The Proof is in the Pudding (5 page)

Narrow, twisty Laurel Canyon is a rustic enclave of free spirits, many of them in the music business, but in recent years affluent professionals have joined the performing types by migrating to this woodsy oasis in the center of Los Angeles.

I was able to spot Eileen’s car only because she’d told me to look to the right when I got to the sign on my left that said Kirkwood. She had pulled up parallel to a small dry cleaner and laundry establishment, which was just a few yards below the Canyon Country Store, a popular landmark at the corner of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and Kirkwood Drive.

As I turned right into a shallow parking area, my headlights swept Eileen’s car. I saw the outline of her head, bent over the steering wheel. She looked up, blinked in the glare, and gave a weak little wave.

I steered the Jeep to a stop just ahead of her car and got out. Simultaneously, Eileen emerged from her little VW and came toward me. In the spill from the nearby streetlight I saw that her long blonde hair, usually so carefully brushed, was a disheveled mess. Her eyes were red and swollen, but she had stopped crying.

“Tell me what’s happened.”

“The car died,” she said. “I don’t know what the matter is, and I couldn’t call Triple A because I forgot my purse back at . . . I ran out so fast that—oh, Aunt Del, I’ve been such a stupid idiot!”

I put my arms around her in a comforting hug, then stepped back so she’d have to look at me. “Let’s take care of the simple problem first,” I said. “What’s the matter with your car?”

“I don’t know. It was fine, but then I stopped here for a few minutes—I was so upset I could barely see. After a little while, when I turned the key again, the car made a kind of
grrrrr
sound, but it wouldn’t move.”

“Maybe it’s just flooded. Let me try to start it.”

Eileen handed me her key, but I didn’t have any better luck. The car wasn’t going to move for either of us. In defeat, I climbed out of the VW and reached into the pocket of the jacket I’d thrown on over the Bruce Lee T-shirt I’d been sleeping in and my nearest pair of sweatpants. I removed my cell phone and my wallet, extracted my Auto Club card, and punched in the number for emergency roadside service.

When the dispatcher answered, I gave her my name and club card number, told her where I was. From memory, I recited the make, model, and plate number of Eileen’s car.

“The car won’t start,” I said. “It might be a dead battery, but it could be something that requires a tow, so would you send a vehicle capable of towing?”

The voice on the other end agreed, took my cell phone number, and said that one of their trucks would be at my location within thirty minutes.

I thanked her, disconnected, and repeated the information to Eileen. “Now, we’ve got some time alone before road service arrives. Let’s sit in the Jeep and you tell me what’s upset you so.”

We settled into the front seats. Eileen stared through the windshield into the darkness. The light from the streetlamp molded her features as artfully as though it was the work of a great cinematographer. I couldn’t help marveling at her beauty. She had her mother’s large eyes and nicely sculpted cheekbones, and her father’s strong chin. She had a streak of John O’Hara’s stubbornness, too, but she didn’t have his toughness, and that left her as vulnerable as a chick just out of its shell.

“I thought he was so wonderful,” Eileen said. “He’s the most exciting man I’ve ever met.”

Although I was sure I already knew, I asked, “Who?”

She expelled a breath. “Keith Ingram.”

“Does he live near here? Is that why you’re in Laurel Canyon?”

She turned partway around in the passenger seat and gestured toward a tiny road just behind us, rising into the hills.

“Rothdell Terrace. His house is about a hundred yards up there—a miniature Swiss chalet.” In a tone full of irony, she said, “You can’t see his place from here, but can you make out that brown house just above us? The one facing out toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard?”

Following her line of sight, I stared into the darkness. “Do you mean the one with the bell in the top window?”

She nodded. “Jim Morrison lived there. 8021 Rothdell Terrace. Keith’s house is several above Morrison’s. He has a framed article about the Doors in his den because in it one of them says that Rothdell Terrace is the ‘Love Street’ in their song, ‘Love Street,’ and that the Canyon Country Store over there is the ‘store where the creatures meet.’ When Keith told me he lived on ‘Love Street’ it was the first time we were . . .
together
.”

I knew I would never be able to listen to that song with enjoyment again.

“Aunt Del, I thought I was in love with him, but tonight I realized what an idiot I’ve been.” She shuddered. “What I found out . . . Ewww, he disgusts me so much! But
I
disgust me, too. Oh, Lord.”

She blew out another breath, and when she spoke again her tone was icy. “He said he loved me—before—but tonight he acted surprised that I’d believed him. He said ‘I love you’ is just something men say when they want to get somebody in bed. Then he told me he’s getting married—said we’d have to stop seeing each other for a while. For a
while
! He said after a couple of months he’ll call me and we’ll get together, but we’d have to be
discreet
!”

“The miserable bastard.” I was so angry I wanted to scream, but I controlled myself by gripping the steering wheel tight.

Eileen started to cry. “I told him I’d never let him touch me again, but he just laughed and said that we’d be together as often as he wanted me because . . . Oh, Aunt Del—there’s something awful!”

“Ingram is scum. Worse than scum, but he can’t make you see him again.”

“You don’t know what he’s done!”

“Then tell me. It can’t be so bad that—”

“It is! When I said I wasn’t going to see him again, he opened the door to this armoire he has in his bedroom, across from his bed. He showed me a video camera in there. He’s been taping us! He said if I didn’t do everything he wanted me to do, whenever he wanted it, he’d put those tapes on the Internet so everyone . . .”

“Wait a minute. He couldn’t do that without exposing himself, and that could damage
him
.”

“I was so shocked I didn’t think of that, but he did. He said he’d had his own face blurred out, so no one could tell who he was.” She buried her face in her hands and leaned toward the console until her head nearly touched the surface. She moaned in despair. Her agony stabbed at me. I wanted to do anything possible to take her pain away.

I reached out to stroke her back, to comfort her as I had when she was a child, but she straightened abruptly. Trembling with fury, she whispered, “I hate him! I wish he were dead!”

Before I could reply I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. Through the rearview mirror, I saw that the Auto Club truck had arrived.

“That was fast. I guess this time of the morning things are slow,” I said.

I went through the usual ritual with the driver: explaining the problem and showing my Auto Club card.

A few minutes later he gave us bad news.

“It’s not the battery,” he said. “It might be a short in the electrical system.”

“Oh, no. Can you fix it?” Eileen asked.

“Sorry. It’ll have to go to a repair shop. The car can’t stay here—you’re in a yellow zone. Where do you want it towed?”

“Gosh, I don’t know . . .”

“Car Guy,” I said.

The tow truck driver’s attitude went from polite indifference to interested. “That mechanic on TV?”

“Yes.” I turned to Eileen. “You don’t have a regular shop, and I know Car is honest. What do you say?”

Eileen nodded. “That’s a good idea.” She looked at her watch. “But it’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“Take her car to the Better Living Channel studio on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood.” I gave him the address, and my Auto Club membership number. “I’ll call the security office to tell them you’re coming. They’ll let you in the gate and show you where to leave the car.”

“You got it.”

While the Auto Club man prepared to tow Eileen’s car, I dialed the studio number. Guard Lew Parsons answered. His voice was deep and husky. Hearing him made me think of those animated bear family bathroom tissue commercials: Lew sounded like the big Poppa Bear looked.

“Hi, Lew. It’s Della Carmichael.”

“Hey, there, Mrs. C. Wha’ chu cookin’ up this late?”

I told him that the Auto Club tow truck was going to be arriving soon with a red VW and asked him to have it put in one of Car Guy’s slots.

“Would you tell him that I’d like to know what’s wrong with it, and if he’d be able to do the work? Ask him to call me at home tomorrow. You have the number.”

“Will do.”

“Thank you, Lew. Good night. Or, I guess I should say ‘good morning.’ ”

“It’s all the same to me,” he said.

I disconnected the call as I watched the Auto Club truck pull away in the predawn darkness and head north up Laurel Canyon Boulevard with Eileen’s little car behind it.

Eileen sighed, and I turned to see her staring up Rothdell Terrace, in the direction of what she’d called Keith Ingram’s mini Swiss chateau.

“You said you left your purse at the creep’s house. Why don’t I go wake up that jerk and get it for you?”

“No,” Eileen said. “I can’t look at him.”

“I understand that. Why don’t I call him tomorrow and arrange to pick it up for you?”

She nodded. “Thank you.” Her eyes were filling with tears. “This is so awful. What am I going to do?”

I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her an encouraging squeeze. “Don’t think about it right now. I’ll figure out something.”

My voice sounded confident, but it was sheer bravado. The truth was that I didn’t have even the beginning of an idea how I was going to get Eileen out of this awful situation.

Tired as I was, I still didn’t sleep soundly. When my doorbell rang at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning, only three hours after I’d finally been able to go to bed, I was already more than half awake.

Tuffy, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, sat up, on full alert. I heard a low growl in his throat.

My first thought was that my visitor was Phil Logan, bringing the designer dresses he’d borrowed for me to wear to the Wednesday night gala, but this was a little early, even for Phil. And Tuffy never growled at Phil.

So who was at the door?

The bell rang again. Tuffy followed as I hurried, bare-footed, to the front door, struggling into a robe as I went.

A glance through the front window revealed a young man I’d never seen before. He was in his early twenties, wore jeans and a T-shirt that advertised some rock group. Its name was partially obscured by the young man’s leather jacket. A bright green and yellow helmet was tucked beneath his right arm. A Barneys New York shopping bag dangled from his other hand.

With my seventy-pound black standard poodle—an intimidating sight to strangers—beside me, I opened the front door a few inches. “Yes?”

The young man raised the shopping bag. “Delivery.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a delivery,” he said. “For Eileen O’Hara.”

I opened the door wider. “I’ll take it.”

He handed it to me.

“If you’ll wait just a moment—” I was going to say that I wanted to give him a tip, but he either didn’t listen or didn’t care because he was hurrying back down my front path to the street, where he’d parked a motorcycle.

The Barneys shopping bag wasn’t fastened at the top. I saw that it contained a purse I recognized as Eileen’s.

“Who was that?”

I turned to see Eileen. She didn’t look as though she had slept much either.

I took the purse out of the bag. “I think this is yours.”

She didn’t reach for it, but instead stared at the closed front door. “Was that . . . ? Did . . .
he
bring it?”

“A messenger,” I said.

Eileen took the purse from my hand, opened it, and fingered the contents. “No note. I guess he’s too cautious to write something I might show to his fiancée.”

“You wouldn’t do it,” I said.

“He doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know me at all.” She clamped her lips together in an angry line.

“Ingram knew you well enough to realize you’d never agree to being taped.” I folded the paper shopping bag into quarters.

Eileen indicated the Barneys bag. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Right into the trash. Keith Ingram touched it. This isn’t something I want to use again.”

“I’m glad to see your passion for recycling things has a limit,” Eileen said.

“Honey, let’s forget him for now. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I haven’t got any classes today so I’m going back to bed for a while.” Mumbling that she’d see me later, she went down the hall to her room.