by Marie Celine
Kitty figured the old adage ‘when you’re hot, you’re hot’ was worth a shot. Without phoning ahead, she’d drop in on Rich Evan’s ex-wife, Tracy, and hope to catch her at home. Besides, if she called first, the woman might not want to speak with her. It was better to approach in person.
Kitty found the address. It was a large old Moorish-styled apartment complex off Van Nuys Boulevard. The parking lot was filled up with derelict Seventies era large American automobiles mixed in with tiny later model foreign imports. She found an empty space between a humongous Buick and a small Honda Civic.
A quick scan of the register located beyond the busted security gate at the entrance revealed that Tracy T. Evan resided in apartment 312 East. After a few false turns, Kitty found the door leading to a third floor apartment facing west. The door was chipped and its paint faded. She knocked.
A small, black woman with an attractive face and large, liquid, cocoa-brown eyes, answered the door in her bathrobe. Wads of tissue were stuck between her freshly pink-painted toes and her left hand held a warm curling iron. “Can I help you?”
“Tracy Evan?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Kitty Karlyle. I worked with Mr. Evan, Rich Evan.” Kitty was forced to move as a six-foot, three hundred pounder, dressed like a Hell’s Angel’s attempted to squeeze past. He smelled of Old Spice and Old Milwaukee. “I was hoping I might have a word with you.”
Tracy’s eyes lit with hope. She smiled. “Sure, come on in. Don’t mind the mess.” She kicked newspaper out of her path and flopped down on a broken-down yellow and green striped sofa and motioned for Kitty to sit.
Kitty took the opposite edge of the sofa. The arm was covered in dog hair. It looked like Lhasa apso. She picked at a strand. “You have a dog?”
Tracy shrugged as she pulled the tissue out from between her toes. “Nah. Belongs to a friend. He spends a lot of time here.” She balled up the used tissues in her fist and tossed them in the vicinity of a plastic trash can beside an electric keyboard on the wall opposite.
A dilapidated bookcase held a few tattered books and a CD collection. A poster from one of Tracy’s gigs at a club in San Francisco had been tacked above it. “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Kitty folded her hands in her lap. “Did you know that your ex-husband, Rich Evan, is dead?”
“Sure, I know. It’s been all over the news.” Her eyes scanned Kitty. “Are you a lawyer? Did Rich leave me anything?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m a cook.”
“A cook?”
“That’s right. I cooked meals for Mr. Evan’s dog, Benny.”
Tracy’s eyes became hard. “Then what are you doing here? I don’t need a cook. Couldn’t afford one if I did.” She waved around the tiny, old apartment for Kitty’s benefit. “This isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal, as you can plainly see.”
Kitty held her tongue. This place was worse than her own. It must be tough going from having it all to having next to nothing. “I was in the neighborhood and since—”
“Wait a sec. The cook, huh?” Tracy rose and pointed a finger at Kitty. “You’re the one that’s been in the news, too. They say Rich died because of something in the food that you prepared.”
“It was an accident—I mean, I didn’t put—”
Tracy stomped to the door and threw it open. “Get out.”
Kitty stood. “But if you would just let me ask you a few questions.”
“Get out now!”
All the way to Beverly Hills, Kitty couldn’t help wondering if Tracy Evan was hiding something. Why else had she thrown her out without giving her a chance? Tracy Evan didn’t really believe that Kitty had killed her ex-husband on purpose, did she? And Kitty had noticed a couple of Milky Way CDs in Tracy’s collection. That was Fang Danson’s band. Was there a connection between the two of them or was she merely reading more into it than there was? After all, Tracy had been married to Rich Evan and Fang was one of his best friends.
Then again, what if Tracy and Fang had conspired to kill Rich? What would they have had to gain? And how would they have known that Mr. Evan would eat the meal and not Benny?
17
“Gil is off for the evening,” exclaimed Mrs. Randall, by way of explanation, as she pulled open the door leading into the kitchen.
Kitty immediately noticed Mr. Cookie lying in a large basket near the table. A small white and gold blanket covered his back. “How’s Mr. Cookie?” she asked softly.
“He’s fine. I trust you’ve followed Dr. Landau’s orders to the letter?”
Kitty nodded. Before preparing any food for Mr. Cookie, she had been instructed to telephone the veterinarian for advice on diet and Mrs. Randall had insisted that he approve each meal until further notice. It was a pain in the backside but if this was what it took for Kitty to hold onto the job and keep Mr. Cookie and Mrs. Randall happy, then so be it.
“I’ve brought Mr. Cookies and Cream.” She pulled the menu card from her slacks and handed it to Mrs. Randall.
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Randall, adjusting her glasses. “What is it precisely?”
“To tell the truth, it’s chicken soup with milk.” Mrs. Randall seemed dubious and Kitty added quickly, “Dr. Landau assured me it was ideal what with Mr. Cookie’s tummy being sensitive yet.”
Mrs. Randall hmm-hmmed some more. “I see.” Her eyes scanned the ingredients. “None of this Barbados nut?”
Kitty shook her head vigorously.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Randall with a wave of her upper class hand. “You may feed Mr. Cookie.” She bent to pick up her precious cat. “I do hope this won’t take long. My spiritualist is in the study.”
“Spiritualist?” asked Kitty as she ritually placed the Mr. Cookies and Cream on Mr. Cookie’s Wedgewood plate on Mr. Cookie’s silver tray and ever so gently scooted the tray under Mr. Cookie’s blue-blooded nose.
“That’s correct. We’re having a séance in less than an hour. We are attempting to contact several spirits from the past. Our home was over the years occupied by many celebrities and Madame Zouzou has quite the reputation for initiating contact with them. The spirits seem quite fond of her.”
“I see.” What Kitty really saw was that only the rich could afford such eccentricities.
“I’d like to have Mr. Cookie fed and in bed before the rest of my guests arrive.”
Kitty said that would be no problem.
“That’s interesting,” said Kitty, laying out a linen napkin. “I’ve been hearing quite a lot about spirits and ghosts and haunted houses myself lately. Have you ever heard of the Wright house out in Malibu?”
For a moment, Mrs. Randall seemed shaken. She recovered quickly and stood Mr. Cookie on the wooden table. “I am very familiar with the Wright home. Why do you ask?”
Kitty held her breath as the cat slowly steadied himself. True to form, Mr. Cookie looked at Mrs. Randall, who looked most concerned. He looked next at Kitty. True to her own form, Kitty wordlessly screamed for him to eat. Mr. Cookie sat back on his haunches, licked his whiskers, sniffed the air. . .
And slurped.
Kitty sighed. Success! Another day, another minor victory. “He likes it.” She smiled at Mrs. Randall. True to her form, the old woman wasn’t smiling back.
Kitty leaned against the counter and waited for Mr. Cookie to finish his dinner. “The Wright house belonged to Mr. Evan. That’s where he—” she was going to say ‘was killed’ but stopped in the nick of time, “died.”
Mrs. Randall’s face blanched. “Rich Evan lived in the Wright house? How-how very odd.” The old woman sat in the empty chair beside Mr. Cookie who was happily licking up his soup. She stroked his back. He gave her a glance then got back to work.
“Odd how, Mrs. Randall?”
Mrs. Randall looked at Kitty as if she’d forgotten the girl was there. “Mr. Randall and I used to know someone who lived in the Wright house.” She was shaking her head. “But he died. . .many years ago.
. .” Her voice trailed off.
Kitty felt a chill wind pass over her, as if an invisible and frigid spirit had passed through her body leaving her cold. Life was getting way too creepy these days. “Who was it, Mrs. Randall?”
“No one really. A friend of a friend. He was an attorney named Churchill.”
Mr. Cookie meowed loudly, leapt from the table and flew out of the room.
A shiver surged up Kitty’s spine. Her mouth was dry. “Bruce Churchill?” That was the entertainment attorney that Rich Evan’s neighbor, Mrs. Goodman, had told her about. What had she said? He’d blown his brains out?
“Yes. He did some work for Mr. Randall.”
“I heard Bruce Churchill was an entertainment attorney.”
“Yes, I suppose he was. I mean, he could have been. I really didn’t know much about him. I saw him once or twice. But as he was a friend of our other friend, he did give Mr. Randall some assistance on occasion.” She pulled her fingers nervously.
“Who was this friend?”
Mrs. Randall shook her head. “That was many years ago. He wasn’t even a friend really, more of an acquaintance. We lost touch. I can’t even remember his name.” She delicately pushed back her chair and rose. “I must join Madame Zouzou now.”
Kitty gathered up her things and headed for the door. Mrs. Randall, quite out of character, laid her hand on Kitty’s shoulder and leaned close. There was an odd sense of urgency in her voice as she spoke. “You must stay away from the Wright house, Miss Karlyle.”
“Excuse me?”
Mrs. Randall’s pupils sharpened to points. “It is an evil place. Evil things happen there.”
Kitty tried to make light of it. “Don’t worry. I could never afford to live there. The Malibu Colony is a bit out of my price range.”
Kitty started to leave but Mrs. Randall still held the girl in her steely grip. “You must not enter the Wright house. Promise.”
Kitty gulped. Mrs. Randall was close enough that she felt the old lady’s breath on her face. She promised.
Mrs. Randall walked heavily through her large home looking for Mr. Cookie. She found him in the arms of Madame Zouzou. The spiritualist was sitting in a stiff-backed green velvet chair. Her long hair was balanced atop her head. She had a prominent, beak-like nose, of which she was rather proud. She said it helped her to sniff out the spirits.
Madame Zouzou was decked out in a flowing gold and purple frock. She’d removed her shoes as she always did. Madame Zouzou liked to be in contact with the earth, so she explained, as this provided a better chance of contacting the Dead.
Madame Zouzou looked up as Mrs. Randall came into the study. “The poor dear seems upset.”
Mrs. Randall nodded. “Madame Zouzou, I must beg you to change tonight’s goals somewhat.”
Madame arched a brow. “How so, dear lady?”
“I need you to try to contact someone.” She then uttered a name she had not uttered in years.
18
“I tell you, it was spooky, Velma.” Kitty sat across from her bestfriend in one of the small booths along the side. Velma was on a break. The smells of Jack-In-The-Box, beef and fries largely, with overtones of high fructose corn syrup, filled the air and infiltrated Velma’s hair and clothes.
“Sounds like it.”
“I mean, I knew Mrs. Randall was odd, but you didn’t tell me she was such a kook.” Kitty had been so disturbed by recent events that she had driven all the way out to where Velma worked just to talk with her.
Velma smirked. She had a paperback novel in her hands. “The rich are all kooks. Didn’t you know that, Kitty?”
Kitty nodded. “What’s that you’re reading?”
Velma held up the cover. “Freaky Flamingo Friday.”
“Ooo-kay.” Sounded goofy to her. “What’s it about?”
Velma shrugged. “Some nut wearing an Al Gore mask is killing all the Florida mystery writers because he’s angry that they write so many stories about what he calls freaks and geeks instead of normal people.”
Kitty forced a laugh.
Velma fanned the book’s pages. “He kills them by driving those pink flamingo yard ornaments through their chests.”
“Huh?”
“You know, people stick them in the ground. They’ve got these stakes that you plant in the grass. He sharpens them up in his home shop and drives them through their hearts.”
Kitty felt like she was going to be sick and said so. “Is the book any good at all?”
“Nah, it sucks.” Velma slammed the novel down on the table.
“So why do you keep reading it?”
“So I can tell everybody how bad it is. I’m going to post the info on my Amazon link.”
Kitty remembered Velma explaining how she used to review mystery novels back in Michigan and post them on the Internet. “I thought you gave up reading mysteries?”
Velma heaved her shoulders. “Yeah, but I started again. Gives me something to do on my breaks.”
Kitty nodded. “Makes sense.” Reading books you can’t stand. “I guess.”
Velma sucked up her diet Coke. “You want anything?”
Kitty shook her head.
“It’s free.”
“No thanks. Say, I have to go pick out a pet for a client. Want to come with me?”
A man in a paper hat, the manager, suspected Kitty, yelled at Velma to get back to work. Velma waved him off.
“Sure,” said Velma. “My shift’s only half over but it’s no big deal. It’s dead tonight, anyway.” She scooped up her purse and book, leaving her trash on the table. “Hey, Glen, I’m leaving.”
The manager had his hand in the register. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” he hollered.
Velma patted her not inconsequential stomach. “I’m not feeling so good. I must be sick.”
He glowered. “You were fine a little while ago.”
Velma stared him down. “It must be the food then.”
“Vel!” whispered Kitty, “be careful before you get yourself fired.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Velma said. “Did I tell you I’ve got an interview at Orleans on Doheny? Wait here while I go punch out.”
Kitty was impressed. Orleans was a fairly new four-star restaurant owned by one of the city’s oldest restaurant families. Getting a chef’s position there would be just the thing that Velma needed.
“So, a pet, eh?” Velma padded along beside Kitty. They’d taken Kitty’s car to a pet shop in West L.A. that Kitty knew kept late hours. “Who’s it for?”
Kitty explained.
Velma reached into a wired cage near the doors that contained some rabbits. She grabbed a small white bunny and lifted it up. She rubbed her nose against the bunny’s. “So, Rich Evan’s ex-wife has no pet and she gives you over a thousand dollars to buy her one and then she’s going to pay you to cook for it.”
“Yep.”
Velma set the bunny gently back into the cage. “Seems pretty strange, if you ask me.”