Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

I had one more question to ask Phil. “What do you mean when you called it Long’s charity cook-off? I thought it was organized by the Healthy Life Fund, and just held at Long’s hotel.”

“No. It was Long’s idea to promote the Olympia Grand. The charity was delighted to sell the tickets and get all the money without having to do the hard work of corralling celebrities and catering to stars’ demands. Why are you interested?”

“Curiosity,” I said.

“Yeah, well, just don’t forget what curiosity killed . I’d hate to have to work with a new show host now that I’ve gotten used to you.”

I laughed. “Thanks.”

“Look, if it was Roland Gray who got killed, my number one suspect would have been Gene Long, because that guy has the proverbial memory like an elephant. It’s said he’s willing to hold a grudge until hell freezes over-or until income taxes are abolished, whichever comes first.”

After my conversation with Phil, I sat at the kitchen table, watching Tuffy and Emma eat, and thinking about the two new pieces of the puzzle that I’d learned.

Eugene Long had a grudge against Roland Gray. It was an understandable grudge, in my opinion. I couldn’t image any parent not being furious at the person who hurt their child, especially in so public a way as what Gray did to Tina Long in not coaching her in the words she didn’t know.

Eugene Long, not the Healthy Life Fund, had organized the charity gala and was responsible for choosing the celebrities who would cook, and the judges. (Except for me, who was a last-minute replacement.)

What was Long’s motive for including Roland Gray? Long had allowed Keith Ingram to be a judge, but how did he really feel about this man who intended to marry his daughter?

Eugene Long had at least some of the answers that I needed. I didn’t have any authority to question him, but I thought that I might be able to get what I wanted by making use of his huge ego.

Knowing that Long had a suite at the Olympia Grand, I called the hotel, asked to speak to him, and gave my name. The operator put me on hold, but came back in less than a minute and said she was connecting me to Mr. Long. She must have asked if he was willing to take my call. Apparently he was.

I’d cleared the first hurdle. Now all I had to do was persuade him to see me.

When I gave Long my excuse for phoning, I heard a smile in his voice.

“Well, that’s worth talking about,” he said. “How about tomorrow morning, ten o’clock, here in my suite?”

“That works for me.”

“Good. Take the private elevator up,” he said.

“See you tomorrow.”

I was over the second hurdle.

Now what I had to do was get through the rest of the obstacle course without falling and breaking my neck.

Eugene Long had told me to come up to his suite, but he didn’t add that he occupied the Olympia Grand’s entire penthouse floor nor that there were separate elevators to his private rooms and to his offices. I learned that fact when I presented myself to the man at the reception desk, whose nametag identified him as “Roberto.”

“I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Long. He asked me to take the private elevator up, but I’m not sure which one that is.”

“Excuse me for just a moment,” Roberto said before disappearing through the door behind the desk. I guessed he wasn’t going to take my word for it that I’d been invited, and was checking with his boss.

When Roberto returned, having vetted me, he was smiling. “Sorry about that.” He didn’t specify what “that” was. “The private elevators are at the far end of the bank of public elevators.” He pointed. “Between the potted palms and the ladies’ lounge. You’ll want Elevator A. You don’t want B; that would take you to the corporate offices.”

I thanked him, and headed toward the palm trees.

The two elevators, “A” and “B,” were differentiated from the public lifts by a waist-high brass stand holding a large white card that said “Private.” Surveillance cameras above the doors covered all of the elevators, both public and private.

As I approached, I didn’t see a button one could press to summon the elevator and realized that access from the lobby required a key, inserted into a brass plate by the doors. But when I stepped in front of Elevator A, the doors opened with a soft whoosh.

The doors closed behind me the moment I was inside. This private elevator was half the size of what was usual in a hotel, and it had a small bench covered in burgundy velvet along the back wall. I supposed it was there in case one needed to sit during the arduous journey of twenty floors, up or down. Being of hardy Scottish stock, I roughed it and stood all the way. Above my head was another camera. It was tempting to wave at whoever might be watching, but I repressed the urge to be juvenile. After all, I was a mature woman, secretly investigating a murder. That called for dignity.

Elevator A’s doors opened at the penthouse floor with a barely audible whisper. I stepped out into a burgundy-carpeted corridor, which ran to my left, down past several closed doors. A breakfast cart with dirty dishes and a crumpled napkin stood outside one of them. Long’s offices, reached by Elevator B, must be located behind the wall on my right. Because I couldn’t imagine Long going down to the lobby in Elevator A to take Elevator B back up to the top floor, I was sure access to the office half of the penthouse layout must be through interior doors.

Directly in front of me, golden oak double doors with brass accents opened to reveal Eugene Long. His thick silver mane looked freshly tended; a few silver chest hairs peeked out from the V made by the open top button on his black silk shirt.

The only other time I’d seen the man was at the gala, when he was wearing a dinner jacket. Now, dressed informally in the black shirt and black slacks with no jacket, he exposed a paunchy middle. My brother Sean, a Navy doctor, had said that particular kind of protrusion was usually “a drinker’s belly.”

Long extended his hand in greeting. “Ms. Carmichael. Della. Please come in.”

He stepped aside and gestured for me to precede him into a living room that looked to be the size of a tennis court. A wall of windows looked out onto a magnificent view, mostly of the sky. A line from an old song ran through my head: “On a clear day, you can see forever…”

Soft lighting came from crystal wall sconces and a crystal and brass chandelier above us that was turned to dim. They weren’t needed; the natural light was strong enough even for reading.

Glancing around, I saw four deep club chairs and two sofas, all upholstered in warm earth tones and separated by sparkling glass and brass coffee tables and antique-looking mahogany end tables.

The walls were covered in a pale green fabric and formed the background for several large modern paintings. I’m only minimally familiar with twentieth-century artists, but I did recognize two David Hockney canvases because I’d seen them reproduced in a decorating magazine of Liddy’s.

If those were original Hockneys, and the other canvases were genuine and by celebrated artists, then the six paintings in Long’s living room were probably worth more than my house in Santa Monica. His chandelier had surely cost more than my Jeep.

“Please sit down,” Long said, indicting one of the club chairs. Next to it was a lovely arrangement of fresh tulips in a green crystal bowl.

I sat and he perched on the edge of the sofa positioned at an angle to me. On either side of the living room were golden oak doors. The one on the left side of the room, facing me but behind Long, was slightly ajar. Across the room, the door on the right was closed. Although that one must have led to the billionaire’s corporate offices, I couldn’t hear any activity. I realized this room must be soundproof.