Death Takes the Cake Read online

  His expression was impossible to read, so I couldn’t tell if Shannon had told him about my old problem with Reggie. If she hadn’t mentioned it, I knew I would have to tell him because I couldn’t ask Shannon to keep my past encounter with Reggie a secret from her husband. With no time to think the situation through, I made the quick decision to tell John about that when we were alone and let him decide if that long past history needed to be in his investigative report.

  “We were in college together,” I said, “but until the other day, I hadn’t seen her for twenty-five years.”

  “You’re both here in the LA area.” Hugh Weaver’s tone was on the verge of being hostile. “I thought college buddies kept in touch.”

  “We were never buddies, Detective.” I kept my reaction cool, but thought it best to stop using his name. Hugh Weaver and I weren’t buddies either. “Reggie and I just attended the same school.”

  John and Weaver took notes as I continued my story. I told them about meeting the other contestants this morning and gave them what few details I knew about them. I left out the two items that Kevin Kyle had told me. I didn’t mention that Gordon Prescott had married the woman Kyle had planned to marry because Prescott hadn’t been the victim, so I couldn’t see how Kyle’s feelings about Prescott had any relevance to Reggie’s murder. Nor did I mention Kyle’s belief that Clay Sutton would try to win the contest through sabotage. I thought of that as gossip. It might have been relevant if Reggie had been Sutton’s competitor, but she was the contest’s sponsor.

  Hugh Weaver looked up from his notebook and gave me an assessing stare. “You said the regular workers left at six, so Ms. Davis must have been killed sometime after. Where were you between six o’clock and twenty after ten when you say you found the body?”

  I didn’t miss his subtle emphasis on the word “say.” He wanted to know if I had an alibi. “From the time I left here this afternoon, I was at my home,” I said. “During the period from six pm until I arrived here and called nine-one-one, I made and received several telephone calls. I’ll give you a list of the people I talked to, and my phone records will confirm the calls. Eileen O’Hara, John’s daughter, who stays with me while she’s going to UCLA, came home at about a quarter to seven. We had dinner together and then she left at eight thirty to go to a study group. I made and received another couple of phone calls, and at ten o’clock I left my house to come here. Her body was already cooling when I arrived, so she must have been killed closer to seven than to ten.”

  Keeping his face expressionless, John said, “It looks like Della’s in the clear.”

  “Maybe.” Weaver didn’t sound happy. I imagined he was disappointed not to have the killer within grabbing distance. “John, you can check the story with your daughter.” Weaver returned his attention to me. “Let’s have the names of the people you talked to and the times.”

  After I told him what he wanted to know, and Weaver had written the information down, he and John closed their notebooks and told me I could go home.

  Weaver took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “If you think of anything you left out, give us a call.”

  He accompanied us while John walked me out to my Jeep. I could see it wasn’t going to be possible to talk to John alone there. I said good night without telling John about my early history with Reggie, but I’d call him later.

  As I steered the Jeep through the official vehicles toward the alley, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Weaver had turned to go back into the Davis Foods building, but John was lingering outside, watching me drive away.

  Because it was well after midnight, with very little traffic in either direction, I took a chance and made an illegal lefthand turn across Pico’s double yellow line. I wanted to get home to Santa Monica as quickly as possible.

  A car that had been parked on the street at the mouth of the alley flashed its lights and made the same illegal turn.

  The fear of getting an expensive moving violation ticket clutched my heart—but almost immediately I realized that the vehicle behind me was not a patrol car.

  At the same time, my cell phone rang. I punched the answer button and heard NDM’s voice.

  “I’m right behind you. Where can we go to talk?”

  11

  Where can we go to talk?

  “The County Cork is still open,” I said. “It’s an Irish pub, on Westwood Boulevard, half a block north of Pico.”

  “I know where it is. Can’t we go to your place?”

  “The Cork is closer.” My tone was meant to shut off argument.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Less than two minutes later, I turned into the lot next to the County Cork. Designed inside and out to resemble an Irish village pub, it had a dark green awning with white letters over the wooden front door and a faded sign that featured a drawing of a shamrock with a leprechaun’s hat tilted on one of its leaves. The Cork had been a popular late-night hangout in West Los Angeles for decades. I parked where the valet attendant directed, and handed him the keys to my Jeep.

  Glancing around, I didn’t see NDM or the prized silver Masarati Quattro Porte that he’d bought for pennies on the dollar at a federal confiscation auction. I was sure he wouldn’t park in the Cork’s lot because he hated to turn the keys over to a stranger.

  I’d almost reached the pub’s entrance when I heard heavy footsteps hurrying behind me. I turned as NDM caught up.

  “Here, I’ll get that.” He stepped ahead, opened the door, and followed me inside.

  The Cork’s lighting was comfortably dim, and the air smelled of fried potatoes and beer. There was a colorful old jukebox opposite the bar, stocked with Irish songs. Mack and I used to come here sometimes. He was Irish on his mother’s side and loved those tunes. As NDM and I came in, I heard a cut from Songs of the Irish Rebellion sung by Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers. It had been a favorite of Mack’s.

  With one hand cupped lightly beneath my left elbow, NDM steered me past the big mahogany bar with the thick brass footrail and its rows of bottles and glass mugs above the mirror on the back wall. At this hour, close to closing time, there were only a few customers, which left plenty of tables far enough away from anyone else to prevent our being overheard. He chose a secluded booth.

  As we settled ourselves on opposite sides of the table, a young blond waiter in a green shirt with a shamrock pinned above a nametag that read “Dennis” came over with two menus and handed them to us. We put them down without looking.

  “Do you know what you want?” NDM asked me.

  My taste buds weren’t craving anything, but my stomach felt hollow. I realized that I should eat something, if only to help calm my emotions. I looked up at the waiter. “A strawberry scone, please.”

  “A slice of your bacon and egg pie,” NDM said.

  The waiter scribbled. “And to drink?”

  “Two coffees. Mine black. Half-and-half for the lady.” So NDM remembered how I liked my coffee, and that I could drink it late at night without losing sleep.

  The waiter nodded and went off to give our order to the kitchen.

  When we were alone, NDM crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward me slightly. “You look good.”

  “You don’t have to compliment me.”

  “I always say what I mean.”

  You just leave things out—lies of omission. Instead of bringing that up, I asked, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “A lot of things . . .”

  “Let’s concentrate on one subject only: murder. Did you hear a police call on your scanner?”

  He nodded. “My sources tell me that the victim is Regina Davis, owner of Davis Foods International. What were you doing there?”

  “You’re after a story, so where’s your notebook?”

  “I don’t need to write everything down. You know what a good memory I have.” A glint lighted his dark eyes and his full lips curved in that slight smile I’d seen so often just before we made love. It sent
a little electric jolt of remembered desire to my nether regions, but I fought against reacting to it.

  I kept my tone bland. “What do you want to know?”

  “Okay, I’ll be professional—for now. How did you happen to be at the Davis test kitchens to discover the body?”

  I decided that there was no reason why I shouldn’t tell him that. “I’m one of five contestants in a baking competition sponsored by the Reggi-Mixx company. We can only work there after hours so we don’t interfere with company business, and we were each given a key to the premises.”

  “How did Regina Davis die?”

  I worded my answer carefully. “As far as I know, the medical examiner hasn’t rendered her opinion yet.”

  “But what did you see when you found the body?”

  “You’ll have to ask the detectives on the case.”

  NDM snorted. “John O’Hara wouldn’t tell me what time it was if I was on my way to the gallows. And you know why.”

  I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “You’re a reporter and he’s LAPD—natural enemies.”

  “He dislikes me because of you—because of us. Don’t play dumb.”

  “There is no ‘us.’ ” Not anymore. Before I could stop myself I added, “Anyway, I thought you liked ‘dumb’ women. But maybe only if it’s genuine.”

  NDM grinned at me. “Meow. So you still care.”

  I wanted to kick myself. No—I wanted to think of a great comeback, a put-down that he’d never forget, one so clever that it would wither his libido for at least a month. But my brain seemed to freeze and I couldn’t think of anything. Fortunately, at that moment, the waiter arrived with our food and coffee.

  By the time Dennis had set the plates and cups in front of us, asked if we wanted anything else, and departed again, enough time had passed that I could pretend the feelings NDM awakened in me hadn’t occurred.

  On edge in NDM’s company, and annoyed at myself for it, I broke off a piece of the scone and, while it was still on the plate, I said, “Delicious.”

  “You haven’t tasted it yet.”

  Archly, I declared, “The strawberry scones here are always delicious.” I put the piece into my mouth and nearly choked. The crust was hard and the inside was dry as chalk. I managed to wash it down with the coffee. That, at least, was excellent.

  NDM took a large forkful of his bacon and egg pie, which looked a lot better than my wretched scone. While it had pleased me once, now it was maddening that he was able to eat so heartily without looking gross. Everything about him was irritating me.

  After he’d chewed and swallowed, NDM reached into his pocket and took out a small notebook and pen.

  “Who are the other people in this contest of yours?”

  “The police might not want that information made public yet, so I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll find them out through my sources tomorrow.”

  “Then you don’t need to get them from me tonight.”

  In the tote bag that lay beside me in the booth, I heard my cell phone ring. I fished it out and saw a familiar number on the faceplate. “Excuse me,” I said, turning my head away from NDM to answer. “Hello.”

  “I’m at your house,” John O’Hara said. “Where are you?”

  “I stopped somewhere. Is Eileen all right? Is that why you’re there?”

  “Eileen’s fine. When are you coming home?”

  “Right now,” I said. “I need to talk to you. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I said a quick good-bye and disconnected.

  Across the table, NDM was scowling. “No mystery who that was,” he said. “Does Lieutenant O’Hara worry about his wife as much as he worries about you?”

  “What a rotten thing to say. John’s been one of my closest friends for years. That crack reveals more about you than it does about him.” I grabbed my bag and stood up.

  “Are you in such a rush to go see him that you won’t even finish your scone?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  12

  John was sitting on the front stoop when I pulled into my driveway and cut the engine. He stood, hurried over to the passenger door, and climbed into the Jeep before I could get out.

  “Eileen was coming back from walking Tuffy when I arrived,” he said. “Now she’s gone to bed. Do you mind if we talk out here?”

  “No, but wouldn’t you rather come into the house? I can make some coffee—”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to be sure that you’re really all right, that you got back safely. I need to get home.”

  The way he said that part about needing to get home caused me a twinge of concern. “Is Shannon all right? We had lunch yesterday and she seemed to be in a fine mood.”

  “She hasn’t been sleeping the last couple of nights. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Regina Davis. Your partner seemed so hostile to me that I didn’t tell you everything back there. It’s true that until Mickey Jordan entered me in this cake competition I hadn’t seen Reggie since college, but she and I weren’t just casual acquaintances back then. We had a serious problem with each other.” I told John about exposing the fact that it was Reggie who was stealing money from the dorm rooms, and that when she left to transfer to another school, she said that if we ever crossed paths again she was going to kill me.

  John’s mouth tightened. “And you agreed to be in a contest she sponsored? What’s the matter with you? Do you have some kind of a death wish?”

  I bristled. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child who ran outside to play in the street. I repeat: The trouble Reggie and I had happened twenty-five years ago with no contact since— not until two days ago, when she came to my house and acted as though we’d always been the closest of friends. She told me all about her unhappy marriages, and got so drunk in my living room that I had to drive her home.”

  “Jeez! How could you let yourself get involved with—”

  “John, that’s enough. Please. I agreed to be in the contest to promote the TV show. I have to do whatever I can to help it succeed and stay on the air.” I wasn’t about to admit to him that the show’s success was vital to my financial survival.

  John was quiet for a moment. He put one big hand on the passenger door handle but didn’t open it. Looking straight ahead through the windshield, he said softly, “There was a time when, if you were in trouble, I could give you a hug and tell you everything was going to be all right. But I can’t do that now.”

  “No, you can’t . . .” This was the closest that John had come to acknowledging the unexpected—and profoundly unsettling—flash of attraction we’d felt for each other a few months ago. Since that evening in my kitchen I did my best to be sure we saw very little of each other. Those times when we were unavoidably in the same place there was a slight awkwardness on both our parts, and we had been careful not to touch.

  The embarrassing realization that I could be attracted to John had driven me directly into the arms of Nicholas D’Martino. NDM had flirted with me, I’d rejected him with what I thought was withering sarcasm, and then I’d thrown myself into his startled but receptive arms. Our romance, or our collision of lust, or whatever that relationship had been, was wonderful for as long as it had lasted. The lovemaking was fabulous, and we discovered that we laughed at many of the same jokes and situations. Except for our arguments over politics—heated but never angry and usually leavened by humor at some point—I had thought NDM and I were a good match.

  I must have been the only one of the two of us who thought so, because seeing him with that young blonde yesterday was as big a shock as if he’d flung ice water in my face. On reflection, I knew that I had been foolish and naïve to assume that our sleeping together had meant some kind of implicit promise of fidelity. While it had been that for me, now I wanted to smack the palm of my hand hard against my forehead and yell, “You idiot!”

  Yankin
g myself back from my momentary wallow in self-flagellation, I realized that the silence between John and me had grown uncomfortable. I had to break it before one of us slipped and said something personal we might regret. To get us to the safer subject of murder, I asked, “Are you going to tell Detective Weaver about my history with Reggie?”

  “I’ll have to, but I’ll also tell him I’m convinced that it doesn’t have anything to do with our case.”

  “What’s the next step in your investigation?”

  “Tomorrow morning we’ll start interviewing all of the people in her life.” He opened the passenger door, but turned to me as he was getting out of the Jeep. “We don’t know what this case is about yet. Until we do, please don’t take any chances.” Turning away from me, he added, “Eileen needs you.”

  John escorted me to my front door and we said good night, carefully.

  After greeting Tuffy and Emma, with enough stroking and cooing to satisfy them, I checked my voice mail and found that an excited message from Liddy had come in at eleven pm.

  “Oh, Del—the most wonderful thing has happened!” She was breathless and burbling like a teenage girl. “I was so wrong about Bill! He came home a little while ago and told me everything! I can’t talk long right now because he’ll be out of the shower in a minute—but he volunteered that he’d fibbed to me about where he was last Tuesday, and where he was going to be tonight. He said he had to tell me the truth because it was so painful for him not to. Del, what he was really doing was working on a surprise for me: He was taking ballroom dancing lessons! You know how I loved to dance but Bill said he always felt like a three-legged buffalo when he got up to try? Well, he decided that since it’s something I like, he’s going to learn so we can enjoy it together. And that’s not all! He bought tickets for us to go on a week’s cruise to Mexico on the Pacific Princess! We’ll be dancing to an orchestra every night. Don’t I have the most marvelous husband in the whole world?”

  There was a momentary pause in the message. I thought it was over and was about to push the key to delete it, but then she started talking again in a hurried whisper. “I heard Bill turn off the water in the shower. I’m going to go make love to my wonderful man. Talk to you tomorrow!” The call ended. There were no other new messages.