Pet in Peril

by Marie Celine

  ‘To return Mercedes’ and Benz’s collars.’

  ‘Right, to return those dog collars.’ The collars in question sat on the table beside Kitty. She hadn’t felt comfortable leaving them lying around Eliza’s room with no one there to keep an eye on them. At the very least she felt they ought to be locked in the hotel safe.

  But there had been no time for that. The ambulance had arrived and Eliza Cornwall had been whisked to the Little Switzerland Medical Center, a surprising non-Alpine themed brick facility on the opposite end of town. Kitty had followed in her own car.

  It hadn’t taken Chief Mulisch long to show up at the medical center with Deputy Nickels in tow and start quizzing her. Unfortunately Kitty had very few answers and this was only making the chief angrier.

  ‘Why you and not the groomer?’ The chief didn’t give her time to answer. ‘Why always you? Everywhere I turn?’

  ‘We’ve been over this and over this. I’ve told you everything I know.’ She wished Deputy Nickels was asking the questions. He was so much nicer; maybe he’d acquired better people skills due to his day job as a pharmacist. But Chief Mulisch had sent him to the nurses’ station to get some data for the police report.

  Chief Mulisch scowled. ‘I don’t like it, is all. First Mr Cornwall gets himself killed in my town.’ He turned his gaze toward the ER doors. ‘And now his wife is in the ICU and you’re in the thick of it. Again. Something stinks and it ain’t Swiss cheese.’

  A doctor came out of the ICU and approached the chief. He whispered something that Kitty couldn’t catch but he was definitely talking about Eliza. She’d heard that much.

  Chief Mulisch nodded and the doctor retreated.

  Kitty stood. ‘Is Mrs Cornwall going to be all right?’

  Chief Mulisch appeared to be considering whether or not he wanted to share. Had he been that way on the playground as a child, too? Kitty held his gaze. Finally he said, ‘She’s got some sort of acute peanut allergy. Went into anafractal—’ He fumbled for words.

  ‘Anaphylactic shock?’ Kitty finished for him.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘That’s it. How’d you know?’

  ‘I know a thing or two about food.’ Did he think she’d been responsible for Eliza’s condition just because she knew what it was called? ‘As a chef,’ Kitty explained, ‘I need to know such things. A severe peanut allergy can be deadly.’

  Chief Mulisch wrapped his arms around his chest. ‘Can it now?’

  He was eying her with a renewed interest that was making Kitty uncomfortable. She found herself taking a small step backward – out of the possible reach of handcuffs and Taser guns. ‘The perfume!’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Mulisch.

  ‘Eliza was applying perfume,’ Kitty explained, ‘first to her finger, then behind her ears. Like this.’ Kitty went through the motions, dabbing her finger behind each ear.

  ‘Where’s this bottle now?’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘Still in her room, I suppose. I didn’t touch it.’

  ‘I’ll send a man over to pick it up. That bottle could be evidence. It might even have some fingerprints on it. And if any of those prints aren’t Mrs Cornwall’s they might lead us to a suspect. Nickels!’ He called the deputy over and explained the situation. ‘I want you to get over to the resort and bag that bottle of perfume.’

  ‘Will do.’ Deputy Nickels stood between Chief Mulisch and Kitty. He held a small top-folding notebook in his right hand. ‘Peanut allergy, eh?’ His head bobbed up and down. ‘Nasty business, that. I expect she’ll recover with no serious side effects.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Oh, sure. With the proper treatment she’ll be good as new.’

  ‘That is what the doc told me,’ Chief Mulisch acceded.

  ‘What about Victor Cornwall?’ asked Kitty. Maybe she could find out something new about who or what killed the man. After all, they were in such a touchy-feely-sharing moment. It was a real lovefest. ‘Any news on the case?’

  Deputy Nickels snorted. ‘Does anybody even care? He’ll be in the ground in a couple of days and I expect that most of the people who show up to see him go in the ground will be there to make sure that he not only goes in but stays in.’

  Kitty was shocked. Where had that come from? Deputy Nickels had seemed so calm and collected the other night, practically Buddha-like. Why the change?

  ‘Now, Jerry Lee, that’s no way to talk about the dead,’ Chief Mulisch said. ‘Even if you did lose a few dollars in one of the man’s schemes.’

  ‘A few dollars?’ Deputy Nickels said. ‘You call Jennie and me losing our condo a few dollars?’

  ‘Where’s your friend, Ms Earhart?’ Chief Mulisch asked Kitty.

  ‘Why, you don’t think Fran had anything to do with what happened to Mrs Cornwall, do you?’

  He shrugged noncommittally. ‘She’s got a temper. I found that out when I interviewed the lady.’

  Kitty couldn’t argue with that. Fran could be volatile at times. But Fran was no killer and Kitty said so. ‘This could have been an accident.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed the chief. ‘But I’m not buying it. Ms Earhart had plenty of reasons to hate the deceased and his wife,’ Chief Mulisch shot back. ‘And she was seen outside the victim’s door only minutes before you discovered the body. Pretty convenient, don’t you think? Maybe she wanted to give herself the perfect alibi by being there to discover the body with you.’

  Kitty wasn’t believing that for a minute. ‘If we’re going to suspect everybody that ever gave money to Victor Cornwall by investing in one of his phony business deals, your jail will never hold them all. I’ll bet this county couldn’t hold them all.’

  She turned to Deputy Nickels. ‘It sounds to me like even your own Deputy Nickels here had a pretty good motive to murder Vic. You seem pretty knowledgeable about peanut allergies.’

  Deputy Nickel blushed and spluttered, ‘Hey, I didn’t kill anybody.’ He turned to the chief. ‘Honest, Chief. You know me.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Kitty. She felt a little bad throwing the deputy to the wolves – he seemed like a decent sort – but she had to protect Fran first. ‘Victor Cornwall was strong and obviously in top shape. I would imagine it would take a man to have overpowered and strangled him. Not a smaller, lighter woman like Fran.’ Her eyes ran up and down the deputy. He certainly looked more Victor’s size.

  The chief appeared to be doing the same thing as he looked his deputy over. Deputy Nickels looked at them and he appeared nervous. ‘Who says he was strangled, anyway?’ he sputtered. ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kitty was surprised. ‘I just assumed.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there are—’

  Chief Mulisch ordered Deputy Nickels to keep quiet. ‘We don’t know for certain what killed Victor Cornwall yet. The body’s at county. We have not had the results of the full autopsy. Could be another day or two. We do know that his blood alcohol level was through the roof. How much fight does a drunk man have in him? Besides, he was so high he might not even have realized he was being strangled.’

  Kitty gave this information some thought. What the chief said was certainly possible. But maybe Victor wasn’t drunk. Could Victor Cornwall have been poisoned too? ‘Did Victor Cornwall have a peanut allergy?’

  The chief rubbed the side of his neck. ‘I couldn’t tell you that.’ His eyes were cold. ‘Even if I knew,’ he admonished the deputy, ‘we are not in the habit of sharing our investigations with cooks.’

  ‘I’m a gourmet pet chef.’ Kitty pulled herself up to her full height. Kitty was a stickler about what people labeled her job. Cooks simply threw things together in pans or, worse still, microwave ovens. She prepared meals crafted with love and care and years of experience.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a Golden Retriever whose quite happy every time I open a can of Alpo,’ said the chief. ‘Comes running likes he’s just won the dog lotto.’

  Deputy Nickels laughed. Kitty’s face turned
the color of an eggplant that had just bounced down two flights of stairs. ‘Good night, Chief.’

  She turned the corner and stormed out. She’d come back tomorrow during visiting hours to see how Eliza was doing. Maybe Eliza would know who might be trying to bump her off next. Were there any next of kin to consider? Who would inherit the Cornwall’s money if both Vic and Eliza were deceased?

  As she headed for the door, she heard Deputy Nickels say to Chief Mulisch, ‘Yeah. You should’ve heard what that Chef Moutarde back at the resort had to say about that little girl. He said he’d rather serve his guests’ pets Spam than the uninspired meals Ms Karlyle came up with.’

  Their crude laughter echoed off the linoleum floor, stinging Kitty’s ears. She squeezed her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white as icebergs. Had that bonky Belgian cook really called her food uninspiring? Who did he think he was? And who did Deputy Nickels think he was calling her a little girl?

  She was going to show them all. She’d solve this case and rub it in their noses like a plate of uninspired moules frites –Belgian mussels and fries.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Kitty’s hand was shaking as she pushed open the door to Eliza Cornwall’s hotel suite. It was a nice room – even nicer than hers, with a great view of the mountains. Mercedes and Benz were nowhere in sight. Apparently the dog-sitter was keeping them. Or maybe Lina. She’d done it before. Then again, maybe they were out playing a round of eighteen-hole night-time doggie golf with Audi and BMW filling out the foursome. Anything seemed to be possible at the Little Switzerland Resort and Spa.

  Kitty hadn’t had much trouble talking Howie into getting her a keycard to Eliza’s room. He’d seen the ambulance and heard how Kitty had been with the woman when she’d collapsed. The news had spread quickly among the entire staff. Getting him to believe that the hospitalized woman wanted Kitty to pick up a few things for her from her room had been a piece of cake.

  Eliza’s bathroom smelled like someone had dropped a flower bomb in it. The small, fancy bottle of perfume lay on its side, its contents spilled out. Kitty bent down and took a sniff. It certainly smelled OK. She knew better than to touch the bottle. The police would be testing it for prints and she didn’t want them to find hers. Kitty drew the curtains shut to keep out prying eyes, then examined the room more closely. She’d have to move quickly. Deputy Nickels could show up at any time to collect the potential evidence. How would she explain her presence?

  She couldn’t.

  There was nothing interesting in Eliza’s luggage – at least nothing incriminating. There were plenty of outfits that Kitty would have killed to own but nothing that pointed to Eliza being a killer.

  Kitty carefully refolded a stunning red maxi-dress with a gold-plate round the neckline when it struck her. These were not grieving widow clothes, these were I’m on a vacation and I want to look hot clothes. As evidence, the suitcase contained two bathing suits and a tennis outfit. Apparently Victor’s widow was not of the very grieving variety.

  Kitty crossed to the king-sized bed where Eliza’s black handbag sat on the corner atop the comforter. A lady knows you never look in another woman’s purse. It’s an unwritten rule. But when you’re tracking down a killer you can’t always go by the rules.

  The purse was a large black leather shopper – you could fit a small dog or a couple of cats inside. Kitty unpeeled the zipper and pulled the sides apart. Wallet, comb, brush, makeup, a few receipts, a plastic bag from a local store that held two unopened pairs of nylons, a ballpoint pen, sunscreen.

  Kitty was about to zip the bag shut when her eyes fell on a printed sheet of paper that had been folded over several times. She grabbed it between her fingers and unfolded it carefully. ‘A speeding ticket,’ she said aloud. There was nothing unusual about that. Except that this ticket was dated three days ago and it had been issued in Santa Barbara. Victor and Eliza lived in Sedona. Eliza said she’d come up after receiving the news of her husband’s death.

  She was lying. But why? What was she hiding?

  The suite door rattled as a fist pounded outside. ‘Anybody here?’

  Kitty gasped then covered her mouth before her heart could escape. It was Deputy Nickels. She could not let him discover her in Eliza’s room. She stuffed the speeding ticket in her pocket and dived under the bed. But the bed was having none of it. It had been built on a platform. Kitty cursed. The door was swinging open even as she raced behind the chair in the corner near the drapes.

  ‘Hello?’ Kitty could hear the detective as he stepped into the center of the room. She swallowed hard. Please, please, please, she pleaded, do not search the room.

  She heard the deputy as he accidently hit the switch for the bathroom fan then turned on the bathroom light. She could see its subtle glow from her hiding place as it washed over the ceiling.

  ‘I don’t think the lab’s going to find anything on this but what the chief wants, the chief gets.’

  There were tiny noises and Deputy Nickels was whistling. Then the soft padding of footsteps in her direction. Kitty froze, willing her heart to stop beating so loudly. To her ears it sounded like a marching band was parading across her tight chest.

  ‘Karma can be a real killer,’ Nickels chuckled, ‘can’t it?’ The footsteps stopped nearby, though the whistling continued. Nickels could not have been more than five feet from her. ‘Well, well, what have we here?’

  Kitty bit her lip and prepared for the worst. He’d found her!

  ‘Mrs Cornwall might want this.’

  Kitty watched the purse float upward. A minute later, he was gone. Kitty breathed a long sigh of relief as she heard the satisfying click of the door closing. She gripped the back of the chair and lifted herself up. That had been close – too close. Her legs trembled as she crossed the carpeted floor. Eliza’s purse was now gone. So was the bottle of perfume.

  Kitty turned her head slowly and looked at the glowing numbers of the clock face. It was nearly one a.m. Chef Henri Moutarde was one of her top suspects – and with that nasty disposition of his, she could only hope he did prove to be the killer. She needed to get a look at the kitchen. There may be some incriminating evidence there. After what had happened earlier, nearly getting caught poking around in Eliza’s room, she decided it would be better to wait until the resort was asleep.

  She twisted and looked at Fran. Kitty had heard her finally tiptoe in around eleven-thirty and she appeared to be sound asleep now. Fred and Barney were asleep on the sofa. Kitty pulled back the covers and slipped into her shoes, having worn her clothes to bed – a black turtleneck sweater and jeans. Fred lifted his head for a moment as Kitty opened the door but then settled back down. Fred was a Lab, not a night owl.

  Sure enough, the halls were deserted but for the occasional TV sounds coming from behind closed doors. A lone clerk manned the registration desk. She waited until his back was turned then crossed the broad lobby to the wing of the hotel that held the main restaurant and other amenities, like the salon and pool.

  Kitty knew that the main banquet room, the one they’d been using to film her show, opened in the rear directly into the back of the kitchen. That’s where she was heading. If someone was about and saw her enter the restaurant past the hostess station they might get suspicious and report her. She couldn’t take that chance.

  She pushed open the door. A lone light bulb shone from outside the door to the walk-in fridge. While kitchens normally gave Kitty a warm and fuzzy feeling, this one – maybe it was just because it was the middle of the night – was giving her the creeps. Kitty knew her way around reasonably well. They’d been using this kitchen extensively as a prep area for the show. She crept along in the direction that she was pretty sure she would find the pantry.

  Turning the corner and passing a pallet of dry goods waiting to be stored, Kitty noticed a light spilling from an open doorway. She crept to the edge of the door and slowly braved a peek.

  Moutarde. What was he doing here at this hour? Three hours after
closing?

  The chef sat behind a massive oak desk, his chef’s coat unbuttoned to the waist, a goblet of a dark liqueur close to hand. His eyes scrolled pages of documents and he had an ugly look on his face. Then again, didn’t he always?

  Kitty really wanted to get a look in that pantry. If it contained peanut oil, and she suspected it would, then that would give Chef Moutarde the means. All she needed now was a motive. And opportunity. Speaking of opportunity, Kitty could use one now herself. There was no way she could cross in front of Moutarde’s open door unseen. She needed a diversion.

  Kitty crept back the way she’d come. At the opposite end of the kitchen she knew they kept the dishwashing equipment, like the sinks, glass washer and the twelve-rack pot-and-pan washer. The stainless-steel beauty was just the ticket. It had been a while since she’d handled a commercial pot scrubber but she had little trouble setting the controls by the light of her cell phone. She set the timer to begin a rinse cycle in three minutes, then crept back to a hiding spot behind a pair of large carbon dioxide tanks against the wall near Moutarde’s office.

  Kitty waited and waited what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the sound of pressurized water moving around inside the dishwasher echoed through the empty kitchen. Moutarde cursed. At least, she figured it was a curse. It sounded like one. She didn’t speak French but the tone seemed clear. She heard the sound of him pushing back his chair. A moment later he came out, looked this way and that and headed toward the sound.

  Kitty waited until he was out of sight in the darkness then pushed forward. She had meant to check the pantry first but couldn’t resist the open invitation to find out what the chef was doing at his desk at such a late hour.

  Financial records lay scattered about. Kitty wasn’t good with finances and couldn’t make heads nor tails of the numbers. There were several cooking certificates in frames on the wall and behind the desk a framed copy of Boston Magazine showed the surly Belgian on its cover. A small photo in a gilt frame on the corner of his desk showed a restaurant called Chez Moutarde. So the chef had once had a restaurant of his own. What was he doing here in Little Switzerland then? Had he been a victim of the economic downturn like so many others and forced to close his doors?