Death Takes the Cake Page 23

  “This is real. Is that writer going to move in here?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Are you going to spend the nights at his house?”

  “Not entire nights. No, I have Tuffy and Emma. I can’t leave them that long. And I want to be here for you.”

  What was going on here? Why was she suddenly acting like an angry twelve-year-old?

  I moved Emma enough so I could sit on the couch next to Eileen. I reached out and took her hands in mine. Her fingers were cold. Now that I could see her up close, I realized there were tears in her eyes. “Sweetheart, please tell me why you’re so upset.”

  Fat drops began sliding down her cheeks. “I’m going to lose you.”

  “Lose me? Come on now. You know that will never happen.”

  “No, I don’t. I love my real mother, but she’s more like a relative. You’re my mother person.”

  Finally, I understood what was going on with Eileen. She’d become a frightened child again—the four-year-old girl I’d rescued during one of her mother’s violent episodes, when Shannon’s psychiatric medication had stopped working. I’d taken Eileen to safety with me, and now she had the irrational idea her refuge was about to disappear.

  “I’ll always be here for you, in any way you ever need me to be. Nicholas is . . . well, I’m not sure I have a label for it yet, but we like to spend time together.”

  “Was he over here—the nights I was gone?”

  “Sometimes he was, but that’s the last question of that type I’m going to answer.”

  She scooted backward on the couch to make enough room so she could bend forward and put her head in my lap. I stroked her hair, as I had so many times when she was growing up.

  “I haven’t slept with Ad yet,” she said. “Kissing, but that’s as far as it’s gone. We’ve both been too busy to have a real date.”

  “You haven’t known him very long.” I felt like a hypocrite. I hadn’t known Nicholas very long, but the two situations were totally different. I’m a mature woman.

  Am I? Didn’t it hurt like a knife in my heart when I thought Nicholas was sleeping with someone else? I was sure I’d left that kind of pain behind with my teenage years, when the boy I had a crush on asked somebody else to the graduation dance.

  I smoothed a lock of hair back from Eileen’s face. “Don’t rush things, sweetie. You and Addison will be working together while our business is getting started. By the time it’s running smoothly, you two might be in the same place emotionally.”

  “But that could take months,” she said.

  “Months go by pretty fast when people are as busy as we’ll be.”

  She gave a deep sigh that turned into a yawn. “You’re right, Aunt Del. I’m sorry I got so upset about you and that reporter.”

  “Nicholas,” I said gently. “Use his name. He’s not your enemy.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Eileen yawned again. Her breathing deepened and I realized she’d fallen asleep.

  37

  I awoke at eight o’clock to the delightful smell of coffee perking. I gave Tuffy and Emma a few “good morning” strokes, put on a robe over my Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt, and went to the kitchen. Tuffy and Emma trotted behind me.

  Because it was Sunday, I was surprised to see Eileen dressed for business, in a smart new pant suit with a cashmere sweater under the jacket.

  As soon as she saw me come into the kitchen, she gave me a hug.

  “Oh, Aunt Del, I’m so sorry about last night. I acted like a bratty kid!”

  “It’s all right, sweetie. I understood how you felt.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to hear I’m a grown-up again. Can I pour you some coffee?”

  “In a minute. I want to feed Tuff and—”

  “Already done.” She indicated Tuffy’s food and water mat on the floor, and Emma’s similar mat that I kept up on the back counter, where Tuff couldn’t get to her meals. “I set out their breakfasts and gave them fresh water. Now sit down and I’ll bring you the coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eileen passed me a full mug and said cheerfully, “I’m off to do some work on our project—and on my own project.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to look at the window displays of the high-end candy shops and bakeries, meet with the designer Ad hired, and then, perhaps . . .” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  It was clear she wanted me to ask, so I said, “And then, perhaps . . . what?”

  “I’m going to try to maneuver some alone time with Ad.”

  I wanted to tell her to let their relationship develop slowly, but I restrained myself. At her age I wouldn’t have listened to my mother, or to a “mother person,” either.

  With a cheery, “See you later,” Eileen was on her way.

  Shannon didn’t wait for me to call her; she phoned before I’d finished drinking my first mug of coffee.

  “Soooooo? Tell me all!” The salacious lilt in her voice was unmistakable, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

  “I’ll tell you most,” I said. “Nicholas told me he hasn’t been sleeping with any other women since we first got together, and that he won’t as long as we’re seeing each other.”

  “And last night you rewarded him for his promise of fidelity?”

  “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, but we had a wonderful time together.” I hoped that would end this discussion. “Did you and John enjoy your dinner?”

  “Frankly, I don’t remember what we ate. I got so hot imagining what you and the Sicilian were doing that I jumped John as soon as we got home.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Ahhh.”

  “John rose to the occasion, so to speak.” She giggled, and expelled a sigh. “Confession time. I’ve been worried about us. John’s been treating me like some delicate piece of crystal. Before I started getting sick, everything was great between us. We were so right together—especially in bed. Then I was afraid . . . well, forget what I was afraid of. Today is the first time in a long while that I really think we’re going to be all right.”

  “I’m so glad,” I said, meaning it with all of my heart.

  “I have you to thank, Del.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe seeing you with that guy snapped him out of the weird mood he’s been in for months. Inspired him. Last night he acted like my husband again.”

  “That’s great.” I didn’t want her to tell me anything else, so I steered her in another direction. “Has John told you anything about the progress of the case against Bill?”

  “Only that he’s trying to find another viable suspect. I hate that word, ‘viable.’ It sounds so clinical, and this is our old friend he’s talking about. Liddy filled me in on Bill’s almost being a bad boy. Well, lying to her was bad, but sleeping with another woman would have been a thousand times worse. Did you ever worry about Mack cheating?”

  “Early in our marriage I told him that if I ever learned he’d been unfaithful they would find me standing over his bleeding body, asking, ‘How do you reload this thing?’ ”

  Shannon laughed. “I remember John telling me that. I told him, ‘Della and I think alike, so keep that in mind, buster.’ Hey, it’s Sunday—why don’t you and I pick up Liddy and go have a damn-the-calories ladies’ lunch?”

  “I can’t, but you two should go. I’ve got to work on figuring out what to do with the least-bad flavor of Reggi-Mixx.”

  “John’s got to work, too. I was disappointed we wouldn’t have the day together, but he told me he has a lead on the murder of that private detective.”

  My pulse quickened. “Did he tell you what the lead was?”

  “Yesterday he found out from the man’s landlord that he had a girlfriend. They went to her place, but she wasn’t home. They’re going back this morning.”

  “I hope she can tell them something useful.”

  “Me, too,” Shannon said. “You know, even though you’
re busy, I think I’ll take Liddy and Bill out to lunch. He’s got to be worried about things. Maybe I can make him laugh a little.”

  “If anyone can do that, it’s you,” I said.

  Shannon chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve got a few new mental patient jokes from my group therapy sessions.”

  I’d just stepped out of the shower, and was trying to figure out what I would say to Mickey Jordan when I phoned him this morning, when he called me. It was the second time in an hour that people I meant to speak to reached me first. I’d have to study my incomprehensible phone bill this month to see if I was being charged for telepathic communication.

  Assuming I’d recognize his voice, Mickey didn’t bother to identify himself. He said, “How’d it go yesterday with the filming?”

  “My part went fine, to judge by how hard your cameraman laughed when I accidentally pulled the electric mixer out of a bowl of banana cake batter before I turned it off. It sprayed my face and the smock with yellow goo.”

  Mickey chortled. “I like that. What’d ya do?”

  “Looked into the camera lens, said ‘Ooops,’ then cleaned myself up with cold water and paper towels. I admitted that at home I use a lot of paper towels.”

  “That’s good TV. If you mentioned the brand of towels maybe I can get the company to kick in a few bucks.”

  “I didn’t notice the brand. Maybe Ben did—the cameraman.”

  “I’ll call him, have him take close-ups of the roll, an’ talk to the company tomorrow. If they bite, you can dub in the product name. Okay, next subject: You come up with a new cake yet?”

  “No, but I’ve narrowed down the possibilities.” I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Mickey, there’s something important I want to talk to you about. It’s personal.”

  “What?”

  Glancing at the caller ID I realized that Mickey was speaking to me from his house, where either Iva or Addison might pick up an extension and hear our conversation. “I’d rather not discuss this on the phone. Why don’t I meet you for lunch or coffee? Hamburger Hamlet? Or a Starbucks?”

  He was silent for so long I was afraid he’d hung up on me. “Mickey?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later.” There was a note of tension in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere,” Mickey said. He hung up.

  That vagueness—from a man who was never vague—left me a little uneasy.

  Why was Mickey acting out of character? If I’d seen a sudden shift in behavior from anyone else involved in a criminal investigation, it would have been a red flag, a signal for me to be on the alert. But this was Mickey Jordan. Idiosyncratic, yes, but in spite of what I’d learned about the violence in his background, I couldn’t believe that I had anything to fear from him.

  Still, two people with whom he had some connection had been murdered.

  On the back of my neck, I felt little prickles of apprehension.

  38

  For the next hour, while doing rudimentary housework, I kept glancing at the clock, wondering if Mickey might suddenly show up at my door. It seemed strange that I hadn’t heard from him again when he knew that I wanted to talk to him. Mickey could be unpredictable, but I’d never known him to avoid things.

  My mind was full of conflicting emotions. I didn’t believe that Mickey was a murderer, but his icy tone when we spoke was unsettling.

  I jumped when the phone rang, but calmed myself before I answered.

  “Hi, babe.” It was Nicholas. He did a couple of puffs of exaggerated heavy panting and whispered, “What are you wearing?”

  I laughed.

  In his normal voice, he said, “That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.”

  “If this is supposed to be an obscene call, you don’t understand the concept,” I said. “It’s the middle of the morning, with sunshine flooding through the windows. You’re supposed to phone late at night.”

  “I’ll save the naughty talk until we’re together. So forget what you’re wearing, but if you’re naked I’ll be right over.”

  “I’m in ratty old housecleaning clothes.”

  “That was the kind of thing you were wearing the day we met, when I surprised you by coming to your house too early. You’re turning me on.”

  “I think breathing turns you on,” I said.

  “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me. Are you calling for some reason, or are you just trying to give me a quick thrill?”

  “Okay, I get it. You’re all business during the day. If we ever get a chance to go away together, I’m going to take you someplace where the nights are six months long.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “I’m supposed to be thinking about cake, not sex.”

  “I’ve been thinking about murder, and I found out through a confidential source that the cops have a forensic accountant going through both Taggart’s and Davis’s financials, looking for someone with a motive to murder either or both of them.”

  “Have they turned up anything to take attention away from Bill Marshall?”

  “Not yet. Your dentist friend is still their number one suspect in the Davis murder. His story about signing up for ballroom dance lessons checked out, as far as that went, but he still had plenty of time between leaving Davis at the restaurant and learning to tango to have killed the woman. The best thing going for him is that he’s clean on the PI’s murder. He was with his wife during the time frame when Taggart was killed.”

  I was almost afraid to hope. “They believed Liddy?”

  “No, but they had Marshall under surveillance from the time he left the Butler Street station.”

  I was both relieved and annoyed. “It’s wrong to spy on innocent people, but for once, it turned out to be a good thing. Going back to what you said about their examining financial records. Taggart’s should tell them who else he did work for.”

  “The only thing we know it will prove is that he worked for Regina Davis.”

  “Which will bring them back to the theft of his hard drive,” I said. “They’ll be sure the killer was desperate to keep something in those files a secret.”

  “We’ve gone over your copy of his reports on you and the Jordans, but based on what’s there, the ugliest secret Taggart uncovered was that Iva Jordan used to be a hooker. California’s a community property state. If he divorced her, she’d come away with a big chunk of change. That’s unless she signed a bad prenup. I’ll see if I can find out about that.”

  “I appreciate your helping Bill and Liddy.”

  “Partly I’m doing this for you, but if this case is solved it’ll be a big story for me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’ it’s solved? Don’t you think it will be?”

  “A lot of cases aren’t,” Nicholas said. “According to the Bureau of Justice statistics, in 1979 79 percent of murders in this country were solved. But in 2005, which is the last year they have figures for, that rate fell to 62 percent.”

  “This case has to be solved,” I said. “Until it is, Bill will spend the rest of his life under a cloud of suspicion. He’s been kept out of the media glare so far, but at any moment that could change.”

  “I’m detecting as fast as I can,” Nicholas said.

  “That reminds me. Did you talk to your friend at the Miami Herald about looking into the situation at the Palmetto?”

  “He said he’d have one of his guys check it out. Maybe it’s a scandal to be exposed, but as I told you, a story like that takes months of snooping before a paper gathers enough solid facts to run it.”

  “In the meantime, good people have to live in bad conditions,” I said.

  “The wheels of justice don’t turn as fast as I’d like them to, either.”

  “I keep thinking about an old line: ‘Justice delayed is justice denied.’ ”

  “This isn’t a perfect world,” he said.

  Even though he couldn’t see me, I shook my head. “Of course it’s not, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t
try to make it better.”

  After Nicholas and I said our warm good-byes, I took Tuffy for a walk around the neighborhood. I half expected Mickey Jordan to pop out at me from behind one of the big old elm trees that lined the street, but he didn’t. I felt pretty silly.

  Two hours later I still hadn’t heard from Mickey, but at last I was beginning to form an idea about the cake I was supposed to create.

  I’d gone through the scrapbooks where I kept my own recipes that I’d developed over the years, and then I’d searched through the book of recipes from old friends. There was nothing I could use.

  The last scrapbook was only about a quarter filled, and those recipes were from people who watched the show and had graciously shared with me some of their own favorite dishes. It was in this book that I found the page where I’d pasted the e-mail from Myra Morehouse of Depew, New York. Myra had sent me her recipe for her Orange Creamsicle Cake.

  The moment I started reading it, my salivary glands woke up and rushed into action. That cake had been inspired by the frozen orange creamsicles on a stick that I remembered fondly. When we were children, my sisters and my brother and I used to have them on hot summer days. They were so delicious, and refreshing.

  My only problem with this discovery was that it was Myra’s recipe. I couldn’t use it as my own, but as I studied the ingredients, I began to imagine changes and additions I could make. If my version turned out well, I could, legitimately, enter my adaptation in the contest.

  I checked my pantry and found that I needed a few items before I could make a test cake. After quickly scribbling a grocery list, I grabbed my wallet and keys, told Tuffy and Emma that I’d be back shortly, and rushed out of the house.

  My favorite neighborhood market was a Ralph’s only a few blocks away. The lot was crowded, so I had to park quite a distance from the entrance. I didn’t mind; I needed every bit of exercise I could get.

  Even though the grocery store was full of shoppers, I only needed eight items, so I qualified for the express lane.