Death Takes the Cake Read online

  So be it. If I didn’t have self-respect, it didn’t much matter what else I had.

  5

  In spite of not having slept very well after my conversation with NDM, I got up even earlier than usual, gave Emma and Tuffy fresh food and water, and took Tuffy for a long walk. It was only a few minutes after six Am when I got back home, ready to prepare for another new chapter in my life: TV reality show contestant.

  I was unlocking the front door to let us in when I heard three toots of a horn and turned to see a small blue and yellow Better Living Channel transportation van pull up to the curb in front of the house. Behind the wheel was one of the last people I would have expected to see piloting that vehicle. In fact, I’d never seen Phil Logan, the channel’s head of publicity, drive anything except his metallic beige Mercedes sedan, which was the approximate shade of his profusion of sandy hair.

  Phil alighted from the driver’s side at his usual warp speed, his knife-slender frame displaying the agility of Mikhail Baryshnikov and the excitement of a car salesman racing to close a deal. When Phil was out of the vehicle, I saw that a man had been sitting in the passenger seat and was getting out. He was a stranger to me.

  “Hey, Della! I called but you didn’t pick up.”

  I gestured to Tuffy on his leash. “We were out.”

  Phil’s companion approached us, carrying a well-worn black attaché case. He was about Phil’s age, but shorter with a bright yellow buzz cut and heavily muscled forearms. His face was tanned—the natural darkening of someone who spent most of his free time on the water. I didn’t need the deductive gifts of Sherlock Holmes to make that guess: He was wearing a blue canvas jacket with the insignia of a sailing club on the breast pocket. Tuffy watched the man approach us; as long as I was calm, Tuffy remained calm.

  I smiled pleasantly and extended my hand to the stranger. “Hello.” He took it and mumbled a responding “Hello.”

  “This is Zachary Blye,” Phil said. “He’s an artist. Let’s go inside. We’re on a tight sked.”

  I unlocked the door and unhooked Tuffy’s leash. He went bounding down the hallway toward the kitchen. Phil, following me in, held the door open for his companion.

  The gracious hostess, I said politely, “So you’re an artist, Mr. Blye. That’s interesting. What do you paint?”

  “People.” He narrowed his eyes and squinted at me.

  Phil beamed like an Oscar winner. “Zee’s the top independent makeup artist in town. We’re here to make you over.”

  “Up,” Zachary Blye said. “Make her up.”

  “Sure, Zee—that’s your department. I’ll do the rest.”

  “What rest?” I asked, with growing apprehension.

  “Wardrobe,” Phil said. “I’ll get the clothes out of the van.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d taken off my shirt and fastened a bath towel around my bra-clad torso. Sitting in my bathroom, in an armchair dragged in from the bedroom, I faced the mirror and watched Zachary Blye study my features from every imaginable angle.

  Finally, he announced, “I can do something with this.”

  “I’m so glad,” I said wryly.

  Phil was in my bedroom, sorting through the collection of women’s clothing he’d brought in on a rack. Through the open bathroom door, he called to Blye, “Remember, she’s going to be on camera this morning.”

  “What kind of lighting?” the face painter asked.

  “Reality show,” Phil said.

  Zachary Blye snorted with disgust. “That’s not much more flattering than what the cops use for booking photos. But don’t worry, I’ll compensate.”

  His attaché case, actually a makeup case, lay open on the counter next to the basin. It was full of brushes and sponges and puffs, tubes and powders, pencils, blushes, and mascara wands in every shade I’d ever seen.

  I heard rustling behind me, looked up, and saw Phil’s reflection. “Mickey wants you in something figure flattering, so I put together some outfits to show off the assets and hide the flaws.” When he began holding them up, I saw that Phil—who always dressed himself like the cover of GQ—also had good taste in women’s clothing. “What do you like?”

  “I like them all. Do I get to keep any of these?”

  “Just what you’re going to wear today. The rest go back to the store. After today you’ll be in cooking clothes, but for your on-camera introduction and interview, you’ve got to look great.”

  From the array Phil had spread out, I chose a pale gray sweater, black slacks, and a black suede jacket.

  Phil held the gray sweater up against my face, frowned, and shook his head. “Uh-uh. The pants and jacket are fine, but a gray sweater is too mousy for TV.” He put it down and took a cherry red cashmere from his stack. “This is the one.”

  Zachary Blye nodded agreement. “I’ll make her up to complement that color. And I’ll clip her hair an inch.” As though remembering that a human being was sitting in the chair, his eyes met mine in the mirror. He held up a pair of scissors. “Okay to give you a trim?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to do that but haven’t gotten around to it.”

  By seven thirty, Zachary Blye had finished his work and he and Phil left with the rest of the clothes Phil had brought. Tuffy and Emma were lounging together on the bed, watching me with the fascination they usually reserved for a nature special on Animal Planet.

  I surveyed myself in the mirror, and was amazed at how much better I looked. The makeup had been applied with such a delicate touch that I had to lean in close to the glass to be sure it was there. Stepping back to examine the effect of the new outfit in the full-length mirror on the closet door, I had to admit that the combination Phil chose was very flattering—unless one of Mickey’s “reality” cameramen decided to sneak around and shoot me from behind to record the fact that I’m a bit full in the derriere.

  Oh, well. I’d rather be healthy than perfect.

  After checking the contents of my shoulder bag and adding two eight-by-ten glossies of the best cakes I’d made on the show—from the food portfolio that Phil Logan had created for me—I was ready to go.

  Giving Tuffy and Emma a few quick strokes and whispering, “Wish me luck,” I headed for the front door. A few feet before I reached it, the doorbell rang.

  A glance through the living room window showed me who was on my stoop.

  I opened the door and said, “Hi, Addison, I’d invite you in, but I’m just leaving for the Davis Test Kitchens.”

  “This isn’t a social call.” His gaze started at my hairline, swept down to my shoes and back up again to my face. The intensity of his scrutiny was a bit unnerving.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all,” he said. “Phil’s man did an excellent job.”

  “Do I pass inspection?” I tried to keep irritation out of my voice, but I couldn’t resist the impulse to thrust out my hands palms down and then turn them palms up. “See, I’ve washed. Both sides.”

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. “That was pretty crude of me, wasn’t it, coming over here to check you out. I apologize. You look great.”

  “Apology accepted. And thank you.” To indicate that all was well again, I smiled, but I don’t think he saw the smile because he was looking past me into the house.

  “Is Eileen home?” he asked.

  “She had an early class this morning.”

  “Oh, well, I thought if she had a few minutes we could talk about the fudge project. Maybe I’ll call her later. We can make a stronger presentation to Mickey on Friday if we put our heads together first.”

  I didn’t doubt for a moment that he was eager to put his head together with Eileen’s.

  “If I get a chance, I’ll give her a call later.” He aimed a thousand-watt smile at me. “Good luck today. I know you’ll knock ’em dead.”

  As I locked the front door behind me, I said, “I’ll do my best.” We started walking toward my Jeep.

  “It’
s true you’re a long shot,” he said, “but once in awhile a long shot does come in.”

  I stopped in midstride. “Wait a minute, Addison. I won’t be any part of it if you or Mickey have fixed this contest.”

  “Absolutely not! There’ll be three independent judges with unassailable food credentials. They’ll have no connection to either Reggi-Mixx or our network, or to any of the contestants. All that was thoroughly checked out by Mickey’s lawyers.” There was such sincerity in his voice that I believed him.

  I sighed with relief. “Okay.” I unlocked the Jeep with the remote on my key chain.

  Addison opened the driver’s side door for me. As I climbed behind the wheel, he said, “All I meant was that life is full of surprises.”

  For the last two years my life had been a series of good news/bad news jokes. I wondered under which column my next surprise would fall.

  6

  The Davis Foods Test Kitchens were inside a large concrete block and stucco building on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles. Square, two stories high, and painted a yellow brown shade reminiscent of Dijon mustard, it was located a block east of a business offering a service that made me chuckle whenever I passed it: Precision Sandblasting. For years I’d been tempted to stop and ask for a demonstration of the “precision” part, but of course I never did.

  Arriving a few minutes before eight o’clock, I followed the “Park in Rear” sign and turned into an alley that led to a large area behind the building. There were already several cars in the lot, including two of the Better Living Channel’s mobile vans.

  I pulled into a space the right size for my Jeep Compass. One of my pet peeves is seeing big vehicles squeezed into slots marked for compact cars. As I was getting out of my Jeep, I heard the sound of a powerful motor entering the parking lot and turned to see an older model Cadillac, pink and roughly the size of a motor launch, ease into a slot three spaces away from me. It had a California vanity license plate that said “WINNIE” and a woman with a huge cloud of cotton-candy pink hair at the wheel.

  She saw me, and a big grin bisected her face. She waved so enthusiastically I thought she believed we knew each other, but I was sure I’d never seen her before. I smiled, lifted my right hand in a return greeting, and started toward the building’s back entrance.

  “Wait up!” she called.

  I stopped and she hurried out of the buffed and polished classic Caddy. She was buffed and polished, too, in a pink silk dress with a short pink jacket and pink high heels. Beneath the halo of pink hair was a smooth, Kewpie doll face with full red lips and dark brows shaped into high arches above large pale blue eyes.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, waving again as she quickstepped toward me. “You’re Della Carmichael!”

  “Yes. Hello.” I extended my hand and she grabbed it with exceptionally soft fingers. I had thought my hands were smooth until they came in contact with hers.

  “I’m Winnie King!” Her voice was breathy, with the slightest trace of a southern accent. “I’m a big fan of your show. In fact, I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you because the moment I saw you on the air I said to myself, ‘Winnie, that’s a pretty woman, but she needs to use moisturizer before it’s too late!’ ”

  Caught off guard by that statement, I said witlessly, “Moisturizer? I use moisturizer.”

  She tsk-tsked. “Not the right kind, I’m afraid,” and opened her big satchel-style designer handbag. I recognized the bag as one Liddy told me cost several thousand dollars. Pulling out a small plastic bottle, she said, “I sell Mary Kay cosmetics, but I’m giving this to you as my little gift.” Winnie King nodded in the direction of her pink Cadillac. “That car? It’s twenty years old, but I’m never going to part with it! I earned it by being the top Mary Kay saleswoman in Jeffersonville, Georgia, and surrounding territories four years running.”

  “Congratulations. That’s terrific.”

  Winnie extracted a matching tube from the bag. I wondered if she carried the entire Mary Kay line in there.

  “Here’s a mask, too, honey. This is absolutely magic for erasing those tiny little lines we get after a certain age.” She folded the tube into my hand, lifted her chin, and turned her face so I could view it from all angles. “See, no lines. Every night when I’m reciting my regular prayers, I say God bless Mary Kay!”

  “This is very kind of you,” I said, “but—”

  “Fret not if you don’t know how to use these. I’ll teach you.” She gave a light squeeze to my wrist. “It’s the philosophy I live by: Do something nice for somebody and it will make the Lord smile. It’s the least I can do—He has so many things to grieve about nowadays.”

  Winnie King hooked her arm though mine. “Let’s go meet our competition.”

  Our competition? Was the top saleswoman in Jeffersonville, Georgia, and surrounding territories going to be in the Reggi-Mixx contest?

  She must have seen my puzzled expression because she said, “Oh, selling Mary Kay products is just my way to help people, honey. I own the Pink Lady Bakery in Beverly Hills.”

  “One of my friends always orders her twin sons’ birthday cakes from you. The replica of Beverly Hills High School you made last year was spectacular, and delicious.” The admiration in my voice was genuine.

  Winnie’s grin grew even wider. “You must mean Miz Marshall—she’s as sweet as buttercream! One of my favorite customers. Isn’t this just the smallest world in the whole wide universe?”

  Before I could reply, the back door to the Davis building opened and was filled by the tall, slender figure of Regina Davis, standing straight and looking sober. She was “camera ready,” as perfectly made up as a fashion model about to shoot a cover for Vogue magazine, and wearing a becoming designer suit. It was so short it made her legs look as though they were long enough to go all the way up to her neck.

  “Hello, you two. I see you’ve met.”

  “Yes, and I’ve had the pleasure of tasting some of Winnie’s amazing cakes.”

  “Don’t you let her skills discourage you, Della,” Reggie said. “I’m sure you can learn to be creative, too.”

  That was a not-so-subtle bit of damning with faint praise. I decided I preferred Reggie when she was drinking.

  Reggie stepped back and scanned me from head to toe, settling her scrutiny on my face.

  “You’ve done something to yourself, Della.”

  “Just a little duct tape here and there,” I joked.

  “You look better than I’d . . . well, let’s go meet the others.” Turning her back on us, the majority stockholder and CEO of Davis Foods International led Winnie and me into a spartan reception room with two chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a tall, potted fiddle leaf ficus. Two men sat in the chairs; a woman perched on the edge of the couch. I hadn’t met any of them, but I recognized all three from appearances they’d made on various television shows. They were a lot better known in the food world than I was. I told myself I didn’t have to worry about Mickey fixing the contest so I’d win it. In this race, I was definitely the long shot.

  Regina said brightly, “Now that we’re all together, I’ll perform the introductions.” She began by grabbing the hand of a stout man with hair the color of paprika and a matching red handlebar mustache that stretched well beyond the width of his small mouth. “This is Gordon Prescott, the former pastry chef for Governor Ball of Arizona and now executive chef for the Newport Plaza Hotel and Resort.”

  Reggie moved past Gordon Prescott to drape an arm around an attractive black woman in an emerald green suede pantsuit. This woman had such beautiful posture that I automatically straightened my back.

  “Meet Viola Lee,” Reggie said. “Vi does the weekly dessert feature for the nation’s number one morning show, Wake Up with GBN.”

  “Please call me Viola,” she said softly. “Not Vi.” She shifted her shoulders slightly, as though trying to dislodge Reggie. I got the feeling she didn’t like to be touched—or perhaps she didn’t like to be touched by Regi
na Davis.

  Reggie abandoned Viola Lee and moved close to a slender man in his late twenties with a mass of surfer-dude streaky blond hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. They were such a startling color that I looked at him closely, and realized he was wearing green contact lenses.

  “This is Clay Sutton,” she said, “Hollywood’s new celebrity caterer and private chef to the stars. Clay’s going to be opening his own exclusive restaurant next year.”

  After giving Clay Sutton’s left arm an affectionate stroke, Reggie introduced Winnie King. “Winnie’s Pink Lady pastries are known all over the country. One of her creations was featured on the cover of Modern Homemaker just last month.”

  Reggie turned her attention to me. “And, lastly, this is Della Carmichael.” After two silent beats, she added, “Della hosts a new cable TV cooking show.”

  As the five of us exchanged polite greetings, I tried to get at least a quick snapshot impression of these people with whom I’d be competing. Gordon Prescott had a mouth that smiled but eyes that did not. He took my right hand with both of his, but instead of looking at my face his eyes focused on my breasts. I withdrew my hand quickly. He responded with an arrogant shrug and turned away to speak to Reggie.

  Viola Lee was warmer with me than she had been with Reggie. Her eyes were the color of good cognac and full of light when she smiled. Her handclasp was firm and confident. I felt that I’d like to get to know her.

  When I shook Clay Sutton’s hand I was surprised to find that his palm was damp. Embarrassed, he stammered an almost unintelligible apology, and wiped his hands down the sides of his khaki trousers.

  Reggie cut off any further interaction by striding to the room’s interior door. Placing one hand on the knob, she announced dramatically, “Here we go!”

  She flung open the door and suddenly we were facing a bank of powerful lights and two cameramen with shoulder-mounted television cameras.