Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  The hallway we were walking through was lined in gilt-framed mirrors, but the glass had been tinted pink. Stealing a glance at myself, I realized that I looked better in Mimi’s pink glass than in my ordinary mirrors at home.

  When I followed Lulu through the door at the end of the hall, it was like entering a different house, and going back in time. The lovely old country kitchen had a faded mural of a vegetable garden on one wall, a wood-burning fireplace, a stove that might have been made a hundred years ago, and a rough-hewn oak dining table in the middle of the room. A wrought iron baker’s rack held well-used pots and pans. It reminded me of the kitchen in a farmhouse Mack and I had visited when he took me to France for our tenth wedding anniversary. It was the delayed honeymoon trip we hadn’t been able to afford until then.

  Faye Bond sat at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming mug, surrounded by the pleasant aroma of hot cocoa. A half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich was on a plate in front of her.

  “What a lovely kitchen,” I said.

  She looked up at me with a fleeting smile. “Daddy designed it. He cooked all my meals until he died.” Her face grew solemn.

  “Look at these beautiful flowers,” Lulu said brightly. She set the plant on the table in front of Faye. “Miss Della here brought them for you.”

  Faye stared at the little orchid blossoms. “Thank you,” she said softly. She turned to face me. “Auntie Lulu told me I was wrong…you know…about what I said last night. I’m so sorry….” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I’m so sorry…. My mother…”

  “What happened was horrifying,” I said. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  Lulu pulled out the chair opposite Faye and gestured for me to sit down.

  “Can Ah get you some cocoa or coffee?” Lulu asked.

  “Thank you. That cocoa smells great. I’d really like a cup.” While Lulu took a mug from the cabinet next to the stove, I asked Faye, “Is there anything I can do?”

  The pale young girl pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “Ah’m taking care of everything,” Lulu said as she brought me a steaming mug of the hot chocolate and sat down beside me. “Now why don’ we talk about somethin’ cheerful?”

  Hoping to hear anything that might lead to a clue to the murder, casually I asked the first question that occurred to me. “Are you in college, Faye?”

  “I went to Smith last year, but I dropped out….”

  “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Mother said it was too far away.”

  “Perhaps she was worried about you,” I said.

  She shook her head again. “When I came home last summer, Mother said she needed me here.” Faye looked at the woman next to me. “Auntie Lulu, I’m very tired.”

  “Well, honey, you just go upstairs and get into bed. I’ll come an’ check on you in a little while.”

  Faye Bond stood up, and that simple act seemed to take most of her strength. She started for the door but turned back and said to me, “Thank you for the flowers.”

  Lulu watched her leave and sighed. “That poor little thing.”

  “It’s sad that she’s so young and has lost both of her parents,” I said. “She’s lucky to have you in her life.”

  “My own children are grown an’ far away, but Ah love that little girl like she was my blood. Ah’ve known her as long as Ah knew Mimi.”

  “Does Faye have a boyfriend in her life?” I asked.

  “Ah wish she did so she’d have somebody to cuddle with, but she’s a shy little thing. Hardly dated even in high school.” Lulu grimaced with distaste. “Not like her mother. Ol’ Mimi had men running in and out of this house almost as soon as her husband died.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. According to Mack and to John, their experience as investigators had been that the most likely person to kill a woman is either her husband or her boyfriend. “Who was Mimi seeing currently?”

  “Nobody. There was a guy a few months ago, but they broke up last spring. Ah know because we went out drinkin’ together, so she could drown her sorrows. Mimi said she was makin’ Faye quit college to come home an’ be with her. Ah tried to talk her out of that, but Mimi was a stubborn cuss, had to have everything her own damn way.”

  “Who was the man?”

  Lulu shrugged. “She wouldn’t tell me. An’ that was strange, ’cause she used to brag ’bout who she was sneakin’ up to the hayloft with.”

  Lulu and I talked for another hour. I heard a lot of TV studio gossip. Some bits were interesting enough for me to look into, such as Mimi’s nasty confrontations with director Quinn Tanner.

  Lulu glanced back at the kitchen door and lowered her voice. “It’s true that Mimi wouldn’t tell me the name of her last fella, but Ah got a theory ’bout who it was.”

  Acting like a young girl eager to hear the latest high school gossip, I leaned a little closer to Lulu and whispered, “Come on, you can tell me.”

  With a gleefully wicked gleam in her eyes, she opened her mouth to speak, but we heard shuffling and scraping noises upstairs. It sounded as though someone was moving furniture around.

  Lulu stood up. “Faye’s awake. Ah better go see what she’s doin’.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No. I’ll settle her down an’ stay with her this weekend. This next cup’la days gonna be the worst for the poor little birdie.”

  “I’ve enjoyed your company, Lulu. Maybe we can do this again soon?” What I meant was: I want to hear who you think was the secret man in Mimi’s life.

  Lulu smiled warmly. “Ah’d like that, gittin’ together. Gal talk. Why don’ y’all come over to mah place for dinner Monday night?”

  “I’d like that.”

  She grabbed a pad and pencil from the kitchen counter and scribbled something. “Ah live in Sherman Oaks. Here’s the address. ’Bout six thirty?”

  “Perfect. What can I bring?”

  More sounds of something heavy being dragged across the floor above.

  “Dessert,” Lulu said as she hurried off toward the staircase, calling Faye’s name as she went.

  I let myself out.

  It was after seven o’clock and completely dark when I went back down the path toward my car. All at once, I felt very tired. It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, and now I was eager to get home.

  Most of the houses on this quiet residential block had lighted windows, and that made me imagine families gathering for dinner. For a moment, I indulged myself in what I called my Jane Austen fantasy: that after their meal the family members would meet in the living room and read books—maybe even read aloud to each other.

  I shook my head to clear it of that unlikely picture. The reality was that so many families, even if they had eaten together, would probably disperse to watch television in several separate rooms. Reading versus TV watching was a campaign I’d waged as an English teacher. Unsuccessfully.

  At the sidewalk, I stopped to think. Brentwood wasn’t an area I’d visited often, and streets looked so different at night. Considering how many turns I’d made to reach Mimi’s address, I hoped I could remember how to get back to Sunset Boulevard. I looked in my purse for Mickey’s instructions, but I couldn’t find that piece of paper.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and mentally retraced my route. Straight ahead into the next block, then a right turn, then a left, and another left, and a final right to get back to Sunset.

  Okay, got it.

  Behind the wheel of the Mustang, I strapped myself in and switched on the ignition and the lights.

  I’d gone only a few yards and was slowing to pause at the corner stop sign, when I heard a car engine start up behind me. It caught my attention because it was making an odd sound—something like a low growl. Reflexively, I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw a vehicle that had been parked several lengths behind mine pull out into the street. I noticed that the driver hadn’t yet turned on the car’s lights.

  I crossed the intersectio
n and was almost to the end of the next block when I saw that the car was still behind me, and still running without lights.

  With a piercing stab of fear, I realized that I was being followed!

  13

  My next thought was that I was being foolish. Maybe I was on edge because I’d seen a woman die last night.

  Why would someone be following me, especially in an expensive neighborhood like this? The most likely explanation was that the driver had just forgotten to turn on his lights.

  Still, I was uneasy. To test my “forgetful driver” theory, I made an abrupt left turn into the next residential street.

  I expected to feel ridiculous. Then that darkened car with the growling engine turned into the same street. The vehicle was a mid-size sedan in some dark color. I couldn’t tell the make of the car, nor could I distinguish anything about the driver.

  My pulse quickened. Inside my chest it felt as though a cold hand were making a fist around my heart.

  I sped up. At the next corner, I yanked the wheel to the right and swerved into another street. I had no idea where I was now. All I was thinking about was eluding the car behind me.

  Through the rearview mirror I saw an empty street.

  I was about to let out the breath I was holding when I heard that soft engine growl. The dark car made the same turn. There was no doubt about it: I really am being followed.

  Time to call 911. Even though I didn’t know exactly where I was, the police had a telephone tracking system. They’d be able to find me. Please, God.

  Keeping my left hand on the steering wheel, I plunged the right into my handbag, feeling around until I grasped my cell phone and pulled it out. I regretted that in one of my many economies I hadn’t upgraded to a hands-free system. With trembling fingers, I pushed the nine and the one—

  Suddenly, the other car rammed me from behind! The jolt caused my chest to smash painfully against the steering wheel and the little phone to fly out of my hand. I heard it land with a thunk on the floor of the Mustang.

  Because the car was right on my tailpipe, I could see the driver through the rearview mirror—he was wearing a ski mask! That destroyed any hope this was just a kid out to scare a lone woman. My fear spiraled up into the red zone.

  Gripping the steering wheel as tightly as I could, I pressed down on the accelerator.

  The car behind sped up, too.

  Make noise! Attract attention! I leaned my right forearm hard against the horn—but no sound came out. Oh, dear God—the horn isn’t working! I pounded on it with my right fist, but the horn stayed silent.

  Fighting terror, desperate to keep a clear head, I increased my speed and careened around the next corner. This new street was lined on my side with willow trees.

  Weeping willows. Long, dripping foliage that partially concealed the homes. If I could find a place to hide…

  Next to a dark house up ahead I spotted a two-vehicle carport with only one car in it, a big SUV. I turned off the Mustang’s lights, swung into that partial shelter, and cut the engine. Squeezing my body down below the dashboard, I prayed that the person following me hadn’t seen what I’d done.

  Almost immediately, I realized this might have been a stupid maneuver. If he finds me, I’m trapped.

  If I’d had any idea how to get to Sunset Boulevard from wherever I was, I would have raced to the safety of lights and traffic and cruising police cars. But I was lost in a quiet area of big houses where the people probably wouldn’t open the door to a stranger banging on it.

  The car with the soft growl drove by. Slowly.

  He’s looking for me!

  Holding my breath, I felt around beneath the front seats for my phone, and anything I could use as a weapon.

  My hand closed around the handle of a screwdriver. I’d hoped for something heavy, like a forgotten wrench or flashlight. No such luck. But a screwdriver was better than nothing. It would help me put up a fight, do some damage….

  The sound of my pursuer’s car faded away. Quietly, I let out my breath, but I didn’t dare sit up yet. He might be parked, waiting for me to show myself. Maybe he had gotten out of the car and was looking for me on foot.

  While I flattened myself into the Mustang’s carpet, my fingers continued to explore until I found the cell phone.

  Carefully, by touch in the darkness, I counted the numbers on the keypad and began to dial. Nine…one…

  I heard the car again. It was coming back from the opposite direction. Driving slowly. Searching…

  Without warning, the beam of a flashlight revealed my hiding place! I squinted against the brightness.

  “Hey! Who are you?” It was a man’s voice. Angry. All I could see of him was the outline of a stocky figure behind the light.

  Out on the street, I heard the car with the low growl speed up and drive away.

  The man’s voice demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?” There was a loud click, and the carport was flooded with light.

  I struggled to sit up, clutching the phone in one hand and the screwdriver in the other. The man with the flashlight was short and compact, with a neat gray beard and thick gray hair above bright blue eyes. He was wearing white tennis shorts and a red sweatshirt with the words “Outlast the Bastards” written across the chest.

  “A man was following me in his car.” I put the screwdriver down on the passenger seat and held up my cell phone. “I turned in here to hide and call the police. Your house was dark. I didn’t think anyone was home.”

  “I was working in my office, in the guest house out back.” He marched to the entrance of the carport and scanned the street in both directions. “I don’t see anybody out there now. Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “The man rammed the car from behind, but I’m not hurt.”

  He bent down to examine the back of my car. “Your trunk lid’s mashed in.”

  “Oh, no!” I felt a pang of guilt. This was Mack’s beloved car, and now it was damaged because I’d been playing detective. I got out of the Mustang and came around to look.

  “It’s not so bad,” the man in the red sweatshirt said. “Some body work, but you’ll need a full paint job. A car this age, they won’t be able to match the color exactly if you just paint the back end. Does it drive okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He must have seen my distress because he said, “Don’t be upset, Miss—?”

  “Della. Della Carmichael.”

  “I’m Fred Priestly.” Recognition lighted his eyes. “Oh, you’re the woman with the new cooking show. I thought you looked familiar, but I wasn’t expecting to find a celebrity hiding in my carport.”

  “You watched the show?”

  “Since I’ve been alone I had to learn to cook. I set the TIVO for Bobby Flay and Paula Deen. Now I’ll TIVO you, too.” His face assumed a sober expression. “I don’t mean to be insensitive. Was that woman who died a friend of yours?”

  “No, I’d just met her.”

  “I watched her show a couple of times, but I didn’t like it. Do they know what happened to her?”

  “Not yet. If you don’t mind, I really shouldn’t be discussing this.”

  “Okay, yeah, I understand.” He nodded toward the Mustang. “The damage isn’t so bad. You have insurance, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It looks to me like your car just needs some cosmetic work. Make a police report before you call the insurance company. Don’t let them think you were careless. They’ll do whatever they can not to pay what you deserve.”

  “I’m sure my insurance company will be fair,” I said.

  “Have you ever filed a claim with them?”

  “No, not yet.”

  His lips curved into a cynical smirk. “Good luck. Hey, you want to come in for a cup of coffee and some Paula Deen cake until you’re sure the guy following you is gone?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got to get home. Would you tell me this address and stay out here with me while I call someone?”<
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  Fifteen minutes later, John O’Hara pulled up in his personal car, a four-year-old black Lincoln that Eileen nicknamed “the tank.” He parked behind the Mustang. When he got out, I saw that he was wearing his “blank” expression, but I’d known him so long I could read it. I knew he wasn’t at all pleased to find me in this situation, but I also knew that he wasn’t going to say so in front of someone else. I wouldn’t get a lecture until we were alone.

  I introduced John to my new friend, Brentwood homeowner and retired insurance executive Fred Priestly, who had remained with me while I waited for John. The two men shook hands and John went to examine the back of the Mustang.

  During the time it took for John to arrive, Fred had told me about his retirement project: He was writing a novel that was going to, as he put it, “rip away the paper curtain to expose the dirty little secrets of the insurance industry.”

  “I’m calling it UN-covered: The Rip-off Racket. It’s going to be The Sopranos with actuarial tables.”

  While John was studying the damage and trying to open the trunk, Fred continued his stories.

  “I was watching TV one night—one of those true crime documentaries—and the show starts with my former company, Guardian Insurance. They were refusing to pay off on a million-dollar life insurance claim, and hired their own private investigator to establish that the man’s death was a murder. Once the PI found enough evidence to prove that the insured didn’t die of natural causes, Guardian took him off the case and turned what he’d discovered over to the police. If I’d still been there, I would have wanted the PI to keep at it until he found out who killed our insured, but the evidence he came up with was strong enough so that the company didn’t have to pay the dead man’s wife any money. All they cared about was not paying the claim.”

  “Did the man’s wife commit the murder?”

  “No. The police found out he was killed by his secret tootsie. The wife didn’t even know about her. That didn’t matter to the company because the murdered man wasn’t insured against being murdered. I’ve got a lot more stories. The hero of my book is an idealistic young insurance salesman who has no idea of what’s really going on behind the scenes at his company. Of course, I have to change names and locations. I’m calling the company Protector Insurance.”