Read Online Pie A La Murder by Melinda Wells - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melinda Wells
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with this man Redding?”
“None.”
“This is really Nico’s fault.”
I didn’t try to hide my anger. “How do you figure that?”
“He allowed her to keep her appointment with that Redding creature. Now he’ll just have to get us out of this mess.” She huffed in frustration. “I’m desperate for a cigarette, but my handbag’s out in the car. Do you have one? I’ll take any brand.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“But don’t you keep some to offer guests?”
“None of my friends smoke.”
She swore softly in German.
I don’t speak German, but it wasn’t hard to guess the essence of what she was saying.
Tanis picked up Celeste’s laptop and stood. “Thank you for the coffee. I should get back to the hotel. Freddie is terribly upset, and he’s not in the best of health—he’s a hemophiliac.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, he’s fine unless he accidentally cuts himself,” she said in an offhand manner, “but sometimes stress makes him careless.”
I saw her to the door and we exchanged polite good-byes.
Barely had the door closed behind her when my telephone rang.
It was Nicholas. “Della.” His voice vibrated with anger. “Do you know what Tanis has done?”
“What?”
“She turned the perfectly good, safe Honda I bought Celeste back to the dealer and leased her a BMW instead. She said a BMW presented a better image!”
“Nicholas, Tanis was just here.”
“Where? At your house? Why?”
“ She’s upset about something. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think you should be prepared.”
When I told him about the photo of Celeste, he exploded. In Italian. But in school I’d made “A’s” in Latin so I understood almost every word.
“No, Nicholas—don’t do anything foolish!”
He hung up.
I ran to the kitchen to the computer to look up Alec Redding’s address. It was on his Web site. I prayed I could get there before Nicholas did.
The address of Alec Redding’s photo studio was the same as his home address in Brentwood. If Nicholas had phoned me from his place in Larchmont, then being here in Santa Monica I was closer to Redding. I’d have even more time to get there if he’d called me from the Chronicle office in downtown Los Angeles.
Even though I’d scribbled down his phone number along with his address, I couldn’t call Redding to warn him that an outraged father was on his way. Suppose he had a gun? He might think he needed to defend himself. I imagined them struggling for the weapon and Nicholas being shot.
That image was so horrible I snatched up the phone and dialed Redding’s number.
The call went right to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message.
Because Nicholas drove like a NASCAR champion, it would be a race to Redding’s no matter where he started from. I grabbed my wallet with my driver’s license and rushed out of the house without giving Tuffy a good-bye pet.
10
One-ninety Bella Vista Drive was a block and a half north of Sunset Boulevard, near the border—visible only to real estate agents and tax assessors—where upper-income Brentwood melts into upper-upper-income Bel Air.
Redding’s house was a tall, two-story red brick, trimmed in white, with smooth white columns on either side of the front door and a satellite dish on the roof. The numerals “190,” in black iron, were affixed to the top of the carport. One car was there: a tan Lexus. The other half of the carport was empty, but parked behind the Lexus was an older model green Buick. I heaved a huge sigh of relief that Nicholas hadn’t arrived.
I parked on the street in front of the house, hurried up the walk, and pressed the little mother-of-pearl bell button. A few seconds passed, during which I anxiously scanned Bella Vista Drive while listening hard for the familiar roar of the Maserati’s motor. Simultaneously with my pushing the bell again, the door was opened by a woman of sixty or so with silver hair in a braid coiled on top of her head and a
“None.”
“This is really Nico’s fault.”
I didn’t try to hide my anger. “How do you figure that?”
“He allowed her to keep her appointment with that Redding creature. Now he’ll just have to get us out of this mess.” She huffed in frustration. “I’m desperate for a cigarette, but my handbag’s out in the car. Do you have one? I’ll take any brand.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“But don’t you keep some to offer guests?”
“None of my friends smoke.”
She swore softly in German.
I don’t speak German, but it wasn’t hard to guess the essence of what she was saying.
Tanis picked up Celeste’s laptop and stood. “Thank you for the coffee. I should get back to the hotel. Freddie is terribly upset, and he’s not in the best of health—he’s a hemophiliac.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, he’s fine unless he accidentally cuts himself,” she said in an offhand manner, “but sometimes stress makes him careless.”
I saw her to the door and we exchanged polite good-byes.
Barely had the door closed behind her when my telephone rang.
It was Nicholas. “Della.” His voice vibrated with anger. “Do you know what Tanis has done?”
“What?”
“She turned the perfectly good, safe Honda I bought Celeste back to the dealer and leased her a BMW instead. She said a BMW presented a better image!”
“Nicholas, Tanis was just here.”
“Where? At your house? Why?”
“ She’s upset about something. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think you should be prepared.”
When I told him about the photo of Celeste, he exploded. In Italian. But in school I’d made “A’s” in Latin so I understood almost every word.
“No, Nicholas—don’t do anything foolish!”
He hung up.
I ran to the kitchen to the computer to look up Alec Redding’s address. It was on his Web site. I prayed I could get there before Nicholas did.
The address of Alec Redding’s photo studio was the same as his home address in Brentwood. If Nicholas had phoned me from his place in Larchmont, then being here in Santa Monica I was closer to Redding. I’d have even more time to get there if he’d called me from the Chronicle office in downtown Los Angeles.
Even though I’d scribbled down his phone number along with his address, I couldn’t call Redding to warn him that an outraged father was on his way. Suppose he had a gun? He might think he needed to defend himself. I imagined them struggling for the weapon and Nicholas being shot.
That image was so horrible I snatched up the phone and dialed Redding’s number.
The call went right to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message.
Because Nicholas drove like a NASCAR champion, it would be a race to Redding’s no matter where he started from. I grabbed my wallet with my driver’s license and rushed out of the house without giving Tuffy a good-bye pet.
10
One-ninety Bella Vista Drive was a block and a half north of Sunset Boulevard, near the border—visible only to real estate agents and tax assessors—where upper-income Brentwood melts into upper-upper-income Bel Air.
Redding’s house was a tall, two-story red brick, trimmed in white, with smooth white columns on either side of the front door and a satellite dish on the roof. The numerals “190,” in black iron, were affixed to the top of the carport. One car was there: a tan Lexus. The other half of the carport was empty, but parked behind the Lexus was an older model green Buick. I heaved a huge sigh of relief that Nicholas hadn’t arrived.
I parked on the street in front of the house, hurried up the walk, and pressed the little mother-of-pearl bell button. A few seconds passed, during which I anxiously scanned Bella Vista Drive while listening hard for the familiar roar of the Maserati’s motor. Simultaneously with my pushing the bell again, the door was opened by a woman of sixty or so with silver hair in a braid coiled on top of her head and a
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