The Proof is in the Pudding

Melinda Wells The Proof is in the Pudding

The third book in the Della Cooks Mystery series, 2010

To Norman Knight

Acknowledgments

I am immensely grateful to the following:

Editor Kate Seaver, who inspired this series. Thank you for your suggestions, which made this a better book.

Priscilla Gilman and Morton Janklow. I’m so lucky to be represented by you! Thank you for your unwavering support, and for your guidance.

Claire Carmichael, a terrific novelist, and a brilliant instructor. Thanks to you, I’m a better writer than I would have been without your “athletic eyes.”

D. Constantine Conte, mentor and treasured friend. I’ve learned so much from you.

Carole Moore Adams for creating the pudding in this book. (Her recipe is included.)

Penrose (Penny) Anderson, Fred Caruso, Penni Crenna, Seana Crenna, Linda Dano, Richard Fredricks, and Betty Pfouts for contributing some of their wonderful recipes. “Della” and I enjoyed making them!

To my “secret weapons,” the test readers who see the early manuscripts and give me their invaluable reactions: Arthur Abelson, Carole Moore Adams, Gina Anderson, Penrose Anderson, Christie Burton, Rosanne Kahil Bush, Jane Wylie Daley, Ira Fistell, Nancy Koppang, Judy Tathwell Hahn, Jaclyn Carmichael Palmer, and Anna Stramese.

Wayne Thompson of Colonial Heights, Virginia, who inspires me and makes me laugh.

Berry Gordy: Your place in my heart is, and always has been, unique.

1

“You’re going to love what I’ve done to promote your show!” said Phil Logan, as soon as he finished gasping for air.

Phil, head of publicity for the Better Living Channel where I hosted In the Kitchen with Della, had spotted me walking with my black standard poodle, Tuffy, along the grassy area at the far end of the cable network’s North Hollywood production facility. He’d waved wildly and burst into a sprint to join us.

Because the property was surrounded by a security fence, I’d let Tuffy off the leash. He had been sniffing happily at scented trails that no human could follow, but he stopped and looked up to watch Phil dashing toward us.

What with Phil’s abundant mane of sandy hair and his unlined face, he looked a decade younger than his thirty- two years, but he wasn’t in as good shape as his reedy frame suggested. By the time he covered the fifty yards that separated us he was red-faced with exertion and looked ready to collapse.

I reached out to steady him. “Lean forward, Phil. Put your hands on your knees and take deep breaths.”

After a few gulps of cool air, his complexion lost its unnatural crimson shade and resumed its normal color, which was somewhere between parchment and the ivory keys on a piano. A workaholic, Phil Logan was definitely an indoor man.

He straightened up. “You’re just what every guy needs- a good-looking woman who’s a nurturer. Unfortunately, my ex-wife was only good-looking.” He shook off that rare moment of melancholy and aimed a triumphant grin at me. “Wait ’til you hear my news!”

I admired Phil’s zeal for his job, but I had every reason to be wary when I saw that “I’ve got a great idea” expression on his face.

I said, “Your last stunt almost put a Los Angeles Dodger on the disabled list.”

Two weeks ago, as a tie-in to the show I was preparing called “Cooking for the Ball Game,” Phil convinced me to put on a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball uniform and be photographed “practicing” with the team.

I’d warned him that I wasn’t even remotely athletic. “In school, the only team I was ever chosen for was Debating.”

“You don’t have to play,” he’d said. “Just take a couple swings with the bat while my photographer gets some shots.”

One of the new Dodger pitchers, a polite young man who told me that his mother loved my show, threw an easy one toward me. I swung. Miraculously, the bat connected with the ball, but cheers turned to gasps when the ball struck shortstop Tony Cuervo on the ankle. His yelp of pain brought the team’s medic running. In addition to feeling awful that I’d hurt him, I had a horrible vision of the team’s owner suing me for the player’s astronomical salary.

Luckily, Cuervo wasn’t injured. He claimed he just cried out because he was surprised “the girl” could hit a ball. The picture that landed on the sports page of the Los Angeles Chronicle showed me gaping in horror, like that Edvard Munch painting, The Scream.

Nicholas D’Martino, the man in my life, now calls me “Slugger.”

The Chronicle headlined the story “Cook Conks Cuervo.” Phil got it picked up by the wire services and published all over the country.

“National publicity,” he said proudly.

“You mean national humiliation.”

“They spelled your name right, In the Kitchen with Della got a bump up in the ratings, and people all over the country who only read the Sports section now know about you.”

In a gesture of fondness, Tuffy leaned against Phil’s thigh. Phil responded by reaching down to give him an ear scratch, but at that moment Tuffy spotted a squirrel a few yards away and took off after it. Tuffy was five years old, and try though he might, had never caught a squirrel. I presumed that by now he gave chase just for the exercise.

Watching Tuffy, Phil said, “Your big guy gets fan mail. My secretary answers it for him, on paw print stationery I had made.”

“Isn’t that going a little far? Too cutesy?”