by Marie Celine
Kitty nodded and tried to speak but Gretchen cut her off. ‘Your audience awaits.’ The producer pointed to the overhead TV monitor, on which Kitty saw row after row of filled seats with a handful of pets scattered among them. A sea of eyes was watching the stage. Waiting for her.
Gretchen waited until the AD gave her the signal, then shooed Kitty to the edge of the set. ‘Just be yourself,’ she advised. ‘And don’t forget to smile.’
Gretchen paused, a hand on each of Kitty’s shoulders, her nails digging in like talons. ‘Don’t forget to make eye contact with the audience – and the camera!’ she instructed. She turned to Julie. ‘Where the devil is camera three?’
‘Some sort of technical glitch, the cameraman’s working on it. It shouldn’t be long.’
‘David again?’
Julie nodded once.
Gretchen cursed like a sailor with a losing poker hand. ‘I swear, I’m gonna kill him!’ Her eyes burned with fury. ‘Tell him to get it fixed right away!’ She turned to her new star. ‘We’ll have to make do.’
Too bad. For a fleeting moment, Kitty thought she might get a reprieve, if only briefly, from her pending ordeal.
‘Like I always say,’ Gretchen said, giving Kitty a final push that sent her under the spotlights, ‘lights, camera, murder!’
‘So here she is,’ said Julie. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the host of CuisineTV’s brand-new cooking show for pets, The Pampered Pet! Your host, Kitty Karlyle!’
The audience dutifully applauded as coached by the assistant director and the flashing applause signs. A couple of the dogs barked too. Who knew they could read?
Kitty was barely breathing and her ears were buzzing like there were seashells taped to each as she stood center stage and said hello to the audience. ‘Thank you all very much for coming,’ Kitty squeaked and felt her cheeks heat up. She nervously cleared her throat. Greg, the director, scowled and made throat-slashing motions.
Oops. Kitty tensed up and started again, more firmly. ‘Thank you, again, for coming to the show. I’m Kitty Karlyle and I love preparing delicious meals for pets. After all,’ she said, reading somewhat stiffly from the teleprompter, ‘they deserve the best, don’t they?’
This brought what appeared to be a spontaneous eruption of applause. Then Kitty noticed the applause signs were flashing again.
She swallowed and wet her lips. Where was a sinkhole when you needed one? ‘Today, we will be cooking for man’s best friend, the dog. And I’ll be making one of my favorite dishes – to cook, that is, not eat. I call it Kitty’s Pooch Pot Pie.’ Kitty heard chuckles from the audience. That was a relief. Hosting a cooking show was going to be hard enough to pull off without adding having her jokes fall flat to the list of her troubles.
‘The pets I’ve made this dish for have loved it. So if you are a dog owner, I’m confident your pet will love it, too.’
A Dalmatian, contained on a leash by a frumpy, middle-aged woman in the third row, let out a mournful howl.
Kitty paused. ‘Well, it sounds like somebody’s hungry. How about it, big boy, are you hungry?’ She had gone off script. Kitty ignored the look of irritation that the director was aiming her way. He’d just mimed hanging himself. Kitty thought it a bit melodramatic.
As if trained for the role, the Dalmatian howled once more. That brought a burst of applause from the audience. Kitty beamed. And she noticed with some satisfaction that the applause signs hadn’t even come on.
Kitty felt her muscles starting to loosen up. Maybe soon she’d start breathing again. A third camera operator quietly rolled his rig up to join the other two already filming, catching Kitty’s eye. He winked at her and Kitty couldn’t suppress grinning back.
Kitty crossed in front of the kitchen island she’d been standing behind – putting a barrier between herself and the audience – and motioned to the dog. ‘What do you say, ma’am?’ she said to the woman in the black dress and pillbox hat. ‘Do you think your companion would like to come on down and assist me?’
The startled woman pointed a finger at her chest. ‘Oh, dear. You mean me?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Kitty. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I–I’m Agnes Whimsey,’ the woman replied, sounding a touch nervous. She patted her dog’s head. ‘And this is Charlie.’ The dog licked her hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ answered Kitty. ‘Do you think Charlie would like to come down and keep me company? You know, I normally do all my pre-cooking and prepping for my clients’ pets at my home. My cat and dog – that’s Barney and Fred – are always around. I guess they keep hoping I’ll drop something they can claim for their own.’
‘Well …’ Mrs Whimsey replied. She glanced at her dog. ‘I suppose it would be all right.’
‘What do you say, everybody?’ Kitty asked. ‘Should we get Charlie down here?’ The audience hooted. Greg, the director, threw his arms up in despair and marched around in tiny circles next to his chair. Yeah, he definitely had a tendency to overdramatize.
Mrs Whimsey unhooked the leash from Charlie’s collar. Kitty called out, ‘Come on, Charlie, boy!’ and clapped her hands. The dog glanced at Mrs Whimsey, and then ran down the steps toward Kitty, jumping into her arms like a long lost friend.
Kitty began preparing the Pooch Pot Pie, explaining each step to the audience, while Charlie weaved in and out of her legs, looking expectantly up at the countertop and licking his chops.
When the beefy pot pie was done and Charlie had licked the stainless steel bowl clean, Kitty once more thanked everyone in the audience for coming and said goodbye with a wave. The audience gave her a hearty round of applause. Kitty figured she could get used to that, too.
The aroma of the pot pie lingered and Kitty’s stomach grumbled like an incipient volcano, reminding her that she hadn’t had a bite since morning. She was going to need to get something to eat soon. She was beginning to feel faint, especially under the glare of all the hot lights.
As the audience thinned and streamed out the exits, Kitty returned Charlie to Mrs Whimsey.
‘You did splendidly,’ said Mrs Whimsey, as she clipped Charlie’s leash back on his collar.
‘Thank you,’ Kitty replied. ‘I only hope my producer thinks so. Speaking of which …’ She looked around. Gretchen was nowhere in sight. She caught Steve by the arm as he passed. ‘Where’s Gretchen? I don’t see her anywhere.’
Steve shrugged and waved to Bill Barnhard, calling for him to wait up.
‘Nice job, Kitty,’ said the director, coming up and giving Kitty a pat on the back. ‘You even managed to follow most of the cues. You had me worried there when you went out in the audience like that, though. But, hey, it worked out great. You’ve got good instincts.’
‘I really did OK, then?’ Apparently he’d forgotten all about his over-the-top, behind the camera antics. This guy was complicated.
Greg smiled. ‘Hey, you did better than a lot of the so-called professionals I’ve seen pass through here.’
‘Thank you. That’s so nice to hear. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved.’ She let out a deep breath. ‘And I’m equally relieved it’s over. What did Gretchen think?’
Greg scratched his wide nose. ‘I don’t know. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her. Usually she’s breathing down my neck when I shoot.’
As Greg ambled away, Fran came up and gave Kitty a hug. ‘You did great, girlfriend.’ She fluffed Kitty’s hair. ‘Looked great on camera, too. If I do say so myself,’ she added with a giggle.
‘Excuse me,’ said a soft-spoken young blonde woman in khaki shorts and a T-shirt. She held out a pen and a small notebook. Her legs were long and tanned. A typical California girl by the looks of her – the kind the Beach Boys used to write songs about. She reminded Kitty vaguely of someone, but she couldn’t place whom.
‘Yes?’ Kitty asked.
‘May I have your autograph?’ She shyly pushed the notebook and pen toward Kitty.
‘My autograp
h?’ Kitty couldn’t believe this girl was actually asking for her signature. ‘It’s not like I’m a celebrity or anything.’
‘Sure you are,’ Fran replied. ‘Ms Karlyle will be happy to give you her autograph.’ She grabbed the pen and notebook and thrust them at Kitty. ‘Whom should she make this out to?’
‘Jennie. Jennie Levin,’ the young lady answered.
Fran nudged Kitty in the ribs and Kitty bit her lip as she thought. No one had ever asked her for her autograph before. What should she write? Finally, she wrote, To My Number One Fan, Jennie. Warmest Wishes, Kitty.
Kitty handed the notebook and pen back to the girl, who read the inscription and smiled. ‘That’s wonderful. Thank you. I’ll bet your husband is really proud of you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kitty. ‘But I’m not married.’
‘Boyfriend, then? You must have someone special in your life?’
Kitty fidgeted. She wasn’t used to celebrity, yet alone used to strangers asking her about her personal life, her love life at that.
‘Yes, there is someone special in my life.’ Her fiancé, Jack Young, meant the world to her. She’d met him about six months ago, when Jack was working as a detective for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and Kitty had found herself embroiled in some nasty business involving a rock star client. At the time, she’d thought Jack was planning to arrest her. Now, he was planning to marry her.
‘That’s nice,’ said the young woman. ‘We all need someone special in our lives.’
Kitty agreed and, a moment later, the young woman walked off – after telling Kitty how wonderful she was – autograph in one hand, kitschy free The Pampered Pet – CuisineTV embossed potholder in the other.
‘Even if Jennie isn’t my number one fan,’ Kitty said, holding her finger up after the young woman had departed, ‘she is fan number one.’
Fran giggled. ‘You’ve got to start somewhere. Besides, don’t be coy. You have plenty of fans, Kitty; Gretchen for one. That lady thinks you have star potential.’ Fran spread her arms overhead.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I haven’t even seen Gretchen since we started taping.’ Kitty looked around the nearly deserted soundstage. ‘I’m beginning to get the feeling that she was so disgusted with my performance that she couldn’t even stomach sticking around for it to end.’
Her television career could be over before it had even begun. Maybe that was a good thing.
Fran frowned. ‘No, that can’t be.’ The lines around her mouth deepened. ‘Though, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen her lately either.’ The makeup artist shrugged. ‘Oh, well,’ Fran said, a smile returning to her face. ‘Gretch will show up sooner or later. She always does. That lady never stops.’
A cute young man with wavy chestnut hair and eyes the color of pale jade-green porcelain stepped up. He was easily a foot taller than either of them. He pushed a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses up his nose that gave him an air of boyish cuteness.
‘Hi, David,’ Fran said.
‘David? David Biggins?’ Kitty said with surprise, as old memories flooded in.
‘That’s right. I didn’t think you’d remember.’ He hugged Kitty warmly. ‘It’s good to see you, Kitty. You look terrific.’
‘Thank you.’ Kitty noticed that he was even more handsome when he smiled. Fran arched her eyebrows, batted her long lashes, and made goo-goo eyes behind David’s back for only Kitty to see. Real mature.
‘You two know each other, I take it?’ Fran’s brow arched into an exaggerated question mark.
David answered. ‘We went to high school together.’
‘Newport High,’ added Kitty. ‘It’s so nice to see you again. But what are you doing here? You weren’t dragged in off the street like all those other poor people who were promised store bought pastries and cheap souvenirs, were you?’
‘No,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I got paid to watch you.’
Kitty’s mouth opened but she didn’t know how to respond.
‘Relax. Don’t freak out. I’m a camera operator.’ His hand patted her elbow.
‘Oh. Like your father, as I remember.’ She wagged her finger. ‘I thought you looked familiar standing back there.’
‘That’s right. Like father, like son.’
Fran cleared her throat. ‘Well, if you two don’t mind, I’ve got to run. I have a hot date,’ Fran said with a wink. ‘And I don’t want to keep my man waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for the taping.’
There was a moment of silence in the air as David and Kitty watched Fran depart, her heels echoing across the painted concrete floor. Then David said, ‘What do you say we go get something to eat? Catch up on old times?’
‘Thank you, David, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m meeting my fiancé for dinner.’
‘Oh, of course,’ replied David, taking a step back and pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I understand. Maybe coffee sometime,’ he said as he ran a hand nervously through his hair. ‘I guess I’ll get going. Can I at least walk you out?’
‘Thanks, I should get going too, but I think I’ll take a look around for Gretchen before I do.’ May as well get this over with, she thought.
David gave her a parting hug. ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’
If there was a tomorrow, Kitty thought gloomily.
With David gone, but for a few stragglers from the audience and a couple of stagehands, Kitty was alone. Where could Gretchen be? Kitty couldn’t stop thinking how strange it was that she wasn’t there wanting to discuss the show with her. Wouldn’t the producer want to give her some sort of critique?
Or a quick boot out the stage doors?
And what about Jack? Why was he so impossible to reach? Jack was on loan to the LAPD through some cooperative program between the agencies. She’d phoned him before she got to the studio and a woman with a foreign accent had answered. The call had cut off before she could ask about Jack – let alone ask what this unknown woman was doing answering his phone.
Kitty trusted Jack implicitly and was sure it was all nothing. She simply wanted to know what that nothing was.
‘Have you seen Gretchen?’ Kitty asked one of the remaining camera operators.
‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘Try her office,’ he suggested. ‘She practically lives there when she’s not on set.’
‘Good idea.’ Kitty left the set, ran into a dead end, then turned around and tried again. The building was a labyrinth of halls and rooms. After several unsuccessful attempts, she stumbled into the dimly lit hall that she recognized as leading to Gretchen’s office. The door was shut, so she knocked gingerly. ‘Gretchen?’
No reply.
Kitty put an ear to the door. ‘Miss Corbett? It’s me, Kitty Karlyle. I wanted to talk to you and hear what you thought about the show.’ She paused, waiting for a reply. ‘Miss Corbett?’
Kitty hovered outside the door. Was Gretchen gone or was she simply so disgusted and disheartened by Kitty’s performance that she didn’t even want to see her face?
There was only one way to find out for sure. ‘I may as well get this over with.’ Kitty tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She slowly pushed open the door. The room was practically dark, the blinds pulled shut. ‘Miss Corbett?’
Kitty stepped into the room, trying to remember if there was a light switch somewhere. Her fingers explored the nearest wall. She tripped over something at her feet and landed in a sprawl against the desk. Her hands touched something soft and clammy.
‘What’s going on?’ a gruff voice demanded. A flashlight flicked on and flashed toward her.
That’s when Kitty noticed Gretchen lying prone in front of her on the floor. The producer was sprawled on her stomach, her body spread out with her arms akimbo, and her fingers curled up as if she’d been clawing at the rug.
The producer’s face, twisted in Kitty’s direction, was a pale death mask pressed against the floor. Her
vacant, half-open eyes seemed to stare beseechingly at Kitty. Or was it accusingly?
And was that one of Kitty’s kitchen knives sticking out of Gretchen Corbett’s back?
TWO
‘Ohmygod!’ Kitty leapt to her feet and scrambled as far away from Gretchen’s body as she could.
The security guard stepped into the room and flipped the light switch. He was young, with a bristly black crew-cut and a pasty white face – kind of spooky looking; almost as scary looking as the corpse on the floor.
Gretchen’s last words to her came back as if to haunt her. ‘Lights, camera, murder,’ mumbled Kitty. She suddenly felt chilled to the bone and hugged herself for warmth.
‘What’d you say?’ The guard was leaning over Gretchen and now turned his attention to Kitty.
‘Nothing,’ Kitty answered quickly.
The guard shoved his silver flashlight back in its holster. He reached for the radio clipped to his shirt and pressed the send button. ‘Manny, this is Brad. I need some backup.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ squawked Manny. ‘Vending machine on the fritz again? I’ve told you a hundred times, man, you gotta—’
‘No. Be quiet and listen, Manny. This is serious. Get an ambulance here, pronto!’
‘Did you say ambulance?’ The metallic voice sounded skeptical.
‘Yeah,’ he shot Kitty a hard look. ‘And you’d better call the police.’ He looked back at the body on the floor. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ Manny’s shriek blasted through the receiver. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s dead?’
‘Gretchen Corbett,’ replied Brad. ‘And I think I’ve got her killer right here.’
‘Hey!’ Kitty stamped her foot. ‘Not so fast, buster. I’m no killer!’
Manny let out a string of invectives and promised to call the cops right away.
The security guard clipped his radio to his shirt. His eyes narrowed as he said, ‘You’re that dog lady, aren’t you?’
