We said quick good-byes and I went back to making salad.
After dinner, Eileen said she was going to her friend Connie’s study group and rushed off, carrying her laptop and several issues of the Wall Street Journal.
It was nearly eight o’clock. I wanted to call Liddy to find out how things were going with Bill, but I didn’t want to talk to Bill and sound awkward if he was at home and picked up, so I dialed Liddy on her cell phone. When she answered I could hear misery in her voice and felt a sharp stab of fear. “Liddy, what’s happened?”
“Bill didn’t come home to change tonight.” She started to cry. “He didn’t even call me—he had his nurse phone! She gave me some stupid story about Bill’s patients taking longer today than expected so he had to leave for his game right from the office.”
Yikes. This doesn’t look so good.
“I pretended to believe her,” Liddy said. She was making an effort to control her voice, but I could hear anger in it. “I forced myself to sound casual and asked where the game was happening tonight. She said she didn’t know. I’ve always liked her, she’s so grandmotherly sweet, but she could be covering for him. Or maybe he’s lying to her.”
“Are you going to call his cell?”
“No. I’ll wait until he comes home and find out what lie he’s going to tell me.”
“I’m coming over to stay with you.”
“Don’t!” She said it sharply, then immediately softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I love you for the offer, but I really have to be alone.”
“If that’s what you want, but call if you need me, no matter how late. When I’m out walking Tuffy, I’ll have my cell phone with me.”
“Della, I’m so lucky to have you as my best friend. Thank you for being there for me.”
“That’s what best friends are for,” I said.
At nine o’clock, I was giving Tuffy his final stroll of the day. Because there was nothing at the moment that I could do for Liddy, as we ambled our way through quiet residential streets, I made myself think about cake.
What can I put into a package of Reggi-Mixx to give it a better flavor?
If I could find that answer, then I could decide how the cake would look, what shape, what frosting. I wasn’t an artist in sugar—my strength as a cook was in making food taste good.
When I got back to the house, the telephone was ringing. I picked it up and heard Eileen’s voice.
“Don’t wait up for me,” she said. “I’m probably going to sleep over here at Connie’s.”
“Okay. Study hard. Thanks for letting me know.”
A little while later I was brushing my teeth when I glanced in the mirror and realized that I was still in Zachary Blye’s makeup. With a trace of regret, I picked up my complexion brush and soap and scrubbed my face clean. I wished that I had run into someone I knew this afternoon—someone who would have noticed how good I looked.
Why was I trying to kid myself? The truth was that I wished I’d run into NDM so he’d be reminded that while I might not be one of his twentysomething counterfeit blonde bimbos, I was a damned attractive natural brunette, with desirable qualities that only came with a certain amount of maturity. Forget NDM, I told myself sternly. Think about cake.
I spent half an hour going through my collection of Grandma Nell’s old recipes, but I didn’t find anything that inspired me.
At ten o’clock, I was about to call it a night and curl up in bed with a good book to read for a couple of hours, but instead of taking my Lakers’ jersey nightshirt out of the bureau, I reached for a sweater and hastily pulled it over my head. Slipping into a comfortable pair of jeans and running shoes, I told Tuffy and Emma—both reclining on the bed, “Be good. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
The lot behind the Davis Foods Test Kitchens was empty of vehicles but full of shadows, dimly illuminated only by the glow from the streetlights on Pico Boulevard. I wished that I could have brought Tuffy with me for protection, but it’s forbidden to bring an animal into a place where food is prepared.
I parked the Jeep close to the building, took my big, heavy Maglite from beneath the seat—it was my combination flashlight and defensive cudgel—and headed toward the back door.
Fitting my key into the lock for the first time, I was relieved to discover that even though it had been newly cut it turned easily. The heavy door opened with a creak that sounded loud in the darkness.
I flashed the Mag around until I found the wall switch and turned on the reception room lights. I closed the back door and headed across the narrow room to the door leading into the test kitchens.
As soon as I touched the knob I realized that the door hadn’t closed completely. Pushing it open with one arm, I faced total darkness. Using the Mag again, I found the bank of wall switches. Since I was the only one here, there was no need to turn them all on, so I clicked the one closest to me. As I’d hoped, the bulbs in the ceiling lighted the first line of mini-kitchens, those reserved for us contestants.
I put the key back in my jeans pocket, stashed the Mag in my tote bag, took out my notebook, and headed down the line of mini-kitchens toward the pantry, which was on the other side of my end cubicle. It was my plan to stash the tote in my station and then make a list of pantry items that might inspire the creation of a new cake.
A dozen feet from the entrance to my cubicle, my foot kicked an object that went rolling a few inches ahead of me. It was a whisk that someone must have dropped and forgotten about.
Reaching down to pick it up, I felt the crunch of broken crockery under the sole of my shoe. Stepping aside, I saw that I’d stepped on a little piece from one of the heavy ceramic mixing bowls that were part of the equipment in each of our little test kitchens. More bits of the broken bowl were scattered across the hallway. Up ahead, in front of the entrance to my assigned cubicle, I saw an empty, discarded box of yellow cake mix. Next to it was a black spike heel from a woman’s shoe. Just the broken heel.
What’s happened here?
My skin prickled with dread, but I kept going. A few more steps and I’d reached the opening to my kitchen space.
I hadn’t counted on the fact that someone had gotten there before me.
A woman’s body was sprawled diagonally across the floor in front of the stove. A black Chanel clutch bag lay on the floor a few feet away from her. The heel was missing from the shoe on her right foot. Her left leg was slightly twisted at the knee, making her body look like that of a doll tossed aside by a careless child.
I recognized the long legs in the short skirt, and the familiar cascade of brown hair with the artful golden highlights. But the highlights were partially obscured by the congealed blood that matted the back of her skull as Regina Davis lay utterly still—facedown in a bowl of cake batter.
10
My first instinct was to lift Reggie’s face out of the gooey mess, but then what I’d learned in twenty years as a police officer’s wife took over. Unless she was still alive, I knew that I must not move her.
Dropping my bag, I quickly knelt beside Reggie. Searching for a pulse, I pressed the tips of my fingers against the side of her throat.
Nothing. Not even the faintest hint of a beat.
Unwilling to give up, I touched my fingers to the inside of her wrist. No pulse—and her skin was cool. There was no doubt that Regina Davis was dead.
Images of the broken bowl, the snapped-off heel of her shoe, and the blood on the back of her skull flashed through my mind. I scanned the area but didn’t see any place where she might have fallen, causing that awful wound to the back of her head.
Oh, Lord—Reggie’s death was not an accident.
Another thought struck me like a slap in the face: suppose the killer was still in the building . . . I knew I had to get out of there and call the police.
Grabbing my bag, I ran for the door.
Outside in the parking lot, I saw that it was still empty except for my Jeep. I hurried toward the alle
y next to the building, heading for the lights on the street. Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I fumbled in my tote for the cell phone. Grasping it at last, I willed my fingers to keep from trembling.
I punched in nine-one-one. Miraculously, an operator answered right away. “What is your emergency?”
“There’s been a murder . . .”
I heard the police siren scant seconds before I saw the red and blue flashing lights of the patrol car racing toward me. It had been three minutes since I’d called. I gestured for the car to follow me through the alley and into the building’s parking lot.
First on the scene were two uniformed LAPD officers, a man and a woman. Both young, attractive, and fit, with dark hair and similar slender builds. They might have been brother and sister, or at least cousins. The female officer’s ID tag said “Bloom” and the male officer’s identified him as “Kraft.”
As a cop’s wife, I knew what the drill was, and they followed the training. They asked for my identification and I showed them my driver’s license. They took down my name, address, license number, phone number, and asked me to tell my “story.” I recounted just the facts of my arrival and finding the body. Then I led them into the building so that they could view the crime scene.
As soon as they saw Regina Davis, they tried to find some sign of life. In a few seconds, they determined that she was dead. Officer Bloom called their division to report the situation and ask for a detective and a medical examiner to be sent to this address.
Officer Kraft instructed me that I was not to leave the building and asked me to wait in the reception room while he made a cursory tour of the premises and secured the building until the rest of the investigation team arrived. Officer Bloom stood by the outside door, effectively blocking me from exiting, in case I had the impulse to flee.
She took out her notebook. “Do you know the name of the deceased?”
“Regina Davis. She owns the company that occupies this building.” I managed to call up from memory Reggie’s home address in Beverly Hills and gave it to her. She wrote it down.
“What is—was—your relationship to the deceased?”
“Friend, I suppose . . . I mean we know—knew—each other. We’re not related.”
“Can you tell me the name of her next of kin?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t—”
We heard a car driving fast through the alley. It came to a gravel-scattering stop just outside the door.
Anticipating the arrival of the homicide detectives, I stood up.
But through the open doorway strode the familiar figure of Nicholas D’Martino.
Officer Bloom told him, “You can’t come in here.”
NDM gave her one of his seductive smiles and flashed his press pass. “Los Angeles Chronicle.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly, “but you can’t be anywhere except in this room without permission.”
NDM wasn’t looking at her because he’d spotted me. Almost simultaneously, we said, “What are you doing here?” Under other circumstances, we might have laughed at that, but murder was not a laughing situation.
First it was the shock of Reggie’s murder and now the surprise arrival on the scene of NDM. Weren’t there any other crime reporters in Los Angeles? Maybe the others lacked the police wavelength scanner in NDM’s car.
Before I could say anything, my nervous system got another jolt. Looming up behind NDM, his detective shield on a cord around his neck, was the taller figure of LAPD lieutenant John O’Hara. Mack’s old partner . . . and Shannon’s husband. Because of a certain discomfort between us, I hadn’t seen John for almost two months. It was the longest period in twenty years when we hadn’t been in the same room together.
The first thing I noticed was how tired he looked. At fifty, his rangy quarterback’s body moved with its usual vitality, but there were new creases around his eyes and deeper lines bracketing his mouth. I knew there was no problem with his daughter, Eileen; I hoped everything was going well for him at home with Shannon.
John shot a hostile glare at NDM, then focused on me. “What are you doing here?”
“I found the body—”
“Don’t say another word.” He aimed a curt nod in NDM’s direction. “Not in front of him. And you, D’Martino—out.”
Flashing his Los Angeles Chronicle press card again, NDM said, “I have the right to be here.”
“Not until after the crime scene has been processed. Now you can leave under your own power, or you’ll be arrested and charged with obstruction. Pick one.”
Anger colored NDM’s cheeks, but he didn’t try to defy John. Speaking only to me, he said quietly, “I’ll talk to you later.”
A man in his forties, his detective’s shield clipped to the lapel of a jacket that was too tight through the shoulders and didn’t look as though it would quite close over his jutting belly, lumbered through the outside door, momentarily blocking NDM from leaving. After a couple rounds of “After you—no, after you,” NDM departed and the newcomer came more fully into the light of the reception room. I recognized Detective Hugh Weaver. Or, rather, I barely recognized him. We’d met several times over the years at LAPD events, but I hadn’t seen him since Mack’s funeral. He’d gained a lot of weight in the last two years, and his once pale face was ruddy now, his cheeks and nose latticed with prominent red veins. It was the face of a drinker.
Hugh raised one eyebrow and squinted at me quizzically. “Della Carmichael?”
“Yes. She found the body,” John said.
Hugh started to extend his hand to me, but then drew back and shifted from one foot to the other. I guessed that he was uncomfortable to find the wife—the widow—of a fellow detective at a murder scene and wasn’t quite sure how to act.
“Della, I don’t know if you remember my new partner, Hugh Weaver.”
“Of course I do. Hello, Hugh.”
“Hi. I meant to call you after Mack died . . . but, well, you know—tempus fugit.”
“Yes, time does fly,” I said. “How’s Shelly? Is she still working at the hospital?”
He shrugged. “She could be an astronaut now for all I know. We’re divorced.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
John cut off this awkward stumble down memory lane by addressing Officer Bloom. “Are you here alone?”
“Paul Kraft and I caught the squeal. He’s checking the premises. I made sure no one came in or out since we arrived.”
“Good. Stay here.” To me, he said, “Where’s the victim?”
I gestured to the door into the test kitchens just as Officer Kraft came through it. Reporting to John, he said, “The building’s secured, Detective. Nobody’s in there.”
“Take Officer Bloom and canvas the area to see if you can find anybody who might have seen something useful.”
Officers Kraft and Bloom left, and I led John and his partner into the test kitchens. The entire floor was blazing with light. In his search, Officer Kraft had flipped every switch in the place.
Stopping in front of the first cubicle—the one assigned to Viola Lee—I explained that the five of us contestants were assigned these small test kitchens and that each of our names designated the one in which we were to work.
“Mine is the last one, at the end. That’s where I found Regina. Be careful—there are pieces of broken crockery on the floor.”
We proceeded forward, but walking single file, close to the wall to avoid disturbing any evidence.
When we reached the opening of my kitchen, I stepped back to let John and his partner move in close. Positioning themselves on either side of Reggie’s body, they squatted down next to her.
“Careful, boys. Look but don’t touch.”
Hearing a husky new voice, I turned to see a woman striding toward us. Her pewter gray hair was cut very short, and large red-framed glasses were balanced precariously on the bridge of an unusually small nose. She carried a medical bag. As soon as she came close, I could tell she reeked of ciga
rettes.
“So, Big John, what have you got for me?” She looked down at Reggie. “Well! That’s something I haven’t seen before.”
John and Weaver stood up to greet her. “Hi, Sid. You know my partner, Hugh Weaver.”
“Yep.”
Indicating me, John said, “This is Della Carmichael. She discovered the body. Della, this is Dr. Sidney Carver, our new medical examiner.”
Dr. Carver—I wondered how many bad jokes she’d endured over the years about that name—barely acknowledged me. Instead, she knelt beside the body and opened her medical bag.
Two male Scientific Investigation Division techs arrived wearing identifying Windbreakers and carrying their evidence-collecting kits. They exchanged greetings with Dr. Carver and the detectives, and started documenting the scene in photographs.
“We’ll get out of your way, Sid.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
When John, his partner, and I were back in the reception room, John asked me, “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
“Finding that body had to be a shock. Why don’t you sit down?”
I did as he suggested, but chose to perch on the arm of the couch instead of sinking into the cushions. My legs felt a little weak, and I didn’t want them to see me struggling to get up again.
“I’m sure you’ve already told the responding officers, but let us hear what happened. From the beginning.”
“Don’t leave anything out,” Weaver said.
I took a deep breath and told them about being one of five contestants in the Reggi-Mixx Cake Competition. “The Better Living Channel is taping the contest as a reality show special, and Mickey Jordan wanted me in it to promote my cooking show.”
“So why are you here at night?” Hugh Weaver asked. “All by yourself.”
“Reggie gave each of the five of us keys to the building because we’re only allowed to work on our cakes after the test kitchen employees leave at six o’clock.”
John said, “How well did you know the victim?”
Death Takes the Cake Page 7