The Proof is in the Pudding (30 page)

“A tucker?”

“Food. Tea, scones, the lot. Join us.”

“I’ll do that. Tomorrow at four o’clock. What’s the address?”

“Bloody tall white building, corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Garland Street. Rollie’s flat’s on the third floor.”

“The third? His secret agent Roger Wilde has a penthouse suite, and in hotels he always requests the top floor. I had thought that’s what Roland likes.”

He emitted a short bark of a laugh. “Rollie’s not like ol’ Rog. Rollie won’t stay on any floor higher than the third, once ’e found out that fire truck ladders only go up a ’undred feet.”

“But wouldn’t that reach to about the ninth floor?”

“True, but Rollie’s thought is that if the truck doesn’t ’ave a ladder that tall, a bloke could survive a jump into one a them firemen’s nets if ’e’s just three floors up.”

It sounded as through Roland Gray wasn’t anywhere near as daring as his literary invention, Roger Wilde. But it wouldn’t be kind to make that remark, so I said, “I think it’s wise to be cautious.”

Another short bark of a laugh. “You might say that’s the motto in this ’ouse.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “At sixteen hundred. Four o’clock.”

“Before you go . . .” Parker lowered his voice. “ ’Ave the coppers caught the sod who shot at Rollie?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But they’re investigating. Detective Hatch wants to ask Roland some questions.”

“Wot sort?”

“Does Roland have any enemies?”

“There’s a redheaded bird in Plymouth . . . but I don’t suppose that’s wot ’e means.”

“No. Will, just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me that he was afraid of Keith Ingram. He was about to tell me why. Do you know?”

“No. Sorry. ’E keeps some things to ’imself.”

I decided to take that proverbial shot in the dark. “Yvette Dupree was upset to hear about what happened. Has he known her for a long time?”

A second of silence. “Who?”

“Yvette Dupree. Writes the
Global Gourmet
books. She’s a very attractive French woman.”

“Rollie doesn’t like the French.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe french letters.” Slight pause. “Do you know wot those are?”

“No.”

“Just as well. Look, Miss Della, the backgammon shark is calling me back for more abuse.”

“Good luck,” I said. “I’ll see you and Roland for tea tomorrow at four o’clock.”

“Jolly good.”

I went to the computer I kept in the kitchen for listing the recipes I made on the show and researching ingredients and opened it up to Google. Scrolling down past sites offering me the ability to write letters in French, I came across “french letters.” Lower case f. Clicking on that, I got Will Parker’s joke; the term “french letters” was World War Two military slang for condoms.

That was cute, Will
.
But I think you’re lying to me about Yvette—unless you really don’t know about a relationship between the two writers, Yvette and your boss.

Whether or not Parker was aware of Yvette Dupree’s interest in Roland, I needed to find out about it because she was the first person I could connect to both Ingram and to Gray. I pictured the diagram of a family tree: Roland was afraid of Ingram; Ingram disliked Yvette; Yvette was upset when she learned about the attempt on Roland’s life. Yvette Dupree was the link between murder victim Keith Ingram and near-miss victim Roland Gray.

A glance at the wall clock told me it was only twelve thirty. It would be another twenty-six and a half hours before I’d be able to talk to Roland. That was precious time I wasn’t going to waste.

I sat at the kitchen table, idly stroking Tuffy and thinking about who might have pieces of the puzzle . . .

Then it came to me.

Other than Will Parker and Yvette Dupree, there was one person I’d heard of who might have the answers I needed. Who would be closer to novelist Roland Gray than his literary agent, Alan Berger?

Liddy mentioned once that agents worked seven days a week.

I took the telephone book from the shelf below the wall phone and flipped the pages to B . . .

I didn’t expect to find Alan Berger in his office, and I didn’t. But he had an answering service instead of voice mail, so I was able to tell an actual human being that I needed to reach Alan Berger, and that it involved his client, Roland Gray. I gave my name and left my number.

Four minutes later, my phone rang.

“This is Alan Berger. Ms. Carmichael?”

“Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”

“You said you wanted to talk about Roland Gray. What is your interest in him?”

“I was with Roland the evening he was shot at, and—”

“Ms. Carmichael, I’m on my cell phone and my hearing is not good. Unless I’m in my home or office where there’s amplification, listening is difficult. I was about to go to lunch. Will you join me?”

“I’d like that. Where shall we meet?”

“At the moment, I’m in a bookstore in Santa Monica, but my favorite little bistro is two blocks south. The Secret Garden. It’s on Wilshire and Fifth, in a house behind a tall hedge.”

“I know where it is,” I said.

“In thirty minutes, then?”

“That’s fine. How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you because I saw you on television when Roland was your guest star, but I have dark hair, thinning and gray around the edges. Dark beard, clipped short. Because there may be more than one man in the area who fits that description, I’ll be carrying a copy of Roland’s new book,
The Terror Master
.”

The Secret Garden’s wooden front door had four hand-painted panels illustrating scenes from the classic children’s novel. At the top was little golden-haired Mary, the lonely child heroine, finding the key; next to that is a robin showing her the door to the garden concealed behind overgrown ivy. The two lower panels depict Mary lovingly tending the dying roses in the garden; then Mary with a little boy who is rising up out of a wheelchair.
The Secret Garden
was a book that Eileen had insisted I read to her many times, until she was able to read it herself.

The restaurant named after the book occupied the ground floor of a house built to resemble an old English cottage, with a peaked, thatched roof, and a window with six small panes, slightly curved, on the upper floor. The window was set whimsically at an angle. The effect created was of a cocked head with six eyes peeking out at the street.

I spotted Alan Berger as soon as I came through the front door, both because his word sketch of himself made for an easy identification, and because he had a copy of Roland’s newest book propped up on the table in front of him. When he saw me, he stood and waved.

Berger was cute, in an irregular-weave, Santa’s elf sort of way. He wasn’t tall, and he was a little round in the middle, but his bright hazel eyes and easy smile made him pleasant to look at. He wore a red cashmere sweater under a navy blazer. The blazer was so well cut that it had to have been custom-made.

As I came close to his table, I saw that he had a very small hearing aid in his right ear.

“Alan Berger?”

“Della Carmichael.” His extended hand was soft. If he had ever done manual labor it had to have been long in the past. His grip was polite instead of hearty, and just firm enough to signal self-confidence.

A good-looking young blond waiter, who was probably also an actor, appeared and seated me. Berger reclaimed his chair opposite.

“I know that as a professional cook you have high standards, but I think you’ll find the food here quite good. It’s English. English cuisine gets a bad rap—usually from people who’ve never tasted it and think it consists only of boiled vegetables. Roland introduced me to this place and it’s become a favorite of mine.”

The waiter asked, “What can I get you to drink?” His voice was pitched low, his diction perfect, and his manner suave. He had to be an actor.

“I’d like some iced tea with extra lemon,” I said.

Berger said, “A glass of chardonnay.”

The waiter nodded. “I’ll bring them right away. Our special today is Crisp-Fried Herbed Halibut.” He smiled. “And that is not easy to say. Or perhaps you would like a few minutes to look at the menu?”

I didn’t bother to open it. Instead, I asked Berger, “What do you recommend?”

He didn’t look at the menu, either. “Do you like fish?”

“Very much.”

Berger addressed the waiter-actor. “Bring us two of your—whatever it was you said about the halibut.”

“Excellent choice.”

The waiter left to give our orders to the kitchen.

“I’ve had that dish before. It’s very good, and it comes with shoestring potatoes that deserve a prize,” Berger said.

The waiter returned with my iced tea and Berger’s white wine. As soon as he left again, Berger said, “You said you’re concerned about Roland. So am I. Being shot at was pretty traumatic, but happily, he wasn’t seriously injured.”

“His assistant, Will Parker, tells me he’s back at work on his new book.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve learned that no matter what happens in his personal life, nothing deters Roland from writing. He’s the most reliable author I’ve ever represented. Plus, I like him a lot.”

“To judge from his warm words about you in the
Terror Master
acknowledgments, he’s very fond of you, too. He told me that he needs your reaction to his manuscripts before he sends them to the publisher.”

“Roland is too generous in his praise. I’m very little help, except when it comes to his contracts.” He flashed a proud-little-boy smile. “Those contracts are my contributions to the world of art. Now, let’s get to the point of your call. Someone shot at Roland. Since you were with him, I can appreciate your concern. My understanding is that the police don’t know yet whether this was a random example of urban blight, or if it was personal. Frankly, I vote for urban blight, some subhuman out for kicks who can’t distinguish between killing people in a video game and shooting at a live person. Roland doesn’t go around having feuds or making enemies. He’s very easy to get along with. But, having said that, I must admit I’m glad he’s safe in his bunker of an apartment while the police are investigating. Those are my thoughts. Your turn. What’s on your mind?”

“Just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me that he was afraid of Keith Ingram. He didn’t have a chance to say why. Of the people who were known to be at the gala the night Ingram was murdered, the only one I’ve been able to connect to both Ingram and Roland is Yvette Dupree. She’s famous as the Global Gourmet. Do you know her?”

Berger looked thoughtful. “Not really . . .”

“Mr. Berger—”

“Alan, please.”

“Alan.” I gave him a teasing smile. “I’ve lived long enough to know that when a man says ‘Not really’ it actually means ‘Yes.’ ”

“Well, I did meet her once, a few months ago, when Roland gave a small dinner party. She seemed charming, but I wouldn’t say that I
know
her.”

“Yvette was Roland’s date?”

“I don’t remember if she was paired with anyone. The evening was to celebrate the fact that
Terror Master
had reached the high sales threshold that meant the publisher had to pay him a bigger royalty. She cooked the meal—Moroccan dishes, in tribute to the parts of the book that were set in Morocco. It was delicious.”

He squinted for a moment, as though trying to recall details of the evening. Then something made him smile.

“She told us that we had to eat the proper way for a Moroccan meal—meaning without cutlery, and scooping food from the communal serving bowls by using pieces of flat bread. Will Parker, who’s a bit of an imp, concealed a fork behind the pocket handkerchief in his jacket. When she was in the kitchen, he used his fork to eat. I wished I’d thought of that.”

I chuckled. “That is funny. Did she catch him?”