Pet in Peril

by Marie Celine

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty said. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. ‘It’s been rather hectic today. In fact, I’m supposed to be doing a cooking demonstration that the show has arranged in about—’ She checked her watch. ‘Now.’ She groaned. Steve and Greg were going to kill her.

  ‘Sure,’ Jack said lightly. ‘We only stopped to say hi. Don’t let me keep you.’

  ‘Yes, don’t let him keep you,’ echoed Elin. Was she mocking Kitty now?

  Kitty took a step toward Elin but Jack stepped between them and smoothed back his hair. ‘Hey, I forgot to tell you: we stopped by your room. I spoke with Fran. She filled me in on what happened last night. I saw the story on the news this morning but I didn’t realize that the two of you had been involved. I spoke briefly with a Chief Mulisch on the phone,’ Jack went on. ‘Victor Cornwall has quite a checkered past.’

  So Kitty was beginning to learn. ‘I wouldn’t say we were involved,’ answered Kitty. ‘More like unfortunate bystanders.’

  ‘Interesting that you found the body.’ Elin cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, interesting.’ Kitty glared at Elin. ‘Don’t you have someplace to be?’ She really wanted a minute alone with her fiancé. She’d give anything for a few moments alone with Jack, snuggled warmly in his arms. Over by the fireplace or, better yet, someplace quiet and secluded. Someplace without Swedish imports.

  ‘Yes, in fact, we do. Sacramento.’ Elin looked down at Kitty. ‘Come on, Jack. We don’t want to be late and it’s a long drive.’

  The two of them alone in a car for the next four or five hours. Oh, great, thought Kitty, her thoughts wandering in directions she would rather they didn’t.

  ‘There you are,’ Lucy said, bursting among them like a firecracker. ‘Come on, Kitty. Greg’s fuming. We’ve got to get you to the demonstration.’

  Jack and Kitty kissed quickly. ‘Can’t you stay?’ Kitty whispered in his ear. ‘I could use your help. The police questioned us half the night.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kitty. The police are just doing their job. Trying to find a killer.’ His finger touched her nose. ‘So let them do their job. You concentrate on your job. Understood?’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do here anyway. Little Switzerland is far out of my jurisdiction. I hear Chief Mulisch runs a pretty tight organization. I’ll be home in a few days.’

  Kitty said she understood. Emotions tugged at her heart as Lucy dragged her away.

  ‘Stay away from dead bodies and try to have fun,’ called Jack. ‘And keep out of trouble!’

  Kitty promised she would. But trouble had other plans.

  EIGHT

  Elin turned to Kitty on parting. The look on her face was one of triumph.

  ‘You wouldn’t be smiling long if I had a tranquilizer gun in my hands,’ muttered Kitty, thinking how pleasant it would be if Elin spent the whole time snoring like a freight train in the passenger seat next to Jack the entire way to Sacramento.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lucy asked. She hustled Kitty up the aisle of a people-and-pet-filled room, at the head of which was a temporary but well-fitted kitchen.

  ‘Nothing,’ murmured Kitty, hoping that Jack took his own advice and stayed out of trouble too.

  Greg was glaring at her. ‘It’s about time,’ he whispered harshly. Fran ran over to apply a fresh coat of makeup to Kitty’s cheeks. ‘Never mind that,’ said the director. ‘It’s show time.’ He escorted Kitty to the center of the stage.

  Steve introduced Kitty to a chef from the resort. ‘He’ll be assisting you during the show.’

  Fran, ignoring Greg’s pleas to stop, busily dusted Kitty’s face then the chef’s.

  ‘I am Chef Henri Moutarde,’ the man pronounced – rather grandly in Kitty’s opinion. Was she supposed to bow or something?

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ she said, dodging her head in an attempt to see her reflection in the toaster. There wasn’t enough makeup in the world to make up for the way she looked.

  ‘I am the chef de cuisine.’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘I am from Brussels, Belgium. You know the muscles from Brussels?’ He flexed his arms. It really wasn’t much of a sight.

  ‘Well, I am the Mussels from Brussels,’ he quipped. ‘Get it? Mussels!’ He scooped up a slimy blue mussel with his fingers and pressed it under Kitty’s nose.

  Oh, brother. Mussels were not even supposed to be on the menu for the day’s cooking demonstration. Did this guy keep a bucketful around as a prop for that lame joke of his? Or was he trying to change her menu?

  She’d have none of that. They would be sticking to the script whether the Mussels from Brussels liked it or not.

  ‘Did you say mustard?’ Fran dipped her makeup brush. ‘Chef Mustard?’ She chortled.

  ‘Not mustard, you idiot, Moutarde,’ he snapped at her.

  Fran rolled her eyes out of the line of the tightly wound chef’s vision. ‘Sor-ry.’

  Greg dragged Fran away before she could do any more damage. Kitty was forced to continue to listen to the chef de cuisine’s nattering all by her lonesome while she tried to explain what they’d be preparing for the morning demonstration. The man was pompous and conceited. Steve probably adored him.

  ‘But I don’t need an assistant,’ Kitty had argued, pulling Steve aside.

  ‘You’re getting one. It’s called public relations. The hotel is providing us with all sorts of guest services and accommodations,’ Steve shot back. ‘The least we can do is be accommodating back. The manager asked if his head chef could possibly be part of the show. Am I supposed to tell the man no?’

  Kitty hated it when Steve was right. Fortunately, it wasn’t often.

  Kitty walked back to the irksome chef, determined to make things better. She extended her hand. ‘I appreciate you lending your assistance today.’

  He looked down his decidedly long and bent out of shape nose at her fingers as if they were a tangle of poisonous asps waiting to strike. ‘Well, it is not my pleasure at all.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I am the head chef. It is not my place to be here. Besides, I have more important things to do.’

  ‘I-I don’t know what to say—’ So much for Steve’s theories.

  ‘Patty Kakes, that’s Kakes with a K,’ he rolled his eyes round and round, ‘was supposed to be here. But no, the woman decides to take maternity leave.’

  ‘Patty Kakes? That’s funny.’

  ‘I do not make a joke. Of course, her real name is Sherry Schwartz. Her father is a cardiologist on Long Island.’

  ‘I-I see.’

  ‘The woman fancies herself the chef de pet.’ He wrapped his words in air quotes. ‘She prepares the meals for the animals. I,’ he boasted, ‘cook for people. I don’t know what Ruggiero was thinking giving the woman a job.’ His fist landed on his bony hip. ‘And a title. Now I must fill in for her.’

  ‘So she’s having a baby,’ Kitty said, trying to find a more pleasant subject, something that wouldn’t set him off further than he already was. ‘That’s nice.’ After all, who didn’t like babies? And pets?

  ‘Delivered yesterday.’ Moutarde fumed. ‘She knew this demonstration was today. She couldn’t wait a day?’

  ‘Some people can be difficult.’

  The chef nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Kitty shot the AD a pleading look. Thankfully, the woman understood her silent cry for help.

  Julie jumped to the front of the stage, said a few words to the audience then introduced Kitty. No sooner had she started her demonstration when a burly police officer came quietly up the side aisle. He whispered something to Lucy, who pointed him to Julie, who pointed him to Steve.

  Steve uttered a few words then pointed to Fran who was sitting quietly in a molding plastic chair against the wall, her eyes half-shut. Probably dreaming about sitting on a warm Jamaican beach in a leopard-print bikini, sipping an icy margarita. Kitty hoped she’d ordered two.

  Fran’
s eyes shot open when the burly officer leaned over and whispered in her ear. Kitty fumbled for words and dropped her spatula in a pot of boiling turkey gravy as she watched the officer escort Fran out a side exit.

  Kitty could only wonder what was going on. There was an audience watching her every move. She’d prepared two dishes – one for cats and one for dogs. Stopping to field occasional questions from the audience, she forced herself to concentrate on the job at hand. It wasn’t easy. Why had Fran left with a police officer? After nearly slicing her thumb off with a paring knife, Kitty felt a jab in her shoulder coming from Chef Moutarde.

  ‘You must wear the disposable food prep gloves.’ He shoved an open box of gloves at her chest.

  ‘Ouch.’ Kitty reddened and turned to the audience. ‘I prefer to feel my food in my hands, beneath my fingers,’ she explained, mashing the meat in her bowl.

  The chef was having none of it. He shoved the box at her again. She noted he was wearing gloves. ‘I am certain not everyone shares your passion for filth. In my kitchen,’ he said, puffing up his chest, ‘I insist that everyone wear gloves when preparing food. Even when preparing food for dogs,’ he’d added rather cattily, giving his own gloved hands a snap each.

  Kitty’s nose twitched under the assault of the skunky odor emanating from the gloves. As much as she’d wanted to take one of those flimsy gloves and slap him with it, she smiled broadly and turned her attention back to the turkey meatloaf in her mixing bowl. She could hear the chef fuming behind her and felt an odd tingle between her shoulder blades, as if her flesh could sense that he was dreaming of drilling a long steak knife through her back to her ribs.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ Kitty said as she wrapped up the show. ‘Please watch for episodes of my new cooking show, The Pampered Pet, on CuisineTV!’ She finished up to a moderate round of applause and the audience began to filter out. Moutarde tossed his gloves in the trash and went off in a huff. Kitty raced after Steve who was on his way out the door with Roger Matisse. Did Steve think he was going to get away that easy?

  Roger had a pair of Pembroke Welsh Corgis yipping happily at his Italian leather heels. Kitty adored Corgis. They were a beautiful breed, sable in color with white markings and a peppering of black. These pups were no exception and she would have been content to spend the day with them. Roger, on the other hand, she could live without. He was only a rung above Steve on her list of least favorite people. Maybe that was because he worked as Barbara Cartwright’s personal assistant. Ms Cartwright was the celebrity chef and TV host from Great Britain who had very nearly taken Kitty’s place as the new host of The Pampered Pet. Kitty suspected Barbara Cartwright could still be angling for the job though she had nothing concrete to base her nagging suspicions on.

  Tall and slender, Roger’s wavy brown hair was brushed to one side and his cheeks looked freshly shaven. When he spoke, his voice oozed a French far more accentuated than was probably natural. He and Steve were an item.

  ‘Kitty, you remember Roger.’

  ‘Of course, it’s nice to see you again.’ She bent down and gave each of the Corgis a fair scratch behind the ears, which they dutifully ate up, craning up to lick her fingers. Then again, they probably smelled turkey gravy and Chef Moutarde’s mussels under her fingernails. ‘Beautiful dogs you have, Roger.’ So these were the babies Steve had mentioned having brunch with. She should have known.

  ‘Thank you.’ He beamed like a proud daddy. ‘Care to gather up your own babies and join us for lunch?’ He favored Lacoste polo shirts and Guess jeans. Today was no exception, the shirt color du jour being mauve.

  Steve looked aghast and Kitty would have accepted if only to stick it to him but she had more important things to do. ‘Sorry, I can’t. Some other time, OK?’

  Steve sighed with obvious relief. ‘Well, if you really must—’ He grabbed Roger’s arm and started his escape.

  ‘Wait a minute. What’s going on?’ She pulled at the back of his shirt. ‘What did that police officer want with Fran?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Steve said petulantly.

  ‘You must know something. I saw him talking to you.’

  ‘The police officer? He merely asked me to point out Fran Earhart. And I did.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, I simply have no idea.’

  He left before she could say another word. Kitty grabbed Julie. ‘Do you know where Fran is?’

  Julie didn’t. Neither did anybody else on the crew. Kitty pulled out her cell phone and dialed Fran’s number. She didn’t pick up so Kitty shot her a text, which likewise went unanswered.

  There was no sign of Fran back in their suite either. There was no sign of her anywhere on the resort grounds. She ran into Howie outside the main entrance patrolling aimlessly, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Howie. Did you see my friend, Fran? You know, my roommate. The woman you found with me in Mr Cornwall’s room?’

  ‘Sure, I saw her.’ He scratched an inflamed pimple at the corner of his temple then pointed. ‘I saw her get in a police car and head that way.’

  Kitty’s nostrils flared. Howie was chewing something minty, practically caustic. ‘A police car? Do you know where they were going?’

  ‘To the police station, I imagine.’

  ‘Can you tell me how to get there?’

  ‘It’s up toward the center of Bern Street – you really can’t miss it. Bern’s one of the town’s two main streets. It isn’t far. You could walk there if you wanted.’

  Kitty didn’t want to walk.

  She wanted to run.

  NINE

  ‘Is Fran Earhart here?’ she asked, bursting through the door of the Little Switzerland Police Department.

  A willowy brunette who’d likely seen a good forty summers stood behind a counter that faced the entrance. The tag pinned to her snug uniform identified her as a sergeant. She held a baby-blue watering can whose contents she was steadily applying to a two-foot-tall variegated Schefflera on the bookcase in the corner. Kitty was fond of the Schefflera plant, or umbrella tree as it was sometimes called, but being poisonous to cats she wasn’t able to keep one in her apartment.

  The sergeant set down her empty watering container and looked Kitty over. Kitty wasn’t sure that she looked so good and that the results would tally in her favor. Lack of sleep, lack of food, racing a mile on foot in low heels to the LSPD. She imagined she made quite a sight. And not a pretty one. ‘She’s with the chief,’ the woman replied, sitting back down at the chair and placing her hands on the counter. ‘Anything I can help you with, ma’am?’

  ‘I—’ What should she say? Should she demand the police let Fran go? The sergeant obviously wouldn’t listen. Kitty bit her lip. In her race to the rescue she had not given a moment’s thought to what she would do or say once she got to the station. And now, here she was. She went for the truth. ‘Fran Earhart is a friend. I heard she was at the station. I wanted to check on her.’

  The sergeant pointed to a pair of simple steel chairs near the window. ‘Have a seat. I expect Harry won’t keep her much longer.’ She cast a quick look at the door behind her; its glass was stenciled with the name Harry Mulisch, Chief of Police, then locked eyes with Kitty. ‘Unless he’s planning on tossing her in the clink.’

  Kitty gasped.

  ‘Relax.’ The sergeant waved her hand. ‘Just a joke. Sorry. Have a seat.’

  Great. Little Switzerland police were also standup, or in this case, sit-down comedians. Not that there was anything funny about Fran getting arrested. It was bad enough that she’d been hauled downtown. Even a downtown as quaint and charming as Little Switzerland, California.

  Kitty sat. The chair was hard and cold. In a town like this, she half-expected they’d have kept with the theme and provided some bench seating designed to look like a ski lift. Maybe have a hot toddy nook set up in the corner for guests.

  Running out of thoughts, she stared out the door at the tourists walking by, dressed to suit the bracing fall weather. She jiggled her feet and bit her fin
gernails, only quitting when the woman behind the desk caught her doing it. Sure, thought Kitty, you try sitting here waiting impatiently and worriedly for your best friend to come out from being interrogated by the police – the chief of police, no less. See if you wouldn’t be biting your nails, too.

  ‘Fran!’ Kitty pushed out of her chair, sending it bouncing off the cinder block wall. The sergeant shot her a dirty look but said nothing.

  Fran slumped out looking tired but managing a light smile. Her clingy blue dress looked a little more wrinkled but there were no signs of her having been strapped to the rack, doused with burning oil or water-boarded.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Fran said she was. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Checking on you, of course. I saw the police take you away.’

  ‘Yeah, they had a few questions for me.’

  A stern-looking man had followed her out. This had to be Chief Harry Mulisch. He handed a bent manila file folder to the desk sergeant and hooked a thumb inside his black leather belt.

  Like the desk sergeant, he wore dark slacks with billowy cargo pockets, a royal blue shirt and a blue, red and white striped polyester tie, all wrapped up with a thick black leather holster around his middle. The holster held a veritable arsenal including a small black club and a very lethal-looking black-and-chrome pistol.

  Black epaulets highlighted his shoulders. The only noticeable difference between the two officers was the increased number of medals and patches on the chief’s larger shirt. It was all very Switzerland, in Kitty’s opinion, and probably done with a nod toward the tourists that kept this town alive. At least they weren’t forced to wear lederhosen. Or was that German?

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Kitty said, getting back on point. She’d let the uniform distract her. ‘Why down here at the police station? And in the middle of taping our segment?’

  She looked from Fran to the chief of police. The police chief looked like a former college football player, big but slowly going to fat, with a pleasant face and intimidating eyes. ‘Why not ask you back at the resort when we had some time? Besides, what could you possibly tell the police that you – we – haven’t already told them?’