Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

The other seven children-five more girls and two boys-ranged in age from six to nine and were much bolder than little Alicia. One of Eileen’s jobs was keeping the children corralled near the prep tables where she could watch over them.

I told the class, “Today’s recipes form a theme: They’re dishes with family connections. The first one we’re going to make is Linda Dano’s Italian Meatballs recipe, which was taught to her by her mother-in-law. You moms probably know Linda Dano as an Emmy-winning actress, but when Linda’s husband, Frank Attardi, was diagnosed with lung cancer, she stopped working to be with him full-time. After he lost the battle, she became the national spokesperson for the Caregivers Survival Kit and Support Partners. Linda calls her mother-in-law, Marnie Attardi, her role model. Marnie worked in a glove factory while raising her three children. She and her husband, Anthony, never owned a home, but now, through an organization called HeartShare Human Services, and contributions from Linda and Frank, there’s a residential home for developmentally disabled adults named in their honor. It’s in Frank’s home borough of Brooklyn, New York.”

I indicated the line of ingredients we’d be using, and picked up the bottle of marsala. “Now, the unusual thing about this recipe is that while it calls for wine, we don’t put the wine into the mix. We’ll be moistening our hands with it when we roll the meatballs.”

One of the boys started making hiccupping sounds and staggered in an imitation of someone drunk. The other children giggled until the boy’s mother tugged on his shirt sleeve and shushed him.

We always ate what we made in these classes. When the meatballs had been cooked and consumed, Eileen and I gathered up the used paper plates and plastic forks, dumped them into our trash bag, and set out fresh ones.

“Because this is a Mommy & Me class, what we’re going to do next is make two dishes from a Hollywood mother and daughter. One of my favorite actors was Richard Crenna. His widow, Penni, and their daughter, Seana, are terrific cooks and they’re sharing with us Penni’s Mexican Chicken Kiev and Seana’s Quiche.

“Seana told me that when she and her father ate her quiche together, she’d always leave the end of the crust on her plate. He would lean over, wink at her, and eat the leftover piece. It’s one of the little father-daughter moments she treasures.

“Now, the crust for this quiche can be bought ready-made at the market, but I’m going to show you how easy it is, and how much fun it is, to make your own crust using just flour, a little salt, some Crisco, and a few tablespoons of ice water. It’s my absolute favorite piecrust, and the recipe is right out of the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I recommend that everyone have the original Betty Crocker Cookbook in their kitchen libraries. Now, I have to warn you kids: You’re about to get a little messy.”

The children cheered at that. The women groaned.

“Don’t worry, moms. We have a big stash of Handi Wipes all ready for the cleanup later.”

Eileen and I passed around small bags of all-purpose flour, measuring cups, and mixing bowls. “Since a quiche uses only a single crust, let’s start by measuring out one cup of flour…”

By the time Seana Crenna’s Quiches were in the ovens, eight young faces were smudged and sixteen little hands were caked with flour. Eileen helped the mothers and the nanny wipe everyone clean and I started to organize the ingredients to make the final recipe of the class, Penni Crenna’s Mexican Chicken Kiev.

I was explaining that this was one of Richard Crenna’s favorite meals and that Penni frequently made it for their party guests, when I heard the door from the appliance shop open.

I looked up to see the petite figure of Yvette Dupree, the Global Gourmet, the woman Keith Ingram had mocked to me the night of the gala, the woman Eileen told me Ingram had despised.

Yvette Dupree was one of the people I was most eager to talk to. Now, before I could find her, she had found me.

With Eileen and the other women busy cleaning flour off the children, I hurried over to my unexpected visitor.

“Bonjour, Della. Excusez-moi . I do not wish to disturb, but I must speak to you.” Her French accent was as melodious as it had been the night of the gala, but now there was urgency in her tone.

“Give me just few minutes, Yvette-”

She stared past me and her lips compressed into a thin line. “That girl? Why is she here?” Her pitch had turned icy.

I saw that she was staring at Eileen, who was wiping the face of one of the children and hadn’t seen Yvette.

“That’s Eileen O’Hara. She’s my assistant. Why?”

“Cherchez la femme. ” Her voice was full of bitterness. “I think that girl killed Keith, and that she will try to kill my Tina out of jealousy.”

“Yvette, that’s ridiculous.” I steered her back toward the door through which she’d entered scant minutes before. “We’ll talk outside.”

On the appliance shop side of the door I saw that there were customers examining the merchandise. Mrs. Tran was guiding a young couple through the ultramodern kitchen exhibit. The quietest part of the shop was just where we were standing.

“You’re wrong about Eileen,” I said. “She would never kill anyone. What in the world made you think so?”

“Merde!” The woman scorned. “She was-how do you say in English- dumped ? For Tina. Keith was cochon… pork, nes pas?”

“You mean he was a pig.”

“Oui. One can kill for love. Even love of espece d’animal, t’es degueulasse!”

I didn’t have to speak French to know that whatever she just said was an insult, because she practically spit the phrase. But her opinion of the late Keith Ingram wasn’t what was important to me. What did she know about Eileen?

“Yvette, what makes you think Eileen had any interest in Ingram?”

Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips suggested she thought that I was too stupid to be walking around upright. “Tina told me. Ever since her mamma died, I have been like zee mamma to her. Ma petite fille has terreur. Terror.”

“Has anyone tried to hurt her?”

“Non. She has protection. But she cannot attend soirees. It is like prison.”

“I can’t believe that she’s in any danger. You and her father should let her go on about her normal life. But something else has happened. Did you know that someone tried to kill Roland Gray late Thursday night?”

Beneath her rouged cheeks, I saw her go pale. She swayed slightly.

I reached out to steady her. “Yvette? Are you all right?”

She gripped my hand. “Was he alone…?”

Yvette was staring at me so intently I realized she must know Roland, and yet when were standing together, watching him work at his stove, I hadn’t seen any sign of recognition from either of them.

“I was with Roland,” I said. “We were having coffee when a sniper shot at him through the café window. The bullet grazed his forehead. Eileen never met Roland. Doesn’t this prove to you that she’s not the killer?”

“I must go.” She turned away from me and was gone, without so much as an “au revoir.”

I watched her hurry through the kitchen displays and disappear out onto Montana Avenue.

Eileen opened the door and poked her head out. “Where did you go? Everybody’s ready.”

“I just needed a breath of air,” I said, deciding not to tell her about Yvette Dupree’s surprise visit.

I followed Eileen back into the classroom and resumed my place at the preparation table.

When I’m teaching a class, or doing the TV show, I enjoy the activity so much that I have no trouble concentrating on the task of simultaneously cooking and explaining the steps, but Yvette Dupree’s accusation against Eileen, and her odd behavior when I told her about the attempt on Roland’s life, had left my mind swirling with questions. Part of me wanted to race through this last demonstration, but I couldn’t do that. The women in class had paid to be here and they deserved my full attention.