7
Staring at Ingram, I was furious at myself for thinking he was charming when I’d met him several months ago. It had been only a passing thought on my part, but Eileen must have found him fascinating. While he was interviewing us about our fudge business, I was too intent on trying to give him good material for his column to notice her reaction to him. Even if I had been that observant, I couldn’t have guessed how corrupt he was.
When I looked at Keith Ingram now, the image that flashed into my mind was the ugly, concealed picture of the “real” Dorian Gray. And I remembered the warning from The Merchant of Venice: “All that glisters is not gold… gilded tombs do worms infold.”
The worm said, “Hello, Della Carmichael.” Ingram’s voice was as smooth as maple syrup. “I hear we’re going to be judges together.”
“Hello.” My tone was blandly polite.
If he noticed my lack of warmth, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he smiled like a lying politician, and extended his hand in greeting. I pretended that I didn’t see it.
I was fighting the powerful urge to grab the clipboard he had tucked under one arm and bash him over the head with it. But I restrained myself. During twenty years as a policeman’s wife I’d perfected the art of hiding my feelings when it was necessary. Although Mack must have known how afraid I was every time he left the house to go on duty, I never let him see my fear. It remained unspoken between us, but each time he came home, I greeted him as happily as though he’d been gone for a year.
Ingram’s lips were moving. I realized he was talking to me and tuned back in to hear him ask, “Have you met our fellow judge yet? Yvette Dupree?”
“No.”
In a tone of contempt, he said, “The so-called Global Gourmet.”
“So-called?”
“Perhaps I should have said self-styled.” Ingram inclined his head toward me and lowered his voice. “Don’t let her accent fool you. She’s about as French Moroccan as Colonel Sanders was. My guess is she does most of her traveling on the Google Express.”
“I like her books. When my husband and I went to Italy, we found every restaurant she recommended exactly as she’d described it, even in the smallest towns.”
“Have you traveled much in Europe? Other than Italy? Through Asia? Or South America? India?”
“No.”
Ingram shrugged. “Ah, well, that explains it.” He lost interest in me and began scanning faces in the lobby.
Before I could think of a riposte-it was one of those frustrating moments with a boor when you think of some brilliant squelch only much later-he said, “See you inside.”
I watched Ingram swagger off in the direction of a sudden flurry of photographers’ lights flashing and shutters clicking. Through the entrance strolled the subjects of their frantic interest: California ’s glamorous governor and his equally glamorous wife. I felt a wave of revulsion when the governor and his wife and Ingram greeted each other like old friends and posed together for the cameras, but then I gave the state’s First Couple the benefit of the doubt. Elected officials seldom knew everything about the people with whom they appeared in photos.
A short time later, equipped with my clipboard, a pen, and a packet of twenty judging cards each with a contestant’s name on it, I was in the main ballroom-called the Elysian Room-of the Olympia Grand Hotel. It had been decorated like Hollywood ’s version of a scene out of The Arabian Nights. The ceiling was tented with lengths of silk, anchored by and billowing out from a dozen sparkling crystal chandeliers. At least twenty-four artificial palm trees were spaced against the outside perimeter, their green fronds casting shadows that resembled bony fingers against the ballroom’s cream-colored walls.
There were no dinner tables in the Elysian Room this night because three-quarters of the space was filled with twenty working stoves, each manned by movie and TV celebrities in black tie or evening gowns. Members of the public who had paid five hundred dollars apiece for the privilege could wander throughout, watching stars cook and bake in the competition. Money collected for tickets would be donated to the Healthy Life Fund. The hundred-thousand-dollar prize for the best culinary creation would go to the winning star’s favorite charity.
Famous travel and food writer Yvette Dupree, author of a dozen Global Gourmet Goes to… books that covered the sights and cuisines of at least half the known world, came toward me through the crowd and introduced herself.
“You are Del-la,” she said. Her accent-a lilting mixture of French and something exotic-made my name sound almost like a dessert.
Yvette Dupree was a petite woman, and her great mane of tawny hair might have accounted for a quarter of her total weight. Heavily tanned, with the toned arms of the champion golfer that I’d read she had once been, she wore a strapless metallic gold mermaid dress so tight from torso to knees that she walked with the tiny steps that reminded me of a documentary I’d seen about Chinese women who had had their feet bound.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” I said.
“ ’Ow do you do, cherie. I mus’ tell you ’ow I enjoy your show.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. Your book on Italy gave me a great experience of the country.”
“Ahhhh, Italia. Zee men… superb lovers… but”-she shook her head-“zay do not give grande jewels.”
Because she was wearing an impressive collection of large gems around her neck, encircling both wrists, and decorating several fingers, I guessed that none of these big-carat baubles were from Italian men.
“That’s useful to know,” I said.
Yvette peered at me through thick false eyelashes: first at my unadorned neck, then at my naked wrists, and finally my ringless fingers. She nodded to herself, as though she had come to some personal conclusion. “You do not need diamonds to wear,” she said. “Keep zem in your bank.”
That would be good advice, if I had any diamonds to put in a bank.
Moving to another subject, she said, “Do you know there are pas de-pardon, I mean no psychiatrists en Italia?”
I admitted that I hadn’t heard that, but I added that I thought the actress Audrey Hepburn had been married to an Italian who was a psychiatrist.
“No psychiatrists,” she insisted. “En Italia, when peoples have zee problem zee men go to zee mamas and womens go to zee priests. America, c’est merveilleux, but too many psychiatrists, all wanting to know about one’s sentimental life.”
I had no idea what to say to that, but a response wasn’t necessary because now her gaze had passed me and had focused on the sea of glamorous-and glamorized-people who thronged the ballroom.
“All zis for zee charity. Bon.” Twirling one perfectly manicured index finger in the direction of the cluster of stoves, she said, “We must be judging, oui?”
“Oui.” It was one of the few French words I knew.
“À bientôt.” She smiled and moved away on tiny little steps toward the first line of gas stoves.
I had only that one brief conversation with Yvette Dupree, but I liked her. She was a little gaudy, and had some odd opinions, but she seemed unpretentious, and she exuded warmth that made her pleasant to be around.
Surveying the ballroom, I saw Keith Ingram in the middle aisle, jotting something on his clipboard. With Yvette going along the far left row of celebrities, and Ingram in the middle path, I decided to begin my study of the activities along the right side of the room.
I’d reached my fourth stove when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a familiar figure: a man who towered over most of the men around him. Because he’d been my husband’s partner and our friend, I’d seen those broad shoulders and that military-short hair at least a thousand times over the course of twenty-two years. Almost simultaneously, another moving body caught my attention: Shannon O’Hara, looking voluptuous in a sea foam green evening gown. Several yards behind her husband, Shannon ’s halo of red curls bounced as she tried to get through the crowd to catch up with him.
I was wondering why John O’Hara was moving so ra
pidly, leaving Shannon to struggle in his wake, when I felt the click of comprehension in my brain: John was speeding like a locked-on missile right toward Keith Ingram. The food critic’s back was to him, but John’s left hand grabbed Ingram’s right shoulder, yanking Ingram around to face him.
Ingram grunted in surprise and jerked out of John’s grasp, but before he could utter a protest, John’s right fist shot out. With a heavy thud, John’s knuckles connected with Ingram’s jaw. It sounded like Rocky Balboa thumping that side of beef.
Propelled by John’s blow, Ingram reeled backward, stumbling against a corpulent, white-haired spectator. The older man tottered, but he clutched at a nearby waiter and managed to keep his balance while Ingram tumbled to the floor on his rear end. Ingram’s legs flailed in the air, like a huge turtle that had been flipped over onto its shell.
8
Instinct had sent me rushing toward the action just as John’s fist started toward Ingram’s face. Too late to stop the punch, I pushed in front of John just as Shannon, Liddy, and Bill reached him. Amid a babble of shocked voices, Ingram struggled to his feet, helped by the overweight man and the waiter.
Prodding John’s chest hard with the end of my clipboard, I whispered, “What’s the matter with you?”
John’s dark eyes were almost black with fury. He clamped his mouth tight and backed away from me.
All around us, photographers’ flashes were going off. Some gala attendees moved away from the combatants while others inched closer to get a better look. And two large uniformed security men pressed through the throng toward us.
Pointing at John, Ingram shouted to the security guards, “Arrest that maniac!”
The guards started toward John, but the fierce expression on his face stopped them. Her eyes wide with shock, Shannon clutched John’s arm while he stood rigid.
“Now, now, let’s not turn some little misunderstanding into World War Three.”
It was a new voice on the scene, a man’s, soothing, and smooth as softened butter, the voice of a midnight disk jockey who played Frank Sinatra songs until dawn. But it wasn’t a disk jockey joining us. I’d heard that voice and seen his face in television interviews about the success of his multilayered financial empire. Tall and slender, with thick silver hair framing even features, he was as handsome as he was rich.
“There’s no need to arrest anyone.” Eugene Long’s tone was genial. He held a glass with an amber-colored liquid in one hand, and with the other he gave the shoulder of the nearest of the two guards a friendly pat. “Why don’t you boys go to the Palm Room down the hall and have a big steak dinner with all the trimmings. Just sign my name to the tab.” He took a healthy swallow from the glass. I probably wouldn’t have noticed except for Liddy’s remark about Long being a heavy drinker. His eyes seemed exceptionally bright, but that might have been a trick of the lights; he didn’t sound drunk.
The guards thanked their employer. One aimed a final frown at John, and the two of them headed toward the exit. As the crowd parted to let them through, I saw Eileen across the room. Her hands pressed against her lips as though suppressing a scream.
John leaned down to whisper something to Shannon, then took her hand from his arm and gently put it into Liddy’s. After giving Bill a brief nod, John hurried out of the ballroom. With his eyes fixed on the exit, he couldn’t see Eileen, who was standing frozen, out of his line of sight.
Eugene Long drew Ingram away from the crowd and was speaking quietly to him. I hurried past the rows of stoves that separated us and grasped Eileen around her wrists, lowering her hands from her mouth.
“Why did your father explode? Did you tell him what Ingram did to you?”
She shook her head. “Mother knew I was upset and was getting agitated because I wouldn’t tell her why, so I gave in and said Keith was threatening to ruin my reputation. Right after that, Daddy came into the room. I didn’t even know he’d come home. He didn’t say anything, but now I realize he must have overheard us talking about Keith.”
We were interrupted by an irritating electronic screech from the direction of the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Eugene Long took a sip from his glass, wiped his lips, and bent over the speaker’s stand. He tapped the microphone and muttered, “Is this thing on?”
A technician popped up from beneath the pedestal and assured him that it was connected.
“Good boy,” Long said. He straightened and raised his drink in salute to the prosperous audience under his vaulted roof. With the bonhomie of a politician, he said, “Cheers, everybody, and welcome to the Celebrity Cook-Off. Tonight, in this very room, there are more stars than we can see in the sky-at least not unless we get some of the Santa Ana winds to blow the smog away. Seriously, thank you all for being here. Now, people, hold your applause until I’ve introduced everybody.”
As a spotlight hit each celebrity at his or her cooking station, that star responded with a wave, or a blown kiss, or a fist pumped in anticipation of victory. When Long pronounced the final name, he said, “Let’s show our appreciation for these great talents with the big hearts who are giving their time tonight for the Healthy Life Fund.”
Sustained applause from their fans.
“Now I’d like to introduce the three accomplished people who are going to pick the Celebrity Cook-Off winner. First, a beautiful world traveler, and my old and dear friend, the Global Gourmet, Yvette Dupree.”
Yvette waved her hand that held the clipboard. Because she was short, the group nearest her had to step to one side for her to be seen by more of the crowd.
“Next is lovely Della Carmichael, hostess of In the Kitchen with Della on the Better Living Channel. Show us where you are, Della.”
The spotlight found me. I gave a quick little wave with my free hand. While I was at ease teaching food preparation on television-I’d been a high school English teacher for twelve years before I started the cooking school-I was a little embarrassed to be introduced at an event full of famous people when I wasn’t on the premises to cook. I was much more comfortable with a spatula in my hand than a clipboard.
“Now for a shot of testosterone, a man whose nationally syndicated food column influences what people eat from coast to coast. Here he is, the sworn enemy of fast food: Keith Ingram.”
There was brief, polite applause for the judges. Seeming to relish the spotlight, Ingram waved with both hands thrust high. It was a gesture too large for the less-than-wild enthusiasm the gala attendees felt for the judges. We were not the luminaries that people in the ballroom had paid five hundred dollars apiece to watch.
From what I could see, it didn’t seem as though John had done permanent damage to Ingram’s face. I admit to being torn about that. On the one hand, I didn’t like violence, but when it came to Keith Ingram and what he was threatening to do to Eileen, I would not have trusted myself if I had found him alone on a country road and I knew how to drive a backhoe.
“And now,” Long said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce the love of my life. I wake up every morning a happy man, just because I know she’s going to do something that day to make me crazy-or make me smile. She’s going to make one of you smile, too, because she’s in charge of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar check that’s going to be awarded tonight.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the side of the stage. “My daughter, Tina. Come on out here, baby doll.”
From behind the length of velvet curtain that framed the stage stepped Tina Long, carrying a two-feet-high-by-four-feet-long cardboard check. All that was visible of her behind the cardboard were the blandly pretty face above it that had graced so many tabloid gossip magazine covers in the past year, and two pipe-cleaner thin legs below. The hands that gripped the mock-up were pale and slender, their fingers bright with pink nail polish onto which pink glitter had been sprinkled.
Long enthusiastically led the applause for Tina as she took a bow.
When the clapping died down, Long said, “As you can see, the check has been partly made out. There’s the
bank, the date, and the amount: one hundred thousand dollars. All that has to be filled in is the name of the charity selected by the winning celebrity, and my signature. Then, thanks to one of the stars here, some good cause is going to get a fabulous surprise tonight.”
Keith Ingram had moved next to me. “And what do we judges get? Nothing but indigestion from a bellyful of amateur cooking.”
Turning away because I couldn’t stand to look at him, I glanced across the ballroom to where Eileen was standing with her mother.
She was staring at Keith Ingram with a degree of hatred that I wouldn’t have thought possible in this gentle girl who had lived with me for most of her life.
9
We were one hour into the ninety-minute cooking competition. Up to this point, according to the instructions we’d received in the hotel manager’s office, we three judges had been free to move about as we liked, watching the progress being made at the twenty separate stoves in whatever order we wished.
The ballroom had been divided into five sections, with the stoves placed in groupings of four per sector, with the sectors numbered one through five. Paths six feet wide, marked by velvet ropes attached to brass stands, outlined the walkways through which the judges and members of the audience could stroll. The sectors were numbered to make it easier for the people attending to find their favorite celebrities. A program sheet with the locations diagrammed had been handed to each patron who entered the ballroom.
During the last half hour before time would be called and the celebrities-finished or not-had to present their dishes, all three judges were supposed to move along the quadrants of stoves together, carefully examining the dishes that were being prepared.
Sector One was at the end of the ballroom closest to the shallow stage. Sectors Two and Three formed the row on the west side of the room, with Sectors Four and Five comprising the row on the east side. If I described the layout to Nicholas on the phone later, I’d tell him to picture a torso with a head and two outstretched arms. Sector One would be the torso’s head-just below the stage-with Two and Three being the extended right arm and Four and Five being the left extended arm. Those reaching arms pointed toward the wide, double-door entrance to the ballroom. A uniformed security guard-not one of the two who had come charging in to confront John-had been posted there to make sure that anyone who tried to enter the event had a ticket to it.
The Proof is in the Pudding Page 5