Death Takes the Cake Read online

  I saw a light on the phone console blinking and got up. “Thank you.”

  “Talk softly, unless you want to wake up Sleeping Beauty.”

  With a frown at Clay Sutton’s prone form, Hedda went back through the doorway into the test kitchens.

  “Hello, Eileen?”

  “Aunt Del, something terrible has happened.” Eileen was whispering. “I found—I can’t tell you what on the phone, but you’ve got to get over here right away!”

  “Where are you?”

  “At our store, the factory. You’ve got to come right away and see what I found. I don’t dare touch it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something that belongs to Mickey. I think it’s evidence about who killed those two people. I’m afraid it was Mickey! Please come over here right away and tell me what we should do.”

  What she said was such a shock I was trying to think clearly. “Is anyone there with you?”

  “Walter Hovey, but he’s in the front of the store, hanging your picture. He didn’t see what I found. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t want us to call Daddy until you see what it is. If I’m wrong, I could do something terrible to Mickey.”

  “All right. Keep calm. I’m leaving now.”

  Before I was able to replace the receiver on the phone console, I heard Viola Lee’s voice behind me.

  “You’re leaving? How can you go before—?”

  “It’s an emergency.” I glanced at the wall clock; it was 5:15. I yanked open the closet door and retrieved my handbag. “I’m last in line for judging. I’m sure I’ll be back here before they get to me.”

  “But what if you aren’t back?”

  “Oh . . . Look, Viola, would you present my cake for me? Just cut the pieces. I’ve already decorated the plates.”

  A frown of concern creased her features. “All right. I’ll do that. Whatever has happened, I hope it’s going to be okay.”

  “I hope so, too.” I squeezed her hand in a gesture of appreciation. “Thank you.”

  It was getting dark when I tore away from the Davis Foods Test Kitchens. Halfway to my destination I dialed Eileen’s cell phone to tell her to be sure to keep Walter Hovey away from whatever she had found. The number didn’t answer. After six rings voice mail picked up and I heard Eileen’s recorded request that the caller leave a message. I left that message, and added that I was on my way and would be there in just a few minutes.

  It bothered me that Eileen didn’t answer her cell. A few minutes later, when I was stuck at a red light, I tried calling her again.

  Still no answer. I hung up before her voice mail message came on again.

  The last light of evening had passed quickly into a black, starless night by the time I neared the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Baker Street. I eased up on the gas pedal and turned into the parking lot behind the building where we would manufacture and sell our fudge and brownies. Indeed, a large banner had been strung along the side of the building to be seen by traffic heading east on Hollywood Boulevard. In big letters it announced: “Opening Soon! Della’s Sweet Dreams!”

  Two cars were in the lot: Eileen’s old red VW Rabbit, and Walter Hovey’s elderly dark green Mercedes. I was relieved to see that Mickey’s big yellow SUV wasn’t there. All the while I drove here, my belief in Mickey’s innocence fought with the tone of dread in Eileen’s voice. She was convinced that she’d found evidence against him. Fond of Mickey as she was, I knew Eileen’s greater concern was that her dream of our having a food business together could be destroyed if Mickey were arrested for murder.

  I parked the Jeep, but didn’t get out immediately. Instead, I took my phone from the cup holder where I’d put it while driving and dialed Eileen’s cell number one more time.

  Six rings . . . Seven . . .

  There was a tap on my driver’s side window that made me nearly jump out of my skin. I turned my head to see Addison’s face on the other side of the glass. It startled me so I dropped the phone.

  Before I could reach down to pick it up, Addison wrenched open the Jeep’s door.

  “Get out,” he said, bringing the barrel of the pistol in his hand up to the level of my heart.

  43

  Using the barrel of the pistol, Addison prodded me in the direction of the back door to our factory.

  The thought pounding in my head was, Please God, don’t let Eileen be dead. I was terrified about what might have happened to her, and knew that if he had killed Eileen he would surely kill me.

  I forced myself to stay calm.

  Talk. Get him to talk. Give him an excuse to let you go.

  “Addison, this must be some kind of a joke. Okay, you got me. I’ll probably find a hundred new gray hairs when I go home.”

  “You won’t be going home.”

  That’s not what I wanted to hear.

  Addison shifted the pistol to his left hand while he used his right to insert a key in the back door lock.

  He’s right-handed.

  Mack and John always said that in dangerous situations they concentrated on details because they never knew which detail might save their lives.

  Okay, now I have a detail—but he has the gun.

  Addison opened the door and gave me a shove inside that was so hard my teeth rattled. I stumbled and almost fell onto the concrete floor. I just barely managed to stay on my feet and found myself facing the interior of our huge commercial kitchen.

  “Keep going.” He pushed me forward, into the center of the room. I saw the preparation counter was on my left, and the huge mixing vats on my right.

  Only a few of the work light switches that lined the wall were in the “On” position, but there was enough illumination for me to see Eileen and Walter Hovey. They were sitting on the floor, secured with duct tape, back to back against one of the four big columns that braced the ceiling. Eileen’s mouth was covered with a wide strip of tape. She was making little whimpering sounds, but as far as I could see, she was uninjured.

  Walter Hovey’s condition was a different matter. His mouth wasn’t taped because he was unconscious. He was leaning forward, his chin almost touching his chest. Blood from a scalp wound had poured down one side of his face to stain his white shirt. Even in this light, and several yards away from him, I could tell that he’d lost a lot of blood.

  “Forget the old man, look at me,” Addison said. “I got here while Eileen was talking to you.”

  He used his weapon to gesture toward an object on the preparation counter. “She found that, before I wanted it to be found.”

  “That” was a shirt wrapped around a hammer. I could see the hammer’s head, and that it was crusted with dried blood. I had no doubt that the blood would prove to be T. J. Taggart’s. And I recognized what the hammer was wrapped in: one of Mickey Jordan’s signature yellow shirts.

  “I’m sorry Eileen found that, but three more killings added to the two charges the authorities will file against Mickey are just cherries on the sundae.”

  Trying to give Addison a way to let us go, I said, “If Mickey killed two people that’s enough to get him at the very least life in prison without the possibility of parole. But all you’ve done is hold Eileen and Walter and me here for a little while. Let us go and we won’t have any need to mention this.”

  “I hit the old man pretty hard,” Addison said. “He could die. Nobody can prove that I killed the Davis bitch and Taggart, and I can’t afford to leave any loose ends. That’s why I’m going to hide the hammer and Mickey’s shirt under the stuff in the dumpster, where the cops are sure to find it. And then I’m going to burn this place down.”

  Eileen started making frantic little cries from beneath the tape over her mouth.

  “Stop that noise,” Addison said.

  She was silent.

  “Don’t worry, Della, I’m not going to let her suffer,” Addison said. “I’m not going to let any of you suffer. I have nothing against you or Eileen, and I don’t even know the old man. I’m going to
knock you out before I splash the paint thinner around and light the fire. You’ll die of smoke inhalation before the flames get to you, so it’ll be a painless way to go. My beef is with Mickey. I’ve waited twenty years to pay him back for the hell he put my mother through.”

  “Addison, you’re not thinking clearly. If you burn this building down how do you know the police will connect it to Mickey? He might be with a hundred people right now, with an airtight alibi.”

  “He’s on the road, alone, driving north toward Santa Barbara, because that’s where I told him Iva went. And he won’t be able to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Iva’s in Santa Barbara?”

  “I don’t know where she is. That was just what I told Mickey to get him out of town. She ran away when I told her I knew her secret, and that I was going to take enormous pleasure in telling Mickey all about it. She turned as white as that phony platinum hair of hers.”

  Stalling, I asked, “What secret?”

  “About her life as a whore.”

  “So you did kill Taggart, and took his hard drive to get the files.”

  Addison cocked his head slightly and stared at me with an expression that looked like respect. “When did you figure that out?”

  I attempted a rueful little laugh. “Not soon enough—less than an hour ago. You confirmed my suspicion just now when you admitted you knew what was in his files.” Faking a sympathetic tone, I said gently, “It must have been very painful for you, reading about the times your mother was taken away and put into the hospital.”

  Addison’s voice softened. “The hospital changed her. Mickey said the doctors were going to help her stop drinking, but they gave her electric shock treatments. Electric shocks! Damn him to hell—she was never the same after that. She’s alive, but not really . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. This time my sympathy was genuine, and he seemed to realize that.

  “I really think you are. And I’m sorry I tried to run you off the road in the rain. I wasn’t trying to kill you. Putting you out of commission so you couldn’t go back on the air would have been enough.”

  I heard Eileen groan beneath her tape.

  To keep his attention away from Eileen, I said, “Why in the world did you want to hurt me?”

  “Injuring you was a way to hurt Mickey. Your show is getting popular. Losing you would have been a big blow to him. I’d already killed that Regina Davis because she taunted me about Mother, saying that mental problems were sometimes inherited and didn’t I worry about ending up like—I hit her to shut her up. Then I stuffed her vicious, dirty mouth in a bowl of her mix. She had told me about the detective’s report, but I didn’t find out who the detective was until I overheard Iva tell you his name.”

  I heard a moan. Addison and I both turned to see Walter moving his head. He moaned again.

  “Thank God, he’s alive,” I said.

  “For the moment, anyway. The old guy’s tougher than a ten-year-old turkey.”

  Walter mumbled something, then raised his head and looked at me. He cleared his throat. His voice was a rasp. “The Wizard of Oz . . . I was going to be in The Wizard of Oz . . . but I grew up.”

  Addison said, “He’s out of his head.”

  Walter’s eyes focused on me. “I got the supplies for you . . .” His voice was weak, but he was staring at me as though willing me to read his mind. “All your supplies.”

  I didn’t know what to say except, “Thank you, Walter.”

  He cleared his throat again. “All . . . all your sugar . . . and your flour . . .”

  Details.

  Details! At that moment I knew what he was trying to tell me.

  Walter must have realized that I got his message because he started babbling.

  Addison swung around and pointed the pistol at him, “Shut the hell up!”

  With Addison’s attention momentarily diverted to Walter, I knew I had scant seconds to act. Balling my hand into a fist, I darted to the red and blue control buttons on the wall, and smacked the first button so hard a lightning bolt of pain shot up my arm.

  The big aluminum chute above Addison’s head opened—and down on top of him gushed hundreds of pounds of white flour! The force of it knocked him to the concrete floor and the gun flew out of his hand. He yelled as he was buried in an avalanche of flour. I snatched his pistol from the floor, but I could see it was clogged with the powdery substance and would be useless.

  Addison was moving beneath the white mound, clawing to get out from under it. Operating on autopilot, without conscious thought, I threw my weight against the second control button, and out of that chute poured a cascade of granulated sugar. Beneath that new deluge, Addison stopped moving. The icing on the cake, I thought.

  Walter coughed and rasped, “In the middle oven—get my rifle out of the oven.” He was covered with a fine mist of flour. So was Eileen. When I looked at my hands and arms I saw that I was, too.

  There was no time to wonder why anyone would keep a rifle in an oven. I raced to the middle oven, opened the door, and there it was: a beautiful, highly polished Winchester, an old piece, but serviceable. Walter kept his ancient rifle in the same perfect condition in which he kept his decades-old car.

  “It’s loaded,” he said.

  “Good.” I pulled the tape off Eileen’s mouth. She flinched at the pain, and licked her dry lips.

  “There are some sharp knives in that cabinet by the counter,” Walter said.

  I hurried to find them, at the same time keeping an eye on the enormous mound of sugar and flour under which Addison lay.

  As soon as I found the drawer full of knives, I removed two and gave one each to Eileen and to Walter. Luckily, Addison had bound them with their wrists in front, not behind their backs. “Cut the duct tape on yourselves. I’ve got to call for help.”

  “My cell phone is on the shelf behind you,” Eileen said. “Daddy’s on speed dial. Press One.”

  Walter freed himself first. I handed him the Winchester. “Point this at Addison as soon as I’m able to dig him out. I don’t want him to suffocate.”

  Using Eileen’s cell phone, I pressed One.

  We heard the shrieking of the police cars and the ambulances while Eileen and I were binding Addison with strips from the same roll of duct tape he’d used earlier on Eileen and Walter.

  John burst through the door ahead of the medics, Hugh Weaver, and several uniformed officers. He saw Eileen and folded her into his arms in a fierce bear hug. Over Eileen’s head he stared at me and silently mouthed “Thank you.”

  As I’d requested when I called John, there were two teams of medics. One of them examined Addison, while the other tended to Walter Hovey’s head injury.

  The younger of the two medics with Addison swabbed the coat of sugar and flour from his face and the other clasped an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  Weaver replaced the tape the medics removed from Addison with handcuffs. He stepped back as the medics loaded the man who murdered Reggie Davis and T. J. Taggart onto a gurney.

  I asked Weaver, “Where are they taking Walter? What hospital?”

  “They’re both going to St. Clare’s. Why?”

  “I want to see Walter, and find out if he needs anything.”

  “He got a pretty bad bang on the noggin. They probably won’t let anybody see him until tomorrow. We’ll talk to him first, to get his statement.” Weaver looked me up and down. “You’re a mess, but it’d be better for us if you come to West Bureau an’ fill us in before you go home and clean up. Do you mind?”

  Do I mind? “Detective Weaver, this is the first time you’ve been polite to me since the night Reggie Davis was murdered.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not warm and fuzzy. I get paid to suspect everybody.”

  “There’s something I’d like you to do. Mickey Jordan is on the road somewhere between here and Santa Barbara.” I gave him the make and vanity plate of Mickey’s SUV. “Put out an APB to have him stopped. He needs to
know what’s happened here tonight.”

  “You got it. Now are you coming with me?”

  “I’ll go to the station,” I said, “but I have my own car outside.”

  Eileen extracted herself from her father’s embrace and came over to give me a hug. John followed close behind her.

  “I’ll drive you two,” he said.

  “No, I have my car. You take Eileen.”

  She nodded agreement. “I’m too shaky to drive.”

  John said, “Sweetheart, give me your key. I’ll have somebody take your car to our house. I want you to come home and stay with us tonight. Your mother will have to see you or she won’t believe you’re not hurt.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  John took Eileen’s car key and gave it, with instructions, to one of the uniformed officers on the scene.

  John turned back to me. “Del, are you sure you won’t ride with us?”

  “I’ll meet you there.” I smiled. “You called me ‘Del’ again. Are things all right between us?”

  “They always were,” he said softly.

  After Walter and Addison had been taken away in the ambulances, Weaver helped Eileen into the back of their car while John walked with me to my Jeep.

  “I’ve got to call Liddy and Bill,” I said. “They need to know he’s in the clear now. And I want to ask Liddy to keep Tuffy overnight. I don’t know what time I’ll be home.”

  “I’ll call them from my car,” John said.

  He opened the Jeep’s driver’s side door, but before I could climb inside John took my right hand. He pressed it flat against his heart until I felt its strong beat. Then he let go, turned, and hurried back to his car without a spoken word.

  44

  Before I turned on the ignition, I found my cell phone where I’d dropped it on the floor when Addison surprised me. According to the information on the faceplate I had four unheard voice mail messages. I didn’t have the energy to play them at that moment, so I put the phone in its dashboard holder and drove out of the lot behind the car carrying John, Eileen, and Weaver.