Six fifty-nine PM. I tied the white chef’s apron around my waist. Through the earpiece concealed under my hair, I heard the familiar voice of my director. “Thirty seconds, Della.”
“I’m ready.”
My theme music began to play. On the small backstage TV monitor I saw the program’s logo. In my ear I heard the director’s countdown begin.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
I came out from backstage, smiled, and waved at the audience.
“. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”
Taking my place behind the prep counter, I surveyed the audience. In the semidarkness, I saw that the two seats beside Liddy were still empty.
“. . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”
The audience door opened. In the sudden slice of bright light from the lobby, I saw George escorting two figures who hurried in and took the seats next to Liddy.
The man in my life and his long-lost daughter had arrived.
“. . . one. Go!” Theme music faded down.
“Hi, everybody. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della. I’m Della Carmichael, and tonight is all about dessert. I’m going to show you how really easy—and how much cheaper—it is to bake your own pies. We’ll be making three that use the least expensive ingredients: apple, lemon meringue, and chocolate cream. If you like cherry or pecan pies, just realize that those ingredients are pricier.”
I held up a basket of green apples. “So let’s get cooking. Granny Smith or Pippin apples are the best to use for pies. These are Pippins. You’ll need at least six for a nine-inch pie, but I use eight because I like to stack the slices high.”
I measured granulated sugar into a mixing bowl and picked up a jar of cinnamon. “I use a lot of ground cinnamon.” I put in two teaspoons. “And a tablespoon of all-purpose flour for a little thickening. Mix this up and set it aside until we’re ready to combine it with our apples.”
As I peeled, cored, and sliced, I said, “Pies have been around for thousands of years. Really. The ancient Egyptians kept detailed records and many of them mention pies. The Egyptians filled theirs with honey and fruits and nuts. The ancient Greeks liked what the Egyptians were doing and took recipes home with them. Ancient Romans were so enthusiastic about pies that they made offerings of pie to their gods. A pie was originally a simple cooking and serving container. The crusts were pretty hard. At that time, when a pie had a top crust it was known as a coffin. If a pie didn’t have a top crust, it was called a trap. . . .”
When the voice in my ear told me it was time for the first commercial, I said, “We’ve got to take a little break. I’ll just keep slicing apples, and when I come back I’ll show you how to make a piecrust so light and tasty that there won’t be any of it left on the plate. I experimented the other day and combined the Crisco I ordinarily use with chunks of cold, unsalted butter. Don’t worry if you can’t write down the amounts because you’ll find all the recipes on my Web site.”
During that break, and the next three, I kept busy organizing for the following segment. While I frequently lifted my head to smile at the audience, I scanned what I could see of their faces without giving special attention to my three guests. I wished I could get a good look at Celeste, but it wasn’t possible because her head was either turned to her father, or she was listening to something Liddy was saying.
The live hour shows usually went by fast for me, but this one seemed to last an eternity. I wanted it to be over so I could see Nicholas to get a sense of how he was feeling, and to meet Celeste.
Finally, the last segment. My eight-inch-high apple pie was out of the oven, the meringue on the lemon meringue had been lightly browned, and the chocolate-cream filling poured into its baked pie shell to cool.
After the cameras took their “beauty shots” of the pies, I began bringing those I’d made at home forward to the prep counter. “The pies I baked right here aren’t quite ready to eat, but I brought the ones I made at home today so you could all have a taste.”
As prearranged, I saw Phil’s two young male interns come down from the control booth with serving trays and make their way carefully over the electrical cables on the floor and toward the set.
I greeted the boys and turned back to the audience. “Meet Jerry and Cliff. They are about to be the most popular people on the show tonight, because they’re going to pass among you with wedges of pie for you to taste. While they’re getting the slices ready, I have an announcement to make.”
Jada Powell moved Camera Two in for a close up of my face.
“The Better Living Channel has allowed In the Kitchen with Della to sponsor a National Bake Sale for teams of four. The objective will be to raise money for the good cause or charity of their choice. The team that bakes the best goodies and donates the most money by the day before Thanksgiving will win an all-expenses-paid trip to Hollywood.”
While I outlined the details that Phil and I had discussed, and that he’d had Mickey Jordan approve, Jerry and Cliff loaded the trays with paper plates of pie and baskets of forks and napkins. “Details of this contest will be up on the Web site tonight. So pull out those recipes, heat up your ovens, and start planning what you can do this holiday season for people in need.”
As I finished the announcement, Jada pulled the camera back to show me loading up a tray of my own.
“Okay, folks,” I said. “Let’s start tasting.”
Lights were turned full up on the audience. The cameras followed Jerry, Cliff, and me into the audience with our trays. End credits rolled as people in the audience began to taste the pies.
Thank God—they’re not clutching their stomachs in pain.
I’d made it a point to do my distributing at the opposite end of the audience from where Nicholas, Celeste, and Liddy were sitting.
Finally, the show was over and most of the audience began to leave the studio. I had been chatting with some of the people closest to me, thanking them for coming to the show, and—this was still a surprise to me—signing a few pieces of paper. For years the only time my autograph had been requested was on a credit-card slip.
I was back at the prep counter, instructing Jerry and Cliff about putting aside plates of pie for Angie and the security guards when I heard Liddy’s voice behind me.
“That was a great show—and the pies were so good they were positively evil.”
She was accompanied by Nicholas—who, I was thankful to see, was beaming—and an exquisite girl with perfectly spaced features, large brown eyes, and hair the color of corn silk. A little taller than my five foot seven and considerably more slender, she looked like an artist’s rendering of a princess from a fairy tale. She was so beautiful it was almost jaw-dropping.
My first thought was that her mother must have been beautiful, too.
And probably still was.
Nicholas introduced us.
“Hello. I’m glad to meet you, Celeste. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“You seem to cook quite well,” she said. Her voice was soft and had the tiniest trace of an accent—one that I’d heard before, in film clips of Grace Kelly after she married the ruler of Monaco, or Madonna right after she married a British movie director. A mid-Atlantic accent, it was called. Although Celeste’s words were inoffensive, there was a suggestion of superiority in her tone.
This eighteen-year-old girl, this breathtaking vision, was being condescending to me, and it didn’t look as though Nicholas had noticed.
I felt the first trickle of the “choppy waters” Liddy had predicted lapping against my feet.
4
Liddy must have caught the girl’s tone, too, because she filled the momentary silence with bright enthusiasm. “Why don’t the four of us go out to dinner?”
Celeste frowned.
Nicholas said, “We’ll do that soon, but tonight I promised to take Celeste around to check out some of the hot clubs.”
“Hot” was not a word I’d ever heard Nicholas use about an establishment. I suspected
the only reasons a teenage girl would want her father to take her out were that she didn’t have a car, and didn’t yet know anyone else.
“I’ve got to tell you something exciting, Del,” Liddy said. “Celeste wants to be an actress.”
“You certainly are beautiful enough for movies,” I told Celeste. “Liddy’s an actress.”
Celeste looked at Liddy with interest. “What have I seen you in?”
“Most recently, I was the passenger in first class sitting next to Brad Pitt in Flight Path. I hid his revolver so the terrorists wouldn’t see he had one and realize he was an air marshal.”
“Oh,” she said, losing interest fast.
Liddy was undaunted by Celeste’s unenthusiastic response. “Della and I are going to the Hollywood Film Society luncheon tomorrow. Major people in the movie industry are always there. We’d like you to come with us, Celeste.”
This plan was news to me.
Suddenly animated, Celeste said, “I’d really like to start meeting people.”
“That’s nice of you.” Nicholas’s tone was pleasant, and he smiled at Liddy and me, but I could see that the smile didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
I wondered if he’d known about Celeste’s desire to be an actress before tonight. I didn’t think he would be pleased. Nicholas had told me stories about what he called the “girls around town” who thought their good looks were a no-limit Visa card. Very few of those actress-wannabes had happy endings with the Hollywood men who used them.
Later, in my Jeep on the way home, Liddy said, “You should have seen Nick’s face when he heard Celeste tell me she wanted to be an actress. He looked as though he’d just been sucker punched.”
“She has the looks.” My newly awakened suspicious nature made me think that she could act, too—at least offscreen. I prayed silently that she was sincere in wanting to be with her father, and that she hadn’t come here only because he lived in Hollywood.
“What’s this about the Film Society luncheon?” I asked. “You’d never mentioned it to me. And don’t you have to buy tickets in advance?”
“I go every year, but as soon as you told me about the daughter coming to town I bought two more tickets. She’ll have the excitement of seeing some famous faces, and I thought if she believed it was both our ideas it might help your relationship with her.”
“That’s very generous of you, but I don’t want to buy her goodwill toward me.”
“Don’t be silly. Stepparents do it all the time. Once Celeste gets to know you, she’ll love you for yourself, but there’s no reason not to use whatever we can to start things off on the right foot. Between Bill’s celebrity patients, our social life, and what I laughingly call my own career, I do have a few important contacts. Tomorrow, when we’re at the luncheon, I’ll introduce Celeste to some people who could help her. She might even”—Liddy made quote marks in the air—“ ‘be discovered’!”
At my house, Liddy picked up her Range Rover and drove to her home in Beverly Hills, taking with her the big piece of apple pie I’d saved for Bill, her husband of twenty-plus years.
Using the remote control clipped to my sun visor, I opened the garage to put my Jeep away and saw that the little red VW wasn’t there. It belonged to Eileen O’Hara, my semipermanent houseguest and partner in our walk-in and mail-order business, Della’s Sweet Dreams. Eileen had lived with me for much of her life, during her mother’s periods of mental illness. Now, thankfully, Shannon was on medication that kept her stable, but because Eileen and I worked together, Eileen still spent most nights at my house. I really hadn’t expected to see her car there; usually on Thursday evenings she did the inventory with our store’s manager and made up the list of what needed to be ordered.
As usual, Tuffy and Emma were in the living room, waiting for me. I greeted them both with affectionate petting, and checked their food and water bowls to see what needed refilling. After changing into my “Tuffy-walking” shoes, fastening his leash to his collar, and slipping the house key, my cell phone, and plastic bags into my pockets, Tuffy and I went out into the crisp night air.
While Tuffy decided which bush, tree, or patch of city grass was worthy of his attention, and I scooped up anything he deposited, I thought about Nicholas.
When I first met him, Nicholas had been dating a succession of twenty-something blondes. Seeing Celeste tonight had been a bit of a shock because she was a slightly younger version of those young women he had dated. I wondered if he had been drawn to blondes before he and I fell in love because they resembled his ex-wife. Had he been trying to recapture what he’d lost? Liddy’s question, “Does he still have feelings for her?” came back to me.
Inside my pocket, I felt my cell phone vibrate.
Before I saw the caller ID I knew it was Nicholas.
“Hey, babe. Where are you?”
“Enjoying the night air.” I heard loud music in the distance behind his voice. “Where are you?”
“In the parking lot outside Cuba Libre.”
“Isn’t that a drink?”
“We’re on the far side of the generation gap, honey. It’s a Latin dance club Celeste wanted to check out. I miss you.” He made his voice low and husky. “What are you wearing?”
“What I usually wear when I walk Tuffy: a white seethrough nightie, black stockings, a garter belt, and stilettos.”
“I wish I could rush right over.”
“Me, too. How are things going with Celeste?”
“She’s amazing, Del. Speaks four languages.” Pride warmed his voice. I imagined his full lips curling in a genuine smile. “It was a little awkward, because we don’t know each other. I wasn’t happy to find out she wants to be an actress, but she’s serious about it. She told me when they were living in London last year she studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. Probably the best drama school in the world. I would have preferred it if she wanted to go to UCLA, but she’s not one of those empty-headed girls who think they can become stars without bothering to learn the craft.”
I wondered if he was trying to convince me or himself.
Before I had a chance to respond, he said, “I better go back in and check on Celeste. Make sure nobody’s coming on to her.”
“Go ahead.”
“I promise we’ll see each other soon, but you understand that I’ve got to spend as much time as I can right now with my daughter?”
“Of course I do.”
“Until she settles in and learns her way around LA. For one thing, I’ve had to teach her how to drive on our side of the road—she got her driver’s license in England.”
“It’s all right. Really. I agree that you need to get to know each other.”
“I love you,” he said, and disconnected.
“Back at you,” I said to the dead line.
5
On Friday Liddy arrived at my house at noon. Half a minute later, Nicholas drove up with Celeste in the four-door Maserati he’d bought at an FBI confiscation auction.
Celeste looked spectacular in a short brown leather skirt, knee-high brown leather boots, and a sleeveless vest that looked as though it was made out of red fox fur, worn over a cream silk shirt. I hoped the fur was faux—there are some that look amazingly real—but I hadn’t known her long enough to ask, nor to share my negative feelings about wearing real fur south of the Arctic Circle.
As always, Liddy resembled a fashion magazine cover, today in an authentic navy blue Chanel suit, with the also authentic shoes and classic bag.
For my part, I’d put on my best skirt suit: an apple red lightweight wool that I’d bought when Neiman Marcus had one of its rare sales. The suit didn’t have a famous label inside, unless you counted Neiman Marcus, but Liddy had approved of the color and cut. I admit that I did feel pretty. The first time Nicholas saw me wear it, he said I reminded him of Sister Sarah, the Salvation Army heroine in Guys and Dolls, and that the outfit gave him the urge to undo my buttons. I had batted his hands away and told him to wait
until after dinner.
I didn’t expect any such romantic exchange today. When he got out of the car to follow Celeste up my front walk, he addressed all three of us collectively.
“You look gorgeous,” he said. “Who’s driving?”
Liddy raised her hand with the keys to the Range Rover in it. “I am.”
“I’ve got to go to the paper for a while. After the lunch, do you mind taking Celeste back to my place?”
“Not at all.”
He said to Celeste, “I’ll try to get home before you do, but if not, you’ve got a key and your phone and all my numbers?”
“Yes, I do, Daddy. Don’t worry about me.” She gave him a light kiss on the cheek.
Nicholas told us to have fun. With some reluctance, he gave us a good-bye salute and got back into the vehicle I called his silver Batmobile.
Celeste watched him drive away. “He’s going to buy me a car tomorrow. I need one for going to auditions.”
Surprised, I asked, “Oh? Have you met someone in the business?”
“Not yet,” she said.
Behind Celeste’s back, Liddy rolled her eyes. “Then we’d better get going,” she said.
This year’s Hollywood Film Society luncheon was being held in the main ballroom of one of the most glamorous hotels in Southern California, the Olympia Grand, on Wilshire Boulevard, in Westwood. Secretly, I hoped that this location wasn’t a bad omen, because the last time I’d been in the ballroom, a few months ago, it had been the scene of a murder.
Liddy turned off Wilshire Boulevard and steered her Rover into the driveway leading to the hotel’s entrance. A few chauffeured Town Cars—Liddy called them “daytime limos”—and a stream of expensive private vehicles were ahead of us, but the hotel’s parking staff was so efficient that we had to wait only a few minutes before she handed her car over to one of the valets.
Pie A La Murder Page 3