I didn’t expect to find Alan Berger in his office, and I didn’t. But he had an answering service instead of voice mail, so I was able to tell an actual human being that I needed to reach Alan Berger, and that it involved his client, Roland Gray. I gave my name and left my number.
Four minutes later, my phone rang.
“This is Alan Berger. Ms. Carmichael?”
“Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”
“You said you wanted to talk about Roland Gray. What is your interest in him?”
“I was with Roland the evening he was shot at, and-”
“Ms. Carmichael, I’m on my cell phone and my hearing is not good. Unless I’m in my home or office where there’s amplification, listening is difficult. I was about to go to lunch. Will you join me?”
“I’d like that. Where shall we meet?”
“At the moment, I’m in a bookstore in Santa Monica, but my favorite little bistro is two blocks south. The Secret Garden. It’s on Wilshire and Fifth, in a house behind a tall hedge.”
“I know where it is,” I said.
“In thirty minutes, then?”
“That’s fine. How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you because I saw you on television when Roland was your guest star, but I have dark hair, thinning and gray around the edges. Dark beard, clipped short. Because there may be more than one man in the area who fits that description, I’ll be carrying a copy of Roland’s new book, The Terror Master.”
The Secret Garden ’s wooden front door had four hand-painted panels illustrating scenes from the classic children’s novel. At the top was little golden-haired Mary, the lonely child heroine, finding the key; next to that is a robin showing her the door to the garden concealed behind overgrown ivy. The two lower panels depict Mary lovingly tending the dying roses in the garden; then Mary with a little boy who is rising up out of a wheelchair. The Secret Garden was a book that Eileen had insisted I read to her many times, until she was able to read it herself.
The restaurant named after the book occupied the ground floor of a house built to resemble an old English cottage, with a peaked, thatched roof, and a window with six small panes, slightly curved, on the upper floor. The window was set whimsically at an angle. The effect created was of a cocked head with six eyes peeking out at the street.
I spotted Alan Berger as soon as I came through the front door, both because his word sketch of himself made for an easy identification, and because he had a copy of Roland’s newest book propped up on the table in front of him. When he saw me, he stood and waved.
Berger was cute, in an irregular-weave, Santa’s elf sort of way. He wasn’t tall, and he was a little round in the middle, but his bright hazel eyes and easy smile made him pleasant to look at. He wore a red cashmere sweater under a navy blazer. The blazer was so well cut that it had to have been custom-made.
As I came close to his table, I saw that he had a very small hearing aid in his right ear.
“Alan Berger?”
“Della Carmichael.” His extended hand was soft. If he had ever done manual labor it had to have been long in the past. His grip was polite instead of hearty, and just firm enough to signal self-confidence.
A good-looking young blond waiter, who was probably also an actor, appeared and seated me. Berger reclaimed his chair opposite.
“I know that as a professional cook you have high standards, but I think you’ll find the food here quite good. It’s English. English cuisine gets a bad rap-usually from people who’ve never tasted it and think it consists only of boiled vegetables. Roland introduced me to this place and it’s become a favorite of mine.”
The waiter asked, “What can I get you to drink?” His voice was pitched low, his diction perfect, and his manner suave. He had to be an actor.
“I’d like some iced tea with extra lemon,” I said.
Berger said, “A glass of chardonnay.”
The waiter nodded. “I’ll bring them right away. Our special today is Crisp-Fried Herbed Halibut.” He smiled. “And that is not easy to say. Or perhaps you would like a few minutes to look at the menu?”
I didn’t bother to open it. Instead, I asked Berger, “What do you recommend?”
He didn’t look at the menu, either. “Do you like fish?”
“Very much.”
Berger addressed the waiter-actor. “Bring us two of your-whatever it was you said about the halibut.”
“Excellent choice.”
The waiter left to give our orders to the kitchen.
“I’ve had that dish before. It’s very good, and it comes with shoestring potatoes that deserve a prize,” Berger said.
The waiter returned with my iced tea and Berger’s white wine. As soon as he left again, Berger said, “You said you’re concerned about Roland. So am I. Being shot at was pretty traumatic, but happily, he wasn’t seriously injured.”
“His assistant, Will Parker, tells me he’s back at work on his new book.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve learned that no matter what happens in his personal life, nothing deters Roland from writing. He’s the most reliable author I’ve ever represented. Plus, I like him a lot.”
“To judge from his warm words about you in the Terror Master acknowledgments, he’s very fond of you, too. He told me that he needs your reaction to his manuscripts before he sends them to the publisher.”
“Roland is too generous in his praise. I’m very little help, except when it comes to his contracts.” He flashed a proud-little-boy smile. “Those contracts are my contributions to the world of art. Now, let’s get to the point of your call. Someone shot at Roland. Since you were with him, I can appreciate your concern. My understanding is that the police don’t know yet whether this was a random example of urban blight, or if it was personal. Frankly, I vote for urban blight, some subhuman out for kicks who can’t distinguish between killing people in a video game and shooting at a live person. Roland doesn’t go around having feuds or making enemies. He’s very easy to get along with. But, having said that, I must admit I’m glad he’s safe in his bunker of an apartment while the police are investigating. Those are my thoughts. Your turn. What’s on your mind?”
“Just before the bullet came through the window, Roland told me that he was afraid of Keith Ingram. He didn’t have a chance to say why. Of the people who were known to be at the gala the night Ingram was murdered, the only one I’ve been able to connect to both Ingram and Roland is Yvette Dupree. She’s famous as the Global Gourmet. Do you know her?”
Berger looked thoughtful. “Not really…”
“Mr. Berger-”
“Alan, please.”
“Alan.” I gave him a teasing smile. “I’ve lived long enough to know that when a man says ‘Not really’ it actually means ‘Yes.’ ”
“Well, I did meet her once, a few months ago, when Roland gave a small dinner party. She seemed charming, but I wouldn’t say that I know her.”
“Yvette was Roland’s date?”
“I don’t remember if she was paired with anyone. The evening was to celebrate the fact that Terror Master had reached the high sales threshold that meant the publisher had to pay him a bigger royalty. She cooked the meal-Moroccan dishes, in tribute to the parts of the book that were set in Morocco. It was delicious.”
He squinted for a moment, as though trying to recall details of the evening. Then something made him smile.
“She told us that we had to eat the proper way for a Moroccan meal-meaning without cutlery, and scooping food from the communal serving bowls by using pieces of flat bread. Will Parker, who’s a bit of an imp, concealed a fork behind the pocket handkerchief in his jacket. When she was in the kitchen, he used his fork to eat. I wished I’d thought of that.”
I chuckled. “That is funny. Did she catch him?”
“Oh, yes. She called him incorrigible. That word is almost the same in French as it is in English, so we all laughed. Parker wasn’t embarrassed about it. He said something to the effect that if God had meant humans to eat with their hands he wouldn’t have let them invent silverware. As a wit, Parker isn’t exactly Oscar Wilde, but he is enjoyable to be around.”
“Who else was at the dinner?”
“Only my wife, Frances, and Mary Lively. Mary’s one of my agents-my backup. Roland calls her if he needs something and I’m out of town.”
“Is Mary Lively close to Roland?”
“Not-” He stopped and grinned. “I was about to say ‘not really.’ Mary is a spry eighty-seven and tells people she’s ten years younger. An old-school career woman-still wears hats in the office. I hope she never retires, because she’s amazing at spotting new young writers. I run a small, boutique literary agency. Mary’s discovered a third of our client list.”
The waiter brought our Crisp-Fried Herbed Halibut with shoestring potatoes. It was as good as Alan Berger had promised. While we were eating, Berger turned the conversation around to me, and asked if I had any interest in writing a cookbook.
“Because you’re on television, I’m sure I could sell it,” he said.
“I’ve never thought of it, but I don’t think I’m qualified. I’ve never had formal training as a cook.”
“That might be an advantage; you’d be representing the majority of people. The audience must like you because your ratings have doubled since In the Kitchen with Della went on the air.”
“How did you know that?”
His nice hazel eyes twinkled. “I researched you when Roland told me he was guesting on your show. After I saw you, I made a mental note to call at some point to discuss the possibility of a cookbook.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid that what I make is too simple for a book. Anyone who watches the show could make my dishes, and I already post the recipes on my Web site.”
“Don’t dismiss the idea without thinking about it,” he said. “You might enjoy seeing your face on a book cover. And it could only help your show.”
To be polite, I agreed to think about it, but at the moment the only thing I was interested in was finding out who killed Keith Ingram and tried to kill Roland Gray.
My lunch with Alan Berger was pleasant, but it didn’t yield the “Aha!” moment that pointed me in the right direction to solving the mystery that threatened me, and those dear to me.
I did learn one thing, though. Yvette Dupree was close enough to Roland that she had personally cooked his celebration dinner. That wasn’t the act of a mere acquaintance.
As we were having coffee and dessert-marmalade steamed pudding-I planned my next move.