Death Takes the Cake Page 15

  5. In addition to Iva, did Reggie have me investigated, too? I’d never thought about it before, but bail bondsman Frank Mazzone had just given me an example of how much personal information one could find out about another if one knew how.

  6. If Reggie had had me investigated it wouldn’t have been hard to learn that Liddy and Bill Marshall were my close friends. They’d been mentioned in at least one article written about me since the show began. The channel’s publicity man, Phil Logan, was big on human interest stories about the show hosts. In one of them I’d credited my friends Liddy and Bill Marshall and John and Shannon O’Hara with helping me through the awful period after Mack’s death.

  7. In spite of Reggie’s friendly behavior when she came to my house, was it possible that she still hated me enough that she’d try to hurt me by having an affair with Bill in order to ruin the marriage of my friends? That seemed like such a stretch . . . but who knows what Reggie was capable of?

  What was it I’d read in one of the Sherlock Holmes stories? Holmes had said something like, “When all other theories have been exhausted, the one that remains, however unlikely, is the solution.”

  That’s a bad paraphrase, but it makes the point.

  A glance at the wall clock told me Mickey must have left for his office by now. It would be a good time to call Iva without his hearing the question I had to ask her.

  I reached for the phone again.

  23

  After five rings someone picked up, but dropped the receiver. I heard fumbling and clattering and then Iva mumbled a sleepy “Hello.”

  “Hi, it’s Della. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s okay. I was about to get up.” She yawned, then gasped and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is everything all right? I mean, nobody’s found out about . . . you know what?”

  “No, nothing like that but I need to ask you something. Are you alone?”

  “Yes. I heard Mickey leave awhile ago. What is it?”

  “When you told me Regina Davis had you investigated you said she showed you the report. Do you remember the name of the private detective?”

  “I’ll never forget it: T. J. Hooker. Oh, no, wait—that was an old TV show. Her detective was T. J. Taggart. Taggart. That’s it. Why do you want to know?”

  “I need to check something out.”

  “Oh, Della, please don’t let Mickey learn . . . you know what.”

  I assured her that I would never reveal her secret, and said a quick good-bye to get her off the line.

  The last of my preparations for the show tonight involved individually wrapping forty Cornish pasties—one for each of the thirty members of the studio audience and the rest for staff and crew that would be there—and securing the Chicken Biscuit Pie under aluminum foil. On an impulse, I picked up an object that had been sent to me as a gift and dropped it into one of the cloth tote bags I used when I went marketing. I decided to try an experiment on the show tonight. The rest of the ingredients I’d need were already in the studio’s pantry and refrigerator.

  By the time I’d showered and dressed for my visit to Reggie’s private detective it was nearly noon, but when I stepped outside I found that the sky was so dark it looked like evening. I viewed the darkness and the heavy air with mixed emotions. We certainly needed the rain after many months of drought, but I hoped it would hold off until after I got home from the show tonight. Well, I couldn’t control the rain, but I could try a little of what Liddy called my “personal voodoo” by taking a raincoat and an umbrella—both long unused—from the hall closet before I left the house. My silly theory was that if rain threatened, and I was prepared for it, it wouldn’t rain, but if I wasn’t properly equipped then the heavens were likely to open up and drench me. Sometimes the voodoo worked.

  T. J. Taggart, Confidential Investigations was located in a pea soup green two-story building on Westwood Boulevard between Olympic and Pico Boulevards, no more than half a mile from the Davis Foods Test Kitchens. Reggie and her checkbook hadn’t had to travel far in order to invade Iva’s privacy.

  When I got to Taggart’s block there were plenty of empty parking spaces. The sky was still dark, but it wasn’t raining, so I did a semi-voodoo by draping the raincoat over my arm but leaving the umbrella in my Jeep.

  The entrance to the building didn’t have a directory of tenants but Taggart’s Yellow Pages ad listed his twenty-four-hour phone availability, his street address, and the suite number: 209.

  I climbed a narrow, dimly lighted staircase to the second floor and followed the numbers along an L-shaped balcony that looked down onto the tenants’ assigned parking spaces. A gray green Buick sedan in need of washing was in the slot marked 209. Presumably, the private eye was in his office.

  Suite 209 was at the far end of the line of small businesses, next to a back stairway that led down to the parking area. Taggart’s was the only office that had its front window coated with an opaque white substance. That veneer was as effective as a wall in preventing a curious passerby from seeing anyone inside.

  The sign on Taggart’s door only gave his name—no indication as to what the person in suite 209 did for a living. The door was closed. I knocked.

  A man’s voice said, “Come in.”

  In I went.

  Taggart’s “suite” was a room. A slab of red granite on steel legs served as his desk. On it was a computer with a large monitor, a notebook, a mug full of pens, and a can of diet soda resting on a folded paper towel.

  The man behind the desk was one of the hairiest individuals I had ever seen. Thick silver tufts peeked out from the open top button on his shirt. A mass of long, salt-and-pepper curls covered his head, fastened behind his neck in a ponytail. The bushy gray mustache framing his mouth dripped on each side all the way down to his chin. It reminded me of a cartoon character that I’d watched with Eileen when she was in preschool: Yosemite Sam.

  He was so distinctive-looking I wondered how he could follow a subject without being noticed. But perhaps he didn’t have to. A savvy researcher with Internet access could strip bare a person’s life without leaving his chair.

  “Sam” stood as I entered. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Mr. Taggart?”

  “Yes.”

  He extended his hand; the back of it was hairy, too. Walking toward him, I managed to get a mental snapshot of the room: a faded brown corduroy-covered sofa against the north wall. Reading lamp at one end and wooden coffee table in front. A television set on a stand angled to face the sofa. I wondered if Taggart also lived here.

  As our hands met in a brief clasp, I was sure about the glint of recognition I’d seen when I entered. In fact, I would have bet my precious KitchenAid mixer that he knew my name.

  But he pretended he didn’t. “What can I do for you, Ms . . . ?”

  “I want to find out about someone.”

  “Ah.” He took a sports jacket from the back of his chair. As he wriggled into it, he indicated with a nod the seat on the visitor’s side of his desk.

  A quick glance took in the rest of the room. Behind his desk was a door: to a closet, a bathroom, a kitchenette? Or some combination? Next to the door was a metal filing cabinet and a bookcase packed with reference volumes and dozens of telephone directories.

  I was intent on fixing Taggart’s dreary space in my mind because I remembered the terror in Iva’s eyes when she told me that Reggie’d had her investigated. I wanted to diminish this man’s ugly power by regarding his surroundings with disdain.

  “Who do you want checked out, Ms . . . ?”

  “Della Carmichael.”

  A slight twitch of his shoulders. “Ahhh.” His intonation was bland, but it was what John and Mack called a suspect’s “waiting to see which way the wind was blowing” voice.

  “What do you want to find out?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  “Let me tell you what I charge—”

  “I don’t
care,” I said.

  His shoulders relaxed their stiffness and he flashed a smile at me. “That’s good to hear.”

  “Your fee isn’t relevant to me.”

  Taggart chose a pen and poised it over a fresh page in his notebook. “To do a thorough background check I’ll require some information. The subject’s name, address, date of birth, Social Security number—”

  I feigned a frown of concern. “Do you need all that?”

  “Not really. If you can give me the person’s license plate number I can run the tag and get the rest.”

  “All that information’s available just through a license plate?”

  “For an experienced investigator, it is,” he said. “A regular citizen can’t get it. Do you happen to know the plate number?”

  I recited my Jeep’s license plate. He started to write, but stopped after the first three letters and put down the pen.

  “I see you recognize it,” I said.

  He tossed the pen aside and leaned forward with his arms crossed on the desk. “Okay, Ms. Carmichael. What kind of a game do you think you’re playing?”

  “I guessed that Regina Davis had me investigated and you’ve just confirmed it. I want a copy of whatever reports you gave her.”

  “My client’s files are not for sale.”

  “I wasn’t planning to pay you,” I said. “And Regina Davis is dead so she’s not your client anymore. You’ve already been paid for prying into my life, and the lives of people I know. Please, I want a copy of your reports.” In a firm tone, I added, “I’m asking nicely.”

  Glaring at me, he got up. “No. Get out of here.”

  I stayed in my seat, meeting his glare without a flinch. “Since you’ve dug into my life, you must know that my husband was an LAPD detective, and that one of my closest friends is Lt. John O’Hara. What you might not know is that John is one of the two lead investigators on the Regina Davis murder. Within minutes of the time I tell them she hired you to check people out, they’ll be in front of a judge getting a warrant to wrench those files loose from you. Heaven only knows what else they might turn up while searching.”

  T. J. Taggart sat down again. He was trying to act cool, but I’d seen a flash of apprehension in his eyes.

  “I haven’t done anything illegal,” he said. “Every piece of information I gave Ms. Davis was obtained through legitimate research.”

  “Look, Mr. Taggart, we both know that there isn’t any private eye-client privilege. I don’t like it one bit that you spied on me, but I’m not interested in making trouble for you. All I want is a copy of the reports you gave to a woman who is dead, and therefore is no longer a client.”

  He shook his head, hanging tough. “Maybe a judge could make me, but giving up confidential reports to an ordinary citizen wouldn’t be good for my business.”

  Taggart thought he’d pulled an ace out of his sleeve, but I had one more card to play.

  I said, “Another close friend of mine is Los Angeles Chronicle reporter Nicholas D’Martino. What would it do to your business if he wrote an article about you turning over your confidential files to the LAPD? How many new clients do you think a story like that would send rushing up here to hire you?”

  He grimaced, went to the file cabinet, and pulled out a folder labeled “Davis.”

  My wild card—NDM—had won the hand.

  Clutching the envelope containing copies of T. J. Taggart’s investigative reports, I hurried back down the stairs and climbed into my Jeep. Too impatient to wait until I got home to see what was in those papers, I drove to a nearby residential street and stopped next to a tall hedge that obscured the house behind it. I tore open the manila envelope that Taggart had thrust into my hands too hard. He was an ungracious loser, but who could blame him.

  There were three detailed reports: one on Mickey Jordan, one on Iva, and one on me. “Rush” was stamped on mine. The date Reggie had engaged Taggart was at the top of the first page: November fifth, the day Addison Jordan had presented his reality TV idea to her.

  As I scanned the material Taggart had dug up on me, I felt myself going from annoyance to fury. Reggie had learned where and when I was married, about Mack’s fatal heart attack, where I shopped and what I bought, my taping schedule, what I earned from the show, the name of my doctor, and even the name of Tuffy’s veterinarian. And she’d learned about my financial troubles. That was my only source of embarrassment.

  At least Taggart hadn’t found out about the brief time I was dating NDM. Apparently, we’d flown below his radar. NDM had been out of town when Taggart started prying into my life, and he’d given Reggie his report before NDM returned to Los Angeles.

  I found what I was looking for on the last two pages. It was a list of my closest friends, their addresses and phone numbers. Even Eileen’s private phone in her room at my house was here. The last item focused on Bill Marshall: his office address and hours and his daily routine. Bill was a creature of habit, taking a lunch break at the same time every day. Taggart had even found out about Bill’s weekly card game, and listed the names and addresses of the other regular players.

  I sat behind the wheel of my Jeep, not sure whether I was more angry or more worried. What I’d learned from reading Taggart’s report supported my theory that Reggie went after Bill Marshall because the Marshalls were close to me, but if the police learned about that it might strengthen Hugh Weaver’s belief that Bill had a motive for murder. It was the only motive they’d turned up, as far as I knew. I wasn’t in the investigation’s loop.

  In trying to help Bill, all I’d done was add to the weight of circumstantial evidence against him. I remembered an old cliché: “A little learning is a dangerous thing.” Then I remembered more of that quote: “Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.”

  I was nowhere near Pieria—Macedonia and its Balkan neighbors being a long way from Los Angeles—and the fabled spring of knowledge only appeared in mythology, but I knew I would have to “drink deep” if I was going to discover an alternative suspect to offer in place of Bill. If I couldn’t prove Bill’s innocence, at least I could try to shoot the case against him full of reasonable doubt.

  After my live show tonight, I would curl up in bed with my notebook and make a plan.

  A sudden splat of water on my windshield brought me back to the present. It had started to rain.

  24

  “Comfort food—yummm,” I said to both Camera One and the studio audience from my opening position behind the preparation counter. I was amazed that all thirty of the seats were filled, given the heavy rain. Before the show started and the lights on the audience were lowered from bright to dim, I saw that crew members had set up three portable clothing racks by the studio entrance. They were loaded with raincoats and plastic capes and hoods that were dripping little puddles onto the studio’s concrete floor.

  If I’d had a choice, I would rather have stayed home tonight and not driven through the wet mess outside. These hearty souls deserved a good show, and I’d do my best to give them one.

  On the back wall counter of my kitchen set were the finished dishes I’d made in the middle of the night: the Chicken Biscuit Pie and the forty individually wrapped Cornish pasties. One extra pastie had been kept unwrapped, to be displayed beside the chicken pie in what the TV people called the camera’s “beauty shot.”

  Faking an exaggerated shiver, I said, “On a cold night there’s nothing more delicious and satisfying than old-fashioned comfort food. This isn’t elegant fare, but it’s warm and filling. Another plus: These dishes are relatively inexpensive. They’ll be even more of a bargain if you plan your menu around supermarket sales and newspaper coupons. But before we start making our comfort main dishes, I’m going to demonstrate a comfort dessert made from an object comedians joke about and hardly anyone admits to liking.”

  From the shelf below the cutting board, I retrieved an object that I held up for the camera and the studio audience to see.

  “Yes, it’s the d
readed fruitcake,” I said. “Available in stores during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, but at various places on the Internet all year long. Because it’s three weeks before Christmas, this one arrived by mail today, from a company whose services I use. Normally, they send a calendar, but this year they’re under new management. Maybe one of the executives owns a fruitcake company. Or maybe this is one of those regifted gifts.”

  People in the audience laughed, which was a relief because I hoped I was being amusing.

  “I’m not exactly a fan of fruitcake, but with people in the world going hungry I can’t stand the thought of throwing away edible food. So I had an idea I hope is going to work. I say ‘I hope’ because I’ve never made this before. It’s an experiment I’m trying right here, in front of everybody. In a circus, this would be called walking the high wire without a net.”

  I unwrapped the fruitcake, set it on a cutting board, and went to the refrigerator where I loaded my arms with a carton of eggs and containers of milk and whipping cream. Depositing the ingredients next to the sugar and the mixing bowl that were already on the counter, I picked up my favorite chef’s knife. “We’re going to turn this thing that weighs as much as a doorstop into a fruity bread pudding.”

  Explaining what I was doing, I sliced and then tore the cake pieces into large chunks and placed them in a buttered nine-by-thirteen baking dish. Next, I measured the milk and cream, added sugar, and cracked the eggs.

  “I’m whisking these ingredients into a custard,” I said. “The idea came to me just after the cake arrived in the mail, when I realized I had eggs that were about to reach the expiration date on the end of the carton. This seems like a perfect way to use them up.”

  I tilted the bowl of custard toward the camera so the at-home audience could see the consistency and to allow those in the studio to view it on the big TV screen next to the set, then poured it over the pieces of fruitcake.