Pie A La Murder (38 page)

As I talked, I filled a pot with water, put it on the stove with the burner turned to high, and demonstrated what I was explaining. So that the studio audience had no difficulty seeing exactly what I was doing, two large TV monitors had been set up.

“The sweet potato pie takes the longest,” I said, “so we’re going to make it first and get it into the oven. While the potatoes are cooking, I’m letting the stick of butter and the two eggs we’ll need get to room temperature. As that is going on, we’ll make the crust for our pie. Don’t worry if you can’t write the directions down. Tonight’s recipes will be up on the Web site tomorrow.”

I said it was perfectly okay to use a prepared piecrust, but that I liked to make my own, and explained how simple it was. As I worked with the flour and the shortening, I gave Mira credit for the sweet potato pie recipe, and told them a little about my actress friend who was also a great Southern cook. . . .

During the commercial breaks, I stayed on the set and answered questions from the audience. Happily, all of the questions were either about cooking or planning meals. No one mentioned the story in the
Observer
.

After the pie went into the oven, I told them about the low-calorie main dish I suggested pairing with the dessert.

“I call what we’re going to make now a Greek Chicken Tortilla Wrap. Simple ingredients, and they won’t bust either your household budget or your calorie budget: Greek yogurt, chopped cucumbers, some fresh dill, cut-up grape tomatoes, salt and fresh ground black pepper, a couple of cups of leftover chopped-up chicken—or you can get a little rotisserie chicken already cooked at the market. Actually, think of this as a Greek salad with chicken, all wrapped up in a whole wheat tortilla. If you try to explain it to your friends, say it’s a kind of Greek salad soft chicken taco. . . .”

The pie I’d made on the set came out of the oven a couple of minutes before the show ended. Just in time for what’s called the “beauty shot,” where the cameras focus on the dishes that have been prepared during the show.

As the end credits rolled on the TV screen, but while we were still on the air, I said to the people in the studio, “Now comes your reward for being such a great audience. We get to eat!”

The red lights on the cameras went out. We were off the air.

Studio staff came onto the set and began unwrapping the sandwiches and cutting pieces of the pies I’d made at home.

While paper plates and napkins were being passed out in the audience, and the food served, I put the pie I’d just made and eight of the sandwiches into the refrigerator where the crew knew to go to help themselves. They also knew to take food out to Angie at the front desk.

I was still on the set when Harmon Dubois put his piece of pie down on his front-row seat and came toward me with the bouquet of roses.

“These are for you,” he said. “From my garden.”

“They’re beautiful, Harmon.”

“They’re a special type, called brandy roses because their color looks like a snifter of brandy if you hold it up to the light.”

“That’s fascinating. Thank you.” I made sure I wasn’t near a live microphone, but I lowered my voice anyway to tell him that I appreciated his thoughtfulness in tipping me off about the class visit.

Harmon beamed. “You really did look surprised. Nobody would know you expected us.”

It was almost an hour before the last of the studio guests had gone and finally I was able to leave. No longer having to smile and perform, I realized how tired I was. All I wanted was to go home, take Tuffy out for a quick march around the block, and fall into bed.

Only a few cars were left in the BLC lot when I climbed into my Jeep, and the traffic on Ventura Boulevard and through Beverly Glen Canyon was moderate. The drive was so unexciting that I put on the car radio, to an all-news station, to stay alert. Fortunately, none of the “Breaking News” segments involved anything relevant to my life.

I was on Liberty Avenue, a dark street with mostly closed shops, south of Wilshire Boulevard when I braked for a red light.

Suddenly, I was thrown forward against the chest strap on my seat belt.

A car behind had rear-ended me.

After the first moment of surprise, I realized that it wasn’t a bad collision. Probably minimal damage.

I pulled over to the side of the street. Through the rear-view mirror I saw the car behind me pull over, too. It looked as though there was only the driver in it, a blonde woman.

After taking my insurance information from the glove compartment and the wallet with my driver’s license out of my purse, I climbed out of the Jeep. I imagined the conversation to come: She would apologize, tell me her husband was going to be upset with her, and ask plaintively if we really had to get insurance companies involved.

The blonde woman who emerged from the car looked vaguely familiar. I couldn’t see her very well because some bureaucrat I considered an idiot had replaced the streetlights all over Los Angeles with much weaker bulbs.

Tanis?
Hair the same shade of blonde, and cut shoulder-length. She was turned partially away, searching through her handbag that she’d placed on the hood of her car.

“Damn it, I can’t see anything in this stupid light,” she wailed.

It wasn’t Tanis. No pretentious mid-Atlantic accent.

I was within three feet of her when she looked up, and I saw that the “blonde” was Roxanne Redding.

At that same moment, I felt a sharp poke in the small of my back—and heard Galen Light say, “Payback time.”

Roxanne Redding and Galen Light. Together—and surely planning to kill me.

It was the two of them against me, and Light had a gun.

Tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Drops of icy perspiration formed on my scalp and begin to trickle down my back. My heart thumped so hard in my chest I thought they would hear it. I willed myself to slow my breathing.

The area we were in offered no realistic help. Liberty Avenue was crowded and busy during the day. It took too long to drive its length then, but at night, with the businesses closed and traffic sparse, it was a quick route from Wilshire Boulevard down to Montana Avenue.

The perfect place to stage a minor nighttime auto accident.

The few drivers that passed us took no interest in three people standing between two parked cars. Why would they? There was no visible accident, no shower of glass in the street, no body to be gawked at.

Galen Light dug the barrel of the pistol deeper into my back.

“Ow! That hurts. Just tell me what you want.”

“Walk around to the passenger side. Get in the backseat,” he said.

Roxanne joined us on the sidewalk and opened the rear door. “Wait a minute.” She snatched my wallet out of my hand, dropped it into her purse and took out a man’s necktie.

“Hands behind your back. Wrists together,” she said.

While Light held the gun on me, Roxanne tied my hands tightly.

I asked sarcastically, “Did the hardware store run out of duct tape?” I was pleased I’d been able to keep a tremor out of my voice.

“Silk ties don’t leave a trace,” she said.

“People who watch
CSI
make it tough on us hostages.”

“You won’t be a hostage for long.” Light gave a raspy chuckle.

There was no one to hear me scream. No possibility of overpowering this man whose tone communicated his hatred of me. Sandwiched between two probable killers, I did as I was told. The way our bodies were positioned on the far side of the car, even if drivers going by glanced at us, they couldn’t have seen what was happening.

With Light facing me now, I saw the weapon in his hand was a Glock. An easy pistol to recognize. Mack had had one. I’d given it to John after Mack died.

Light had a heavy plaster bandage over his broken nose. The hatred I’d heard in his voice was visible in his eyes. His pupils were constricted; I wondered if he was high on pain pills. Those eyes frightened me more than the gun he pointed at me.

Roxanne pushed me into the backseat. Light climbed in close beside me. Roxanne got behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and accelerated out into the empty street.

Using his free hand, Light buckled the seat belt around me.

I made my inflection humorous. “So you don’t want me to get hurt before you murder me?”

“Shut your smart mouth before I shut it for you.”

The car was a heavy sedan, a late model something. Dark blue outside. Pale blue interior. Full size. Luxurious. This wasn’t either of the vehicles I’d seen at the Redding house: not Alec’s black SUV, nor Roxanne’s tan Lexus. I don’t know what Light drove, but they surely wouldn’t stage a kidnapping and murder in a car that they owned. This vehicle must either have been stolen, or rented. I hoped it was a rental because I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t kill me in a car that could be traced back to one of them.

Could I have avoided getting into this mess? I didn’t think so. If I had seen a man driving the car that rear-ended mine, I wouldn’t have gotten out of the Jeep to exchange information. Not at night, on a street with few other vehicles. I would have made sure my doors were locked and called nine-one-one—or, if I had sensed danger—I would have driven away fast to the nearest police station to report the accident and explain why I was afraid to stay at the scene. If possible, I would have memorized the offending car’s front plate number. If I couldn’t do that—if there was no front plate, or if my vision had been obscured—then I would have paid for the necessary repair myself. That was a better choice than having my insurance rates go up, and a
much
better choice than getting out of my car at night on a quiet street to talk to a strange man.