foot outsider in the last five seconds of the fourth quarter. What sport do you want to talk about, Miss D on the BLC?”

“Baking.”

“When did baking become a sport?”

“Just recently. Since my network and I proposed national bake sales to raise money for charity.
In the Kitchen with Della
is sponsoring a
competition
for
teams
of four to see which team can raise the most money for their charity. Competitive baking is an
indoor sport
, with the
finals
played outdoors when it’s time to sell the baked goodies. Your listeners can find the rules on the Better Living Channel’s Web site.”

“Cute,” he said, chuckling. “I never thought of baking as a team game, but then I didn’t predict synchronized swimming would come to the Olympics, either. Well, why not? All we sports people like to raise money for good causes. Give us the stats again, Miss D. You got twenty seconds before the buzzer. Go!”

I went. Watching the second hand on my kitchen wall clock, I repeated information about the bake sales, and stressed that to win, a team had to produce a valid receipt as to how much money was turned over to their charity. I finished my spiel in exactly twenty seconds. It wasn’t hard, because I was used to timing things down to the second for the TV shows.

The host said, “While you were talking I looked you up. You’re the cooking babe who brained Dodger pitcher Tony Cuervo last year!”

He must have Googled or Binged me and found out about one of Phil Logan’s early publicity stunts where he had me suited up like a Los Angeles Dodger so his photographer could take a picture of me holding a baseball bat. My unexpectedly connecting bat to ball resulted in my picture on sports pages around the country. Some headlines read: “Cook Creams Cuervo.”

“I only hit Tony Cuervo on the ankle during batting practice, and he wasn’t hurt, just surprised.”

“Well, it’s been fun having you on the show, Miss D from the BLC. Time now for the latest news. This is Chet Wall filling in for Bob Roman, the Big BR, who should be back in this oversize chair tomorrow.”

A woman’s voice came on with news headlines, the line disconnected, and my first radio phone-in of the day was over. After making a note of the name of the substitute host so that I could e-mail a “thank you” note to him, as I would to the other interviewers, I poured myself a glass of water and reached down to pet Tuffy. While I waited for the call from the next radio show, I couldn’t help wondering what was going on in Olivia Wayne’s office, where John and his partner were interviewing Celeste.

While I was talking to a show host in Boston—my final interview of the day—my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I had to ignore it then, but the moment my interview was over, I accessed the message and listened while I made a fresh pot of coffee.

Liddy had called. She sounded breathless with excitement.

“I didn’t get to see inside the Presidential Suite,” she said, “but the Queen’s Suite, which I did tour thoroughly, is laid out exactly the same, according to the manager. Living room, guest bath, kitchen, butler’s pantry, dining room, three bedrooms, each with a bathroom. Del, there
is
a back entrance. It’s a rear elevator that goes right down to the underground garage without stopping on any other floor!
Zip, zoom, and out
. Even though there’s one private elevator that goes to the fifteenth floor, there’s a separate back elevator for each of the two suites! The manager described that as ‘a little amenity’ for famous or important guests who need to bypass crowds in the lobby or outside the hotel’s entrance.”

My spirits soared. What Liddy had learned shot the prince’s alibi full of back-elevator-size holes.

Liddy took a breath and continued. “At the west end of the corridor there’s also an elevator that’s used by the kitchen and housekeeping staffs for transporting meal tables and laundry and cleaning carts. But that elevator stops on every floor, and it goes down only as far as the ground floor kitchen. There are kitchen workers on duty twenty-four hours a day, so that’s not a secure escape route. Bottom line of this report is that any one of them—Tanis, Celeste, the prince, or the butler—could have left the hotel without being seen. This is Agent 003—licensed to snoop—signing off. Let me know what my next assignment is.”

End of message.

“Good job, Liddy,” I said to the dead phone in my hand.

Before I had a chance to call Liddy back, someone at my front door was ringing the bell with an insistent series of sharp jabs.

I wasn’t expecting anyone.

My heart lurched with anxiety.

I looked through the front window to see who was treating my doorbell like a punching bag for the index finger. I’d been afraid that it was John, furious because he’d discovered that I’d been investigating his murder case, so it was with a combination of relief and puzzlement that I discovered my visitor was female, and a stranger.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, with the muscular build of an athlete. Her brown hair was cut short and feathered into wisps framing a round face devoid of makeup. She was neatly dressed in a chocolate brown skirt and a pumpkin-colored jacket. While her right hand stabbed my doorbell, her left clutched a bulky leather shoulder bag. I thought she might be one of Eileen’s friends, another recent graduate of UCLA.

I opened the door and said, “Yes?”

“You’re Della Carmichael.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. And you are . . . ?”

She pulled a slim wallet out of her bag, and opened it to flash a
Los Angeles Chronicle
press card. “I’m Gretchen Tully. Phil Logan arranged for me to interview you.”

Like the great Yogi Berra had said, it was déjà vu all over again. I met Nicholas when he came to interview me in his capacity as a crime reporter because a woman had been murdered during the first broadcast of my television show. He had arrived two hours early, and found me scrubbing the kitchen floor. I looked awful.

He admitted that he had deliberately shown up at ten in the morning instead of noon, to catch me off guard, because he wanted to meet “the real” me. I told him that I was also “the real me” after I’d had a shower, and when wearing clean clothes.

Nicholas’s early arrival had been annoying, but Gretchen Tully’s surprise visit was worse because I wanted to talk to Liddy and Shannon, to get details of what they’d learned at the hotel and to plan what I was going to do next. I couldn’t do that with a reporter here.

I made an effort to sound pleasant as I said, “Our appointment was scheduled for next Thursday. You’re six days early.”

If she’d sensed my irritation, she was unfazed by it, and unapologetic. “I had some time today, so I thought I’d take a chance. If you’re busy right now I’ll just sit down and wait until you finish what you’re doing. But I’d love to observe you in action. May I come in?”

Trapped.
It seemed unlikely that I could get rid of her without turning her into an enemy. Because Phil Logan had arranged the interview, albeit not for today, and because I know it’s important to keep good relations with the press, I decided to make the best of this situation. Also, she worked for the same paper that Nicholas did and they might be friends. “All right,” I said.

I opened the door wider and moved aside to let her enter, but she’d taken only the first step when she gasped and pulled her shoulder bag tight against her chest. She was staring at Tuffy, who stood just behind me.

“That’s a big dog! Does he bite?”

Only people who arrive at my house a week early.
That’s what I wanted to say, but I restrained myself. “Give me your hand,” I said.

I could see she didn’t want to, but she did. I gave her points for grit.

“Hey, Tuffy,” I said. “This is Gretchen. She’s a nice person.” That statement was more a matter of hope than knowledge, but I guided her fingers close to Tuffy’s nose so he could sniff her. She either passed the Tuffy test, or he took the warm tone of my voice to mean that she wasn’t a threat. He wagged his rear end and I let go of her hand.

“Come in, Ms. Tully,” I said.

“Call me Gretchen.”

“Gretchen. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”

“Coffee, thanks. Do you have anything to munch? I missed lunch. I know that’s a nervy request . . .”

“It’s not a problem. I’d rather you told me than have you be uncomfortable. Now that you mention it, I realize I haven’t had any, either. I’ve been doing phone interviews with radio shows. Come back to the kitchen.”

As we passed through the living room, she stopped. “Oh, wait. Is that a picture of your husband on the mantel?”

“Yes, is it. His name was Mack. Why?”

“No reason, really. I just heard you were the widow of a policeman.”

Even though I don’t have any embarrassing secrets, it always made me a little uncomfortable when I learned that people were talking about my personal life. But I supposed it was natural for Gretchen Tully to find out what she could about my background before she interviewed me about the show and our bake sales for charity promotion.

In the kitchen, Tuffy trotted over to his bed. I invited her to sit at the table.

“Let me see what I can put together.”

“I’m a vegetarian, so any kind of salad would be great.”

“You’re an easy guest. Just this morning I picked some tomatoes and fresh basil from the little garden I put in out back.” I opened the refrigerator door. Surveying the contents, I saw a few items that gave me an idea. “Are you willing to try a vegetarian dish I’ve never made before?”

“I’m game,” she said. “Can we talk while you do whatever you’re going to do?”

By “talk,” I knew she meant “interview.”

I put a mug in front of her, along with sugar, sweeteners, and a small pitcher of half-and-half. “The coffee’s right over there,” I said, indicating the Mr. Coffee machine. “It’s fresh. Please help yourself.”

She did. I’d washed the tomatoes and basil leaves right after I picked them this morning, so I put a handful of basil and three tomatoes on my workspace, took three red potatoes from the vegetable bin, washed them, cut them in half so they’d cook faster, put them in a pot, covered them with salted water, and turned the flame to boil.

Gretchen Tully brought her mug of coffee over to watch me.

During the few minutes it would take for the potatoes to become fork-tender, I seeded the tomatoes, cut them into chunks, tore the basil leaves into pieces, chopped up some black olives and flat-leaf Italian parsley, sliced half a red onion, cut half a loaf of French bread into cubes, and put it all together in a wooden salad bowl.

“That looks good already. I love the smell of fresh tomatoes. What are you making?”

“Tomato-Potato Panzanella. It’s a vegetable bread salad. Why don’t you ask your questions while I work?”

She went back to the table and pulled a small recorder from her handbag.

“Do you mind if I record our interview?”

“Not at all. But wait a minute.” I dried my hands on a paper towel, opened my “catchall” drawer and took out an old microcassette recorder of my own. “We’ll both record it,” I said.

She frowned. “Are you going to tell me that you’re doing this in case my recorder breaks down?”

I smiled. “It’s because this way we’ll both have a record of what I said. Not that I expect you to misquote me. The
Chronicle
has a reputation for accuracy in its reporting.”

“With so many papers cutting staff, I’m lucky they hired me, but I had good clips and they’re moving toward a younger perspective.”