The Proof is in the Pudding

one-eighty. Lately he started sucking up in print, giving glowing mentions to those same restaurants that he used to call ‘insults to the educated palate.’ In one piece he accused Long’s executive chef of ‘a criminal misuse of the gift of fire.’ ”

“Roland Gray and Ingram had a history,” I said. “I think that if I’d had a little more time I could have gotten him to tell me about it. Just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me he was afraid of Ingram. He said he thought that Ingram was going to try to harm him.”

“That might be a reason for Gray to strike first,” John said, “except that somebody shot at Gray after Ingram was already dead and no more threat to anyone.”

“We’re going around in a circle,” Weaver said. He reached for the last muffin in the basket and took a large bite.

I pulled my notepad closer and turned to a fresh page. “Then let’s break out of that circle. Let’s list what we know about Ingram and his associations, both those on the premises the night he was killed, and others who might have hired someone to kill him.”

John indicated my sheet of paper. “Start with Eugene Long and Long’s daughter, Tina.”

I wrote.

“Yvette Dupree,” Nicholas said. I added her name.

Weaver grunted and pointed to the paper. “John and you.” He looked at his partner. “Sorry, buddy, but you did slug the bastard. And we know you broke into his house, Della.”

My pen remained poised over the page. “You can’t really think of John and me as suspects.”

“Hatch is thinking like that,” Weaver said. “But okay, scratch your names and put down Roland Gray.”

I did. “And I’m going to add the phony name, George Green, as a ‘placeholder’ until we find out who he really is.”

“This is one of those ‘locked room’ mysteries,” Nicholas said. “A smoke bomb goes off in a ballroom with only one entrance and a guard posted there.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “There were two ways to get into that room. You’re forgetting the door to the kitchen.”

Weaver stood up. “We questioned the waitstaff, but only the ones who were in the ballroom when the smoke bomb went off. I’m gonna go track down the all kitchen workers, find out if they saw somebody in the kitchen who shouldn’ta been there.”

“I’m going to call a friend at Interpol to see if they have a file on Gray,” John said.

Within a few minutes, I was showing the two detectives to the front door.

When I started back toward the kitchen, Nicholas met me in the hallway. Gently, he drew me into his arms and kissed me. Not so gently. Our arms tightened around each other, our lips parted. We kissed deeply. I felt my heart begin to beat faster.

Nicholas grabbed my hand and led me into the bedroom.

“I thought you would rather play gin or Scrabble,” I said.

His answer was to pull me around toward him. He tugged my sweater up over my head, dropped it on the floor, and unhooked my bra. “Shut up,” he whispered.

34

An hour later, Nicholas and I were luxuriating in each other’s arms after making love, when his cell phone rang. He reached across me to the night table, grabbed it, and squinted at the faceplate.

“The paper.” He pressed the answer button. “Yeah?… How many?… Address?… I’m on my way.”

Nicholas snapped the phone shut. “Three people shot in Long Beach. I hate to kiss and run, but…” He gave me a quick peck on the lips, fairly bounded out of bed, and snatched up his clothes from where he’d scattered them.

By the time I’d showered, dressed, and taken Tuffy for a walk, it was still half an hour before noon. I found the card that Will Parker gave me the night I’d met him at St. Clare’s Hospital and, for the first time, gave it more than a cursory glance.

Beneath his name were the letters “NID? WCD.” I had no idea what those letters stood for, but I like puzzles and would try to work it out. Below that acronym he’d listed his cell phone and fax numbers, both of which were in the Los Angeles area code 310. A third phone number started with what I recognized as the international code for England. In the bottom right-hand corner was his e-mail: WillDo@ swiftmail.com. No address was listed on terra firma.

The “Will” and “Do” in his e-mail address made me think that the W and the D on his card might be “Will” and “Do.” But the “C” in between…?

“Can! I’ll bet that word is Can: ‘Will Can Do.’ ” Assuming that I was right, then I must give the credit to Eileen for making me watch Wheel of Fortune on TV throughout her childhood.

Now what did the first three letters and the question mark mean?

I dialed Parker’s cell number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Will. This is Della Carmichael. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Could’na called at a better time. I’m losing at bloody backgammon. Gimme a sec.”

I heard what sounded like the creak of a chair and then footsteps.

“Back again,” he said. “Out on the balcony where I can talk.”

“How is Roland? I found out he left the hospital.”

“Blasted ’ospital! Old Rol was goin’ bonkers with people comin’ an’ goin’ at all times. Thought any moment ’e was gonna get shot at again.”

Parker lowered his voice. I pictured him looking around to be sure he was alone. “The bloke is scared out of ’is wits-’ad me get a bodyguard and bring ’im ’ome. We went to ground, so to speak.”

“Where are you now?”

“At Rollie’s flat. Gates across the driveway. Gorgons at the doors. Security up the arse-excuse the expression.”

“Has Detective Hatch questioned Roland yet?”

“Not bloomin’ likely. Rol played possum when the copper came round. I said ’e was still unconscious.”

“I’d like to visit him. Would that be all right? I promise not to stay very long.”

Silence. It lasted a few seconds, and I let it. Finally, Parker said, “Not today, poppet. Rol’s writing on ’is book. Give ’im a couple days to get ’is sea legs again.” Parker chuckled. “Some of us Limeys take gettin’ shot at better than others.”

I gasped. “You were shot at? When?”

“Ah, was a turtle’s age ago. In the military, where blokes expect to get shot at. Look, poppet, why don’t you come over tomorrow, for tea. Ol’ Rol writes until sixteen ’undred, then ’e likes a tucker.”

“A tucker?”

“Food. Tea, scones, the lot. Join us.”

“I’ll do that. Tomorrow at four o’clock. What’s the address?”

“Bloody tall white building, corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Garland Street. Rollie’s flat’s on the third floor.”

“The third? His secret agent Roger Wilde has a penthouse suite, and in hotels he always requests the top floor. I had thought that’s what Roland likes.”

He emitted a short bark of a laugh. “Rollie’s not like ol’ Rog. Rollie won’t stay on any floor higher than the third, once ’e found out that fire truck ladders only go up a ’undred feet.”

“But wouldn’t that reach to about the ninth floor?”

“True, but Rollie’s thought is that if the truck doesn’t ’ave a ladder that tall, a bloke could survive a jump into one a them firemen’s nets if ’e’s just three floors up.”

It sounded as through Roland Gray wasn’t anywhere near as daring as his literary invention, Roger Wilde. But it wouldn’t be kind to make that remark, so I said, “I think it’s wise to be cautious.”

Another short bark of a laugh. “You might say that’s the motto in this ’ouse.”