Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

Beneath his name were the letters “NID? WCD.” I had no idea what those letters stood for, but I like puzzles and would try to work it out. Below that acronym he’d listed his cell phone and fax numbers, both of which were in the Los Angeles area code 310. A third phone number started with what I recognized as the international code for England. In the bottom right-hand corner was his e-mail: WillDo@ swiftmail.com. No address was listed on terra firma.

The “Will” and “Do” in his e-mail address made me think that the W and the D on his card might be “Will” and “Do.” But the “C” in between…?

“Can! I’ll bet that word is Can: ‘Will Can Do.’ ” Assuming that I was right, then I must give the credit to Eileen for making me watch Wheel of Fortune on TV throughout her childhood.

Now what did the first three letters and the question mark mean?

I dialed Parker’s cell number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Will. This is Della Carmichael. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Could’na called at a better time. I’m losing at bloody backgammon. Gimme a sec.”

I heard what sounded like the creak of a chair and then footsteps.

“Back again,” he said. “Out on the balcony where I can talk.”

“How is Roland? I found out he left the hospital.”

“Blasted ’ospital! Old Rol was goin’ bonkers with people comin’ an’ goin’ at all times. Thought any moment ’e was gonna get shot at again.”

Parker lowered his voice. I pictured him looking around to be sure he was alone. “The bloke is scared out of ’is wits-’ad me get a bodyguard and bring ’im ’ome. We went to ground, so to speak.”

“Where are you now?”

“At Rollie’s flat. Gates across the driveway. Gorgons at the doors. Security up the arse-excuse the expression.”

“Has Detective Hatch questioned Roland yet?”

“Not bloomin’ likely. Rol played possum when the copper came round. I said ’e was still unconscious.”

“I’d like to visit him. Would that be all right? I promise not to stay very long.”

Silence. It lasted a few seconds, and I let it. Finally, Parker said, “Not today, poppet. Rol’s writing on ’is book. Give ’im a couple days to get ’is sea legs again.” Parker chuckled. “Some of us Limeys take gettin’ shot at better than others.”

I gasped. “You were shot at? When?”

“Ah, was a turtle’s age ago. In the military, where blokes expect to get shot at. Look, poppet, why don’t you come over tomorrow, for tea. Ol’ Rol writes until sixteen ’undred, then ’e likes a tucker.”

“A tucker?”

“Food. Tea, scones, the lot. Join us.”

“I’ll do that. Tomorrow at four o’clock. What’s the address?”

“Bloody tall white building, corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Garland Street. Rollie’s flat’s on the third floor.”

“The third? His secret agent Roger Wilde has a penthouse suite, and in hotels he always requests the top floor. I had thought that’s what Roland likes.”

He emitted a short bark of a laugh. “Rollie’s not like ol’ Rog. Rollie won’t stay on any floor higher than the third, once ’e found out that fire truck ladders only go up a ’undred feet.”

“But wouldn’t that reach to about the ninth floor?”

“True, but Rollie’s thought is that if the truck doesn’t ’ave a ladder that tall, a bloke could survive a jump into one a them firemen’s nets if ’e’s just three floors up.”

It sounded as through Roland Gray wasn’t anywhere near as daring as his literary invention, Roger Wilde. But it wouldn’t be kind to make that remark, so I said, “I think it’s wise to be cautious.”

Another short bark of a laugh. “You might say that’s the motto in this ’ouse.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “At sixteen hundred. Four o’clock.”

“Before you go…” Parker lowered his voice. “ ’Ave the coppers caught the sod who shot at Rollie?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But they’re investigating. Detective Hatch wants to ask Roland some questions.”

“Wot sort?”

“Does Roland have any enemies?”

“There’s a redheaded bird in Plymouth… but I don’t suppose that’s wot ’e means.”

“No. Will, just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me that he was afraid of Keith Ingram. He was about to tell me why. Do you know?”

“No. Sorry. ’E keeps some things to ’imself.”

I decided to take that proverbial shot in the dark. “Yvette Dupree was upset to hear about what happened. Has he known her for a long time?”

A second of silence. “Who?”

“Yvette Dupree. Writes the Global Gourmet books. She’s a very attractive French woman.”

“Rollie doesn’t like the French.” He chuckled. “Well, maybe french letters.” Slight pause. “Do you know wot those are?”

“No.”

“Just as well. Look, Miss Della, the backgammon shark is calling me back for more abuse.”

“Good luck,” I said. “I’ll see you and Roland for tea tomorrow at four o’clock.”

“Jolly good.”

French letters?

I went to the computer I kept in the kitchen for listing the recipes I made on the show and researching ingredients and opened it up to Google. Scrolling down past sites offering me the ability to write letters in French, I came across “french letters.” Lower case f. Clicking on that, I got Will Parker’s joke; the term “french letters” was World War Two military slang for condoms.

That was cute, Will. But I think you’re lying to me about Yvette-unless you really don’t know about a relationship between the two writers, Yvette and your boss.

Whether or not Parker was aware of Yvette Dupree’s interest in Roland, I needed to find out about it because she was the first person I could connect to both Ingram and to Gray. I pictured the diagram of a family tree: Roland was afraid of Ingram; Ingram disliked Yvette; Yvette was upset when she learned about the attempt on Roland’s life. Yvette Dupree was the link between murder victim Keith Ingram and near-miss victim Roland Gray.

A glance at the wall clock told me it was only twelve thirty. It would be another twenty-six and a half hours before I’d be able to talk to Roland. That was precious time I wasn’t going to waste.

I sat at the kitchen table, idly stroking Tuffy and thinking about who might have pieces of the puzzle…

Then it came to me.

Other than Will Parker and Yvette Dupree, there was one person I’d heard of who might have the answers I needed. Who would be closer to novelist Roland Gray than his literary agent, Alan Berger?

Liddy mentioned once that agents worked seven days a week.

I took the telephone book from the shelf below the wall phone and flipped the pages to B…

I didn’t expect to find Alan Berger in his office, and I didn’t. But he had an answering service instead of voice mail, so I was able to tell an actual human being that I needed to reach Alan Berger, and that it involved his client, Roland Gray. I gave my name and left my number.

Four minutes later, my phone rang.

“This is Alan Berger. Ms. Carmichael?”

“Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”

“You said you wanted to talk about Roland Gray. What is your interest in him?”

“I was with Roland the evening he was shot at, and-”

“Ms. Carmichael, I’m on my cell phone and my hearing is not good. Unless I’m in my home or office where there’s amplification, listening is difficult. I was about to go to lunch. Will you join me?”

“I’d like that. Where shall we meet?”

“At the moment, I’m in a bookstore in Santa Monica, but my favorite little bistro is two blocks south. The Secret Garden. It’s on Wilshire and Fifth, in a house behind a tall hedge.”