Death Takes the Cake Read online

  She flashed a smile at the three of us. “Ooops. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “It’s okay,” Mickey said. “We’re almost done.” To Addison, he added, “This is the brainiac college gal I told you about, the one who talked me into backing Della in a mail-order fudge business.”

  “I’m Eileen O’Hara,” Eileen said to the younger Jordan. “Aunt Della’s semipermanent houseguest.”

  “Addison Jordan.” He extended his hand to her and she took it. “I’m Mickey’s son, and his new cable TV executive in charge of strategic planning.” He added with a self-deprecating chuckle, “Whatever that means.”

  “It’s a floating title,” Mickey said.

  “I’ll do my best not to sink,” Addison said. “Anyway, I’m very pleased to meet you, Eileen.”

  Eileen’s response was polite, but enigmatic. “Yes, you, too.”

  It was hard to tell what she was thinking—if she was as interested in him as he clearly was in her. In that way, Eileen was like her father, LAPD lieutenant John O’Hara, who had turned being enigmatic into a personal art form.

  Addison said to Eileen, “We might be working together on the . . . fudge thing.” From the enchanted expression on his face, I was pretty sure his mind wasn’t on fudge.

  Excitement replaced enigma. “That’s great! Did Mickey show you my business plan? How soon can we start?”

  “Hey!” Mickey held up one hand in his traffic cop gesture. “Cut the fudge talk. Friday morning we’ll all discuss that. Eleven o’clock. My house.”

  Eileen beamed. “I’ve made improvements in the business plan. I’ll bring that, packaging sketches I worked up, and more specifics about shipping choices and costs.”

  She took a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I’ve got to shower and get to class. Bye, everybody.”

  After she left, Mickey asked me, “What’s your schedule this week?”

  “I’m taping the two half-hour shows on Wednesday, then there’s the live show Thursday evening.”

  “Good, so I don’t have to rearrange anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tomorrow morning you’re going to meet the other contestants at the Davis Foods Test Kitchens. Eight o’clock. Bring pictures of a couple of the cakes you made on the show. An’ wear something that shows off your figure ’cause we’ll be taping.”

  “So soon?”

  “Life moves fast, but TV moves faster. Addison, give her the address.”

  Addison took a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. A glance at it told me the test kitchens were located on Pico Boulevard, in West Los Angeles, only ten or fifteen minutes from here.

  “This is really going to be great for your show,” Addison said. “For you, too. More national exposure.”

  Mickey tapped an index finger against the side of his head and told me, “Start thinking about a winning cake.”

  After saying that he would arrange a time for me to get together with the cake coach Mickey had hired, Addison said good-bye. I saw them both out.

  Back in the kitchen, I poured a fresh mug of coffee and sat down at the table with a sigh. I started to slice a piece of the pecan ring, but put the knife down. My session with Mickey had momentarily dampened my desire for anything resembling cake.

  Tuffy came over and rubbed the side of his body against my leg. “Good boy,” I said, scratching him gently under his chin and stroking the side of his face. “I’m so glad I have you.” My smart, handsome standard poodle with the loving heart was giving me comfort at the moment I needed it very much. Mickey had, albeit unknowingly, put me in a trap.

  I had to agree to his Reggi-Mixx Cake Contest idea because I was still in the danger zone of debt. If I didn’t do everything possible to make my TV show a success and stay employed, I could lose my little cooking school on Montana Avenue. I loved teaching, and that school had been my dream, but it hadn’t been the world’s smartest investment. Winning that $25,000 prize would solve a lot of problems.

  Things had been easier financially since I’d begun working for Mickey’s Better Living Channel. At least for now I could sleep through the night again without waking up gasping, wondering how I was going to pay next month’s bills. While I wasn’t getting a lavish salary by any means, it was enough to start paying off the credit cards I’d had to live on during the months before I’d been hired to replace the previous cooking show host.

  In the Kitchen with Della was only two months old and was doing pretty well for a new show hosted by an unknown. But unless the audience kept growing it wasn’t likely to stay on the air. My predecessor had been replaced; I could be, too. As fiercely independent as I was—as I’d had to be since Mack died—I could not risk losing this job.

  I needed to talk to someone who would understand my concern about Regina Davis. There was no one better for that than my best friend of twenty-odd years, Liddy Marshall. I dialed the number I knew as well as I knew my own.

  “Hello?” Liddy always pronounced that greeting as a question.

  As soon as I told her that I had a problem, she said, “I’m not working today. When do you want me to come over?”

  “I’d like to get out of the house. Let’s drive down to the beach and eat somebody else’s cooking.”

  There was just the tiniest hesitation on Liddy’s end of the line, but I caught it. “Are you busy for lunch? If so, we can—”

  “I promised I’d have lunch with Shannon.”

  I realized why Liddy was hesitant, but I forced brightness into my voice. “That’s fine. Terrific. Let’s go, the three of us. Just like we used to.”

  Just like we used to before my husband died, when John O’Hara and my Mack had been LAPD partners, and during the periods when medication stabilized Shannon’s moods.

  John and Shannon O’Hara, Liddy Marshall and her husband, Bill, and Mack Carmichael and I had been close friends for years. During the times that Shannon had been confined to hospitals, it had been the five us, supporting each other. Now, thankfully, Shannon was home, and on new medications she was functioning well, but with Mack’s death it became the five of us again. I could not imagine Nicholas D’Martino, the new man in my life, as part of our group because John can’t stand him. NDM—as I called him to myself—was a crime reporter who’d been critical of the police in print.

  “I’m glad Shannon wants to go out,” I said. And I meant it. “You two can help me figure out what to do about a woman who said that if we ever crossed paths again she was going to kill me.”

  2

  Liddy steered her ivory-colored Land Rover into my driveway where I was waiting for her. When I opened the passenger door I saw lines of worry creasing her forehead. The first words out of her mouth were, “Who is this woman who wants to kill you?”

  Climbing in, I said, “Someone I knew in college. I’ll tell you about it when the three of us are together.”

  Liddy’s tense grip on the steering wheel eased. “Oh, well, college.” She backed out of my driveway and headed for Sunset Boulevard. “Don’t you think she’s forgotten whatever she said by now?”

  “I hope so.” But, remembering the hatred in her eyes when she swore to do me harm, I wasn’t confident. “I’ll tell you and Shannon all about it at the restaurant.”

  It was a chilly gray January day, but Liddy Marshall had arrived looking like early spring. Her pale blue sweater and navy slacks complimented her honey blonde hair and blue eyes. Born in Nebraska, Liddy dreamed of becoming a movie star, but she hadn’t been in Hollywood very long when she fell in love with a sweet young dentist who told funny jokes, and she chose marriage and motherhood instead of the life of an actress. With their twin boys in college now, Liddy amused herself by working as an extra in movies and TV shows. “All of the fun of being on sets but nobody cares if I’m over forty, or I’ve put on a couple of pounds,” she’d said.

  John and Shannon O’Hara lived in a one-story Spanish hacienda in rustic Mandeville Canyon, several blocks nort
h of Sunset Boulevard. They’d bought the house a few months before Mack and I found our English cottage in Santa Monica. Twenty-two years ago it was still possible to buy a home in a nice area of Southern California on the salaries of working people. Mack and John were police officers, I was a high school English teacher back then, and Shannon was a paralegal with a large firm.

  It wasn’t long after their daughter was born that Shannon started hearing voices. The day she tried to attack Liddy and me with a fireplace poker, John had her committed to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. Shannon was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. For baby Eileen’s safety, the child came to live with Mack and me.

  After years of being in and out of mental hospitals, Shannon was functioning well, seeing a psychiatrist who monitored her medication, and going to weekly group therapy sessions.

  Shannon must have been watching for us through the living room window, because as soon as Liddy pulled up in front of their house, she hurried out. I saw that she’d tamed her mass of red curls into a smooth waterfall that fell just below her shoulders. A symphony in emerald green from headband to shoes, she looked healthy and happy. Shannon climbed into the back passenger seat and strapped herself in.

  As Liddy started down the winding road toward Sunset Boulevard, Shannon leaned forward between the two front seats and said, “Okay, Della—I want to hear all about your big heartthrob!”

  That surprised me, until I realized that Liddy must have told her. “Oh, you mean Nicholas D’Martino.”

  “Is there some other man in your life?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that I haven’t seen him for the last two weeks.”

  “Whyever not? With a macho name like that, don’t tell me the sex isn’t any good.”

  The sex was fantastic, but I avoided discussing it by saying, “He’s been out of town, working on a story for the newspaper. He thinks a recent double murder up in Utah might have a connection to a cold case down here.”

  “Ever since I heard about the two of you, I’ve been going through back issues of the paper, looking for his bylines. I’m impressed—he’s a good writer.” Shannon’s voice developed a teasing lilt. “Cops and journalists—they have the best excuses in the world for disappearing on us. There’s always a crime someplace that they’ve absolutely got to go investigate.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Liddy, you’re so lucky to be married to a dentist. They never leave you to go running off in the middle of the night.”

  Even though I didn’t want to share the specifics of my relationship with NDM, the thought of being in bed with him made me feel warm all over. I missed him and hoped he’d be back soon.

  Liddy pulled into the half-filled parking lot beside The Wharf, our favorite fish restaurant just north of Malibu.

  Shannon surveyed the weathered exterior of The Wharf. “So much changes, but this place doesn’t. It still looks like a shack. No sign outside. Unlisted phone number, and Dominic doesn’t take reservations.”

  Inside, the walls of The Wharf were covered with big nets, shell collections in glass cases, and large photos of fishing boats. But no mounted trophies on the walls. I hated to see anything that had once been alive stuffed and hung up for display.

  Dominic, the owner-host who resembled a cement block with legs, greeted us warmly. “Ah, more pretty ladies to brighten my day.” He looked first at me and then at Shannon, shook his head and tsk-tsk-tsk’d. “You two haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said.

  “I’ve been crazy,” Shannon said.

  Dominic laughed; he thought Shannon was kidding. “Well, you are here now.”

  “And we’re ravenous,” Liddy said.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He led us to a window table at one end of the dining room and passed out menus. “May I bring you ladies something to drink?”

  Liddy and I ordered diet sodas and Shannon opted for hot tea. Dominic said he’d have a waiter bring them and take our order.

  Shannon and Liddy studied the menu. I didn’t need to; as soon as we’d reached Pacific Coast Highway I was struck with a craving for Dominic’s grilled swordfish.

  Liddy and Shannon decided to make it three for the swordfish.

  After the waiter brought our drinks and a basket of hot garlic bread, and we’d ordered, Liddy said, “Now—what do you need to talk to us about?”

  I described Mickey’s plan to have me compete in a national cake-baking competition, the purpose being to promote my cooking show.

  Shannon said, “I love watching TV contests. What’s the problem?”

  “I have to use a base of Reggi-Mixx cake batter.”

  “Yuck. That stuff is awful.” Shannon grimaced.

  Breaking off a piece of garlic bread from the basket, Liddy nodded agreement.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” I said. “Remember, years ago, when I told you about the girl I had trouble with in college? The one who planted drugs in my room, trying to get me thrown out of school?”

  Liddy said, “Lucky somebody saw her do it so you weren’t blamed.”

  “The bitch! What about her?” Shannon asked.

  “She owns the Reggi-Mixx company. She’s the Reggie—Regina Davis.”

  Liddy put down her garlic bread. “You never told me why she hated you so much.”

  “Money started disappearing from our dorm rooms. The campus police pretty much shrugged and told us to be more careful with our cash. But the thefts made me mad. Most of us were working our way through and on tight budgets. I got a guy I dated, a chemistry major, to make a dye, something like what banks plant in bags of money when they’re being robbed. What he concocted was invisible until somebody touched it. We sprayed it on three ten-dollar bills and left them in a desk drawer in my room. That night the money was gone—and Regina Davis had two bright purple hands. It proved to everybody that she was the thief. Nobody had suspected her because her family was rich—Davis Foods International. She could buy anything she wanted. She didn’t need what she stole from us.”

  “Was she punished?” Liddy asked.

  “No. Her father hired a lawyer and threatened to sue the school if she was exposed publicly. A few days later, for revenge, she planted the drugs in my—”

  I stopped talking because my attention was caught by two people getting up from a window table at the far end of the room. One was a tall, gorgeous blonde in her early twenties. Just behind her was a man in his forties. He had a boxer’s build, and a face that just missed being handsome because of a long-ago broken nose. An unruly lock of his thick dark hair fell onto his forehead just above his black eyebrows.

  My pulse started to pound as I stared at them.

  Shannon reached across the table and gripped my hand. “Del, are you all right?”

  Liddy swiveled in her chair to look in the direction I was facing. “Oh, wow—there’s your Italian stallion.”

  Shannon sat up straighter, followed our line of sight and gasped. “Is that the guy you’ve been doing . . . you know what . . . with? Yum! But who’s the Miss Universe?”

  “I hope it’s his sister,” Liddy said. But we all knew that the Playboy centerfold type with him was no relative.

  At that moment, Nicholas D’Martino saw me. The guilty expression on his face made him look exactly like a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  3

  NDM recovered his composure quickly. Instead of continuing toward the exit, he steered the blonde in our direction.

  Arriving at our table, he said, “Hello,” with forced heartiness. “This is a nice surprise.”

  It’s a surprise, anyway.

  “Hello.” My tone was pleasant, but beneath the table, I dug the fingernails of one hand into my palm to keep from showing any emotion in that greeting.

  There was a second or two of silence. NDM kept it from lasting longer by introducing his companion. “This is Yvonne Blake. Yvonne, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine
: Della Carmichael and Lydia Marshall.” He looked at Shannon, smiled, and added, “I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

  “This is Shannon O’Hara. You’ve met her husband, the police lieutenant,” I said. “Shannon, this is Nicholas D’Martino.” I was tempted to call him Nick, which I knew he hated, but instead I just performed the introduction and kept my expression neutral.

  “Hello.” Shannon frowned at him. NDM started to extend his hand, but she kept hers folded on the table so he drew his back.

  “How was your trip?” I asked him, amazing myself by managing to sound casual.

  “Good. I mean, it was useful,” he said. “The case that took me up there wasn’t enjoyable.”

  Shannon faked a puzzled expression. “Case? Are you a lawyer?” Pretending not to recognize his name was an arrow she shot right into the heart of his ego. I could have hugged her for her loyalty.

  The young blonde was peering at Liddy. “I’ve seen you somewhere,” she said. Her voice was nasal, slightly grating, and didn’t match her pretty face. I’m ashamed to admit that pleased me.

  “Three months ago, on the set of Malibu Justice,” Liddy said. “You played the slut in the beach house.”

  The blonde’s eyes lighted with recognition. “Oh, right. You were one of those extras in the party scene. I noticed because the dress you were wearing was much nicer than what they gave me.” She turned to NDM. “You can be sure the producer heard about it!”

  “Perhaps that was why they didn’t have me back for the next day’s shooting,” Liddy said. To Shannon and me she added, “It was my own dress.”

  During this exchange, NDM was looking at me as though he wanted to say something. I pretended not to notice.

  “Well,” I said briskly, “it was nice to see you again.”