Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

Feel safe? He’s making me sound positively antediluvian. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let a twinge of embarrassment turn me into one of those T-S-T-L women.

I kept my cool and said, “Where?”

“There’s a sidewalk café I know on Montana Avenue, near Twelfth Street. It’s called Caffeine an’ Stuff,” he said. “Good coffee. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“How soon can we meet there?”

“Ten minutes,” I said.

“Excellent.” With a quick good-bye, Gray disconnected.

I didn’t bother to change clothes from the slacks and sweater I was wearing, but I did brush my hair and dab on some lipstick and mascara. Looking completely natural wasn’t as attractive as it had been twenty years ago.

Before I left the house, I wrote a note for Eileen, telling her about Roland Gray’s call, and that I was going to meet him at Caffeine an’ Stuff. Even though she wouldn’t be home tonight, I put it on the little table just inside the door, where we always left messages for each other. The note was one of my little personal voodoo rituals, like carrying a raincoat and umbrella so that the weather forecast of rain wouldn’t come true. Tell someone where I was going and I would get home safely. I know it was silly, but it did no harm. And just in case…

I gave Tuffy and Emma a few strokes and told them that I’d be back soon.

Montana and Twelfth Street was only six blocks from my house. During the day, I would have walked down to the café, but not at night. I wasn’t shy about taking chances-my life was pretty much testimony to that-but I didn’t believe in taking foolish risks.

Montana Avenue was almost as busy at this time, shortly after midnight, as it was during the day and early evening. With its great variety of businesses, small restaurants, pubs, and coffeehouses, it was the shopping, strolling, and meeting-friends-for-whatever heart of the northern end of the city of Santa Monica. I knew the area well because my little cooking school was located in the back of a kitchen appliance store on Montana, near Fifteenth Street. And the library on the corner of Seventeenth was one of my regular stops.

Caffeine an’ Stuff occupied the ground floor of a two-story structure that looked like an old English pub. A dark green, weather-faded wooden sign hung above the entrance. The words “Caffeine an’ Stuff” were painted on it in gold script, below a drawing of a mug of coffee, steam curling up in the shape of a question mark. In similar, but larger, gold script, the name of the café arched across the front window.

I spotted Gray’s Rolls parked in front of the entrance. The man himself was standing in the middle of the empty parking space directly behind his car. When he saw me, he stepped back onto the curb and waved me into the slot. There were no other empty spaces on that block.

When I parked, Gray appeared at my driver’s side door and offered his hand to me. I took it, and hopped down onto the street.

“Did you drive yourself tonight?”

“Yes. Will Parker assists me-he doesn’t come along when I’m out with a lady.”

I indicated our cars. “Either you are the luckiest driver in the state of California, or you bought these two spaces.”

“It was partly luck. Someone was pulling out of my spot as I arrived, and let’s just say I rented yours,” he said with a smile. “It’s a bit chilly to sit outside, so I secured a table by the window. I hope that’s all right with you?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

In spite of the fact that the temperature was in the fifties tonight-frigid by Southern California standards-three of the four outside tables were occupied by young couples. I remembered being that young, in college at UCLA, and being that impervious to cold when I was on a date and in the first heat of attraction.

Caffeine an’ Stuff was comfortably warm inside. Soft lights, soft voices, and tables arranged just far enough apart to give the customers a sense of privacy. Being overheard wasn’t going to be a problem, I saw, because fewer than half of the tables were occupied. At the wide front window, there was no one closer to us than two tables away.

Gray pulled out a chair for me, waited until I was settled, then took his place across the wooden divide. With the name of the café on the window just above our heads, we had an unobstructed view of the people strolling along Montana Avenue.

As a college-age waiter in a letter sweater came toward us, Gray asked me, “What will you have?”

“A cappuccino.”

“Decaf or regular?” the waiter asked.

“Regular, the more regular the better,” I said.

Gray looked at me and asked, “Perhaps a pastry with it?”

“No, thank you. I can’t stay very long, Roland.” He appeared so disappointed I added, “It’s just that I have a lot to do.”

“Two regular cappuccinos,” Gray told the waiter. “Nothing else.”

“You got it.” Joe College flashed us a professional smile and hurried toward the service counter to relay our order to the barista.

Roland Gray was staring down at his hands. It seemed as though he was inspecting his manicure, looking for flaws, but his nails were trimmed and his cuticles neat. Even if he hadn’t phoned so late and insisted on talking to me right away, it was obvious from the troubled expression on his face that something was bothering him.

I was about to urge him to tell me whatever he knew about Keith Ingram when the waiter returned with our cappuccinos. I kept silent until he’d delivered them and withdrawn again.

Gray picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee in a slow, contemplative way.

“What I have to tell you is difficult for me,” he said. “I wasn’t frank with either the police who questioned us in the ballroom, or earlier tonight, with you and your friend O’Hara. The truth is that I knew Ingram quite well at one time. It came to be an introduction I wished that I could have avoided.”

“Why did you agree to be in the cook-off? The names of the judges were announced weeks ago.”

“Will and I were researching an aspect of my new book in some recently released records in Eastern Europe when my publicist e-mailed me the opportunity to participate in the gala. He told me who some of the celebrities were who had accepted, but he didn’t mention the names of the judges, and it didn’t occur to me to ask. I only returned to my flat in Los Angeles this past weekend, and didn’t know Ingram was involved until I arrived at the ballroom that night. Seeing him there was a dreadful shock.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“There were other people around, so we just nodded at each other. Actually, I nodded. He smirked. In spite of my discomfort, I certainly couldn’t withdraw at that point without raising questions I didn’t want to answer, so I decided to just get through the evening-ideally without a confrontation. To stiff-upper-lip it, so to speak. I resolved to change my original plan of writing in Los Angeles and instead finish my book in London. That was a hard decision for me, because I much prefer to work here. This is where Alan Berger lives-he’s my literary agent. I don’t trust electronic transmission with something so important as my book, and certainly not the mails. Alan always reads my manuscripts first-and in my living room. I insist. What I need from him are his immediate reactions. More than once, he’s saved me from veering off course in a plot.”

“You’d go to London and change your professional routine, just because Keith Ingram happened to be in the same city? Hadn’t you ever run into him in California before?”

“No. When I’m here, primarily I’m writing. I seldom socialize. Changing my established pattern might seem extreme to you, but…” He took a breath and clamped his lips together.