If she’d sensed my irritation, she was unfazed by it, and unapologetic. “I had some time today, so I thought I’d take a chance. If you’re busy right now I’ll just sit down and wait until you finish what you’re doing. But I’d love to observe you in action. May I come in?”
Trapped. It seemed unlikely that I could get rid of her without turning her into an enemy. Because Phil Logan had arranged the interview, albeit not for today, and because I know it’s important to keep good relations with the press, I decided to make the best of this situation. Also, she worked for the same paper that Nicholas did and they might be friends. “All right,” I said.
I opened the door wider and moved aside to let her enter, but she’d taken only the first step when she gasped and pulled her shoulder bag tight against her chest. She was staring at Tuffy, who stood just behind me.
“That’s a big dog! Does he bite?”
Only people who arrive at my house a week early. That’s what I wanted to say, but I restrained myself. “Give me your hand,” I said.
I could see she didn’t want to, but she did. I gave her points for grit.
“Hey, Tuffy,” I said. “This is Gretchen. She’s a nice person.” That statement was more a matter of hope than knowledge, but I guided her fingers close to Tuffy’s nose so he could sniff her. She either passed the Tuffy test, or he took the warm tone of my voice to mean that she wasn’t a threat. He wagged his rear end and I let go of her hand.
“Come in, Ms. Tully,” I said.
“Call me Gretchen.”
“Gretchen. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”
“Coffee, thanks. Do you have anything to munch? I missed lunch. I know that’s a nervy request . . .”
“It’s not a problem. I’d rather you told me than have you be uncomfortable. Now that you mention it, I realize I haven’t had any, either. I’ve been doing phone interviews with radio shows. Come back to the kitchen.”
As we passed through the living room, she stopped. “Oh, wait. Is that a picture of your husband on the mantel?”
“Yes, is it. His name was Mack. Why?”
“No reason, really. I just heard you were the widow of a policeman.”
Even though I don’t have any embarrassing secrets, it always made me a little uncomfortable when I learned that people were talking about my personal life. But I supposed it was natural for Gretchen Tully to find out what she could about my background before she interviewed me about the show and our bake sales for charity promotion.
In the kitchen, Tuffy trotted over to his bed. I invited her to sit at the table.
“Let me see what I can put together.”
“I’m a vegetarian, so any kind of salad would be great.”
“You’re an easy guest. Just this morning I picked some tomatoes and fresh basil from the little garden I put in out back.” I opened the refrigerator door. Surveying the contents, I saw a few items that gave me an idea. “Are you willing to try a vegetarian dish I’ve never made before?”
“I’m game,” she said. “Can we talk while you do whatever you’re going to do?”
By “talk,” I knew she meant “interview.”
I put a mug in front of her, along with sugar, sweeteners, and a small pitcher of half-and-half. “The coffee’s right over there,” I said, indicating the Mr. Coffee machine. “It’s fresh. Please help yourself.”
She did. I’d washed the tomatoes and basil leaves right after I picked them this morning, so I put a handful of basil and three tomatoes on my workspace, took three red potatoes from the vegetable bin, washed them, cut them in half so they’d cook faster, put them in a pot, covered them with salted water, and turned the flame to boil.
Gretchen Tully brought her mug of coffee over to watch me.
During the few minutes it would take for the potatoes to become fork-tender, I seeded the tomatoes, cut them into chunks, tore the basil leaves into pieces, chopped up some black olives and flat-leaf Italian parsley, sliced half a red onion, cut half a loaf of French bread into cubes, and put it all together in a wooden salad bowl.
“That looks good already. I love the smell of fresh tomatoes. What are you making?”
“Tomato-Potato Panzanella. It’s a vegetable bread salad. Why don’t you ask your questions while I work?”
She went back to the table and pulled a small recorder from her handbag.
“Do you mind if I record our interview?”
“Not at all. But wait a minute.” I dried my hands on a paper towel, opened my “catchall” drawer and took out an old microcassette recorder of my own. “We’ll both record it,” I said.
She frowned. “Are you going to tell me that you’re doing this in case my recorder breaks down?”
I smiled. “It’s because this way we’ll both have a record of what I said. Not that I expect you to misquote me. The Chronicle has a reputation for accuracy in its reporting.”
“With so many papers cutting staff, I’m lucky they hired me, but I had good clips and they’re moving toward a younger perspective.”
What does that mean? And is it going to be bad for Nicholas?
“Did you always want to be a journalist?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My original plan was to join the FBI, but that didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“Too many layers of bureaucracy. Too long before I’d be assigned any cases.” She sipped some coffee, gazing into the mug.
With the potatoes bubbling on the stove behind me, I began whisking together extra virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar with a clove of minced garlic, a little salt, and some black pepper.
“I read your bio. We can skip over the fact that your dad was a veterinarian, your mom and two sisters are accountants in San Francisco, you run a cooking school in Santa Monica, and that a year ago you were hired, without any TV experience, to host a cable show that’s become very popular. Unless any of that isn’t true.”
“It’s all accurate,” I said.
“How did you get your TV break?”
“One of my cooking school students, Iva Jordan, was the wife—I mean, she still is the wife—of Mickey Jordan, the man who owns the Better Living Channel. When he decided to replace the previous cooking show host, Iva recommended me. I auditioned and got the job. It was good luck for me, because they needed someone right away, and my years of teaching made talking to the cameras easy. I just imagined I was explaining cooking techniques and recipe tricks to a room full of students.”
The potatoes were done. I was carrying the pot to the sink to drain them when Gretchen Tully abruptly changed course.
“Everybody at the paper knows you and Nick D’ Martino have a thing going on. You know him so well, why do you think he killed Alec Redding?”
I set the pot down so hard that if my sink hadn’t been stainless steel I would have chipped the enamel. “What?”
“I asked, Why—”
“I heard the question. My answer is that I do not believe for one minute that he had anything at all to do with Redding’s death.” I gestured to our recorders. “You have that statement on tape. Now tell me why you’re so quick to condemn him? He’s not some stranger—he’s your colleague.”
“If by colleague you mean ‘fellow reporter,’ he’s not anymore. He’s been put on the rewrite desk. The boss doesn’t want anybody else in the media getting to him, at least not until after he’s arrested. When he’s in police custody we won’t be able to keep him to ourselves anymore.”
I took a deep breath to control my anger and said calmly, “He’s not going to be arrested because he’s innocent.”
“You can repeat it like a mantra, swear it on a Bible, but the truth is that D’Martino was in the house alone when you came and found the man’s body,” she said. “He’s the cops’ primo person of interest.”
“Who told you that?”
She puffed out her chest. “I can’t reveal my source.”
She said “source.” Singular. I could
n’t believe it was either John or Weaver. Maybe Officer Downey or Willis?
I wanted to know who was leaking information, but for Nicholas’s sake, I couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Gretchen Tully. Somehow, I had to turn her into an ally. I put a friendly smile on my face.
“You’re right. Of course you shouldn’t reveal a source. Besides, I thought you were here to write about my TV show’s national bake sales project. What would you like to know about that?”
“Nothing.” She grimaced with distaste. “Your big bake whatever was the subject before this murder, when I was stuck in the Home and Family ghetto. But with the staff cuts and now that D’Martino’s sidelined, I’m getting my shot at crime reporting.”
You have a lot to learn, Ms. Tully, about getting people to reveal information. Don’t use an ax to open a bottle of milk.
I composed my face into an expression of sympathy. “This is an important opportunity for you, I understand, and I feel bad because you’re not exploiting it to the fullest.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re locking yourself into only one theory of the crime. What happens if evidence surfaces that exonerates Nicholas D’Martino? If you’re concentrating only on him you’ll miss getting a great scoop because you weren’t looking for the real killer.”
Her forehead creased in thought.
The red potatoes were cool enough to handle. I cut them into chunks, added them to the bowl with the other ingredients, and tossed the vegetables with the simple vinaigrette dressing I’d made.
She said speculatively, “If D’Martino didn’t kill Redding . . .”
“Then somebody else did. That’s your real story.”
I dished the Tomato-Potato Panzanella salad into two pasta bowls and set them on our place mats. I put out the cutlery and gestured for her to sit.
“You wanted to join the FBI, so you must have an urge to investigate,” I said. “Use it. Think what a coup it will be if you solve the murder before the police do.”
I saw her eyes begin to glow with excitement.
I said, “As soon as you’ve had something to eat, to get your brain cells in gear, why not start digging into Alec Redding’s life and find out who might have wanted him dead?”
After saying that my Tomato-Potato Panzanella “rocked,” Gretchen Tully left the house full of an investigator’s zeal. I felt a stab of apprehension. I had set her on a path that I hoped would help clear Nicholas of suspicion, but what if the information she turned up made his situation worse?
John O’Hara’s voice echoed in my head: Stay out of police business.
Tuffy nudged me for an ear scratch.
“I can’t stay out of this case,” I whispered.
Tuffy must have caught the tone of worry in my voice, because he leaned against me and nuzzled his silky face into the palm of my hand.
21
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, a little less than an hour after Gretchen Tully left my house, and the time that Olivia Wayne had said she could spare a few minutes to talk to me. She told me to meet her at Moonstone’s, a café on Century Park East in Century City, a block south of her law office.
I got there a little early, took one of the two booths in the rear, and positioned myself so that I faced the door. Moonstone’s was small and clean, with a counter to the left of the entrance, tables at the front window and along the right side. The space was anchored in the back by the pair of booths. The decor was glass and chrome, with black Formica tabletops, black vinyl chair backs and banquettes. Framed black-and-white photos lined the walls: stills from old movies starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, dancing in art deco splendor.
The café was nearly deserted. A young couple, a man and a woman, occupied seats at the counter, drinking coffee and talking softly with their heads close together. An older man sat alone at a table near the front, reading the New York Times. He had a half-eaten sandwich in front of him.
I had just ordered a cup of coffee when I saw Olivia Wayne enter.
Saw her? She was impossible to miss.
Hurricane Olivia swept through the heavy glass and chrome front door with the authority of a gale force wind. From the smiles and waves with which the counterman and the waitress greeted her, it wasn’t hard to guess that she was a regular here, and that she probably tipped well.
Olivia returned their smiles as she headed toward me. Just as she slid onto the opposite banquette, the waitress appeared with pad in hand.
“Hi, there. What can I get for you today?”
Olivia ignored the plastic-covered menu in a metal holder between the salt and pepper shakers and the bowl of artificial sweeteners.
“Bacon cheeseburger with avocado and tomato, no onion, no pickle. And coffee,” she said.
“Fries?”
“Of course.”
“You got it.” The waitress turned to me. “Are you ready to order yet?”
“Just this coffee.”
“I’m ravenous,” Olivia said as the waitress hurried to the kitchen. “No lunch, and probably no dinner.”
She put her black leather handbag on the seat next to her and shrugged out of her dark blue Armani suit jacket, revealing a pale blue silk shell underneath. Her only jewelry was a strand of what were unmistakably real pearls. No earrings. No rings on her long fingers, nails perfectly manicured and finished with colorless polish. Her watch had a black leather band. Its large face was turned to the inside of her wrist, allowing her to check the time without being obvious about it.
“What did you learn from Celeste?” I asked.
“I’ll get to that. First the crime-scene news: Nick’s prints are not on the stool that was used to bash in Redding’s skull. Nobody’s were.”
“Somebody wiped it clean.” I was immediately embarrassed that I’d stated the obvious. Before she could say “Duh” or something equally as derisive, I said, “No prints on the murder weapon means that the only thing tying Nicholas to the crime is his finding the body. That’s good.”
She grimaced. “Did the Pollyanna-bug bite you in your cradle?”
I snapped back at her. “Being nasty is not a good use of your valuable time.”
“You’re right.” She expelled a breath. “My disposition is rotten when I go too long without eating.”
“I accept your apology,” I said.
A corner of her lips lifted in a hint of a smile. “You’re tougher than you look.”
“ ‘Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it,’ ” I quoted.
“Fortune cookie?”
“Shakespeare. When I was in the public school system I used to try to teach Shakespeare, as well as good grammar, to pre-felons.”
“Nick told me you stopped being the pretty little schoolmarm when some hard case took a shot at you.”
“Not every career path runs smoothly,” I said. “Now, please, tell me about the police interview with Celeste.”
She shook her head. “Not good.” But before she could elaborate, the waitress returned with her order. She put the large plate down, and filled Olivia’s coffee cup and refilled mine from the pot she carried in her other hand.
Olivia lifted the top part of the bun, added a few shakes of salt and a squirt of catsup, then picked up the burger and took a bite. She closed her eyes and made an mmmm sound that comes from happy dining, or good sex.
I watched, fascinated. It was a big, juicy burger. I expected that at any moment her silk shell was going to acquire some serious staining. But she ate a full third of the burger before putting it down, and without getting even the tiniest spot on her blouse.
How did she manage it? If I ate that wearing good clothes, I’d look like a Jackson Pollock drip canvas.
Olivia blotted her lips, picked up a French fry, and took a bite. “Bad news from the police interrogation of Celeste. She said she hadn’t seen her father all evening. Worse, she said she went to the hotel to stay with her mother because she was afraid Nick was angry with her.�
��
I felt a cold lump of dread form in my stomach. “Naturally, John asked her why . . .”
“And she said it was because of ‘the picture.’ O’Hara jumped on that like a hungry cat on a fat, sleepy mouse. Celeste started to cry. Frankly, I think it was an act, but she managed to produce real tears. She described the picture she’d posed for—the one you told me about, nearly naked with a pie—and sniffled that she’d meant it as a joke, but now everybody was so upset. Boo hoo.”
“She said ‘everybody.’ Meaning that her mother, and maybe even the prince, were angry at Redding?”
“That was my argument, but O’Hara and Weaver didn’t see it that way. They want to question Nick again. I agreed that I’d have him back at the West LA station at six o’clock tonight. That’s why I’m sure I’m not going to get any dinner.” She started in on the burger again. “By the way, that party of four in the Presidential Suite has been ordered to stay in town for at least the next five days. Thanks for the tip that they were planning to fly away.”
“Here’s another one. There’s a back elevator in the Presidential Suite that goes straight down to the underground garage. Any one of them—Celeste, Tanis, or Prince Freddie—could have left the hotel the night of Redding’s murder without being seen.”
“It’s our good luck that nobody in this case so far has a solid alibi.” She smiled at me, and I saw to my dismay that not only hadn’t she stained her blouse, but she managed to eat a big, sloppy burger without getting food stuck in her teeth.
Well, Olivia Wayne may be able to eat with gusto and leave no trace, but I have Nicholas.
I think.
I hope.
He hadn’t called since we’d said good-bye last night at the police station. My feelings were a tangled mix of sympathy for what he was going through and anger that our relationship might not be important enough for him to reach out to me.
I resolved to sort through my emotions later.
Whether Nicholas D’Martino and I would remain a couple was immaterial. Right now, I had to do whatever I could to save him from being arrested for murder.
Pie A La Murder Page 12