Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  I held up the plastic baggie. “Detective Hall, John—this came in the mail just before I saw the car note. It’s from Lulu Owens, the recipe for her lasagna. She must have written it out after I left her house Monday night, and then mailed it at the post box on her street. That could explain why she was outside her door when she was killed.”

  Hall took the baggie out of my hand. He and John scrutinized the contents.

  “Who touched this?” John asked.

  “From the time the mail carrier brought it, about fifteen minutes ago, I’m the only one who handled the envelope and the page inside. As soon as I saw that it was from Lulu, I only touched the paper up at the corner.” I pinched my thumb and index finger together to demonstrate.

  Hall grunted. “There probably isn’t anything we can get from the paper, but forensics will go over this letter, the windshield note, and the car.” He extended a hand toward me. “Let’s have the key to the Mustang.”

  I took it out of my pocket and gave it to him. “Be careful driving. It can be a little temperamental, but I’m used to its quirks.”

  “A flatbed tow truck is on the way to haul it to the station house. You’re coming with us.”

  “All right,” I said, “but I have to tape two shows today. Will somebody take me to the studio from there?”

  NDM said, “I will. I’ll put your boxes of TV food and the garment bag in my car. We can follow Detective Hall and Lieutenant O’Hara.”

  “No,” Hall said, in a tone that discouraged argument. “Mrs. Carmichael comes with us. If you want to, you can follow with her stuff.”

  John didn’t look happy about that plan, but he clenched his jaws.

  I turned to Hall. “It will save time if you question me while we drive. I need to be able to let the station know when I’ll be there for the taping. We’re on a tight schedule, and they have everything set up.”

  Hall looked at his watch. “Tell them you’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  A flatbed tow truck with the LAPD logo rumbled up my quiet street. Hall hurried down to the sidewalk and signaled to it, directing the driver to back it up my driveway.

  Once the truck was correctly positioned, the driver conferred with Hall and got out of the cab to secure the Mustang with a chain.

  Hall supervised the winching of the Mustang up onto the flatbed as NDM loaded the food boxes and my change of clothing into the trunk of the Maserati.

  John drew me a few yards away from the activity and spoke in low tones. Indicating NDM, he said, “Be careful of that guy, Del. He’s bad news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a reporter with a reputation for having no scruples when he’s out to get a story. And he chases anything in a skirt.”

  “I wear mostly slacks,” I said.

  John glowered. “This isn’t a joke. If he’s after you, he could have sneaked over here and planted the note to scare you. He admits he doesn’t have an alibi for last night. Did he offer to let you stay at his place?”

  “No, he didn’t.” I thought it best not to tell John that NDM offered to stay with me in my house. “You can’t really think he would leave that message.”

  “No, I don’t,” John admitted, “although I believe he’s capable of pulling any stunt to get a headline. I think the person who killed the two women broke into your car and wrote that threat, but I’m not ruling D’Martino out. With your life in danger, I can’t afford to rule anyone out.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said softly. “Really. I don’t know what I’d do without your friendship. You and Shannon and Eileen are as much my family as my own blood, but I know how to take care of myself. I haven’t made any terrible mistakes in the last two years on my own, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t. You’ve been amazing.” He attempted a smile, but there was sadness in his eyes. John’s smile was a painful echo of Shannon’s.

  I wanted to put my arms around him, to comfort him, to assure him that everything would be fine, just as I had when we discovered how ill Shannon was. But giving physical comfort to John O’Hara was something I could never do again.

  To break what had become an awkward silence, I said, “I saw Shannon last evening.”

  “I know. She told me. It was good of you to have dinner with her.”

  “Not at all, she’s my friend. She’s excited about making sweaters to sell. You know how talented she is. I think she’ll be a success at it.”

  John nodded. “I’m glad to see her happy.”

  “Do you want me to call Liddy about Eileen staying with her for a while, or would you rather she come home to you and her mother?”

  John’s reaction was immediate, and firm. “Call Liddy. I’d love to have her at home, but it’s better if she just comes over to visit once or twice a week. Shannon doesn’t need the extra stress right now.”

  I felt a twinge of concern, and was about to ask John what he meant, but Hall waved at us, calling, “Hey, let’s go!”

  With the flatbed tow truck leading the way, our three-vehicle convoy took off for North Hollywood.

  Detective Hall was at the controls of the Green Hornet, John was in the passenger seat next to him, and Tuffy and I occupied the backseat. I’d clipped Tuffy’s auto safety harness to the seat belt on his side. He was sitting up, staring out his window.

  I turned around to check on NDM through the rear window. He had his steering wheel in a death grip, and looked impatient. I guessed that being forced to keep to the speed limit was probably making him a little nuts.

  As we covered the miles, I explained to Detective Hall and to John my theory that the person who stole the car from the studio and chased me had come to Brentwood because he was really stalking Lulu, and my belief that he hadn’t been able to kill Lulu until Monday night because she spent the weekend with Faye.

  “Whoever it is must either work at the studio or have access to it,” I said. “First, in order to doctor the mousse with the peanuts that killed Mimi. Second, to steal the Simba—which makes me think that the person knows enough about cars to hot-wire it. Third, to steal the knife from my kitchen set.”

  John said, “We’ve already come to the same conclusion.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I presume you’ve made a list of the people who were at the studio on Monday, those who were still there when I left, or those who came in later?” I named the people I’d seen on Monday.

  “Mickey Jordan was there late in the day,” Hall said. “He’d called a staff meeting.”

  “The publicity man was there,” John said. “Phil Logan.”

  Phil Logan? I made a mental note to ask NDM what he knew about the man who’d had my photos retouched and who arranged the interview with NDM, which had led to this new complication in my life.

  Even though the Green Hornet and NDM’s Maserati were trailing the flatbed, we were still making pretty good time on the freeway. I checked the clock on the dashboard and saw that we should be reaching our off-ramp into North Hollywood in another five more minutes or so.

  Hall’s usual driving position was to bend over the steering wheel, practically embracing it, but suddenly he snapped upright in his seat.

  “What the hell?” He slammed on the brakes, jerking me harshly against my seat belt. Tuffy’s safety harness kept him from slamming into the back of Hall’s seat.

  Through the windshield, I saw the tow truck bouncing over a spilled load of telephone poles—and on the flatbed my Mustang was bucking like a rodeo rider.

  The poles had come loose from the big truck just ahead of the tow truck and were rolling over the freeway. Cars on both sides of us were swerving to get out of the way. More drivers were honking loudly as their vehicles careened into other lanes and collided with machines already there.

  Then, with indescribable horror, I saw my precious Mustang explode into a million jagged pieces!

  30

  The force of the blast sent chunks of metal shooting up into the air to rain down on everything below. I
heard a clang and a thud on the roof of the Rover, but nothing pierced the steel skin. I looked back at NDM and saw a twisted part of something hit the hood of the Maserati. It bounced off and left a nasty dent, but NDM wasn’t hurt. He didn’t even seem upset; he was busy talking on his cell phone.

  On our side of the freeway, traffic had come to a jumbled halt amid the reverberating crunches and bangs of collisions.

  John told me, “Stay here!” and sprang from the Rover. Through the window, I watched him run toward the cab of the tow truck. Everything on our side of the freeway had come to a stop.

  Working his phone, Hall called for emergency medical vehicles, the highway patrol, and the fire department. I saw John pull the tow truck driver out of the cab. The man’s head was bleeding, but with John’s help he was able to walk away from the flatbed.

  Tuffy was sitting up straight, calmly watching the activity going on around us. “Good boy,” I said, patting him.

  Hall unsnapped his seat belt. “Stay put!” While he continued to shout instructions into his phone, he got out onto the freeway and raced into the middle of the tangle of cars.

  “To hell with ‘stay put.’ This isn’t Victorian England where women were shut indoors as soon as there was trouble in the street.”

  I was squeezing through the space between the driver’s and passenger’s sides to get into the front of the Rover when NDM opened the driver’s door. “Della—are you okay?” he called.

  “Yes, but my car exploded!”

  Pocketing his cell phone, he said, “Stay where you are,” and sprinted off to help John give aid to drivers and passengers.

  If one more man tells me to stay where I am, I’m going to scream.

  I saw Hall directing those cars that were able to operate away from the tow truck, but the jam was so severe most couldn’t move more than a few feet. For some it was only inches.

  I gave silent thanks that it was a very cool and overcast day. No sun, and no need for air conditioning. I turned on the Rover’s ignition so I could let the windows down enough for Tuffy to have plenty of fresh air. He’d be comfortable and safe in the Green Hornet. There was no need to worry about anyone trying to steal it because we were landlocked.

  Hall’s ignition key was on a ring with two other keys and a Swiss army knife. I took the ring, got out of the vehicle, and locked it behind me.

  The smell that filled the air was an acrid combination of smoke, hot metal, and spilled oil and gasoline. Not pleasant, but it was bearable. It would have been worse on a warm day.

  Stuffing Hall’s fat key ring in my pants pocket, I plunged into a veritable sea of fender benders, looking for whoever could use my help.

  Most of the cars around me were wedged together. Some had suffered only minimal damage and looked able to operate, but they were blocked in by those that had smashed front ends and weren’t drivable. Tow trucks would have to remove the disabled vehicles to open up an escape lane for the cars that could make it out of here on their own.

  Some of the stuck drivers had gotten out and were sitting or standing on the tops of their cars, trying to see what was happening up ahead, or were looking back at the massive tie-up behind us. Several drivers had abandoned their own cars and had formed pairs or trios atop the biggest SUVs.

  I’d lost sight of John and Hall and NDM. My last glimpse of John had been when he was pressing one of his handkerchiefs against the cut on the head of the police tow truck driver, to stop the bleeding. Now both he and the wounded driver had disappeared.

  As I clambered around battered cars, looking for some way to be useful, I heard raucous music pouring from a couple of radios and strident voices from all-talk or all-news stations coming from others. The result was babble, underscored with rock and rap.

  The din lessened for a few seconds, and I heard a woman’s piercing cries of pain, followed by a man’s shouted plea for help. His voice was hoarse, the timbre of an elderly person. I couldn’t see the source of the cries and the shout, but they had to be only three or four cars behind Hall’s Rover.

  Following the woman’s cries, I squeezed between cars and scrambled over fenders and bumpers.

  The cries were louder now. There was enough space for me to squeeze past the final car—and then I was facing a sight that stunned me into momentary immobility. An elderly Asian man was in the driver’s seat of a newish Buick. His airbag had deployed and deflated. He didn’t seem to be injured, but he was frantic.

  “Please help my daughter,” he cried.

  The reason for his panic was lying across the backseat: a young Asian woman, drenched in sweat, and twisting her body to try to ease her agony. Her knees were up, and she was holding them a shoulder’s width apart, but she’d pulled her floral, ankle-length skirt down for modesty. In spite of the pain she was in, and the perspiration that plastered her jet-black hair to her scalp, I could see that she had a lovely face—and a very pregnant belly. A big, wet stain covered the upholstery beneath her.

  The moment she saw me, she cried out in relief and tried to raise herself onto her elbows. “Help me, please! My baby is coming!” Relief was followed immediately by another scream of pain.

  Oh, no!

  The famous line from Gone with the Wind pounded in my head—“Lordy, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ about birthing babies!”—as I looked around frantically, hoping to spot anyone who could help her.

  I stood up, surveyed the sea of stalled vehicles, and yelled, “Help! We need a doctor or a nurse! There’s a woman here in labor!”

  No response.

  I leaned over to speak to the young woman. “It’s going to be all right.” My voice rang with conviction, but I was faking it. I’d never had a child; I hadn’t even seen a birth for twenty years, not since Liddy had her twins. Her husband had been too nervous to be in the delivery room, so I’d been her Lamaze partner. Fighting panic, I tried to remember anything I’d seen or heard way back then.

  Talk. “Conversation calms a woman in labor,” or so I remember someone in Lamaze class saying. I hope it hadn’t been a man.

  I forced a cheerful smile and asked, “What’s your name?”

  Her answer was a gasp. “Mia.”

  “I’m Della. Don’t worry, Mia. We’ll get through this.” Somehow.

  Even with her features contorted in pain, I saw she was dubious. I couldn’t blame her; she was in labor, trapped in a car, facing a stranger.

  About two feet separated the Buick from the empty car beside it. The Buick’s rear door had sprung partially open, but only a couple of inches. Not even the skinniest supermodel would have been able to squeeze inside. I pulled at the door, trying to open it wider, but the miserable thing wouldn’t budge.

  Bracing my right foot against the outside frame, I planted my left on the ground and put every ounce of strength I had into the job—and yanked. Metal screeched, but the door gave enough for me to be able to wiggle most of my body inside.

  “Mia, scoot back,” I said. “Press your shoulders up against the far door.”

  She did as I asked. “Thank…you for…your help,” she said, gasping.

  I struggled my way through the narrow space until I was mostly inside the car, kneeling on the seat with my derriere sticking out in the pungent breeze.

  The presence of another woman seemed to comfort her. Little did she know! There were probably a hundred women in this traffic jam who could help her more than I could, but it looked as though I was all she had.

  Mia let out another cry of pain, and then puff, puff, puffed.

  “Oh, good, Mia—you’ve had Lamaze.”

  She nodded and puffed.

  On the floor of the car, I saw a crumpled pair of maternity underpants.

  “Has your water broken?” The moment those words were out of my mouth I knew that was a stupid question. What else could the dark stain around her lower body be?

  “Yes…. When the cars…” Mia cried out, then puff, puff, puffed.

  I remembered another questio
n from twenty years ago: “How close together are your pains?”

  “Each…minute.” She cried out again, this time a long wail. No puffing.

  “Keep breathing!” I leaned forward and reached for the hem of her skirt.

  She screamed, “It’s coming!”

  Probably more terrified of what was about to happen than Mia was, I lifted her skirt, turned it back onto her knees—and saw the top of a dark little head.

  Thank God it’s the head and not the feet! I knew enough to realize that seeing feet would mean a breach birth, requiring an expert. But the head coming first is “basic.”

  Out of the corner of one eye I saw a folded blanket on the shelf in front of the rear window. I grabbed it and spread it below the head and up across my own knees.

  “Push!” I said, praying that was the right instruction. “Push, Mia!”

  She pushed, and pushed, and I saw the head inch forward, then I saw the baby twist slightly—and I saw a little shoulder—and with Mia pushing and me praying, the baby came out. It was in my hands, all slimy and covered with goop. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.

  The mother was weeping, but with joy. The baby started to cry—it was breathing. I gave an enormous sigh of relief. And then I saw the cord. The umbilical cord. All I knew about an umbilical cord was that it had to be cut. But how?

  I asked the elderly man in the front seat, “Do you have scissors or a knife?”

  “No, no.” Now he was sobbing.

  It was as though the Patron Saint of the Inexperienced was watching over me, because at that moment I knew what to do. Cradling the baby against my chest with one arm, I worked my free hand into my pocket and pulled out Detective Hall’s ring of keys and his Swiss army knife. Among the assorted gadgets, I pulled out the small knife blade. I didn’t have anything to sterilize it with, but I had no choice except to use it. I put the baby down carefully between my knees and pulled the blade open. Clenching my jaws to keep from gagging, I cut the cord.