Death Takes the Cake Page 20

  The letters were what I wanted.

  I sat down on the floor with my back braced against the side of the bed and untied the first bunch. Shuffling through them, I discovered the six cards that I’d sent Mack when I’d had to go to San Francisco for my father’s funeral. He was on a case and couldn’t come with me. I’d only been away from home for seventy-two hours, but I missed him so much I’d sent him two cards a day. I had no idea Mack had kept them. Reminding myself that now was not the time for nostalgia, I put the cards aside and kept searching.

  What I was looking for was near the end of the second bundle. It was a letter to Mack from his favorite instructor at the police academy, Sergeant Sean Donahue. I’d never met Sergeant Donahue, but Mack had talked about him often and with affection. My interest in the sergeant at this moment was not what a good instructor he’d been for Mack, but what he did before coming to the Los Angeles police academy: He’d spent years as a detective in the NYPD. New York was where he’d begun his long career in law enforcement, and judging from his age, I guessed he would have been on the job when Mickey Jordan was arrested.

  The return address was unreadable, but the postmark on the envelope was Tucson, Arizona. Seeing it, I remember Mack telling me that his early mentor had retired to live with his widowed sister in Arizona.

  Calling Tucson, I found out that there were several Donahues in the telephone directory, but no Sean. I got the operator to give me the first four numbers, then called again and got a second operator to give me four more numbers. I started dialing.

  Each time someone answered the phone, I asked if I’d reached the home of Sean Donahue. When the answer was “no,” I asked if the person knew a Sean Donahue, and said that the man I was trying to contact would be in his seventies, and had been a police detective.

  None of them had information to give me.

  On the sixth Donahue number, an elderly woman answered the phone.

  “Hello,” I said, “I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time, but I’m trying to reach the Sean Donahue who used to be with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  “That’s my brother,” she said.

  My grip on the phone tightened with excitement. Now came the hard part, tactfully finding out if the man was alive. I chose my words carefully.

  “I’m happy to talk to you. My name is Della Carmichael. Your brother taught my husband at the police academy.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, sounding a little faraway. Then she was silent.

  “As I said, my name is Della Carmichael. And you’re Mrs . . . ?”

  “What?”

  From the vagueness in her voice I realized this wasn’t going to be easy. I decided to get right to the point. “I wondered if I could speak to your brother?”

  “Well, dear,” she said slowly, “that’s going to be a little hard . . .”

  Uh-huh. “I hope Sergeant Donahue is well,” I said. What I really hoped was that he wasn’t dead.

  “Who?”

  “Your brother, Sean.”

  “Oh, Sean. What did you want?”

  “I wondered if I could speak to Sean.”

  “He’s sleeping,” she said.

  Thank you, God.

  “I don’t want to disturb him,” I said. “When would be a good time for me to call later?”

  “I don’t know, dear. He sleeps a lot nowadays.”

  Faking a cheerful tone, I said, “That’s probably good for him. Could I give you my phone number and ask you to have him call me when he’s up?”

  “Your phone number? I don’t have your number, do I?”

  “Let me give it to you,” I said, being very careful not to sound impatient. “Are you ready?”

  “Just a minute, dear. I have to get a pencil.” There followed almost a minute of sounds: drawers opening, contents rustling, drawers closing. Another drawer opened, something dropped.

  “I’m back,” she said. “Now who did you say you were?”

  “Mackenzie Carmichael’s wife, Della. Have him call any time at all—I don’t care how late or how early.”

  I gave her my cell phone number. Sean Donahue’s sister—I still didn’t know her name—asked me to repeat it, two digits at a time, but when she finally read it back to me, she’d got Mack’s name and my number right.

  “I’ll put this note next to his dinner plate, in case I forget to tell him,” she said.

  I thanked her. As Sean Donahue’s sister and I were exchanging good-byes, Eileen burst into my room.

  Waving two shiny new sets of keys, she said, “Let’s go see our factory!”

  The two-story, gray stucco building that had once housed the Hollywood Stars Bakery was located a few blocks east of such Hollywood Boulevard landmarks as Musso & Frank’s restaurant, the Pantages Theater, where touring Broadway musicals played, and the Church of Scientology headquarters, impossible to miss because of the enormous vertical sign that ran up the side of the building.

  I’d seen those landmarks too often for them to be interesting to me, but the closer we got to the building Mickey bought, the more excited I became.

  “There,” Eileen said. “On the right. Oh, wow! We’re really going to do this!”

  “Yes, we are,” I said.

  The manufacturing site of our new business anchored a block that had not yet been gentrified, as had so much of Hollywood Boulevard from Vine Street west to Crescent Heights. That was probably how Mickey had bought the building at a bargain price. Our location was on the southwest corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Baker Street.

  “Baker Street,” Eileen said. “How appropriate.”

  In more ways than one, I thought. I was “sleuthing,” and that ancestor of all sleuths, Sherlock Holmes, lived on Baker Street. I hoped this was a good omen.

  This new business venture had started with a chance remark of mine to Eileen and to Phil Logan, while Phil, who’d said he needed a sugar rush, was eating some fudge I’d made. I told them about having whipped up batches of it for friends when I was in college and too broke to buy Christmas presents. That little fact took root in Eileen’s imagination and blossomed into a full-fledged business plan. Now her idea and proposal were about to become a reality.

  “Look, the building has parking in the back,” Eileen said.

  But I was already turning into the big lot. There was only one vehicle in it: a dark green Mercedes parked next to the rear door. Judging from its boxy shape, I guessed it was close to thirty years old, but was polished to a high sheen. Clearly, the owner took good care of it.

  As the two of us got out of the Jeep, I realized that my emotions were now equal parts excitement and fear. What if no one wanted to buy our products? Mickey would lose money, and perhaps even sour on the TV show.

  No, stop thinking like that, I told myself firmly. If this business made money, I’d be out of debt sooner and I could begin saving again. Think positive thoughts.

  Eileen led the way around to the front of the building, walking so fast I had to hurry to keep up with her.

  “Can you believe this? We’re going to be in business together!”

  A small man with a round pink face and a thatch of silver hair was staring at us through the large front window that still bore traces of the gold paint that had spelled out “Hollywood Stars Bakery.”

  He waved at us.

  I waved back. “I wonder who that is,” I said.

  “Oh, Ad told me about him. He’s a retired actor who was the bakery’s facilities manager. Mickey kept him on for now because he knows how everything works, but we can hire our own staff.”

  The retired actor looked to be in his eighties, but his eyes were bright and lively, and his smile displayed very white teeth. As he approached his side of the glass front door, I saw that he moved like a much younger man.

  “Unless it turns out that he drinks to excess or is totally crazy, we’re not going to let him go,” I said. “Think how hard it would be for him to get another job at his age.”
r />   “You’re right,” she said.

  Our retired actor opened the door. “I will hazard the guess that you lovely young ladies are here to bring this dead enterprise back to life.”

  “We’re going to do our best,” I said. “I’m Della Carmichael and this is Eileen O’Hara.”

  He inclined his head in a courtly nod. “Walter Hovey, at your service.” His voice was strong and mellifluous. Although I didn’t recognize his face, there was something familiar about that voice.

  Eileen gestured to the front of the bakery. “I’d like us to keep the sell counter that’s already here—but with fresh paint and new glass in the display case. For people who live in Los Angeles and don’t need to buy through the mail.”

  I indicated the view through the window. “It’s a good location for in-person business. There’s a freeway exit ramp over there, and we have lots of room for customer parking in the back.”

  Walter Hovey said, “Have you chosen a name for the new incarnation of this establishment?”

  “Not yet,” Eileen said.

  I enjoyed listening to him talk, but I also caught a glint in his eyes that made me ask, “Do you have an idea—for the name?”

  He took a dramatic pause. “In fact, I do. I was told that your intention is to transform these three thousand square feet into a wonderland of edible delights. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow my thinking: This is Hollywood, the land of dreams. Yes?”

  Eileen and I nodded assent.

  “Why not call your business Sweet Dreams?”

  “I like it,” I said.

  “Almost,” Eileen said. “How about Della’s Sweet Dreams? We should use your name to tie in with the TV show, otherwise we’ll lose a promotion advantage.”

  “All right. That makes sense.” I turned to Walter Hovey. “Would you show us around? I’d like to see what we have to work with.”

  Walter Hovey gave us one of his little bows. “Right this way, ladies.”

  With our silver-haired escort guiding us through the premises, I saw that what had seemed to be a two-story building was really a one-story structure two stories high.

  “My little office is way in the back,” he said. “That is where I do the ordering of baking supplies, keep the inventory, and schedule regular inspections. I am proud to say that since I joined the bakery and instituted our system of multiple in-house inspections, we have received only ‘A’ ratings from the health authorities.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “We’ll keep up your system.”

  As we toured the premises, Walter pointed out the long preparation tables and the wall of ovens that we would need for the production of brownies. There was a conveyor belt leading to machines for packaging.

  “That marble slab will be good for cooling the fudge,” I said, “but I’m going to need it extended to twice that length, with a divider in the middle.”

  Walter took a small notebook and ballpoint pen from his pocket and made a note. “It shall be done.”

  Eileen pointed to several large vats. “What are they for?”

  “Mixing batters and frostings, I think.” I looked at Walter for confirmation.

  “Just so,” he said. “Those chutes above our heads will, when I place the orders, be filled with flour and sugar. The rigging above allows one to maneuver the chutes, depending upon what ingredient is needed in which receptacle. See the control buttons below the red and blue levers on the wall? They turn the mechanism on. Red for sugar, blue for flour. Pushing the levers to the right swings the chutes over the vats.”

  Eileen said, “What happens if somebody accidentally just pushes a button?”

  Walter shuddered. “We would require a backhoe to clear away the mess.”

  I was particularly interested in those ovens. “How accurate are the temperature gauges?”

  “They had begun to run fifty degrees hotter just before the building was sold,” Walter said. “I can have a repairman here tomorrow morning.”

  “Good,” Eileen said. “We can’t afford to burn the baked goods.”

  Before I could ask anything else, the cell phone in my pocket rang. I took it out—and felt a jolt of anticipation when I saw the name on the faceplate.

  Sean Donahue was calling me back.

  32

  I pressed the answer button. “Hello.”

  “It this young Mackenzie’s bride?”

  “Yes, I am.” At least I had been twenty-two years ago. “Could you please hang on for just a moment?”

  “Sure. I got no place to go.” Sean Donahue’s voice was that of an elderly man, but it didn’t have a trace of the vagueness that characterized his sister’s conversation.

  I inched away from Eileen and Walter, and gestured to the cell phone. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

  “Go ahead,” Eileen said. “I’ll keep looking around.”

  I moved toward the front area. As soon as I could speak without being overheard by Eileen and Walter, I said, “Thank you for hanging on. Am I speaking to Sean Donahue?”

  “That you are. How is my friend Mackenzie?”

  Oh, Lord—he doesn’t know. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. My husband had a heart attack. He passed away two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  It was that automatic law enforcement phrase uttered to the bereaved, but Sean Donahue sounded sincere.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate that. Mack spoke about you often. He was very fond of you.”

  “Is that why you phoned, Mrs. Carmichael? To tell me he’s gone?”

  “Please call me Della. No, but I feel bad that I didn’t think to let you know at the time it happened. It was a terrible shock, and I wasn’t thinking clearly for quite awhile afterward.”

  He cleared his throat, and then it sounded as though he was sipping something. When he spoke again the slight rasp in his voice was gone. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask about an arrest that happened in New York City, around forty years ago.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad you didn’t ask me what I had for dinner last night. My short-term memory is shot. Is this about one of my old cases?”

  “Probably not.” I couldn’t be that lucky. “I don’t know who the arresting officer was, but the name of the young man, who would have been somewhere between eighteen and twenty at the time, was Mickey Jordan. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  I heard a hmmmmm on the other end. “Doesn’t ring a bell. What else do you know about the case?”

  “He was arrested for Ag-Assault GBI. A private detective found out that much, but apparently didn’t learn the name of the arresting officer, or any specifics about the charge. The only other information I have is that Mickey Jordan was born Michla Jacoby, but he was reregistered in grade school as Michael Lewis, and then when he was eighteen he had his name changed legally to Mickey Jordan.”

  “Jacoby-Lewis-Jordan . . . No, I’m sure he wasn’t one of mine. Sorry.”

  “It would be too bizarre a coincidence if the only person I knew who’d been with the NYPD at that time just happened to have been the arresting officer. What I’m hoping is that you might have heard something about it, or know someone who might have been involved, or even just remember, the case.”

  “Forty years back? Not many people I knew in my New York days are still alive, even though some of them were younger than me.” I heard the note of sadness in his voice. “Stress kills a lot more of us than the bad guys pick off.”

  I knew that sad fact from the stories Mack and John had told me over the years. In fact, I believed it was the emotional toll of his job that had led to Mack’s heart attack. I said, “Police have to deal with the worst things human beings can do.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but now and then we get to put something right. Keeps us going. You tell me something, Della. What’s this about? Why are you interested in a case from so far back?”

  “I
t might possibly have some connection to the recent killing of a private detective here in Los Angeles. The man’s name was T. J. Taggart. He’d been investigating people for a woman who was murdered shortly before he was. Mickey Jordan was one of the people whose history Taggart was looking into.”

  “I thought Mackenzie married a pretty little schoolmarm. You on the job now?”

  “No, I’m not, but a good friend of ours is a suspect—someone I’m sure is innocent. I’m trying to learn anything I can that might help find the real killer.”

  “You shouldn’t be getting involved in a murder case, Della.” His tone had switched from affable to stern. “If I told you something that got you hurt, when my time came to cross over, Mackenzie would chase me all the way down to hell.”

  I felt a flash of anger. Sean Donahue was treating me like “the little woman” who was supposed to stay home and knit while the big, strong men went out to face danger. I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice as I said, “I’m not that ‘school-marm’ you imagined Mack married. The man who’s under suspicion, whose life could be ruined by false accusations, was one of Mack’s two closest friends in the world. If Mack were here, you know he’d be doing everything he could think of to save him.”

  “Whoa. Sounds like I stepped on the tail of a wildcat.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “But I do need your help—anything you can find out. I promise that I won’t take any unnecessary chances, and I’ll tell the police if we discover anything useful.”

  “I like that ‘we’ part.” He chuckled; our little storm was over. “Okay, Mrs. Mack.” He was quiet for a moment but I heard him open a drawer, then close it. “I’m writing this down: Jacoby- Lewis-Jordan, kid, Ag-assault GBI forty years ago. That it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll make some calls, see who’s still standing, and nose around a little.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m very grateful.”

  “Yeah, well, remember that it’s not very likely I’ll find anything out after all this time. Don’t count on it.”

  “I won’t, but I appreciate your trying to help. I know Mack would, too.”