by Marie Celine
“No, I’m Benny’s chef.”
Det. Young cocked his head. “I see.” He tapped his pencil against his pad in an arrhythmic tempo. “Does Benny live here with Mr. Evan?”
Kitty nodded.
“Good. I’d like a word with him.”
Kitty put a hand to her lips to squelch a laugh.
“Something funny, miss?”
“No, nothing’s funny. It’s just—” How was she going to word this? “You can’t exactly talk to Benny. I mean, you can talk to him but he can’t answer, not exactly, that is. Not with words.”
Young’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t kill him, too, did you?”
“No!” Kitty pointed. “He’s in there.”
“Show me.”
Kitty went to the laundry room and opened the door slowly. Benny came racing out. He took one look at all the strangers and began barking like a Tommy gun. She picked him up. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re trembling.”
Young scooted past girl and dog and peered into the laundry room. Washing machine, dryer, cabinets, sink, drain, ironing board. No Benny. “So, where’s this Benny fellow?”
Kitty held the puppy up in the detective’s face. Benny licked him good, from his lower lip to the tip of his nose.
“Hey!” Young wiped his face off.
“Sorry,” Kitty said.
Young stared at the dog. “That’s Benny?”
Kitty gave Benny’s paw a little wave.
“You’re a dog cook?”
3
Kitty drew herself up. “I am a gourmet pet chef.”
Young laughed.
Kitty glowered and lowered Benny to the floor. “I don’t see what is so very funny. You don’t see me making fun of your job, after all.”
“That’s because I’ve got a real one,” Young replied with a smirk.
“Oh, good, a cop with a sense of humor. I’m sure poor Mr. Evan appreciates that a whole bunch. Don’t you think so?”
“Listen, chef, I’m simply trying to do my job and I would appreciate a little cooperation from you. I’m sure,” Young said, tapping his notebook with the wet eraser end of his pencil while Benny sniffed at his loafers, “that Rich Evan would appreciate that.”
“I am being cooperative,” countered Kitty. “At least I’m trying to be. If you would only let me tell my story—”
The detective sighed. “Fine, let’s go back in the other room and sit down. You talk, I’ll listen.”
True to his word, the detective kept his mouth shut and his notebook open long enough for Kitty to spill her whole and mostly unembellished story. She slapped her hands against her knees. “And that’s what happened.” She leaned closer. “My guess is a drug overdose.”
“A drug overdose?”
Kitty raised a telling eyebrow. “You know how rock stars are.”
“No, do tell.”
“Well, I’m not saying it’s true of all of them, but Mr. Evan certainly was found of—” she wanted to phrase this nicely, “pharmaceuticals.”
“Pharma—Oh, you mean drugs. Pot, coke, that sort of thing?”
Kitty nodded. “I could tell you stories.”
“I’m sure you could.”
Kitty wasn’t sure how he meant that, good or bad. It sounded downright sarcastic. “It might even have been a heart attack. All that partying Mr. Evan did, it could have taken quite a toll on his health.”
“So you’re an MD as well as a dog cook, Ms. Karlyle?”
Kitty rose. “I’m only trying to help, detective.”
“And we at the L.A. Sheriff’s Department appreciate it, miss. But we have a medical examiner all our own.” Young glanced at the victim who was even now being packaged for delivery. “I’m sure he’ll give us a cause of death.” His eyes bored into Kitty. “And we’ll take it from there.”
His look sent shivers up her spine. Why did she feel so guilty? She hadn’t done anything. Kitty looked at her watch. Mrs. Randall was going to kill her. “Can I go now?”
Det. Young flipped back through his notepad, and repeated Kitty’s address and phone number out loud. “Is that correct?”
Kitty nodded.
“We’ll be in touch.”
Kitty raced across the lawn to her car. “Aarrgh!” She clenched her fists and groaned in frustration. “Boxed in!” Official vehicles were all over the property and spilling out into the street.
She had to beg a young uniformed cop to help her out. Late as she was, Kitty stopped at a favorite little pet shop she frequented and picked up a frozen treat for Mr. Cookie—a box of Goodlicks Catcicles in assorted flavors.
With the box of frozen dessert treats under her arm and Mr. Cookie’s dinner in her hands, Kitty loped up the Randall drive. The houseman answered the side door.
Kitty glanced at the stern looking, sharply dressed man and asked, “Is the coast clear? Has Mrs. Randall been asking for me?”
The houseman, Gil Major, cleared his throat in a most civilized fashion. He was a most civilized, British born and trained servant who had just reached that age where the AARP would be after him. He’d also now be eligible for the Senior PGA Tour, though with that stiff back of his Kitty couldn’t imagine how the man could ever lean over far enough to reach the ball, let alone hit it.
“The missuz was called out. Mr. Randall telephoned and asked her to meet him at the Four Seasons for dinner.”
Kitty let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.” She dodged past Gil to the kitchen, popped the frozen treats in the deep freeze and pulled out Mr. Cookie’s not-so-warm evening entree.
Even though Mrs. Randall was nowhere near, Kitty followed her ritual to the letter. She laid out the Wedgewood as she called to Mr. Cookie and gently laid out his omelet. The card read:
Kitty Karlyle Gourmet Pet Chef
—Mr. Cookie’s Jack and Dill—
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1/8 cup skim milk
1/4 cup salmon, steamed
1/4 cup Monterrey Jack, grated
pinch kosher salt
pinch dill
Mr. Cookie hopped onto the table and dove into his dinner. Kitty smiled. It was always nice to feel appreciated. She scooped up her hotpack and waved goodbye to Gil.
She’d made it onto the back stoop when a shrill alarm went off in her head. What if there was something wrong with the Jack and Dill?
What if she poisoned Mr. Cookie?
Kitty turned swiftly about and raced to the kitchen. Mr. Cookie was halfway through the omelet. Gil was feeding the darn cat out of his hand.
Kitty reached for Gil and yanked his arm away. “No. Stop!” she cried.
Gil gasped and pulled back. Mr. Cookie made a run for it, disappearing in the direction of the formal dining room.
“That was close.” Kitty scooped up the plate and slid the remains of the omelet into the garbage disposal.
Gil was looking angrily at his jacket.
Kitty felt something in her left hand and slowly opened her fingers. A button. She looked at Gil’s sleeve. A strand of thread hung loose. “Oops.” She smiled wanly. “Sorry about that. But don’t worry, I can sew it up for you.”
She reached for Gil. “Why don’t you give me your coat and I’ll fix it up good as new and bring it back tomorrow. I’m pretty good with a needle and thread.”
If there is a tomorrow, she thought glumly. If Mr. Cookie dropped dead from her cooking, tomorrow would be Mr. Cookie’s funeral quickly followed by her own.
He drew back protectively. “That will not be necessary, Miss Karlyle.” The houseman looked at her crossly. She felt her cheeks burn. “Whatever were you thinking?”
“I-I was afraid that the omelet might not be fresh. I was running late, as you know, and well. . .” Kitty refused to meet his gaze. “Maybe I could whip up something here in the kitchen?” She pulled open the Sub-Zero. “Yes, I see loads of possibilities.”
Gil pushed the door closed. “That will not be necessary, Miss Karlyle. I’m sure that Mr. Cookie has h
ad quite enough.”
“Yes,” said Kitty, crestfallen, “I suppose he has.” Mrs. Randall had probably had enough too. “Do you think I could say goodbye, I mean, goodnight to Mr. Cookie?”
Gil pointed to the door.
Back in her apartment, Kitty racked her brain. What had happened to Rich Evan? The TV ran in the background. Every so often CNN popped in something about the rock star’s death. But there had been nothing to explain how he had died.
Had she poisoned Rich Evan?
Had she poisoned Mr. Cookie?
Kitty thought of all the other pets she’d fed that day. Were they dead or dying even now? There had been no horrified messages on her answering machine from irate pet owners, so perhaps not.
Then again, just because their pets all died, her clients might not have pieced together yet that she had somehow been responsible.
Just as she thought her friend Velma would never arrive, the doorbell rang. Kitty threw open the door. “Velma, thank goodness!”
Velma Humphries, known as ‘The Hump’ throughout high school, had been Kitty’s bestfriend since they’d gone through the Culinary Institute of San Diego together. Velma gave Kitty a squeeze. Being a large woman, this was often tough on the recipient’s ribs.
“You look a little sunburned,” commented Kitty, stifling a groan.
“Working in the garden. That’s what I get for letting it go so long.”
Kitty nodded. Velma loved her garden. Kitty often wished she had as many interests to occupy her life as her friend did. Velma was not only an excellent chef, she was an expert gardener and even pretty good with computers. “You should have worn a hat. I haven’t seen you this red since you came back from Hawaii.”
“Yeah.” Velma took Kitty’s hand. “Forget about me. Are you okay? I heard some more about it on the radio on my way over.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for coming.” Not knowing what else to do, Kitty had called Velma and dumped her troubles on her. It was either that or call her parents down in Newport Beach. No thanks. They’d find out soon enough, she feared.
“No problem.” Velma sashayed over to the sofa. Her purple mou-mou hid a good third of the green cushions. She looked like a giant eggplant floating in a pool of guacamole. “So, tell me all about it, you poor thing.”
Kitty spilled her guts. When she finished, she asked, “What do you think I should do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right. Look, all we know is that Rich Evan is dead. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. You’re no killer.”
“But what if there was something wrong with my food?”
“Is there? I mean, you haven’t killed Fred and Barney, have you?”
Kitty shook her head. “No, last I checked they were sleeping on my bed.” Fred was Kitty’s black Lab and Barney was a stray black and white pussycat who’d taken up residence in her apartment as well. It was a good thing the landlord had a policy that, while not strictly allowing pets, for the most part, tolerated them.
He tolerated people, too, though just barely.
“Have you checked the icebox for anything suspicious?”
Kitty looked toward the kitchen. “No, I haven’t dared. Not yet.”
Velma pushed off from the couch and opened the fridge. She scooped up a carton of milk, eggs, assorted meats and cheeses and dumped them all in the trash can under Kitty’s sink.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting rid of all this.” Velma reached into the refrigerator for seconds.
“But we haven’t even checked it all out yet. What if something is bad?”
Velma laid her hands on Kitty’s shoulders. “Listen, Kitty, if any of this food is tainted, you can’t use it. It’s garbage.” She removed practically everything from the refrigerator, leaving nothing but an open box of baking soda and the butter.
“But the police might want to—”
“To what? Search your apartment to see if any of this stuff is contaminated? They’ll tell you to destroy it if it is. All we’re doing is saving them the trouble.” Velma neatly tied up the bagful of food and hauled it out the door. “Be right back after I feed Mr. Dumpster.”
Kitty watched her friend go. It didn’t seem right throwing all that food away. Not only was it a waste and a strain on her already broken budget, but if something she’d prepared had been the cause of Rich Evan’s death it didn’t seem right throwing away the possible evidence.
Velma returned empty-handed. “That’s that.”
“I’m still not sure about this. I mean, even if I did poison Mr. Evan, it was an accident—”
“Will you forget about it, already?” Velma sat Kitty down at the kitchen table. “If the police had any more interest in talking to you they’d be here already.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Katherine Karlyle is no killer, accidental or otherwise.” Velma reached out and patted her friend’s hand. “My guess is that the cops have already figured this one out. Guys like Rich Evan drop dead all the time. If the booze doesn’t get them, the drugs do. The coroner’s report is bound to clear you. You’ll see. This whole thing is going to blow over like a summer shower.”
“I hope you’re right, Velma.”
Velma smiled. “I’m always right.”
4
First thing the next morning, Kitty headed to Ralph’s, Trader Joe’s and Mrs. Gooch’s, in that order. Her food supply needed replenishing. As she slid her MasterCard through the little electronic box at Gooch’s, she realized her credit was in serious need of replenishing as well. She wasn’t going to be able to keep charging forever.
Kitty was drowning in a mountain of debt.
Kitty pulled at her watch, hoping it was running fast and knowing that it wasn’t. She herself was running late. She whipped up something quick for Fred and Barney while she prepared more elaborate meals for her clients’ pets. Of course, today there would be one less client to worry about.
“Wait,” she said aloud, “what am I thinking? Just because poor Mr. Evan is dead, I can’t let little Benny starve.” She grabbed her pencil and decided on one of Benny’s favorites:
Green Bean Eggs and Ham.
The door rattled.
“Come in,” called Kitty, spatula in hand. It was probably one of the guys next door. Five young men, all members of some struggling rock band, called The Tonsils, were crammed like sardines into the one-bedroom apartment next door. Whenever one of them caught wind of Kitty’s cooking. . .
The door shook again.
“I said ‘come in’!”
The door slowly opened.