The Proof is in the Pudding

Melinda Wells

The Proof is in the Pudding

The third book in the Della Cooks Mystery series, 2010

To Norman Knight

Acknowledgments

I am immensely grateful to the following:

Editor Kate Seaver, who inspired this series. Thank you for your suggestions, which made this a better book.

Priscilla Gilman and Morton Janklow. I’m so lucky to be represented by you! Thank you for your unwavering support, and for your guidance.

Claire Carmichael, a terrific novelist, and a brilliant instructor. Thanks to you, I’m a better writer than I would have been without your “athletic eyes.”

D. Constantine Conte, mentor and treasured friend. I’ve learned so much from you.

Carole Moore Adams for creating the pudding in this book. (Her recipe is included.)

Penrose (Pe

To my “secret weapons,” the test readers who see the early manuscripts and give me their invaluable reactions: Arthur Abelson, Carole Moore Adams, Gina Anderson, Penrose Anderson, Christie Burton, Rosa

Wayne Thompson of Colonial Heights, Virginia, who inspires me and makes me laugh.

Berry Gordy: Your place in my heart is, and always has been, unique.

1

“You’re going to love what I’ve done to promote your show!” said Phil Logan, as soon as he finished gasping for air.

Phil, head of publicity for the Better Living Cha

Because the property was surrounded by a security fence, I’d let Tuffy off the leash. He had been sniffing happily at scented trails that no human could follow, but he stopped and looked up to watch Phil dashing toward us.

What with Phil’s abundant mane of sandy hair and his unlined face, he looked a decade younger than his thirty-two years, but he wasn’t in as good shape as his reedy frame suggested. By the time he covered the fifty yards that separated us he was red-faced with exertion and looked ready to collapse.

I reached out to steady him. “Lean forward, Phil. Put your hands on your knees and take deep breaths.”

After a few gulps of cool air, his complexion lost its u

He straightened up. “You’re just what every guy needs- a good-looking woman who’s a nurturer. Unfortunately, my ex-wife was only good-looking.” He shook off that rare moment of melancholy and aimed a triumphant grin at me. “Wait ’til you hear my news!”

I admired Phil’s zeal for his job, but I had every reason to be wary when I saw that “I’ve got a great idea” expression on his face.

I said, “Your last stunt almost put a Los Angeles Dodger on the disabled list.”

Two weeks ago, as a tie-in to the show I was preparing called “Cooking for the Ball Game,” Phil convinced me to put on a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball uniform and be photographed “practicing” with the team.

I’d warned him that I wasn’t even remotely athletic. “In school, the only team I was ever chosen for was Debating.”

“You don’t have to play,” he’d said. “Just take a couple swings with the bat while my photographer gets some shots.”

One of the new Dodger pitchers, a polite young man who told me that his mother loved my show, threw an easy one toward me. I swung. Miraculously, the bat co

Luckily, Cuervo wasn’t injured. He claimed he just cried out because he was surprised “the girl” could hit a ball. The picture that landed on the sports page of the Los Angeles Chronicle showed me gaping in horror, like that Edvard Munch painting, The Scream.

Nicholas D’Martino, the man in my life, now calls me “Slugger.”

The Chronicle headlined the story “Cook Conks Cuervo.” Phil got it picked up by the wire services and published all over the country.

“National publicity,” he said proudly.

“You mean national humiliation.”

“They spelled your name right, In the Kitchen with Della got a bump up in the ratings, and people all over the country who only read the Sports section now know about you.”

In a gesture of fondness, Tuffy leaned against Phil’s thigh. Phil responded by reaching down to give him an ear scratch, but at that moment Tuffy spotted a squirrel a few yards away and took off after it. Tuffy was five years old, and try though he might, had never caught a squirrel. I presumed that by now he gave chase just for the exercise.

Watching Tuffy, Phil said, “Your big guy gets fan mail. My secretary answers it for him, on paw print stationery I had made.”

“Isn’t that going a little far? Too cutesy?”

“It’s good public relations,” Phil said. “Speaking of which, our crazy Dodgers story opened the door to this new opportunity, which I grabbed like a mongoose grabs… whatever they grab.”

“Cobras,” I said.

Phil’s lips retracted in a grimace. “I hate snakes. Sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what opportunity are you talking about?”

The happy grin returned. “You’ve heard about the Celebrity Cook-Off Charity Gala at the Olympia Grand Hotel this Wednesday night.”

“Of course. All the entertainment news reporters have talked about it. But the celebrities who’ll be participating are major movie and TV stars. I’m not in that league.”

“True,” Phil said, “but what I got you is even better. There’ll be twenty celebs, but you’re going to be one of only three judges.”

“How can that be? Wednesday is the day after tomorrow. The names of the judges were a

“Ahhhh, but one of them had to withdraw this morning.” Phil’s tone was positively gleeful. “It’s the retired chef who runs that wildlife sanctuary north of Santa Barbara. One of his endangered species bit him.”

“That’s terrible! Is he all right?”

Phil gave my question a dismissive shrug. “He just got a scratch on that big red drinker’s nose of his, but he’s acting like he’ll need major plastic surgery before he can appear in public again. Frankly, I think he wants to use this as an excuse to have some work done. In a few weeks he’ll emerge from seclusion looking-as they say-rested. Anyway, the point is that as soon as I heard he’d backed out of judging, I rushed over to the charity’s PR office and offered you as a substitute. You’re still hot from the Tony Cuervo story, so they said yes. I called my secretary, dictated the press release a