by Marie Celine
Kitty pointed. ‘Through there.’
As if understanding the conversation, Fred trotted off, leading the way, with Fran close behind. Kitty shut the front door and followed. By the time she got to the kitchen, Fran was eyeing the stovetop where different dishes were in varying stages of production.
‘You always eat this good for breakfast?’ Her dark eyes danced. ‘Me, I pretty much stick with a piece of toast and coffee with a couple spoons of sugar.’
‘Actually, no.’ Kitty bent over and peered in the oven window. ‘These quiches are for the Bichons.’ They looked like they could keep a while longer.
‘You expecting company?’
Kitty wanted to say that she hadn’t been expecting anyone at all, least of all Fran Earhart. Well, if Gretchen Corbett had shown up at the door this morning, that might have been a hair more unlikely, if infinitely more Twilight Zone. Instead, Kitty replied, ‘The Bichons are two dogs that I cook for. All these other dishes are for other clients’ pets.’
‘Ohhh,’ said Fran, ‘those kinds of Bichons. I thought you meant the Bichons of Beverly Hills or something.’ She suddenly looked at her hands as if she’d only discovered they existed. One of them held her scarf, the other a crumpled newspaper.
She thrust the newspaper in Kitty’s face. ‘Have you seen this? Front page of the LA Times.’ She rattled the paper in front of Kitty’s nose, as if demanding that she take a whiff.
Fred went into game-of-fetch mode, his legs twitching, ready for action. Barney had already gone into hiding under the bed. He wasn’t big on company, especially when it was loud.
‘I mean, I couldn’t believe it when I read about it.’ Fran looked around and pulled out a chair at the breakfast table. She sat with an audible thump, the paper on her knees. Fred looked puzzled. And disappointed.
‘It still doesn’t seem possible. Gretchen Corbett,’ Fran said, shaking her head, ‘dead.’ Her lips turned down. ‘I hate to say it – no disrespect for the dead or anything. I mean, I liked Gretchen.’ Her eyes stopped on Kitty. ‘But I guess this means I’m out of a job.’
Kitty’s troubled eyes stared at the upside-down paper in Fran’s lap. All she could make out was a publicity shot of Gretchen. ‘Could I see that?’
Fran followed Kitty’s finger. ‘Oh, sure.’ She handed Kitty the paper.
Kitty quickly scanned the couple of paragraphs of accompanying text. She breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t mentioned her by name at all. Only stated that the producer had been found stabbed to death in her office.
‘I found the body,’ Kitty confessed, her voice soft as a penitent in the confessional.
Fran lurched forward. ‘You?’ She snatched the paper back from Kitty. Her eyes rolled up and down the page. ‘It doesn’t say that here.’
Kitty shook her head. Fortunately, the reporter had only mentioned that Gretchen’s body had been discovered by an employee that evening. And that the police were following up several strong leads. Maybe Jack had been able to keep her out of it – so far. Suddenly, she felt guilty that she’d been so angry with him.
‘No.’ Kitty checked the quiches in the oven and turned off the heat to the burners. It looked like she might be a few minutes late with her deliveries this morning. She sank into the chair opposite Fran. ‘It was one of my knives that killed her.’ She avoided making eye contact.
She was also preparing a special meal for Mr Cookie. Mr Cookie was an adorable cat that belonged to kindly Mr Randall, of the Randall’s Department Store chain. Mr Randall’s wife had met an untimely end and Mr Cookie had been poisoned as well, though he had been lucky to survive the ordeal.
Still, he’d had a sensitive tummy ever since and Kitty tried to keep his meals on the bland side. That meant he wasn’t allowed any of his favorites, like Kitty’s popular breakfast steak and egg burrito. She’d been experimenting with an oatmeal-based kibble and cream sauce that she hoped Mr Cookie would enjoy.
‘Girl!’ exclaimed Fran. There was an almost instantaneous banging from overhead that made both girls jump from their seats and look up together at the ceiling. Fran lowered her voice. ‘Sorry.’
Kitty waved her off. ‘That’s Mrs Stein. Ignore her.’ Kitty wished it was that easy. She filled Fran in on the night’s events, explaining how, after the show, she had gone looking for Gretchen, only to discover her lying on her office floor dead. With one of Kitty’s knives in her back.
Kitty told Fran how the security guard had discovered her there, leaning over the body and how she and David had been grilled by the police. ‘I didn’t kill Gretchen.’
Fran laid her hand atop Kitty’s. ‘Of course not,’ she replied, with a comfort-implying pat.
‘Thanks,’ Kitty said.
‘I mean, why would you murder Gretchen?’ Fran snorted. ‘She’d just hired you for a job that was going to make you a celebrity – make you rich, girl!’
Kitty sighed. All that money. Gretchen had offered her twenty-five hundred dollars for the pilot, then another twenty-five hundred per show. She’d also said that, if the show got picked up for a full series of twenty episodes, they would double her salary. Kitty had scrambled to do the math in her head. She was terrible at doing math in her head. Gretchen had helped her out. ‘Four shows a week for five weeks, that’s one hundred thousand dollars,’ she’d explained.
Kitty had about fainted. In fact, she still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. One hundred thousand dollars? That was worth fainting over.
She popped out of her reverie to see Fran shaking her head. ‘Heck, I can think of all kinds of people that would like to see Gretchen dead. But not you.’ Fran began rattling names off using her fingers. ‘There’s Steve. That’s Steve Barnhard, of course. There’s some whack-job ex she had to get a restraining order from. And she’s always fighting with her daughter, Cinderella.’
‘Cinderella?’ interrupted Kitty.
‘Her name is Cindy. I call her Cinderella because you’d think she was a princess what with the way she acts.’ Fran made a disapproving face. ‘Of course, that was partially Gretchen’s fault. She treated that girl like she really was a princess and still the girl was always taking advantage of her, you know?’
Kitty nodded as Fran went on. ‘There’s poor Sonny,’ said Fran, tsk-tsking. ‘Gretchen let him go about a week ago.’
‘Who?’
‘Sonny Sarkisian. He was the studio’s promo and marketing guy. At least, he was until Gretchen canned him.’
‘Why did she fire him?’
Fran scratched her head. ‘You know, I’m not sure. I asked her, but Gretchen wouldn’t tell. It must’ve been something nasty otherwise she never would have cut him loose. He made the studio plenty of money from what I could tell.’
Fran eyed the coffee pot on the counter. ‘Anything left in the pot?’
‘What?’ Kitty followed Fran’s finger. ‘Sure. I’m sorry. Let me get you a cup.’
‘Don’t bother,’ replied Fran, rising and heading for the counter. She began opening and closing cabinets, found a mug and poured herself a full cup. She held out the carafe. ‘Want some?’
Kitty said she was good.
Fran leaned against the counter, took a sip and appeared to be deep in thought. ‘Of course, there’s always Barbara Cartwright.’
‘The TV host?’
Fran nodded. ‘You know about her?’
‘David told me. He said the same thing.’ Kitty explained how she and David had gone out to get a bite to eat last night.
‘Oh, you naughty girl,’ Fran said, grinning. ‘Didn’t you say you had a boyfriend?’
‘Yes, fiancé actually. Jack.’
‘Well, if you ever want to switch horses, David’s not only easy on the eyes, he’s a good guy. Not good with money, but good with his hands, if you know what I mean.’ She wriggled her brow. ‘And he’s really cleaned up his act from what I hear. If I didn’t have a boyfriend myself …’
‘We only went as friends.’ Kitty didn’t want Fran to get the wr
ong idea about her and David, no matter how easy on the eyes he was. And he was. ‘And because I was mad at Jack and the way he was carrying on last night with that stupid lieutenant of his.’
Fran looked flummoxed.
Kitty explained how Jack had shown up at the studio with a hot, young lieutenant at his side who had all but tossed Kitty in the lockup for Gretchen’s murder.
‘Men,’ commiserated Fran.
One word. But said with the right inflection and it just about sums it up, thought Kitty. She rose and checked her meals. She checked the stovetop clock. She’d need to get going soon.
‘If you ask me, Barbara Cartwright would be at the top of my list of people who wanted Gretchen dead. She and Gretchen hated each other’s guts,’ Fran said, slowly refilling her mug. ‘Then Barbara flies out here from London to do the new show and at the last minute Gretchen pulls the rug out from under her and replaces her with you.’
She thrust her mug in Kitty’s direction. Coffee sloshed over the sides and on to the floor, though not before first splashing down on poor Fred. ‘Oops, sorry about that.’ Fred licked his haunches.
Kitty told her it was nothing and wiped the floor and Fred with a couple of paper towels. ‘David said practically the same thing. He seems to think Barbara could be the killer, too.’ She added how David had suggested getting the woman’s telephone number from Steve Barnhard, who had apparently been in contact with her. ‘Why did Gretchen Corbett and Barbara Cartwright hate each other so much?’
Fran grabbed a box of wheat crackers from the counter and said between crunches, ‘The bad blood between them goes way back, the way I heard it. I guess they used to work together at one time and things went sour.’
Kitty nodded thoughtfully. It sounded like Gretchen had left a fair number of enemies along her trail, any one of whom might have liked to see her dead. The chiming of the doorbell stopped her thoughts.
‘Oh-oh,’ said Fran. ‘Are we in more trouble with your upstairs neighbor?’
‘No, Mrs Stein wouldn’t ring the bell.’ Kitty wiped her hands on her apron and headed for the door. It was sure getting trafficky for a Saturday morning. ‘Banging is more her style.’
Kitty pulled open the door only to be grabbed quickly by the arm and yanked outside.
SIX
‘Jack!’ Kitty exclaimed, breathlessly, after he’d finished kissing her. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ His arms held her tightly.
He smiled. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. I’ve missed you, Kitty.’
‘I’ve missed you, too,’ answered Kitty, enjoying the touch of his fingers through her hair, momentarily forgetting their differences of the night before. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Sure.’ He scratched Fred behind the ear and dropped into the blue sofa in the living room. ‘So, how did it go last night?’ he asked, very obviously trying to sound nonchalant.
Kitty wasn’t buying the act. She hadn’t known Jack Allen Young forever, but she’d certainly known him long enough. Kitty glanced at the kitchen. Fran hadn’t appeared. ‘Oh,’ she said, playing along, ‘OK. Considering the badgering I got from your Lieutenant Nordstrom.’
Jack chuckled. ‘Come on, Kitty, the lieutenant was only doing her job. She’s really very nice.’
‘I’m sure.’ Kitty grabbed her elbows. She didn’t know if she was madder at Jack for his behavior or herself for acting so jealous.
‘Besides, this really should be Detective Leitch’s case. It was his to start with. We were only there trying to help you out because I asked the lieutenant after explaining that we were friends. And—’
‘Friends?’ gaped Kitty.
Jack blushed and muttered a hasty apology. ‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’ He took a breath. ‘I’m here because I love you and I want to help.’
Kitty settled into the leather chair on the opposite side of the coffee table and crossed her legs. ‘Thanks,’ she replied curtly, her right foot bouncing. She was hardly mollified. And she really didn’t think she needed any help, not from Jack or anybody else for that matter. As for Nordstrom, Kitty wished she’d never mentioned the woman. But now that she had, she couldn’t help asking, ‘So how long have you been working with her? I mean, you’ve never even mentioned her once, Jack.’ Barney had come out from hiding and swatted playfully at her bobbing foot.
‘Oh? Haven’t I?’
As if he didn’t know full well, thought Kitty. ‘No,’ she said, sweetly. ‘You haven’t.’
Jack combed a hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘She’s just transferred to the department. My luck, I got stuck showing her around.’
‘Poor you,’ replied Kitty, with very little sympathy.
‘Yeah, and now Elin’s been put in charge of the Corbett case.’
Elin. They were on a first name basis. It was time to change the subject. ‘Speaking of which, has there been any news?’
‘You mean have we caught Corbett’s killer?’ Jack shook his head, without waiting for an answer. ‘Nope. But I do have some good news.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you. The knife came back clean.’
‘Clean as in my fingerprints are not on it?’
Jack nodded. ‘There are no fingerprints at all. Whoever stabbed Miss Corbett in the back was wearing gloves, or wrapped the handle in something, or wiped the handle clean afterward.’
Kitty breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news. Maybe she wasn’t going to get hauled off to jail quite yet.
‘Do you think a woman could have done it?’ Fran bounded into the room, mug in hand.
Jack nearly hit the ceiling. ‘Who are you?’ He looked quickly from Fran to Kitty.
‘This is Fran,’ answered Kitty. ‘She stopped by.’
‘Oh?’
Fran offered her hand and Jack shook it with obvious hesitation.
‘Fran works at the studio.’
Jack straightened. ‘Do you now?’ He looked at her with interest. ‘I didn’t see you there yesterday evening.’
‘That’s because I wasn’t there. I was out on a date. Like Kitty and David.’ Fran grinned and shot Kitty a mischievous look.
‘David and I only had a bite to eat, Fran.’ Kitty turned to Jack, her cheeks pink. Was Fran trying to cause trouble? ‘It was not a date.’ She made a face at Fran who only shrugged, then sat down cross-legged on the floor, inducing Fred to lick her neck.
Jack cleared his throat rather severely as he spoke in Fran’s direction. ‘To answer your question, yes, it could very easily have been a woman. It would not take a man’s strength to drive that knife through the Corbett woman’s back. You could very easily have done it, I imagine.’ He gave Fran an icy glare.
Fran made a face. ‘Very funny. I don’t mean me. I’m thinking more like Barbara Cartwright.’ She set down her mug and wrestled with Fred. ‘My money’s on her.’
‘The TV host?’
Kitty explained how Ms Cartwright had originally been hired to do the show that had ended up being Kitty’s – at least for a day.
‘We’ll look into it.’ Jack didn’t sound like he was in too much of a hurry to do so. ‘Anybody else I should know about?’
Kitty and Fran looked at one another. Kitty’s eyes willed Fran to keep her mouth shut – she didn’t want to give away all their secrets – and, for what Kitty figured was probably the very first time, Fran did.
Jack left shortly after and said he’d call Kitty later that day. They made plans to meet up at his place for dinner at seven. After he was gone, Kitty said, ‘Thanks for not revealing any more to Jack.’ She was more determined than ever to find Gretchen’s killer before Jack and the lieutenant did.
‘No problem. I mean, no offense – he is your boyfriend and all, and he is cute – but I didn’t like the way he was looking at me like I was guilty of something.’
Kitty laughed. ‘He can’t help it. It’s part of his makeup.’
‘If you say so.’ Fran rose and dusted herself off.
‘So,’ she said, hands on hips, ‘now what do we do?’
‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve got mouths to feed.’
Fran grimaced. ‘You mean pets?’ She bent at the knees and held her palm about two feet off the floor. ‘Furry little critters?’
‘That’s right. My time in show biz might have come to a quick,’ and violent, she thought, ‘end, but I’ve still got the gourmet pet chef business. Thank goodness.’
‘But what about Gretchen’s murder? What about talking to Barbara Cartwright?’
Kitty sighed. ‘I’m afraid reality has reared its ugly and money-hungry head. I can’t afford to ignore paying customers just to go play detective.’
‘Speaking of which,’ goaded Fran, ‘don’t you want to stick it to a certain detective and his Scandinavian lieutenant?’
Kitty bristled as she grabbed the tongs and began plating up the morning’s dishes. ‘Fine, but first I’ve got to make these deliveries.’
‘Great,’ replied Fran, flashing a grin. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You’re coming, too?’ Kitty asked, rather uneasily.
‘Sure, I’ve got nothing else to do. Besides, with two of us, we can get the job done even quicker.’
Kitty was skeptical but agreed to let Fran tag along.
They concocted a plan as they drove out to the Fairfax District, sometimes referred to by locals as Kosher Canyon because of its historically Jewish community. Some of Kitty’s favorite bakeries and fish markets were located here, so she was a frequent shopper in the area, often picking up tasty selections for her clients’ pets.
First, they planned to drop off meals to a couple of Kitty’s regulars near CBS Television City, one to an investment banker and his feline flock – as the client referred to his seven cats – and the other to a network executive and his pet pug. The seven cats weren’t as tough as one might imagine because Kitty made it a point to serve them family style in a pair of fancy English Delftware tureens.
Mr Cookie would come next, so that meant a trip to Mr Randall’s elegant old mansion in Beverly Hills. Then they would shoot out to Brentwood to serve the Fandolfis’ dogs and cat, and finally Mr Czinski and his German shepherd, Buster. Chevy Czinski was a paunch-bellied, one-time star of over a dozen Tarzan copycat movies that had been big in Eastern Europe.
