Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  I went in first, followed by NDM. Stan brought up the rear and closed the door behind us with what sounded like an ominous thud.

  But the characterization of “ominous” might just have been my imagination due to the circumstances; I was about to begin investigating a murder.

  My pulse quickened with excitement, but that was accompanied by the soft thump-thump-thumping of my heart. I recognized the early warning sign of fear: What if Mimi’s killer learned that I was trying to solve her murder—and came after me?

  Resolutely, I pushed my misgivings down into that deep place where I kept emotions I didn’t want to face. Given the precarious situation I was in right now, I couldn’t afford to be afraid.

  9

  We walked from the relative quiet of the parking lot through the studio doors and into a flurry of pretaping activity. Closest to the entrance was a set twice the width of mine and outfitted like a car repair shop. It even smelled of cans of oil and the rubber tires stacked against the back wall.

  Two electricians on ladders were adjusting lights suspended from the ceiling. A prop man inventoried equipment, checking off items on a clipboard. In the middle of the set was a hydraulic lift with a Toyota on it. A few feet away there was a Lexus with its hood open.

  In a casual tone, NDM asked Stan, “Were you here last night, when Ms. Bond died?”

  Stan shook his head. “No. I missed all the excitement. I sign out at five, when Al Franklin comes on. He’s the night man, gets off at two A.M. The place is guarded electronically until I clock in again at eight in the morning.”

  “It’s just you and Al?” I asked. “With all this expensive broadcasting equipment, that doesn’t seem like very much security.”

  “The property’s surrounded by that big fence.” Stan leaned closer to us and lowered his voice. “It’s electric. Not supposed to be—I think there’s some kind of law against that—but it is.” Straightening up and once again speaking at a normal volume, he said, “There’s usually somebody at the front desk, watching the gate monitor. Three people altogether, each one working an eight-hour shift. But whoever is on, all they do is sit. It’s Al and me make the rounds, open the doors, direct deliveries. Stuff like that.”

  “What about the janitors?” NDM asked. “When do they work?”

  “Ten to midnight, five nights a week, usually. Not last night, though. I can tell by the trash on the floors.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “When the cleaning crew arrived, Detective Hall questioned them, but he wouldn’t let them touch anything. He told them they could come back tonight and work.”

  The mobile phone clipped to Stan’s belt flashed, signaling an incoming call. I knew that the light instead of a sound was to prevent the phone from interrupting a taping.

  Stan answered, listened, replied, “Okay,” and put the phone back on his belt. “Gotta go,” he said. “Mr. Gil’s getting a delivery. If you should need me for anything, just tell ’em up in the office and they’ll find me.”

  “Thanks, Stan,” I said.

  Stan gave me a jaunty salute, and hurried off on his mission.

  “Do you want to see where she collapsed?” I asked.

  NDM nodded. “But give me an idea of the studio layout here first.”

  “There are four standing sets. My kitchen is on the far side of this car repair area. The other two sets are up at the front of the building.” I gestured toward the wall behind the chairs where the studio audience sat. “That wall is soundproof. It separates the two front sets from these two back here, for when they’re taping or broadcasting two shows at the same time. The door in the wall has a lock on both sides. Whoever is taping locks their side of it, to be sure the show isn’t interrupted by somebody coming in at the wrong time.”

  “What shows are done on the other side of the wall?”

  “All Things Crafty, hosted by Lulu Owens. The ‘Mr. Gil’ that Stan mentioned is Gilmer York. I haven’t seen his show, but I’m told he builds furniture out of things people throw away. He calls it ‘repurposing.’ There”—I gestured to the thirty empty seats between the cameras—“is where the audience for my show sat. They just set up chairs because none of the other shows have an in-studio audience. Back behind the last row of seats, on the left, are two small restrooms. Over on the far right side of the building is the production office. It’s really more of a large cubicle—enclosed on three sides, but without a door. All of our production schedules are posted there.” I drew NDM’s attention to the glass-enclosed loft above us. “That’s the control booth. There’s an identical one on the other side of the wall, for the other two shows.”

  “You learned a lot for your first time on TV.”

  “I thought that the more I knew, the better job I could do.”

  NDM indicated the car repair set. “I have my car serviced at his shop in Hollywood. Car Guy’s good with high performance vehicles.”

  “Everyone calls him Car Guy. What’s his real name?”

  “Car Guy,” NDM said. “It was originally Eugene Shaw, but he had it changed legally when he started on local TV a few years ago. I checked his background then, in case there was a warrant out for him, but he’s clear. He claims the name change was just a show business gimmick.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I couldn’t turn up a reason not to.”

  I led NDM past the garage area to my TV kitchen. It was a relief to see that it wasn’t encircled by yellow crime-scene tape.

  Studying my set, NDM said approvingly, “Nice. It looks like a real person cooks here.”

  “A real person does.”

  He leaned over to examine the stovetop but was careful not to touch it. “Do all of the appliances function?”

  “Except for that one.” I indicated the on-set refrigerator. “It was fine all week during rehearsals, but when I arrived late yesterday afternoon with the food for the show, I opened the door and discovered the inside was warm.” I went over to where the appliance had been pulled away from the wall. It still stood at that angle, and the plug hadn’t been replaced yet.

  NDM followed me. “I thought the refrigerator going on the blink was just my bad luck, but later we found the plug had been cut off,” I said.

  “So you were forced to put the food into the refrigerator backstage.”

  “Yes. It was inconvenient. The path is narrow and the ceiling light is dim. With my chocolate mousse in that back refrigerator, anybody could have gotten to it without being seen.”

  We looked down at the electrical cord with the missing plug. Traces of the charcoal gray fingerprint powder was still visible on the back of the refrigerator, on the cord, and on the outlet.

  NDM asked, “Did forensics get a lot of prints?”

  “None. Whoever cut off the plug wiped everything down.”

  “The trouble with all those scientific investigation shows on TV is that the bad guys learn too much.”

  “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  Detective Hall’s bark made me jump, but I was even more surprised when I turned around and saw who was standing beside Hall.

  John O’Hara of the LAPD Intelligence Squad was glaring at NDM. I started to introduce the journalist, but John cut me off.

  “I know D’Martino,” John said.

  Detective Hall added, “So do I, I’m sorry to say.” The glacial tone in both voices told me that whatever their common history, neither John nor Hall was pleased to see the journalist.

  “I came to look around,” NDM said. “The crime scene’s been released.”

  “Not to you it hasn’t. Out.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I have every right to be here,” NDM insisted.

  “No.” Hall planted his feet in a defiant stance and leaned forward slightly, like a boxer waiting for the starting bell to ring. “I’m investigating. Leave, or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

  NDM shrugged. “You win. For now. I don’t have time to fight your phony charge. But if you louse up th
is case, you can be sure the public’s going to read about every stupid mistake you make.”

  Detective Hall’s body went completely still. His voice was soft and almost without inflection. “Look at me—I’m shaking in my shoes.”

  “I’ll take you home, Della,” John said.

  “No, you won’t,” I said. John O’Hara’s sudden assumption that I would meekly do what he told me to do was annoying. I would have to put a stop to that before it became a habit. Turning to NDM, I asked, “Will you take me back to Santa Monica?”

  “Sure. Door-to-door service.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  I wanted to get home. While the men were having their little turf war, I’d decided where and with whom I wanted to begin my own investigation.

  But if I were going to learn anything useful, I would have to do it alone.

  10

  As soon as we zoomed up the ramp to the 101 Freeway, NDM cut left to maneuver the Maserati into the fast lane. Speeding past the slower right lanes, NDM asked, “How well do you know John O’Hara?”

  “He was my husband’s best friend for eighteen years.”

  “And now he’s your friend?” I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but I heard a smirk in his voice.

  “John and his wife and daughter are my friends.” To put an end to any further little insinuations, I asked, “Are you going to keep looking into Mimi Bond’s murder?”

  “You think I won’t, just because Hall chased us away?” His short laugh was little more than a snort. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than the Better Living Channel.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Investigate. Use my resources. When I find out who killed the Bond woman, I’ll tell you all about it—after I give the Chronicle its front-page exclusive.” He aimed a smile at me that I’m sure he thought was charming. I didn’t.

  What an arrogant jerk. Smiling back at him, I said pleasantly, “Someone famous in the media once described newspapers as the very best source of yesterday’s news.”

  He was silent for the rest of the trip.

  When NDM dropped me at my house, I saw Eileen’s secondhand red VW Rabbit with the UCLA sticker in the driveway behind Mack’s old blue Mustang.

  After Mack died, I couldn’t afford to keep two cars, so I sold my year-old Chevy Malibu and kept the Mustang that Mack had so lovingly restored on his free days. I still remember his voice describing the classic fastback profile and long hood, and how he’d customized the car with a rear spoiler. The last presents I gave him were on the list of “Santa Baby hints” he’d made for Christmas: a chrome exhaust tip and a new set of mudguards with the pony logo. I couldn’t bear the thought of his car being driven away by some stranger.

  Eileen was in the kitchen, making herself scrambled eggs. Tuffy was watching intently, waiting for the taste she always gave him.

  After greeting her, I said, “Your dad told me you had an exam this morning. How did it go?”

  She beamed with pride. “Aced it. The subject was business plans, which is something I want to discuss with you, Aunt Del.”

  She couldn’t know how precarious my cooking school business was because I’d kept that a secret from everyone, so I looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “Want some eggs?” She transferred the contents of the pan onto a plate, then cut a piece for Tuffy and gave it to him. I watched as he gulped it down with pleasure.

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. Business plan?” I sat down at the table opposite her.

  She swallowed a forkful of egg and said, “Now that you’re on TV, you’ll get to be well known, so I think you should go into the fudge business.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You make a menu of—to begin with—three or four types of fudge and sell them through your website. We could even fix up a display and sales counter in the cooking school. All we’d have to figure out is a name for the fudge, how to make it in big batches without losing taste quality, sketch out some designs for distinctive packaging, and check different types of shipping costs.”

  I said dryly, “That’s all, huh?”

  “Well, not exactly all. I’d have to look into what licenses we’d need, what the government regulations are about shipping edible stuff, find out what we’d have to do to satisfy the California Department of Health, suggest pricing, and work up an advertising budget.” She finished her eggs and moved to the sink to wash her plate and fork.

  I hated to disappoint her, but there was no way I’d be able to afford to start a new business. “Honey, I really appreciate your enthusiasm, but—”

  Eileen sat down again and grabbed my hands. Her eyes were shining with excitement, and she was nearly breathless. “Oh, please don’t say ‘no.’ Let me work out all the details and present you with a business plan. Today probably wasn’t a good time to talk about this, but Phil Logan’s reaction to your fudge last night, and your saying that you used to make batches to give as presents, just lighted my fire. And Aunt Del, think of the entrepreneurs who got rich by starting a little business on a shoestring, working in their kitchens or garages. UCLA has case studies. We can learn from what those people did.”

  I held up one hand. “Stop.” Her face started to fall. “I mean, ‘Wait.’” She perked up again. “I don’t know if I can do what you’re suggesting—”

  “I’ll help. I even have some money I’ve saved from what you’ve been paying me—”

  “No, absolutely not. I couldn’t let you risk your money on this…idea.” Just in time, I stopped myself from saying “crazy” idea. “What I mean is, if you do come up with some plan that looks possible, you’ll certainly be a part of it. This was your idea. You’ll have invested your business acumen.” Something I don’t have.

  Her excitement soared back up to a boil. “You mean I have your permission to explore the concept?”

  “Explore away. But don’t neglect your studies.”

  “This will be my term project: creating a business plan for ‘Super Fudge.’”

  “We’re not going to call it ‘Super Fudge.’”

  Eileen smiled impishly. “Gotcha.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. Eileen had actually managed to make me talk about her wild idea as though it were a real possibility.

  Glancing at the kitchen clock over her head, I saw that it was a few minutes before three.

  “There’s something I have to do right now,” I said. “Can you go to the market for me, pick up what we’ll need for the classes this weekend?”

  “Sure. In all the excitement last night, I forgot the schedule. What are you teaching?”

  “Saturday morning, at the Mommy and Me class, we’ll be carving a bunch of pumpkins with a variety of faces for Halloween.” From a kitchen drawer, I took the shopping list I’d made yesterday and checked to make sure it was complete. “Buy sixteen pumpkins, mostly large, a few medium-size. I’ll save one back for the afternoon class, to demonstrate how to cook them after they’ve served their jack-o’-lantern duties.”

  “‘Waste not, want not,’” Eileen quoted. “My mother used to say that.”

  “Mine still does,” I said. “I’ll puree the cooked pumpkin and then show them a lot of things to make with pumpkin: bread, muffins, pie, and that pumpkin pudding cake you like.”

  “Yum.”

  “If you don’t have to study, I could use your assistance with the Sunday classes.”

  “I’m available. What are we cooking?”

  “Easy-to-make comfort foods: chicken cacciatore, green peppers stuffed with a ground turkey mixture, latkes, and chunky cinnamon applesauce. Low calorie desserts in the afternoon.”

  “What are latkes?” she asked.

  “They’re like little pancakes but made with shredded potatoes.” I reached into my handbag for my wallet, removed my business Visa card, and handed it with the shopping list to Eileen. Because she frequently shopped for me, she was authorized to sign on it, too.r />
  Eileen folded the list around the credit card. “Any news about the murder investigation?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  What I didn’t tell Eileen was that I was about to go out and—to use a cooking term—stir the pot.

  11

  Before I left the house, I dialed Iva Jordan’s number. I wanted to find out how she was feeling after the distress of last night, and I was going to ask when her husband would be back from New York. A man answered the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  I recognized the rasp and the brusque manner. “Mickey?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I heard voices in the background, but couldn’t tell who was speaking. Then there was a burst of music and I realized the sounds were coming from a television set. Iva had told me that the first thing Mickey did when he entered a room with a TV in it was turn it on; sometimes he even did it in other people’s homes. Of course I didn’t comment about his habit—it wasn’t any of my business—but secretly I thought he must be somewhat difficult to live with.

  “It’s Della Carmichael, Mickey. When did you get home?”

  “Half hour ago. Why?”

  “How is Iva?”

  “In bed with a migraine. No wonder, after what happened at your show. By the way, Del, you did a f—ing good job.”

  “Thank you. Mickey, may I come over and talk to you for a few minutes?”

  I heard a grunt on his end of the line. “What? You want a f—ing raise already? You think you deserve combat pay?”

  “Of course not. I just need to speak to you about something.”

  “Long as the subject’s not money. You know where we live?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Then come on.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

  His abruptness didn’t bother me, nor did the rude language he used as casually as punctuation. I’d learned those qualities were typical Mickey Jordan, “retired Marine and self-made quarter of a billionaire,” as he described himself. Mickey was six inches shorter than Iva and twenty-five years older, and he always seemed to be in a hurry, but when Iva and I were together, she spoke of him in loving tones. If she was sincere, it was one more indication that in this world, there was somebody for everyone.