“That must leave at least a couple dozen people in my area who were in the right spot to set off the smoke and kill Ingram.”
“They’ll be scrutinized for any connection they had to Ingram,” John said. “Unless someone is shooting at us, most police work is the process of elimination, putting the shoe leather on the concrete, asking questions and checking answers until somebody slips up, or we find enough evidence for an arrest.
“You weren’t watching the four celebrities in your section, or the French woman. Any one of them, or someone else you didn’t see, could have tossed the smoke bomb and stabbed Ingram. Based on my slugging the vic earlier, Hatch thinks I could have sneaked in behind the crowd, set off the bomb, and killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “If you were going to kill a man, why would you have hit him earlier and called attention to yourself? Besides, where could you have cooked up a smoke bomb? You said you were walking around the hotel grounds. You wouldn’t have had time to go somewhere, concoct that thing, and come back in after your… fight.”
“It wasn’t a fight. I punched him and he went down. That’s assault and battery, and you know it. As for the bomb, I could have made it before we got to the hotel and just lighted it when people’s attention was on something else.”
“You didn’t know that Wolf Wheeler would start performing,” I protested.
“I didn’t,” John said, “but someone might have.”
“He wasn’t scheduled entertainment. Apparently, he saw an opportunity to start showing off and be the center of attention. That’s hardly unheard of for an actor.”
“Wheeler could be an accessory. He might have a history with Ingram, or ties to someone on your side of the room. Those possibilities have to be checked out.”
My wall phone rang. John clenched his jaw, signaling his irritation at the interruption.
“I’ll make it quick,” I said.
In response to my hello, I heard the voice of one of the Better Living Channel’s telephone operators. “A man named Roland Gray is trying to reach you,” she said. “Of course I wouldn’t give him your number, but if you like I can transfer him to your line now.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I said.
“Hello? Della Carmichael? This is Roland Gray. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No,” I said, “but I don’t have much time to talk at the moment.”
“I’ll be brief. According to my private investigator, Sherlock Google, you teach cooking classes in Santa Monica. Correct?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I was wondering if you would like me to come there some time, to demonstrate one of my puddings. I don’t mean to be self-aggrandizing, but I am something of an expert on the subject of pudding. It’s the forgotten pleasure.”
I was about to put him off when I had an idea. “How about being the guest on my live show tonight? I can cut the dessert I was going to make and we can substitute pudding. Your thrillers are so popular, I’m sure the viewers would enjoy the surprise of watching you cook. Are you available?”
“I can be… Yes, definitely,” he said. “I’ll bring all the ingredients and my favorite utensils.”
“That’s wonderful. Would you bring a finished pudding, too, so we can display the end product? And also a copy of your latest book. I’ll show it to the audience and to the viewers at home.”
“How delightful of you. Where is your studio, and what time shall I be there?”
I gave him the address. “We go on the air at seven PM, but you should arrive by six so the director can walk you through your segment.”
“I’ll see you this evening,” he said.
After replacing the receiver, I turned to John. He was looking at me with curiosity.
“That was the British author from the contest. Roland Gray.”
I picked up the receiver again, dialed the studio, and left a message for director Quinn Tanner, telling her that the famous novelist Roland Gray was going to be a guest on the show tonight.
“He’ll be making his special pudding for the audience, so I’m cutting the dessert I’d planned to make,” I told Quinn’s voice mail. After letting her know what time Gray would arrive, I said that I’d see her later, and disconnected.
“It appears you’ve made another conquest,” John said. “Roland Gray’s a bad writer, but I have to admire how fast he works.”
I ignored John’s sarcasm. “He’s a good writer, or at least a good storyteller, or he wouldn’t sell so many millions of copies. I like his books-but I invited him to be on the show so that I can talk to him about last night. We can talk to him, if you want to come this evening.”
“You can bet I’ll be there. You shouldn’t be alone with someone who could be a murderer.”
“After the smoke bomb went off, Roland Gray kept me from getting hurt by the stampeding crowd. We were both crouched under his preparation counter. Before that, he was facing me. When the juggling started, he moved around to stand on my side of his stove to get a better view of Wolf Wheeler’s act. I’m hoping that he saw something or someone in the crowd behind me and has not realized that it’s significant.”
John looked skeptical. “It’s a long shot.”
“Practically everything in life is a long shot. If he knows something that helps the investigation, and you solve the murder, that should get you reinstated.”
“Instead of arrested,” John said glumly.
“Arrested?” I felt a jolt of fear for him. “You’re not serious?”
“Manny Hatch is going to try to hang Ingram’s killing around my neck.”
Tuffy, who had been relaxing while we talked, lifted his head to stare toward the front of the house. He got to his feet. I heard a growl low in his throat-and a second later the doorbell rang.
16
I started at the sound of the doorbell. John’s posture stiffened. I guessed John had the same concern as I did: that the visitor was Detective Manny Hatch, clutching hand-cuffs and a warrant for John’s arrest.
I calmed down when I realized it was too soon for Hatch to make a move against John. He didn’t have evidence other than John’s confrontation with Ingram. Thanks to my early morning burglary, he wouldn’t find a motive for John to have killed Ingram.
“It’s probably just Phil, or someone from his office,” I said. “He’s having the dress I wore last night picked up.”
I started toward the front door. John got up and followed me.
Through the living room window I saw that the person pressing my bell wasn’t Detective Hatch. I let out a little sigh of relief.
I opened the door to be ignored by Hugh Weaver, John’s LAPD partner. Without so much as a blink in my direction, he looked past me at John.
“We gotta talk,” Weaver said.
“Has there been progress in the investigation?” I asked.
“One of the SID guys found the smoke bomb foil balled up and shoved down into one of those palm tree containers.”
“Prints on the foil?” John asked.
Weaver grunted in frustration. “We got zilch.”
“Come into the kitchen and have breakfast,” I said.
Weaver’s scowl cracked, and he almost smiled.
A few minutes later I was cooking for the three of us. Scrambled eggs and bacon for me, and the same plus large pancakes for John and his partner. I’d learned years ago that John liked pancakes the size of a salad plate. No “dollar size” griddlecakes for this crime-fighter.
“The f***in’ captain-excuse me, Della.”
