I said, “The thing that seems to be most consistent about you is that you carefully plan everything you do. Last Friday I surprised you when I said I wanted to visit Faye Bond. Did you tell anyone where I was going when I left your house?”
He shook his head. “Nobody. I had more important things on my mind.”
“Then you were the only one who knew where I would be, but you didn’t have time to get to North Hollywood, hot-wire the car—even if you had known it would be there—and come back to chase me through Brentwood. I don’t think you’d hire a killer, because I can’t see you putting yourself in the power of somebody who could betray you.”
“You got that right.” I heard bitterness in his voice. He took a swallow of his coffee, as though to wash the taste away.
“Whoever tried to frighten me in Brentwood went to the Bond house without expecting to find me there,” I said. “I think that person was after Lulu because Lulu knew something that could expose Mimi Bond’s killer.”
“You’re smart,” he said. “How about coming into business with me?”
“No, thank you. I just want to keep cooking.”
Mickey frowned, squeezed his eyes shut, and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. I sipped coffee in our companionable silence.
Opening his eyes again, he said, “Let’s keep this simple. Your take on the case is that Mimi was the target, an’ Lulu was collateral damage, an’ you were almost collateral?”
“Yes. I think the killer only intended to commit one murder: Mimi’s. But Lulu became a dangerous loose end because of something she knew. I was asking questions, and I spent time with Lulu, so that made me a possible danger to him. Or her.”
“Forget the ‘her’ part. I never met a gal who could hot-wire a car.”
“You’re sitting next to one,” I said. “My husband showed me how to do it.”
“Your old man was a car thief?”
“A police detective who had a habit of losing his keys.”
He aimed a half-smile at me. “Next time I lose my keys, maybe I’ll call you instead of Triple A.”
With the usually taciturn Mickey in a talkative mood, I decided to ask him about my show’s bad-tempered director. “Were Quinn Tanner and Mimi Bond close friends?”
Mickey let out a derisive snort. “‘Friends’? They liked each other about as much as Churchill and Hitler liked each other. Why’d you figure they were pals?”
“After Mimi collapsed, Quinn accused me of having caused her death. She was so unpleasant, I thought she might be upset because they were close.”
“Those two porcupines? No way. Quinn was Mimi’s director. Each one of them came to me, trying to get me to fire the other one.”
“I’m not complaining about Quinn, because I can work with her, but do you have any idea why she’s so hostile to me?”
“That’s a no-brainer. Quinn wanted to replace Mimi. She even made me a demo tape of herself, but she’s cold as a meat locker on camera. Iva calls her ‘charisma challenged.’” Mickey’s mouth curved up and his eyes warmed, as they always did when he spoke of Iva. “My gal looks like the cover of a fashion magazine, but when we’re alone she makes me laugh. Maybe you know I was married more often than was good for me. What the hell, I was young an’ stupid, an’ then I was middle-aged an’ stupid. But when I met Iva, I knew she was the prize in my box of Cracker Jacks. The possibility of getting caught an’ losing Iva…She’s the real reason I wouldn’t have murdered Mimi.” He took the last swallow of his coffee and added, “Or at least I wouldn’t kill anybody I’ve met so far.”
It was close to four thirty when Mickey eased his yellow behemoth to a stop in front of my house.
“You gonna be all right tonight?” he asked.
I wondered which “all right” he had in mind: all right after the possibility of somebody having put a bomb in my car, or all right alone in my house while a killer is loose. I decided to give him the thinking-positive answer.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“You have a security system?”
“No.”
“I’ll treat you to one an’ deduct the cost as a business expense.”
“No, please, but thanks for the offer. With a dog and a cat and a college student houseguest, it would probably keep going off at all hours.”
“You want some unregistered fire power? I can get it for you. But here’s a tip: If you shoot somebody trying to break in, be sure you drag him all the way inside the house before you call the cops.”
“No, Mickey. If I had a gun, I might accidentally shoot myself in the foot.”
“Okay, but you can’t say I didn’t try. Call me if you change your mind.” He put the big yellow SUV in gear and drove away in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
I started up the path, but paused to look at my little English cottage. The pink camellia bush was in bloom on one side of the front door, and my hand-planted night-blooming jasmine was growing tall and shiny on the other. For the first time in the years I’d lived there, I wasn’t eager to rush inside. Except for Emma and Tuffy, I was going to be alone tonight. As much as I hated to admit it, I was nervous. No, the truth was that I was more than a little afraid.
Tuffy tugged on his leash and looked up at me, communicating his need for a walk.
Reaching down to pet him, I said, “Okay, boy, you got it.”
I put the garment bag full of dirty clothes on my doorstep and took a scoop bag out of my purse, and we headed back down the path to tour the neighborhood.
No one followed us.
As soon as I unlocked the front door, I heard Emma’s soft little pads loping across the living room to meet us. She greeted Tuffy first, stretching her neck up to touch her soft gray nose to his wet black nose. He wagged his tail. I unhooked Tuffy’s leash and started toward the kitchen. Eight paws trotted behind me.
Once I’d taken care of the pets and given Emma some affectionate strokes, I went to the bedroom, reached for the phone, and dialed Ed Gardner’s number at Western Alliance Insurance. It was after five thirty; I wasn’t sure if he’d still be in his office, but he answered the phone.
“Hi, Ed. It’s Della Carmichael.”
“How’s the TV star? If you’re calling about the policy changes, we had computer troubles here, so I’ll get the new bill out to you on Friday.”
“No, I wasn’t calling about that. I have to make a claim.”
“A claim.” He was silent for a moment; I pictured him frowning unhappily at the prospect of having to pay money out. “What kind of a claim?”
“Auto. My car has been totaled.”
“If somebody hit you, I hope the driver was in a Rolls.” He sounded cheerful at that thought.
“Nobody hit me. My Mustang exploded.”
“Exploded? Was it a mechanical malfunction? Something Ford did wrong?”
I had to be careful how I answered because I didn’t have any proof yet. “There’s some suspicion it was a bomb, but thankfully nobody was in the car when it went off.”
“Glad to hear that, but a bomb? This is a first for me.”
“If it turns out to be true, am I covered for that?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve got both collision and comprehensive. Comprehensive covers everything, even the extraordinarily unusual.”
I began to relax. “That’s a relief. How soon will I be able to buy another car?”
“Are you asking when will you get a check?”
“Yes. If you need to see the wreckage, it’s at the North Hollywood police station, or wherever they took it.”
“I’ll have an adjuster go out and get pictures for the files, and I’ll process the claim as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you’re waiting for the check before you buy a new car, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
A cold ball of dread formed in my stomach. “What is it?” What now?
“Your Mustang is eighteen years old, so—”
“But I’ve
kept it in perfect condition. I have all of the service records, going back to when Mack bought it new.”
“I believe you, but no matter how well it’s been cared for, an eighteen-year-old car isn’t a collector’s item, Della. According to the evaluation tables, it’s just an old car. Frankly, you won’t be getting more than a small fraction of what a new Mustang, or any comparably priced car, will cost you. And, of course, when you buy a new car, you’ll have the registration fees and all that. As soon as you pick something out, call me from the dealer’s office so I can cover your new vehicle before you leave the lot.”
“Yes, I will, Ed. I’ll call you.” We said good-bye.
More debt. How in the world am I going to…
Then I took a breath and made myself stop the internal whining; I hate people who whine. I reminded myself that I’m alive and healthy, and that there’s a solution to my problem: I have to keep my TV job. If Mickey sells the channel, as he’s sold other businesses when they start to make money, the new owner might not want me if I’m still under suspicion of murder. Which meant that I had to find out who killed Mimi Bond and clear my name.
33
I turned on the inside and outside lights and found Mack’s old baseball bat in the storage closet. Followed by Tuffy and Emma, I took it to the kitchen and began to figure out what I could have for dinner. I needed a hot meal to be able to think clearly. No standing up over the sink while I ate a peanut butter sandwich tonight.
Too tired to cook, I turned to the stash of emergency meals that I kept in the freezer. What appealed to me most, because it was delicious and would take the least amount of energy to consume, was Barbara Rush’s special chili.
The actress was a friend of one of my Happy Table students. When I learned that this movie and TV star was well known in the entertainment community for her cooking skills, I invited her to be a guest speaker at class. She was a big hit, and her chili was so good I keep several Tupper-ware portions in the freezer.
After giving Tuffy and Emma each a treat, and while the chili was defrosting, I sat down at the kitchen table. Using my grocery pad and a pen, I began to make a list of murder suspects, people who knew Mimi and also had access to the studio facilities:
George Hopkins
(where was he before my show went on the air?)
Quinn Tanner
(wanted Mimi’s job, but I got it, so why would she kill Mimi?)
Car Guy
(Mimi tried to humiliate him by saying he couldn’t perform sexually.)
Gilmer York
(Mimi pursued him, and when rebuffed, lied that he was a drug addict.)
Stan Evans
(once drove for Mimi, and she got him the daytime security job.)
Al Franklin
(night security man; no known personal link to Mimi.)
Ernie Ramirez and Jada Powell
(worked with Mimi, but no known animosity.)
Faye Bond
(had no access to backstage.)
I didn’t bother to consider Mickey or Iva Jordan as suspects in Mimi’s murder. Mickey was off my list for the reasons I explained to him. Not only did Iva have no apparent motive—she certainly could not have been worried about Mimi as a rival for her husband!—the more important reason I didn’t suspect her was that she had arrived at the studio with Lulu to see my first show, and she was continuously in Lulu’s company until Lulu took her home after Detective Hall let them leave. I knew this from my chat with Lulu at Faye Bond’s house. Lulu also told me that while Mimi was a pain in the solar plexus to her camera operators, Ernie and Jada, they had no connection with Mimi outside the studio. Lulu, who had been around them all for years, hadn’t been able to imagine why either Ernie or Jada would kill Mimi.
As for Faye, Lulu told me that Faye was an unhappy child who adored her late father and had a tense relationship with her mother. Even if Faye had a powerful motive for killing Mimi, she had no opportunity to doctor the mousse. According to Lulu, from the time Faye arrived at the studio that night, just after Lulu—and while Mimi was throwing a fit at me in the dressing room—Faye was outside with the other people who would be in the audience, waiting to go into the studio. Then she never got out of her seat in the front row. Lulu could swear to it. Faye had looked so unhappy and fragile that night, Lulu had kept an eye on her.
That brought me to Stan Evans. Lulu said he’d worked for Mimi as a chauffeur. They must have parted on amicable terms, because when she let him go, she got him a job with the studio so he wouldn’t be out of work. That was a nice gesture from a woman who wasn’t known to be as kind to human beings as she was to animals.
While I was thinking and making notes, Liddy called twice to see how I was. In between Liddy’s calls, Eileen phoned. She insisted that she wasn’t afraid to stay at the house with me, but I managed to convince her that I would feel better if she was at Liddy’s for the time being. It took a few minutes, but she agreed.
Immediately following Liddy’s second call, John phoned.
“Did you lock all the doors?” he asked.
I wanted to scream at his treating me like a child, but I controlled myself. “Please, I’m not ten years old. Of course I did. Now tell me what you’ve found out.”
“A bomb was attached to the Mustang’s undercarriage.”
So NDM’s guess was right.
“Della? Are you there?”
“Yes. I was just…Was there anything left that could lead to finding out who made it?”
“Not a professional,” John said. “It was a crude device. Anyone with a computer could have learned how to make it on the Internet.”
On John’s end of the call, I heard a woman’s voice, but I couldn’t understand the words. John must have covered the mouthpiece, because all I could make out was a few seconds of murmuring. Back on the line, he said, “Shannon wants to say hello.”
My still-guilty heart skipped a couple of beats. “Oh, good.” I tried to sound sincere.
I heard Shannon laugh as she took the phone. “Men! I don’t want to say ‘hello’—I want to find out how you are! John told me what happened today. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Maybe I should make a recording of the answer and just push a button when people ask me if I’m all right. “Eileen’s with Liddy, so you mustn’t worry.”
“I know. I’ve been on the phone with her,” Shannon said. “Why don’t you come and stay with us until that monster is caught?”
“It’s sweet of you, really, but I’m not going to be chased out of my home.”
“Well, for protection, how about I send John over to stay with you tonight?”
“Absolutely not!” My response was too quick and too loud. I dialed the volume down. “That’s a kind offer, Shan, but no.” To cut off this line of discussion I decided to lie. “Actually, Mickey Jordan—the man who owns the channel—hired a security company to watch the house.”
“Oh, what a nice employer.” Shannon laughed again, a merry trill. Her tone was teasing as she asked, “Is there something delightful going on between you two?”
The thought was so ridiculous I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “No. He’s happily married, and even if he weren’t, I have no desire to become the fifth Mrs. Jordan.”
“Goodness! What is he, the bluebeard of cable TV?”
“He’s nicer than it sounds. I think the incumbent Mrs. Jordan is finally ‘the one.’”
John said something in the background, and I heard Shannon tell him that Mickey Jordan hired security for me. “So you don’t have to worry about her, sweetheart.”
Shannon came back to me. “We’re so glad to know you’re safe, but if you need anything, just call us. Doesn’t matter how late.”
I thanked her warmly and we said good night.
With all of my heart, I wanted Shannon to be well and for her and John to be as happy together as they once were. And I wanted to stop having guilt pangs about something I had only felt, but not done.
The p
hone rang again. When I picked it up and heard the voice on the other end, I knew that Fate was hitting me tonight with a guilt trifecta.
NDM said, “I’m not going to ask if you’re all right.”
I expelled a great sigh of relief. “Thank you for that. I’ve heard that question too many times tonight.”
“I’m not asking because I know you are.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m outside your house. With dinner and some information.”
Dinner was the best pizza I’d ever tasted, and the information was about George Hopkins.
“His problem is that he’s a sick gambler,” NDM told me as I poured us each a second glass of the merlot he’d brought along with the three-cheese and pepperoni pizza with the thin crust, still hot when he came through the door.
NDM went on, “Hopkins is so much in debt, he’s on the verge of bankruptcy. His wife, who left him night before last, told me that a week before Mimi Bond was murdered, Hopkins tried to borrow money from her. Mimi refused.”
“I can see how George might have killed her in a rage, but a week later? Have you talked to George?”
Killer Mousse Page 21