The Proof is in the Pudding (8 page)

There were no dinner tables in the Elysian Room this night because three-quarters of the space was filled with twenty working stoves, each manned by movie and TV celebrities in black tie or evening gowns. Members of the public who had paid five hundred dollars apiece for the privilege could wander throughout, watching stars cook and bake in the competition. Money collected for tickets would be donated to the Healthy Life Fund. The hundred-thousand-dollar prize for the best culinary creation would go to the winning star’s favorite charity.

Famous travel and food writer Yvette Dupree, author of a dozen
Global Gourmet Goes to
. . . books that covered the sights and cuisines of at least half the known world, came toward me through the crowd and introduced herself.

“You are Del-la,” she said. Her accent—a lilting mixture of French and something exotic—made my name sound almost like a dessert.

Yvette Dupree was a petite woman, and her great mane of tawny hair might have accounted for a quarter of her total weight. Heavily tanned, with the toned arms of the champion golfer that I’d read she had once been, she wore a strapless metallic gold mermaid dress so tight from torso to knees that she walked with the tiny steps that reminded me of a documentary I’d seen about Chinese women who had had their feet bound.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” I said.

“ ’Ow do you do,
cherie
. I mus’ tell you ’ow I enjoy your show.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind. Your book on Italy gave me a great experience of the country.”

“Ahhhh,
Italia
. Zee men . . . superb lovers . . . but”—she shook her head—“zay do not give
grande
jewels.”

Because she was wearing an impressive collection of large gems around her neck, encircling both wrists, and decorating several fingers, I guessed that none of these big-carat baubles were from Italian men.

“That’s useful to know,” I said.

Yvette peered at me through thick false eyelashes: first at my unadorned neck, then at my naked wrists, and finally my ringless fingers. She nodded to herself, as though she had come to some personal conclusion. “You do not need diamonds to wear,” she said. “Keep zem in your bank.”

Moving to another subject, she said, “Do you know there are
pas de
—pardon, I mean
no
psychiatrists
en Italia
?”

I admitted that I hadn’t heard that, but I added that I thought the actress Audrey Hepburn had been married to an Italian who was a psychiatrist.

“No psychiatrists,” she insisted. “
En Italia
, when peoples have zee problem zee men go to zee mamas and womens go to zee priests. America,
c’est merveilleux
, but too many psychiatrists, all wanting to know about one’s sentimental life.”

I had no idea what to say to that, but a response wasn’t necessary because now her gaze had passed me and had focused on the sea of glamorous—and glamorized—people who thronged the ballroom.

“All zis for zee charity.
Bon
.” Twirling one perfectly manicured index finger in the direction of the cluster of stoves, she said, “We must be judging,
oui
?”

“Oui.”
It was one of the few French words I knew.

“À bientôt.”
She smiled and moved away on tiny little steps toward the first line of gas stoves.

I had only that one brief conversation with Yvette Dupree, but I liked her. She was a little gaudy, and had some odd opinions, but she seemed unpretentious, and she exuded warmth that made her pleasant to be around.

Surveying the ballroom, I saw Keith Ingram in the middle aisle, jotting something on his clipboard. With Yvette going along the far left row of celebrities, and Ingram in the middle path, I decided to begin my study of the activities along the right side of the room.

I’d reached my fourth stove when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a familiar figure: a man who towered over most of the men around him. Because he’d been my husband’s partner and our friend, I’d seen those broad shoulders and that military-short hair at least a thousand times over the course of twenty-two years. Almost simultaneously, another moving body caught my attention: Shannon O’Hara, looking voluptuous in a sea foam green evening gown. Several yards behind her husband, Shannon’s halo of red curls bounced as she tried to get through the crowd to catch up with him.

I was wondering why John O’Hara was moving so rapidly, leaving Shannon to struggle in his wake, when I felt the
click
of comprehension in my brain: John was speeding like a locked-on missile right toward Keith Ingram. The food critic’s back was to him, but John’s left hand grabbed Ingram’s right shoulder, yanking Ingram around to face him.

Ingram grunted in surprise and jerked out of John’s grasp, but before he could utter a protest, John’s right fist shot out. With a heavy
thud
, John’s knuckles connected with Ingram’s jaw. It sounded like Rocky Balboa thumping that side of beef.

Propelled by John’s blow, Ingram reeled backward, stumbling against a corpulent, white-haired spectator. The older man tottered, but he clutched at a nearby waiter and managed to keep his balance while Ingram tumbled to the floor on his rear end. Ingram’s legs flailed in the air, like a huge turtle that had been flipped over onto its shell.

Instinct had sent me rushing toward the action just as John’s fist started toward Ingram’s face. Too late to stop the punch, I pushed in front of John just as Shannon, Liddy, and Bill reached him. Amid a babble of shocked voices, Ingram struggled to his feet, helped by the overweight man and the waiter.

Prodding John’s chest hard with the end of my clipboard, I whispered, “What’s the matter with you?”

John’s dark eyes were almost black with fury. He clamped his mouth tight and backed away from me.

All around us, photographers’ flashes were going off. Some gala attendees moved away from the combatants while others inched closer to get a better look. And two large uniformed security men pressed through the throng toward us.

Pointing at John, Ingram shouted to the security guards, “Arrest that maniac!”

The guards started toward John, but the fierce expression on his face stopped them. Her eyes wide with shock, Shannon clutched John’s arm while he stood rigid.

“Now, now, let’s not turn some little misunderstanding into World War Three.”

It was a new voice on the scene, a man’s, soothing, and smooth as softened butter, the voice of a midnight disk jockey who played Frank Sinatra songs until dawn. But it wasn’t a disk jockey joining us. I’d heard that voice and seen his face in television interviews about the success of his multilayered financial empire. Tall and slender, with thick silver hair framing even features, he was as handsome as he was rich.

“There’s no need to arrest anyone.” Eugene Long’s tone was genial. He held a glass with an amber-colored liquid in one hand, and with the other he gave the shoulder of the nearest of the two guards a friendly pat. “Why don’t you boys go to the Palm Room down the hall and have a big steak dinner with all the trimmings. Just sign my name to the tab.” He took a healthy swallow from the glass. I probably wouldn’t have noticed except for Liddy’s remark about Long being a heavy drinker. His eyes seemed exceptionally bright, but that might have been a trick of the lights; he didn’t sound drunk.

The guards thanked their employer. One aimed a final frown at John, and the two of them headed toward the exit. As the crowd parted to let them through, I saw Eileen across the room. Her hands pressed against her lips as though suppressing a scream.

John leaned down to whisper something to Shannon, then took her hand from his arm and gently put it into Liddy’s. After giving Bill a brief nod, John hurried out of the ballroom. With his eyes fixed on the exit, he couldn’t see Eileen, who was standing frozen, out of his line of sight.

Eugene Long drew Ingram away from the crowd and was speaking quietly to him. I hurried past the rows of stoves that separated us and grasped Eileen around her wrists, lowering her hands from her mouth.

“Why did your father explode? Did you tell him what Ingram did to you?”

She shook her head. “Mother knew I was upset and was getting agitated because I wouldn’t tell her why, so I gave in and said Keith was threatening to ruin my reputation. Right after that, Daddy came into the room. I didn’t even know he’d come home. He didn’t say anything, but now I realize he must have overheard us talking about Keith.”

We were interrupted by an irritating electronic screech from the direction of the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Eugene Long took a sip from his glass, wiped his lips, and bent over the speaker’s stand. He tapped the microphone and muttered, “Is this thing on?”

A technician popped up from beneath the pedestal and assured him that it was connected.

“Good boy,” Long said. He straightened and raised his drink in salute to the prosperous audience under his vaulted roof. With the bonhomie of a politician, he said, “Cheers, everybody, and welcome to the Celebrity Cook-Off. Tonight, in this very room, there are more stars than we can see in the sky—at least not unless we get some of the Santa Ana winds to blow the smog away. Seriously, thank you all for being here. Now, people, hold your applause until I’ve introduced everybody.”

As a spotlight hit each celebrity at his or her cooking station, that star responded with a wave, or a blown kiss, or a fist pumped in anticipation of victory. When Long pronounced the final name, he said, “Let’s show our appreciation for these great talents with the big hearts who are giving their time tonight for the Healthy Life Fund.”

Sustained applause from their fans.

“Now I’d like to introduce the three accomplished people who are going to pick the Celebrity Cook-Off winner. First, a beautiful world traveler, and my old and dear friend, the Global Gourmet, Yvette Dupree.”

Yvette waved her hand that held the clipboard. Because she was short, the group nearest her had to step to one side for her to be seen by more of the crowd.

“Next is lovely Della Carmichael, hostess of
In the Kitchen with Della
on the Better Living Channel. Show us where you are, Della.”

The spotlight found me. I gave a quick little wave with my free hand. While I was at ease teaching food preparation on television—I’d been a high school English teacher for twelve years before I started the cooking school—I was a little embarrassed to be introduced at an event full of famous people when I wasn’t on the premises to cook. I was much more comfortable with a spatula in my hand than a clipboard.

“Now for a shot of testosterone, a man whose nationally syndicated food column influences what people eat from coast to coast. Here he is, the sworn enemy of fast food: Keith Ingram.”

There was brief, polite applause for the judges. Seeming to relish the spotlight, Ingram waved with both hands thrust high. It was a gesture too large for the less-than-wild enthusiasm the gala attendees felt for the judges. We were not the luminaries that people in the ballroom had paid five hundred dollars apiece to watch.

From what I could see, it didn’t seem as though John had done permanent damage to Ingram’s face. I admit to being torn about that. On the one hand, I didn’t like violence, but when it came to Keith Ingram and what he was threatening to do to Eileen, I would not have trusted myself if I had found him alone on a country road and I knew how to drive a backhoe.

“And now,” Long said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce the love of my life. I wake up every morning a happy man, just because I know she’s going to do something that day to make me crazy—or make me smile. She’s going to make one of you smile, too, because she’s in charge of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar check that’s going to be awarded tonight.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the side of the stage. “My daughter, Tina. Come on out here, baby doll.”

From behind the length of velvet curtain that framed the stage stepped Tina Long, carrying a two-feet-high-by-four-feet-long cardboard check. All that was visible of her behind the cardboard were the blandly pretty face above it that had graced so many tabloid gossip magazine covers in the past year, and two pipe-cleaner thin legs below. The hands that gripped the mock-up were pale and slender, their fingers bright with pink nail polish onto which pink glitter had been sprinkled.

Long enthusiastically led the applause for Tina as she took a bow.

When the clapping died down, Long said, “As you can see, the check has been partly made out. There’s the bank, the date, and the amount: one hundred thousand dollars. All that has to be filled in is the name of the charity selected by the winning celebrity, and my signature. Then, thanks to one of the stars here, some good cause is going to get a fabulous surprise tonight.”

Keith Ingram had moved next to me. “And what do we judges get? Nothing but indigestion from a bellyful of amateur cooking.”