Death Takes the Cake Page 5

  Regina introduced us to the cameras, repeating our contestant credentials for the benefit of a future audience. “Did you all bring pictures of some of your cakes?” she asked.

  We produced them, and she passed them to the nearest cameraman. “Photograph these later.” Speaking to us, but cheating toward the camera, she said, “Now let me show you where you’ll be working for the next three weeks, until you’ve perfected what each of you think will be America’s new favorite cake, created from Reggi-Mixx.”

  The tour began. The area occupied by the test kitchens took up a good 90 percent of the building’s ground floor interior. Regina said, “We have forty fully equipped kitchens where we develop and test new products, always striving for the best in taste and texture.” She gestured to the lines of cubicles that stretched before us. “Each kitchen contains utensils, electric mixers, a work table, a small refrigerator, a stove top, and an oven. They are separated by plywood walls six feet high, which I designed to give each of my test bakers the privacy and lack of distractions that make it easy for them to concentrate on their work, but you see there are no doors on these mini-kitchens. This is to encourage interaction and collaboration among the employees. It’s my ‘several-heads-can-be-better-than-one’ theory of management.”

  The mini-kitchens were divided into four horizontal rows of ten cubicles each. On the wall beside every other kitchen in the line facing us—the line closest to the entrance—were printed signs with each of our names.

  “Now for your test kitchen space assignments,” Reggie said. “We’re going girl-boy, girl-boy, girl. Viola, you’ll have station number one. Gordon has station number two. Winnie, you’re in the middle. Then Clay. Della, you’re down there at the far end, but at least you’ll be next to our extensive pantry. I’m sure you’ll all be able to find every ingredient you could possibly need in that pantry, but if there’s something you want that isn’t here, let me know. I’ll order the item and have it brought in for you. That rule is an absolute necessity to keep the contest fair.” She smiled at the camera flirtatiously. “We can’t have anyone smuggling in some other brand of flour or packaged cake mix. Not that I think one would,” she added hastily. “Davis Foods makes the very best products in our categories.” She frowned at the nearest camera operator and waved at him to stop shooting. “I’ll supervise the editing of this footage before it goes on the air—right?”

  The camera operator nodded in the affirmative. Reggie switched her bright smile on again and signaled him to resume taping.

  As Reggie began extolling the virtues of Reggi-Mixx, I wondered if she’d ever actually tasted a cake made from her company’s mix. Perhaps not; thin as she was, it didn’t look as though she ate cake, or much of anything. When we were in college, she’d been at least twenty pounds heavier, but still slim. No one outside of a fashion magazine editor would have considered her overweight then.

  Another question occurred to me. Didn’t anyone ever tell Reggie that her company’s mix left a bad taste in one’s mouth?

  During the tour, some two dozen Reggi-Mixx employees had arrived and settled into their own cubicles, in the rows behind the line designated for the five of us. As we passed by, I noticed some hostile glares thrown at us, but no smiles of welcome. Before I could think about that, our little parade had moved on.

  With the portable TV cameras moving around to catch shots of our faces, we, like little ducklings following their momma, trailed in Reggie’s wake. The most interesting part of the tour for me was the immense Davis Foods supply pantry. Except for lacking a butcher section and fresh produce, it was almost as well stocked as a good grocery store.

  As I moved along the shelves that held the company’s packaged cake mixes, I saw that they came in white, devil’s food, strawberry, lemon, banana, orange, angel food, carrot, and spice. I wondered how many I would have to test to find one I might be able to use as a base for the cake I was supposed to create, and how much I would have to do to it before it would taste like a treat.

  When we’d finally viewed everything in the pantry, we were back at the line of little test kitchens with our names on them.

  Reggie beamed into the nearest camera lens and announced, “Now I have a little surprise for you contestants.” She held up five keys on large gold rings. “Because my company operates from nine to six every weekday, and I can’t have the work of my employees interrupted, you’ll have to create your new, original cakes after business hours, or on weekends. I’ve had keys made up for each of you. These are the type that cannot be copied, so be careful with yours. I’m afraid that losing a key will mean disqualification from the contest.”

  Clay Sutton asked, in a tone that was close to a whine, “Do we have to work here? What I mean is, I’m really comfortable in my own setup.”

  “Your cakes must be created on these premises. It’s the only way we can be sure that no one uses anything other than Reggi-Mixx products.”

  Winnie King chuckled. “ ‘Trust the dealer but cut the cards,’ as my gamblin’ man daddy used to say.”

  Reggie signaled the two camera operators to stop taping. They turned off their cameras and took the rigs off their shoulders.

  I looked at the key she handed me. “But isn’t there a burglar alarm system with a code? Or security guards?”

  “Unnecessary,” Reggie said. “All the things worth stealing are in our corporate offices in Westwood. Believe me, I have plenty of security there. This building just houses the test kitchens, and the stoves and fridges are bolted to the floor.”

  One of the cameramen whispered something to Reggie. “Go ahead, leave,” she said. “I’ll call you later with the taping schedule.”

  As he left through the outside door, Reggie turned back to we five contestants and said, “Before anyone leaves today, I want your first personal interviews on tape. They’ll be done separately, in this order: Della, Clay, Viola, Winnie, and Gordon. Those who aren’t taping, wait in the test kitchens until it’s your turn. I don’t want anyone to see anyone else’s interviews until the show is on the air.” She aimed a teasing smile at us. “Remember, this will be a family viewing special, so don’t say anything naughty.”

  With a slight incline of his head, Gordon Prescott said—no, intoned, in the deep, practiced voice of a radio announcer—“I assure you that I will perform with the utmost decorum. My years of experience in diplomatic circles—”

  “Yes, that’s fine, Gordon. I trust your impeccable good taste.” Dismissing Gordon Prescott, she focused on me. “You’re up first, Della. Be interesting.”

  Be interesting. Thanks a lot, Reggie. If ever there was a command that was likely to freeze an interviewee’s brain it was that one.

  7

  As I put down my bag and smoothed the front of my clothes, the other four contestants filed back into the test kitchens. The camera operator—in his early thirties and as solid as a side of beef—grinned at me, exposing a mouth full of teeth in desperate need of a dentist’s attention. He stuck out his right hand. “I’m Ben.”

  I was surprised to see that his fingers were as long and smooth as those of a pianist. With the body of a wrestler, the rough, weathered face of an outdoorsman, and the hands of a musician it was as though Nature had stapled together three different men.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Della Carmichael.”

  “Yeah, I know.” His tone rose just slightly to a more feminine pitch as he quoted my TV line, “ ‘Let’s get cooking!’ ” Hefting his taping rig onto his right shoulder, he added, “My wife says that all the time now. She loves you, and she’s cooking better.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Is there some part of the show she likes best?”

  “Oh, yeah—it’s when you drop a pot, or spill something on the counter. She says you make her feel like less of a klutz.”

  “I’m so glad I can help.” I did my best to keep irony out of my voice. After all, no matter why his wife watched the show, she was a viewer, and I needed every one I could get for th
e show to stay on the air.

  He gestured to a straight chair against the wall and in front of a framed ad for Reggi-Mixx. “There. We gotta keep the product in the shot.”

  I did as directed, and I reminded myself to sit up straight. “Ben, if I make a mistake—garble my words—can you stop the tape and let me do it over?”

  “Nope. Reggie’s got us on a strict schedule. But if you goof up, they’ll probably fix it in the editing.”

  I doubted that.

  He switched on the red light over the lens. “Anytime you’re ready, start talking.”

  I fought down a moment of panic and managed to smile at the camera. “Hello, I’m Della Carmichael from In the Kitchen with Della. I’m here at Davis Foods International, getting ready to compete in the first national Reggi-Mixx Cake Competition.” Suddenly my mind went blank. Think, think! Keep talking.

  “I come from a family of medical people and accountants. My father was a veterinarian and my brother’s a doctor in the navy—right now he’s on an aircraft carrier. My mother and my two sisters are the accountants. They’re in business together in San Francisco: IJK Accounting. The I is for Isobel, my mother’s name, and the J and the K are my sisters, Jean and Keely. I’m the oldest of the four kids. Both our parents had to work, so Grandma Nell took care of us. When she was fourteen, she came to America from Scotland, sponsored by an uncle who’d become an American citizen. He got her a job as a servant for the wealthy family where he was the chauffeur. She worked her way up from mopping floors and scrubbing pots in the kitchen to being the cook. Except for one year when her employers spent six months in Europe—and Grandma Nell worked as a cook for a man who turned out to be a famous gangster—she was with that same family for thirty-five years. By the way, that gangster taught her how to make a great chicken cacciatore. I call it ‘Gangster Cacciatore’ and I’ve made it on my show. But she quit working for him the night some men sprayed the front of his house with bullets. After Grandma Nell retired, she came to live with us and taught me her kitchen skills. From the time I was ten years old I made our family’s meals.”

  Ben mouthed: Talk about your cake.

  “I’ve always loved to bake, but I’m not a fancy baker. I can’t spin sugar, or make bouquets of roses out of fondant. I’m still deciding what I’m going to create for the contest, but my strategy will be to concentrate on how my cake will taste.”

  Ben shut the camera off. “That’s it.”

  “We’re finished?”

  “For now. You’ll be interviewed several times during the course of the competition. If you want a tip for next time . . . ?”

  “Absolutely. Please.”

  “Maybe you should plan in advance what you’re going to say.”

  He was confirming my fear that I’d just taped the dullest few minutes in the history of reality television.

  Disappointment in myself must have shown on my face, because Ben said, “You did okay. Jeez, when some people talk to a camera, it’s like punishment to listen.”

  “But I’m a teacher, and I talk into a camera several times a week. I should have given you something better.”

  “On your shows you’re always doing something with your hands while you talk. Maybe next time you can crack eggs or be stirring stuff in a bowl.”

  I realized he was right. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  He acknowledged with a nod. “I’ll call you in the next couple of days to set up a time to shoot some B roll.”

  “What’s B roll?”

  “Oh, it’s silent footage of you at your house, messing around in your real kitchen, walking your dog, and at the studio getting ready to tape one of your shows. We edit the B roll into your facing-the-camera interviews, to make the talking interesting visually. We’ll have some of your voice on the sound track running over the silent shots.”

  “Okay. Just let me know when.” I wondered if I’d be able to get Zachary Blye to glamorize me again.

  As I picked up my tote bag and turned toward the exit, Ben opened the door to the test kitchens and called, “Next.”

  Clay Sutton came in at a trot, simultaneously beaming and fluffing his hair. “I’m going to start with a joke,” he said.

  Outside in the parking lot, I turned my cell phone back on just as it rang. I recognized the calling number as one of Mickey Jordan’s, and stopped next to my Jeep to answer.

  “Hi, Mickey.”

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “I’ve met the other contestants, had a tour of the place, and now I’m heading home.”

  “Great. I’ll have Kyle meet you there.”

  “Who’s Kyle?”

  “Kevin Kyle—the cake guy,” Mickey said. “He lives in Westwood and I’ve got him standing by. I’ll tell him to leave now, so he should get to your place about the same time you do.”

  8

  As it turned out, I was stuck behind a traffic accident on Wilshire Boulevard that left the front ends of two sports cars mashed together. Fortunately, no one was injured, but the vehicles were positioned diagonally across the boulevard, blocking traffic in both directions as the drivers screamed at each other. The police arrived quickly, but it required a pair of tow trucks to separate the mangled cars and open up a path so that the rest of us could pass the scene. It took twenty minutes longer to get home than it should have. I wanted to call Kevin Kyle to tell him I was on my way, but I hadn’t thought to ask for the man’s cell phone number before Mickey went into his meeting.

  Pulling into my driveway at last, I saw a man in his thirties—I assumed it was Kyle—sitting on my front stoop, his legs folded onto each other at the ankles. The lotus position, I remembered from a yoga class.

  His eyes were closed and his hands rested on his knees, palms up, with index fingertips and thumbs touching. It didn’t take an IQ high enough to qualify for Mensa membership to guess that he was meditating. That sight didn’t surprise me nearly as much as the silence; Tuffy, who must have been on the other side of the front door, was not barking as he usually did when someone was outside the house.

  I cut the engine, climbed out of the Jeep, and called, “Hello.”

  The man opened his eyes, glanced in my direction, and began the process of unwinding his legs. When he was standing he reached down and picked up the object beside him. I hadn’t noticed it before. It resembled a salesman’s sample case, or what photographers use to carry their equipment.

  Striding toward him, I saw that my visitor had pale blond hair cut short in the back and on the sides but swept up in the front to dip forward like an incoming wave. Emerald green eyes were complemented by what looked like a real emerald stud in his right ear. He wore slacks the color of caramel, and a whipped cream white silk shirt topped with a nut-brown cashmere sweater. Seeing him made me begin to crave a scoop of my homemade maple pecan ice cream in the freezer.

  “I’m Della Carmichael,” I said, extending my hand. “Sorry I’m late. There was a traffic—”

  “Kevin Kyle, pastry chef.” He took my hand briefly. “There’s no need to apologize. Your delay gave me a chance to talk to your dog. It’s a standard poodle, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I recognized the bark when I came to the door, but then we chatted a bit and he settled down. I used to have a standard . . .” His voice trailed off. I saw sadness in his eyes and knew that look. I’d felt the painful emotions behind it, from having lost a beloved pet to old age death months before Mack brought Tuffy, then a twelve-week-old bundle of black fur, into my life five years ago.

  “Come in,” I said, unlocking the door. “Meet Tuffy.”

  As soon as I entered, Tuffy greeted me with his usual whole-body wags of enthusiasm and I returned his welcome with affectionate words and strokes. Turning to the man behind me, I was surprised to see that his eyes were filling with tears.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “He’s black. . . . My big boy was a black standard, too. Derrick—that was h
is name. . . .” With his free hand, he gave Tuffy gentle scratches beneath one ear.

  “What happened to Derrick?”

  “Cancer. Inoperable. I took him to three veterinarians to be sure.” He barely choked out the words, then he cleared his throat and muttered, “Get a grip, Kevin.” To me, he said, “Whenever I see a black standard on the street I just start to tear up. I’ll try to make myself get another some day, but it’s so devastating when . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “It might help to think of the joy they bring us,” I said, “and the fact that we can give them love and good care and happy lives for as long as we have them.”

  Kevin Kyle nodded, took a deep breath, and shook his head as though to clear it. “You have a competition to win. Take me to your kitchen.”

  Tuffy loped ahead of us down the hallway. In the kitchen, he sat on his thick pad next to the refrigerator. It was his favorite place to watch me while I cooked.

  The pastry chef made a quick survey of my baking utensils. From the expression of disdain on his face I could tell he was not impressed.

  “I have all of the basics,” I said, a touch defensively. “Round and angel food, a Bundt mould, and cupcake pans.”

  “How pedestrian. Everyone has those. I’d hoped for more from you. Obviously, I’ll have to upgrade not just your equipment, but your thinking.”

  I fantasized bopping him on his full frontal blond wave with one of my “pedestrian” pans.

  He opened the oven door, and I gave silent thanks that I kept it clean. To my surprise, I heard him grunt with what sounded like satisfaction.

  “Good,” he said. “You have a stand-alone oven thermometer. Never trust the temp setting on your stove. Too many of them are inaccurate.” He gestured to the case he carried and to the kitchen table. “May I set this down here?”

  “Yes. Can I make you some coffee? Or tea?”

  “Nothing, thanks.” He sat and opened his sample case. I saw that it contained two thick photo albums and several cake pans in a variety of designs. He removed one of the albums and indicated that I should sit next to him. “Before we start looking at cakes, tell me about the other people in this contest.”