The Proof is in the Pudding (33 page)

Enough of my memories; I needed to concentrate on my current challenge.

While I hadn’t learned the identity of the person to whom Roland had dedicated
The Terror Master
—“The one who got away”—what I did learn was that Roland met Eugene Long several years before the lethal cook-off. It was another piece of the puzzle, but whether it was material to the central picture or just a piece along the edge, I had yet to discover.

I decided I needed to see Eugene Long. Because I wasn’t an official part of the investigation into the murder of Ingram, I would have to come up with an innocent-seeming excuse in order to meet with him . . .

Then I realized that the road to Long was through his great big billion-dollar ego.

I closed the covers on Roland Gray’s novels, picked up the stack, and replaced them on the appropriate shelf in the library’s Fiction section.

As I was passing the checkout desk to leave, I saw a young woman, college age, beckoning to me. I didn’t know her name, but I recognized her face; she worked part-time at the library. She glanced around—furtively, it seemed—and gestured for me to come over to where she was organizing books into the cart she would push as she replaced them on their proper shelves.

I whispered, “Did you want me?”

She nodded. “I thought you should know that while you were reading, there was a man watching you. He’s gone now, but while he was here that’s all he was doing—just watching you.”

I felt a chill run through my body. “Do you know who it was?” I asked.

“No.”

She motioned for me to follow her over to an area in the corner of the library where we could speak privately, but she still kept her voice so low I had to lean close to hear her.

“It might even have been a woman,” she said. “The person was wearing a dark green hoodie sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. I couldn’t see the face.”

I did a quick search of my memory to recall the people I’d noticed when I came into the library. I hadn’t been looking for anyone in particular, but being aware of my surroundings had become a habit ever since someone tried to kill me a few months ago.

“I didn’t see anyone in a hooded shirt,” I said.

“The person came in about a minute after you did. I noticed you because I recognized you from TV—I watch your show. Then when he—or she—came in after you they caught my attention because they did something peculiar.”

“What was that?”

“They took a magazine from the rack, but they didn’t actually touch the magazine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They picked it up using a tissue. I thought the person must be some kind of germophobe. It was strange, and we’re told to keep an eye out for anything unusual, so I kept glancing over that way. The person wasn’t reading. I could tell because he didn’t turn any pages. Instead, he was just pretending while he was watching you. I was positive about that because as soon as you closed the books you had on the table, they put the magazine down and hurried outside. I still couldn’t see the face because I was over on the side of the room, behind him—or her. I don’t think the person was a fan of yours because wouldn’t they have gone over to you and asked for an autograph?”

“Not necessarily.” My pulse rate had quickened, but I tried to seem casual about what she’d told me. “In the months I’ve been on the air,” I said, “only a couple of people have asked me to sign something. I think my dog, Tuffy, gets most of the fan mail.”

“Oh, don’t feel bad. I’m sure that’s just because you’re a cooking personality.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I smiled. “I never thought of it like that.”

She nodded. “We’re in Hollywood—not geographically, but pretty much mentally—so there are different categories of celebrity. Some get bothered; some don’t.”

I replied with an all-purpose “Ahhh,” letting my voice rise slightly at the end of that nonword to denote comprehension, but I needed to get the conversation back to the subject that was important to me. “About the person in the green hood,” I said. “I think you should tell the librarian about what you saw, so she can be alert in case that person comes in again.”

“You can be sure I will. Look, I hope I didn’t scare you.”

I faked a smile. “No, not at all. People just do odd things sometimes. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

That’s what I said, but I didn’t mean it. Four nights ago I’d been at the scene of a murder, and then two nights later I’d been present at an attempted murder. Hearing that someone who’d kept his or her face covered, and used tissues to handle a magazine, had been watching me was more than a little frightening.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said. “If you ever want to come out to the Better Living Channel to see the show live on a Thursday night, leave your name with the channel’s operator and I’ll have a seat in the audience saved for you.”

“That’d be great,” she said with enthusiasm. “My name is Elizabeth Taylor—honest, that’s my real name. My parents’ name is Taylor and my mother named me after her favorite actress.”

“Elizabeth Taylor. I’ll remember. And I’ll tell the operator at the channel to expect to hear from you.”

When Elizabeth returned to her work putting books back onto the proper shelves, I went to the restroom to wash my hands. While my fingers could use a soaping and a rinse after examining the old novels, I was stalling for a few minutes until the library was about to close.

At four o’clock, I left the building in a group with other library patrons. A quick scan of the area didn’t reveal anyone in a dark green hooded sweatshirt, but I was not about to linger. As soon as I got into my Jeep, I locked the doors.

Turning onto Montana Avenue, I headed west, but instead of going home to Ninth Street by the most direct route, I drove up Fifteenth Street for several blocks, turned around, came back down to Montana, and then went up Eleventh for a few more blocks. By the time I’d turned around and was headed back again toward Montana Avenue, it was clear I wasn’t being followed. When I reached Ninth Street, I made a right turn off Montana and went home.

Back in my house, I let Tuffy out into the rear yard while I refilled his and Emma’s water bowls and gave them dinner.

As soon as they were happily munching and crunching, I called Phil Logan on his cell. We exchanged greetings, and I got right to the point.

“Phil, remember the story you told me about Eugene Long buying the private high school his daughter was attending, and then hiring a novelist to write her graduation speech? Can you find out the name of that novelist?”

“I don’t even have to look it up. Tell me you’re impressed.”

“Always,” I said. “You can’t see me on the phone, but I’m smiling in admiration.”

“Okay, I don’t want to make you think I’m some kind of ‘superhero,’ unless you want to, of course. The fact is I know the name because I was surprised when I heard he was going to be one of the contestants in Long’s charity cook-off.”

“Roland Gray,” I said.

“What are you, Robin to my Batman?”

“I’d rather be Wonder Woman to your Superman.”

“That’s not too crazy,” he said. “You’ve got the dark hair for it—and parts of the body.”

I refrained from asking which parts. Instead, I said, “How did Roland Gray know Tina wouldn’t be able to pronounce some of the words he put in her speech? She could have rehearsed it and asked somebody.”

“Tina doesn’t like to read, or to study—she brags about it. It was a pretty good guess she wouldn’t know words of more than two syllables.”

I had one more question to ask Phil. “What do you mean when you called it Long’s charity cook-off? I thought it was organized by the Healthy Life Fund, and just held at Long’s hotel.”

“No. It was Long’s idea to promote the Olympia Grand. The charity was delighted to sell the tickets and get all the money without having to do the hard work of corralling celebrities and catering to stars’ demands. Why are you interested?”

“Curiosity,” I said.

“Yeah, well, just don’t forget what curiosity
killed
. I’d hate to have to work with a new show host now that I’ve gotten used to you.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

“Look, if it was Roland Gray who got killed, my number one suspect would have been Gene Long, because that guy has the proverbial memory like an elephant. It’s said he’s willing to hold a grudge until hell freezes over—or until income taxes are abolished, whichever comes first.”

After my conversation with Phil, I sat at the kitchen table, watching Tuffy and Emma eat, and thinking about the two new pieces of the puzzle that I’d learned.

Eugene Long had a grudge against Roland Gray. It was an understandable grudge, in my opinion. I couldn’t image any parent not being furious at the person who hurt their child, especially in so public a way as what Gray did to Tina Long in not coaching her in the words she didn’t know.

Eugene Long, not the Healthy Life Fund, had organized the charity gala and was responsible for choosing the celebrities who would cook, and the judges. (Except for me, who was a last-minute replacement.)

What was Long’s motive for including Roland Gray? Long had allowed Keith Ingram to be a judge, but how did he really feel about this man who intended to marry his daughter?

Eugene Long had at least some of the answers that I needed. I didn’t have any authority to question him, but I thought that I might be able to get what I wanted by making use of his huge ego.

Knowing that Long had a suite at the Olympia Grand, I called the hotel, asked to speak to him, and gave my name. The operator put me on hold, but came back in less than a minute and said she was connecting me to Mr. Long. She must have asked if he was willing to take my call. Apparently he was.

I’d cleared the first hurdle. Now all I had to do was persuade him to see me.

When I gave Long my excuse for phoning, I heard a smile in his voice.

“Well, that’s worth talking about,” he said. “How about tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, here in my suite?”

“That works for me.”

“Good. Take the private elevator up,” he said.

“See you tomorrow.”

I was over the second hurdle.

Now what I had to do was get through the rest of the obstacle course without falling and breaking my neck.

Eugene Long had told me to come up to his suite, but he didn’t add that he occupied the Olympia Grand’s entire penthouse floor nor that there were separate elevators to his private rooms and to his offices. I learned that fact when I presented myself to the man at the reception desk, whose nametag identified him as “Roberto.”

“I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Long. He asked me to take the private elevator up, but I’m not sure which one that is.”

“Excuse me for just a moment,” Roberto said before disappearing through the door behind the desk. I guessed he wasn’t going to take my word for it that I’d been invited, and was checking with his boss.