The Proof is in the Pudding Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone over the recipes I’d be making on camera for Thursday night’s weekly live broadcast of In the Kitchen with Della —rehearsing the movements and timing them in my head—it was nearly eleven o’clock.
    As soon as I put aside my pen and pad to stretch the kinks out of my shoulders, Tuffy got up from where he’d been dozing by the back door and came over to stand beside me. He looked at me with eager expectation in his bright black eyes and wagged his hindquarters vigorously.
    I scratched him below his ears. “Oh, Tuff, I would recognize you if you were in the middle of a million black poodles. And yes, I know what time it is.” I took his leash down from its peg on the wall and hooked it to his collar.
    I gave Tuffy an especially long pre-bedtime walk through the neighborhood, both because I knew how much he enjoyed his explorations and because I needed a big dose of fresh, cool air. Now that I’d finished my work, my mind came back to concern about Eileen.
    Tuffy and I had been strolling for more than half an hour, and were almost back to the house, when the cell phone in my pocket rang. I fished it out. “Hello.”
    “Hi, Slugger.” It was Nicholas D’Martino.
    “Is this an obscene phone call?”
    “Absolutely.” And he proceeded to whisper a few sentences that started to make me jittery.
    “Stop. That’s enough, unless you’re in your car on your way over here.”
    He sighed. “I wish. But I’m still up in Carmel on the Lopez murder story. Did you know that you’re speaking to the world’s most intrepid reporter?”
    “ Lois Lane? Gosh, your voice is deeper than I’d expected.”
    “Do you want to hear about my triumph or not?”
    “Of course I do.”
    Nicholas was usually so cool when he talked about his work, but tonight I heard pride in his voice. “I broke the case. The local cops are mad as hell because I turned up evidence that they missed, but it enabled them to arrest the killer.”
    “Congratulations. That’s wonderful. Tell me all.”
    “You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s Chronicle . Front page, above the fold. I’ve got a few days of follow-up here, but I’ll be back Friday. You available that night for dinner and . . . whatever?”
    I smiled, imagining the whatever . “I’m available. Your place or mine?”
    “Mine. I’m going to make dinner for you. Actually, it’ll be takeout, but I’ll heat it up. Afterward, I’m planning to broaden your education.”
    “Hmmmm. Sounds interesting.”
    “Bring money,” he said.
    Money? That jolted me out of my erotic fantasy. “What are you talking about?”
    “Coins: nickels, dimes, quarters. I’m going to teach you to play gin rummy.”
    “I already know how,” I said. “But do we have to play for money?”
    “What do you want to play for?”
    “How about . . . the winner has to make passionate love to the loser? Or vice versa.”
    He laughed. “You make me want to come home right now, but I’ve got to be intrepid for a while longer.”
    We were about to say good night when I thought of something to ask him. “Keith Ingram, the food critic? His column runs in the Chronicle . Do you know him?”
    “Sure. We’re not close buddies, but we work out at the same gym. We’ve watched some fights together, and gone on a couple of the paper’s Super Bowl trips.”
    “What kind of a person is Ingram?”
    “He’s an okay guy. Pays the check when it’s his turn. Why?”
    “It may be that Eileen has become involved with him.”
    “Whoa!” Nicholas’s tone abruptly changed from casual to sharp. “No. Not good. Eileen’s a sweet kid. When it comes to women, Ingram is bad news. If she’s seeing him, talk her out of it before she gets hurt.”

    Eileen hadn’t come home by the time I went to bed. I fell into a restless sleep, and a few minutes after two in the morning I woke up. The house was silent. I got out of bed and went down the hall to listen at Eileen’s closed door. I leaned in close and strained to hear,