The Proof is in the Pudding

decorating several fingers, I guessed that none of these big-carat baubles were from Italian men.

“That’s useful to know,” I said.

Yvette peered at me through thick false eyelashes: first at my unadorned neck, then at my naked wrists, and finally my ringless fingers. She nodded to herself, as though she had come to some personal conclusion. “You do not need diamonds to wear,” she said. “Keep zem in your bank.”

That would be good advice, if I had any diamonds to put in a bank.

Moving to another subject, she said, “Do you know there are pas de-pardon, I mean no psychiatrists en Italia?”

I admitted that I hadn’t heard that, but I added that I thought the actress Audrey Hepburn had been married to an Italian who was a psychiatrist.

“No psychiatrists,” she insisted. “En Italia, when peoples have zee problem zee men go to zee mamas and womens go to zee priests. America, c’est merveilleux, but too many psychiatrists, all wanting to know about one’s sentimental life.”

I had no idea what to say to that, but a response wasn’t necessary because now her gaze had passed me and had focused on the sea of glamorous-and glamorized-people who thronged the ballroom.

“All zis for zee charity. Bon.” Twirling one perfectly manicured index finger in the direction of the cluster of stoves, she said, “We must be judging, oui?”

“Oui.” It was one of the few French words I knew.

“A bientot.” She smiled and moved away on tiny little steps toward the first line of gas stoves.

I had only that one brief conversation with Yvette Dupree, but I liked her. She was a little gaudy, and had some odd opinions, but she seemed unpretentious, and she exuded warmth that made her pleasant to be around.

Surveying the ballroom, I saw Keith Ingram in the middle aisle, jotting something on his clipboard. With Yvette going along the far left row of celebrities, and Ingram in the middle path, I decided to begin my study of the activities along the right side of the room.

I’d reached my fourth stove when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a familiar figure: a man who towered over most of the men around him. Because he’d been my husband’s partner and our friend, I’d seen those broad shoulders and that military-short hair at least a thousand times over the course of twenty-two years. Almost simultaneously, another moving body caught my attention: Shannon O’Hara, looking voluptuous in a sea foam green evening gown. Several yards behind her husband, Shannon ’s halo of red curls bounced as she tried to get through the crowd to catch up with him.

I was wondering why John O’Hara was moving so rapidly, leaving Shannon to struggle in his wake, when I felt the click of comprehension in my brain: John was speeding like a locked-on missile right toward Keith Ingram. The food critic’s back was to him, but John’s left hand grabbed Ingram’s right shoulder, yanking Ingram around to face him.

Ingram grunted in surprise and jerked out of John’s grasp, but before he could utter a protest, John’s right fist shot out. With a heavy thud, John’s knuckles connected with Ingram’s jaw. It sounded like Rocky Balboa thumping that side of beef.

Propelled by John’s blow, Ingram reeled backward, stumbling against a corpulent, white-haired spectator. The older man tottered, but he clutched at a nearby waiter and managed to keep his balance while Ingram tumbled to the floor on his rear end. Ingram’s legs flailed in the air, like a huge turtle that had been flipped over onto its shell.

8

Instinct had sent me rushing toward the action just as John’s fist started toward Ingram’s face. Too late to stop the punch, I pushed in front of John just as Shannon, Liddy, and Bill reached him. Amid a babble of shocked voices, Ingram struggled to his feet, helped by the overweight man and the waiter.

Prodding John’s chest hard with the end of my clipboard, I whispered, “What’s the matter with you?”

John’s dark eyes were almost black with fury. He clamped his mouth tight and backed away from me.

All around us, photographers’ flashes were going off. Some gala attendees moved away from the combatants while others inched closer to get a better look. And two large uniformed security men pressed through the throng toward us.

Pointing at John, Ingram shouted to the security guards, “Arrest that maniac!”

The guards started toward John, but the fierce expression on his face stopped them. Her eyes wide with shock, Shannon clutched John’s arm while he stood rigid.

“Now, now, let’s not turn some little misunderstanding into World War Three.”

It was a new voice on the scene, a man’s, soothing, and smooth as softened butter, the voice of a midnight disk jockey who played Frank Sinatra songs until dawn. But it wasn’t a disk jockey joining us. I’d heard that voice and seen his face in television interviews about the success of his multilayered financial empire. Tall and slender, with thick silver hair framing even features, he was as handsome as he was rich.

“There’s no need to arrest anyone.” Eugene Long’s tone was genial. He held a glass with an amber-colored liquid in one hand, and with the other he gave the shoulder of the nearest of the two guards a friendly pat. “Why don’t you boys go to the Palm Room down the hall and have a big steak dinner with all the trimmings. Just sign my name to the tab.” He took a healthy swallow from the glass. I probably wouldn’t have noticed except for Liddy’s remark about Long being a heavy drinker. His eyes seemed exceptionally bright, but that might have been a trick of the lights; he didn’t sound drunk.

The guards thanked their employer. One aimed a final frown at John, and the two of them headed toward the exit. As the crowd parted to let them through, I saw Eileen across the room. Her hands pressed against her lips as though suppressing a scream.

John leaned down to whisper something to Shannon, then took her hand from his arm and gently put it into Liddy’s. After giving Bill a brief nod, John hurried out of the ballroom. With his eyes fixed on the exit, he couldn’t see Eileen, who was standing frozen, out of his line of sight.

Eugene Long drew Ingram away from the crowd and was speaking quietly to him. I hurried past the rows of stoves that separated us and grasped Eileen around her wrists, lowering her hands from her mouth.

“Why did your father explode? Did you tell him what Ingram did to you?”

She shook her head. “Mother knew I was upset and was getting agitated because I wouldn’t tell her why, so I gave in and said Keith was threatening to ruin my reputation. Right after that, Daddy came into the room. I didn’t even know he’d come home. He didn’t say anything, but now I realize he must have overheard us talking about Keith.”

We were interrupted by an irritating electronic screech from the direction of the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Eugene Long took a sip from his glass, wiped his lips, and bent over the speaker’s stand. He tapped the microphone and muttered, “Is this thing on?”

A technician popped up from beneath the pedestal and assured him that it was connected.

“Good boy,” Long said. He straightened and raised his drink in salute to the prosperous audience under his vaulted roof. With the bonhomie of a politician, he said, “Cheers, everybody, and welcome to the Celebrity Cook-Off. Tonight, in this very room, there are more stars than we can see in the sky-at least not unless we get some of the Santa Ana winds to blow the smog away. Seriously, thank you all for being here. Now, people, hold your applause until I’ve introduced everybody.”

As a spotlight hit each celebrity at his or her cooking station, that star responded with a wave, or a blown kiss, or a fist pumped in anticipation of victory. When Long pronounced the final name, he said, “Let’s show our appreciation for these great talents with the big hearts who are giving their time tonight for the Healthy Life Fund.”

Sustained applause from their fans.

“Now I’d like to introduce the three accomplished people who are going to pick the Celebrity Cook-Off winner. First, a beautiful world traveler, and my old and dear friend, the Global Gourmet, Yvette Dupree.”

Yvette waved her hand that held the clipboard. Because she was short, the group nearest her had to step to one side for her to be seen by more of the crowd.