Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

“I’m going,” I said to myself.

Studying the back of the house, I saw that Eileen’s rough sketch of the exterior had been accurate. Next to the rear door was one of the chalet’s vertical six-pane windows. It was set waist high. Three panes were on one side, and three on the other. Strips of white painted wood divided them.

I ran the fingers of my other hand along the bottom of the window and felt the wires that meant an alarm would go off when the window was raised.

But I had no intention of raising that window.

I removed the duct tape from my bag, tore six pieces about eight inches in length. After I’d attached them to the glass panes and to the side of the house beside the window, I took the hand towel out of the bag, draped it over my right wrist, and gripped the item I had taken from my Jeep’s glove compartment: my auto center punch.

Several years ago, I’d seen this little tool on a documentary about river rescues. It was used to break the windows of submerged cars. As soon as the program was over, I Googled “auto center punch” and found that they were sold on Amazon, for four dollars apiece, plus shipping. I immediately ordered six of them as presents for Eileen, Shannon, John, Liddy, Bill, and myself. I hoped everybody was keeping them in their cars, as I had been. Southern California is essentially a desert, but we do have floods sometimes, and whenever we have a storm, a car or two is swept into the Los Angeles River. For most of the time, it was a cement channel and a river in name only. There was so little water in it between storms that we called it the “ Los Angeles trickle,” but when there was a sudden deluge from the skies it was transformed into a deadly trap.

At this moment, I had a more immediate danger right in front of me. Holding my breath and saying a little prayer, I knelt close to the window and positioned the tip of the auto punch near the bottom of the glass-as I had seen it demonstrated on television-and punched.

I sighed with relief when the pane cracked down the center. The glass didn’t fall because it was held in place by the tape. Working faster now, I repeated the punching process five more times, then began removing the pieces of glass, and setting them on the patio beside me.

Ouch! A shard sliced through the rubber glove on my right hand. There was just enough light coming from over the fence next door that I could see blood oozing through the slit. I tore the glove enough to expose the cut on my finger. It wasn’t too bad. I pressed the finger against the towel for a few seconds. The bleeding stopped. I went back to work removing the panes.

When all the glass was out of the window, I wrapped my right hand in the towel again. Using that hand, I pressed firmly against the center strip of wood that had held the six panes in place. It cracked. Another press and I’d loosened it enough to push it aside.

No alarm shrieked.

Eileen’s sketch had filled me with hope that I wouldn’t have to open a door or a window, that I could create my own entrance into the house. By going through the panes and not disturbing the outside frame, as far as the alarm circuits were concerned, that window had remained closed.

I stuffed the towel back in the gym bag, removed my pencil flashlight, and dropped the bag into the house. I clicked on the pencil light, clamped it between my teeth so that my hands were free-and eased myself headfirst through the opening I’d made.

And into the darkness below.

Stretching downward inch by inch, my gloved hands touched a tile floor. According to Eileen’s diagram, I was in the kitchen.

When I’d maneuvered all of my body inside and twisted around so that I could stand, I transferred the pencil light from my mouth to one hand and aimed the slim beam around the room. Ingram had all the basic kitchen equipment, with everything neatly arranged for cooking convenience. The ubiquitous step stool-there was one in every kitchen that I’d ever seen-fit into a space beside the stove, safely out of the way of foot traffic. I wouldn’t be falling over it.

So far, so good, but there wasn’t time to think about how well things had gone thus far. At any moment my luck might turn.

Using the tiny beam to guide my way, I found the staircase and climbed.

Ingram’s bedroom was a man’s lair: a king-size bed with a headboard carved from some dark wood. Above the bed was a wooden canopy, with little lights set into it.

Opposite the bed, as Eileen had described, was a large armoire.

Using the pencil light to examine it closely, I discovered a peephole disguised as part of the raised design. When I opened the door, I saw what had caused Eileen so much terror. There was a video camera, aimed through the peephole at the bed.

Lights. Camera. Action. I had the urge to throw up.

A shelf below the camera contained at least a dozen DVDs. Homemade.

I shuffled through them, looking for labels. No labels, but at the bottom of each case were small initials inscribed neatly in silver paint.

Did all of those cases contain video recordings of women with whom he had sex, taped with or without their knowledge? Thinking about that made me feel sickened to be standing in Keith Ingram’s bedroom.

I found a DVD marked with the initials EO’H. After making sure there was only one that had Eileen’s initials on it, I grabbed it and closed the armoire.

For a brief moment, I was tempted to open the armoire again and take all of the DVDs, to spare the other women. But I knew I couldn’t do that. They were properly police evidence; one of the women in that collection could be his killer. I felt justified in taking Eileen’s because I knew that she hadn’t stabbed Ingram. Still, whether they were tricked, as Eileen had been, or if they were willing exhibitionists, I felt sorry for the women who would soon be exposed. If any of those women were married-

The piercing ring of Ingram’s bedside phone nearly gave me a heart attack!

Instinctively, one hand went to the pocket holding my cell phone. I clutched at it, but it wasn’t vibrating. The ringing phone that had startled me really was Keith Ingram’s. Either the person on the other end of the line was someone who didn’t know he was dead, or it was the police calling to see if there was anyone else in Ingram’s house.

I doubted that Detective Hatch- Hatchet , I was calling him to myself-could obtain a search warrant before midmorning, but he might send a patrol car to guard the outside to prevent anyone from entering until the police searched Ingram’s residence.

I knew I had to get out fast. My luck had been good so far, but good luck could turn bad in an instant. I didn’t dare stay in this house I’d broken into even a few minutes longer. I shoved Eileen’s DVD into my bag and hurried down the stairs and climbed out through the broken window.

On the patio, I took a few deep breaths of the cold night air to calm my racing heart as I listened for any sounds that might mean trouble for me.

But the houses on either side of Ingram’s place were as dark and silent as when I’d arrived.

Liddy was still crouched in the shrubbery in front of the house when I let myself out through the back. As soon as I whispered her name, she emerged and grabbed my arm.

“I’m so glad you’re all right! You were gone so long I was getting worried.”

I pressed my index finger against my lips. She nodded, and we scurried down Rothdell Terrace as quickly and quietly as we could.

Liddy’s ivory Land Rover was exactly where we’d left it, and I was relieved to see that there were no other vehicles nearby. We scrambled inside and made our escape from the scene of my crime.

By the time we reached Sunset Boulevard we began to relax.