Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

Did I have enough money to pay for destroying an original Jorge Allesandro? If Phil Logan didn’t kill me, that designer might.

Eugene Long claimed my attention by appearing with a portable microphone in his hand and taking control of the room.

“All right, everyone. Please, stay calm.” The babble of whispering voices quieted as everyone focused on Long.

“Mike, call the police,” Long said to the nearest security officer, who obeyed his boss. At Long’s raised hand signal, the security man at the entrance to the ballroom moved swiftly to close the doors and stand in front of them.

Long said to his captive audience, “I’m afraid that we’ll all have to remain here until the police arrive, but please move back toward the walls to keep this area around the… around this tragic situation clear. For those of you who are uncomfortable standing for some length of time, I’ll have the waitstaff bring in chairs.”

Before I could move away, Tina Long pushed her way through the crowd with such force that she almost fell over Ingram’s body. Looking down at him, she started to shriek.

Shoving his microphone under one arm, Long embraced his daughter. With her face pressed against his chest, she stopped screaming, but I could see her shoulders shaking.

“Baby doll, calm down,” Long said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

How is everything going to be all right? I wondered where Long kept his crystal ball.

Tina babbled something unintelligible and started sobbing and gulping for air.

Yvette Dupree stepped forward, stretched her arms out, and said to the girl. “Ma cherie, come.”

With a nod of assent, Eugene Long guided his hysterical daughter into Yvette’s arms.

“Go through the kitchen and take her to my suite,” he said. “Give her some brandy and make her lie down.”

When Long had introduced Yvette, he’d referred to her as his “dear friend.” Apparently, that wasn’t just show business- speak. It was clear to me from the scene I was witnessing that Eugene Long and Yvette Dupree were, at the least, close friends. Tina must know her, too, because she allowed herself to be transferred from her father to the French woman without complaint. And I noticed Yvette didn’t ask the location of Long’s suite as she hurried Tina toward the kitchen doors.

Someone in the crowd yelled, “Hey! How come they can leave and we’re stuck in here?” The voice came from a portly man whose red-veined face suggested that he drank too much port.

Long glared at him. “My daughter is ill.” His tone, colder than a bucket full of ice, discouraged further protest. As though a personality switch had been flipped, he flashed a bright smile. “Hey, waiters-bring everybody here fresh drinks. Including me.”

Seconds after Yvette and Tina disappeared, the ballroom doors opened and six uniformed LAPD officers streamed in.

Roland Gray moved up to stand next to me. “When the owner of the Olympia Grand reports a crime, the police respond more quickly and in greater numbers than they would to the cry of an ordinary citizen,” he said in his clipped English accent.

I was torn between my automatic defense of the police and the realization that Gray was probably correct. In many circumstances, wealth and celebrity bought at least some degree of preferential treatment.

Eugene Long, who had remained next to Ingram’s body like a sentry, waved the police over toward him. Two double-timed it in his direction and the other four fanned out around the perimeter of the room.

Long showed them Ingram’s body. The two officers were careful not to go too close to it, and immediately positioned themselves so as to keep anyone else away.

New movement at the ballroom’s entrance caught my eye and I saw another member of the law enforcement fraternity rush into the ballroom, but this one was dressed in black tie: John O’Hara.

John spotted Shannon, Eileen, Liddy, and Bill standing together near the entrance and joined them. Shannon ’s expression was stony, but I could see Eileen weeping. John hugged his wife and daughter and murmured a few words. He lifted his head, surveyed the room, and spotted me. He said something to the Marshalls, left Eileen and Shannon with them, and headed toward Long, and where Keith Ingram lay dead.

I stepped forward, preventing John from going closer to the body, and to the police. “I thought you’d gone home,” I whispered.

He shook his head. Noticing the blood on my dress, he said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But-”

“That’s the man, Officers!” Eugene Long’s voice boomed. I turned to see him pointing at John O’Hara.

“That’s the man who assaulted Mr. Ingram tonight. Arrest him,” Long demanded.

I could see that the officers recognized John. Puzzled, one of them said, “But this is Lieutenant O’Hara.”

“John?” It was a new voice, but I recognized it. I turned to face John’s partner, LAPD detective Hugh Weaver.

The two partners were striking in their physical contrast: At the age of fifty, John O’Hara was six inches taller than Hugh Weaver, and two years older, but John looked younger. John still had the hardened physique of the football player he’d been in college. Weaver’s body had probably been hard once, but too many burgers with fries, and much too many beers, had turned his beef to lard. I’d never seen Weaver without his clothes-and any circumstance in which that could happen was unimaginable to me-but I was pretty sure that his body would look like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s.

Weaver said, “Hey, John-you didn’t answer your phone. How’d you get here before me?”

“I was here already. And I took tonight off, remember?”

Weaver, careful not to step in Ingram’s blood, leaned over, gave the body a cursory look, straightened again. Indicating the victim, he asked John, “Who’s that?”

“Keith Ingram.”

Long inserted himself between the partners and addressed Weaver. “Are you the detective in charge?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

Long appeared startled, as though he couldn’t believe Weaver hadn’t recognized him. “I’m Eugene Long, owner of this hotel.” I half expected Long to add that his taxes paid Weaver’s salary, but he didn’t.

“The dead man is Keith Ingram, a nationally syndicated food critic and one of the judges at our Celebrity Cook-Off.” Long jabbed his forefinger toward John. “Earlier tonight this man physically attacked Mr. Ingram. I had him removed from the premises, but I think it’s likely that he slipped back into the crowd and committed the murder.”

“You do, huh?” Weaver lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and curved his lips into a false smile. “Well, since you solved the case, I guess we can all go home.”

Long’s posture stiffened. “I do not appreciate that brand of sarcasm.”

“No? I got some others I can use.”

A flush reddened Long’s cheeks.

I wasn’t fond of Hugh Weaver, but at that moment I could have hugged him for putting the arrogant billionaire in his place.

Weaver ignored Long and focused on John. “Did you ‘assault’ this Ingram guy?”

“I hit him. It was close to an hour ago.”

“Was he injured? Did you knock him down?”

“Ingram got back up pretty quickly,” I said. “And he carried right on with the judging, so I don’t think John hurt him.”

Weaver asked John, “What did you do after the altercation?”

“I left,” John said.

“Where’d you go?”

“For a walk, to cool off. I stayed on the hotel grounds because my wife and daughter are here. I came back inside when I saw cops arriving.”

“You’re going to have to give a formal statement,” Weaver said.