Pet in Peril

by Marie Celine

  The Alpine Grotto was the lounge attached to the main restaurant. ‘I don’t understand. What did you do then? Where did you go?’ Fran hadn’t come back to the room.

  Fran grabbed a fresh pack of nylons and headed toward the bathroom with her clothes, a skirt and blouse folded atop one another. ‘I went for a walk into town. I guess I was feeling sorry for myself. I had a drink or two.’ She grinned broadly. ‘Maybe three.’ She held up three fingers. ‘In fact, I ran into that wacko Colonel Mustard and some woman coming out of some shop. I thought the two of them were a couple but then he had the nerve to ask me to have a drink with him right in front of her.’

  Fran yawned then continued, ‘Turns out she was a workout partner.’

  ‘Muscle shop? You mean a gym?’ Fran nodded and Kitty grinned. Fran was talking about Chef Moutarde, no doubt. Hard to imagine the Mussels from Brussels in a muscles shop. ‘How many margaritas did you let him buy you?’

  ‘They weren’t margaritas.’ Fran chuckled. ‘They were mojitos. Henri complained the whole time that the drinks weren’t nearly as tasty as the ones he gets when he’s in Havana. Says it’s because the bartender wasn’t using yerba buena, whatever that is.’

  ‘Cuban mint.’ Kitty was familiar with the herb.

  ‘As for how many,’ Fran said, batting her eyelashes, ‘a lady never tells.’ She ignored Kitty’s snort. ‘Anyway, then I came back here and found this mess and you knocked out on top your bed. Since you were still breathing and there were no signs of strangulation, I decided to let you sleep.’ Fran turned the corner. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going hit the shower,’ she called. ‘Then it’ll be your turn.’ Her head poked back around. ‘And I’d be quick if I was you, because we have an episode of The Pampered Pet to film in less than an hour.’

  Now that Kitty thought about it, Chef Moutarde was certainly strong enough to have strangled Victor Cornwall. Probably one-handedly. And he worked for the resort. She wouldn’t put it past him to have found a way to have a master keycard. He could probably get in and out of anywhere with no one the wiser.

  She’d have a few questions for the bon chef when she saw him at the taping this morning.

  Kitty rushed to feed Fred and Barney then showered and dressed. They dropped the pets off at the resort’s country club across the broad grass courtyard. Barney was scheduled for a morning session in The Treehouse Room.

  Not knowing what to expect, Kitty was impressed. The Treehouse Room turned out to be an enormous two-story, glass-walled space with an expansive carpeted tree planted in its center. The carpet colors mimicked the colors of a tree – darker brown for the trunk and limbs, with some green shapes mimicking leaves that were actually ledges. There were nooks, crannies and caves aplenty. Robotic birds of a multitude of species chirped like the real deal. The birds were so realistic Kitty imagined they might have come from Disney’s shop.

  ‘Unfreaking believable,’ Fran said, her mouth agog. ‘If I die and go to kitty heaven this is what I want it to be like.’

  Kitty placed Barney on the floor. While tentative at first in his new surroundings, once settled he quickly flew up the tree and out of sight. How on earth would she ever get him back down if he didn’t want to come?

  The man in charge of the treehouse, dressed in an off-white safari suit and pith helmet, told her not to worry. A human-sized ladder ran up the middle of the trunk. ‘There hasn’t been a cat yet that I ain’t been able to coax or cajole out of this tree when the time has come to rejoin his or her owner,’ he claimed in a charming south Texas drawl.

  Kitty hoped so. She didn’t savor the idea of having to go climbing up the carpet-covered trunk trying to snatch Barney up like a ripe California orange.

  Fred was slated for a round of golf. Doggie Disc Golf to be exact, according to the information poster taped to the wall outside the Canine Clubhouse designed to look like a stereotypical doghouse, only on steroids. Kitty thought it was kind of cute; Fran thought it was kind of weird. ‘I feel like I’ve walked into a scene from Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves,’ Fran quipped, walking through the arched entry.

  They found a dozen or more dogs and owners sitting in the clubhouse dining room and joined them. The pro was going over the instructions for the game. He paused when Kitty made her late entrance, cleared his throat then continued.

  No humans were allowed in the game, a thirty-six-hole round, except for what the pro labelled the resort’s officially sanctioned ‘catties’ – the resort seemed to love its little puns – who would carry the assorted size and weight golf discs for each dog contestant. He held several up in his hands. These discs, he explained, had been designed especially for dogs. They had the resort’s logo blazoned on their top sides. ‘And they’ll be vying for this,’ the man said, proudly hoisting a gold dog bone mounted vertically on a plate-sized wooden base. ‘The Top Dog Trophy.’

  Murmurs of excitement rippled through the crowd. The dogs themselves seemed unimpressed with the trophy and more interested in sniffing each other.

  ‘Good luck, Fred.’ Kitty patted his side.

  ‘Take no prisoners,’ added Fran. ‘That trophy will look great over the fireplace.’

  ‘Too bad we don’t have one.’

  They watched Fred lumber off with the other canines making up his foursome – two Springer spaniels and a border collie. He was in good hands and looked happy enough. It was show time and she was due back in the banquet hall where they’d filmed the cooking demonstration the day before.

  Her mom and dad were in the audience. Despite Steve’s protest, she stopped to say hi and told Fran she’d be up in a minute.

  ‘Good morning, Kitten,’ her father said, releasing her from his hug. ‘How are you holding up?’

  Kitty said OK and explained how their room had been ransacked the night before.

  Mrs Karlyle was shocked and said so. Her hands flew to her face. ‘It’s no wonder we haven’t heard from you. I left several messages.’

  ‘Sorry, Mom. It’s been crazy around here. Not much of a relaxing getaway, to tell you the truth. I’m sorry I haven’t had more time to spend with you both. Let’s get together this afternoon, OK?’

  ‘That’s all right, dear. It’s perfectly understandable,’ replied her mother. ‘All the more reason why your father and I have decided to drive home.’

  ‘What?’ Kitty’s jaw fell.

  ‘That’s right, Kitten. Mom and I are heading home after your show.’

  ‘But why? You just got here.’

  Mrs Karlyle smiled warmly and took her daughter’s hand in hers. ‘We can see how very busy you are, sweetheart. And all this murder business – well, I don’t mind telling you that it makes me a little uneasy.’ She glanced at her husband and he nodded agreement. ‘Frankly, we wish you’d go back home, too.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ Kitty said. ‘But it’s not that easy.’

  Her mother commiserated. ‘We’ll see you soon. Come down next weekend, perhaps, when this is all over. Bring Jack with you.’

  Kitty promised she would. If there was a Jack when this was all over. The last time he’d called her room some strange man had answered and said she was in the shower. And she’d never called Jack back to explain. What must he be thinking?

  There was barely time for a quick run-through of the morning’s script. While Greg was busy getting his crew into place, Steve sent Kitty to the kitchen to meet up with Chef Moutarde and complete the pre-show food prepping.

  ‘Hello, again, Chef.’ Kitty buttoned up her pink chef’s coat. The studio had hers custom-made with her name stitched on one side and The Pampered Pet stitched on the other all with darker, contrasting pink thread.

  ‘Miss Karlyle.’ Henri was dressed immaculately – crisp white necktie, toque and a double-breasted jacket. The kitchen was a flurry of activity, both for the show and the resorts regular guests. The chef was deboning a salmon.

  No chef appellation for her. Kitty resigned herself to the fact that Chef Moutarde was not a fan. Sh
e grabbed a knife and began dicing beef into one-inch cubes. ‘Terrible about Victor Cornwall’s murder, isn’t it?’

  He threw the floppy fish down on a hot, oiled aluminum pan where it started sizzling madly. It was like something out of a Mel Brooks movie. The poor salmon flopped like it was being resurrected in some mad doctor’s lab experiment.

  ‘Victor Cornwall didn’t know his Bolognese from boloney,’ Chef Moutarde exclaimed, his thick Walloon accent coming through as loud and clear as his sentiments. ‘The man was always complaining about the food that I served him. And his pets …’ He pushed the fish around in the pan as if he enjoyed hearing it hiss. ‘Nothing was good enough for his dogs.’ He picked up a cleaver and slammed it down across the midsection of another poor salmon. ‘Forgive me if I do not shed a tear for such a man.’

  Kitty took a step back. The chef was a bit wild and loose with the knives for her taste. ‘I hear a lot of people lost a lot of money over the years because of Victor’s schemes.’ Had Henri Moutarde ever invested any money based on one of them?

  Chef Moutarde stopped and looked at her. ‘Do we not have a cooking show to prepare for?’

  Kitty blushed. ‘I was merely wondering if you or anyone you might be close to might have invested with Mr Cornwall.’

  His eyes turned to ice. Not an easy thing to do in a hot kitchen. ‘I have agreed to play your sous chef for the day. I have not agreed to answer all your petty questions.’

  Henri tossed his blade in the sink to the sound of a loud metallic clatter, then stormed off and cornered Greg’s assistant, Julie, who stood reviewing her notes near the walk-in fridge. Kitty could only imagine what he was doing now. Probably bad mouthing her. Oh, well. It wasn’t like Julie could fire her.

  And she’d never even had a chance to ask the chef how his sort-of date went with Fran.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Wow,’ said Fran, munching on a leftover carrot as she helped Kitty pack up after the taping. ‘Henri looked more like he’d rather stick your head in his oven than work as your assistant this morning.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’ Kitty rinsed her hands in the big kitchen sink. She was relieved that the show was done. Greg, Steve and the crew had gone off to review the footage. Chef Moutarde had left, no doubt to harangue his staff. That left her free for what seemed like the first time in ages. Maybe she could start to relax after all. It also left her free to investigate Victor Cornwall’s death. And though she couldn’t put a finger on it, something was driving her to dig deeper into finding out who had murdered the man – as distasteful as he was.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I worried for your life every time you turned your back. I thought he might just plunge a knife into it.’

  Kitty shivered. ‘Must you?’ The image of a knife in the back was an image she had seen once before and would rather not relive.

  ‘So spill. What did you do to get him so angry?’

  ‘In the first place, the guy is always angry.’

  Fran nodded. ‘You’ve got me there,’ she agreed.

  ‘In the second place, all I did was ask him before the show about Victor Cornwall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the chef was not one of his fans.’

  Fran practically spat, sending munched carrot bits flying. Spittle-covered bits of carrot attached themselves like veggie ticks to Kitty’s apron front. ‘Sorry.’ Fran wiped the carrot away. A kitchen worker gave her the ugly eye but she continued anyway. ‘But nobody was a fan of Victor Cornwall’s.’

  It was Kitty’s turn to nod. It seemed like Victor Cornwall had made nothing but enemies. Had his poodles even liked him?

  ‘Do you think Henri disliked him enough to murder him?’

  Kitty explained how Chef Moutarde said that Victor was always complaining about the food. ‘But he didn’t admit to ever having invested in one of Victor’s schemes.’ She dried her hands on her apron. ‘I wish there was some way to find out for sure.’ She turned to Fran and rested her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you could ask him?’

  Fran stepped back. ‘Me? Forget it,’ she said, waving her hand in the air. ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not? After last night, the two of you—’

  Fran cut her off before she could finish the sentence. ‘Whoa, hold your horses, girl. There is no two of us. There’s just me. I only let the man buy me a few drinks. We are not a couple.’

  She wriggled her eyebrows. ‘Now, John. That’s another matter.’

  ‘Oh? I thought things hadn’t gone so well?’

  ‘They went fine until he got that phone call,’ Fran corrected. She smiled coyly. ‘And I learned a thing or two that you might be interested in.’ She tapped Kitty playfully on the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Such as?’ Kitty pulled off her apron, dug a tube from her purse and reapplied her lip gloss.

  Fran lifted herself up onto the stainless-steel kitchen counter and made herself comfortable. ‘Such as how John and Victor were college roommates.’

  So that was how the two men knew one another.

  ‘After that, they became business partners on a few real-estate deals.’

  ‘What kind of deals?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Boring stuff. Buying and renovating properties then renting them out and flipping them when the market was right.’

  ‘Were they partners in Vic’s infomercials?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘No. John says Vic changed. Got greedy. According to John, Victor cheated him on some big deal the two of them had been putting together for months. At the last minute, Victor cut him out. John admitted he was furious.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ But was he furious enough to kill? If so, why wait so long? Did revenge take time to simmer, like a good stew?

  ‘That’s what led to the two of them going their separate ways.’ Fran leaned against the back counter, a fat grin on her face.

  ‘What is it?’ Fran was holding something back, though Kitty knew Fran well enough to know it wouldn’t be for long. ‘Go ahead, spill.’ What did Fran know that she didn’t?

  ‘Victor Cornwall got greedy in more than one way.’ Fran leaned in. ‘You see, it wasn’t just more money he was after.’

  Kitty was puzzled. ‘What else would a man like Victor Cornwall want?’

  ‘He wanted John’s wife.’

  Kitty gasped.

  ‘And he got her.’

  Of course, thought Kitty. She should have known. That was exactly the sort of thing a man like Victor would want. ‘That’s incredible! Why, John must have hated Victor. I can’t believe they came here acting like good friends and—’ Kitty stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, grabbing Fran’s arm. ‘Are you telling me—’

  Fran smirked. ‘Eliza Cornwall is the former Eliza Jameson.’

  Kitty listened in stunned silence as Fran went into the details of how Victor had stolen John’s college sweetheart and wife nearly fifteen years ago. Could John have carried a grudge all these years? Why had they come here acting as friends? Could John really have forgiven Victor for such a heinous thing?

  Had John Jameson finally snapped and strangled Victor? John could easily have killed him. They were together only minutes before. Maybe John hadn’t gone back to his room like he said – maybe he’d gone with Victor to his room. The two men argued and John finally lost it. All that pent-up anger over losing his wife and his money. John Jameson quickly shot to the top of Kitty’s list of suspects and she said so.

  Fran disagreed. ‘No way. John says he forgave Vic and Eliza a long time ago.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s telling you the truth?’ It wouldn’t be the first time a man had lied to Fran.

  Fran leapt off the counter. ‘Because I’m having lunch with the man and I can’t afford to think otherwise.’

  ‘Lunch? Fran, you can’t. He could be a cold-blooded killer.’

  But there was no talking Fran out of her date. Fran went off in search of coffee and Kitty went to her room to grab her coat. It wa
s time to check out the animal shelter in town and find out some more about the mysterious Ted Atchison.

  The Little Switzerland Pet Shelter was on Lausanne Avenue, a quiet side street off Basel, the town’s second largest street. A tattered canvas awning out front bore the letters LSPS. Kitty pressed her nose against the dirty plate-glass window on the street and peered inside. A small woman in purple with her back to the glass was playing with a beautiful silver-gray and white Husky with pale blue eyes.

  Kitty pulled open the door to the sound of a tinkling bell and the woman turned. ‘Welcome to the LSPS,’ the woman greeted them. She wore a flouncy, high-collared purple sweater and purple slacks that were both covered in dog and cat hair. Her face was lightly lined with wrinkles and her eyes twinkled like tiny blue stars.

  Kitty slipped in a pool of dog piddle near the door and slid into the skid-marked wall. She hadn’t been the first victim of the doggie danger. Judging by the scuff marks on the wall this was a common occurrence. The woman came running with a fat roll of paper towels. Kitty held onto the wall with one hand as the lady quickly and efficiently wiped her shoe and then the floor, muttering her apologies the whole time. Yep, thought Kitty, the woman had definitely done this before. She had it down like a finely honed Vaudeville routine.

  ‘I am so sorry. It’s impossible to keep up with these guys.’

  ‘It’s OK, really.’ Kitty laughed. It wouldn’t be the first time or the last that she’d land in some piddle. The woman wiped her shoe and the floor once more for good measure and tossed the dirty towels in a nearby plastic bin.

  Kitty took an immediate liking to the woman. Her first impression was that she was looking at a relic of the psychedelic sixties. Did Janis Joplin really die or had she simply quietly retired to run a volunteer animal shelter in the hills of Little Switzerland?

  Several dogs roamed loose and one extremely well-fed calico cat sat sunning himself on a tattered cat perch near the door. A curtain divided the small front room from the back, from which emanated the sounds of many more dogs and the lone voice of another woman talking to them in a high-pitched tone while she apparently worked.