Lights, Camera, Murder!: A TV Pet Chef Mystery set in L.A. (Kitty Karlyle Pet Chef Mysteries)

by Marie Celine

  ‘What? What is it?’ Fran asked. She had picked the framed photograph off the wall and was examining it from every angle.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Kitty, rubbing her jaw. ‘It’s just that when I happened to mention the meeting to Mr Czinski, well, it might have been my imagination, but he seemed upset about it.’ He had practically ripped the handle off her car door.

  ‘Upset? Upset how?’ Fran replaced the picture on the wall and stepped over the dead alligator toward Kitty.

  ‘He warned me to stay away from her,’ Kitty said. ‘I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Only that it was odd.’ And since Mr Czinski was odd to begin with, that in itself hadn’t made the incident seem so odd to her at the time. But now … ‘Come here,’ said Kitty, waving for Fran to follow her. ‘Look what I found in the kitchen.’ Kitty showed Fran the The Pampered Pet – CuisineTV potholder.

  ‘So?’ Fran looked unimpressed. ‘It’s a potholder. I saw one just like it at the Fandolfis’ house this morning.’

  ‘Me too, but I didn’t think anything of it then.’ The potholder dangled from Kitty’s finger. ‘Don’t you think that it’s weird that they should both have one?’

  Fran appeared to give the question some thought. ‘I’m not sure. Should I?’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Gretchen had boxes of these in her office.’

  ‘I remember. So?’

  ‘So they were only given out at the taping – trinkets for the audience. How did Mr Czinski get his hands on one?’ And the Fandolfis for that matter?

  Fran snapped her fingers. ‘I thought this Czinski character looked familiar.’

  Kitty groaned. ‘Please, you think everybody looks familiar.’

  ‘No, really. Come on,’ urged Fran, ‘let’s go ask him.’

  They found Mr Czinski talking to Clement, his giraffe, through the fencing of his pen.

  Before Kitty could formulate a question and the proper approach, Fran burst out with ‘Weren’t you at Santa Monica Film Studios yesterday?’ It came out more an accusation than a question and Kitty stifled another groan.

  ‘You are mistaken, young lady.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ asserted Fran, stepping closer. Mr Czinski backed away and walked over to the lion area. They followed him.

  ‘I remember now,’ said Fran. ‘You were wandering in the hallway. You said you were lost.’

  Mr Czinski puffed out his chest. ‘I said you are mistaken, young lady,’ he said. He turned his back to them and unlocked the steel mesh door to the lions’ abode with a long key chained to his belt. The two lions, an elderly male and female, sitting on a large flat gray rock in the far right corner, perked up at the metallic sound of the door opening.

  ‘What about the potholder?’ asked Kitty, using her friendliest tone.

  ‘Potholder?’

  ‘I noticed a potholder for The Pampered Pet in your kitchen – when I went to rinse out Buster’s dish.’ She didn’t want him to think she had been snooping.

  ‘I must tend to the cats,’ replied Mr Czinski. ‘They get quite cranky if their schedule is not adhered to.’ He stepped inside. ‘If you have any more questions …’ He motioned for Kitty and Fran to cross the threshold.

  Kitty and Fran looked at one another. ‘No, no more questions.’ Kitty figured Mr Czinski wasn’t about to provide any answers anyway. And being nibbled on by a hungry lion wouldn’t have been worth it even if he had been willing to provide some answers. But how did he come by a potholder from the show? And what about that picture in the den that looked like him and Gretchen in an embrace?

  The two walked quickly down to the Volvo. Fran hopped in and Kitty suddenly took off on foot toward the cabin. ‘Where are you going?’ Fran whispered loudly.

  ‘Forgot my bag!’ she yelled, hoping that Mr Czinski heard her as well. She raced up the steps to the porch and disappeared inside the house. A minute later, she reappeared. Mr Czinski was grooming the big cats and barely glanced up as Kitty turned the Volvo around.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Fran asked. ‘Your bag’s right here.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the backseat.

  ‘I know,’ answered Kitty with a sly grin. She held up her cellphone.

  ‘Why you sly dog, you,’ Fran said with a laugh. On the phone was a picture of the photograph in the den.

  EIGHT

  The Beverly Hills Hotel, located on Sunset Boulevard near Will Rogers Memorial Park, has been a southern California landmark for over one hundred years. Built in the Spanish mission design style – as popular then as it is now – it had cost its owners over five hundred thousand dollars back in 1912, a sum that Kitty considered astronomical even today.

  She felt ridiculously out of place walking up the wide red carpet with Fran – almost as ridiculous as she had felt giving the keys to her beat up old Volvo wagon to the impeccably dressed valet. The lobby was a beautiful, elegantly appointed expanse that could have swallowed a couple of good-sized houses whole and had room left over for dessert. A striking, recessed, circular ceiling painted sunflower yellow with a humongous cone-shaped chandelier in milky white glass and gold filigree immediately caught her eye.

  This was Kitty’s first visit to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Fran explained she’d been before for several studio functions and led the way confidently to reception.

  ‘Wait,’ said Kitty, pulling Fran aside and glancing at the receptionist from behind a crystal vase of white tulips. The woman behind reception eyed them dubiously.

  ‘What’s wrong? Cold feet?’

  ‘No,’ Kitty replied, keeping her voice low.

  ‘So, aren’t we going to stop at reception to let Ms Cartwright know we’re here?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ whispered Kitty. ‘She might not want to see us.’

  ‘You’ve got a good point.’ She looped her arm through Kitty’s. ‘Come on, she’s staying in one of the bungalows. I’ve overheard Gretch talking to her.’

  The women sashayed through the lobby and out the doors to the immaculate grounds like they owned the place. Kitty was struck by the beauty of the hotel’s surroundings as they passed the swimming pool and roamed down a quiet lane, lush with hibiscus, bougainvillea and palm trees.

  ‘These are the bungalows,’ explained Fran. ‘Nice, huh?’

  Kitty nodded. ‘I can’t imagine how much it must cost to stay in one of these.’

  ‘I can,’ said Fran. ‘A couple of grand a night.’

  Kitty’s mouth fell open. ‘A night?’ It seemed inconceivable that anyone could afford such a price, even for these gorgeous surroundings. She mentally calculated the number of pet food dishes she’d have to cook and serve to spend just one fleeting night in a Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow. The number she came up with boggled the mind.

  ‘Now all we have to do is figure out which one of these the lovely Ms Cartwright is staying in.’ Fran frowned, looking about.

  A bungalow door opened to the right and a man stepped out, his back half to them. ‘Hide,’ whispered Kitty. She grabbed Fran by the arm and pushed her down behind a hibiscus.

  Fran was looking at her like she was crazy. ‘That’s Steve,’ Kitty said. ‘Coming out of that bungalow up there.’

  ‘Our Steve?’ Fran asked softly. ‘Steve Barnhard?’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Take a look. But be careful.’ They slowly lifted their heads up over the top of the bush. Steve was talking to some woman under the covered entryway to the Mediterranean styled bungalow. Steve was buttoning the top buttons of a wrinkled butter yellow shirt.

  The woman had dressed in a peach peignoir with matching mules. That woman, with the distinctive pageboy haircut with a wisp of gray in a jet-black head of hair, and the pleasantly chubby round face, was instantly recognizable. This was the famous cooking star, Barbara Cartwright. ‘What’s Steve doing with her?’

  ‘From the looks of it,’ quipped Fran, ‘I’d say they were trying out some new recipes, like hot afternoon delight – if you get my drift.’

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bsp; Kitty did. ‘So, Steve Barnhard and Barbara Cartwright are seeing each other.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Fran. Both girls ducked as Steve said his goodbyes and headed down the flagstone path in their direction.

  ‘More than interesting,’ Kitty said after Steve had passed. She rose and dusted herself off. ‘It gives them both a motive for killing Gretchen.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Fran. ‘They could be in this together.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘It sure looks that way. Let’s see what Ms Cartwright has to say.’

  She knocked lightly on the dark-stained wood door that looked and sounded thick enough to keep out the most stalwart paparazzi, if not an invading Saxon army. ‘Ms Cartwright?’

  At five foot seven, Barbara Cartwright stood eye to eye with Kitty. ‘Yes,’ she said, her sapphire blue eyes twinkling behind a pair of round, frameless reading glasses. She glanced over Kitty’s shoulder at Fran. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  Fran nodded quickly and beamed. ‘We’re with the hotel.’

  Kitty did a double take.

  ‘Oh, yes. You must be with hotel services, here about the reception I am arranging for tomorrow afternoon.’

  She had a lilting Londoner’s accent that Kitty found pleasant to the ear.

  Fran immediately said yes and Ms Cartwright beckoned them inside. ‘Wow,’ she gasped, obviously awed by the lavish surroundings.

  Kitty cautioned her with her eyes.

  Barbara Cartwright led them through to the sitting room, took a seat in a high-backed wingchair and motioned for the girls to take the loveseat on the opposite side of the fireplace.

  The three women eyed each other in silence. It was Barbara Cartwright who broke the ice. ‘Did you have some specific questions about tomorrow’s reception? It will be a quiet affair, of course. Only Gretchen’s closest friends and colleagues will be present.’

  ‘Yes, of–of course,’ Kitty stammered. Her mind raced. ‘Had you and Gretchen known each other long?’

  ‘Not particularly long,’ replied Ms Cartwright, crossing her legs and adjusting her peignoir. ‘But I do feel she deserves some sort of memorial. Her daughter will be holding a wake at her home after the funeral. This is simply my small gesture.’ She waved a regal hand through the air. ‘A small in memoriam.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Kitty was quick to agree. So that’s what this was all about. ‘Tell me,’ she began, ‘weren’t you originally to be the host of that new show that Gretchen’s studio was producing?’

  The shadow of a scowl passed across Barbara Cartwright’s face and then was gone, replaced by a vacuous smile. She pulled her reading glasses off her nose and set them on the coffee table. ‘Yes, you are correct. I had originally planned on hosting a new cookery program with Ms Corbett.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Ms Cartwright, ‘it simply never quite worked out. That’s show business for you. The trick is to keep more than one pot on the fire.’ She beamed. ‘An apropos cooking metaphor, don’t you think?’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘Who do you think killed her?’ asked Fran.

  Barbara Cartwright’s eyebrows rose. ‘Don’t you think that’s a matter for the police, young lady?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Kitty, shooting Fran another warning with her eyes.

  Ms Cartwright poured a cup of tea from a porcelain teapot, but offered none to Fran and Kitty. She added a teaspoon of sugar and stirred. She cleared her throat before speaking. ‘Still, if I was going to consider who might have wanted to see Gretchen dead—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d put that wretch of an ex-husband of hers at the top of my list. And her daughter second.’

  ‘Her daughter?’ squawked Fran.

  Barbara Cartwright nodded. ‘I hear they’d had some sort of falling out. What was the girl’s name? Cynthia, I believe.’

  ‘Cindy,’ corrected Fran.

  Ms Cartwright nodded and took a sip of tea. ‘Then again, poor Gretchen seemed to have a falling out with everyone eventually.’

  Kitty pulled her phone from her purse. ‘Do you recognize the man in this picture?’ She leaned forward, holding the phone out for her to see.

  Ms Cartwright put on her reading glasses and chewed her lip a moment. ‘Of course, that’s Gretchen,’ she answered, tapping the screen. ‘And that ape of a husband of hers.’ She laughed. ‘Or should I say ape-man. That’s her ex-husband, Chevy.’

  Ape-man, indeed, thought Kitty. Now things were beginning to make sense. ‘Tell me,’ she said, shifting gears, ‘will Steve Barnhard be attending tomorrow?’

  Ms Cartwright smiled, but it was a scary smile. She rose and set her teacup on the table. ‘I’m very tired,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Fran said, under her breath.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Kitty waved at Fran in irritation. She knew exactly what Fran was thinking. The image of Barbara Cartwright and Steve Barnhard twisting the sheets in the middle of the afternoon was about as pleasant as being kicked in the stomach by a mule.

  ‘Roger!’ called Ms Cartwright.

  A young man in a pale orange Lacoste polo shirt and jeans appeared from one of the bedrooms. ‘Yes, Ms Cartwright?’ he said, in a voice that oozed French. He was tall and slender, with wavy brown hair brushed to one side and clean-shaven cheeks.

  ‘Please show these strumpets out, won’t you? I’ve had enough of their games.’

  Kitty went into shock. If strumpet meant what she thought it meant, the woman had some nerve. Who uses that word anymore, anyway?

  Both women leapt to their feet. ‘But, Ms Cartwright, about the reception—’ Kitty began.

  ‘Please,’ snapped Barbara Cartwright, her voice now granite hard. ‘I’ve had enough. You,’ she said, pointing an accusing finger at Fran, ‘are that silly hair stylist from the studio. And you,’ Barbara Cartwright said, turning her wrath on Kitty, her chest heaving upward, ‘are that wretched dog food person who stole my cookery show out from under me!’ she thundered.

  Kitty felt Roger closing in. ‘But Ms Cartwright, I can explain—’ Roger grabbed Fran and Kitty and hustled them out the front door.

  ‘You can do your explaining to Bill Barnhard, young lady. Because that’s who I am going to be calling to report your deception and invasion of my privacy. I’ll have your job yet!’

  ‘Oh yeah? Big deal!’ yelled Fran as the door slammed in their faces. ‘I’ve already been fired, so what do you think about that?’ She pounded the door with her fist. ‘Rats,’ she hissed.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kitty, trembling. ‘I think we’d better leave before she calls hotel security.’

  ‘Please,’ scoffed Fran, ‘like she’d dare.’

  Kitty patted Fran’s shoulder and pointed. Two men in dark suits were heading their way, walking quickly, faces set and determined.

  NINE

  Kitty slid her Volvo into the reserved spot located ever so conveniently near the big dumpster outside her Melrose District apartment complex – who said LA wasn’t all glitz and glamour? The building was a two-story, U-shaped affair, the color of an overripe peach. Her apartment was on the first floor. ‘Coming up? I have to get ready for my date with Jack, but you’re welcome to hang out until then.’

  ‘Sure, I don’t mind if I do.’ Fran helped Kitty carry her gear and empty delivery bags inside.

  Kitty was surprised to turn the key in the lock and discover that the deadbolt was already open. ‘Oh, Sylvester. It’s you.’

  The scrawny young man in tattered jeans and a loose navy blue Bob Dylan T-shirt was on his knees on the carpet tussling with Fred. The dog had his favorite rope toy locked in his jaws and barely gave Kitty a second look, engrossed as he was in his tug-of-war with Sylvester.

  ‘Fran, this is my next-door neighbor, Sylvester Herman. Sylvester, this is my friend, Fran.’

  Sylvester let go of the rope and rose to his feet, wiping the slobber off his hands and on to his jeans where it le
ft a silvery trail. He held out his hand and, to Fran’s credit, she shook it politely.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, diverting a long strand of slick black hair from his face. He had a hawkish nose, pleasant green eyes and a bad case of acne that made him feel insecure though Kitty was constantly reminding him how cute and sweet he was. Sylvester was from the Midwest somewhere – some small town in Kansas whose name Kitty always forgot. He’d grown up on a farm and had a real affection for animals.

  ‘Likewise.’ Fran dropped Kitty’s stuff on the sofa.

  ‘I noticed you’d been gone quite a while and thought I’d better let Fred out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitty said. ‘It has been a long day.’ Sylvester had a spare key to her apartment and was a godsend. He and his four roommates were members of a rock band called The Tonsils. Her pets adored them all, Sylvester especially. Thankfully, he didn’t question her about the murder, though he no doubt had heard about it. The whole city had.

  ‘Guess I’ll be on my way.’ Sylvester paused in the doorway, hand on the knob. ‘I almost forgot, you had a couple of visitors, Kitty.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Sylvester squirmed a moment, his Converse sneakers digging into the carpet. ‘Yeah. Mr Frizzell, for one.’ He looked at the floor. ‘He wanted the rent.’

  Kitty groaned and blushed. Jerry Frizzell was the apartment manager. His cousin owned the property but Frizzell treated it like his own minor fiefdom. ‘That figures.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sylvester replied quickly. ‘Me and the guys all pitched in and covered for you.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets.

  ‘You did?’ Kitty rushed over and gave him a warm hug. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’ He reddened. She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘But thank you. And I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’

  ‘I know you will,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. ’Bye.’ Sylvester started to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ said Kitty. ‘Who was the other visitor?’

  ‘Oh, some guy by the name of David.’

  ‘David? David Biggins?’