Gray leaned close to me and whispered, “I know that the plan was for me to be on the first half, and then watch the rest of the show from your director’s booth, but do you suppose you could let me stay down here, to help you prepare your stew?”

“Yes, of course.” I was happy to have him continue on camera, but he must have seen the question in my eyes.

“To be frank,” he said, answering the unspoken query, “I’m not entirely comfortable around your Ms. Tanner.”

I wasn’t going to say anything negative about Quinn, but I felt a sympathetic smile twitching the corner of my mouth.

“I’m happy to have your company,” I said. “This isn’t a scripted show, and we’re only shooting in one small set, so there’s no technical problem if you’re here. Stay near me and I’ll give you things to do.”

“Consider me your sous chef. Or your scullery maid.”

“Deal. I have a favor to ask of you, too.”

“Anything.”

“After the show, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. John O’Hara. He’s here tonight.”

“Ah, the man with the flying fist. Certainly. I recognized his face in the audience, but it took a few minutes for me to recall where I’d seen him before.”

I used the intercom microphone beneath the prep counter to contact Quinn.

“Little change of plans,” I said. “The audience likes Roland so much he’s going to stay down here for the rest of the show. I’m putting him to work.”

I half expected to hear Quinn object, but after a moment of silence, she said in an icy tone, “Take your place. Ten seconds.” She hissed the S in seconds, sounding like a snake whose nest had been disturbed.

When we were broadcasting again, I told the audience, “As soon as Roland’s pudding is steaming, he’s going to help me make our main dish, Italian Chicken Stew. It’s one of those meals you can prepare one day and keep reheating for the next two or three nights, and it just tastes better and better because the flavors soak in.”

The show went off without a glitch. I didn’t burn the chicken pieces I sautéed for the Italian stew, and Gray didn’t cut himself while he was chopping prosciutto ham and slicing red, yellow, and orange bell peppers for me. The show had been timed so that I could have done the chopping myself, but to make Gray look necessary, I wiped the stove top clean of grease spots from the sautéing, and brought the Dutch oven full of my completed Italian Chicken Stew I’d brought from home in my tote bag up to the counter.

“Here’s what our Italian Chicken Stew looks like when it’s finished,” I told the audience. Camera Two moved in for a close-up “beauty shot” of the stew.

In the show’s final segment, Roland and I chatted about pudding while we made the custard sauce for his Spotted Dick. Because what he’d demonstrated on the show was still steaming, Roland placed on the prep counter the Spotted Dick he’d made at home.

“That looks delicious,” I said sincerely.

“Something sweet is just the prescription to take one’s mind off the disappointments of the day. Or as a reward when things go well.”

“In other words,” I said, “any excuse will do.”

He chuckled. “Ah, Della, you have cracked my code, so to speak.”

The clock ticked down to the final ninety seconds. Roland placed his pudding on the crystal dessert dish he’d brought with him, and I ladled warm custard sauce over it.

As we’d planned during the previous commercial break, I took a handful of plastic spoons from a box in the drawer beneath the preparation counter, handed them to him, and told the audience, “Now Roland’s going to offer some volunteers a taste.” I was careful not to say, “a taste of his Spotted Dick.”

Most of the spectators applauded enthusiastically.

Jada Powell on Camera Two swung around and followed Gray as he strode to the front row of seats. With a theatrical flourish, he made a show of inhaling the pudding’s sweet aroma, then passed out spoons. He walked along the row, holding the plate, as people dug into the pudding. I saw appreciative nods at the taste from those with their mouths full.

As the end credits rolled over the scene, I was aware that Quinn did not instruct Ernie Ramirez, manning Camera One, to conclude the episode on me, as was the usual practice. Ernie must have realized that Quinn was punishing me, because he leaned around his camera and gave me a helpless shrug.

When the show was over, it took half an hour for Gray to finish autographing books and for the last of the audience members to leave.

The moment the final spectator had left the studio, Gray and I sat down on the stools behind the preparation counter. John O’Hara joined us and I introduced them. Gray’s response was warm. John’s was polite. The book was tucked under his arm, but John didn’t ask Gray to sign it for him.

“I’m sure Shannon ’s going to enjoy Terror Master,” I said to John. To Gray, I added, “John’s wife is one of your fans. Whichever of us buys one of your books first, as soon as we’ve read it, we pass it to the other.”

John speared Gray with what Eileen calls “the look that makes bad guys beg to confess.” Without preamble, he said to Gray, “How well did you know Keith Ingram?”

“I didn’t. Not really. We’d met, casually. In passing, so to speak.”

Uh oh. Gray’s tone was level-no nervous wobble in his voice-and he was meeting John’s gaze, but instinct told me he wasn’t telling us the truth. Starting back when I was a high school teacher, I’d noticed that when people were lying they tended to say too much. One “I didn’t” was enough. A string of denials undercut credibility.

John reached into an inside pocket of his sports jacket and removed a sheet of paper.

“This is a photocopy of the judging card Keith Ingram made out about you.” He held it up for me to see that it was a replica of one of the cards we were issued. My eyes widened in surprise at what I saw on it.

“There were four criteria for judging the dishes you all were creating,” John said. “Organization of the workspace, quality of the ingredients, the appearance of the dish, and the taste. Ingram gave you the lowest score on all four categories.”

“But the dishes weren’t finished,” I said. “Nothing had been displayed yet, and nothing was tasted.”

“Exactly.” John stayed focused on Gray. “So, what was the problem between you and Ingram?”

I turned to look at Roland Gray and saw that his complexion had lost its color.

19

After a moment of silence, Gray stood. “That is not a subject I care to discuss with you, Mr. O’Hara.”

“It’s Lieutenant O’Hara. LAPD. And you’ll either discuss it with me here, or you’ll do it down at the station.”

Color returned to Roland Gray’s cheeks. “I’m not a naïf, Lieutenant. Or, as we are in a television studio kitchen, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that I did not just fall off a turnip truck. You, sir, laid Keith Ingram out flat. I’ll take your word that you are with the LAPD, but I think it highly unlikely that you are being allowed to take part in this investigation. In fact, I’m sure that you, yourself, are under suspicion for Ingram’s murder. Clearly, you had some severe grievance against the man, or you wouldn’t have attacked him in public, before dozens of witnesses.”

Gray began to gather up his cooking equipment. “I had a delightful time with you, Della. Perhaps you will allow me to take you to a restaurant, without cameras present, and where neither of us must cook.”

“You’re making a mistake, Gray.” John said. But he’d dialed his attitude down from confrontational to calm reasonableness. “If you tell me-us-about your problem with Ingram, we might be able to help you so that you’re not thought of as a suspect.”