Melinda Wells: The Proof is in the Pudding

That question of who shot at Roland was the wall I kept crashing up against. I had to find a way to climb over, burrow under, or smash through that wall.

This morning I’d managed to pry information out of Long by getting him drunk. In vino veritas.

This afternoon I was going to try to use pudding to loosen Roland Gray’s tongue.

The nut butter fudge pudding in my pot was thickening nicely. I dipped a teaspoon into the glossy mixture and tasted it. Delicious. This was also the first thing I’d put into my stomach since… Since this morning.

And all at once an image flashed into my head: Tina Long’s necklace. The word spelled out in little diamonds was “Poppet.” When she said her “mother-person” called her that she must have been referring to Yvette. On the phone, when we were arranging my tea this afternoon with Roland, Will Parker had called me “Poppet.”

My pulse started racing. Will was an attractive man. Lively. Energetic. Much more energetic and engaging than Roland. What if Will Parker was the man Yvette was involved with, and not Roland?

Where does this line of reasoning take me?

Not very far, unless… Unless…

I knew that neither Yvette nor Roland could have stabbed Ingram-but Will was on the hotel grounds that night. While the police were keeping all of us inside, he’d come to the entrance and spoken to the guard at the door, asking to talk to Roland. Roland told me Will had driven him to the hotel.

Could Will Parker have been the mystery man who paid for a ticket at the last minute, when the crowd was biggest and the ticket people busy? According to an acknowledgment in Roland Gray’s first spy novel, Will Parker had been a British commando. Like members of our Special Forces, he surely would be able to fire a sniper rifle, and to get in and out of places… like a phantom.

I remembered the pudding and took it off the stove before it burned. My hands were trembling. In a little more than an hour, I was supposed to have tea with Roland Gray and Will Parker. With what I was thinking, I didn’t want to be anywhere near Parker. I decided to make an excuse and cancel.

I found Parker’s card and dialed his number.

The call went to voice mail, and I heard a recording of Parker say in his Cockney accent, “It’s Monday morning. I’ve ’ad to go to London for a few days. Returning Sunday night. Whether you’re a bird or a bloke, leave a message.”

A wave of relief surged over me.

I didn’t leave a message, but I did take a deep breath of relief.

Then a new thought chilled me: What if Parker’s plans changed since this morning?

I called Roland Gray.

“Hello, Roland. It’s Della Carmichael.”

“I recognized your lovely voice. I hope you’re still coming to tea this afternoon.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it. I’m calling because I’m bringing you a little something I made and I wondered how many people would be there.”

“Just the two of us, my dear. It would have been three, but Will’s mum had a bit of a scare and he’s rushed off to make certain she’s all right.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said.

“No, I’m sure it’s not. But she’s quite far up in years and Will is her last living child.”

“I’ll hold a good thought for her,” I said. “See you at four.”

“Jolly good.”

So Parker really is in London.

Okay, this is my new theory: Will Parker was the mystery man at the gala, and murdered Ingram. (Motive as yet unknown, but my bet was that it had something to do with Yvette Dupree.)

Now here was my biggest leap, worthy of the Cirque du Soleil: Parker, a former British commando, shot at the window of Caffeine an’ Stuff to confuse the police. He probably didn’t mean to wound Roland Gray.

I believed Parker did this because it succeeded in complicating the investigation of Ingram’s murder. The police were forced to try to find a link between Ingram and Gray. When they weren’t able to find that link, Detective Hatch had tried to split the one case into two.

There was one problem with my new theory: How could I prove it?

Stirring the pudding to keep a skin from forming on the top, two ideas occurred to me. The first one involved a call to John O’Hara.

Again, he picked up on the first ring. I wondered if he was sitting in his car, or in a coffeehouse, miserable because he had nothing to do. Well, I was about to give him something to do.

“John, can you get in touch with your friend at Interpol again?”

“You mean now?”

“Yes.”

“I have his home number and his cell. Is it important?”

“It could be. I hope so. Would you ask him to check out a man named Willis T. Parker, a former British commando? He’s listed in the acknowledgments of Roland Gray’s first spy novel-something about helping Gray’s hero out of a tight spot. Now he works for Gray. Ask if he can find out if Parker knew Yvette Dupree, when she was Fabienne Talib.”

“What’s this about?”

“I finally have a theory of the case.” I told John what it was.

“Interesting, but you don’t have any evidence.” I heard the skepticism in John’s voice.

“Not yet, but don’t you think this is a path worth following? Are you or Hugh Weaver or Hatch on a more promising trail?”

“No. While I’m having your idea checked out, what are you doing?”

“I’m having tea at four o’clock this afternoon with Roland Gray.”

“No! I don’t want you near Will Parker.”

“John, I’ve told you not to talk to me like that. I’m not a three-year-old. I appreciate your concern, but I wouldn’t be going to see Roland except for the fact that Parker is thousands of miles away right now, back in London, visiting his mother who’s ill.”

John was silent for a moment. I pictured him with his lips clamped together.

“John, are you still there?”

He cleared his throat. “You’re having tea with Gray at four. That shouldn’t take more than an hour, hour and a half at most. I want-I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you leave.”

“I’ll do that.”

“In case I need to reach you first, keep your cell phone on.”

“I always do.” We said good-bye, with John promising to call his Interpol contact right away.

After ending the call, I poured the pudding into my white Wedgwood serving bowl and stretched plastic wrap across the top.

When I was ready to leave for Gray’s apartment, I put the gift bowl of chocolate fudge pudding into a cardboard box and set the box on the floor in front of the Jeep’s passenger seat.

Then I reached into the glove compartment and removed the small, handheld tape recorder I used for making notes about recipes or ideas for the TV show when something occurred to me while I was driving.

After checking that the batteries were working, I rewound it to the beginning of the tape and slipped the little machine into my purse. It was a bag made of loosely woven net, deliberately chosen in order to capture sound in the room.

Will Parker had described Roland Gray’s apartment building as “a bloody tall white building on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Garland Street,” with “Gates across the driveway. Gorgons at the doors. Security up the arse.”

The big white building with ornamental iron gates across the driveway was easy to spot. An elderly man in a guard’s uniform occupied the kiosk just outside the gates.

“My name is Della Carmichael. Mr. Gray is expecting me.”

The guard checked his clipboard, found my name, and nodded. “Do you know where it is?”

“No.”

“Apartment three twelve, third floor, in the back,” he said.

“Thank you. Where can I park?”