by Marie Celine
On their way out of the studio, Kitty caught sight of Steve Barnhard sitting in his office. He was leaning back in a tall leather chair with his feet up on the desk displaying his hairy ankles. He appeared annoyed and Kitty saw why. Detective Leitch was sitting across from the assistant producer holding a small notepad and chewing on the end of his pen.
It looked like the police were questioning everyone. With luck, she wouldn’t be strapped to the electric chair by breakfast with that tall, no doubt sadistic, Swede looming over her ready to throw the switch.
There might be some hope for her yet.
FOUR
‘I’m so sorry you had to get dragged into that back there. Jack can be difficult at times.’
And hanging around Elin Nordstrom seemed to be bringing out the jerk in him. She wasn’t about to say that to David though. That wouldn’t be right. It seemed sort of unfaithful.
Though Kitty wasn’t above telling Jack what she thought about his behavior in person the next time they were alone together, she felt it would be wrong to criticize him to a near stranger. In fact, she was planning on telling Jack what she thought the next time she got the chance. The man was going to get an earful and then some.
Kitty and David were sitting across from each other in a booth at Lester’s Diner, a casual 24-hour restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. The smell of spicy sausage hung in the air – it was a house specialty.
David grinned. ‘Tell me about it.’ He lowered his laminated menu. ‘And that woman gives me chills.’
Kitty laughed. ‘Me too.’ She pulled off her earrings. They’d been bugging her all day. Usually she went with simple studs. She didn’t know what had possessed her to wear the large hoops today. They’d been a distraction. She laid them on the yellow Formica table.
‘Nice workmanship.’ David prodded them with a finger.
‘My folks gave them to me for my eighteenth birthday.’
‘They sure didn’t skimp.’
‘You think?’
‘Trust me. I know my silver. I’ve got a cousin down in Taos that’s a silversmith in the jewelry business. It’s been in her family for generations. She’s a real artist. If you ever want anything, let me know.’ He smiled. ‘I get a family discount.’
A waitress in an above-the-knee gold skirt and clingy white T-shirt set their drinks on the table. Kitty had asked for iced tea and David ordered coffee. ‘Ready to order?’
Kitty’s teeth pulled at her lower lip as her eyes skimmed the menu. ‘I think I need another minute.’ The waitress shrugged, stuck her order pad under her apron and said she’d be back.
David poured some cream into his mug. He set his glasses next to the napkin holder. ‘So that detective’s your fiancé, huh?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Have you known each other long?’
‘Not really. Only a matter of months.’
‘Wow,’ replied David, between sips, ‘that’s not long. Tell me,’ he said, ‘is he always such a …’ He hesitated.
‘Cop?’ finished Kitty.
David nodded his head. ‘Yeah, cop.’
‘Not always.’
‘That’s good.’ His eyes locked in on Kitty’s. ‘You deserve someone who makes you happy.’
‘Thanks, David.’ She patted his hand across the table. ‘I appreciate that. Jack’s got a big heart.’ Kitty thought she might have detected disappointment in David’s eyes. ‘How about you,’ she asked. ‘Seeing anyone?’
‘No.’ David set down his coffee. ‘No one special.’
The waitress came back, took their orders and left again.
Kitty added a packet of raw sugar to her tea.
‘I thought that Nordstrom woman was going to hang us both up by our thumbs until we confessed to killing Gretchen,’ David said. ‘Who is she, anyway?’
Kitty shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen her before. Jack’s never mentioned her.’ One more thing she was definitely going to be bringing up with him. ‘My guess is she isn’t the new community relations officer. She’s pretty though, don’t you think?’ asked Kitty, fishing for the male point of view.
‘I guess,’ said David. His shoulders moved up and down. ‘Not really my type though.’
What Kitty really wanted to know was if she was Jack’s type. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the waitress who’d brought her omelet.
David paused while the waitress laid his sandwich down in front of him. He thanked her, and then continued. ‘And the way she looks at you, it makes you feel guilty of something whether you are or not.’ He poured a pool of catsup on his plate. ‘Do you think the police will really want to question us again?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ answered Kitty. ‘Me, because of the knife and you, because of that.’ She jerked her head his way.
‘Huh?’
‘That.’ Kitty pointed with her fork. ‘Your jacket.’
David looked puzzled.
‘If you hadn’t forgotten your jacket and come back for it, you wouldn’t be here now and the police wouldn’t be interested in questioning you.’
‘Oh, right. My jacket, yeah.’ David leaned forward and said softly, ‘I’m glad I’m here now.’
Kitty felt herself blushing and stabbed at her eggs. There was a minute of awkward silence while they both attacked their food. ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted Gretchen dead?’
David leaned back and appeared to give the idea some thought. ‘It could have been anybody,’ he replied. ‘You make a lot of enemies in this business.’
‘Is it as bad as all that?’
David chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t believe the half of it. It’s cutthroat in Hollywood, Kitty. That’s why I stick to working behind the camera. Like my dad before me.’
‘I’m beginning to wish I’d never said yes to doing the show.’ She remembered David’s father working as a cameraman at a local news station.
‘Don’t feel that way,’ David said quickly. ‘You were great. You’ve got a real knack for working with an audience.’
‘You really think so?’ Kitty wasn’t convinced.
‘Sure, I do,’ replied David, a big grin on his face. ‘I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go. You’re a natural, Kitty.’
‘Thanks,’ answered Kitty. ‘Of course, I guess it doesn’t matter one way or the other now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What with Gretchen dead, I guess the show is dead, too.’
David took a big bite out of his roast beef sandwich, chewing slowly. As he finished, he said, ‘Probably. The show was pretty much Gretchen’s baby.’ He straightened. From the look on his face, Kitty got the impression that a light bulb had come on inside his head.
‘What? What is it, David?’
David scratched his cheek. ‘I was just thinking.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well,’ David said, with some hesitation, ‘until you came along, the show was all set to go with Barbara Cartwright.’
Kitty’s eyes grew wide. ‘The Barbara Cartwright? The one who hosted the Holistic Health for Pets program on the BBC?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I love that show. She was going to host The Pampered Pet? What happened?’
David pointed his fork at Kitty. ‘You happened.’
‘Me?’
‘Yep. The way I hear it, the network was all set to go with Barbara Cartwright when Gretchen pulled a last minute switcheroo and hired you.’
Kitty wiped her lips with her napkin. ‘You don’t suppose Ms Cartwright could have murdered Gretchen, do you?’ Kitty shook her head. ‘No. Of course not. What am I thinking? She’s in England.’ She snapped her napkin. ‘Rats.’
David was smirking. ‘Nope. She’s right here in LA.’
‘She is? Are you sure?’
‘Yep. Positive. She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.’
So she could have murdered Gretchen Corbett. Barbara Cartwright must have been furious when she’d found out that she’d lost the show.
She’d gone to the studio and confronted Gretchen. They’d fought and Barbara Cartwright had stabbed her. Now all Kitty had to do was prove it. Before Jack and Elin Nordstrom did. That would wipe that smug look off the lieutenant’s face. ‘I’ve got to find a way to talk to Ms Cartwright.’
David considered a moment. ‘You could always ask Barnhard for her number.’
‘The head of CuisineTV?’ Kitty shook her head emphatically. ‘No way.’
‘Not Bill,’ said David. ‘Steve.’
‘Steve?’ Kitty replied, wrinkling her brow. ‘Steve from the studio?’
‘Steve is Bill’s kid. One of them anyway.’
‘I was wondering about that.’ So Steve Barnhard was the Steve Barnhard, the son of the head of the network. Kitty should have seen that coming. What was he doing working at Santa Monica Film Studios instead of directly for his father at CuisineTV?
‘Yeah. Steve should have Cartwright’s number. He’d dealt with her plenty. Gretchen’s relationship with the Cartwright woman was stormy at best. She foisted the woman off on Steve as much as possible.’
Kitty had a sudden thought. ‘Do you think, now that Gretchen is gone, that Steve will want to bring back Barbara Cartwright and continue the show?’
David replied that he wasn’t so sure. The waitress came and collected their tab. ‘Steve wasn’t so keen on doing the show in the first place. He’s not really big on pets.’ David shoved his wallet back in his pocket and stuck his glasses on his nose. ‘Or cooking.’
Kitty nodded. ‘I got that impression.’ She got Steve’s phone number from David, though he made her promise not to tell Steve where she’d gotten it. ‘Steve can be a real load,’ David had said. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Kitty knew. But she had a murderer to catch and a reputation – hers – to salvage. It had been her knife jutting out of Gretchen Corbett’s back, after all.
‘And he’s been even prissier lately. I hear it’s because his father’s reining in his allowance. Spoiled brat.’
Kitty sensed maybe a little jealousy there. But then, who wouldn’t be? She pushed such thoughts from her mind. She had more important things to worry about. Number one, she’d be calling Steve first chance in the morning, once she’d delivered to the clients on her breakfast route.
David pulled a tin of French violet pastilles from his jacket, pried open the lid and offered one of the small white pebbles to Kitty, before helping himself to one.
‘Nice,’ said Kitty. ‘Not too sweet.’
Standing between Kitty’s forest green Volvo wagon and his own silvery gray SUV in the parking lot before parting, David said, ‘For what it’s worth, when I saw Gretchen lying there with your knife in her back, I didn’t believe for a minute that you killed her.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Kitty. ‘I’m glad somebody thinks I’m innocent.’ Now, if she could just prove it. She rummaged through her purse for her car key. ‘I know you didn’t kill her, too.’ She stuck the key in the stubborn lock of the broken handle.
‘What happened there?’ David jiggled the busted door handle.
Kitty smiled. ‘One of my clients doesn’t know his own strength.’ One of her customers, Chevy Czinski, had practically ripped the handle off earlier when she’d told him how she’d be taping a show at Santa Monica Film Studios today with Gretchen Corbett.
She hadn’t thought much of it then, but now …
‘So, what will you do now?’ David asked, his hands thrust into his jeans.
‘I’m a pet chef. The past couple of days have been like a dream.’ A dream gone terribly wrong. ‘I’m sort of relieved it’s over.’ Well, maybe not over, with Gretchen’s corpse still fresh and the investigation only begun, but the show was over for sure. ‘My short career in showbiz has come to an end,’ Kitty said philosophically, pulling on the Volvo door, which relented but not without a goose pimple-producing squeal.
‘Hey, you never know,’ replied David, then went silent for a moment. ‘Then again, I might be out of a job myself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean Steve Barnhard is very likely to be calling the shots at the studio now.’ David grinned. ‘That man is not my friend.’
‘I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s anybody’s friend.’
‘Sure you don’t want to get a nightcap?’ David’s eyes seemed to drink her in, but Kitty knew better than to succumb. ‘I know a great little bar. It’s not far from here.’
‘Sorry,’ Kitty shook her head. ‘I have to get up early.’
‘Pets to feed?’
Kitty nodded and slid behind the wheel. ‘Pets to feed.’ She demurely turned her cheek as David leaned in and gave her a peck.
FIVE
If the pounding on the door hadn’t set Fred to barking, Kitty would have ignored it. It was simply too early in the morning to be good news or good friends. But if she allowed Fred to continue yapping, it would only set off a chain reaction of unwelcome actions.
Without a doubt, her neighbor, Mirabelle Stein, would telephone the apartment manager and lodge yet another complaint. And at the rate Mirabelle Stein seemed to be lodging them, Kitty expected the manager – who himself was always bellyaching about how overworked he was – had enough complaints about her by now to stuff a thirty-pound Thanksgiving bird.
Mirabelle Stein was the elderly widow of French-Jewish descent who lived directly upstairs from Kitty. In the beginning, Kitty had thought Mrs Stein was going to be one of those sweet little old ladies who offered you sugar cookies the day you moved in, along with a nice cup of weak hot tea served in delicate chipped white china nestled on real linen napkins.
At least, that’s what Kitty had expected in the first moments of meeting Mirabelle Stein and sizing her up, when the old woman had suddenly appeared in her open door the day she was moving her boxes in.
But the tiny widow in the black frock with the white piping who smelled of rose water had instead turned out to be the Tasmanian devil of neighbors. The first words out of her denture-filled mouth that day had been something to the effect that Kitty had better not ‘raise the roof’ and that ‘those horrible beasts of yours better behave themselves!’ – all said with the wave of an arthritic finger within millimeters of Kitty’s nose. She further threatened to personally see that Kitty’s dog and cat were both shipped off to the glue factory should there be any slip-ups whatsoever.
Kitty had been dumbfounded. She hadn’t known what to say. She also had no idea if there were any glue factories in the LA area and, if so, whether they would even want to make glue out of dogs and cats. However, wicked little old ladies – well, that was another possibility …
Kitty had further compounded her troubled relationship by expressing those thoughts to Mirabelle Stein. In retrospect, she supposed she should have nodded politely and kept her opinion to herself because things had gone downhill quickly from there.
If only she’d kept her mouth shut and humored the woman … but that window of opportunity had closed long ago.
So, now Mirabelle Stein was forever lodging complaints against Kitty. Though it wasn’t just Kitty, it was all of her apartment house neighbors. Despite Kitty’s best efforts to be a good neighbor, it seemed that the vast majority of those complaints had been aimed at her. She walked too loud. Her pets, Fred and Barney, were too noisy. The odors wafting from Kitty’s kitchen were making Mrs Stein queasy.
Every time Kitty ran the garbage disposal, Mirabelle Stein banged on the floor in retaliation. It wasn’t Kitty’s fault that the garbage disposal motor sounded like a motorcycle revving up on her kitchen counter. She had asked the apartment manager, Mr Frizzell, to take a look at the appliance on multiple occasions but with no success.
Kitty had heard from one of her neighbors that Mirabelle had once been married. Everyone around the complex did call her the Widow Stein, or Frankenstein if they were feeling less kindly. There had certainly been no sign of a Mr Stein in the time that Kitty had lived in her apartment.
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br /> Kitty sometimes wondered if Mirabelle’s other half might not have ended up in a glue factory himself. Kitty wasn’t ruling anything out when it came to what the woman might do now or might have done in her unclear past.
Then again, having been married to Mrs Stein, poor Mr Stein might have jumped into the glue vat willingly.
So, before the banging at the door was returned by an equal banging from above, Kitty turned down the burners on the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. She went to the door and pulled it open as far as the chain allowed.
‘Kitty? Is that you, girl?’
Kitty’s head bounced as she tried to figure out who the stranger at the door was and how she knew her name.
‘Well, you gonna let me in? I didn’t catch you sleeping, did I? From the way you talked, I thought you got up with the chickens.’
The clouds in Kitty’s brain suddenly cleared. ‘Fran?’
‘Yeah, of course it’s Fran.’ She pulled a pair of dark brown sunglasses from her face. Her green eyes were glossy and bloodshot. ‘Gretchen’s dead,’ she blurted out.
‘Yes, I know,’ Kitty answered hesitantly.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Are you going to open the door or what?’
Kitty jumped. ‘Oh.’ Her hands fumbled with the chain. ‘I’m sorry. Come in.’
Fran strode in past Kitty and inhaled deeply. ‘Umm, something smells good,’ she said, one hand patting Fred on the head, the other clutching a rolled-up newspaper. Fred was a sleek black Labrador retriever. She had brought him home from an animal rescue shelter.
Fran wore tight-fitting denim jeans that ended at the ankles and a pea green turtleneck sweater. Her hair was bunched up underneath a blue-green scarf that twisted around her head. She tugged on the scarf and her long black hair billowed free.
‘I’m preparing quiches.’ Kitty stood at the door looking nonplussed. What on earth was the Santa Monica Film Studios’ makeup artist doing at her apartment?
Fran unfurled her scarf and wiped her eyes. ‘Which way is the kitchen? Though I don’t think I could eat a thing. This whole murder thing’s got me feeling sick, you know?’
