“Doesn’t he need a warrant to go inside?” I tried to keep my voice steady to make the question seem innocent, but guilt had caused a sudden ringing in my ears.

“Exigent circumstances,” John said. “When the home of a murder victim is burglarized that makes it an ancillary crime scene. No warrant necessary.”

Weaver and John put down their napkins, pushed their chairs back, and got up, leaving their food untouched.

“I’m going back to work,” Weaver said.

“I’m coming with you. I’m sidelined, not barred from the premises.”

“You need to eat.” I quickly filled two of the large pancakes with scrambled eggs and strips of bacon, rolled them into pancake burritos, and wrapped the concoctions in paper napkins. I handed them to the two detectives “Here. Mobile meals.”

“Thanks, Del,” John said.

Weaver immediately took a big bite. Nodding, with his mouth full, he mumbled something that sounded like “good.”

At the front door I watched them get into their separate cars and speed away. With the discovery that someone had broken into Ingram’s house, I was both elated and worried. The elation came from my hope that the police would find evidence to point them toward the murderer.

In another part of my mind, I was praying that I hadn’t left any trace of myself behind. I told myself that I was being silly to worry. I knew I’d been careful in Ingram’s house.

But I also knew there was no such thing as a perfect crime.

17

By five o’clock, when it was time for me to leave for the Better Living Channel’s studio in North Hollywood, there hadn’t been any news-either from John or on TV-about the break-in at Ingram’s house. While walking Tuffy, I kept my cell phone in my pocket, with the ringer on “Loud.”

No one called.

It was nerve-wracking, not knowing what the police had discovered, but there was nothing I could do to get information without calling attention to myself, so I said good-bye to Tuffy and Emma, gathered what I needed for the show that night, and climbed into my Jeep.

I wished Nicholas were here. In order to protect Eileen, I couldn’t tell him that I’d broken into Ingram’s house, and certainly not my reason for it, but he had good sources of information in the LAPD. Because of John’s behavior at the gala, he was being kept out of the loop. As John’s partner, Weaver, too, had been sidelined. I was sure Nicholas was more likely to be able to get confidential information, but he wouldn’t be back in town until tomorrow afternoon. I’d have to be patient. To play it cool.

Traffic through Beverly Glen Canyon and into the valley was heavy at that hour of the day, so I’d left home in plenty of time to allow for delays. Naturally, because I allowed for traffic tie-ups, they didn’t happen, so I was early when I turned into the driveway leading to the studio’s security gate. I stopped at the call box, pressed the button, and heard the always-cheerful voice of Angie Johnson.

“You got a visitor inside, Della. And I’m impressed,” she said. Angie, who was usually blasé, sounded as though she meant it.

“Impressed with what?”

“Your Mr. Roland Gray,” she said.

“You’ve read his novels?”

“No. It’s his car-a blue Rolls-Royce. It’s just like one I saw Will Smith riding around in.”

“Gray was supposed to be here at six. I wanted to get here first, to greet him and show him around,” I said.

She snickered. “Don’t worry ’bout it. From what I saw when he came in the front door, he’s being taken care of real well.” In an amused tone, she’s turned “real” into a two-syllable word.

Angie opened the security gate and I drove around the building to park near the studio entrance.

The first thing I saw was a sapphire blue Rolls in one of the spaces marked “Visitors.” It was an older, classic model with the distinctive boxy shape and the Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament that distinguished it as the automobile equivalent of royalty.

I parked my Jeep Compass, grabbed my tote bag, and hurried through the open studio doors. Car Guy’s TV show repair shop was closest to the big, barn-door entrance so that he could drive his demonstration vehicles in and out easily. His set was dark, except for a couple of safety lights to keep people from tripping over cables or bumping into equipment.

On the far side of Car Guy’s set, I saw my lights had been turned on and that a gaffer on a tall ladder was methodically testing the security of each light casing. This was done before every show, ever since one had crashed down onto the preparation counter during my Halloween show. No one was hurt, but it gave me and my in-studio audience a heck of a scare.

Quinn Tanner and Roland Gray were perched on stools at my preparation counter, drinking from china cups that I’d brought from home and kept in the dish cupboard next to the refrigerator. On the counter in front of them was a Wedgwood teapot I’d never seen, and a little silver tea strainer on a saucer beside it.

Quinn was laughing at something Gray had said.

Laughing? In the nine months that I had known her, I’d barely seen Quinn smile, and I’d never heard the cheerful soprano trill that was coming from her throat until now.

I should have been pleased that Quinn was entertaining my show guest with such uncharacteristic warmth. Instead, I was a bit annoyed. Not that they were getting along so well, but that they were doing it in my kitchen. Granted, it was a set constructed in the studio for use in broadcasting shows, but it was a replica of my cozy, yellow and white kitchen at home. I didn’t care what either Quinn Tanner or Roland Gray did socially, only that they were doing it on my turf. The feeling surprised me, but then I’d never seen anyone else using my set as a café. It was unreasonable, I knew, but I couldn’t help feeling proprietary.

The two of them were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t look up until my “Hello.”

“Oh, Della, you’re here at last,” Quinn said.

“I’m fifteen minutes early.”

Roland Gray stood up, smiled, and greeted me.

I said, “Please sit down.” But, gallantly, he remained standing.

“Join us for a cuppa,” Quinn said.

“Quinn has been kind enough to give me true English tea,” Gray said. “Steeped in a china pot, made properly with leaves.”

“From my private stash,” Quinn said, smug as the Cheshire Cat.

“I’ll take a rain check. Unfortunately, I have too much to do right now.” The truth is that I’m a devoted coffee person, just short of being a coffee addict.

“Ah, brewed tea,” Quinn said, inhaling steam from the cup. “The hallmark of a civilized people.”

Ignoring Quinn’s little dig, I moved around past them and into the kitchen, took my small handbag out of what I called my “cooking tote,” and bent down to put it away on the bottom shelf of the utensil cabinet. When I straightened up, I almost collided with Roland Gray, who had followed me.

“Ooops. I seem to always be running into you,” he said, grinning.

“It’s all right.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Quinn glaring at us. She folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs: the human body language equivalent of a coiled snake.

Gray indicated the fluted mold encased in foil resting on the rear display counter. “That is my finished steamed pudding. The shopping bag on the floor contains what I need to demonstrate how to make it.”

“Good,” I said. “Let’s unpack both our bags and Quinn can walk us through what we’ll be doing on camera.”

The first item my guest took out of his bag wasn’t an ingredient for making pudding. “This is for you,” he said, handing me a hardcover book. “My latest.”

“The Terror Master. Thank you. I’d planned to buy a copy.”

“You must not have read my reviews.” His tone was wry.

“I don’t pay attention to them,” I said. “When I was teaching I wanted my students to learn how to survive the harsh criticism that we face in life, so I brought in a collection of terrible reviews for some books that later became great classics. A reviewer at Russia ’s Odessa Courier said that Vronsky in Anna Karenina showed more passion for his horse than he did for Anna. A British critic said about Moby Dick that it was full of the biggest collection of dolts to be found in all of ‘marine literature.’ And a critic in Boston called Leaves of Grass obscene. He said Walt Whitman should be publicly flogged for writing it.”