by Marie Celine
“I am asking you. I mean. It’s so weird. You know, I thought I’d start losing clients after what happened to poor Mr. Evan, instead Fang Danson has asked me to cook for Benny and now Angela Evan has asked me to cook for her pet.” Kitty scanned the aisles of fish. “After I find her one, that is.”
“Listen, Kitty, being an accused murderess, even if it isn’t true and only lasts one day, that kind of makes you a celebrity in this town. And that’s the only coin that matters.”
“Oh, Velma. You’re too cynical. But underneath that crusty exterior, I know you don’t mean half what you say.”
“Huh!” grunted Velma, as if affronted. “I prefer to keep my crust intact, thank you very much. As for your troubles, Kitty, I expect they are fading fast.”
“I don’t know about that. I talked to that detective. The police don’t seem any closer to solving the murder than they were in the beginning. And somebody tried to poison Mr. Cookie and it might have been with the same Barbados nut that killed Mr. Evan.”
“Rich Evan’s murder,” Velma said sharply, “is old news. The Middle East is boiling over, the Chechens are on the warpath and the market is down. Nobody cares about the murder of an aging rock star anymore. It’s all going to fade away. Just you wait and see. Your biggest problem is going to be what to feed all the rich little dogs and cats this season. Some days, I wish I was a pet so you could cook for me.”
“Please, you’re a terrific chef yourself.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Jack-In-The-Box appreciates my talents.”
“Hey, come on, cheer up. You’ve got that interview with Orleans set up, haven’t you?”
“Tomorrow. Wish me luck.”
Kitty did. She pulled Velma’s sleeve as they maneuvered around a pallet loaded sky high with fifty-pound sacks of dog food. “Oh, and did I mention that Fang Danson also asked me if I’d be interested in cooking for him personally?”
“Yeah, right.” Velma veered right. “It’s a ploy.”
“What do you mean a ploy?”
“I mean he’s probably only trying to get in your pants.”
Kitty nodded. Memories of her previous encounters with Fang Danson played through her mind. “You could be right.”
Velma suddenly grinned and rapped her knuckles on a wooden kennel near the cash register. “How about a pig?”
Kitty giggled. A lonely looking gray and black speckled Vietnamese pot-bellied pig stood all alone in a large pen. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Could I?”
Velma clapped and the pig rubbed his snout in her hands. “If you ask me, it’s perfect. This Angela Evan sounds like a real pig herself.”
Kitty studied the pig. There had been a time when they were all the rage in L.A. And pigs were said to be quite intelligent.
The pig was licking Velma’s fingers. “You think they allow pigs in the Colony?” Velma asked over her shoulder. “Of course,” she said, answering her own question, “they allow two-legged pigs, so why shouldn’t they allow the four-legged kind?”
“I think I’d better keep looking.”
“Suit yourself.” Velma wiped her hands on her slacks and followed Kitty past the dog cages.
“These puppies are so adorable, but I don’t think Ms. Evan would like a pet that she considered to be too much trouble.”
“Like she’s going to do any of the work herself,” quipped Velma. “She’s got you to feed it and she’ll get someone else to walk it and someone else yet again to clean up after it.”
Kitty said nothing. Velma was probably right, after all. Definitely right. “A cat, you think?”
“Fur, hairballs,” Velma said flatly. “Litter boxes.”
Kitty nodded and moved on. “How about some fish?”
“Sure, I could use a bite to eat.”
“I meant for Ms. Evan.”
“I know, I was joking. Fish sound like they’d be right up her alley.”
Kitty tapped her lip. “Boring though. I had told her I might get a bird.”
“Great,” said Velma, leading Kitty on. “I saw some this way.”
“Did I tell you that I saw that detective again?”
“What detective?”
“Det. Young, the one who interviewed me when Mr. Evan died. You’ll never believe what he told me.”
Velma turned her head and planted her hands on her broad hips. “Well?”
“He told me he was going to marry me.” Kitty felt herself flushing and wasn’t sure why.
Velma’s face expressed incredulity. “He what? Are you serious? No, you’re joking—”
Kitty emphatically shook her head no. “I kid you not.”
Velma resumed walking. “It just goes to prove what they say. This town is Granolaville. Plenty of fruits, nuts and flakes. Not surprising that even a policeman can be nutty. They can’t keep them all off the force.”
Velma stopped in front of a cage filled with squawking parrots. “Take your pick.”
Kitty stepped past Velma. “That one.” The one she was pointing to was in a brass cage all alone. And it wasn’t a parrot, it was an Australian cockatiel.
Velma nodded. “Hey, this is the same kind of bird that those two fellows, Richard and Timothy, had. I saw it that day I went with you on your rounds.”
Kitty smiled. “Exactly. And since I’ve got to cook for one cockatiel, it’ll be just as easy to prepare meals for two.”
Velma smiled back. “Saves you having to come up with separate dishes for parrots and cockatiels.”
“You got it.”
“Girl, you’re finally beginning to use your brains. Now let’s go get this critter rung up and get some fish—broiled this time and lightly seasoned.”
They left the store with the bird and all the basic trimmings, cage, conditioner, a book on bird care and even some bird food. Kitty figured it wouldn’t hurt for Angela to read up on birds nor to have a little food in stock for snacks and emergencies.
Velma had wanted Kitty to pick Cockatiels For Dummies, but Kitty wouldn’t dare have given it to Ms. Evan and selected Schmidt’s Complete Cockatiel Care in its stead. She also had a handful of cash left over which Velma thought they should spend on dinner but Kitty insisted on returning to Ms. Evan.
“Sometimes,” said Kitty, “I think I should just give up.” They sat out-of-doors at a small seafood restaurant along Santa Monica’s boardwalk. It was quite cool and the fog had settled in. Nonetheless, she yawned.
Velma drained her second glass of Cabernet. “What we ought to do,” she said, “is open our own restaurant. I mean, we’d make a great team.”
Kitty nodded.
“And look how well your folks do.”
Kitty caught a yawn in the palm of her hand. “Sorry. Hey, speaking of my folks, I’m going down to see them tomorrow, want to come?”
“Can’t,” said Velma, shaking her head, “I’m going to have to make up some hours at work. What are you going down there for?”
“Ever since this murder they’ve been bugging me to come down. They’re so busy with the restaurant, it’s hard for them to get away. Besides, I want to go see Aunt Gloria.”
“The librarian?” Velma wiped up the last of the tartar sauce with a cold french fry.
“Yeah. I haven’t seen her in ages. I miss her.” Aunt Gloria was such a great spirit. Just what Kitty needed. “And she’s terrific at looking stuff up. She’ll be able to help me come up with some recipes for the birds.” The caged cockatiel in question occupied the chair beside Kitty. She’d draped her sweater over the bird to keep him warm and so far he wasn’t complaining.
Kitty lowered her voice. “Speaking of spirits,” she began, “did you know that Mrs. Randall was into spirits?”
Velma shrugged halfheartedly. “No. How would I know that?”
“Well, she is. I was there earlier this evening. She told me she was going to have a séance.”
“Granolaville, redux. Too much money and too much free time. Maybe the old lady should get a job. Jack-In-The-Box always has
openings, especially on the late shift.”
“The strange thing is, I’ve been hearing a lot about ghosts and haunted houses lately–ever since poor Mr. Evan was murdered.”
Kitty expounded on all she had been told by Fang Danson, Mrs. Goodman, Consuelo and others. “There’s something weird about all those people dying in strange ways in that house.
“And when I mentioned the Wright house to Mrs. Randall, she practically turned white as a sheet. It turns out she knew someone who’d lived in the Wright house before, an attorney named Bruce Churchill. Isn’t that a funny coincidence, Vel?”
“I’ll say.” Velma had stopped chewing. “What else did she have to say?”
“Not much. She didn’t seem to want to talk about it.” Kitty tapped the table with her knife. “But I think she knows something. . .something that she isn’t telling.”
There was a pregnant silence. A lone, thin male on in-line skates streaked by like a ghost along the near desolate boardwalk.
Velma forced a laugh. “Hey, come on. Let’s get out of here,” she said. “All this crazy talk. Guys blowing their brains out. You’re beginning to spook me, Kitty. I mean, next you’ll be telling me that you believe in evil spirits and ghosts and stuff and that some malevolent force killed Rich Evan.”
Kitty bit her cheek. “Do you think it’s possible?” she whispered. “Could the Wright house have been built on this lodestone of evil Mrs. Goodman mentioned? Is the house possessed?”
19
“It’s you.” Fang stood in the doorway in a pair of purple boxer shorts, his blue robe half-opened, revealing a lightly haired chest. A lit cigarette danced between his lips.
Tracy Taylor Evan tossed him the thick Sunday L.A. Times that she’d picked up from his drive. “Brought you your paper.”
Fang grunted a thanks and Tracy didn’t wait for him to invite her inside. She gave him a brief hug and, still holding him close, said, “I had someone nosing around my apartment complex yesterday, asking questions.”
“A cop?”
Tracy shook her head. She looked stunning in a pair of cotton/spandex low-cut jeans and matching top, and knew it. “No, some girl. About my age. Said she was a chef—that she cooked for that dog I gave Rich, if you can believe it.”
Maybe because he had heard his name, Benny came running up. He sniffed Tracy’s sandals then eased out the front door in search of new adventure.
“Benny? You’ve got the dog?” Tracy said in disbelief.
“That’s right. I’m looking after him now.”
“And that girl is Kitty Karlyle and she does the meals for Benny here at Fang’s house, doesn’t she, darling?” Angela Evan, a study in cool sophistication in a pure white satin robe strolled royally into the foyer.
Tracy quickly let go of Fang and retreated a step. “Hi, Angie. You know that girl?”
Angela nodded. “I just said I did, didn’t I?” Angela planted a slow kiss on Fang’s stubbled cheek. “You came all the way out to Santa Monica just to tell Fang about your visit with a dog cook? It would have been so much simpler to telephone.”
Angela was nearly sneering. “You can still afford a telephone, can’t you, dear?”
Tracy looked ready to dismember the woman. “Fang asked me to come over, Angie, dear.”
“Oh?” Angela was looking at Fang now.
“I asked her to come over and double up her vocal track on When The Summer Comes,” explained Fang.
“Fine.” Angela was casting a suspicious look at Tracy. “I’ll have Derrick bring us up some coffee.” If Tracy thought she was going to sink her claws into Fang, she had another thing coming.
As Fang warmed up the recording gear, Tracy wrapped her hands around a cup of coffee made nearly white with cream. “What should I do if this Karlyle girl comes around again? I mean, she was asking me questions about Rich’s death. What am I supposed to tell her if she asks again?”
“What did you tell her this time?” Angela’s voice was cool as ice.
“Nothing. I threw her out.”
“And that’s exactly what you’ll do if she bothers you again.” Angela set her own empty cup on the floor. “But I don’t believe she will.”
“What have you got in mind?” said Fang, turning his head, while his hands played over the recording console.
Angela shrugged and tugged at her lounging robe. “I think that Ms. Karlyle merely needs to be kept busy.”
“Like you telling her to get you a pet?” Fang laughed. “Hard to imagine you with a pet.”
Angela raised a telling eyebrow. “I’ve taken good care of you, haven’t I, darling?”
“Very funny,” replied Fang.
Angela went on. “We keep Kitty Karlyle occupied. And if she is occupied, she will be too busy to ask questions. It’s that simple. Ask your friends to hire her to cook for their pets, Fang. I’ve already begun doing the same. We’ll make Kitty Karlyle the most successful pet chef in the business. She’ll be too busy making money to make trouble.” Angela smiled at her own wit.
“And if that doesn’t stop her?” pressed Tracy, running her finger nervously along the edge of her cup.
Angela smiled coolly in Tracy’s direction. “Maybe you’ll be a dear and kill her for us.”
“Kill—” Tracy dropped her cup. It fell to the floor, spilling coffee all over the carpet.
Fang shouted angrily and buzzed Derrick on the intercom to come and sop it up.
“You can’t be serious?” Tracy was gaping.
Angela shrugged. “Why not? People O.D. in this town every day, don’t they? Surely you must have some connections. I’ve heard a speedball can do the trick.”
Tracy bit her lower lip and glowered at Angela. “I’ve been clean for over a year,” she hissed.
“Of course you have, dear.” Angela’s sarcasm and scorn sounded two feet thick.
Tracy stormed out.
Fang sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that, Angela. We need her.”
Angela crossed her arms. “She needs us more.”
20
“Kitty, you look wonderful.”
“Thank you, Aunt Gloria.” Kitty squeezed Aunt Gloria hard. “So do you.” Kitty’s aunt, her mother’s sister, was head librarian in the City of San Diego Public Library system and Kitty adored her. Kitty believed librarians like teachers, culinary or otherwise were about the greatest and she held them all in high esteem.
Aunt Gloria swept a lock of blonde hair from her round face. “So, you went to see your parents?”
“Yes. They said to say hello and send their love.”
“I haven’t seen Mark and Paula in over a month, not since Jay’s birthday.” Jay was Aunt Gloria’s son.
“They must be quite worried about you. This Rich Evan murder even made the papers here. The library was buzzing over it for a few days. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but even librarians can be quite gossipy at times.”