Gray laughed. “At least none of my reviewers have suggested that.”

“Haven’t you noticed that very popular authors are resented by some critics because their books sell so well? It’s as though the elitists think that if millions of people like a novel then it can’t be any good.”

“Thank you for cheering me up,” he said with a rueful smile.

Quinn saw me holding the book and came over to us. “Isn’t Roland marvelous?” she said. “This afternoon he telephoned the studio to find out how many people would be in the audience. When he arrived, it was with a case of his novels, enough for everyone who’ll come to our broadcast, and for all of us here at the channel.”

“That was a very generous thing to do.”

“I’m unscrupulous in my pursuit of readers,” he said with a smile that seemed almost embarrassed. I had the feeling that with all of his success he was shy in the face of compliments.

Quinn held her hands out. “Let me have your jacket. I’ll hang it up for you in my director’s booth.”

“How nice of you,” he said, slipping out of the navy blue cashmere blazer that was almost the same shade as his Rolls.

Beneath it, he wore a pale blue silk shirt and steel gray slacks, secured by a black belt with a silver buckle in the shape of a badge with the raised monogram “MI 9.” The department Gray called MI 9 was the fictional antiterrorist division of British Intelligence for which his series hero, Roger Wilde, was the top secret agent.

Quinn removed a clean dishtowel from one of my equipment drawers and tucked it carefully into his belt. Very carefully.

“This is to protect your trousers from kitchen splatters,” Quinn said.

In my opinion, Gray was in more danger from Quinn Tanner than from getting stains on his clothing.

Quinn was supposed to be married, but no one at the channel had met her husband. Camera operator Ernie Ramirez once voiced the theory that Quinn’s husband, the never-seen Mr. Tanner, had been killed and stuffed, like Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho.

After the bit with the dishtowel, Quinn took her teapot and strainer and Gray’s blazer and went up to the director’s booth. She usually held her body in a posture stiff as a fire-place poker, but today there was a definite sway to Quinn’s narrow hips.

18

In my earpiece, I heard Quinn start her countdown to air-time. The show’s theme music began, Camera One’s red light flashed on, and we were broadcasting.

I smiled into the lens and said, “Hi, everybody. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della. Tonight I have a special treat for you at home, and for you here in the studio audience.”

Camera Two swung around to take a shot of the audience in the studio. There were lights above the seats because I’d learned that people liked to see themselves on TV and programmed their sets to tape the shows they attended.

More than half of the members of the audience were women, their ages ranging from early twenties into the seventies. The men appeared to be in their late sixties, and older. I had often wondered if they were widowers, or for other reasons needed to learn how to cook. John O’Hara, at fifty, was the “kid” among the men. I’d seen him arrive just a minute or two before we began broadcasting and pointed to the only empty seat: on the aisle in the last row, nearest the entrance. I’d saved it for him by putting a cardboard “Reserved” sign on it.

I told the audience, “A famous guest cooker is here with us, a man who has kept me awake many a night-long before I met him. Let’s give a warm welcome to one of the world’s most popular novelists, Roland Gray.”

As the audience applauded, Camera One drew back from its close-up on me into a two-shot that included Gray, standing on my left, relaxed and smiling.

Facing the camera, I held up my copy of The Terror Master. “This is Roland Gray’s latest spy thriller.” Turning to Gray, I said, “I think it’s been on the New York Times best seller list for a month now.”

“Six weeks, actually,” he said. “But who’s counting?”

Twenty-nine out of the thirty people in the audience chuckled appreciatively. The one grim face belonged to John O’Hara.

Speaking to the audience again, I said, “If those of you here in the studio will look underneath your seats, you’ll each find a copy of The Terror Master. They’re a gift from Roland.”

Everyone, including John, bent down to retrieve the books. Most people smiled or made sounds of delight at the surprise.

“Don’t start reading now,” I joked. “We’ve only got an hour together, soooo let’s get cooking.” I smiled at Gray again. “What are you going to make for us tonight?”

“Spotted Dick,” he said.

I heard a few giggles.

Playfully, I chided the audience. “Now, now. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Turning to Gray, I said, “You’re talking about a classic steamed pudding.”

“Absolutely. It’s a timeless staple of British comfort cuisine. I’m going to make my mother’s recipe, which was taught to her by her mother. In fact, I’ve learned that the earliest recipe of Spotted Dick dates from 1847. And as an aside, regarding the name of this dish: Some years ago, in Gloucestershire, England, certain hospital authorities, fearing that patients would be too embarrassed to ask for Spotted Dick, changed the name to Spotted Richard. British comedians had a great time with this, until administrators restored the original name.”

As Gray talked, I helped him by organizing his ingredients in the order he would use them. We had rehearsed this bit, to have physical action during his explanation to the audience. I knew how to make pudding, but he’d briefed me on the particulars of his family recipe.

“The ‘spots’ in Spotted Dick come from the fact that it’s studded with currants and raisins,” he said. “Also, it can be made in the shape of a log and then sliced after it’s cooked, but I like to make it in what’s called a ‘pudding basin.’ ” Gray held up a round mold, about half the size of a Bundt pan.

“We start by sifting a cup of self-rising flour into a bowl, then we add the salt and half a cup of suet…”

Although I knew the answer, I asked Gray, “Where can people get suet?”

“Funnily enough, I buy my little tins on the Internet, but one can find it in British shops. You could even have a friendly butcher shred some up for you.”

“Suet is fat,” I said to the audience. “It performs the function of butter or solid Crisco. Roland, if people at home can’t write down your instructions, may I put the recipe on my Web site, www.DellaCooks.com?”

“I would be honored,” he said with an elegant bow.

I ran water into the Dutch oven Gray would use to steam his pudding, put it on the stove, and lighted the fire beneath it. It was another piece of business we’d preplanned.

Gray smiled at me in appreciation. “Thank you for the help,” he said. “You’re very gracious to this amateur.”

In my earpiece, I heard Quinn’s voice. “Ten seconds to commercial, Della… nine…”

“We have to take a little break now,” I told the audience. “Roland will keep working on his pudding and when we come back he’ll show you how to steam it.”

In the audience, a fifty-something woman in a bright pink pantsuit called out, “Yes!” Several other people laughed and clapped.

The camera lights went off.

I told Gray, “It sounds like you’re a hit.”

“Free books make friends,” he said with a wry smile.

As commercials began going out over the air, the audience in the studio could watch them on the large TV monitors, which were placed on either side of my kitchen set. Their purpose was to allow those on the premises to see close-up shots of the cooking in progress, which otherwise only the viewers at home could watch.

Gray strolled to the refrigerator on the back wall of the set and beckoned for me to join him. Puzzled, I moved over to where he was standing.