Pie A La Murder (4 page)

While I was organizing the ingredients and utensils I would need for the show, Liddy was out in the audience, taping large white cards that said “RESERVED” in block letters onto the three seats in the front row closest to the entrance.

Six forty-five PM. From a narrow opening behind the set, I watched audience members, guided by security guards George and Harold, chattering with excitement as they filed in to find seats. I saw Liddy in her chosen place: the third seat in row number one. To make it extra clear that the two seats next to her were taken, she’d placed her handbag on one of them and draped her jacket over the other. Every few seconds she glanced at the audience entrance. So far, no sign of Nicholas and Celeste.

Six fifty-nine PM. I tied the white chef’s apron around my waist. Through the earpiece concealed under my hair, I heard the familiar voice of my director. “Thirty seconds, Della.”

“I’m ready.”

My theme music began to play. On the small backstage TV monitor I saw the program’s logo. In my ear I heard the director’s countdown begin.

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

I came out from backstage, smiled, and waved at the audience.

“. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”

Taking my place behind the prep counter, I surveyed the audience. In the semidarkness, I saw that the two seats beside Liddy were still empty.

“. . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

The audience door opened. In the sudden slice of bright light from the lobby, I saw George escorting two figures who hurried in and took the seats next to Liddy.

The man in my life and his long-lost daughter had arrived.

“. . . one. Go!” Theme music faded down.

“Hi, everybody. Welcome to
In the Kitchen with Della
. I’m Della Carmichael, and tonight is all about dessert. I’m going to show you how really easy—and how much cheaper—it is to bake your own pies. We’ll be making three that use the least expensive ingredients: apple, lemon meringue, and chocolate cream. If you like cherry or pecan pies, just realize that those ingredients are pricier.”

I held up a basket of green apples. “So let’s get cooking. Granny Smith or Pippin apples are the best to use for pies. These are Pippins. You’ll need at least six for a nine-inch pie, but I use eight because I like to stack the slices high.”

I measured granulated sugar into a mixing bowl and picked up a jar of cinnamon. “I use a lot of ground cinnamon.” I put in two teaspoons. “And a tablespoon of all-purpose flour for a little thickening. Mix this up and set it aside until we’re ready to combine it with our apples.”

As I peeled, cored, and sliced, I said, “Pies have been around for thousands of years. Really. The ancient Egyptians kept detailed records and many of them mention pies. The Egyptians filled theirs with honey and fruits and nuts. The ancient Greeks liked what the Egyptians were doing and took recipes home with them. Ancient Romans were so enthusiastic about pies that they made offerings of pie to their gods. A pie was originally a simple cooking and serving
container
. The crusts were pretty hard. At that time, when a pie had a top crust it was known as a coffin. If a pie didn’t have a top crust, it was called a trap. . . .”

When the voice in my ear told me it was time for the first commercial, I said, “We’ve got to take a little break. I’ll just keep slicing apples, and when I come back I’ll show you how to make a piecrust so light and tasty that there won’t be any of it left on the plate. I experimented the other day and combined the Crisco I ordinarily use with chunks of cold, unsalted butter. Don’t worry if you can’t write down the amounts because you’ll find all the recipes on my Web site.”

During that break, and the next three, I kept busy organizing for the following segment. While I frequently lifted my head to smile at the audience, I scanned what I could see of their faces without giving special attention to my three guests. I wished I could get a good look at Celeste, but it wasn’t possible because her head was either turned to her father, or she was listening to something Liddy was saying.

The live hour shows usually went by fast for me, but this one seemed to last an eternity. I wanted it to be over so I could see Nicholas to get a sense of how he was feeling, and to meet Celeste.

Finally, the last segment. My eight-inch-high apple pie was out of the oven, the meringue on the lemon meringue had been lightly browned, and the chocolate-cream filling poured into its baked pie shell to cool.

After the cameras took their “beauty shots” of the pies, I began bringing those I’d made at home forward to the prep counter. “The pies I baked right here aren’t quite ready to eat, but I brought the ones I made at home today so you could all have a taste.”

As prearranged, I saw Phil’s two young male interns come down from the control booth with serving trays and make their way carefully over the electrical cables on the floor and toward the set.

I greeted the boys and turned back to the audience. “Meet Jerry and Cliff. They are about to be the most popular people on the show tonight, because they’re going to pass among you with wedges of pie for you to taste. While they’re getting the slices ready, I have an announcement to make.”

Jada Powell moved Camera Two in for a close up of my face.

“The Better Living Channel has allowed
In the Kitchen with Della
to sponsor a National Bake Sale for teams of four. The objective will be to raise money for the good cause or charity of their choice. The team that bakes the best goodies and donates the most money by the day before Thanksgiving will win an all-expenses-paid trip to Hollywood.”

While I outlined the details that Phil and I had discussed, and that he’d had Mickey Jordan approve, Jerry and Cliff loaded the trays with paper plates of pie and baskets of forks and napkins. “Details of this contest will be up on the Web site tonight. So pull out those recipes, heat up your ovens, and start planning what you can do this holiday season for people in need.”

As I finished the announcement, Jada pulled the camera back to show me loading up a tray of my own.

“Okay, folks,” I said. “Let’s start tasting.”

Lights were turned full up on the audience. The cameras followed Jerry, Cliff, and me into the audience with our trays. End credits rolled as people in the audience began to taste the pies.

I’d made it a point to do my distributing at the opposite end of the audience from where Nicholas, Celeste, and Liddy were sitting.

Finally, the show was over and most of the audience began to leave the studio. I had been chatting with some of the people closest to me, thanking them for coming to the show, and—this was still a surprise to me—signing a few pieces of paper. For years the only time my autograph had been requested was on a credit-card slip.

I was back at the prep counter, instructing Jerry and Cliff about putting aside plates of pie for Angie and the security guards when I heard Liddy’s voice behind me.

“That was a great show—and the pies were so good they were positively
evil
.”

She was accompanied by Nicholas—who, I was thankful to see, was beaming—and an exquisite girl with perfectly spaced features, large brown eyes, and hair the color of corn silk. A little taller than my five foot seven and considerably more slender, she looked like an artist’s rendering of a princess from a fairy tale. She was so beautiful it was almost jaw-dropping.

My first thought was that her mother must have been beautiful, too.

And probably still was.

Nicholas introduced us.

“Hello. I’m glad to meet you, Celeste. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“You seem to cook quite well,” she said. Her voice was soft and had the tiniest trace of an accent—one that I’d heard before, in film clips of Grace Kelly after she married the ruler of Monaco, or Madonna right after she married a British movie director. A mid-Atlantic accent, it was called. Although Celeste’s words were inoffensive, there was a suggestion of superiority in her tone.

This eighteen-year-old girl, this breathtaking vision, was being condescending to me, and it didn’t look as though Nicholas had noticed.

I felt the first trickle of the “choppy waters” Liddy had predicted lapping against my feet.

Liddy must have caught the girl’s tone, too, because she filled the momentary silence with bright enthusiasm. “Why don’t the four of us go out to dinner?”

Celeste frowned.

Nicholas said, “We’ll do that soon, but tonight I promised to take Celeste around to check out some of the hot clubs.”

“Hot” was not a word I’d ever heard Nicholas use about an establishment. I suspected the only reasons a teenage girl would want her father to take her out were that she didn’t have a car, and didn’t yet know anyone else.

“I’ve got to tell you something exciting, Del,” Liddy said. “Celeste wants to be an actress.”

“You certainly are beautiful enough for movies,” I told Celeste. “Liddy’s an actress.”

Celeste looked at Liddy with interest. “What have I seen you in?”

“Most recently, I was the passenger in first class sitting next to Brad Pitt in
Flight Path
. I hid his revolver so the terrorists wouldn’t see he had one and realize he was an air marshal.”

“Oh,” she said, losing interest fast.

Liddy was undaunted by Celeste’s unenthusiastic response. “Della and I are going to the Hollywood Film Society luncheon tomorrow. Major people in the movie industry are always there. We’d like you to come with us, Celeste.”

This plan was news to me.

Suddenly animated, Celeste said, “I’d really like to start meeting people.”

“That’s nice of you.” Nicholas’s tone was pleasant, and he smiled at Liddy and me, but I could see that the smile didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

I wondered if he’d known about Celeste’s desire to be an actress before tonight. I didn’t think he would be pleased. Nicholas had told me stories about what he called the “girls around town” who thought their good looks were a no-limit Visa card. Very few of those actress-wannabes had happy endings with the Hollywood men who used them.