Killer Mousse

by Melinda Wells

  “That’s the new Compass,” Sloan said. “It’s an excellent choice if you need storage space and four doors but don’t want one of the big guys.” He opened the driver’s door. “Get in and see how it feels.”

  I climbed in and settled myself behind the wheel.

  “It has generous head room, shoulder room, and leg room. And your passengers have good leg room, too.”

  While I touched the various knobs and dials and checked the position of the hand brake, he talked about cargo capacity, rack and pinion steering, independent front suspension, and front and rear disc brakes. I liked what I heard, but even though the Compass was less expensive than the other Jeeps I’d seen, the price was still higher than I’d hoped to pay.

  “This one is you,” Liddy said.

  “It’s very nice,” I told Sloan, “but…”

  “I know, price is a factor, but if you don’t have your heart set on any particular color I can make you a marvelous deal,” he said.

  “I hadn’t even thought about color. What do you mean?”

  He politely offered his hand to help me out of the Compass. “I want you ladies to see something I have behind the office.”

  Sloan set a rapid pace, but Liddy and I kept up easily. As we rounded the corner of the office-bungalow, I saw another Compass, this one in a beautiful shade of blue. I felt the fluttering of excitement in my chest. This vehicle “spoke” to me.

  “I’m forced to make you a great deal on this one,” Sloan said.

  Liddy asked, “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “I can’t sell it as new because it has 196 miles on it. It left the lot two days ago but came back yesterday. A case of buyer’s remorse. Actually, it was the buyer’s wife’s remorse; she wanted a Lexus.”

  This sounded a little too good to be true. “The man drove it for almost 200 miles. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with it mechanically?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Sloan said. “I was suspicious, too, but my mechanics went over it carefully before I refunded his money. It’s in new-car condition and comes with a complete warranty, but according to the rules, it’s now a used car.”

  I took it for a test drive, with Sloan in front and Liddy in back. Before I’d circled the second block, I knew that I wanted this vehicle. “How much?” I asked.

  Sloan named the price that was almost as low as I’d hoped, and much better than I had feared.

  It took about an hour of paperwork, arranging financing, filling out forms, and calling Ed Gardner at Western Alliance Insurance to cover the car, but a little before noon, the vehicle was mine.

  I hugged Liddy and thanked her for bringing me to Derek Sloan, thanked Sloan, said good-bye to the two of them, and climbed into the driver’s seat of my new marine blue Jeep Compass with the medium slate gray interior.

  Driving home, it was easy to get used to the controls. I liked its smooth ride and the way the steering wheel fit my hand. I thought that this vehicle and I were going to have a long, pleasant relationship, and I was thankful for its first owner’s buyer’s remorse.

  Eileen was backing down the driveway in her red VW Rabbit just as I approached my house. Seeing me wave at her, she stopped, got out of her car, and came running over to me.

  “Wow,” she said. “Nice wheels. When did you get this?”

  “About thirty-five minutes ago.”

  “It’s just right for you, Aunt Del. Conservative, but sort of hot.”

  “Thank you, I think. But why are you here? I’d rather you stay at Liddy’s for a few more days, until we’re sure it’s safe for you to be here again.”

  “I came by to pick up clothes because I’m going up to Lake Arrowhead with some friends. We don’t have any classes Monday, so we’ll come back Monday night.”

  “Have fun,” I said. Because I wasn’t her mother, and because she was twenty years old, I resisted the urge to ask her if any of those friends were male. Lord, with Eileen, I’ve turned into my own mother.

  Eileen’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I left a note for you on the kitchen table, but you don’t have to read it now because I’ll tell you. It’s great news! Not only did I finish your business plan, and ran it by my professor who said it was good work, but…” She drew out that one syllable word to the length of a short sentence.

  “But…What?”

  “You’re going to be thrilled! I found us an investor!”

  I couldn’t believe that I understood her. “You can’t mean—someone wants to invest in fudge?”

  “In the fudge business,” she said. “The start-up money isn’t much, but we had to have a backer. Of course, we’ll need a lawyer to draw up the contract.”

  “Who is the backer?”

  “I don’t want to tell you right now,” she said.

  My Suspicion Alarm was going ding, ding, ding. Afraid of the answer, I said, “You didn’t ask Liddy for the money, did you? Or your father?”

  She raised her right hand as though on the witness stand. “Absolutely not.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I wouldn’t go to family or friends. Our backer is strictly a businessperson. Okay? Trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “All you have to do is make enough fudge for thirty boxes, two dozen pieces per box, and have them ready by Monday night. I’ll bring simple white boxes, and we’ll fill them up. The backer has a distribution plan that he—I mean that this person—needs to test, and wants to start on Tuesday.”

  I did a quick mental calculation of twenty-four pieces of fudge times thirty. “That’s seven hundred and twenty pieces of fudge.”

  “You can do it, Aunt Del,” she said confidently. “Gotta go meet my friends. See you Monday night!”

  With a happy wave, Eileen raced back to her car and drove away.

  Seven hundred and twenty pieces of fudge by Monday. That was going to take time and a lot of sugar and butter and chocolate and the rest.

  I started to drive up into the carport when I heard a familiar engine roar behind me. Turning, I saw NDM screech to a stop behind my Jeep. I winced to see the dent in the middle of the Maserati’s hood from a piece of my exploding Mustang.

  NDM got out of his muscle car. Before he came up to my driver’s side window, he took a good look at the Compass.

  “Your new car?” he asked.

  I nodded in the affirmative. “As of an hour or so ago.”

  “It suits you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s built for endurance.” He smiled at me in a way that made my insides blush. “I’d like to take a ride with you,” he said, “but I’ve got to go out of town.”

  “Where?”

  “My source in North Hollywood tells me Hall has proof that George Hopkins sold Lulu Owens’s jewelry.”

  “That’s pretty damning evidence, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the best he’s got so far. Hall doesn’t know it yet, but on my own, I’ve tracked Hopkins to Las Vegas, and I think I know where to find him there.”

  “If you’re right, what will you do?”

  “Get a story. Then I’ll notify Hall where he is and let the Las Vegas PD hang on to him until he can be extradited back here. You don’t need anyone to guard your house now.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I saw the studio kid—Stan—outside when I left yesterday morning.” NDM shook his head in annoyance. “He wasn’t doing you any good; he was sound sleep in his car. Forget him. New subject. When I get back from Vegas, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

  “You still want to find out what I like to read?”

  “Among other things.” he said.

  39

  The next day, there was no time to think about anything except my work. Saturday’s cooking school classes were on advanced cake baking: a frosted, layered angel food cake topped with fresh fruit, my own red velvet cake variation with cherry filling and a warm sauce, a moist Bundt that a friend calls
her “Orange Funeral Cake,” and finally two types of cheesecake. One was a chocolate that I’d developed through many experiments, and the other was a vanilla with a chocolate brownie crust.

  Since I’d gone on TV, my classes were filled, with a waiting list. I almost missed the early, easier days when I had only a few students. Almost. This cooking school had to be my security, because there were no guarantees in television.

  As much as I enjoyed the Saturday classes, after a long day of tasting batters and frostings, all I’d wanted for dinner was a bowl of soup. I was relieved that there were no classes scheduled for Sunday this week. It would be Halloween, and a majority of my regular students had said they’d be getting ready to give or to attend costume parties.

  First thing Sunday morning, I organized the wicker picnic basket full of different kinds of miniature candy bars and individual boxes of raisins and bags of dried fruits that I would pass out to the horde of costumed children I expected to come trick or treating after dark. I put the basket on the table by the front door so it would be handy when the time came.

  By midmorning, I was up to my eyebrows in fudge. I’d already made five batches of the thirty that Eileen needed by Monday evening. My right arm was beginning to ache from the necessary stirring. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I could enjoy a guilt-free respite by taking Tuffy for a brisk walk.

  About twenty minutes before, he’d scratched on the door to go out into the backyard. On unusually warm days, as this one had turned out to be, he liked to sun himself on the patio or nap in the soft grass.

  I quickly washed and dried my hands, and took his leash down from the hook on the wall beside the refrigerator. After first making sure that Emma was not near enough to dash outside, I opened the door. Tuffy was dozing on the grass, near the back gate.

  “Here, Tuffy. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I saw him moving where he lay on the ground, but he didn’t get up and come trotting toward me as he always did when he heard the magic word, “walk.” Even before I could form the thought, an icy jab of fear pierced me. Instinctively, I dropped the leash and ran to him.

  What I saw made me gasp in alarm: Tuffy’s muscles were twitching. He was having a seizure!

  “Oh, dear God, no!” I was about to fly back into the house to call his veterinarian when I spotted something near his head: a ball of ground meat. I snatched it up and saw little pellets inside. I recognized what they were: snail bait. I’d seen Liddy use it. Snail bait was poison. Tuffy could die!

  Clutching the ball of meat, I raced inside, grabbed the wall phone and dialed the number for Dr. Jeffrey Marks’s Rancho Park Veterinary Clinic. Even though it was Sunday, some staff was always on duty before their two PM opening time.

  A young woman receptionist answered, and I identified myself as Tuffy’s owner.

  “He’s eaten some snail bait. Is Dr. Marks there?”

  “No, he isn’t, but Dr. Fernandez is. I’ll tell her you’re on your way.”

  “Thank you.” My hands were shaking so much I almost dropped the receiver.

  I had to get Tuffy to the car, but how? He weighed seventy-four pounds. Too big for me to carry, but—I grabbed a fresh bath towel from the top of the washing machine and ran back outside.

  Tuffy was still having seizures. By lifting first his shoulders and then his hips, I maneuvered him onto the towel. Using it as a litter, I dragged it to the back door and gave silent thanks that the door was set flush with the patio. No steps.

  Faster than I would have thought possible, I managed to drag the towel with Tuffy on it through the house. From a crystal dish on the front table, I snatched my house and car keys. No time to go to the bedroom for my wallet. If I was stopped for speeding without having my license with me, I didn’t care.

  Outside the front door were two concrete steps before I could get to the path leading to the carport. By holding the top half of his body and the towel, I managed to ease him down the steps without hurting him, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get him up into the Jeep without help.

  Desperate, I looked out at the street. Cars moving meant people driving.

  I ran toward the street, waving my arms, yelling, “Help, please! Help me!”

  An older man saw me, slammed on his brakes, and called out, “What’s the matter?”

  “I need help to lift my dog into the Jeep so I can get him to the hospital.”

  Quick as lightning, this silver-haired stranger got out of his car and hurried beside me across the front lawn.

  I opened the rear door of the Jeep. With each of us taking one end of the makeshift litter, we managed to get Tuffy up onto the rear seat, where he lay, his body convulsing.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked the man and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  I heard him call, “Good luck,” as I drove away as fast as I dared, praying that I wouldn’t have to stop suddenly and throw Tuffy off the seat and onto the floor.

  Dr. Jeffrey Marks’s Rancho Park Veterinary Clinic was a one-story building in West Los Angeles, on Pico Boulevard, east of Overland. With every second precious, it was a tremendous break that the Sunday traffic was relatively light. I made it to the back door of the hospital in eleven minutes.

  One of Jeffrey Marks’s associate veterinarians, Dr. Rina Fernandez, was waiting for us at the door. She was petite, with long curly brown hair and warm green eyes, and seeing her gave me a surge of hope. A young male assistant was with her; his face was familiar, but I was in such a state I couldn’t recall his name. He opened the rear door and lifted Tuffy into his arms.

  With Dr. Fernandez leading the way, and me following the assistant carrying Tuffy, we hurried into a treatment room. The young man—now I remembered, Juan—lowered Tuffy carefully onto the exam table.

  “I reached Dr. Marks,” Dr. Fernandez said. “He’s on his—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, I saw the familiar figure of Tuffy’s longtime veterinarian coming into the room.

  He wasted not a second. “What happened?”

  I told him about finding Tuffy, and pulled the smashed ball of meat and snail bait pellets out of my pocket. Using a paper towel, Dr. Fernandez took it from me and went into the laboratory.

  I hadn’t seen her come in behind him, but I was suddenly aware of Dr. Marks’s pretty blonde wife, Mari. She took my hand and said softly, “Let’s go sit down.”

  I wanted to stay with Tuffy, as I had through all of his inoculations and blood tests over the years, but I knew she was right. She led me to the waiting room as Dr. Marks and Dr. Fernandez, who’d returned from the lab, went to work trying to save Tuffy’s life.

  Because the hospital hadn’t yet opened for its Sunday hours, Mari and I were alone in the waiting area, which was divided by a whimsical stained glass panel into the “canine” section and the “feline” section. When the office was busy, separating dogs and cats kept things relatively tranquil.

  After a few minutes, when her quiet voice and pleasant chat had calmed me, I realized part of the job description of a veterinarian’s wife was that she be an amateur psychologist. When I was breathing normally and was no longer in tears, I became aware that she’d settled one of the hospital’s pet Siamese cats in my lap. I was stroking its soft fur as she told me about the female German shepherd they’d adopted and about what their college-age children were doing.

  Dr. Marks finally emerged from the treatment room.

  I felt my heart pound with fear. “How is he?”

  “He’s going to make it,” Dr. Marks said. “You got him here just in time.”

  Tears started streaming down my face again, but this time I was weeping with relief.

  Mari handed me a box of Kleenex.

  Dr. Marks said, “We put in an IV catheter to decrease the seizures and muscle tremors. He’ll have to stay here overnight. Maybe for a couple of nights. I’ll know tomorrow, but the good news is that he’s going to be all right.”

  “Someone tried to poison him,”
I said.

  “I know. I saw the snail bait in the hamburger ball.”

  He ran a hand over his thick brown hair and his handsome features tightened with anger. I sensed that we were united in rage against anyone who would do such a thing.

  40

  Driving home from the veterinary hospital, my heart was full of gratitude for the skills of Doctors Marks and Fernandez, and to Mrs. Marks, for her kindness to me. Tuffy would survive. In spite of my happiness about that, I ached with sadness. This would be the first time Tuffy had been away from home overnight since he was a puppy.

  My pain at almost losing him turned to fury at whoever had tried to kill him with poisoned meat. I tried to imagine who could have done such a terrible thing, to try to kill an innocent animal that had never hurt a soul.

  A troublesome teenage boy lived around the corner. I saw him throw a rock at Tuffy last year, but after I spoke to his mother, he hadn’t bothered us again. Since that one incident, I hadn’t had a problem with anyone in the area. It was a pleasant neighborhood of people who kept their lawns neat, cleaned up after their dogs, and didn’t leave the garbage cans out after pickup.

  Pulling into the carport, I told myself that there was no point in trying to figure it out now. There was too much to do before tonight. As I walked up the path, I stopped to straighten two of the Halloween cutouts on the lawn. The black cat with its back arched was leaning to one side, and the cardboard ghost beside it had fallen onto the grass, where I’d knocked it over in my rush to get Tuffy into the Jeep.

  I straightened the cat, and with the heel of my hand, I pushed the stake that held the ghost back into the ground. The rest of the Halloween figures were standing up as they were supposed to, and the grinning orange crepe paper jack-o’-lantern I’d hung above the bell was still in place.

  Emma met me when I opened the door. She hadn’t come running at the sound of my key in the lock. She was sitting there, looking worried. I believe absolutely that animals can worry, as well as feel other emotions. Emma’s secure world was turned upside down when I rushed out of the house with Tuffy. Now I had come back alone. She stared up at me, and I read in her eyes the words she couldn’t speak.