Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

Olivia looked at her watch. “I gotta go.” She took a card out of her purse and handed it to me. “This has all my numbers.” She reached down to give Tuffy a final scratch beneath his ear.

“I’ll call you later,” Nicholas said to me as he followed his “favorite criminal defense attorney” toward my front door.

While I was showering, I thought about my next step in trying to find out who killed Keith Ingram and shot at Roland. Olivia was right when she said that the police had to be turned in a direction away from me. And I wanted them away from John, too. He was in a worse position than I was. Hatch knew that I’d broken into Ingram’s house, but he didn’t know why. He had guessed that I was one of the women on Ingram’s sex tapes, but couldn’t prove it because there was no evidence. Even if I had been one of those women, I was single and had nothing to fear from the exposure except, at most, some embarrassment. That wasn’t a credible motive for murder.

But Hatch knew John had something against Ingram that was powerful enough to make him lose control and deck Ingram in the middle of a ballroom full of people. Of course Hatch would like to know the reason John did it, but John’s action was bad enough to get him sidelined from the investigation, and possibly a suspension in his future. Or worse.

My only comfort was that there was no connection between John O’Hara and Roland Gray, and therefore no way to link John to the attempt on Roland’s life. Hatch would not be able to prove that John committed both acts, and he’d look ridiculous if he tried to claim that the two events were unrelated. Also, and I smiled remembering this, neither John nor Mack were very good shots. It was a joke in the department that the two best investigators on the force had to tackle fleeing felons because they’d never be able to bring them down any other way. For his birthday one year, Shannon had John’s worst target practice sheet framed. She’d hung it in their bathroom. “To remind him to be careful when he’s out there fighting the bad guys,” she’d said.

Although the water that poured over me was still hot, I thought of something that sent an instant chill through my body.

What if Hatch came up with the theory that John shot at Roland in order to throw the police off, because he knew that there was nothing at all connecting him to Roland.

But that didn’t make sense to me. Unless he had been following Roland around, John couldn’t know he would be at Caffeine an’ Stuff, or that he’d be sitting at a table in front of the window. And how could he have found the right sniper perch across the street in only a few minutes? No, Hatch couldn’t believe he’d be able to sell so wild an idea.

The comfort the realization gave me didn’t last long when I remembered that Hatch didn’t have to answer all the questions in an investigation-just enough for the DA to get an indictment and bring a case to trial. During the trial a good defense attorney could blast holes in the state’s case, but by then John’s career would be ruined. The ordeal of an arrest and a trial could send Shannon into a relapse, and Eileen might never get over the guilt she would feel for the damage her affair with Ingram had done to her family.

There was only one path out of this mess, and that was to find out who really killed Ingram and tried to kill Roland.

I turned off the water and got out of the shower. It was six PM by the ceramic poodle clock on my bathroom sink.

Saturday evening. I had no plans to go out, nor did I expect company. I wasn’t hungry because of all the food I’d tasted at the cooking school. After I dried off, I put on one of my oversized Bruce Lee T-shirts and a pair of pajama bottoms.

Next, I gathered up the two gala guest lists, the copies of the photos of those in attendance, a notepad, and pen; piled a stack of pillows against the headboard of my bed; and climbed in.

With Tuffy and Emma snuggled beside me, I made notes about the questions to which I needed answers. In a little while, a plan began to form in my mind.

It required a Summit Meeting.

I reached for the phone…

Sunday morning. It wasn’t going to be a day of rest.

Eileen had spent Saturday night at her parents’ house because she planned to take her mother to mass this morning, and then out to brunch with our Della’s Sweet Dreams manager, Walter Hovey. Shannon O’Hara loved Walter’s movie trivia stories. Eileen thought it would be good for her mother to have a few hours without worrying about what might happen to John.

At seven o’clock, just as I was taking a pan of fresh raspberry muffins out of the oven, the Summiteers began to arrive. First on the scene was Hugh Weaver. He’d barely crossed the threshold when we saw John drive up.

I settled the two partners at the kitchen table with mugs of fresh coffee and a basket of muffins when the doorbell rang. It had to be the last of the Sumitteers.

As soon as I opened the front door, the delightful aroma of fresh bagels hit me. Nicholas shifted the big Junior’s bag he carried to one side and leaned down to give me a quick kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I made it a point to come last,” he said. “No need to raise O’Hara’s Irish by having him think I’d spent the night here.”

“Will you stop this nonsense about John? You and I have nothing to hide. I’ve told you at least a dozen times that John is my friend, and only my friend.”

“I believe you,” Nicholas said. “But I’m sure that if he were free he’d marry you in one minute flat.”

“Not without my permission,” I said. “I love John, in the same way I love Eileen and Shannon and the Marshalls.”

“You didn’t mention me,” Nicholas said.

“No, I didn’t.”

I took the Junior’s bag from him and started toward the kitchen.

The detectives and the reporter exchanged polite greetings. I unpacked the bagels, arranged the goodies on a platter, and set it in the middle of the table.

Surveying the spread, John nodded at Nicholas. “Thanks.”

“We’ve got four kinds of bagels: onion, garlic, cheese, and pumpernickel,” I told John and Weaver. “And at least a pound of lox and a tub of cream cheese.”

Weaver smacked his lips. “What are the rest of you going to eat?” He took two halves of a garlic bagel, slathered cream cheese on the surfaces, topped them off with slices of lox, and said to Nicholas, “I’m almost getting to like you.”

“Great love stories have started on a less promising note than that,” Nicholas said wryly.

The bagel stopped an inch away from Weaver’s mouth. “Hey! What are you implying?”

“It was a joke,” John said. “Chew.”

When breakfast was consumed, I refilled the men’s coffee mugs. No more for myself; I’d had enough caffeine. I’d been up since five to do my pet care chores and make the muffins.

John stood and started to clear the table. Nicholas was just behind him and began picking up dishes. Working in tandem, but silently, it took them less than two minutes to rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher.

Weaver watched them with an expression that was about as close to a good-humored smile as he got. “Who says you can’t get good help nowadays?”

When John and Nicholas came back to the table, I said, “Time to call this meeting to order.” I indicated the guest lists. “I’ve gone over all these names and the photos with Eileen. She told me she never met any of these people, and that the only ones she ever heard Ingram mention were Yvette Dupree and Eugene Long. According to Eileen, Ingram disliked the two of them intensely. She said Ingram called Long a vindictive drunk and said he was a crook who deserved to be in jail, but he wasn’t specific.”