The Proof is in the Pudding

“Very much.”

Berger addressed the waiter-actor. “Bring us two of your-whatever it was you said about the halibut.”

“Excellent choice.”

The waiter left to give our orders to the kitchen.

“I’ve had that dish before. It’s very good, and it comes with shoestring potatoes that deserve a prize,” Berger said.

The waiter returned with my iced tea and Berger’s white wine. As soon as he left again, Berger said, “You said you’re concerned about Roland. So am I. Being shot at was pretty traumatic, but happily, he wasn’t seriously injured.”

“His assistant, Will Parker, tells me he’s back at work on his new book.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve learned that no matter what happens in his personal life, nothing deters Roland from writing. He’s the most reliable author I’ve ever represented. Plus, I like him a lot.”

“To judge from his warm words about you in the Terror Master acknowledgments, he’s very fond of you, too. He told me that he needs your reaction to his manuscripts before he sends them to the publisher.”

“Roland is too generous in his praise. I’m very little help, except when it comes to his contracts.” He flashed a proud-little-boy smile. “Those contracts are my contributions to the world of art. Now, let’s get to the point of your call. Someone shot at Roland. Since you were with him, I can appreciate your concern. My understanding is that the police don’t know yet whether this was a random example of urban blight, or if it was personal. Frankly, I vote for urban blight, some subhuman out for kicks who can’t distinguish between killing people in a video game and shooting at a live person. Roland doesn’t go around having feuds or making enemies. He’s very easy to get along with. But, having said that, I must admit I’m glad he’s safe in his bunker of an apartment while the police are investigating. Those are my thoughts. Your turn. What’s on your mind?”

“Just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me that he was afraid of Keith Ingram. He didn’t have a chance to say why. Of the people who were known to be at the gala the night Ingram was murdered, the only one I’ve been able to connect to both Ingram and Roland is Yvette Dupree. She’s famous as the Global Gourmet. Do you know her?”

Berger looked thoughtful. “Not really…”

“Mr. Berger-”

“Alan, please.”

“Alan.” I gave him a teasing smile. “I’ve lived long enough to know that when a man says ‘Not really’ it actually means ‘Yes.’ ”

“Well, I did meet her once, a few months ago, when Roland gave a small dinner party. She seemed charming, but I wouldn’t say that I know her.”

“Yvette was Roland’s date?”

“I don’t remember if she was paired with anyone. The evening was to celebrate the fact that Terror Master had reached the high sales threshold that meant the publisher had to pay him a bigger royalty. She cooked the meal-Moroccan dishes, in tribute to the parts of the book that were set in Morocco. It was delicious.”

He squinted for a moment, as though trying to recall details of the evening. Then something made him smile.

“She told us that we had to eat the proper way for a Moroccan meal-meaning without cutlery, and scooping food from the communal serving bowls by using pieces of flat bread. Will Parker, who’s a bit of an imp, concealed a fork behind the pocket handkerchief in his jacket. When she was in the kitchen, he used his fork to eat. I wished I’d thought of that.”

I chuckled. “That is funny. Did she catch him?”

“Oh, yes. She called him incorrigible. That word is almost the same in French as it is in English, so we all laughed. Parker wasn’t embarrassed about it. He said something to the effect that if God had meant humans to eat with their hands he wouldn’t have let them invent silverware. As a wit, Parker isn’t exactly Oscar Wilde, but he is enjoyable to be around.”

“Who else was at the dinner?”

“Only my wife, Frances, and Mary Lively. Mary’s one of my agents-my backup. Roland calls her if he needs something and I’m out of town.”

“Is Mary Lively close to Roland?”

“Not-” He stopped and grinned. “I was about to say ‘not really.’ Mary is a spry eighty-seven and tells people she’s ten years younger. An old-school career woman-still wears hats in the office. I hope she never retires, because she’s amazing at spotting new young writers. I run a small, boutique literary agency. Mary’s discovered a third of our client list.”

The waiter brought our Crisp-Fried Herbed Halibut with shoestring potatoes. It was as good as Alan Berger had promised. While we were eating, Berger turned the conversation around to me, and asked if I had any interest in writing a cookbook.

“Because you’re on television, I’m sure I could sell it,” he said.

“I’ve never thought of it, but I don’t think I’m qualified. I’ve never had formal training as a cook.”

“That might be an advantage; you’d be representing the majority of people. The audience must like you because your ratings have doubled since In the Kitchen with Della went on the air.”

“How did you know that?”

His nice hazel eyes twinkled. “I researched you when Roland told me he was guesting on your show. After I saw you, I made a mental note to call at some point to discuss the possibility of a cookbook.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid that what I make is too simple for a book. Anyone who watches the show could make my dishes, and I already post the recipes on my Web site.”

“Don’t dismiss the idea without thinking about it,” he said. “You might enjoy seeing your face on a book cover. And it could only help your show.”

To be polite, I agreed to think about it, but at the moment the only thing I was interested in was finding out who killed Keith Ingram and tried to kill Roland Gray.

My lunch with Alan Berger was pleasant, but it didn’t yield the “Aha!” moment that pointed me in the right direction to solving the mystery that threatened me, and those dear to me.

I did learn one thing, though. Yvette Dupree was close enough to Roland that she had personally cooked his celebration dinner. That wasn’t the act of a mere acquaintance.

As we were having coffee and dessert-marmalade steamed pudding-I planned my next move.

36

It was close to three o’clock when Alan Berger and I were saying good-bye outside the restaurant.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you,” Berger said. “Perhaps you’ll have dinner sometime soon with me and my wife. I’d like to talk to you more about the possibility of doing a cookbook.”

The valet brought my Jeep. Berger insisted on paying him.

“Thank you,” I said. “And, thank you for lunch.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

***

The idea that had occurred to me during lunch involved going to the Santa Monica Library. When I had time to read for pleasure, it was one of my regular stops, so I knew that it was open until four o’clock on Sundays. That was perfect. What I wanted to do wouldn’t take more than an hour.

The Santa Monica Library, on the corner of Montana Avenue and Seventeenth Street, is a one-story building with a simple exterior, but to anyone who loves libraries as I do, the inside is a magical kingdom for grown-ups, filled with the delights of entertainment and knowledge.