The Proof is in the Pudding Read Free Page A

“Because we make really good fudge?”
    He snorted. “I wish that’s what it took. I had to arrange a free trip to New York for him on Warner Brothers’s private jet.”
    “Phil, I know you mean well, but I’m not comfortable talking about Eileen behind her back.” Sensing that it was getting late, I checked my watch. “It’s four o’clock. In a few minutes I’ve got to start taping the last of today’s three shows.” I whistled for Tuffy. He looked up from his explorations and came trotting back toward me.
    Phil escorted us to the door to the studio and opened it.
    I said good-bye and was about to go inside, but the touch of his hand on my arm stopped me.
    “What is it, Phil?”
    “Publicity is a very personal job,” he said. “And I usually love it. Seven-day weeks, twenty-hour days—I thrive on building or enhancing careers. But we try to protect our clients, too. The people I work with are family to me. Better, really, because we’re close by choice, not an accident of blood. I told you about Ingram because I feel an obligation not to let you get blindsided. Eileen’s going to be hurt, but the facts are that her father is a cop. Tina Long’s father is a billionaire, and she’s his only child. You do the math.”

2

    I tried to put worry about Eileen aside in order to concentrate on the show I was about to tape, but she had been entrusted to me for most of her life, and my maternal feelings for her were strong. I had never been blessed with a biological child, and thus Eileen O’Hara had been my only shot at motherhood. But there was nothing I could do for Eileen at this moment, and I had a professional obligation to fulfill.
    After giving a quick touch-up to my TV makeup in the tiny backstage dressing room, I led Tuffy out onto the studio’s TV kitchen set. He trotted over to his padded dog bed next to the refrigerator and settled down to watch me cook for the cameras.
    We should have finished for the day an hour ago, but technical glitches during the first two shows had put us behind. Unless this one went off smoothly, we’d run into the time scheduled for taping the auto repair show, Car Guy .
    The repair shop’s standing set was next to mine at the west end of the cable network’s no-frills broadcast studios. No one wanted to upset the temperamental mechanic who’d had his name changed legally to Car Guy. Car, as we called him, had turned a surly on-air disposition and a penchant for smashing things when agitated into the highest rated program on the BLC. Although no one mentioned it when Car was around, according to the latest figures, my show was now running a close second to his.
    I looked around my kitchen set. Everything seemed to be ready. The lights had been reset and positioned according to the dishes I would be making in this episode. A quick survey of the pantry cabinet and the refrigerator showed me the stagehands had restocked them from the list of items I’d need for this show. All I had to do was not ruin the dishes.
    In the glass-enclosed control booth above me, I saw director Quinn Tanner’s knife-blade-thin body leaning over the shoulder of the board engineer. As she spoke to him, I saw him respond with an affirmative nod. She straightened, pushed a few strands of long black hair back from her pale face, and gazed down at me. Through my earpiece, I heard her British accent and her habitually frosty tone. “Take your position, Della.”
    Hoping a little humor would warm her up, I said, “When the police arrest bad guys they tell them ‘assume the position’ and they have to spread their arms and legs for a pat-down.”
    That got a chuckle out of Ernie Ramirez, operating Camera One, and a smile from Jada Powell, piloting Camera Two. There were a few seconds of heavy silence from the director’s booth until Quinn said, “I don’t think that will be necessary—unless, of course, you’re carrying a concealed spatula.”
    It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was the