The Proof is in the Pudding (29 page)

I settled the two partners at the kitchen table with mugs of fresh coffee and a basket of muffins when the doorbell rang. It had to be the last of the Sumitteers.

As soon as I opened the front door, the delightful aroma of fresh bagels hit me. Nicholas shifted the big Junior’s bag he carried to one side and leaned down to give me a quick kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I made it a point to come last,” he said. “No need to raise O’Hara’s Irish by having him think I’d spent the night here.”

“Will you stop this nonsense about John? You and I have nothing to hide. I’ve told you at least a dozen times that John is my friend, and
only
my friend.”

“I believe you,” Nicholas said. “But I’m sure that if he were free he’d marry you in one minute flat.”

“Not without my permission,” I said. “I love John, in the same way I love Eileen and Shannon and the Marshalls.”

“You didn’t mention me,” Nicholas said.

“No, I didn’t.”

I took the Junior’s bag from him and started toward the kitchen.

The detectives and the reporter exchanged polite greetings. I unpacked the bagels, arranged the goodies on a platter, and set it in the middle of the table.

Surveying the spread, John nodded at Nicholas. “Thanks.”

“We’ve got four kinds of bagels: onion, garlic, cheese, and pumpernickel,” I told John and Weaver. “And at least a pound of lox and a tub of cream cheese.”

Weaver smacked his lips. “What are the rest of you going to eat?” He took two halves of a garlic bagel, slathered cream cheese on the surfaces, topped them off with slices of lox, and said to Nicholas, “I’m almost getting to like you.”

“Great love stories have started on a less promising note than that,” Nicholas said wryly.

The bagel stopped an inch away from Weaver’s mouth. “Hey! What are you implying?”

“It was a joke,” John said. “Chew.”

When breakfast was consumed, I refilled the men’s coffee mugs. No more for myself; I’d had enough caffeine. I’d been up since five to do my pet care chores and make the muffins.

John stood and started to clear the table. Nicholas was just behind him and began picking up dishes. Working in tandem, but silently, it took them less than two minutes to rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher.

Weaver watched them with an expression that was about as close to a good-humored smile as he got. “Who says you can’t get good help nowadays?”

When John and Nicholas came back to the table, I said, “Time to call this meeting to order.” I indicated the guest lists. “I’ve gone over all these names and the photos with Eileen. She told me she never met any of these people, and that the only ones she ever heard Ingram mention were Yvette Dupree and Eugene Long. According to Eileen, Ingram disliked the two of them intensely. She said Ingram called Long a vindictive drunk and said he was a crook who deserved to be in jail, but he wasn’t specific.”

I told them about Yvette coming to see me at the cooking school on Saturday.

“She said she thought a jealous woman killed Ingram, and she’s worried that Eugene Long’s daughter, Tina, might be in danger because Ingram had asked Tina to marry him and she’d accepted.” I left out the part about Yvette thinking that the jealous woman was Eileen.

“Yvette acted as though she’s very close to Tina,” I said, “but she dropped that subject the moment I told her about the attempt on Roland Gray’s life.”

“You shouldn’ta done that,” Weaver said, shaking his head.

“The chief’s managed to keep a lid on it,” John said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But her immediate reaction was interesting. All she asked me was if Roland was alone. I told her that I’d been with him, and then she rushed off. I didn’t tell her what hospital he was in, but later that afternoon I saw her leaving St. Clare’s. She must have found out where Roland was and went to see him. She left in a taxi.”

I pushed the piece of paper from Liddy’s notepad toward Weaver. “This is the number of the cab that picked her up at three thirty yesterday afternoon. I’m sure you can find out where the driver took her.”

John said, “If Hatch finds out you talked to Gray before he—”

“I didn’t talk to him. I admit that’s what I’d intended to do, but I found out Roland left the hospital, accompanied by two men. From their descriptions, one of them sounded like Roland’s assistant, Will Parker. The other was a big man who was dressed like a chauffeur.”

I handed the guest lists to John and to Weaver.

Indicating the pages, Nicholas said, “That’s not everyone who attended. Three people bought tickets at the door that night. They paid by check.”

Nicholas removed a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it between the two detectives. “The first two people on that list are legitimate. That third name, George Green, is a phony. The check was bogus. I don’t mean it was rubber. What I’m saying is that the account doesn’t exist. Somebody designed and printed the check. The ticket people were so busy that none of them remembers what the guy looked like.”

“At least we know the mystery person was a man,” I said.

“But we don’t know whether he just wanted to get in free, or if he went there to kill Ingram,” Weaver said.

“He didn’t just forge someone’s name on a check,” I said. “He went to all the trouble of creating a fake personal check and account number, which suggests to me that he was there for something more important than watching celebrities cook.”

John nodded. “I agree with Della. If we find that man, we’ll have our killer.”

“No description, and by now there hasta be dozens of prints on that check,” Weaver said. “Finding him, we got about a snowball’s chance in a haystack.”

I refused to be discouraged. “We know more than we did the night Ingram was murdered.” I looked at John and Weaver. “What have the police found out?”

“Not much,” John said. “Apparently, there’s no connection between that actor who did the juggling—Wolf Wheeler— and Ingram. Wheeler’s pretty well-known as a compulsive performer whenever he can corral an audience.”

“He’s got a rep for jumping up on the stage in Vegas during other people’s acts,” Weaver said. “Not all of them like it. I got the feeling that some of ’em wouldn’t be surprised if it had been Wheeler who got offed instead of Ingram.”

“I’ve been doing background checks on the people who were in closest physical proximity to Ingram when he was stabbed,” Nicholas said. “One of the things I did was go back through the past eight years of Ingram’s
Chronicle
columns. He wrote two negative reviews of Yvette Dupree’s
Global Gourmet
books, and, up until a few months ago, he slammed the restaurants in Gene Long’s hotel. Then he suddenly did a one-eighty. Lately he started sucking up in print, giving glowing mentions to those same restaurants that he used to call ‘insults to the educated palate.’ In one piece he accused Long’s executive chef of ‘a criminal misuse of the gift of fire.’ ”

“Roland Gray and Ingram had a history,” I said. “I think that if I’d had a little more time I could have gotten him to tell me about it. Just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me he was afraid of Ingram. He said he thought that Ingram was going to try to harm
him
.”

“That might be a reason for Gray to strike first,” John said, “except that somebody shot at Gray after Ingram was already dead and no more threat to anyone.”

“We’re going around in a circle,” Weaver said. He reached for the last muffin in the basket and took a large bite.

I pulled my notepad closer and turned to a fresh page. “Then let’s break out of that circle. Let’s list what we know about Ingram and his associations, both those on the premises the night he was killed, and others who might have hired someone to kill him.”

John indicated my sheet of paper. “Start with Eugene Long and Long’s daughter, Tina.”

I wrote.

“Yvette Dupree,” Nicholas said. I added her name.

Weaver grunted and pointed to the paper. “John and you.” He looked at his partner. “Sorry, buddy, but you did slug the bastard. And we know you broke into his house, Della.”

My pen remained poised over the page. “You can’t really think of John and me as suspects.”

“Hatch is thinking like that,” Weaver said. “But okay, scratch your names and put down Roland Gray.”

I did. “And I’m going to add the phony name, George Green, as a ‘placeholder’ until we find out who he really is.”

“This is one of those ‘locked room’ mysteries,” Nicholas said. “A smoke bomb goes off in a ballroom with only one entrance and a guard posted there.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “There were two ways to get into that room. You’re forgetting the door to the kitchen.”

Weaver stood up. “We questioned the waitstaff, but only the ones who were in the ballroom when the smoke bomb went off. I’m gonna go track down the all kitchen workers, find out if they saw somebody in the kitchen who shouldn’ta been there.”

“I’m going to call a friend at Interpol to see if they have a file on Gray,” John said.

Within a few minutes, I was showing the two detectives to the front door.

When I started back toward the kitchen, Nicholas met me in the hallway. Gently, he drew me into his arms and kissed me. Not so gently. Our arms tightened around each other, our lips parted. We kissed deeply. I felt my heart begin to beat faster.

Nicholas grabbed my hand and led me into the bedroom.

“I thought you would rather play gin or Scrabble,” I said.

His answer was to pull me around toward him. He tugged my sweater up over my head, dropped it on the floor, and unhooked my bra. “Shut up,” he whispered.

An hour later, Nicholas and I were luxuriating in each other’s arms after making love, when his cell phone rang. He reached across me to the night table, grabbed it, and squinted at the faceplate.

“The paper.” He pressed the answer button. “Yeah? . . . How many? . . . Address? . . . I’m on my way.”

Nicholas snapped the phone shut. “Three people shot in Long Beach. I hate to kiss and run, but . . .” He gave me a quick peck on the lips, fairly bounded out of bed, and snatched up his clothes from where he’d scattered them.

By the time I’d showered, dressed, and taken Tuffy for a walk, it was still half an hour before noon. I found the card that Will Parker gave me the night I’d met him at St. Clare’s Hospital and, for the first time, gave it more than a cursory glance.

Beneath his name were the letters “NID? WCD.” I had no idea what those letters stood for, but I like puzzles and would try to work it out. Below that acronym he’d listed his cell phone and fax numbers, both of which were in the Los Angeles area code 310. A third phone number started with what I recognized as the international code for England. In the bottom right-hand corner was his e-mail: WillDo@
swiftmail.com
. No address was listed on terra firma.

The “Will” and “Do” in his e-mail address made me think that the W and the D on his card might be “Will” and “Do.” But the “C” in between . . . ?

“Can! I’ll bet that word is Can: ‘Will Can Do.’ ” Assuming that I was right, then I must give the credit to Eileen for making me watch
Wheel of Fortune
on TV throughout her childhood.

I dialed Parker’s cell number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Will. This is Della Carmichael. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Could’na called at a better time. I’m losing at bloody backgammon. Gimme a sec.”

I heard what sounded like the creak of a chair and then footsteps.

“Back again,” he said. “Out on the balcony where I can talk.”

“How is Roland? I found out he left the hospital.”

“Blasted ’ospital! Old Rol was goin’ bonkers with people comin’ an’ goin’ at all times. Thought any moment ’e was gonna get shot at again.”

Parker lowered his voice. I pictured him looking around to be sure he was alone. “The bloke is scared out of ’is wits—’ad me get a bodyguard and bring ’im ’ome. We went to ground, so to speak.”

“Where are you now?”

“At Rollie’s flat. Gates across the driveway. Gorgons at the doors. Security up the arse—excuse the expression.”

“Has Detective Hatch questioned Roland yet?”

“Not bloomin’ likely. Rol played possum when the copper came round. I said ’e was still unconscious.”

“I’d like to visit him. Would that be all right? I promise not to stay very long.”

Silence. It lasted a few seconds, and I let it. Finally, Parker said, “Not today, poppet. Rol’s writing on ’is book. Give ’im a couple days to get ’is sea legs again.” Parker chuckled. “Some of us Limeys take gettin’ shot at better than others.”

I gasped. “You were shot at? When?”

“Ah, was a turtle’s age ago. In the military, where blokes expect to get shot at. Look, poppet, why don’t you come over tomorrow, for tea. Ol’ Rol writes until sixteen ’undred, then ’e likes a tucker.”