Free Pie A La Murder by Melinda Wells Page A

the show and turn it back on again as soon as we go off the air at eight.”
    Disconnecting, I wished I could talk to Liddy about the trouble the racy photo Alec Redding took of Celeste had caused, my visit from Tanis, my concern about Nicholas. But I knew I shouldn’t tell anyone else—even a friend as close as Liddy was—about something that was the private business of Celeste and her parents. To take my mind off worrying about Nicholas, I wanted to talk to Liddy about silly things. She’d tell me the latest Hollywood gossip, and I’d tell her about the new supplier at Della’s Sweet Dreams who misread our address and mistakenly delivered our order of superfine sugar to the muffler repair shop down the street. But Liddy was working on a movie set all this week, playing a bank robber’s hostage tied up next to Bruce Willis in Die Hard 9: Overdrawn .

    Six fifty-five PM. Five minutes to air. Still no call from Nicholas. My emotions had gone from worry to anger, but now that so many hours had passed with no word from him, my anger had been replaced by a concern so deep the feeling was almost ominous.
    Instead of turning the phone off entirely, as I was supposed to while in front of the cameras, I compromised by shutting off the ringer and slipped it into the pocket of my slacks. I adjusted the earpiece concealed under my hair to make it more comfortable, and prepared to teach the studio audience and the viewers at home how to prepare delicious meals with fresh, healthy ingredients, and do it quickly by using a microwave.
    I was in the middle of the broadcast’s second segment, slicing zucchinis lengthwise to show the audience how to make what I called “Zucchini Canoes,” when I felt my cell phone vibrate. It was frustrating, but I had to continue talking to the camera and to the studio audience while I chopped the veggie mixture that would fill the canoes.
    As soon as the red light over the camera lens went off and we were into another commercial break, I hurried behind the set to pull the phone of my pocket.
    I was sure it had been Nicholas who tried to reach me, and the number on the incoming call record confirmed that. But he hadn’t left a message.
    “Ten seconds, Della,” the director’s voice said in my ear.
    Back behind the preparation counter, I was smiling at the audience when the red light over Camera One came on and I began to talk and demonstrate again.
    The show continued without a problem, and without another call. The Stuffed Acorn Squash, Zucchini Canoes, and Brown Rice with Chopped Raw Vegetables—a dish I could, and have , I told them, made a meal of all by itself—came out of the microwave on time, and perfectly cooked. After wrapping up the show with another announcement about our national bake sale for charity, I displayed the muffins and summoned interns Cliff and Jerry to distribute them.
    The studio audience applauded as the trays of muffins were passed around, and again when I told them that tonight’s microwave recipes, and also those easy-to-make-from-scratch muffins, were on my Web site. When we went off the air, even my TV director, a woman hardly ever given to compliments, said that this show had been one of our best.
    Ironic, considering the drama that was going on in my private life.
    As soon as the audience filed out, I untied my chef’s apron—an object I had a hard time looking at without thinking of that deliberately salacious seminude photo of Celeste—said quick good-byes to the crew, and hurried outside to my Jeep.
    I hadn’t lingered back at the studio, but still it was nearly eight forty-five by the time I’d turned off Lankershim Boulevard and onto Ventura Boulevard. The night was clear and cool and traffic was light. There were about a quarter of the number of vehicles that would be on the roads in twelve hours, during the morning rush. Most of those who worked days were at home by now, and people on night shifts were at their jobs.
    Usually when I’m on my way