Death Takes the Cake Read online

“You said you went to see Taggart this morning.” I swallowed and tried to sound calm, almost casual. “Did he tell you anything useful?”

  Weaver and John exchanged a quick look that I couldn’t interpret.

  After a moment of tense silence, John said, “We found him dead.”

  Stunned, I took an involuntary step backward and almost stumbled over my Wipe Your Paws doormat. “Oh, Lord! What happened?”

  “He was murdered,” Weaver said.

  There was a sudden ringing in my ears from the shock. I barely heard myself ask, “When? How?”

  Weaver said, “The murder weapon is classified information.”

  “The ME hasn’t given us an official TOD yet,” John said, “but her first impression is that Taggart’s been dead since sometime yesterday afternoon.”

  Yesterday afternoon? If that was true, then Taggart couldn’t have been chasing me over the canyon last night. But if it wasn’t Taggart, who?

  “No one saw the guy after you left there,” Weaver said.

  I couldn’t let his insinuating tone go unchallenged. “You mean you haven’t found anyone, Detective. Obviously, the murderer saw him after I did.”

  “Calm down,” John said.

  The ringing in my ears faded away as I got a grip on my emotions. I said, “You can’t honestly think I killed that man.”

  “No, we don’t,” John said.

  Weaver scowled at me. “Maybe not, but twenty-three years as a cop makes me think you know more than you’re telling.”

  I wanted to ask him where he kept his crystal ball, but I thought better of it. My head was clearing. “Was Taggart robbed? Was that why he was killed?”

  “What the hell do we look like—four-one-one?” Weaver rolled his crushed cigarette package into a ball and threw it on my lawn, where it bounced and came to a stop against one of my rosebushes.

  My guess was that Weaver was trying to quit smoking. I pitied John for having to work with him during that struggle.

  John watched Weaver’s cigarette package come to a stop, then turned back to give me a searching look. “Della, I expect you to tell us anything you . . . find out.”

  I nodded, unable to say anything. I think John suspected I was withholding information, and was giving me a chance to come clean. But how could I tell him about Taggart’s investigation without making the situation for Bill and Liddy even worse than it was already? What a terrible feeling—being torn between two precious friendships.

  As I watched John and Weaver leave, I forced myself to push thoughts of Taggart away. I took a few long, deep breaths and expelled them slowly. That always helped me to focus. I had to prepare myself mentally for the meeting at Mickey Jordan’s house that had already begun. Eileen had been working so hard on her business plan that I owed it to her to be able to concentrate on what she’d prepared.

  26

  Mickey and Iva Jordan’s English butler, Maurice, answered the doorbell in his usual decorous manner. As ever, his black suit and white shirt were immaculate. He was as perfectly groomed and pressed as a new ambassador about to present his credentials to a head of state. I liked Maurice; he managed to be proper without being stuffy.

  To my warm greeting, Maurice replied, “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Carmichael. Mr. Jordan is expecting you.”

  “I’ll go right in, but after the meeting I’d like to see Mrs. Jordan. Is she home?”

  “Fridays are Madame’s health club and hairdresser days. I doubt she’ll return until late this afternoon. May I give her a message?”

  “Please ask her to telephone me tonight or tomorrow, when it’s convenient.”

  “Very good.”

  Maurice ushered me through the foyer arch into the cavernous living room of the Jordans’ Beverly Hills mansion. As many times as I’d been here, I’ve never ceased to admire the original Spanish tiles on the floor and the carved beams above. The stone fireplace was tall enough for a center on the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team to stand inside, and it was so wide it could have burned enough logs to warm King Arthur’s Round Table room.

  “Come in,” Mickey said, waving me toward the nearest of the two matching yellow velvet sofas that sat like outstretched arms on either side of the fireplace. The coffee table between had been cleared of its usual object d’art. Instead, the heavy glass top was covered with sketches. I saw one that looked like me, holding a box of fudge.

  Addison, his eyes watering and his nose red, clutched a packet of tissues. Even Quinn might be sympathetic if she were here this morning and could see how miserable his cold had made him. As I came into the room, he was perched on the edge of the sofa on the far side of the table. Next to him, Eileen was kneeling on the floor and pointing to another of the sketches.

  I greeted the three of them and said, “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss much?”

  “No,” Eileen said. “We’re just looking at some design ideas.”

  Addison stood when he saw me. “Great show last night.” In spite of having a voice husky with cold, his tone was a little too hearty. It made me wonder if he’d watched it on TV, and hadn’t told Mickey he’d come home to bed before we went on the air. If he hadn’t, I wasn’t going to betray him.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It was fun.”

  Mickey had remained seated in what I’d come to know was his favorite spot: on the sofa nearest to the foyer, next to the telephone and lamp table. He patted the cushion beside him and said, “Park yourself.”

  I moved in past Mickey’s knees and took the place he indicated. As soon as I was settled, Addison resumed his seat.

  Indicating Eileen with a nod, Mickey said, “This chick wants to market your stuff by promoting crazy birthdays.”

  “Crazy birthdays?”

  Eileen picked up a sheaf of typed notes. “This is a list of about a hundred famous people I looked up. They’re born in every month of the year. We can sell gift boxes of fudge, and cookies, and muffins, and cheesecake bars by persuading people to give their loved ones something sweet to commemorate, say, President Benjamin Harrison’s birthday—he was the first president to have electric lights in the White House—or Rosa Parks’s, or Paul Revere’s, Muhammad Ali’s, Billie Jean King’s, Harriet Tubman’s, Elvis Presley’s—on and on.”

  Mickey asked Eileen, “Would somebody like you want to get a box of fudge on Elvis Presley’s birthday?”

  “I love surprises,” Eileen said. “Most women do.”

  “Men, too,” Addison said.

  “My idea is that we encourage the public to celebrate famous people who don’t have their own holidays with delicious gifts to those they love, or even just like, or want to make smile,” Eileen said.

  “That could be a big market,” Addison said. “Untapped.”

  “This sample list ranges from Queen Latifah to Mozart, Kahlil Gibran to Thomas Edison and Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” Eileen said. “Why should people send presents to each other just on Christmas or Hanukkah or on a person’s regular birthday? Sweet surprises say ‘I love you.’ You taught me that, Aunt Del. Remember how I used to help you make cookies for Dad and Uncle Mack when they were working on a really tough case?”

  “Carbohydrates are natural spirit-lifters,” Addison said.

  “But we should also have a sugar-free line, so the needs of diabetics and weight watchers can be served, too,” I said. “I’ve got some artificial sweetener recipes.”

  “Fine,” Mickey said. “I’m for any idea that moves the merchandise.”

  Eileen displayed a sample of shiny scarlet paper with a black and white caricature of me holding a plate of whatever was inside the gift box. “This is my favorite packaging design. Your dark hair looks good against the red paper, Aunt Del.”

  “It’s eye-catching,” I said. “I really like it.”

  Mickey nodded approvingly. “It’s a known marketing fact that red and gold boxes make a statement: It’s buy me.”

  Eileen reached across the table to hand Mickey and me several other d
rawings. “Here are some possible paste-on labels for our nontraditional holidays. The idea is that these labels can be affixed to the basic package, according to what’s being celebrated.”

  “Clever cartoons,” I said. Shuffling through them, I kept coming back to one little animal figure. “This chipmunk is adorable.”

  “Groundhog,” Addison said. “It’s a groundhog. For Groundhog Day.”

  “I love the expression on his face,” I said.

  “Lemme see.” Mickey took the page and squinted at it. “Is that little bastard hungry or horny?” He glanced across the coffee table at Eileen. “Pardon my language.”

  “I don’t mind,” Eileen said.

  I smiled at Mickey with affection. “You never apologized to me for your language.”

  Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’ve been married. You know the score.” Remaining focused on the drawing, he tapped the groundhog with a stubby forefinger. “This little guy’s got charisma. Use him on all the labels.”

  Addison looked puzzled. “All? But there’s only one Groundhog Day a year.”

  “So dress him up like Presley an’ Einstein an’ Paul Revere—everybody.”

  Eileen got up off her knees, fairly bouncing with excitement. “That’s fabulous! His image can be the products’ unifying theme. With his face and body in different costumes it ties together all of the new celebrations we’re trying to market.”

  Addison dabbed at his nose with a tissue. Through clogged nasal passages, he said thickly, “Basic packaging with paste-on labels to differentiate the products and our faux holidays will save considerable money.”

  “In theory. Show me some numbers,” Mickey said.

  Eileen pulled a sheet of paper from her borrowed portfolio. I made a mental note to buy her a portfolio of her own when I got my next paycheck.

  “Ad helped me get these figures for printing, packing, and shipping,” Eileen said.

  She calls him ‘Ad’? I realized they must have been spending time together.

  Addison cleared his throat. “The prices aren’t exact, Mickey. There’s a 1 percent variable due to paper quality and the exact weight of the boxes.”

  Mickey studied the sheet while the three of us waited in suspense.

  Eileen’s fingers were entwined so tightly her knuckles were white. Addison put his hand on her arm gently. It seemed to calm her a little. She relaxed her hands enough so that color returned to her knuckles.

  Is something going on between them? I brought her up for most of her life, but I’m not her mother. Do I have the right to ask? Or should I wait until she talks about him?

  I admitted to myself that I’d been so worried about Liddy and Bill that I hadn’t paid much attention to Eileen.

  After what seemed like an eternity, but probably wasn’t more than a minute or two, Mickey looked up from the page of figures. “We’ll start with traditional fudge and brownies, with sugar-free versions, too. If this catches on, later you can add muffins an’ those whatever bars.”

  “Cheesecake bars,” Eileen said.

  “But not regular muffins,” I said. “I want us to sell muffin tops.”

  Mickey looked appalled. “Cut muffins in half?” He shook his head firmly. “We’re not gonna waste food.”

  “There’s no waste involved, Mickey,” I said. “I’ve got some special pans that bake only the tops of the muffins. But we’ll need more.”

  “Make a list of what you gotta have,” Mickey said. “Prepare for success, is my motto. We got the perfect promotion platform with Della’s in the Kitchen.”

  Addison said, “The show is called In the Kitchen with Della.”

  “Whatever. Don’t sweat the small things, son.”

  One point concerned me. “Who’s going to make all the fudge and the brownies?”

  “Not you,” Mickey said. “We just use your recipes. But we’ll manufacture locally so I can keep an eye on what’s happening.”

  “How soon can we begin?” Eileen asked.

  “Very soon. Weeks ago, right after you started talking about this, my real estate people found a bakery on Hollywood Boulevard that filed for bankruptcy. I picked up the building and all their equipment cheap. It’s been cleaned and inspected.”

  Eileen slipped past Addison and quickstepped over to the back of the sofa where I was sitting. Abandoning her business school cool, she leaned down to give me a happy hug. “We’re going into business!”

  Mickey said, “This’ll be a new company. A small subsidiary of Jordan Enterprises.” He pointed to Eileen and me. “You two will be officers. Eileen—you know how Della’s stuff’s supposed to taste?”

  “Of course. I grew up eating it.”

  “Okay, you’re in charge of quality control, and a vice president.”

  “Vice president!” Eileen practically broke into a cheer.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Mickey said. “Della, you’ll be president of whatever we call it. You gals are getting big titles, but I’m not paying you much to start. If the company takes off, you’ll do well. If it doesn’t, then I’m out my start-up money and you two’ll be eating whatever we didn’t sell. So, you gonna take this gamble with me?”

  Simultaneously, I said, “Yes” and Eileen said, “Absolutely!”

  Mickey made a note on the pad next to the phone. “Addison, find out we what gotta do to make stuffed toys of that little rodent. Legal considerations, registering the trademark, cost of manufacturing here in the USA, insurance—the whole schmear.”

  I stared at Mickey with admiration. “That’s a great idea.”

  He winked at me. “Merchandising. Potential gold mine. Hell, I’d make a stuffed toy out of you if I thought it would sell.”

  “When can we see the bakery plant?” Eileen asked.

  “Soon as you want. Get the keys from my secretary.”

  “I will! Aunt Del, when can we go look?”

  “How about four o’clock today?” I said.

  “Super! I’ll go get the keys and meet you back at the house this afternoon.”

  A few minutes later, the meeting broke up. I was at the wheel of my Jeep and almost home when my cell phone rang. I pulled over to the side of the street and answered to hear Iva’s voice.

  “Della, thank God I got you.” She was whispering. “It just came over the news—that detective T. J. Taggart—he was murdered. Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not! Iva, how in the world could you think—”

  “Damn—I’d kind of hoped . . .”

  “Don’t ever say you hope I’ve murdered someone!”

  The fear in her voice was so strong it was like a palpable presence. “Della, I’m not very technical but you’ve got a computer. What’s a hard drive?”

  “It’s the brains of the machine. Everything in the computer is on it. Why?”

  “Everything? The newscaster woman said the only thing missing in Taggart’s office was his computer’s hard drive.” She started to cry. “If it’s gone, then that means the killer has his detective files—a killer has the file on me!”

  27

  I did my best to calm Iva by telling her that I couldn’t believe Taggart would have been murdered for her file. “If his hard drive was the only thing missing, then the killer must have been after some other file.”

  “Even if that’s true, my file is there and people could read it,” she said.

  “In the media’s zeal to be first with a story, sometimes reporters rush on the air using unsubstantiated reports.”

  “You mean his hard drive might not have been stolen?” There was a tiny hint of hope in her voice.

  I spoke carefully, so as not to send her spiraling down into despair. “Maybe it wasn’t. The news report you heard about the missing hard drive—did it come from the police?”

  “The woman said she was quoting ‘a source close to the investigation. ’ ”

  “Then it might not be true,” I said. “There are some people who make themselves seem important by acting lik
e insiders to try to ingratiate themselves with the media.”

  “You mean maybe I’m safe after all?”

  “Let me find out exactly what happened, okay? Where are you right now?”

  “I was on the elliptical machine when I heard the news. Now I’m crouching in the bathroom talking to you.”

  “Go back to your machine. As soon as I find out what’s going on, I’ll call you.”

  She sighed. In the voice of a scared little girl, she said, “All right. But hurry, please.”

  “I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks.” Iva disconnected.

  I didn’t start the Jeep again, but stayed in the parking place, thinking about whom I could call to find out if it was true that Taggart’s hard drive had been stolen.

  John? No. I didn’t want to call him because if I asked him to confirm a report that probably shouldn’t have gotten out, he’d surely ask why I wanted to know. I’d already lied to him by omission, implying that I hadn’t learned anything from my visit to Taggart, when the truth was that I’d hidden the envelope with copies of Taggart’s three reports to Reggie right here under my driver’s seat.

  I didn’t want to call NDM, even though I was sure he’d have at least one “source close to the investigation.” If I asked about Taggart’s murder, he’d want to know why I was interested and I didn’t want to tell him. He might—

  My cell phone rang. I saw on the faceplate that it was NDM calling. Coincidence, or telepathy? I decided on coincidence and answered, greeting him with a cheerful, “Hello.”

  “Hi, honey. Sorry I didn’t call you earlier. I’m on a story.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m busy, too.”

  “You’re not mad? It’s been thirty-six hours since I left your bed.”

  “I wasn’t watching the clock.” My tone was casual and pleasant. I was telling the truth.

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. That pleased me.

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’re upset about the Regina Davis murder—worried about your friends—but there just might be a break in the case.”

  Was this going to be good news or bad? I felt my muscles tense, but I tried to keep concern out of my voice. “What do you mean?”