Death Takes the Cake Page 10

  14

  The Better Living Channel’s production facilities were located on the corner of Lankershim Boulevard and Chandler Street in North Hollywood, in a converted warehouse that was the approximate size and shape of an airplane hangar. It was nineteen miles from my home in Santa Monica. Barring an unforeseen traffic problem, the trip took me about thirty-five minutes. I’m a conservative driver. In the two or three times when I’d ridden to the studio with NDM, it took considerably less time. He was skillful at the wheel of what I called his “Italian Batmobile,” although he refused to believe that speed limits applied to him.

  A giant billboard outside the fenced-in studio property advertised the three shows currently produced on those premises: Car Guy, That’s Not Junk, and In the Kitchen with Della. We on-air hosts were depicted in caricatures. I liked the flattering way the artist improved my figure, but on that billboard Car Guy—a man so secretive about his personal life that he had his real name changed legally to Car Guy—looked slightly deranged. The artist exaggerated the mechanic’s casually unruly hair into wild spikes, and the grin he put on Car Guy’s face made him resemble a horror movie’s mad scientist.

  When I met Car, I was surprised to discover that while he would never be described as movie star handsome, he was not bad looking. In person he was more moody than “mad,” reminding me somewhat of Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester with a grease gun.

  The billboard interpretation of Gil York, the channel’s cute young Cockney wizard-with-refuse, was little short of adoring. Gil’s forty-foot likeness enlarged his big brown eyes, his dazzling smile, and crowned his head with twice as many butterscotch curls as he possessed in real life.

  One afternoon shortly after I began doing my show, I heard Gil complaining about the drawing to channel owner Mickey Jordan. “That bloody thing makes me look like a silly ass in one of those boy bands,” he’d said.

  Mickey’s typically diplomatic response had been, “Suck it up. It attracts viewers.”

  Tuffy, who had been lounging in the backseat of the Jeep for most of the trip, sat up in his safety harness as we neared the studio. His body began squirming with excitement as he looked out the window. It wasn’t just the pleasure of going for a ride; his attitude when we approached either the veterinarian or the shop where he was groomed was decidedly unenthusiastic. Tuffy found interesting new scents to explore inside and outside the studio, and he enjoyed sitting on the set, watching me cook for the cameras.

  I turned onto the short gravel driveway that led to the locked cast iron gate, pulled up parallel to the call box, and pressed the button.

  “Hi there, Miz Della.” It was the warm Southern cadence of sixty-something Angie Johnson, who monitored the security cameras and entry access on the day shift. She lowered her voice and sounded as though she’d leaned closer to the microphone. “Mr. Jordan’s here. He wants to see you soon as you get in.”

  “Thanks, Angie.”

  She pushed the control button and the big gate swung inward. As I drove around the side of the building to the employee parking spaces, I caught a glimpse of Mickey’s huge yellow SUV in the “No Parking” lane facing the front door.

  I parked a few yards beyond the big double doors of the studio entrance and turned in my seat to unfasten Tuffy’s safety harness. No sooner had I stepped to the ground and let him out than I saw Mickey exit the building from the door to the security office. He headed in my direction, followed by his son, Addison. They were a funny sight, because even though Addison was taller and had longer legs, Mickey was barreling along at such a fast pace that he had the younger man hurrying to keep up.

  Mickey stopped in front of me so abruptly his shoes raised a small cloud of dust. “I heard you found Reggie’s body last night. You okay?”

  “It was a shock, but I’m all right.”

  “She was f-in’ murdered.” Mickey followed his statement with a stream of even more colorful expletives, then took a breath and calmed down. “I liked her.”

  Addison asked, “Do they know who did it?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “At least I haven’t heard anything.” With a sudden flicker of hope, I turned to Mickey. “With Reggie dead, I suppose you’ll cancel the cake competition now.”

  “Hell, no,” Mickey said. “I’ve spent too much up-front money to toss it away. Anyway, that’s not why I came out here this morning. I’ve got a surprise for you.” Mickey nodded at Addison, who had moved up to stand beside his father. “Della, meet your new producer. He’s a smart kid. He persuaded me he’ll learn to be a producer on the job, if you help him.”

  With a warm smile, Addison said, “I’ll still be involved in corporate strategic planning, but thought I could be more valuable to Mickey if I learned the cable TV business from the ground up.”

  I admired his ambition, although I hadn’t thought of my show as “the ground.” At least he didn’t refer to it as “the bottom of the barrel.”

  “We can use the help,” I said. “Quinn and I have been handling the producing chores ever since George Hopkins . . . since he left.” I stopped short of saying that my previous producer had disappeared to avoid paying his huge gambling debts. It wasn’t my place to disclose his problem. Wherever George Hopkins was, I hoped he was all right, and attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings as he’d promised to do.

  I asked Addison, “Have you met our director, Quinn Tanner?”

  He stopped smiling. “Just now.”

  Having experienced the fact that Quinn did not exactly welcome change, to put it mildly, I asked, “How did that go?”

  “Not well.”

  Mickey shook his head. “She’s acting like a cobra with a toothache. I thought English women were supposed to behave like ladies, but she used a word I’d never heard before. Ah, f-it. I’m the boss around here. You two get started.” With his right fist, he tapped the left side of his chest. “I got other businesses giving me agita.”

  Mickey gave us a quick wave and strode back toward the front of the building, where he’d parked his SUV.

  I asked Addison, “Did Mickey show you around the studio?”

  “He said he didn’t have time.”

  “Then I’ll give you a quick tour before we tape the first half hour.”

  We started toward the studio entrance when Addison looked down at Tuffy. I was glad to see that he didn’t flinch.

  “Finally, I had a chance to view a couple of your tapes,” Addison said. “Mickey was right—that standard poodle is a nice touch. Even though I’m not exactly comfortable around big dogs, I found myself smiling at those shots the camera people got of him watching you cook.”

  Inwardly, I gave a sigh of relief about my new producer’s attitude toward Tuffy. I wouldn’t have to fight for Tuff’s presence on the set.

  “We get a lot of positive e-mail about him,” I said. “But he doesn’t come Thursday nights when I do my live hour in front of a studio audience. Too many people around.”

  “Since I saw him in action, I told Mickey that we should have an artist work a drawing of him next to you on the billboards. Do you have a picture of him they could use?”

  “Lots of pictures,” I said. “I’ll have a good one for you tomorrow.”

  Addison gave me the thumbs-up sign.

  We were at the door of the huge, cavernous space that housed the Better Living Channel’s West Coast production facility when Addison touched me on the arm lightly and indicated that he wanted me to wait for a moment.

  “Before we go inside, I wanted to tell you something. I persuaded Mickey to let me work on your show not just because I want to learn the nuts and bolts of cable TV production. There’s another reason, too. What I didn’t tell Mickey is that my mother loves your show. Seeing my name on the screen as producer is going to make her very happy.”

  Hearing that, and knowing how much I loved my own mother, I said, “I’ll make sure that your name goes on the credits right away. If you like, we’ll send her DVDs of the shows before they go on the air
.”

  “That would be great!”

  One thing puzzled me. “Why didn’t you want your father to know why you wanted to work on the show?”

  I saw the smile leave his eyes. “Mickey and Mom divorced when I was about eight. He was generous with money, but we didn’t see him very often.” He shrugged, throwing off the cloak of sadness that had descended on him, and made an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Nobody’s childhood is perfect, right? I have a great mom, and Mickey’s a decent guy. He was certainly a good provider. That’s more than you can say about a lot of divorced men.”

  With a smile that looked a little forced, Addison gestured for me to precede him into the studio. “Now, show me where the magic happens.”

  Entering, I said, “There are four standing sets. Two in the front of the building and two here in the back. Gil York’s furniture repurposing workshop is in the front, along with space for a set when Mickey picks another show to produce here. The wall between the two halves of the studio is soundproof, with a lock on each side to prevent someone from coming in and accidentally interrupting a show.”

  I raised my free hand to indicate the director’s booth overhead. “That’s one of the two control booths. There’s a duplicate on the other side of the wall. When the schedule requires it, shows can be taped or broadcast in a front set and a back one simultaneously.”

  Through the booth’s glass wall, I saw a familiar wraithlike figure with long black hair framing her narrow face: TV director Quinn Tanner. She glanced down at us, and then looked away quickly. From her cold behavior, I guessed that Quinn would not be coming down to the floor for a pleasant chat before taping. Quinn and I had developed a cordial—if not exactly chummy—working relationship. If she and Addison had started badly, they would have to make peace. I hoped it happened soon. I’d do what I could to help because I couldn’t afford to let tension between them affect the job I had to do.

  Passing Car Guy’s fully equipped garage set, which today had a Buick on the hydraulic lift, Addison screwed up his face. “Phew,” he said. “This smells like a garage. Doesn’t the odor bother you?”

  “I don’t mind it. The air conditioning gets rid of most of it while I’m cooking,” I said. “Because he often makes a lot of noise demonstrating repairs, we tape at different times. Today, Car Guy’s working at two o’clock, and I’ll have finished both of my half hours by twelve thirty or one.”

  In my studio kitchen, on the far side of Car Guy’s garage, the lights for taping had already been adjusted.

  Addison surveyed my set. “Nice. Homey. It looks like your real kitchen.”

  “The studio designers liked mine and copied it.”

  Camera operators Ernie Ramirez and Jada Powell were doing their pretaping checks of the equipment. I introduced them to Addison and said, “Addison is going to be our new producer.”

  Jada smiled at him. “Great.”

  “Hey, man, welcome to the family,” Ernie said cheerfully.

  Our new producer shook hands. “Actually, I’m already family—Addison Jordan.” With a self-deprecating smile he said, “No surprise how I got my job, is it?”

  “We won’t hold that against you,” Ernie said.

  “Unless you make us call you ‘Sir,’ ” Jada added.

  Addison laughed. “Not a chance.”

  Tuffy tugged at my leash, reminding me to let him go. As soon as I unhooked him, he trotted over to his comfy dog bed beside the refrigerator and lay down.

  “That’s one smart pooch,” Ernie said.

  As I filled Tuffy’s bowl with fresh water, Addison said, “You mentioned the unused studio space up front. I have some ideas for shows that can elevate this network. We don’t have to stay on the cable business’s equivalent of Skid Row.”

  “Owww-eee, that’s putting us in our place,” Jada told Ernie, but loud enough for Addison and me to hear.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Addison said quickly. “It’s just that we’re not exactly the Food Network. Not yet. But I want us to be that good.”

  “That sounds like my cue to get cooking,” I said.

  “Now that I’m responsible for this show, I’m going to think about how we can make it better. If the ratings fall—well, I can’t do my job for the network by supporting a failure.”

  I got the message loud and clear: If I didn’t do everything I could to keep In the Kitchen with Della rising in popularity, my metaphorical goose would be cooked.

  15

  When “A Festival of Pasta,” the first of my two shows that day, was completed, studio personnel converged on the set to help themselves to the dishes I’d made. There was always plenty to go around. I’d put a stack of paper plates and packages of paper napkins and forks out on the prep counter next to the Spaghetti Carbonara, the Penne Pesto, and the Linguine with Sautéed Mushrooms, Garlic, and Lemon.

  I asked Jada, who was dishing pasta for herself, “Will you fix a plate for Angie on the security desk? I don’t want her to miss out just because she can’t leave her post.”

  “I’ll go eat with her,” Jada said. She loaded two plates, balanced them deftly, and grinned at me. “I used to wait tables. It’s better now that I can eat what I carry.”

  Addison stared as the big bowls of pasta disappeared. “This is a great thing to do to build team spirit, but what if somebody gets sick? Would the station be liable?”

  “Mickey said I could give the food to the staff—let them have a little between-shows party. You can see they’re enjoying themselves, and it keeps everybody energized. Why don’t you let me fix you something?”

  “No, thanks, but would you make a plate for me to take up to Quinn Tanner?” He winked at me. “If we raise her blood sugar, maybe it will improve her disposition.”

  “Can’t hurt,” I said.

  When I’d dished out generous portions of all three pastas, I handed the plate, cutlery, and napkins to Addison.

  With a nod, he indicated the director’s booth above us, where we could see Quinn making marks on a clipboard. Grinning, he said, “If I’m not back in an hour, call the police.”

  Ernie came over for a refill. Watching Addison head toward the stairs to the director’s booth, he joked, “Too bad. That Addison was a nice guy.”

  As Ernie helped himself to more pasta, I asked, “Which of these did you like best?”

  “All of them, but especially the linguine with the mushrooms and garlic and lemon.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “It was created when Eileen unexpectedly brought home a friend who was a vegetarian, and I had to assemble a main dish she could eat just from ingredients I had on hand: pasta, lemons, mushrooms, garlic, and olive oil. The girls loved it, so it went into my repertoire.”

  “God bless vegetarians,” Ernie said.

  I decided to make this new recipe for pasta lovers Liddy and Bill, as soon as they had a free night. Maybe seeing them together would relieve my mind. Liddy sounded happy in her phone message, and I wanted to be happy for her.

  While the stagehands were cleaning up and placing the ingredients I would need for the soufflé show we’d tape next, I grabbed a plastic bag and Tuffy’s studio pooper-scooper. It was time to take Tuffy for a walk around the property, and I wanted some fresh air.

  I glanced around for Addison, intending to tell him that I’d be back in a few minutes, but he was still up in the director’s booth with Quinn. I hadn’t heard a scream, or seen one of them come flying through the booth’s glass wall to crash on the studio’s concrete floor, so perhaps things were going well up there.

  When Tuffy and I returned, I didn’t see my new producer. I asked Ernie, “Where’s Addison? Is he still up with Quinn?”

  Jada shook her head. “He came down just after you went out with Tuff, and asked for the rundown for the Thursday night live show.”

  Ernie said, “I got him a copy from the production office. Then his cell phone rang and he took the call outdoors. When he came back in he said to tell you he
’d see you at the show tomorrow night.”

  Puzzling, but I had other things to think about. “Thanks, Ernie,” I said.

  Tuffy drank from his water bowl, then settled down on his bed, and I took my place behind the preparation counter.

  When Camera One’s red light came on and we were taping, I smiled into the lens. “Hi, everybody. I’m Della Carmichael and today we’re going to take the fear out of making a soufflé. A cheese soufflé and a mixed vegetable salad make a perfect lunch or light dinner. If you’re entertaining, then a chocolate or a Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert will be very impressive, and your non-cooking friends won’t have any idea how really simple it is to make. When I show you in a few minutes, you’ll be whisking and folding with the best restaurant chefs. So, let’s get cooking—and begin with a cheese soufflé.”

  I moved to the oven, turned it on, and said to the camera, “We start by preheating the oven to 475 degrees. That’s hot, but I’ll reduce the heat ten minutes after the soufflé goes in.”

  Returning to the preparation counter, I indicated and identified the row of ingredients that had previously been set out: one cup of sharp cheddar cheese finely grated, four tablespoons butter, the same amount of flour, a cup of milk, one tablespoon of distilled white vinegar, a tablespoon of water, a little bottle of Tabasco sauce, a third of a cup of freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and six eggs.

  Indicating the eggs, I said, “We’re going to need six egg whites, but only four yolks. You can store the other two yolks in the fridge to use later—add them to a batch of scrambled eggs and onions or hash, or dilute with a little water and use as an egg wash to brush across the top of a piecrust.”

  I picked up the first egg, cracked it, and separated the white from the yolk. Explaining the process as I went along, I said, “You may find a recipe that tells you to beat the whites in a food processor, but I don’t agree. I like using an electric hand mixer because then you know the exact moment when the whites form stiff peaks. The hardest part of making a soufflé is getting over the fear that it won’t puff up and stay up.” I aimed a sly, teasing smile at the camera lens. “It’s the cook’s version of performance anxiety. Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen if it falls? No one’s going to drag you off to the ‘flat soufflé dungeon.’ You’ll just say ‘Ooops’ and whip up some pasta for dinner. That’s why I keep a variety of pastas in the pantry at all times, for those ‘ooops’ moments we all have. In fact, you don’t have to wait for a disaster in the kitchen. If somebody comes over to my house unexpectedly and I need to whip up a quick meal, there’s nothing faster than a package of angel hair pasta—which takes three minutes to cook—tossed with five or six cloves of chopped garlic lightly sautéed in three or four tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, and some salt and pepper. Pasta with oil and garlic—yum! It’s even better if you have some grated Parmesan cheese and a little flat-leaf parsley to chop up and sprinkle over the dish. Serve that with some crusty bread and a glass of wine, and maybe some fresh fruit for dessert, you’ll have a five-star meal on a rock-bottom budget.”