that a Triple A truck would take me to All Tires.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be at the tire store. Could you go to my place and take Tuffy for a walk?”
“Glad to,” she said. “I need the exercise. Where are you right now?”
“On Oakwood Drive just south of Wilshire.”
“Oakwood? That’s the street that runs next to the Olympia Grand. Were you at the hotel? Were you investigating without me?”
“Yes, but for what I had to do, you couldn’t have come with me. I’ll call you later, after they put new tires on the Jeep and I get home.”
“Okay, but don’t leave anything out. After all, I was your wheel woman and lookout while you were-well, I’m not going to say what on the phone.”
“Good idea. Thanks for taking care of Tuff.”
As has usually been my experience with Triple A Emergency Roadside Service, the truck arrived sooner than the dispatcher’s outside estimate. Such was the case today.
I showed the driver my two slashed tires and he mumbled something in what sounded like Russian. That would have fit because the name on his shirt said “Ivan.”
Ivan examined my membership card, made a note, and handed it back. I told him where to take the Jeep. He nodded, and got into his truck to position it for attaching his chain to my vehicle.
I was on the sidewalk, still scanning the street for anyone who looked suspicious. There was no one. While the driver prepared to tow my car, I walked down the street a few yards, studying the other parked cars. Mine was the only one with slashed tires.
The driver called to me. “Hey-come look.” He gestured to the passenger side of the Jeep. “You got a bigger problem than you thought.”
When I joined him in the street, I saw what he meant: The two tires on that side had been slashed, too.
All four of my tires had been ruined.
As far as I could see up and down Oakwood Drive, my car was the only one that had been targeted.
While the men at All Tires were replacing my four, I sat on a folding chair one of them had brought outdoors from the office for me. I was replaying in my head the story Eugene Long had told me about what he and Keith Ingram had plotted to do to Roland Gray, in retaliation for Gray embarrassing Tina Long four years earlier. It was an outrageous tale that I found very hard to believe.
Sitting in the hot sun was making it hard for me to think. I moved the chair into the shade and felt better. Even though there was a stale taste in my mouth and my stomach was empty and felt hollow, my head was clear.
I decided to do what I would have done more than an hour ago, if I hadn’t gotten sick and then discovered the vandalism to my Jeep. I dialed John O’Hara’s cell phone.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hi, it’s Della. I have a question. When Keith Ingram’s clothing and belongings were inventoried and bagged, was anything unusual found in one of his pockets?”
“Unusual-like what?”
“A dry, ground substance, brown in color. Probably in a little packet of plastic wrap.”
“How did you know that?” I heard surprise in his voice.
“So they found it. Tell me if it was tested to find out what it was.”
“Yes, sure. But it wasn’t a drug of any kind. Forensics said it was a spice.”
“Nutmeg?”
His voice hardened into his detective-on-the-job tone. “What’s going on, Del?”
“Was it nutmeg?” I asked.
“Yes, but it isn’t relevant to Ingram’s murder.”
“Not directly. Or maybe not at all. I don’t know yet.”
“What have you been up to?”
“This morning I went out drinking,” I said.
John laughed. “I wouldn’t believe that if you said it with your hand on a Bible. Tell me the truth.”
“Okay, but I want you to listen without yelling. Deal?”
Momentary pause. “Deal.”
I told John what Long had told me about the plot he and Keith Ingram had devised.
“That’s the most idiotic scheme I ever heard of,” John said.
“I found it hard to believe, too, until you told me that Ingram had a packet of nutmeg in his pocket.”
“Even if I was back on the force, I can’t arrest someone for what they intended to do.” He was silent for a moment. “If Gray had found out what they planned, then he’d be my number one suspect in Ingram’s murder, but then somebody tried to kill Gray.”
“None of the pieces of the puzzle we have make a picture yet,” I said.
Behind me, I heard a car horn honking. Turning my head I saw a familiar ivory Range Rover pulling into the driveway of the tire store.
“Liddy’s here,” I said. “Talk to you later. Bye.”
I disconnected before it occurred to John to ask me how I managed to get that story out of Eugene Long.
Hurrying over to meet Liddy, I saw that she wasn’t alone; sitting in the front passenger seat beside her was Tuffy.
“This is a nice surprise,” I said.
“Get in and sit with me. I couldn’t wait to hear what happened this morning.”
As soon as I opened the passenger door and greeted Tuffy, he moved into the back.
“You certainly have Tuff well trained,” Liddy said admiringly.
I had to laugh at that. “Not me. He pretty much trained himself. Sometimes I think he reads my mind.”
Liddy looked at me and frowned. “You’re pale. No lipstick or mascara, and there’s a yellowish stain on your blouse. What happened to you? Are you all right?”
I assured her that I was fine. As we waited for the last of my tires to be replaced and balanced, I repeated to Liddy what I’d told John about Long and Ingram’s bizarre plot to frame Roland Gray for attempted murder by sabotaging Gray’s lemon pudding with a lethal dose of nutmeg. I also told her the things I’d left out of my report to John: getting Long drunk, my increasing stomach distress, Tina Long’s unexpected kindness in the women’s bathroom, and then returning to my Jeep to find the tires slashed.
“Your idea of getting Long drunk so he’d tell you what he knew about Ingram’s murder-that was as weird as the nutmeg story he gave you. Do you believe him?”
“It was hard to. I wasn’t sure, so I called John just before you got here. John confirmed that one of the things they found in Ingram’s clothes was a packet of ground nutmeg.”
Liddy gave a low whistle. Tuffy, who had been lounging in the back, sat up and stuck his nose between our seats.
Stroking his head, I said, “It’s okay, Tuff. That wasn’t for you. Liddy was expressing amazement at how crazy people are getting.”
“If we needed any more proof, all we have to do is watch the news a couple of nights a week,” Liddy said.
Tuffy lay down again, and Liddy asked me, “Did they test the pudding Gray made at the cook-off?”
I shook my head. “It burned up. In the confusion when the smoke bomb went off, Gray accidentally left his stove turned on. Anyway, Ingram couldn’t have stirred the nutmeg into the pudding until it was finished and dishes were given to the judges for tasting.”
“But that never happened,” Liddy said.
“No, it didn’t.”
“What’s next on the detecting agenda?”
“I’m having tea with Roland Gray this afternoon at four. Sometime between now and then, I’ve got to figure out
