The Proof is in the Pudding (2 page)

“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 Channel where I hosted
In the Kitchen with Della
, had spotted me walking with my black standard poodle, Tuffy, along the grassy area at the far end of the cable network’s North Hollywood production facility. He’d waved wildly and burst into a sprint to join us.

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 unnatural crimson shade and resumed its normal color, which was somewhere between parchment and the ivory keys on a piano. A workaholic, Phil Logan was definitely an indoor man.

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 connected with the ball, but cheers turned to gasps when the ball struck shortstop Tony Cuervo on the ankle. His yelp of pain brought the team’s medic running. In addition to feeling awful that I’d hurt him, I had a horrible vision of the team’s owner suing me for the player’s astronomical salary.

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 announced weeks ago.”

“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 announcement over the phone, and had her do a blast e-mail to all the outlets.”

I stared at Phil in astonishment. “You told everybody I’d do it before you asked me?”

“Well, yeah. The national story I sent out doesn’t just mention your TV show, I also promoted that mail-order fudge business you started up—Della’s Sweet Dreams. A second release went out to the local outlets that also mentions you teach cooking classes in Santa Monica.”

Two vertical frown lines suddenly appeared between Phil’s eyebrows. “Jeez, this came up so fast I forgot to check. You still teach cooking, don’t you?”

“Yes, on weekends.”

“That’s a relief.” Phil’s face relaxed, but he didn’t look happy. “Not making sure about the classes first—that was careless of me. I pride myself on the fact that anyone can take a Phil Logan press release right to the nearest bank.”

Take a press release to the bank
. . . Hearing another of those semi-metaphors I’d come to think of as Logan-isms made me smile with affection for Phil.

Seven months ago Mickey Jordan, owner of the Better Living Channel, out of desperation, had hired me as a replacement host. The desperation was both his and mine. He’d fired the previous host and had to fill vacant time on his cable network, and I was on the verge of drowning in debt trying to keep my little cooking school going. Now I was probably on the second-lowest rung of the “celebrity ladder,” but the fact that I was known to anyone at all beyond my immediate circle of family and friends was because of Phil Logan’s passion for his work.

Phil pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Details about what criteria you’re supposed to use for judging, and how many points you can give any particular dish. When you show up Wednesday night you’ll each be given your judging cards and a clipboard. Hey, this’ll be the easiest gig in the world. All you’ll have to do is walk around in an evening gown and watch other people cook.”

Perhaps remembering my notorious lack of interest in fashion, his eyes narrowed and he frowned at me. “Do you have an evening gown?”

“I used to . . . but it’s been years since—”

“Never mind. I know some designers—I’ll get you a loaner. Try not to spill anything on it.”

Phil started to leave, but stopped after taking a single step. When he turned back to me I saw an expression on his face that I’d never seen before: embarrassment.

“Look,” he said, glancing down at the ground, “you know by now that I don’t get involved in other people’s sex lives, but I think in this case a kind of warning is necessary.”

Instantly on the alert against criticism of my relationship with Nicholas D’Martino, I bristled. “Hold it. We’re not going to discuss my personal life—”

His head came up and he met my eyes. “Not
you
—it’s your friend I’m worried about.”

Nicholas?
“Oh, Phil, what in the world do you think I could do to a grown man?”

That produced a sly little smile. “I’ll bet you could do plenty, and I’m sure ol’ Nick wouldn’t mind a bit, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what are you talking about? Do I need a translator?”

I saw comprehension dawn in Phil’s eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Apparently not.”

“It’s your fudge partner, Eileen O’Hara. I know she’s kind of your unofficial daughter, but do you know who she’s been having a
thing
with?”

“No.”

“It’s one of your fellow Celebrity Cook-Off judges, Keith Ingram. Della, when it comes to women—especially the kind that are young and haven’t been around much like your Eileen—this is a bad dude.”

I’d met Keith Ingram once, four months ago, when he interviewed Eileen and me in order to do a story in his syndicated food column about our just-launched mail-order sweets business. “I think you’re mistaken, about her being involved with him,” I said. “Since the day the article about us came out she’s never mentioned him to me.”

“Do you think she tells you everything?”

“The piece he wrote was so over-the-top favorable, especially to Eileen—‘the beautiful UCLA business major with a great idea’—I suspected he had the hots for her,” Phil said, “but then I forgot about it.”

“How do you know they’re seeing each other?”

“I hear things . . . which leads me to the reason I brought this up. I know you’re a mother figure to her. She’s going to need you to be there for her when he dumps her.”

“But if he and Eileen actually are involved, what makes you think—”

“When I was at the charity’s PR office signing you up for the Cook-Off gig, I found out Ingram’s getting it on with that flaky heiress who’s the tabloids’ flavor-of-the-month.”

“Tina Long?”

“That’s the one. A few years ago she couldn’t make the grades to graduate from a fancy private high school, so her father bought it. Suddenly Tina’s the co-valedictorian. Poppa Long hired a novelist to write her speech for her, but the guy forgot to tell her how to pronounce some of the words.”

Photographs that I’d seen of Tina Long on gossip magazine covers flashed into my mind. She was a generically pretty girl with blonde hair arranged in a dizzying number of styles, but beneath each new coif there was always the same vapid expression on her face.

Phil’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Ingram’s making money with his column and his TV guest shots, but he likes to live big. You know how I got him to do the column on your business?”

In a tone full of irony, I said, “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.”

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.