Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  “Oh, no!”

  “What’s the matter?” Stan asked.

  “Nothing that will stop the earth revolving around the sun,” I said, “but the container of ice cream I was going to use on the first show has melted into soup. Where have these groceries been?”

  Stan glanced down at the floor. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble….”

  “I won’t make a complaint, just tell me what happened.”

  He looked up at me again. “It was Mr. Hopkins’s assistant. She went shopping, but when she got back, she was still so upset about what happened to Ms. Owens, she got all hysterical and went home. Ms. Tanner sent me searching for the groceries, and I found the bags sitting outside the studio doors where she must have left them.”

  “This is a pretty bad day,” I said. “I thought Lulu was a lot of fun.”

  “She sure liked to talk,” Stan said with affection. “Car Guy called her our own National Enquirer.”

  “Didn’t he like Lulu?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. We all liked her. I was just saying.”

  I took the container of melted ice cream and put it into the freezer compartment of the on-set refrigerator. It wouldn’t harden up in time for the first show, but it should be firm enough by the second taping that I could crumble some chocolate wafers into it—there was a box in the pantry—give it a few turns with the mixer and serve it up as crunchy soft ice cream. That would work with the second show’s quick menu of grilled fish and microwave-zapped rice with fresh vegetables.

  My grocery bag was empty. I asked Stan, “Did George’s assistant get the strawberries?”

  “Right here.” He pulled a box of them out of his bag.

  “Oh, those are luscious.” They were so big and gorgeous that I knew what special thing I could do with them on the first show. One immediate problem solved.

  Now all I have to do is get through a day of unrehearsed tapings—and solve two murders.

  With no audience to look at, I faced the camera and just chatted at the lens as I would to Eileen or to Liddy, or to the students in my cooking classes.

  After introducing Tuffy, I said, “When you get home from a long day of hard work, or when you’ve had a day of hard work at home—and you moms know that what you do is as exhausting as digging ditches or smearing hot tar on a new roof—you need a meal you can make in a hurry with the least possible effort. Today I’m fixing one of the quickie dinners I pull together when it feels like I’m down at the bottom of my energy tank. The main dish is what I call Zapped Chicken and Vegetables because it’s baked in the microwave. The side is angel hair pasta, which takes only three or four minutes to cook in boiling water and another minute to toss with a little oil, garlic, grated Parmesan cheese, and a sprinkling of fresh chopped parsley on top. And for dessert”—I held up one of the strawberries—“some of these beauties dipped in a coat of chocolate.”

  I managed to get through the taping without having to stop for a do-over. To my surprise, it turned out to be easier to just talk on camera than it had been when I preplanned what I was going to say. The years of teaching had turned out to be the best possible experience for this new professional adventure. The timing of the three commercial breaks seemed to fall naturally between finishing one dish and starting another. Probably just luck this time, but now I knew when the breaks would come and could adjust my chatting accordingly on the next show.

  After taping the first show, and while changes to the set were being made to ready it for the second, I grabbed some paper towels and a baggie, and took Tuffy for a walk around the studio property.

  The yellow caution tape had been removed from the entrance to the big parking area and about a dozen vehicles occupied spaces on the handsome new blacktop. At the far side of the lot, behind two big SUVs that had been parked side by side, was a strip of grass that ran between the blacktop and the security fence encircling the property.

  Tuffy pulled on his leash, leading me to the grassy region. I didn’t think he could see grass at this distance, so he must have caught the scent. That was where he wanted to go, and I had to walk fast to match his pace.

  Just as we were passing the two SUVs, I saw that someone was standing between the vehicles. Actually, it was two people, a man and a woman, and they were embracing, where no one at the studio could see them. A slight young woman with light brown hair had her arms around a man, her head bent, her forehead pressed into his chest. He had his arms around her, his fingers entwined, holding her close to him. The woman’s back was to me, but I recognized the man: Stan Evans.

  Stan saw me at that same moment. I must have startled him into making an abrupt movement, because the woman turned around to look in my direction, and I saw her face.

  It was Faye Bond.

  24

  I recovered from the surprise first. “Oops,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to interrupt.”

  Stan and Faye sprang apart.

  “You’re not interrupting,” Faye said.

  “She was just upset,” Stan said.

  “I didn’t want anybody to see me crying.”

  “You see, she heard about Ms. Owens.”

  “Oh, good Lord, Faye,” I said. “I’m so sorry about what happened to Lulu. I forgot how close the two of you were.” Silently, I kicked myself for not having realized what a blow Lulu’s death would be to this delicate girl.

  Faye nodded and tried to say something, but she couldn’t get the words out. When she started to cry again, Tuffy went over to lean against her thigh. Faye immediately fell to her knees, hugged him, and buried her face in his neck. My Tuff stood there like a gentleman and patiently let her sob into his curly coat.

  Seeing Faye in such distress, I felt terrible that I hadn’t remembered her warm relationship with Lulu and realized what a devastating loss the woman’s death would be for her.

  Stan edged close to me and whispered, “Would you mind looking after her now?” He nodded toward the studio. “I should get back before somebody starts looking for me.”

  “No, you go on, Stan. I’ll stay with Faye.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Carmichael. I don’t know what to do when girls cry.”

  Most men don’t.

  Stan hurried off through the parking lot, and I leaned down to help Faye stand. She was only a couple of inches shorter than me—perhaps five feet five—but her head was bent, with her chin tucked almost into her chest. I stroked her hair and murmured words of comfort. She finally stopped crying and took a handful of tissues out of the fanny pack that doubled as her purse.

  After she blew her nose and looked up, I said, “Come for a walk with us.”

  She stuffed the used tissues into her pack. “I won’t be in the way?”

  “Definitely not.”

  As we walked Tuffy around the inside perimeter of the fence, Faye reached for my free hand and held on to it. She was like a sad little child holding on to a caregiver. Faye didn’t talk, and I didn’t try to push her.

  She didn’t let go of my hand until I had to stoop and scoop after my canine friend.

  “He’s a beautiful dog,” Faye said, as she watched me. “Have you had him long?”

  “Since he was a puppy. He’s five years old now. His name is Tuffy.”

  When I stood again, holding a baggie with Tuffy’s natural deposit in it, she clutched my upper arm. We continued our stroll.

  Since Faye had begun to talk, I wanted to encourage her. “Stan seems very nice,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I suppose. I don’t know him, not really. We met a few months ago when I took Mother’s Bentley into Car Guy’s shop to have him check the air-conditioning. It wasn’t getting cold enough for her. Stan was there, with his motorcycle, and he recognized Mother’s car. That wasn’t hard—it’s bright red, and the license plate says ‘Mimi B.’ He came over to talk to me while I was waiting, and told me he knew whose car it was because he worked at the channel. He just happened to come outside as I drove in today. When he asked me who
I wanted to see, I started crying, so he took me over to where people couldn’t see me going to pieces.”

  “Did you come here because of Lulu?” I asked gently.

  She nodded and sniffed, but she didn’t start to cry again. “When I heard the news on TV this morning, I didn’t know where to go. I thought maybe if I came to the studio I’d find out there’d been a mistake, that Lulu was here and she was all right, that it was somebody else who…”

  “I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Faye stopped walking, which forced Tuffy and me to stop, too. She looked directly at me, and I saw misery in her eyes. “It’s my fault,” she said. “I’m the reason she’s dead.”

  “Oh, Faye, you’re wrong,” I said. “Some terrible person—”

  “No! It’s God punishing me because of all the nights I used to lie in bed, wishing Daddy had married Lulu, and that she was really my mother.”

  “You’ve got to stop thinking like that,” I said. “Your fantasy didn’t cause Lulu’s death. You weren’t responsible, and I can’t believe that Lulu would want you to suffer unreasonable guilt. Think about it: Would she?”

  Faye squeezed her eyes shut. After a moment, she opened them. “No…I guess not.”

  We began to walk again, back toward the studio.

  “Lulu’s really gone, isn’t she? I mean really gone?”

  “I’m afraid she is,” I said.

  “I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.” Faye took a deep breath. “She’d want me to grow up now, to be strong. Wouldn’t she?”

  “Yes, I’m sure she would,” I said. “Actually, that’s a way to honor her.”

  “I wish I’d had more time. There was so much I wanted to tell her.” She looked exhausted, and her eyes glistened with tears she was holding back, but she was standing up straighter, and the first hint of healthy color was creeping back into her pale cheeks. As though having come to a decision, she said, “I’m going to go home.”

  “Can you call someone to stay with you?”

  Faye glanced at her watch. “Not right now,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. Really.” She reached down to pet Tuffy and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “Bye, boy.”

  We had nearly reached the studio doors when she indicated a lustrous green BMW parked near the entrance. “That’s my car,” she said. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

  “Take care of yourself, Faye.” I waved at her as she drove away.

  Then I tossed Tuffy’s baggie into the Dumpster and went into the studio to tape another show.

  As soon as I neared my set I caught a delightful scent that made my mouth water. Stan Evans was holding a takeout bag from a good burger restaurant and grinning.

  “I figured you hadn’t had a chance to eat,” he said, “so Mr. Hopkins let me go pick up something for you. I got you a double burger with everything on the side, ’cause I didn’t know how you’d want it. And fries. That place makes the best fries. And I got your dog three double burgers without anything except the buns.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Stan. I really appreciate it.” This was one of those times when a hamburger with the works was more appealing than filet mignon would have been. A filet would have taken too much energy to eat. “How much—”

  He waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “Mr. Hopkins paid. Oh, and I put fresh water in the bowl by your dog’s bed.”

  “Thank you for all of that,” I said sincerely.

  Stan gave me a shy smile and hurried off toward the door to the front office.

  I transferred Tuffy’s hamburger patties onto a plate from the set and put it on the floor next to his water. I ate my hamburger and fries sitting on the kitchen stool behind the preparation counter. For take-out fast food, it was very good and restored my energy. As I washed Tuffy’s plate and mine in the sink, I was not only ready, but eager to tape the next show.

  It was three o’clock when I finally was able to leave the studio. I let Tuffy into the Mustang and clipped his auto safety harness to the rear seat belt. As soon as I climbed in myself, I took the cell phone out of my bag and called Shannon.

  On hearing my voice, she said brightly, “Hi, Del. Look, I can’t talk right now because I’m exercising to TV, but I’m dying to hear everything about what’s going on with you! Can you come over tonight for dinner? Just us girls?”

  “I’d like that,” I said. In spite of my reluctance to call her, I meant it.

  “Don’t bring anything,” she said. “I’ll order Chinese. I remember what you like. Let’s make it early. About six?”

  “That’s perfect. I’ve got to get up at dawn to bake the finished main dishes I’m demonstrating on the two shows we’re taping tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got to tell me everything tonight, but now I’ve got to get back to exercising. I’ve missed half of the step routine already!”

  We said quick good-byes and I disconnected the phone. I was a bit concerned. Shannon sounded almost natural, but not quite. Just a little too up. I hoped that—

  From the backseat, Tuffy’s low growl interrupted my thoughts. I turned around to pet him and was startled half out of my wits by the sound of knuckles rapping on my driver’s side window.

  I swung back around in my seat and saw Nicholas D’Martino standing outside my car.

  Lowering the window, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Investigating the Lulu Owens murder,” he said. “But I saw you on the monitor when I was interviewing Gilmer York on the other side of the building.”

  “Did you learn anything?” I asked eagerly.

  “You’re good on TV. You almost made me think I could cook.”

  Amused, I replied, “I meant, did you learn anything useful to finding the killer?”

  “As York would put it, ‘bits and bobs.’ Nothing that seems like evidence. At least not yet.”

  “Good luck,” I said, turning the key in the ignition.

  “Hey, wait! Don’t leave. You were about to drive over my foot. I was going to call you when I finished with York, to ask you something.”

  I kept the motor running, letting the car idle. “Ask me now.”

  NDM then uttered the last sentence in the world I would have expected to hear from him. “I’d like you to have dinner with me,” he said.

  I almost laughed. “Oh? Where did you plan to ask me to meet you?”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  That was my second surprise in approximately five seconds. “Is the Nicholas D’Martino standing next to my car the real one, or am I looking at a perfect replica pod person?”

  “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” he said, getting my reference. “One of my favorite old movies. No, this is the real me.” He craned his head down so that I could examine the back of his skull. “See? No telltale mark.”

  “Why are you asking me out?”

  “Because I like you.” He cocked his head and squinted at me. “It hadn’t occurred to me until this minute, but you look a little like the actress in that movie—Dana something. Dana Wynter. A brunette with big eyes.”

  “Don’t you remember that her character became one of the monsters at the end?”

  “What can I say? Women are trouble.”

  “I’ll repeat my question: Why are you asking me out? I’m not at all your type.”

  “Frankly, I’m a little tired of the girls built for speed.”

  “So that makes me…what?”

  “Built for endurance.” He said that with a smile.

  “Thanks,” I said wryly, “but no thanks. I have zero intention of wasting my ‘endurance’ on you.”

  He looked as though I’d slapped him. “Why are you being so hostile? I just asked you out to dinner.”

  I realized that he had no idea why I reacted negatively to his invitation. I’d have to enlighten him. “If I don’t seem thrilled, it’s because you’ve insulted me by your arrogant condescension. You implied tha
t you’re willing to lower your standards, at least to your way of thinking, and try out the company of a woman who’s been eligible to vote in five presidential elections. Sorry, but I’m not going to be anyone’s experiment.”

  “You’re not only bad at reading people, you’re no good at math,” he said. “By my calculations, you’ve been able to vote in six presidential elections.”

  “Well, Mr. D’Martino, you can take your calculations and stick them—where your newspaper isn’t delivered!”

  25

  John and Shannon O’Hara lived in a one-story Spanish hacienda in rustic Mandeville Canyon, several blocks north of Sunset Boulevard, and near Will Rogers State Park. They had bought the house a few months before Mack and I purchased ours in Santa Monica, when it was still possible to buy a home in a nice area on the salaries of working people.

  As I approached the house, I saw that the only vehicle in the carport was Shannon’s white Saturn. I hadn’t expected John to be home because Eileen told me before she left for her study group that he was working this evening with Detective Hall. I was glad Shannon had asked for this to be an early evening. With any luck, I’d be back at my house before John got home to Mandeville Canyon. Before I went in, I sat in the car for a few minutes, remembering….

  Shannon was twenty-nine and Eileen was two when John and Mack and I realized something was seriously wrong with Shannon. For several months her behavior had been erratic: She was often confused, couldn’t make decisions; once an easygoing person, she began starting arguments for no apparent reason, and she seemed perpetually nervous. John took her to a doctor, who diagnosed postpartum depression and gave Shannon tranquilizers. All the pills did was make her sleepy, and we began to fear for little Eileen’s safety with her mother falling asleep so often. John hired a live-in nanny, and Mack and I took Eileen on weekends and on my days off from teaching.

  Then Shannon, who’d always been well groomed, began to neglect her personal hygiene and withdraw from her friends. Desperate to find out what was the matter, John took her to a different doctor. That one said Shannon was having “severe” postpartum depression, and gave her different tranquilizers.