In my earpiece, I heard Quinn start her countdown to air-time. The show’s theme music began, Camera One’s red light flashed on, and we were broadcasting.
I smiled into the lens and said, “Hi, everybody. Welcome to In the Kitchen with Della. Tonight I have a special treat for you at home, and for you here in the studio audience.”
Camera Two swung around to take a shot of the audience in the studio. There were lights above the seats because I’d learned that people liked to see themselves on TV and programmed their sets to tape the shows they attended.
More than half of the members of the audience were women, their ages ranging from early twenties into the seventies. The men appeared to be in their late sixties, and older. I had often wondered if they were widowers, or for other reasons needed to learn how to cook. John O’Hara, at fifty, was the “kid” among the men. I’d seen him arrive just a minute or two before we began broadcasting and pointed to the only empty seat: on the aisle in the last row, nearest the entrance. I’d saved it for him by putting a cardboard “Reserved” sign on it.
I told the audience, “A famous guest cooker is here with us, a man who has kept me awake many a night-long before I met him. Let’s give a warm welcome to one of the world’s most popular novelists, Roland Gray.”
As the audience applauded, Camera One drew back from its close-up on me into a two-shot that included Gray, standing on my left, relaxed and smiling.
Facing the camera, I held up my copy of The Terror Master. “This is Roland Gray’s latest spy thriller.” Turning to Gray, I said, “I think it’s been on the New York Times best seller list for a month now.”
“Six weeks, actually,” he said. “But who’s counting?”
Twenty-nine out of the thirty people in the audience chuckled appreciatively. The one grim face belonged to John O’Hara.
Speaking to the audience again, I said, “If those of you here in the studio will look underneath your seats, you’ll each find a copy of The Terror Master. They’re a gift from Roland.”
Everyone, including John, bent down to retrieve the books. Most people smiled or made sounds of delight at the surprise.
“Don’t start reading now,” I joked. “We’ve only got an hour together, soooo let’s get cooking.” I smiled at Gray again. “What are you going to make for us tonight?”
“Spotted Dick,” he said.
I heard a few giggles.
Playfully, I chided the audience. “Now, now. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Turning to Gray, I said, “You’re talking about a classic steamed pudding.”
“Absolutely. It’s a timeless staple of British comfort cuisine. I’m going to make my mother’s recipe, which was taught to her by her mother. In fact, I’ve learned that the earliest recipe of Spotted Dick dates from 1847. And as an aside, regarding the name of this dish: Some years ago, in Gloucestershire, England, certain hospital authorities, fearing that patients would be too embarrassed to ask for Spotted Dick, changed the name to Spotted Richard. British comedians had a great time with this, until administrators restored the original name.”
As Gray talked, I helped him by organizing his ingredients in the order he would use them. We had rehearsed this bit, to have physical action during his explanation to the audience. I knew how to make pudding, but he’d briefed me on the particulars of his family recipe.
“The ‘spots’ in Spotted Dick come from the fact that it’s studded with currants and raisins,” he said. “Also, it can be made in the shape of a log and then sliced after it’s cooked, but I like to make it in what’s called a ‘pudding basin.’ ” Gray held up a round mold, about half the size of a Bundt pan.
“We start by sifting a cup of self-rising flour into a bowl, then we add the salt and half a cup of suet…”
Although I knew the answer, I asked Gray, “Where can people get suet?”
“Funnily enough, I buy my little tins on the Internet, but one can find it in British shops. You could even have a friendly butcher shred some up for you.”
“Suet is fat,” I said to the audience. “It performs the function of butter or solid Crisco. Roland, if people at home can’t write down your instructions, may I put the recipe on my Web site, www.DellaCooks.com?”
“I would be honored,” he said with an elegant bow.
I ran water into the Dutch oven Gray would use to steam his pudding, put it on the stove, and lighted the fire beneath it. It was another piece of business we’d preplanned.
Gray smiled at me in appreciation. “Thank you for the help,” he said. “You’re very gracious to this amateur.”
In my earpiece, I heard Quinn’s voice. “Ten seconds to commercial, Della… nine…”
“We have to take a little break now,” I told the audience. “Roland will keep working on his pudding and when we come back he’ll show you how to steam it.”
In the audience, a fifty-something woman in a bright pink pantsuit called out, “Yes!” Several other people laughed and clapped.
The camera lights went off.
I told Gray, “It sounds like you’re a hit.”
“Free books make friends,” he said with a wry smile.
As commercials began going out over the air, the audience in the studio could watch them on the large TV monitors, which were placed on either side of my kitchen set. Their purpose was to allow those on the premises to see close-up shots of the cooking in progress, which otherwise only the viewers at home could watch.
Gray strolled to the refrigerator on the back wall of the set and beckoned for me to join him. Puzzled, I moved over to where he was standing.
Gray leaned close to me and whispered, “I know that the plan was for me to be on the first half, and then watch the rest of the show from your director’s booth, but do you suppose you could let me stay down here, to help you prepare your stew?”
“Yes, of course.” I was happy to have him continue on camera, but he must have seen the question in my eyes.
“To be frank,” he said, answering the unspoken query, “I’m not entirely comfortable around your Ms. Tanner.”
I wasn’t going to say anything negative about Quinn, but I felt a sympathetic smile twitching the corner of my mouth.
“I’m happy to have your company,” I said. “This isn’t a scripted show, and we’re only shooting in one small set, so there’s no technical problem if you’re here. Stay near me and I’ll give you things to do.”
“Consider me your sous chef. Or your scullery maid.”
“Deal. I have a favor to ask of you, too.”
“Anything.”
“After the show, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. John O’Hara. He’s here tonight.”
“Ah, the man with the flying fist. Certainly. I recognized his face in the audience, but it took a few minutes for me to recall where I’d seen him before.”
I used the intercom microphone beneath the prep counter to contact Quinn.
“Little change of plans,” I said. “The audience likes Roland so much he’s going to stay down here for the rest of the show. I’m putting him to work.”
I half expected to hear Quinn object, but after a moment of silence, she said in an icy tone, “Take your place. Ten seconds.” She hissed the S in seconds, sounding like a snake whose nest had been disturbed.
When we were broadcasting again, I told the audience, “As soon as Roland’s pudding is steaming, he’s going to help me make our main dish, Italian Chicken Stew. It’s one of those meals you can prepare one day and keep reheating for the next two or three nights, and it just tastes better and better because the flavors soak in.”
The show went off without a glitch. I didn’t burn the chicken pieces I sautéed for the Italian stew, and Gray didn’t cut himself while he was chopping prosciutto ham and slicing red, yellow, and orange bell peppers for me. The show had been timed so that I could have done the chopping myself, but to make Gray look necessary, I wiped the stove top clean of grease spots from the sautéing, and brought the Dutch oven full of my completed Italian Chicken Stew I’d brought from home in my tote bag up to the counter.
“Here’s what our Italian Chicken Stew looks like when it’s finished,” I told the audience. Camera Two moved in for a close-up “beauty shot” of the stew.
In the show’s final segment, Roland and I chatted about pudding while we made the custard sauce for his Spotted Dick. Because what he’d demonstrated on the show was still steaming, Roland placed on the prep counter the Spotted Dick he’d made at home.
“That looks delicious,” I said sincerely.
“Something sweet is just the prescription to take one’s mind off the disappointments of the day. Or as a reward when things go well.”
“In other words,” I said, “any excuse will do.”
He chuckled. “Ah, Della, you have cracked my code, so to speak.”
The clock ticked down to the final ninety seconds. Roland placed his pudding on the crystal dessert dish he’d brought with him, and I ladled warm custard sauce over it.
As we’d planned during the previous commercial break, I took a handful of plastic spoons from a box in the drawer beneath the preparation counter, handed them to him, and told the audience, “Now Roland’s going to offer some volunteers a taste.” I was careful not to say, “a taste of his Spotted Dick.”
Most of the spectators applauded enthusiastically.
Jada Powell on Camera Two swung around and followed Gray as he strode to the front row of seats. With a theatrical flourish, he made a show of inhaling the pudding’s sweet aroma, then passed out spoons. He walked along the row, holding the plate, as people dug into the pudding. I saw appreciative nods at the taste from those with their mouths full.
As the end credits rolled over the scene, I was aware that Quinn did not instruct Ernie Ramirez, manning Camera One, to conclude the episode on me, as was the usual practice. Ernie must have realized that Quinn was punishing me, because he leaned around his camera and gave me a helpless shrug.
When the show was over, it took half an hour for Gray to finish autographing books and for the last of the audience members to leave.
The moment the final spectator had left the studio, Gray and I sat down on the stools behind the preparation counter. John O’Hara joined us and I introduced them. Gray’s response was warm. John’s was polite. The book was tucked under his arm, but John didn’t ask Gray to sign it for him.
“I’m sure Shannon ’s going to enjoy Terror Master,” I said to John. To Gray, I added, “John’s wife is one of your fans. Whichever of us buys one of your books first, as soon as we’ve read it, we pass it to the other.”
John speared Gray with what Eileen calls “the look that makes bad guys beg to confess.” Without preamble, he said to Gray, “How well did you know Keith Ingram?”
“I didn’t. Not really. We’d met, casually. In passing, so to speak.”
Uh oh. Gray’s tone was level-no nervous wobble in his voice-and he was meeting John’s gaze, but instinct told me he wasn’t telling us the truth. Starting back when I was a high school teacher, I’d noticed that when people were lying they tended to say too much. One “I didn’t” was enough. A string of denials undercut credibility.
John reached into an inside pocket of his sports jacket and removed a sheet of paper.
“This is a photocopy of the judging card Keith Ingram made out about you.” He held it up for me to see that it was a replica of one of the cards we were issued. My eyes widened in surprise at what I saw on it.
“There were four criteria for judging the dishes you all were creating,” John said. “Organization of the workspace, quality of the ingredients, the appearance of the dish, and the taste. Ingram gave you the lowest score on all four categories.”
“But the dishes weren’t finished,” I said. “Nothing had been displayed yet, and nothing was tasted.”
“Exactly.” John stayed focused on Gray. “So, what was the problem between you and Ingram?”
I turned to look at Roland Gray and saw that his complexion had lost its color.