Free Pie A La Murder by Melinda Wells

light pink complexion. From her pale gray domestic’s uniform I guessed this was the Reddings’ housekeeper.
    “Hello,” I said. “I’d like to see either Mister or Missus Redding.”
    “They are no’ at home.” Her voice had the slightest trace of an Irish brogue.
    “What time will they be back?”
    She shook her head. “They be gone until Friday. Would ye like to leave a message?”
    “No, that’s all right, I’ll—”
    At that moment, I heard the Maserati’s engine and turned to see Nicholas’s car zoom up the street. It came to a screeching stop so tight behind my Jeep that if his brakes hadn’t been in perfect condition he would have plowed into it.
    I said a hasty “Thank you” to the woman at the door and started down the front walk. Nicholas confronted me halfway up.
    “He’s away until Friday,” I said.
    Nicholas’s eyes blazed. He was angrier than I’d ever seen him. “Where did that miserable bastard go?”
    “Out of town. I don’t know where, but the mood you’re in I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know.”
    His fury dropped from a boil to a simmer. “What are you doing here?”
    “Don’t use that tone with me. I came to stop you from doing something you’d regret.”
    Glancing back toward the Reddings’ front door, I saw that the housekeeper was watching us curiously. As soon as she saw me looking at her, she retreated inside and closed the door.
    I took Nicholas’s hand. “Come on,” I said. “He’s not here. Do you want something to eat? Or coffee? How about a glass or two of your favorite Sicilian red wine? I still have an unopened bottle.”
    He removed his hand from mine. “Not now,” he said, but at least he sounded calmer. “I’ve got to go.”
    “Where?”
    “To talk to Tanis.”
    “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
    “I only had one good idea, but Redding’s not here.”
    He took my arm, walked with me to my Jeep, and opened the door for me. “Go home,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
    “All right. But take a dozen deep breaths before you talk to either Tanis or Celeste. Acting like a maddened bull isn’t going to solve anything.”
    His response was a grunt.
    I climbed into the Jeep and watched Nicholas get behind the wheel of his car. We turned our respective vehicles around and headed south to Sunset Boulevard.
    At the corner, I turned west toward Santa Monica.
    Nicholas turned east, toward the Olympia Grand Hotel. And Tanis.
    Nicholas didn’t call me later.
    He didn’t call me all day Thursday, either. I had gone from being worried about him to becoming angry at being shut out. If our relationship was as serious as I had thought it was—as he had declared it was—then I deserved at least a one-minute phone call from him.
    But anger wasn’t a useful emotion in this situation, so I decided to concentrate on my responsibilities.
    This night’s show was called “Microwave Meals from Scratch,” so I didn’t need to prepare the finished products here at home. The three dishes I’d planned to demonstrate—Stuffed Acorn Squash, Zucchini Canoes, and Brown Rice with Raw Vegetables—could be made within the show’s live hour. I didn’t even need to buy the ingredients, because for the past several months a production assistant had been assigned to do that. The items would be waiting for me at the studio.
    To keep from listening for the phone to ring, I busied myself baking seventy-two muffins from a homemade batter that was almost as easy to whip up as it would be to open a box mix, and it tasted a lot better. The chocolate, vanilla, and coconut muffins would be passed out to the audience tonight, with plenty left over for the Better Living Channel’s staff.
    It was time to drive to the studio.
    No longer able to stand the suspense, I dialed Nicholas’s cell phone, but after four rings, my call went to his voice mail.
    “Hi. It’s me,” I said. “What’s going on? I’m worried about you. Call me. I’ll keep my cell on until