Pet in Peril

by Marie Celine

Fran looked only mildly interested.

  ‘She received that ticket,’ said Kitty, tapping the back of the paper with her finger, ‘two days before her husband was murdered.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Read where she got the ticket.’

  ‘Santa Barbara.’ Fran shrugged. ‘Yeah?’

  Kitty waited.

  ‘Oh, Santa Barbara.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Eliza told us she’d been in Sedona when she’d gotten the call that her husband had been killed and that she’d drove out west afterward. But,’ said Kitty, clasping her knees, ‘Santa Barbara’s not more than an hour’s drive from here. If Eliza was already in the area she had plenty of opportunity to kill her husband. She could have been waiting for him back in his suite.’

  ‘And when he showed up,’ said Fran, picking up the thread of the conversation, ‘she strangles him or bops him on the head or something.’

  ‘Exactly,’ concluded Kitty.

  Fran agreed that it was very interesting indeed. Then her face fell.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You forgot one thing. The police telephoned Vic’s wife to break the news to her about her husband.’ Fran bit her cheek. ‘She would have to have been home in Arizona then to receive that call. It looks like she has an alibi after all. You can’t be in two places at once.’

  Kitty was shaking her head. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

  Fran smiled. ‘Of course.’ Eliza could have said she was in Sedona, Arizona. But she could have been in or near Little Switzerland, California the entire time. ‘That makes three – Jameson, Moutarde and the ex-Mrs Cornwall. Who else have you got?’

  Kitty tapped her teeth with the pen. ‘You’re going to laugh but hear me out.’

  Fran’s brow dug up furrows.

  ‘Jerry Lee Nickels.’

  ‘Deputy Nickels?’ Fran asked dubiously. ‘LSPD Deputy Nickels?’

  Kitty explained her reasoning and Fran agreed that she might be onto something. ‘You should have heard the man,’ Kitty said. ‘He has a lot of pent-up anger at Victor Cornwall.’

  ‘Him and me both,’ admitted Fran. She pointed to the paper. ‘Put Nickels’ name down.’

  As Kitty dutifully wrote the deputy’s name next on her list and added a few notes, Fran went to answer the knock at the door.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Kitty swiveled the desk chair around as Ted Atchison strode into the room. Fran had left the door open. He was carrying a small tray holding several cups of coffee and scones wrapped in paper. It all smelled heavenly. ‘Sure – I never say no to a man bearing gifts. Especially when those gifts include fresh hot coffee and pastry.’

  Fran, walking behind Ted and carrying an ice bucket, shrugged for Kitty’s benefit then cinched the belt of her robe tighter around her waist.

  ‘Good morning, Ted.’ Kitty maintained a poker face. She glanced at the list on the desk. She’d forgotten to add the mysterious Mr Atchison to her list. ‘Those are for us, right?’

  He held out the tray. ‘Of course. Treats for the sweets,’ he said with a smile. He wore denim jeans, hiking boots and a loose-fitting Dodgers sweatshirt.

  ‘Thank you.’ Kitty grabbed a cup of coffee and popped the lid, letting the steam rise to her nose and tickle her senses with the scent of dark roasted beans. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘No occasion. Have a scone,’ offered Ted.

  Kitty carefully selected an orange-cranberry creation, while Fran chose the blueberry.

  ‘I heard what happened last night,’ Ted explained. He helped himself to the last scone – cinnamon crunch. ‘I figured you must be exhausted.’ He flashed his most alluring smile. Kitty had to admit, the man could turn on the charm. Not like Jack, but not bad. Not bad at all.

  Nonetheless, Kitty was alarmed. Had the little incident last night made the news? Who had blabbed? How much trouble was she in with the crew and the network? She was surprised Steve Barnhard hadn’t already been down here banging on her door to be let in so he could admonish her.

  ‘I ran into the guy working the front desk last night. He mentioned it. He told me how the police had been called and the next thing he knew you and Henri Moutarde were heading down to the police station with Chief Mulisch and his deputy.’ Ted took a slow sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. ‘What happened?’

  Kitty breathed a sigh of relief. The news hadn’t spread far. Hopefully Rick Ruggiero would keep it from going any further. Maybe she would have to have a word with him about that. She could ask him to keep his staff in check. She didn’t want the little episode to become general knowledge. ‘Nothing, really. It was all a misunderstanding.’

  Fran signaled Kitty.

  ‘What is it, Fran?’

  ‘Can you help me get these curlers out of my hair?’ She patted the towel on her head.

  Kitty’s nose wrinkled up but she followed Fran to the bathroom. Fran closed the door behind them. ‘Curlers? What curlers?’

  Fran placed her hand over Kitty’s mouth. ‘Shh. Keep your voice down.’

  Kitty lowered her voice. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t want Ted to hear.’

  ‘Hear what?’ Kitty was growing exasperated and her coffee was out there growing cold.

  ‘I don’t think you should be telling Ted anything,’ Fran said. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’

  ‘You heard him. He said he learned what happened and brought us some coffee. And scones. They’re delicious, by the way. I’m going to have to meet the resort’s baker. Do you think they’ll share the recipe? Mine always turn out so flat by comparison.’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’ Fran pulled out her mascara and fiddled with the cap.

  ‘Now that you mention it …’ said Kitty, her voice trailing off.

  Fran spun around. ‘What is it? Spill it, girl.’

  Kitty explained her trip into town, how she’d gone to the dog shelter and learned that Ted Atchison had only adopted his dog Chloe the other day.

  Fran was smirking. ‘I knew it,’ she whispered. ‘He’s up to something. Ted Atchison could be our murderer.’ She glanced at the closed door. Kitty followed suit.

  ‘But why?’ asked Kitty. ‘What would his motive be?’

  Both women thought in silence. ‘Face it,’ said Kitty, ‘sometimes coffee is simply coffee.’

  ‘Everything all right in there?’ called Ted.

  ‘One sec—’ Kitty called.

  The women returned. Fran’s hair was still wrapped in the towel. ‘False alarm,’ she said, patting the towel atop her head then biting down into her blueberry scone.

  ‘As I was saying,’ began Kitty, ‘it was all a misunderstanding. I was out for a stroll. I couldn’t sleep. You know how it is and I, we, the chef and I, thought we heard a burglar.’

  ‘A burglar, eh?’ Ted’s brow went up. ‘Where? What do you suppose they were after?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, nothing.’ Kitty pulled a piece off her scone and tossed it in her mouth. ‘Like I said,’ she swallowed, ‘it was all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Got it.’ Ted had polished off his scone. ‘Well, gotta go,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll see you two later. Are you coming to the carnival?’

  ‘Carnival?’

  ‘Hadn’t you noticed? It’s part of the New-Age/New-Pet Conference. They’ve set up a small carnival on the other side of the resort. I hear there will be rides for pets, mostly designed for the man’s best friend variety, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ replied Kitty. ‘Speaking of which, how’s your dog?’

  ‘Great, great.’ Ted laced his fingers through his hair.

  ‘The two of you seem to have such a close bond. I guess it comes from being together so long.’

  ‘You bet.’ A slight redness came to the sides of his face, highlighting his nose by its pasty and prominent comparison. Ted cleared his throat. ‘Well, like I said, gotta run.’

  ‘Tha
nks for the scone,’ Fran said, crumbs falling from the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

  Kitty drummed her fingers on the desk.

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ Fran said after Ted Atchison had gone.

  ‘Weirder than you think,’ Kitty replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Kitty turned and waved for Fran to look at the desktop. A blank-sheeted notepad looked back. ‘All my notes are gone.’

  Both women looked at the closed door, while Kitty wondered what Ted had wanted with her notes and list of suspects.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The ladies took Fred and Barney to a late breakfast. The scones had been delicious but not enough to fill either woman’s appetite that morning. Kitty ate poorly, however, because she couldn’t stop looking around to see if Chef Moutarde was creeping up behind her with a meat cleaver in his hand.

  ‘Is your baker in the kitchen?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s left for the day,’ replied their waiter.

  ‘Too bad. I wanted to convey my compliments on his baking skills. The scones we had this morning were the best I’ve ever had.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you said so. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Kitty added, ‘is Chef Moutarde in this morning?’

  The waiter said he had not seen the chef and didn’t seem too happy to hear the Belgian’s name.

  ‘Tough man to work for?’ Kitty asked with a smile.

  ‘Almost as tough as the rib-eye he serves up,’ quipped the young waiter.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ Fran said between sips of black coffee.

  The waiter shrugged and looked to the side. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. I’ve worked for worse.’

  Kitty followed the young man’s gaze. Rick had come into the dining room and was speaking with the hostess, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. ‘Has the chef worked here long?’

  ‘Longer than me, and I’ve been here two years. He and the manager go way back.’

  ‘Really?’ Kitty was surprised. The way Rick was laying into the chef last night sure hadn’t given her the impression that the two were friends. Of course, just because they had a history together didn’t mean it was a friendly one. But still …

  The manager glanced over at their table and waved. The waiter suddenly appeared antsy. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ He dropped a dog biscuit in front of Fred, a tuna treat down for Barney and set a small chocolate mint next to each woman’s plate.

  When Kitty said no, he quickly totaled up their bill and departed. ‘Did you see that?’ She unpeeled her mint and popped it in her mouth.

  ‘You mean the way the kid clammed up when the manager showed up?’ Fran pushed the bill toward Kitty. ‘No, I didn’t see a thing.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Maybe he’s afraid that the manager will think he’s slacking off?’

  ‘You’re right. It could be perfectly normal. But I forgot to put the manager on our list of suspects.’ The list that Ted Atchison had stolen.

  How could she have forgotten her suspicions about the manager? ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘I saw Rick near our room right before I discovered it had been ransacked.’

  Fran nodded. ‘You also made a good point,’ she said, jabbing her fork in the manager’s direction, ‘when you said that Ruggiero’s got a master key to this whole place.’

  Their eyes clung to Rick as he left through a side entrance. Now that Kitty had time to think, he had seemed awfully anxious to keep Kitty out of the clutches of the police last night. Was he simply being kind to a guest? Or did he have some ulterior motives of his own? Were he and Henri Moutarde hiding something? Were the two men afraid that Kitty was getting too close?

  ‘Maybe they were stealing from the resort and Victor Cornwall stumbled onto them as they were hauling caviar out the back door or something,’ suggested Kitty.

  ‘Stranger things had been known to happen,’ agreed Fran. ‘They could be skimming. Selling food supplies out the back door or buying them cheaper than what the books show.’

  Did they suspect that Kitty might know something, whether she knew what the something was or not? Did they fear she might inadvertently say something to the police that would lead back to them?

  Kitty signed for the check and stood. Sitting here wasn’t going to solve anything. Kitty and Fran split up in the lobby, agreeing to meet later for lunch in town. It was an off day for the show so she could do as she pleased.

  Almost.

  Fran said she was going to do some sightseeing, which mostly meant shopping. Kitty had a session with Dr Newhart scheduled and she knew that if she bailed on it that Steve would rake her over the coals. She would be seeing him this evening because he’d made her promise to make up for missing the last post-movie Q&A session with the public by attending tonight’s movie.

  Not only had she agreed to speak afterward, she’d agreed, with some arm twisting, to make treats for the pets attending the showing. Chef Moutarde would be preparing the snacks for the people in attendance. She wondered what he would do. Certainly not something as mundane as popcorn. Too pedestrian for the likes of the Belgian chef. Whatever he served, she was determined that what she made for the pets would be better. And definitely, absolutely, it was going to be more inspired than whatever he dished out.

  Kitty was not looking forward to seeing the chef again but she was looking forward to the movie, Lady and the Tramp. She had made Jack watch it – twice – and liked to think that if they were cartoon dogs, that’s the two they would be.

  She ran into Steve and Roger coming out of Dr Newhart’s suite as she was going in. Their two Corgis were with them, dancing between their feet. ‘What are you doing here? Checking up on me?’

  It was Roger who answered. ‘When Steve told me about your sessions with Doctor Newhart,’ he laid a hand on Steve’s arm, ‘I told him that I thought it would be great for us, too.’

  They departed and Kitty flopped down on the sofa.

  ‘Tired?’ asked Dr Newhart. The poor man was wearing a coat and tie again. Didn’t he ever let go?

  Kitty nodded. ‘It’s all this murder and mayhem. Victor Cornwall gets himself killed, his wife gets poisoned and my room gets ransacked.’

  Dr Newhart took a seat across from her and folded his hands on his lap. ‘It is difficult, yes. But it is important that you try to put all of these troubles out of your mind.’ He gestured toward Kitty’s animals. ‘Be more like Fred and Barney. Free yourself.’

  Kitty eyed her pets. Fred was already stretched out on the warm rug, his paws under his jowls. Barney was in some weird yoga pose licking his tail. Life should be so easy.

  Dr Newhart fished in his jacket pocket. ‘I wanted to give you this.’ He held out a folded sheet of lined yellow paper.

  Kitty reached out and took it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have another referral for you.’

  Kitty unfolded the paper. ‘Bobby Bridges and Traci Nelson?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The Bobby Bridges and Traci Nelson?’ Bobby was a member of a famous Hollywood acting family with a long line of stars. Traci was a television star on a popular comedy.

  ‘That’s right. They’re here at the resort with their dogs, a pair of brother and sister Irish setters. They attended the taping of your show which they enjoyed very much. They would like you to cook for them.’ He paused for a beat. ‘If you’re interested? I know how busy you are with the show—’

  ‘No, no, of course I’m interested,’ Kitty replied quickly. ‘The show only tapes one or two days a week. Besides, who knows how long The Pampered Pet will last? This is show business – things get cancelled all the time.’ She had lived in Hollywood’s shadow long enough to know the truth of that. It was a ruthless business. She stuffed the paper in her pocket. ‘I hadn’t even noticed Traci and Bobby in the audience.’

  ‘They were in disguise.’

  Kitty could understand that perfectly. The little bi
t of celebrity she had recently acquired due to the TV show was already wearing thin. ‘But why did they ask you to give me their contact info?’

  Dr Newhart tugged at his collar. ‘They – their dogs, I should say – are clients of mine. I suppose Bobby and Traci wanted to check with me first. Of course, I was happy to recommend you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kitty. ‘I really appreciate this. You say they have two Irish setters?’

  He offered Kitty a cup of tea and she declined. He poured himself a cup as he replied. ‘Yes. Beautiful animals. You’ll adore them.’ He returned to his seat.

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘So, Kitty,’ the doctor said, squeezing a thin slice of lemon over his cup and stirring, ‘tell me about your relationship with Fred and Barney? Is it amicable?’

  ‘Amicable?’ Kitty looked from Dr Newhart to her pets and back again. ‘Sure, I mean, they’re a cat and a dog.’ She smiled. ‘A lot easier to get along with than people, right?’

  Dr Newhart cocked his head. ‘Oh?’

  Realizing she’d said the wrong thing, Kitty cleared her throat and tried again. This time she’d go on the offensive. She glanced out the window then looked him in the eye. ‘Doctor Newhart, I was wondering …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you ever invest in one of Victor Cornwall’s schemes?’

  Dr Newhart laughed, his perfect white teeth flashing. That was the first time Kitty had ever seen that. She didn’t think he had it in him. Even Barney was looking at him now. ‘I never met the man. I’d seen his infomercials,’ the doctor said, ‘and his books in the stores, but I’ve never subscribed to succeeding through schemes.

  ‘Besides,’ he added between sips of tea, ‘eight years of school took me ten years to pay off my student loans from UCLA. I don’t buy anything that I can’t afford to pay for.’

  More good advice. Kitty rose. ‘Doctor Newhart, would you mind if we cut our session short?’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Kitty looked out the window. Sunshine spilled in, casting a warm, yellow glow over them. ‘I’d like to get out and take Fred for a hike. I hear there are some great trails around the resort and I’d like to try one.’