Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

“I’ve had glimpses of an elephant for the past several months,” Liddy said.

  The skin on my arms prickled with apprehension. “What do you mean?”

  “Big John is nuts about you. You just haven’t noticed.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’ve been good friends for years. He’s married—”

  “To a woman who hasn’t been able to be a wife or a mother for at least a dozen years. You’ve mostly raised Eileen, months at a time when poor Shannon couldn’t be trusted to be alone with her.”

  “She’s a paranoid schizophrenic who wasn’t correctly diagnosed at first. Mack and I spent a lot of time with them, before Shannon was sick, or before we knew it. They adored each other. John still loves her. I can tell by the gentle way he treats her and talks about her.”

  Liddy said, “I’m sure John is too honorable to ever tell you how he feels, but there are times he can’t hide it. I spotted it—but now that I think about it, John may not even know how he feels. Not consciously, I mean. Men, bless them, can be pretty dense about their emotions. Kings of denial.”

  “Then you agree I’m right about seeing him as little as possible.”

  Liddy nodded. “Definitely. Keep that elephant out of the room, hon, or someday it might come stampeding into the house and knock down the walls.”

  My struggling little business, The Happy Table Cooking School, was located in the back of an appliance store called Country Kitchen, on Montana Avenue between Fourteenth and Fifteenth streets. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Tran, were refugees from Vietnam, but they had chosen to make the front of this one-story building look like a Norman Rockwell painting of an early-twentieth-century American general store. They had attached white clapboard siding to the façade, put up green shutters, and installed a red Dutch door. A glance inside showed the appliances arranged as they might be in someone’s home—if the house had five kitchens and no living room.

  A small poster in the front right window advertised: The Happy Table Cooking School. My classroom could be reached by walking through the store, past the array of attractive merchandise. I didn’t suggest that my cooking students purchase special equipment—actually, I showed them how to improvise so they wouldn’t have to—but most of the time they prefered to buy items from the Trans’ stock, making my landlords happy.

  Behind a line of refrigerators was the door with the school’s name on it. The Trans rented me the space and the six working stoves on which the students learned to cook and bake. I supplied the four long picnic-style worktables and the folding chairs.

  My annual pre-Halloween Mommy and Me pumpkin carving class was full to capacity, as usual. Women who’d heard about it from their friends registered well in advance. Afterward, some of them would sign up for other classes, or for a full six-week course, during which I taught complete menus, beginning with appetizers and ending with desserts. If one didn’t want to commit for that much time, I also offer individual lessons in Italian or French cooking, one-dish entrees, vegetarian meals, and desserts.

  After greeting everyone—and managing to evade whispered questions from the grown-ups about what happened to Mimi Bond—I began the class by showing the mothers how to carefully remove the tops from the pumpkins I’d distributed.

  When the tops were off, Liddy and I put bib aprons over the children’s clothing. “This next part is fun, but mushy,” I said. “We’re going to scoop out the pumpkin seeds.”

  There was always a certain amount of face-smearing and seed-throwing, but these kids were generally well behaved, and before they arrived I’d taken the precaution of spreading newspapers on the floor to catch whatever fell. Liddy never minded getting dirty, so she helped me clean up the resulting mess.

  When the pumpkins were hollowed out, and hands and faces were washed, and what was left of the pumpkin seeds were put aside to dry, I passed out sheets of white paper and black Sharpie marking pens.

  “As you’re about to see, I’m not much of an artist,” I said, “but you don’t have to be; just draw what you want to carve into your pumpkins.”

  I demonstrated by sketching a grinning face with two top teeth and one bottom tooth, and showed them how to cut out their drawings. “Now you put the picture up against the side of your pumpkin and punch little holes around the lines of the sketch with these chopsticks,” I said as I gave out one long plastic chopstick apiece. “Then you’ll be able to carve your faces into the pumpkin by following the outline you’ve made.”

  I guided the hands of some of the children as they pierced the flesh of the big orange vegetables. There was lots of giggling and happy little squeals of excitement.

  Families were working together with enthusiasm. I circulated around the tables, helping out whenever it was needed, pleased to see that the moms appeared to be enjoying the activity as much as the kids.

  At the rear table, Liddy was bent over her pumpkin, carving industriously. She didn’t seem to need any help, so I stayed with the mothers and children. Everyone was having so much fun creating silly jack-o’-lantern faces that for a few hours I was able to forget about Mimi Bond and the mystery of who killed her and who had chased me in the dark.

  It was finally the end of the day and classes were over. The mothers and children put their jack-o’-lanterns into the large paper bags I’d provided and went home. Liddy and I straightened the tables for the next day’s classes, and bagged the trash and took it to the outside Dumpster.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said, as I locked the back door. Mr. or Mrs. Tran would lock the front when they closed the Country Kitchen for the night.

  “I know you love teaching,” Liddy said, “but you have to spend an awful lot of time on your feet while staying cheerful and encouraging to everybody. No way I could do it.”

  “I love watching people discover they can do things they’ve never done before.”

  When we got to Liddy’s SUV for the drive home, she handed me the bag with her pumpkin in it.

  With a grin, she said, “I made a present for you.”

  I took the pumpkin out—and discovered that Liddy had carved her jack-o’-lantern into the profile of an elephant.

  16

  I didn’t see John over the weekend. He returned the Mustang on Sunday afternoon, while Eileen was helping me teach a class on how to make simple comfort foods look and taste like gourmet creations.

  John had slipped the car key through the mail slot in my front door, in an envelope with a note telling me that his friend at SID had taken a paint sample from the car that hit me and would let John know if he was able to determine the vehicle’s make and model. He asked me to tell Eileen he’d be by at seven o’clock to pick her up for dinner. Twenty minutes before he was due to arrive, I took Tuffy for a long walk.

  After Tuffy did his stuff, I scooped it into a double baggie, deposited that in a trash container, and we went down to Montana Avenue, where there were lights and people. I was watchful and checked the surroundings frequently while Tuffy was relieving himself. No one followed us.

  Tuffy and I strolled east along Montana, past open shops, restaurants, and sidewalk cafés. It was such a mild night for October that many of the outdoor tables were occupied; the chai and latte drinkers seemed in no hurry to be anywhere else.

  Without thinking about it consciously, I found myself in front of Country Kitchen. Glancing through the open top half of the Dutch door, I noticed tiny Mrs. Tran speaking animatedly with a dark-haired man a head taller than she. I saw her in three-quarter profile. Her smooth face, with tight skin over prominent cheekbones, was tilted up, and she was smiling. I thought again what a remarkable woman she was. With all that she had endured in escaping her homeland and spending time in refugee camps before finally reaching America, she found pleasure in every day. I was about to walk on so as not to interrupt her conversation, when the man turned and I saw his face. It was Nicholas D’Martino!

  What in the world is he…?

  At almost the same moment I recognized him, he saw me. “Hello,” he
said.

  Mrs. Tran saw me then, too. “Ah, Mrs. Della.” This time, her smile was for me as she gestured for me to come in.

  “No, I can’t.” I knew her rule against allowing animals in the store. “I’m just out walking my dog.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you for a while,” NDM said. Turning to Mrs. Tran, he offered his hand—which was larger than both of hers—and told her what a pleasure it was to have met her. She inclined her head, smiled again at both of us, and disappeared into another part of the store.

  “Nice woman,” NDM said, coming out to the sidewalk and closing the bottom half of the door behind him. His Las Vegas singer looks were made more vivid this evening by his expensive outfit: red cashmere turtleneck sweater, navy cashmere blazer with gold buttons, and pale gray slacks. On Friday, there’d been stubble on his face. Now his cheeks looked glassy smooth, and I caught a whiff of musky aftershave.

  I didn’t bother to keep the edge out of my voice when I asked, “Shopping for kitchen equipment?” I knew he must be here to ask questions about me.

  “I was asking questions about you,” he said, and bent down to give Tuffy a scratch below one of his ears. “Hello, fella.” He straightened up. “Mrs. Tran didn’t want to talk to me because she thought I was from the police. After I convinced her that I had nothing to do with the police, that I was trying to help you, she opened up.”

  “Trying to help me? You’re trying to get a story.”

  I turned around and started to walk back along Montana with Tuffy. NDM got into gear and caught up to me.

  “The sooner the killer is caught, the better it’ll be for you. Unless you did it,” he said. “Personally, I think you’re innocent, but I was wrong once before in my life.”

  “Only once, in all your life? That’s amazing. Does the Guinness Book of World Records know about you?”

  He had the grace to smile. “Okay, so maybe I’ve been wrong more than once.”

  “Too bad. You blew your chance at immortality.”

  Tuffy paused to sniff the base of a parking meter. When he’d satisfied his curiosity, we moved on.

  Up ahead was a sidewalk café with empty tables. It was one of the places with a sign that said dogs were welcome to sit outside with their owners.

  “How about some coffee?” NDM asked.

  “Sounds good.” We took the table next to the building, out of the line of foot traffic. Tuffy settled under the table as a waiter approached us. He was a slender young man with spiked bleached blond hair and an inch-wide strip of dark beard that ran from just under his lower lip to the tip of his chin. His nametag said “Chance.”

  “What can I get you folks tonight?” he asked.

  “Cappuccino for me,” I said.

  “The same,” NDM said.

  Indicating Tuffy, I said, “May we have a bowl of water?”

  “Yeah, sure. No extra charge.” Chance grinned and hurried into the café.

  I asked NDM, “So what did you learn about me from Mrs. Tran?”

  “That you keep your cooking school space clean and your landlords like you.”

  “It hardly seems worth your while to come all the way down here for so little.”

  “I have a date later. She lives on Seventeenth Street, so we’re meeting at a restaurant across from the Santa Monica Pier.”

  “‘Meeting’? Don’t men call for women anymore and escort them to dinner? I admit I haven’t dated for twenty-two years, but have things changed that much?”

  The waiter returned with our order and set the cups of cappuccino on the table. I took the bowl of water from his tray and put it on the cement for Tuffy, who lapped at it.

  When Chance was gone again, NDM asked, “Why has it been so long since you’ve dated?”

  “I was married for twenty of those years. It’s bad form to date when you have a husband.”

  “And since he died?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “That’s a crock,” he said. “You just haven’t met anyone who interests you. Surely you don’t believe in that one and only true love business. You seem like too sensible a woman.”

  Sensible…When did I stop being “foxy”—Mack’s nickname for me—and become sensible?

  I guess something must have shown on my face, because he said, “Hey, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Not at all. I just realized that there’s a lot I don’t know about the dating scene today. Tell me about the woman you’re meeting.”

  “She’s a model.”

  Of course she’s a model. Or an actress. Or that Hollywood triple hyphenate: the actress-model-something-else.

  “I meant what is she like as a person?”

  He paused. “I don’t know her very well.”

  “Let me guess: she’s blonde, very pretty, and…twenty years old?”

  “Twenty-one. You’re being sarcastic, but she’s very mature for her age.”

  “Hah! I knew you were going to say that because men in their forties want to think that girls of twenty-one are mature.”

  “Older women can’t keep up with me.”

  “Intellectually? Tell me what your model likes to read.”

  “We haven’t discussed books yet, but she’s very smart.”

  “She was a teenager two years ago!”

  “Why are you so angry about this?”

  “Because I have an unofficial daughter that age and I’d lock her in the cellar before I’d let her get involved with someone like you.”

  “You don’t have a cellar. Hardly anybody in Southern California has a cellar.”

  That stopped me, and I started laughing at the absurdity of this conversation. I looked up and discovered NDM was laughing, too. Maybe he wasn’t entirely a jerk, but I certainly wasn’t going to introduce him to Eileen.

  When we finished our cappuccinos, NDM looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter after eight,” he said, meaning that he wanted to leave.

  Good. Eileen and John would still be having dinner somewhere. “I have to get home,” I said.

  NDM signaled for the check and paid it. “Did you and your curly-haired friend walk down here?”

  “Yes.”

  “To prove that I’m not entirely a social Neanderthal, I’ll drive you home,” he said.

  NDM dropped Tuffy and me at my front door and sped off to meet his date. I hadn’t shared the information about my visit to Faye Bond and being followed from Mimi’s house.

  As I unlocked the front door, I told Tuffy, “He doesn’t need my information. One of his mature young models can help him investigate.”

  All I’d had with NDM was that cappuccino, and I was hungry. I made a fried-egg sandwich for myself, gave Tuffy a treat, and was in bed with the lights out before Eileen got home. But I didn’t fall asleep as quickly as I usually did.

  I realized how much I missed the easy camaraderie I’d had with John for so many years. His friendship had kept me from being lonely. Now, until whatever had flared up between us died out, I was truly on my own for the first time since I met Mack.

  17

  Monday morning I called the Better Living Channel. I knew I was due there at one o’clock to rehearse with the director for the next show, but I wanted to find out who else would be at the studio. I learned that, luckily, the person I wanted to talk to was also working today, and would be there at ten o’clock. I decided to go in early so that meeting him would seem casual.

  Just as I was dressing to leave for the studio, the bedside phone rang. It made me jump. I didn’t know to whom I was more reluctant to speak: John O’Hara, because I was unsettled by my conversation with Liddy, or Detective Hall, who might insist that I come to his station house for more questioning.

  Neither man was on the other end of the line. Instead, it was Ed Gardner of Western Alliance Insurance, the man who handled my homeowner’s and auto policies.

  “Good morning, Della. I hope I’m not calling too early.”

  “No, I’ve been up for hour
s. Is there something more you need to know, Ed?”

  “More?” From his puzzled tone, it was clear he hadn’t heard about the dent in the back of the Mustang. I’d made my accident report over the phone to the insurance company’s twenty-four-hour line on Friday night. A woman with the inflectionless voice of a robot had taken down the facts, but it sounded as though the information hadn’t yet reached Ed. “I wanted to talk to you for a couple of reasons. First, congratulations on having your own television show. That’s pretty fabulous.”

  “Thank you.” I felt awkward hearing that, because I couldn’t forget that a woman had died on the show four nights ago.

  “Well, I suppose you know why I’m calling, Della.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We have to write some new policies for you. Now that you’re famous, you’ve become what we call in the business ‘a target risk.’ As a celebrity, you’re going to have to carry significantly more insurance.”

  His words struck me like a blow to the chest; I couldn’t afford to buy any more insurance. “I’m not a celebrity, Ed—I’m just on a cable TV cooking show. I’m not even well enough known to be called ‘obscure.’”

  “You’re being modest.” I heard the unctuous smile in his voice and remembered that I’d described him to Liddy as resembling a self-satisfied lizard with a stomach full of flies.

  Blissfully unaware of my image of him, Ed went on. “As a public figure, which you are now, you need a lot more liability coverage on your house and cars.”

  “Car, Ed. One car. And it’s eighteen years old.”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of car you have. If you hit someone, because you’re on TV, you’ll be sued for millions. Not to mention the millions you’ll be sued for if somebody trips at your house.” On the other end of the line, I heard him chuckle. “That’s the downside of fame.”

  The thought of being forced to pay more for insurance when I was barely making expenses now caused my mouth to go dry with fear. I hadn’t received my first paycheck from the channel yet, and it was possible that the show wouldn’t attract enough viewers to stay on the air. If my bills shot up even higher, what in the world was I going to do?