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  Praise for

  Killer Mousse

  “Killer Mousse is that wonderful combination of mystery, romance, redemption, and girl-power. Melinda Wells gives you genuine insight into what’s really going on behind the scenes.”

  —Linda Dano, Emmy Award–winning actress,

  talk-show host, designer, and author of

  Looking Great…It Doesn’t Have to Hurt and Living Great

  “Killer Mousse is a treat, a classic culinary mystery played out against the eccentric backdrop of cable TV. Melinda Wells gets it all right, blending an artful plot with engaging characters in a fast-paced whodunit as satisfying as Della’s ‘Gangster Chicken’ Cacciatore.”

  —Harley Jane Kozak,

  Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity

  award–winning author of Dead Ex

  “A delectable novel full of delicious moments and charming characters. Following cable TV chef Della Carmichael is like a sweet and spicy trip into the fascinating, and often perilous, world of television cooking shows. An appetizing debut!”

  —Earlene Fowler, author of

  the Benni Harper Mysteries

  “Killer Mousse is a scrumptious morsel of mystery and mayhem. Take a pinch of murder, a dash of danger, stir it all together…Cooking-show maven Della Carmichael is poignant and savvy—an amateur sleuth to savor!”

  —Linda O. Johnston, author of

  The Fright of the Iguana

  “Della Carmichael is forty-seven and proud of it; she can cook up a storm, captivate a cable TV audience, enthrall an arrogant L.A. reporter and chaser of twentysomething hotties, and catch a murderer. More power to her! Melinda Wells provides an exciting, tightly plotted culinary thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”

  —Nancy Fairbanks, author of

  Turkey Flambé

  Killer Mousse

  Melinda Wells

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  KILLER MOUSSE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2008 by Melinda Wells.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN: 1-4295-9533-7

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  To Norman Knight

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express my heartfelt gratitude to:

  Wonderful editor Kate Seaver, who inspired this book. It’s a joy to work with you.

  Literary agents Rebecca Gradinger and Morton Janklow. Thank you for everything you do.

  Claire Carmichael, gifted writer and instructor. How lucky I am to learn from you.

  D. Constantine Conte, mentor, treasured friend, and “godfather” to my pets.

  Carole Moore Adams, Hilda Ashley, Regina Cocanougher and Carole Cook, Ramona Hennessy, and Barbara Rush: Thank you for contributing those delicious recipes.

  The following people read the early manuscript and shared their invaluable reactions. Thank you Arthur Abelson, Carole Moore Adams, Dr. Rachel Oriel Berg, Christie Burton, Rosanne Kahlil Bush, Carol Anne Crow, Peter Crow, Ira Fistell, Judy Tathwell Hahn, Nancy Koppang, Susan Magnuson, Mari Marks, Jaclyn Carmichael Palmer, Judy Powell, Corrine Tatoul, and Kim LaDelpha Tocco.

  Wayne Thompson of Colonial Heights, VA: You continue to inspire.

  Robyn Astaire: Thank you for using your knowledge of standard poodles to choose “Tuffy,” “Tuffy II,” and his sister, “Robyn,” for my late husband and me.

  Always and forever: Thank you, Berry Gordy.

  1

  Through my earpiece, I heard the director’s voice: “Take your place, Della. Thirty seconds to air….”

  Emerging from the Better Living Channel’s backstage shadows, and faking confidence I didn’t feel, I strode onto the TV kitchen set to polite applause. So far, so good; I didn’t stumble, as I had during the last rehearsal. Now I just had to get through the next forty-six minutes—a TV hour minus commercials—without making a fool of myself.

  I stood in my designated spot behind the food preparation counter and tried not to imagine that the two big television cameras facing me were actually a firing squad in disguise. As instructed by the director, I sent a cheerful smile at the thirty people in the studio audience and raised my right hand in a “hello there” wave.
/>   Uh oh….

  My hand froze in mid-gesture when I saw Mimi Bond sitting in the middle of the first row. Impossible to miss, she was in her late fifties and had platinum hair piled high in a meringue-like swirl on top of her head. The seams of her purple satin dress strained against her ample curves, making her look somewhat like an eggplant.

  After the fit Mimi had thrown at me less than an hour ago, I thought she had gone home, or headed for the nearest bar. No such luck.

  Tonight would be the biggest challenge I’d ever faced. If I failed, I’d lose everything I’d worked for, and the presence of this angry woman threatened to make me so nervous that I could ruin what would likely be my only chance. I forced myself to continue the wave and the smile past Mimi as I replayed our bizarre scene in my head.

  I had been alone in the tiny dressing room behind the set, trying to keep my hands steady enough to put on TV makeup, when she burst in without knocking. Reeking of alcohol, she’d shouted, “You ruined my life!”

  Although I’d never met her, I knew her to be Mimi Bond. Until recently, she’d been the Better Living Channel’s Cooking Diva. The rumor was that she’d been fired for putting too many 100 proof liquids into the food she made on camera. I had been hired to replace her.

  “You must be sleeping with him,” she screeched.

  That accusation surprised me more than her sudden appearance, because there hadn’t been a man in my life since my husband died two years ago.

  Genuinely puzzled, I asked, “Who?”

  “Don’t try to deny it. Mickey Jordan is who. Why else would he give you my TV show?”

  I saw a hint of wildness in her large and slightly protruding brown eyes. Even though I was more than ten years younger, and in pretty good shape, this woman was scary. I hoped that if I stayed calm and spoke in a gentle tone, it would pacify her. “I’ve only seen Mickey Jordan four times,” I said, “and his wife was always with him.”

  She wasn’t pacified.

  “Well, you must have slept with somebody to get my job—that’s how I did it. When I find out which SOB is taking care of you, I’ll make him pay.”

  She’d grabbed the leopard print makeup bag with the initials MB that lay on the end of the table and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  The seconds were ticking down toward broadcast time. I told myself firmly: Forget Mimi Bond. If the public likes this show, I’ll be able to keep paying the rent on my cooking school space in Santa Monica. I needed this additional source of income because I’m a better cook than businesswoman, and I’ve strayed into the danger zone of debt. Don’t think about that now.

  A two-woman rooting section was here tonight to support me. One was sitting in the audience in the chairs set up between the two big cameras in the Better Living Channel’s low-tech, no-amenities cable TV production facility. That was Iva Jordan, a relatively new friend. I’d met her about a year ago when she enrolled in my cooking school. Iva is the much younger fourth wife of Mickey Jordan, owner of the network—the man Mimi had accused me of sleeping with. A glance at Iva didn’t give me much encouragement; she looked as anxious as I felt. Beneath her cap of pale gold hair cut in a pixie style, her face was tight with tension, and she was chewing her bottom lip. It was Iva who had talked her husband into hiring me for television. If this show failed, she would only be embarrassed in her social circle—I would lose my entire business.

  My other friend was Liddy Marshall. With her twin sons in college, she worked as an extra in movies for fun, so she was used to being on sets. Standing a few feet behind Camera Two, she was smiling at me like a proud parent and giving the “thumbs-up” sign. An attractive honey blonde with big green eyes and a smile so warmhearted it was contagious, Liddy had been Miss Nebraska twenty-four years ago. She’d come to Hollywood to be a movie star, but she’d switched goals when she fell in love with a sweet Beverly Hills dentist who told great jokes, and she traded the life of an actress for a happy marriage. Liddy had been my best friend for more than two decades.

  In my ear: “Five seconds to air, Della…. Four…three…”

  Prerecorded theme music was piped into the studio. It was almost surreal. I have theme music. Under the heat of the powerful TV lights, I shivered with anticipation.

  Camera One’s red light came on, signaling that my face was now appearing on thousands of TV screens. I hoped viewers weren’t reaching for remotes to switch channels.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Della Carmichael. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della. Tonight, I’m going to make a main dish, a veggie side, and a really fabulous dessert, and all three won’t take any longer to fix than the hour we’ll be spending together. First up, because it has to chill in the refrigerator after we put it together, is my own special chocolate mousse. A woman who took my cooking course nicknamed it ‘Killer Mousse,’ because she said the taste was ‘to die for.’ Don’t worry if you can’t write down the instructions while you’re watching—just go to my website: DellaCooks.com. You’ll find all the recipes there.”

  As I explained what ingredients I’d be using, Mimi Bond stared at me with the intensity of a vulture waiting for something to die. Much as I tried to ignore her, she succeeded in rattling me. The stainless steel mixing bowl I was holding slipped from my fingers and clattered to the studio’s concrete floor.

  “Ooops.” I swooped down to retrieve it and heard a nervous titter from the studio audience. Ernie Ramirez, operating Camera One, swung the big glass eye around to follow me to the sink on the right side of the set.

  Quickly washing the bowl, I flashed the audience an embarrassed grin. “I was about to tell you that this is my very first time on television, but I guess I don’t have to do that now.”

  There were a few sympathetic chuckles from the spectators in the studio but not so much as a twitch of the lips from Mimi.

  Her hostile attitude was exactly what I needed for my fighting Scottish spirit to kick in. Stage fright and concern about Mimi being there vanished. I smiled at the audience with genuine pleasure and uttered what I hoped was going to be my signature phrase: “Okay, people, let’s get cooking.”

  Increasing the flame under a pot of water, I said, “I’ve been making meals since I was ten. Because I was the oldest of four kids, with folks who both had to go out to work, it was my job to fix dinner. Growing up, I read recipe books while the other girls were reading movie magazines.

  “A few years ago I realized a dream when I opened a cooking school in Santa Monica. It’s called The Happy Table. I chose the name because I think that’s what family mealtimes should be.”

  I was comfortable moving around on the set because the studio designer had duplicated my old-fashioned kitchen at home: the butter yellow walls, the stainless steel double sink, a big white GE refrigerator, and two white enamel and chrome O’Keefe & Merritt gas stoves. They were manufactured during the Eisenhower administration—before I was born—and still worked perfectly. In sharp contrast to mine, the TV kitchen for Mimi’s Cooking Diva show had been as high tech and as full of expensive gadgets as a restaurant.

  “We start the mousse by melting seven ounces of semisweet chocolate and one ounce of unsweetened chocolate in the top part of a double boiler.” I demonstrated. “You don’t have to own an actual double boiler. Just put a heat-safe bowl over a pot of boiling water, like I’m doing here. In my family, I was known as the Queen of Making-Do.”

  The yellow light next to the stove started flashing. That was my signal to get out of the way so the overhead, automated “stove cam” could show a close-up of the melting chocolate.

  Camera Two, operated by a young African American woman named Jada Powell, followed me as I moved to the preparation counter.

  For the next few minutes, I talked and demonstrated until all of the ingredients of the mousse were folded together.

  “Now we pour the mixture into a pretty serving bowl.” I flicked the rim with my fingernail and produced the ping that identified genuine crystal. “A fa
ncy presentation doesn’t have to be expensive; this bowl cost five dollars at a yard sale. I love yard sales. You can find real treasures, and I like pieces with history, pieces that look as though they might have stories to tell.”

  The director’s voice came through my earpiece. “Ten seconds to commercial. Nine…eight…seven…”

  I said to the audience, “I’m going to put the mousse in the fridge, and when I come back, I’m going to make our baked chicken main dish. Then I’m going to show you how to get children and those meat-and-potatoes men in your life to eat vegetables.”

  Theme music up. The camera’s red light went off. In the glass-enclosed control booth above the audience, the director flipped switches and sent the scheduled commercials out over the air.

  Carrying the just-made chocolate mousse, I hurried around behind the set to put it into the large refrigerator backstage, where two hours ago I’d placed the mousse I’d prepared at home. That one had to be kept refrigerated until it was time to show the audience the finished version and let volunteers taste it. Coming all the way back here was inconvenient, but the refrigerator on the set wasn’t working today. I’d have to ask somebody to have it fixed before the next show.

  I cleared a place among the plastic-wrapped sandwiches, cups of yogurt, and cans of soda that the studio staff kept there, and shoved in the unchilled mousse. This one would stay here at the studio. After the show, I’d tape a little note to the bowl, inviting the staff to enjoy it tomorrow.

  The area behind the set gave me the creeps. Used mostly for storage, it was a jumble of old furniture, props, and machinery covered by sheets and canvas drop cloths. A path had been cleared that stretched from the set, past the fridge, past a small dressing room and the partitioned-off toilet, all the way to an outside door leading to the loading dock. I didn’t linger; it was too dark and eerie. The only illumination came from a low-watt bulb in the ceiling.

  Grabbing the package of chicken pieces I needed for the next demonstration, I closed the refrigerator door and rushed back into the bright lights of the set. Through my earpiece I heard another countdown. I got to my place two seconds before Camera One’s red eye went on. We were broadcasting again.