Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  Looking up, I saw NDM staring at me through the window on the other side of the car. He put his cell phone back in a pocket and came around to my side of the car. At that moment, I heard the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter above and the shriek of sirens racing toward us from the other side of the freeway.

  I wrapped the baby in the blanket and put him—yes, it was a boy—into Mia’s arms.

  NDM pushed the airbag away from the woman’s father and asked him if he was all right. The man replied that his arm hurt. As I worked my way backward out of the car, I heard NDM urge the elderly man to stay where he was until help arrived.

  Standing, my legs were a little wobbly. I leaned against the Buick, took a couple of deep gulps of air, and felt steady again.

  Just then, John found me. When he looked into the car and saw Mia and her baby, he hurried off to get one of the emergency medical technicians who’d arrived.

  “I cut the cord, but the knife wasn’t sterile,” I told the young blond EMT who appeared with John a few minutes later. “And I didn’t know how to clean out his eyes.”

  “Don’t worry,” the medical tech said, waving me away. “We’ll take care of everything.”

  Mia’s father wanted to get out of the car. I helped him up, careful not to touch the arm that was giving him pain, and guided him over to another EMT.

  NDM stayed behind. I saw him bend forward into the Buick. Then Detective Hall pulled me out of the way of a tow truck, and I lost sight of NDM.

  John got some sterile wipes from the medical supplies and gave them to me so I could clean up a little. At least my face and hands.

  In a few minutes, NDM joined us. “Mother, baby, and grandfather are going to be taken to the hospital for a complete examination, but it looks as though they’re all going to be fine,” he said.

  Tow trucks had cleared a narrow path out of the snarl and some cars were finally able to leave the scene.

  Miraculously, no one had been killed in our monster traffic tie-up. Only a few people were hurt, and while they were taken to area hospitals, one of the EMTs told us he thought most of their injuries were minor.

  Detective Hall approached. “O’Hara and I have to stay here. D’Martino, you can take Ms. Carmichael and go.”

  Down at my side, and out of his view, I used the last of my wipes to clean the blade on Detective Hall’s Swiss army knife. “I’ll get Tuffy and my handbag out of your car, and bring you back your keys,” I said.

  Hall nodded and began directing the clearing of an exit path in front of NDM’s Maserati.

  Moments later, I let Tuffy into the backseat of the most expensive car he’d ever been in, clipped his harness to the seat belt, and I got into the passenger seat.

  NDM said, “I checked on your show food. It’s okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Go tape your shows,” Hall told me.

  As NDM climbed in behind the wheel, John leaned in the passenger window of the Maserati, and reached behind me to give Tuffy a quick ear scratch. “I’ll let you know what happened as soon as we find out,” he told me. Because he’d made no secret of his dislike of NDM, it must have been difficult for John, but he looked at NDM and said, “Thanks for the help out there.”

  “No problem.”

  As we finally left the freeway and the turmoil behind, I asked NDM, “Do you have any idea why my car exploded? Was there a gas leak? Did that bouncing over the telephone poles crack something open?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I think there was a bomb.”

  “A bomb?” Even as my voice expressed surprise, I realized that “bomb” had been the deep, visceral fear that I hadn’t allowed myself to consider consciously.

  “I worked my way through college doing construction work, and I have some demolition experience,” NDM said. “I’ve done stories on bombings. From the way the car went up, I’m willing to bet explosives were rigged to the undercarriage.”

  I believed that, but it didn’t make sense. “Why would someone put a warning note on the windshield if they were going to kill me with a bomb?”

  “My guess is that the killer thought you’d take the note and the car to the cops. While you were driving…boom.”

  This was too much. I began to shake uncontrollably.

  NDM immediately turned the car into a quiet residential street and cut the engine. Without saying a word he took me in his arms and held me tight against him until my trembling subsided.

  When I was breathing more normally, I said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me—”

  And then his lips were on mine. Softly, he kissed my mouth, my eyes. Without thinking, beyond thinking, my arms went around his neck, and I returned his kisses until they were hard and probing and took my breath away.

  When we finally pulled slightly apart, I tried to reclaim my composure. “Thank you for heading off my meltdown.”

  With a tender touch, he smoothed a strand of hair back from my face and smiled. “You were in shock. I didn’t want to slap you, and I didn’t have a bucket of cold water to toss in your face, so…”

  We kissed again. One more kiss. Deep, but gentle. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was a survivors’ kiss. Not sexual, or rather not just sexual.

  Slowly, we released each other. I looked around and saw that we were parked on a street with lots of soft green grass between the sidewalk and the curb.

  “Tuffy needs a walk,” I said. And I need to clear my head.

  Opening my purse, I removed a disposal bag that was on a wire frame and had a cardboard handle. It was designed to scoop and snap shut, then be dropped into the nearest garbage can. I turned in the seat, unhooked Tuffy’s safety harness, and grabbed the end of Tuffy’s leash.

  “Want me to come with you?” NDM asked.

  “No. I’ll just be a few minutes, and then we can go on to the studio.”

  As I opened the rear door and let Tuffy out of the Maserati, I saw NDM reaching for his cell phone.

  31

  Quinn Tanner greeted me with, “You look bloody awful!”

  “I got here, Quinn, against major odds. As soon as I wash up, I’ll be ready to work.” The truth was that after what I’d gone through on the freeway, I needed to work. If I didn’t tape the shows, I was afraid I’d go to pieces. Even though it hadn’t always been true, I like to think of myself as the “she doesn’t go to pieces” type.

  NDM had parked near the double doors into the studio and carried both boxes of food inside behind me, while I held Tuffy’s leash and carried the garment bag.

  “There’s a shower room behind Car Guy’s set,” Quinn said. “But your clothes are filthy. What in the world is all over the front of you?”

  “Afterbirth,” I said.

  “There is no need to be sarcastic,” she snapped. “I only inquired because you can’t go on camera like that.”

  Sometimes the way to make people think you’re joking is to tell the truth.

  “I have a change in the garment bag,” I said, “but it’s for the second show and to wear home. I can cover my slacks by tucking a dish towel into my belt, but do you have a sweater or shirt I could borrow to wear on top?”

  Scanning me with a critical frown, she said, “Nothing of mine would fit. I’m a size two. You are…not.”

  NDM put the boxes of food on the prep counter. Indicating the auto shop set, he told Quinn, “I see a couple of Car’s jumpsuits in dry cleaners’ plastic hanging up over there. Della could wear one of those. I think she’d look kind of cute.”

  “Do you really?” Quinn’s tone was frosty. “But I suppose that would be better than how she looks now.”

  She’d been so hostile to him and to me that I didn’t trust Quinn to be alone with Tuffy. I asked NDM, “Would you look after him while I shower and change? I won’t be long.”

  “Sure,” he said, taking the leash.

  Quinn began unpacking the food and putting the items where she wanted them to be while I grabbed one of Car Guy’s clean unifo
rm jumpsuits and headed off to find the shower.

  The door was in the set’s rear wall, partially concealed behind a tower of tires. I expected it to look something like a gas station bathroom, but Car Guy’s cleanup facility turned out to be an almost luxurious room done in green and white tiles, with a new toilet, ceramic pedestal sink, and glass-enclosed stall. All were on the higher rather than lower end of the quality scale. There was even a shelf piled with fresh towels. In the mirrored cabinet over the sink, I found several unopened bars of soap and several plastic laundry bags. All the comforts of a decent hotel. Remembering what Lulu had said about the large amount of advertising revenue Car Guy pulled in, I guessed that he had extracted this facility from Mickey about the same time he insisted Mimi be fired.

  After a quick but thorough soaping and rinsing, I dried myself. Folding my soiled sweater and slacks, I put them into one of the laundry bags. Along with what I was going to wear of Car Guy’s, they would go to the dry cleaners in the morning. I’d probably have to explain what those stains on my clothes were so they’d know what to use on them.

  Wearing only underwear, I stepped into Car Guy’s dark blue uniform. It was a couple of sizes too big, and an inch or so too long, but by cinching the waist with my belt, I solved both problems.

  When I returned to my own set and modeled my new look, NDM laughed, but said, “That’s not bad.”

  Quinn called across the prep counter. “Everything is laid out properly. We’re behind schedule, so let’s get started, shall we?”

  NDM handed Tuffy’s leash to me. “I’m going to North Hollywood Station to see what I can find out. How long will you be here? A couple of hours?”

  “Don’t worry about coming back for me,” I said. “I’m going to call Liddy or Eileen and ask one of them to take me home.”

  “I’ll take you home,” Mickey Jordan said, startling me. I hadn’t seen him come into the studio. “Now let’s get to work. Time is money.”

  It took another few minutes for the lights to be set and the camera adjusted. I used the opportunity to phone Liddy, tell her what happened, and ask if Eileen could stay at her house for a few days. As I knew she would, she agreed immediately, but she wanted me to stay at Casa Marshall, too.

  “I’ll be fine at the house. I have Tuffy and an old baseball bat from when Mack played. My mind is made up, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “All right, but I’m still going to worry,” she said with a sigh. “Do you want me to tell Eileen?”

  Quinn gestured to me impatiently and headed up to the director’s booth.

  “Yes, please call Eileen. That would be a big help,” I said. “Have to go now. Talk to you later.”

  Positioning myself behind the prep counter, I did a quick scan of the surfaces and saw that Quinn had arranged everything perfectly. The necessary ingredients in front of me, and pre-prepared dishes on the rear counter, ready to be brought forward to display at the end of the show. She’d even preheated the ovens. Quinn might not be a joy to know, but she was very good at her job.

  In my earpiece, I heard Quinn’s ten-second countdown. I gave a friendly wave to Jada Powell, who was taping the show today. She responded with a pleasant nod and Camera One’s red light went on.

  I looked into the lens and smiled at the unseen audience. “Hello, everybody. I’m Della Carmichael. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della.” I fingered the uniform’s shirt pocket that said “Car Guy” in bright red thread. “You may be wondering why I’m dressed like this. Well, the show is coming to you from Southern California, the home of freeway chases and traffic tie-ups. As I was on my way here today, we had a mess on the freeway. My own clothes got dirty, so I’m wearing one of Car Guy’s outfits. He’s my next-door neighbor here at the Better Living Channel. I’ll have to bake him something tonight to thank him for the use of his clothes. When you do this kind of ‘real’ show, there isn’t a costume department. They have those in studios where they film movies and TV series. We just wear things we have in our own closets. I’m grateful that my TV kitchen isn’t next door to Sesame Street. It would be pretty hard to do what I do in a Big Bird suit.” I smiled, hoping that if the Sesame Street people—who had a reputation for being very protective of their characters—saw this, they would know I was joking.

  “Speaking of TV and the movies, today I’m making recipes that came from a show business husband and wife. First up is an Italian meatloaf baked in a big round of sour dough bread, the recipe courtesy of actor and director Tom Troupe. With it, for dessert, is the best ambrosia I’ve ever had. That recipe is from his wife, actress Carole Cook, who got it from her sister, Regina Cocanougher, in Decatur, Texas. My thanks to you all for sharing. Now, let’s get cooking!”

  Both half-hour shows went smoothly. I talked and chopped, talked and stirred, sautéed, mixed, and tasted. Nothing happened that required stopping the tape to do it over again. Even Tuffy behaved like a performing pro. He was the perfect foil, gazing at me when appropriate, and cocking his head for comic punctuation.

  When the shows were finally over, the adrenaline rush on which I’d been operating began to dissipate. I hardly remembered a word of what I’d said, but Mickey, who’d been watching on a monitor in the control room, told me he was pleased by what he saw.

  Nodding in Tuffy’s direction, he added, “The mutt’s a good touch. Gals will love it.”

  Inwardly, I flinched at the words “mutt” and “gals,” but that was just Mickey, whose slang was stuck in a 1950s time warp.

  I left the pre-prepared dishes and the on-set prepared food from the two shows for the studio staff to enjoy, and gathered the laundry bag with my dirty clothes, the empty garment bag, Car Guy’s uniform, and Tuffy, and put them in the back of Mickey’s yellow SUV.

  When we drove out through the security gate, Mickey gestured at the new billboard. Grinning with pride, he asked, “How do you like that?”

  “It was a wonderful surprise. I was absolutely stunned.”

  “Yeah, well, I spent the money for you. Cost an’ arm an’ a leg to get it so quick. But forget I said anything about the money. You’re attracting a lot of new subscribers to the cable package we’re in. My market research people found that out.”

  Although I hated the thought, what went through my mind was: Don’t you mean that two murders have stirred up all this interest? What I said was, “If I’m helping the channel, I’m glad. I love teaching, and you’ve given me the biggest classroom I’ve ever had.”

  “Iva got it right when she talked me into giving you a shot.”

  “Maybe you should put Iva on your billboard,” I joked.

  He took me seriously. “Nah. I got her a diamond bracelet.”

  We were on Ventura Boulevard, heading for Beverly Glen Canyon. Mickey, a New Yorker who hadn’t learned to drive until he was forty years old, didn’t like the freeways. “They’re death traps on asphalt,” he’d said.

  “Mickey, if you have a few minutes to talk, can we stop for coffee? There are some things I need to tell you.”

  “Sure, Iva’s having a spa day, whatever that is. She won’t be home until late. Where’s a nice restaurant out here?”

  “There’s a fast-food drive-through on the next block. Let’s get our coffee there. I don’t want to go inside and leave Tuffy out in the car.”

  “Great. I don’t feel fancy right now myself.”

  A few minutes later we were parked, with two large coffees for ourselves and a bowl of water for Tuffy.

  I told Mickey about the note on my windshield and my car destroyed in a suspicious explosion while it was being transported to the North Hollywood Station.

  Mickey let out a stream of curses and banged his fist on the dashboard. He hit it so hard, he cracked the surface veneer and hurt himself. Shaking out his bruised hand, he growled, “What the f—is going on? Somebody’s trying to off you, too? Who’s next—Car and Gil? I’ll have a network with nobody on it! Twenty-four hours a day of f—ing cheapo infomercials!”

&
nbsp; “I don’t think there’s any danger to Car Guy or Gilmer York, but I’m absolutely convinced that whoever murdered Mimi Bond and Lulu Owens, and whoever destroyed my car, is connected to your channel.”

  Staring out the window, scowling, he listened as I recounted the events that led to my conclusion: “The killer has to be someone with access to your studio.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Mickey turned in his seat to face me. “I must say, you got guts. We’re out here in a parking lot, pretty much alone. You’re taking a big chance, telling me how you’re figuring this. What makes you think it’s not me?”

  32

  A chill swept over me, but it only lasted for a moment. “No,” I told Mickey Jordan firmly, “I don’t believe you’re a killer.”

  To my surprise, he looked a little disappointed. I added, “Not that I don’t think you’re capable of it, if you had a strong enough motive, but I’m sure you didn’t murder Mimi and Lulu, or blow up my car. You’re off the hook with me. Not with Detective Hall, though. He found out you really were in New York when Mimi died, but he’s not ruling out the possibility that you hired someone to kill her for you. I don’t believe you did that.”

  “You’re right. I’m not the killer, and I didn’t pay for it. But I’m curious why you don’t think so.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I did suspect you for about a minute, but I crossed you off my mental list. When you approached me about doing a show on your channel, I made it a point to find out as much as I could about you.”

  He snorted. “The f—ing Internet! I don’t make a great impression on some of those sites.”

  “I didn’t learn about you just on the Internet. Someone checked you out.” I wouldn’t tell him that John O’Hara, using his law enforcement connections, had done a thorough background search on Mickey. At first I was annoyed that John was interfering in my life, but I had to admit his report made for colorful reading.

  First, there were the rumors about the murky origin of Mickey’s fortune, in particular, speculation about where he got the initial investment money, but nothing illegal had been proven. Then there had been gaudy mutual charges in his several divorce cases, but they’d eventually been settled without bloodshed. What facts could be proved showed Mickey Jordan to be an astute businessman who bought dead or dying companies, brought them back to life, and sold them at a handsome profit. He was a hard negotiator. Some men whose businesses he’d bought low and sold high were unhappy with the deals they made and had strong words to say about Mickey, but he’d never lost a lawsuit or been charged with a crime.