Death Takes the Cake Read online

  Nicholas and I were going out to dinner that night. In a way, we were starting our relationship all over again.

  I took a hot, foamy bath with lavender body wash and dabbed on a little of the perfume Nicholas had given me for Christmas. It was good perfume. I was glad I hadn’t poured it down the sink after I saw him with the blonde and told him I wasn’t going to see him again. I’d only put the bottle away in the cabinet, behind the bathroom cleanser.

  Just as I finished getting ready, my cell phone rang. I answered it to hear, “Hey, Mrs. Mack.”

  “Sergeant Donahue.” Hoping he had some news for me, I felt a catch of excitement in my throat. “How are you?”

  “Not as good as I was twenty years ago, but I’m still here, so I put that in the ‘win’ column.”

  Forcing myself to make a little small talk before I asked what I was burning to know, I said, “I’m glad that I finally have a chance to speak to the man my husband looked up to.”

  “You cook on TV, but you don’t need to grease me up like a raw chicken.”

  “How did you know I had a cooking show?”

  “Before I did any nosing around I checked you out on Google. Wonderful thing, the Internet. Wish we’d had it when I was on the job. Would’ve saved us all a lot of time. I found a Della Carmichael, read the articles, and saw Mackenzie mentioned, so I knew it was you. Funny thing was I’d watched your show a few times but I didn’t connect your last name to Mack. Hey, I made the chili and the chicken cacciatore. Real good. Best thing is you can make the stuff once an’ eat it for days.”

  Something I hadn’t expected when I started was that men would watch the show, but network research proved that many did. I said, “Do you like to cook?”

  “Necessity. My sister can’t tell salt from sugar anymore. Enough of that. Let’s get down to business ’cause this is your cell number so I know the call is costing you.”

  “Were you able to find out anything about Mickey Jordan’s old arrest?”

  His chuckle had a distinct note of pride. “It was as hard as I thought it would be, but then I got lucky. The kid’s three names—Jacoby an’ Lewis an’ Jordan—that was what rang a bell in one of the old guys. He didn’t recall details of the case, but he remembered it was pretty ugly. He was able to tell me who the arresting officer was.”

  “Could you locate him?” I was really asking if the man was still alive.

  “Took some detective work, but I tracked him to an assisted living dump in Palm Bay, Florida. The Palmetto Lodge. From what I could find out, it’s not a place you’d go to if you had a choice. Anyway, he’s in a wheelchair—shot by a woman who’d called the cops on her husband who was beating her up. When they got there, she wouldn’t let them arrest the bastard. She grabbed a gun an’ shot Eddie. That’s his name, Eddie Cochran.”

  I groaned in sympathy. “The poor man. That’s terrible. Mack told me the calls he dreaded most were domestic disputes. He never knew what they might turn into. Did Officer Cochran remember Mickey Jordan?”

  “His legs don’t work, but he’s as sharp as I am. Little Mick, that’s what he called Jordan ’cause he said the kid reminded him of old movies with that short actor, Mickey Rooney. He said Little Mick was one of his success stories.”

  “That’s interesting. What did Officer Cochran tell you?”

  “Using a man’s title—Mack trained you well.” I heard a smile in Sean Donahue’s voice. “Eddie told me he arrested Little Mick for beating a man half to death with a baseball bat.”

  I flinched at the mental image of Mickey being so violent.

  “The victim was the kid’s common-law stepfather, a scum-bag with a record named Bernie Lewis. Lewis had been pounding on Mick and Mick’s mother for years. Mick put a stop to it, permanently.”

  “This Bernie Lewis. Did he die?”

  “Probably by now. Back then Mick just pulverized Lewis’s knees and blinded him in one eye.”

  “What happened to Mickey?”

  “When Eddie heard the story from the kid and his mom, he planted a throwaway on Lewis an’ persuaded the ADA to call the beating self-defense. It helped that Lewis was a foot taller and sixty pounds heavier than the kid. After, Eddie suggested Little Mick join the army and stay out of sight for a couple years.”

  “What happened to Mickey’s mother?”

  “Don’ know. But does this help you?”

  “Yes, it does,” I said.

  “Good. Now maybe you can help Eddie Cochran.”

  “How?”

  “I checked out that place he’s in. It’s filthy, and the food is crap. Doesn’t pass state inspections, but somehow it stays in business. Felons get better care.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “You’re in TV. People in TV have some juice. Eddie was too good a cop to end up in a place like the Palmetto just because he’s crippled an’ broke. He doesn’t have any family.”

  “I’ll try to think of something,” I said.

  “You do that, Mrs. Mack.”

  As we said our good-byes, Tuffy began to bark. A second later the doorbell rang.

  Nicholas was here to pick me up.

  35

  When I opened the front door, Nicholas’s first act was to bend down and greet Tuffy with a few scratches under his ears. “I’ve got to stay friends with your protector so he’ll let me near you.”

  He stood up and gave me a light kiss. “You look pretty,” he said. “I like that red dress.”

  I wasn’t surprised—this was what Liddy called “a man’s dress.” It had a tight waist and aVneckline, and had been Mack’s favorite dress of mine. Miraculously, it hadn’t gone out of style. Or maybe it was back in style. The truth was, if I liked something I hardly paid attention to what was in or out of style. Even though I hadn’t worn it in two years, it still looked fresh.

  “I have a suggestion about your baking contest,” he said. “If the judges are men, you’ll win if you wear that dress when you display the cake.”

  “Thank you, but I have to wear a Reggi-Mixx smock.”

  He arched an eyebrow and grinned mischievously. “Just a smock? That could work, too. I know what’s under it.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Are you taking me out to dinner or are you going to keep talking like that?”

  “You’re blushing. That’s cute.”

  He ran one index finger down along the V of my dress, lightly caressing my skin beneath the fabric. It produced such a rush of physical excitement I gave an involuntary little gasp.

  “Hold that thought,” he whispered.

  After we took Tuffy for a walk and settled him back in the house, we drove to Amalfi, the small, homey Italian restaurant in Brentwood where he’d made a reservation. I’d heard about Amalfi, but had never been there. The moment we walked in the door we were treated to the most wonderful aromas. The lush strains of a Puccini opera issued from hidden speakers, pleasantly underscoring the quiet chatter of people who were well into their meals.

  About two-thirds of the room’s twenty or so tables were occupied. Their red, white, and green striped cloths were littered with platters and plates and glasses of wine. Nicholas exchanged a few quiet words with the waiter who greeted us, and slipped a bill into his hand. The waiter smiled and led us to a table as far away from other diners as he could, next to the wall that was covered with a mural of the dramatic cliffs and beautiful coastline of Amalfi, Italy.

  The waiter seated us and took our drink orders: a glass of merlot for each of us. He left menus, but Nicholas didn’t open his.

  “I’m going to have the Spaghettini alla Caprese. Have you ever tasted it?”

  “No.”

  “Pasta with pureed tomatoes, anchovies, tuna, and black Sicilian olives, topped with mozzarella.”

  “Sold,” I said.

  Dinner was as good as the restaurant’s enticing cooking smells had suggested. While savoring the mellow wine and the flavors in the pasta, I told Nicholas what I’d learned from Sean Donahue.
<
br />   Nicholas stared at me in admiration. “I’m impressed you found him, and amazed that he tracked down the arresting officer from a forty-year-old case. How did you do it?”

  I smiled. “Professional secret—or, rather, an amateur’s secret. The problem is that I haven’t helped Bill’s situation any. All I accomplished was to prove that Taggart didn’t have anything to hold over Mickey, so Mickey didn’t have a motive to kill Taggart.”

  “Not necessarily,” Nicholas said. He drank the last of his wine and indicated the empty bottle. “Shall I order another?”

  “No, I’ve had enough. What did you mean—not necessarily?”

  “Maybe Jordan doesn’t have anything of his own to hide himself, but what about Iva? You told me he’s in love with her. He might have killed Taggart to keep Iva’s past from being exposed.”

  “What did you find out about her?”

  “Those two solicitation busts were just the tip of the iceberg. Your friend Iva was a full-fledged pro, but she wasn’t street trade. A vice cop gave my source the details. Iva was on the books of a Manhattan madam who ran a high-priced call girl ring, Charming Escorts. She was a big earner for several years, but one night Iva had a client who got off on hurting women. He sent Iva to the hospital. When she healed up she quit the business. The madam didn’t hold a grudge. In fact, she got her the catalogue modeling job Iva had when she met Mickey.”

  “Iva’s terrified Mickey will divorce her if he finds out she wasn’t just the hard-working model he thought she was. When she gave me the story about being a failure as a telephone sex performer, I thought it was a pretty silly thing to panic about, but her fear got to me because it was real. Now I understand why she was so scared.”

  “Do you think she could have killed Davis and Taggart?”

  “I can’t imagine it,” I said. “Maybe, with a gun, but Reggie was smashed on the head and then smothered in a bowl of cake mix. Taggart died of blunt force trauma. I don’t know what the murder weapon was.”

  “A hammer,” Nicholas said. “The ME’s certain that’s what was used. The cops didn’t find it, and there weren’t any tools in Taggart’s office, so their theory is that the killer brought it with him. Or her.”

  “It wouldn’t have been hard to conceal,” I said. “It was raining that afternoon. Even though it hadn’t quite started when I was in his office, I was carrying a raincoat, and so were people I saw on the street.”

  Nicholas started to reply, but something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He swung around to face the restaurant’s entrance. “Well, look who’s here.” His voice had lost its warmth.

  I followed his line of sight and was surprised to see John and Shannon O’Hara. As the waiter began leading them to an empty table that was near where we were sitting, John spotted me. He started to smile, but then he saw Nicholas and his mouth tightened. Shannon saw us, too. In vivid contrast to John’s glare, Shannon waved at us gaily and hurried forward, squeezing past the waiter on her way to our table.

  “Hi, Del!” She grinned at me and then winked at Nicholas as she said, “How come hell froze over and it wasn’t on the TV news?”

  Nicholas rose gallantly and extended his hand to Shannon, who took it. “Mrs. O’Hara. Nice to see you again.”

  “It’s a heck of a lot more pleasant than last time.” Shannon withdrew her hand from Nicholas’s and leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. She whispered, “Congratulations. I want details.”

  Behind Shannon, John’s posture was stiff and his face frozen as he glowered at Nicholas. I was grateful Shannon couldn’t see the expression on her husband’s face.

  Nicholas aimed a bland smile at John. “Hello, Lieutenant.” He did not offer his hand.

  I greeted John with what I hoped was my usual warmth. His response barely managed to be polite.

  Nicholas said to Shannon, “If you two are by yourselves, why don’t you join us?”

  “We’d love to,” Shannon said.

  “We can’t,” John said.

  Shannon turned to look at him curiously. John saw her surprise and altered his manner a little. Forcing civility into his voice, he said, “They’ve already finished dinner, Shan. We’d just be starting.”

  “But they haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “We didn’t want coffee,” I said. It was a lie, but I didn’t want to stay there a minute longer with John freezing me with his eyes. “We have to go.”

  “Maybe we can all have dinner together another time,” Nicholas said. I wanted him to stop taunting John and gave him a sharp nudge. Nicholas signaled the waiter for the check.

  I said to Shannon, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “First thing.” She was positively bubbly. I knew she was happy that I was with Nicholas, but the look on John’s face made me so uncomfortable I wanted to run out of there before Shannon realized how upset he was, and wondered why.

  The waiter seated John and Shannon, and brought Nicholas his check.

  Nicholas pulled a money clip out of his pocket and tossed bills onto the table. “I could use a credit card and deduct you as a business expense, but cash is quicker,” he said.

  Outside, we walked briskly up the block to where Nicholas had parked the car. Before he opened the door he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard. “Your place or mine?”

  “Yours,” I said.

  Twenty minutes later, just inside Nicholas’s front door, we kissed again. Our hands explored each other’s bodies as frantically as they had the first time we made love. Clothing was discarded on the floor as we made our way to his bedroom, until, at last, we were naked in each other’s arms.

  Gone was the languid pace at which we’d made love so often before he went to Utah. Tonight we were fierce lovers again, our bodies uniting with a passion that was more than sensual. We were equals, claiming each other, partners on a mission we couldn’t discuss. I needed Nicholas to drive thoughts of John out of my mind, and I knew he was determined to do just that.

  Happily sated, we held each other. My head rested on his chest as he caressed my shoulder. We fell asleep.

  When we awoke an hour later, Nicholas looked down at me and smiled. “Hello there.”

  I lifted my chin and smiled back. “Hi.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve never felt better,” I said.

  “If that’s a challenge, I’d like to take it.”

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  And I shifted my position to welcome him.

  36

  Later, while Nicholas was driving me home, I told him what Sean Donahue had said about the bad place where retired cop Eddie Cochran lived. “Could you use your press connections to get media in Florida to investigate the Palmetto and help the people who have to live there?”

  “I can,” he said, “but investigations like that take months, and in the meantime the conditions are the same for the inmates—excuse me, residents.”

  “Sergeant Donahue told me inmates are better off.”

  “There’s some truth to that, except people in places like the Palmetto are free to leave. If they have someplace to go.”

  “According to Donahue, Eddie Cochran doesn’t have any other option.”

  “I used to work with a guy who’s now an editor at the Miami Herald. I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe he’d be willing to get something started.”

  “Let me know,” I said.

  When Nicholas slowed his silver Batmobile and came to a stop in front of the house, I saw Eileen’s little red car in the driveway. Except for outside lights, my house and the ones on either side of me were dark. Nicholas and I whispered our good nights and I got out of his car quietly.

  A glance through my front window showed that the only inside light was coming from the hallway, so when I let myself into the house I was surprised to find Eileen curled up asleep on the living room couch.

  Tuffy was sitting on the floor beside her and bounded over to greet me. That woke Eileen, who switched
on the lamp next to the couch. I saw that Emma was nestled beside her.

  I greeted my honorary daughter and my two furry companions.

  “I was worried, Aunt Del. It’s so late.” Eileen stared at me with the intensity of Sherlock Holmes searching for a clue. “Where have you been?”

  That made me smile. “You were waiting up for me? All three of you?”

  “Don’t joke about it.” She looked at her watch. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. Where were you all this time?”

  “I went out to dinner.”

  “I know—with that reporter who likes Playboy bunnies. But you had dinner hours ago.”

  “How—? Oh. Your father must have told you.”

  “No, Mother called from the restaurant’s restroom. She was all giggly about you having a date, but when she told me what kind of a man he is . . . And when you didn’t come home at a reasonable hour, I was worried about you!”

  “A ‘reasonable hour’? Eileen, you’re twenty and I’m forty-seven. I’m the one who’s supposed to worry about you.”

  “But that man . . . Did you go to his place after dinner?”

  For a moment, I considered telling her that we went to a movie, but that would have been ridiculous. I had nothing to be ashamed of. More important, I’d never lied to her.

  “We went to his place,” I said, but I felt oddly embarrassed about it.

  A spectrum of emotions played across her face. I identified shock and disapproval.

  She said, “Did you . . . you two . . . you know?”

  It was time to draw the line. “Eileen, I couldn’t love you more if you were my biological daughter, but I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

  “Then it’s true, what Mother said. You’re sleeping with him. Didn’t you love Uncle Mack?”

  That was a shock. “How could you ask such a thing? You lived with us for much of your life. Don’t you remember how we were together? Besides, not long ago you were urging me to find a man. What happened?”