The Proof is in the Pudding (24 page)

“If Ingram had married Tina Long, her father would have been smart to hire a food taster.” I felt my eyes widen. “Hey, I thought I was making a joke, but I just realized that if Eugene Long figured out exactly what kind of an unscrupulous opportunist had captivated his daughter . . .”

“It could be a powerful motive for murder,” Nicholas said. “He wouldn’t have had to do it himself. He can afford to hire a thousand hit men.”

That was an exciting thought, until I fell back down to earth with a thud.

“But then why would he, or his hit man, try to kill Roland?” I said. “I have to find out what the connection is between Long and Roland.”

“
We
have to find out a lot of things,” Nicholas said. “I’ll use my sources to see what I can dig up.”

“Most of us were watching Wolf Wheeler’s juggling act when the smoke bomb went off. It might have been coincidence, or—”

“Or part of a plan.” Nicholas nodded and made a note of Wolf Wheeler’s name.

“Next: I want to get the guest list for the gala. Maybe one of the people attending had something against either Ingram or Roland, or both.”

“I can get the list from the
Chronicle
’s entertainment editor. And I’ll get copies of the pictures our photographer took.”

“Perfect. I’ll ask our publicity man, Phil Logan, to get a guest list, too. Double-check of who was there.” I made another note. “Yvette Dupree. I want to talk to her. She seems to know Long, very well, and she’s close to daughter Tina. About Tina: I’ll have to figure out how to do it without Hatch going crazy, but I want to talk to Tina.”

“I’ll check our files to see what we have on Dupree and the Longs.”

“Ah!” I stood up. “I’ve got an idea. Don’t move.”

I hurried to the bookcase in my bedroom and found the copy of Roland Gray’s new thriller,
Terror Master
.

Back in the kitchen, I showed it to Nicholas. “Roland gave this to me when he came to the studio Thursday night.”

“So?”

I opened the book to the Acknowledgments and scooted my chair around so that Nicholas could see it, too.

“There’s a lot of information in these author ‘thank you’ pages.”

We studied the names, but I let out a sigh of disappointment when we didn’t find any we recognized.

“Most of these people gave him information about nuclear weapons,” I said. “It’s not likely we’ll find any of them on the gala list.”

“Let’s see who he dedicated the book to.” Nicholas turned a page. “Hey. What do you make of this?”

I read the dedication aloud: “ ‘To the one who got away . . .’ ”

“Jeez—novelists! They think they’re so clever. Do you have any idea who that ‘who’ is?”

“No, but I’ll see him tomorrow. Right now I’ll call Phil Logan and ask him for the list of people who attended the charity cook-off.”

Nicholas got up from the table. “I’m going to the paper to get our entertainment editor’s list, and copies of the file pictures. I’ll e-mail them to you. Then I’m going home to sleep.”

“You’re welcome to stay here.”

“That’s not called ‘sleeping.’ ”

Inside the front door, we kissed. For quite a while. Finally, Nicholas stepped back. “I want us to make a rule.”

“What rule?”

“We don’t have sex
every
time we’re alone together,” he said.

“All right. Do you play gin? Poker? Scrabble? Do cross-word puzzles?”

He smiled, but his tone was serious. “What I’m saying is that I want to live to be a very old man, and have you there to wipe the drool from my chin.”

That declaration veered too close to a subject I wasn’t anywhere near ready to think about: the future. More specifically, our future.

I kept my tone playful. “What woman could resist such an appealing prospect?”

And then I kissed him lightly on the chin. “Good night.”

By the time Eileen came home that evening, Phil Logan’s messenger had delivered the gala’s guest list, and Nicholas had e-mailed the
Chronicle
’s list, as well as copies of thirty-six pictures taken by the paper’s photographer.

I was at the kitchen table again, with the two lists and the photos spread out in front of me. Tuffy must have been alerted by the sound of Eileen’s car, because he stood up and began to wag his hindquarters before I heard her open the front door.

“Hi, I’m home,” she called.

Tuffy loped off to greet her.

“I’m in the kitchen, honey.”

Eileen came in with Tuffy close at her heels.

“I’ve got interesting news—actually, delicious news—from the shop,” she said. “We’re going to have a new line to sell.”

Her excited smile gave my heart a lift. It was the first time I’d seen Eileen smile since the night she told me about Keith Ingram’s repulsive threat.

“What’s happened?”

“That school friend of yours, Carole Adams, e-mailed from where she lives in Delaware. She saw Roland Gray making pudding on the show and started experimenting. After a bunch of tries she came up with a pudding version of our nut butter fudge.”

“That’s Carole,” I said. “She’s always loved a challenge, and if someone didn’t give her one, she challenged herself. I never thought of trying to alter the fudge ingredients to create a pudding. How does her recipe sound?”

“I didn’t just read it. The cooks were busy filling the orders for brownies and fudge, so Walter and I bought a hotplate and a pot at the hardware store down the street. We tried out the recipe in his office.”

Walter was so knowledgeable about the equipment left from our building’s days as a bakery that we asked him to stay on with us. An extra plus was that his many stories about Old Hollywood were very entertaining. He’d developed a personal following among many of our regular walk-in customers. It was at his suggestion that we’d added a small coffee bar in the front area where he could regale people who stayed to drink coffee and eat our brownies.

“Walter made the pudding. I just read out loud Carole Adams’s recipe and handed him what he needed. It’s so easy, and it’s really good. Now I’ve got to figure out the cost of packaging and what we need to do to ship it. If we’re able to add the nut butter fudge pudding to our line, I’m convinced we’ll have a winner.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. “And we need to decide how to compensate Carole.”

Eileen went to the refrigerator and peered inside.

“Are you hungry? I can make something for you,” I said.

“No, thanks. I had a hamburger with Walter. I’m thirsty.” She took a bottle of orange juice from the top shelf, poured herself half a glass, and drank it. “I didn’t see your Jeep in the driveway,” she said.

“I’ll have it back sometime tomorrow, I expect.”

Eileen must have sensed that I was being evasive, because she turned and looked at me. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“What happened? Were you in an accident?” I heard a note of concern.

“No, nothing like that.” I gestured to the chair across from mine. “Come sit down. I’ll tell you what happened today.”

I didn’t let Eileen know how truly awful Hatch’s search had been, but even my much milder version brought tears to her eyes.

“Oh, Aunt Del, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault.”

“Stop it,” I said, squeezing her hand. “It is
not
your fault. It’s Keith Ingram’s fault because of what he did to you, and it’s mine because I stupidly left a fingerprint when I broke into his house.”

“I’m afraid to ask, but did Detective Hatch find my DVD?”

“There wasn’t anything to find. I destroyed it.”

Eileen and I had been so close for so many years that she could tell from the slight shake of my head that I didn’t want her to ask any more questions.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Eileen took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a paper napkin from the blue dragon napkin holder on the center of the table. She’d made it for me when she was in a middle school craft class. All grown up, she’d urged me to get rid of the dragon holder, saying it was ugly. “It looks like something done by a child with no talent at all for crafts,” she’d said.

“That’s exactly why I like it,” I had told her, “because one particular child made it for me.” I think she was secretly pleased that I kept it.

Getting back to what was important right now, I said, “Look at these pictures and the guest lists from the gala. Tell me if there’s anyone here that you ever saw with Ingram. Or if he’d mentioned any of these names to you.”

Eileen studied the photographs. “That’s a good one of you.” She pointed to a picture in which I was leaning forward slightly as I watched actor Coupe Deville working on his Philly Cheesesteak. “You’ve got a great profile.” She pulled another photo toward her. “Yvette Dupree. Keith really hated her. A couple of months ago we were watching TV late one night and when she came on a talk show, he was so upset he turned off the set. In fact, I thought he was going to throw the remote. I asked him what was the matter and he said he couldn’t stand her, that she was a total phony who’d tried to ruin his career. That’s all he’d tell me. I’d only heard him speak so negatively about one other person.”

“Who?”

“Eugene Long. That’s another reason I was so stunned when he told me he was going to marry Tina Long. He’d said her father was an unscrupulous, vindictive drunk who had done so many crooked things, he deserved to spend his life in jail.” She shuddered. “When I think back, there were little signs about the kind of person Keith was, but I didn’t let myself see . . . Aunt Del, I thought I loved him. I was so stupid!”

“He put up a good front. When I met him the day he interviewed us for his column, he was charming. I’m not surprised you were attracted to him. Neither of us had any idea what he was really like.”

“But I learned. Too late,” she said bitterly. “And look at the trouble I’ve caused you and Daddy.”

“We’ll be all right.” I gave her hand a comforting pat.

“I could tell the police the truth and get you off the hook,” she said.

“No, you can’t. If you did, that would convince Detective Hatch your father had a powerful motive for murder.”

“I’ve put both of you in an awful spot. I’m so sorry.”

“Stay strong,” I said. “We’ll get through this.”

I didn’t sleep very well that night.

The police hadn’t returned my Jeep by the time Eileen and I had to leave for the Mommy & Me cooking class I taught every Saturday morning, so we loaded two cardboard boxes full of ingredients into her car.

Before we left, I phoned St. Clare’s Hospital, asked to speak to Roland Gray, and was transferred to the second floor.

“Nurses’ station,” a female voice said briskly.

“Good morning. Would you connect me to Roland Gray’s room, please?”

“Mr. Gray isn’t taking calls.”

“All right. Can you tell me how he’s doing?”

“We’re not allowed to give out information about patients,” she said.

I was getting frustrated, but kept my tone pleasant.

“What are your visiting hours?”

“Mr. Gray has is not having visitors.”

It was taking an effort, but I remained genial. “My name is Della Carmichael. Would you ask him to phone me? My number is—”

“I’ll tell him you called.” And then that Angel of Mercy disconnected.

Eileen saw me gritting my teeth. “No luck?”

“I’m not through yet.” I dialed the hospital’s main number again. When an operator picked up, I asked her when visiting hours were.

“From nine AM until noon, and from three PM until seven PM.”

“Thank you.”

My cooking class for adults, which followed the Mommy & Me session, ran from noon until three.

I told Eileen, “I going to find a way to see Roland Gray this afternoon if I have to buy a set of scrubs and pose as a hospital employee.”

“You won’t have to buy anything, Aunt Del.”