The Proof is in the Pudding (17 page)

“Something sweet is just the prescription to take one’s mind off the disappointments of the day. Or as a reward when things go well.”

“In other words,” I said, “any excuse will do.”

He chuckled. “Ah, Della, you have cracked my code, so to speak.”

The clock ticked down to the final ninety seconds. Roland placed his pudding on the crystal dessert dish he’d brought with him, and I ladled warm custard sauce over it.

As we’d planned during the previous commercial break, I took a handful of plastic spoons from a box in the drawer beneath the preparation counter, handed them to him, and told the audience, “Now Roland’s going to offer some volunteers a taste.” I was careful not to say, “a taste of his Spotted Dick.”

Most of the spectators applauded enthusiastically.

Jada Powell on Camera Two swung around and followed Gray as he strode to the front row of seats. With a theatrical flourish, he made a show of inhaling the pudding’s sweet aroma, then passed out spoons. He walked along the row, holding the plate, as people dug into the pudding. I saw appreciative nods at the taste from those with their mouths full.

As the end credits rolled over the scene, I was aware that Quinn did not instruct Ernie Ramirez, manning Camera One, to conclude the episode on me, as was the usual practice. Ernie must have realized that Quinn was punishing me, because he leaned around his camera and gave me a helpless shrug.

When the show was over, it took half an hour for Gray to finish autographing books and for the last of the audience members to leave.

The moment the final spectator had left the studio, Gray and I sat down on the stools behind the preparation counter. John O’Hara joined us and I introduced them. Gray’s response was warm. John’s was polite. The book was tucked under his arm, but John didn’t ask Gray to sign it for him.

“I’m sure Shannon’s going to enjoy
Terror Master
,” I said to John. To Gray, I added, “John’s wife is one of your fans. Whichever of us buys one of your books first, as soon as we’ve read it, we pass it to the other.”

John speared Gray with what Eileen calls “the look that makes bad guys beg to confess.” Without preamble, he said to Gray, “How well did you know Keith Ingram?”

“I didn’t. Not really. We’d met, casually. In passing, so to speak.”

Uh oh.
Gray’s tone was level—no nervous wobble in his voice—and he was meeting John’s gaze, but instinct told me he wasn’t telling us the truth. Starting back when I was a high school teacher, I’d noticed that when people were lying they tended to say too much. One “I didn’t” was enough. A string of denials undercut credibility.

John reached into an inside pocket of his sports jacket and removed a sheet of paper.

“This is a photocopy of the judging card Keith Ingram made out about you.” He held it up for me to see that it was a replica of one of the cards we were issued. My eyes widened in surprise at what I saw on it.

“There were four criteria for judging the dishes you all were creating,” John said. “Organization of the workspace, quality of the ingredients, the appearance of the dish, and the taste. Ingram gave you the lowest score on all four categories.”

“But the dishes weren’t finished,” I said. “Nothing had been displayed yet, and nothing was tasted.”

“Exactly.” John stayed focused on Gray. “So, what was the problem between you and Ingram?”

I turned to look at Roland Gray and saw that his complexion had lost its color.

After a moment of silence, Gray stood. “That is not a subject I care to discuss with you, Mr. O’Hara.”

“It’s Lieutenant O’Hara. LAPD. And you’ll either discuss it with me here, or you’ll do it down at the station.”

Color returned to Roland Gray’s cheeks. “I’m not a
naïf
, Lieutenant. Or, as we are in a television studio kitchen, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that I did not just fall off a turnip truck. You, sir, laid Keith Ingram out flat. I’ll take your word that you are with the LAPD, but I think it highly unlikely that you are being allowed to take part in this investigation. In fact, I’m sure that you, yourself, are under suspicion for Ingram’s murder. Clearly, you had some severe grievance against the man, or you wouldn’t have attacked him in public, before dozens of witnesses.”

Gray began to gather up his cooking equipment. “I had a delightful time with you, Della. Perhaps you will allow me to take you to a restaurant, without cameras present, and where neither of us must cook.”

“You’re making a mistake, Gray.” John said. But he’d dialed his attitude down from confrontational to calm reasonableness. “If you tell me—us—about your problem with Ingram, we might be able to help you so that you’re not thought of as a suspect.”

Gray stopped collecting his gear and looked from John to me, and back to John. “But I will be of interest to the police when they see that judging card. I’m surprised that there hasn’t been a knock on my door yet.”

“There would have been, and there probably will be at some point,” John said, “but their immediate focus is on me. Cooperate here, informally, and I may be able to help us both, and keep the investigation from getting to you.”

Gray opened his mouth to speak, but something he saw over John’s shoulder stopped him. I turned my head to follow his line of sight. Quinn Tanner was coming toward us, carrying Gray’s blue cashmere blazer. He lowered his voice and said to me, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Call
both
of us.” John handed him a card. “My cell phone number’s on the back.”

It was nearly midnight and I was about to get ready for bed. I’d given Tuffy his final walk, Nicholas D’Martino and I had completed our nightly call, and I had just taken the cap off the tube of toothpaste when the phone rang again. I thought it must be Nicholas, with something he’d forgotten to tell me, but the caller ID number was unfamiliar.

An automatic jolt of concern tightened my stomach muscles.

Was it Eileen again? She was supposed to be with her parents tonight, but I knew all of her phone numbers, and her father’s and her mother’s. And those of my friends and coworkers. None of those numbers was on the faceplate.

As I reached for the receiver, I guessed that someone had misdialed, but if it was an obscene call, my reaction would be to laugh. On the two occasions that had happened, laughter took the wind out of the pervert’s sails—so to speak.

I said hello and heard Roland Gray’s Henry Higgins accent.

“Della, please forgive me for phoning you so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “In person.”

“We could meet for breakfast—”

“I mean
now
. Right now. I’m in my car outside your house.”

My pulse quickened with anger at that, and I didn’t try to keep it out of my voice. “How did you find out where I live?”

“As a writer, I’ve developed many contacts. Discovering anyone’s location rarely takes more than a single phone call, but I do apologize for invading your privacy.”

“You should apologize. I don’t like this one little bit. You had no right—”

“Of course, no right at all, but I have an explanation. I know something about Keith Ingram that I am sure is relevant to his murder. I don’t want to discuss this over the telephone. Now, I’m not suggesting that you invite me into your home at this hour. Will you allow me to take you out for a drink, a glass of wine, or coffee?”

I thought about that for a moment. One of the things I hate in movies and in mystery novels is what I call the heroine who is Too-Stupid-To-Live: the one who goes to meet a murder suspect in the middle of the night, in a remote place, all alone. Or who goes upstairs in a dark house when anyone with an IQ higher than that of a carrot could guess that the villain is hiding there.

I didn’t want this virtual stranger in my house at this hour, and I didn’t want to get into a car with him, but I did want to hear what he had to say. Maybe it could save John.

“All right. Where shall I meet you?” I said.

I heard him chuckle. “I’m flattered that you consider me so potentially dangerous that you’re proceeding with such caution. I must be sure to make the heroine in my new books as smart as you are. When the case has been resolved and Ingram’s murderer is in custody, perhaps then you will trust me enough to allow me to call for you and take you out to dinner?”

“Thank you for the invitation,” I said, “but I’m seeing someone.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No.”

“Then I will feel free to ask you again sometime. Regarding tonight: There is a place nearby where we could meet, if you like. I want you to feel safe.”

Feel safe?
He’s making me sound positively antediluvian.
Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let a twinge of embarrassment turn me into one of those T-S-T-L women.

I kept my cool and said, “Where?”

“There’s a sidewalk café I know on Montana Avenue, near Twelfth Street. It’s called Caffeine an’ Stuff,” he said. “Good coffee. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“How soon can we meet there?”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“Excellent.” With a quick good-bye, Gray disconnected.

I didn’t bother to change clothes from the slacks and sweater I was wearing, but I did brush my hair and dab on some lipstick and mascara. Looking
completely
natural wasn’t as attractive as it had been twenty years ago.

Before I left the house, I wrote a note for Eileen, telling her about Roland Gray’s call, and that I was going to meet him at Caffeine an’ Stuff. Even though she wouldn’t be home tonight, I put it on the little table just inside the door, where we always left messages for each other. The note was one of my little personal voodoo rituals, like carrying a raincoat and umbrella so that the weather forecast of rain
wouldn’t
come true. Tell someone where I was going and I would get home safely. I know it was silly, but it did no harm. And just in case . . .

I gave Tuffy and Emma a few strokes and told them that I’d be back soon.

Montana and Twelfth Street was only six blocks from my house. During the day, I would have walked down to the café, but not at night. I wasn’t shy about taking chances—my life was pretty much testimony to that—but I didn’t believe in taking foolish risks.

Montana Avenue was almost as busy at this time, shortly after midnight, as it was during the day and early evening. With its great variety of businesses, small restaurants, pubs, and coffeehouses, it was the shopping, strolling, and meeting-friends-for-whatever heart of the northern end of the city of Santa Monica. I knew the area well because my little cooking school was located in the back of a kitchen appliance store on Montana, near Fifteenth Street. And the library on the corner of Seventeenth was one of my regular stops.

Caffeine an’ Stuff occupied the ground floor of a two-story structure that looked like an old English pub. A dark green, weather-faded wooden sign hung above the entrance. The words “Caffeine an’ Stuff” were painted on it in gold script, below a drawing of a mug of coffee, steam curling up in the shape of a question mark. In similar, but larger, gold script, the name of the café arched across the front window.