Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  John said, “She was found by her newspaper delivery woman, Alicia Reyes, a few minutes after five this morning. It was just getting light. The Reyes woman was about to toss the paper onto the driveway, when she saw the body lying facedown across the front step.”

  “Reyes thought Owens had fallen down,” Hall said. “She got out of the car and went to help her, but then she saw all the blood and started screaming. The next-door neighbor heard Reyes and called the police. When the responding officer found out who the victim was, and that she appeared in a show on the Better Living Channel, it became my case.”

  John took his small investigator’s notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped to a particular page. “The neighbor who called it in is Phyllis Shay. Her husband saw your car in the driveway last night at eight thirty when he was walking their dog. Herman Shay said he noticed the car because it was an old Mustang, like one he used to have and is sorry he sold. He remembered part of the license plate.”

  “That was enough to determine the car was yours,” Hall said. “There’s one more thing. We have the murder weapon. The knife was still in the victim’s back.”

  “Please stop calling her ‘the victim.’ She has a name: Lulu Owens.”

  “We know,” John said gently. “No disrespect was meant.”

  Hall was staring at me, as though I was something under a microscope. “The medical examiner recognized the kind of knife it is,” he said. “It’s Norwegian—a chef’s knife.”

  Oh, Lord, please don’t let this be going where I’m afraid it’s going. “Lulu used to cook professionally,” I said. “Did it come from her kitchen?”

  “Ms. Owens was very neat, well organized. On her kitchen counter there’s a block that holds knives. Nothing’s missing,” Hall said. “Do you have a Norwegian chef’s knife?”

  “I have four of them. Different blade lengths, for different purposes.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Three of them are here. I’ll show you.”

  Hall and John followed me to the kitchen, where I displayed them. “Do you know anything about knives, Detective?”

  “Why don’t you fill me in?”

  “These are Laslo Berghof designs. He was a Norwegian machinist who developed them for perfect cutting and grip. The handles are ergonomically shaped for maximum control, and so the wrists don’t get tired. These three are Laslo Berghof Multi Chef’s knives: a six-inch blade, an eight-and-a-quarter-inch, and a ten-inch. They’re manufactured by the Berghof company in Oslo, Norway, but anyone can buy them at a high-end kitchen equipment store, or on the Internet.”

  Hall picked up the slightly curved, Damascus-styled knife with the six-inch blade and examined it.

  “Careful,” I said. “That’s very sharp.” One night when I’d barbequed for Mack and John, John had admired my facility with a knife. I was grateful he didn’t repeat the compliment now in front of Detective Hall.

  “You said you had four knives. Where’s the other one?” Hall asked.

  I felt my heart start to pump faster. “It’s at the studio, in the drawer below the preparation counter. I used it to slice the chicken breasts and the vegetables for last week’s TV show, and I used it again yesterday afternoon, when I was rehearsing with the director.”

  I tried to sound confident, but I was quaking inside. If it turned out that my knife had been used to kill Lulu, I could be in the soup without a ladle.

  22

  We drove out to the studio in two cars. I’d managed to persuade Detective Hall to let me take my Mustang by making the case that unless he arrested me, I’d need a vehicle in order to get home. John’s car was at the North Hollywood Station, and he and Hall rode together, in Hall’s car. I was used to seeing police detectives drive undistinguished, blend-into-the-landscape sedans, but to my surprise Hall had a ten-year-old green Range Rover. Between his shaved head, his slightly exotic resemblance to Yul Brynner, and his distinctive wheels, Detective Hall was not exactly standard-issue law enforcement. I was hoping that beneath his carefully shaved dome, he would keep an open mind about me.

  John, a gentleman to the core of his DNA, walked me to the driver’s side of my car. As I slid behind the steering wheel, I glanced back at Hall and saw that he was watching us as he climbed into his Range Rover.

  I asked John, “What do you think of Detective Hall?”

  “Smart, but he’s under pressure to clear this case. No matter what he says, keep your temper. If he decides to take you into custody, I won’t be able to stop him.”

  We got to the channel a few minutes before eleven AM. As soon as our two-car convoy rolled onto the studio lot, Mickey Jordan came running out to meet us. Right behind him was producer George Hopkins, clutching a clipboard to his chest and breathing heavily. Both of their faces were red. Mickey, who was trim and sinewy, just looked agitated, but I was concerned for George. He was overweight, a heavy smoker, and had the pattern of red veins on his nose and cheeks that suggested he drank too much. It was a lethal combination that made him ripe for a heart attack.

  Before I could ask George if he felt all right, Mickey, ignoring the two lawmen behind me, said, “Della! I called you. The girl at your house said you were on your way out here. Thank God. We got a crisis. Lulu’s dead.”

  “I know. Detective Hall and Lieutenant O’Hara want to see—”

  Mickey interrupted by using his hands to form a “T,” the classic “time-out” sign. While finally acknowledging the presence of the two investigators with a nod, he continued to speak directly to me. “I just taped an announcement that tomorrow’s going to be our “In Memoriam” all-day marathon of Lulu’s shows. Sunday we’ll have a “Farewell Tribute” an’ show her unaired tapes. But until I find an act to replace her, you an’ Gil an’ Car have got to do extra shows to fill the holes in the program plan. I need you to tape two half-hour shows today and two tomorrow. Then you’ll go on live Thursday evening with your scheduled hour. We’ll spot the half-hours around as needed, along with Gil’s and Car’s, and the couple extra shows I’m having them shoot on the East Coast.”

  Wheezing, George said, “Quinn will direct all your new shows, and Gil’s director, Jerry Bobbie, will also do Car’s.” He squinted at his clipboard, then tore off a page and handed it to me. “From the hundred and some recipes you turned in, I picked out what you’ll do on the new half-hours. Today it’s just quickie stuff you don’t have to make at home first. I sent my assistant out to buy the ingredients you’ll need.”

  “Hey!” Detective Hall’s tone was as sharp as a guard dog’s bark. “What am I—lawn furniture? Cut your engines.”

  Mickey barked right back at him. “This is my f—ing television network. Don’t think you can come in here and order—”

  “This is my badge,” Hall said, flashing it. “The badge wins. Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. Since you like to be the boss, you get to choose which it’s going to be.”

  Mickey clamped his lips together in silent fury. George just looked deflated. Neither said a word.

  “I’m taking silence to mean you’ve chosen the easy way.” Hall gestured to John. “Take Jordan and Hopkins somewhere and get an account of their movements last night while Ms. Carmichael and I visit her kitchen.”

  Like the laconic hero Gary Cooper played in High Noon, John shepherded Mickey and George toward the little production office.

  Hall followed me to my kitchen set.

  Switching on the work lights, I said, “My tools are in the cutlery drawer, beneath this end of the preparation counter. The knife is in a leather case.”

  With the detective practically Velcroed to my side, I opened the drawer. “There.”

  Seeing the case where I’d left it, a warm feeling of relief began to wash over me. Then the warmth turned to frost when I opened the case and saw that it was empty.

  Hall said, “Your knife is missing. Imagine that.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope containing a pai
r of five-by-seven color photographs. They showed both sides of a Laslo Berghof utility knife with a five-inch blade and the up-curved profile. That design meant faster prep time and less damage to the food being cut. When I’d last seen my knife it was clean, but this blade was stained dark rust. It took a moment for my mind to register what that discoloration was—and then I nearly retched. With effort, I managed not to throw up, but the impulse left the bitter taste of bile lingering in my mouth.

  Hall was watching me intently. “Have you seen this knife before?”

  I forced myself to study the picture. “It’s mine.” My stomach acids were roiling.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “There’s a small plus sign scratched into the handle, up near the blade. The same little mark is on my other Laslo Berghofs.” I wasn’t going to tell Hall that it was Mack who had scratched in the plus signs when he gave me the set. He’d said it was like his carving our initials on a tree trunk, that it stood for “Mack loves Della.”

  I saw John coming back from the production office carrying two sheets of white Xerox paper. He stopped on the other side of the preparation counter from Hall and me.

  Detective Hall held up one of the knife photographs and told John, “It’s hers.”

  His triumphant “that’s-it, end-of-story” attitude yanked me up from the emotional quicksand into which I’d been sinking since I’d realized that Lulu Owens’s blood was on the blade of my knife.

  “Yes, it’s mine,” I said with heat, “but look at this drawer. No lock. We’re in a TV studio; people come in and out all the time. Oh, sure, Detective—I decided to commit a murder with a weapon that can be traced back to me. What’s more likely—I’m that stupid or that someone’s trying to frame me? Somebody with a powerful motive took that knife after I left here yesterday and used it to murder Lulu Owens. You’re a detective—find out who that person is.”

  “Anyone who had access to the studio could have taken that knife,” John told Hall. “There’s no case against Della unless you can prove she had a motive to kill the woman.”

  “And you won’t be able to, Detective, because I barely knew her. I think it’s clear that the murders of Mimi Bond and Lulu Owens are connected. Find the connection.”

  John shot me a look I interpreted to mean, “Quit while you’re ahead.” He turned to Hall, whose face was reddening with anger.

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do, investigating Lulu’s friends, acquaintances, and her finances for some clue as to who might want her dead.” John’s voice was calm and reasonable. “Asking Della more questions can wait. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Hall speared me with a look that Captain Ahab might have aimed at the whale. “Do you have a passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me have it.”

  From my years of marriage to a police detective, I was pretty sure that only a judge could force me to surrender my passport, but I played along with Hall and tried to inject some humor into this grim morning. “I’ll give it to you,” I said, “but only if you promise not to look at the picture—it’s awful.”

  He didn’t smile.

  Good thing I took up cooking and didn’t try to be a comic.

  I glanced at John. “Eileen doesn’t have classes today. She can get it out of my bureau and bring it here.”

  “Have her take it to the North Hollywood Station and leave it in an envelope with my name on it.” Hall slapped a card with the address into my hand. He removed a plastic evidence bag and a pen from another jacket pocket. He used the pen to pick up my knife case without touching it. “I’m taking this with me.” Hall dropped the case into his evidence bag and sealed the top. “We have your prints for comparison.” Turning to John, he said, “Let’s go talk to Jordan and Hopkins.”

  “I kept them separated and had each of them write down their movements last night,” John said, as he led Detective Hall back toward the production office.

  I fished the cell phone out of my bag and dialed Eileen. In addition to finding my passport, there were some things I’d ask her to bring here to me. The plain black slacks I was wearing would do for the tapings today, but I would need separate tops for the two different shows.

  Just as Eileen answered, I thought of another item I’d ask her to bring to the studio—something I was sure would make these hastily taped new shows more entertaining for the viewers.

  23

  A half hour before taping was supposed to begin, I had changed into one of the blouses Eileen brought, put on TV makeup, and was checking the cooking equipment on the set. But I was still waiting for George Hopkins’s assistant to bring the groceries I needed for the show. George was nowhere in sight. I was about to call him on his cell, when Quinn Tanner came running down from the director’s booth. With Shakespearean drama appropriate to her British accent, she pointed an index finger to a spot behind me and demanded, “What is that?”

  I countered her haughty tone with an imperious inflection of my own. “That is a standard poodle named Tuffy. He’s a five-year-old male, and he’s well behaved.”

  The time had come to put a stop to her arrogance toward me. “This is my show, Quinn. When we tape without an audience, I’m going to have him with me.” Her mouth dropped open in shock. I’m sure it was a reaction to my unexpected declaration of independence and not because there was a canine in the studio. I softened my voice. “Lulu’s death is awful enough, but the situation is even worse because it’s come so soon after Mimi’s murder. We’re all on edge. Tuffy’s presence will lighten things up. I’d like you to make sure you get shots of him watching me cook because it will amuse the audience. He cocks his head, as though he’s about to ask a question.” For the sake of diplomacy, I added, “Don’t you agree, Quinn? I value your opinion.”

  For a few seconds a kaleidoscope of emotions played across her face. The smile that finally settled on her mouth looked forced, but it was an improvement over the expression of cold disdain she’d aimed at me since the moment we met. I wondered why she’d decided to dislike me before getting to know me, but that was a question for another time.

  When she spoke, Quinn’s voice was carefully neutral. “I must admit that I hadn’t thought of including a pet, but upon reflection, I believe it will add charm to the show.”

  She might have been implying that I wasn’t supplying any charm, but I didn’t care. What was important was that we weren’t at war. I needed to have at least a superficially friendly relationship with her to be able to talk to her. Whether she was aware of it or not, she might know something that would fill in a piece of the murder puzzle.

  Behind Quinn, next to Camera One, I saw Ernie Ramirez grinning and giving me the “thumbs-up.”

  “Quinn, I need your problem-solving skills,” I said. “George told me he’d sent his assistant out to buy the food I’m going to cook on camera, but that was at least an hour and a half ago and it isn’t here yet.”

  “Bollocks!” she said. “That wretched girl is a total nightmare. I’ll go and sort this out.” Pivoting away from me, Quinn was off to investigate. In spite of her personality deficit, she’d always struck me as capable at what she did, but I pitied the next object of her wrath.

  I knelt down to scratch Tuffy beneath his ears and told him, “We won this battle, Tuff. Now just stay here so she doesn’t have a legitimate reason to cut short your TV career.”

  As though responding to what I said, Tuffy sat up straighter on his dog bed. When I’d asked Eileen to bring him to the studio, I’d also asked her to get the big beige pad I’d bought him when he was a puppy from the back of my closet. He’d never used it at home, because from the beginning, he made it clear that he preferred to sleep on the “people bed.” Now I was glad I’d kept it, because I didn’t want him to lie on the studio’s cold concrete floor while he watched the activities going on around us.

  Gaffers on high ladders were adjusting the lights. A maintenance man was polishing smudges off the front of the refrigerator,
and a plumber was running water in the sink to be sure everything was functioning.

  Ernie Ramirez, having checked out his camera, came over to pet Tuffy.

  “We’re taping half-hours,” he said. “That’s twenty-two minutes of cooking and talking time for you, so we’re only using the remote-controlled overhead stove cam, and Camera One today. I’ll make sure to get some good reaction shots of your dog.” He stood up again. “I got stuff to do, but don’t worry about not having a chance to rehearse. If you make a mistake, we can stop tape and do it over.”

  “Thanks, Ernie.” He left the set and I went back to making sure I had the pots, pans, and utensils I needed. Fortunately, what I’d be making today didn’t require anything more than a paring knife.

  I heard rapid footsteps on the concrete, looked up, and saw Stan Evans, the handsome young redheaded security guard, hurrying toward me. He was carrying two bags of groceries.

  “This is the stuff Ms. Tanner told me you were waiting for,” he said. Just like everyone else at the channel today, Stan was solemn.

  “Thanks, Stan. Would you put them down on the counter?”

  He was about to do that, but he froze, staring at Tuffy.

  “That your dog?” he asked.

  “Yes. His name is Tuffy.”

  He set the bags down on the counter. “Ms. Tanner doesn’t like dogs.”

  “She’ll learn to like Tuffy,” I said firmly. “Let me introduce you to him.”

  “Okay. Sure.” He didn’t sound wildly enthusiastic, but he didn’t say no.

  I led Stan around the counter. Taking Stan’s hand, I stretched it out toward Tuffy. “This is Stan,” I said. “He’s our friend.”

  Tuffy looked at Stan, sniffed his fingers, and then he went back to watching the man on the ladder above us.

  “Nice-looking dog,” Stan said. He went back around the counter and started to unpack one of the grocery bags. I began to unpack the other.