The Proof is in the Pudding (4 page)

I was thinking about Shannon as I drove, because I wondered if Eileen had told her mother about her relationship with Keith Ingram. It seemed strange that my unofficial daughter hadn’t told
me
. She’d confided when she lost her virginity during her freshman year at UCLA, and I’d held her hand through her various romantic ups and downs since then. But I didn’t know anything about her involvement with Ingram—assuming that Phil had the right information. I had to admit that he usually did.

When I reached my little two-bedroom cottage in the 500 block of Ninth Street in Santa Monica and steered my Jeep into the driveway, I saw that Eileen’s slightly battered, old red VW wasn’t there.

I unhooked Tuffy from his safety harness, let him out of the vehicle, and took him for a short stroll before we went into the house. He’d had a major walk around the studio lot before we’d left North Hollywood and he’d relieved himself thoroughly. This little jaunt was just a stretch-of-the-legs for both of us.

My small gray and gold calico cat, Emma, met Tuffy and me at the front door. After the two four-footed friends touched noses, Emma looked up at me and meowed a greeting. Or perhaps it was a rebuke—I’d been away longer today than usual.

On the hall table, which was our traditional message center, I found a note from Eileen, telling me that she’d gone out to dinner with friends and not to wait up for her.

Friends
? I wondered.
Or with one special friend?

In the kitchen, as I fed Tuffy and Emma and washed out and refilled their water dishes, I thought about Eileen. I couldn’t love her more if she really were my daughter, but did that give me the right to pry into her private life? She was twenty-one years old; in a few weeks she’d be graduating from UCLA. She had taken the fact that I used to make fudge to give as Christmas presents when I was in college and too poor to buy gifts and translated that into the concept for our mail-order and on-site fudge business. She was there at our Della’s Sweet Dreams store and factory in Hollywood every day, overseeing the project that she’d talked Mickey Jordan, owner of the Better Living Channel, into financing for us. Eileen O’Hara was an intelligent, responsible grown-up.

But I still worried about her as though she were ten years old.

The ringing of the phone jarred me out of my thoughts. I picked up the receiver and heard the voice of Liddy Marshall, my other closest female friend.

She was speaking in a rush of excitement. “I bought five tickets!”

“Tickets to what?”

“To the Celebrity Cook-Off, of course! You’re going to be a judge.”

“Liddy, I just found out about that a couple of hours ago. How in the world did you know?”

“It was in the entertainment report on the four o’clock news. I phoned for the tickets right away. Thank heavens they still had some left.”

“But they cost five hundred dollars
apiece
.”

“It’s deductible,” she said. “And it’s for a good cause. The Healthy Life Fund does research into children’s diseases.”

Liddy Marshall and her husband, Bill, a successful Beverly Hills dentist, were well-off financially, and very generous, but I couldn’t understand why she’d buy five tickets to watch a bunch of celebrities cook their favorite dishes in the middle of a hotel ballroom. I asked her about that.

“I told you—it’s because you’re one of the judges. And it’s black tie. People don’t dress up enough anymore. If you look at those wonderful old movies on TV—everybody wore evening gowns and tuxedos just to go out to a nice restaurant for dinner. Oh, Shannon and John are going with us. Eileen, too. Won’t this be fun?”

I wondered . . . But then I told myself I was being silly. Liddy and Bill Marshall were delightful company. So was Shannon, now that she was on the right medication. It probably would be an enjoyable evening.

But one thing surprised me. “Did John actually agree to put on black tie to watch celebrities cook?”

“He tried to refuse, but Shannon persuaded him.” Liddy laughed. “He’s probably hoping he’ll get called into work on a murder case.”

“I saw the list of celebrities—at least two of them I know John has arrested in the past.”

Liddy giggled with amusement. “Maybe one of them will break a law Wednesday night. I’ve never seen Big John be a cop. This gala could be even more fun than I expect.”

“It’s going to be work for me, studying what’s happening at all of the stoves and voting for a winner, but I’ll enjoy having you all there.”

We were about to say good night when Liddy had a new thought: “What are you going to wear?”

“Phil Logan is going to borrow something from a designer for me.”

That impressed Liddy. “Ohhhh, just like the stars do! For a straight guy, Phil has really good taste.”

In a joking tone, I said, “Meaning that I don’t have good taste?”

“Of course you do—in food and friends. But when it comes to clothes . . . I mean, you look nice in those sweaters and skirts and jackets you like to wear, but you’re not exactly on the cutting edge of fashion. Just put yourself in Phil’s hands. That’s settled. Now, what are you doing tonight? Are you seeing that gorgeous Italian?”

“Nicholas is Sicilian. No, he’s up in northern California. What I’m going to do when we hang up is make myself some scrambled eggs for supper, organize the rest of my week, then take a warm, foamy bath and collapse into bed.”

By the time I’d eaten, made out the marketing lists for the classes I would be teaching this weekend, and gone over the recipes I’d be making on camera for Thursday night’s weekly live broadcast of
In the Kitchen with Della
—rehearsing the movements and timing them in my head—it was nearly eleven o’clock.

As soon as I put aside my pen and pad to stretch the kinks out of my shoulders, Tuffy got up from where he’d been dozing by the back door and came over to stand beside me. He looked at me with eager expectation in his bright black eyes and wagged his hindquarters vigorously.

I scratched him below his ears. “Oh, Tuff, I would recognize you if you were in the middle of a million black poodles. And yes, I know what time it is.” I took his leash down from its peg on the wall and hooked it to his collar.

I gave Tuffy an especially long pre-bedtime walk through the neighborhood, both because I knew how much he enjoyed his explorations and because I needed a big dose of fresh, cool air. Now that I’d finished my work, my mind came back to concern about Eileen.

Tuffy and I had been strolling for more than half an hour, and were almost back to the house, when the cell phone in my pocket rang. I fished it out. “Hello.”

“Hi, Slugger.” It was Nicholas D’Martino.

“Is this an obscene phone call?”

“Absolutely.” And he proceeded to whisper a few sentences that started to make me jittery.

“Stop. That’s enough, unless you’re in your car on your way over here.”

He sighed. “I wish. But I’m still up in Carmel on the Lopez murder story. Did you know that you’re speaking to the world’s most intrepid reporter?”

“
Lois Lane?
Gosh, your voice is deeper than I’d expected.”

“Do you want to hear about my triumph or not?”

“Of course I do.”

Nicholas was usually so cool when he talked about his work, but tonight I heard pride in his voice. “I broke the case. The local cops are mad as hell because I turned up evidence that they missed, but it enabled them to arrest the killer.”

“Congratulations. That’s wonderful. Tell me all.”

“You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s
Chronicle
. Front page, above the fold. I’ve got a few days of follow-up here, but I’ll be back Friday. You available that night for dinner and . . . whatever?”

I smiled, imagining the
whatever
. “I’m available. Your place or mine?”

“Mine. I’m going to make dinner for you. Actually, it’ll be takeout, but I’ll heat it up. Afterward, I’m planning to broaden your education.”

“Hmmmm. Sounds interesting.”

“Bring money,” he said.

Money?
That jolted me out of my erotic fantasy. “What are you talking about?”

“Coins: nickels, dimes, quarters. I’m going to teach you to play gin rummy.”

“I already know how,” I said. “But do we have to play for money?”

“What do you want to play for?”

“How about . . . the winner has to make passionate love to the loser? Or vice versa.”

He laughed. “You make me want to come home right now, but I’ve got to be intrepid for a while longer.”

We were about to say good night when I thought of something to ask him. “Keith Ingram, the food critic? His column runs in the
Chronicle
. Do you know him?”

“Sure. We’re not close buddies, but we work out at the same gym. We’ve watched some fights together, and gone on a couple of the paper’s Super Bowl trips.”

“What kind of a person is Ingram?”

“He’s an okay guy. Pays the check when it’s his turn. Why?”

“It may be that Eileen has become involved with him.”

“Whoa!” Nicholas’s tone abruptly changed from casual to sharp. “No. Not good. Eileen’s a sweet kid. When it comes to women, Ingram is bad news. If she’s seeing him, talk her out of it before she gets hurt.”

Eileen hadn’t come home by the time I went to bed. I fell into a restless sleep, and a few minutes after two in the morning I woke up. The house was silent. I got out of bed and went down the hall to listen at Eileen’s closed door. I leaned in close and strained to hear, but I couldn’t detect any sound from within. Very gently, I turned the knob and peeked inside.

Her lights were off, but there was just enough illumination from the moonlight coming through the filmy curtains that I could see her bed had not been slept in.

Suddenly, the piercing trill of a ringing phone shattered the stillness in the house.

It was my bedroom phone.

I felt a lurch in my chest and my heart began to pound. Calls that come at two o’clock in the morning are not likely to bring good news. I hurried back down the hall to my own room and grabbed the receiver.

“Aunt Del?” It was Eileen. She was sobbing. “I tried to drive, but the car . . . Oh, Aunt Del, can you come and pick me up?”

I forced myself to sound calm. “Honey, are you all right? Have you been in an accident?”

It took a few choked-back sobs before she was able to speak. “No accident. But the car won’t move, and I don’t have my wallet—oh, I’m such an idiot!” She began to cry again.

“Eileen, let’s calm down. Take some slow, deep breaths.” When I heard her doing it, I said, “That’s it. Good. Now tell me where you are.”

She did. I was surprised because it wasn’t an area of Los Angeles where any of her friends that I knew lived.

“Stay in the car with the doors locked,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

Eileen’s twelve-year-old red Volkswagen with the UCLA sticker was parked about a mile north of the Sunset Strip, on the 2100 block of Laurel Canyon Boulevard.