Pie A La Murder (37 page)

I let my mind bounce around—free associate images of Mira in the parts she played . . . images of other actresses . . . movies I’d seen. . . .

Then one image came to the center of the pack, like a movie special effect that sent an object zooming to the forefront of a scene. I remembered a shot of Mira in one of her roles. A close-up on her eyes. In that moment I noticed something going on behind the mask of her lovely face. Unspoken. A communication without words.

In my head I did a freeze-frame on the expression in those eyes. Then, without my conscious direction, another picture was superimposed onto it. Another actress, another unforgettable emotion—a
message
—in the depths of her eyes. I squeezed my own eyes shut and focused on that new photograph. Gradually, the camera in my head moved back to reveal the whole face, and I saw it was a picture of the British actress Judi Dench from one of her early roles . . . Lady Macbeth. What was I seeing in those eyes? Intelligence? Strength? Yes . . . and a need so intense that behind the intelligence was a flicker of madness.

It jolted me to realize that I’d noticed that same look in another pair of eyes. Not in a still picture, or from an actress’s performance. I’d seen it in someone I knew. It had been there for just a moment, but my brain had registered it, and filed the impression away. . . .

Suddenly, on the “screen” in my mind all three of those images merged and became
one particular pair of eyes
.

Roxanne Redding’s.

I’d glimpsed that Lady Macbeth flicker the day I met her, at the Film Society luncheon, when she came to our table to take Alec away because a studio executive wanted to talk to him.

Here in my kitchen, standing over pots of boiling sweet potatoes, steam frizzing my hair, I knew with certainty that Roxanne Redding had murdered her husband. I didn’t have any idea whether or not she’d killed Gretchen. Maybe I wasn’t going to get more than one blinding revelation in this lifetime.

Any sane person was going to tell me that my belief in her guilt wasn’t evidence. Of course it wasn’t, but the picture in my mind of Roxanne hitting Alec on the back of his skull with the white stool was so real that I could see it, as if in a hologram. It was as vivid to me as if I’d been in the room when it happened.

I had nothing concrete to present to the police. Despite our years of friendship, John was likely to laugh if I told him I knew Roxanne Redding had killed her husband because I’d seen a deadly spark in her eyes weeks ago and now I’d had a vision. This wasn’t some kind of psychic gift. It wasn’t a paranormal experience. Ordinary people could
feel
an event sometimes. I felt this one.

If I tried to explain it to John, I’d be lucky if he didn’t lock me up in the psychiatric wing at UCLA on a seventy-two-hour hold.

I felt helpless, and frustrated,
knowing
something but not being able to prove it. One thing was sure, though: When I kept my appointment with Roxanne tomorrow morning to review the pictures, I was not going alone. I would try to persuade John to go with me. Or Hugh Weaver. Or maybe John would arrange to let me take Officer Willis—Downey’s partner—whom Olivia described as a tough cookie. In desperation, I might even ask Detective Keller to come. Whoever I had to drag along in order to feel safe, I was
not
going into the Redding house by myself.

When John returned my phone call, I told him about my appointment to go over photos with Roxanne Redding, but that I didn’t feel comfortable going alone.

“Why not?”

“I believe she killed her husband.”

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.”