by Marie Celine
He was also something of an eccentric. He kept a Bengal tiger, a couple of lions, an elephant, an aging, poop-slinging ape and a wobbly-legged giraffe that walked around staring at the ground as if too world-weary to hold his neck up.
He was a recent client. Mr Fandolfi had referred Mr Czinski to her and the former actor had agreed to take her on. In fact, he had seemed grateful to have someone cooking up special meals for his dog.
‘Let’s stop at the studio first and get Barbara Cartwright’s number from Steve.’
‘You think he’ll be there?’ Kitty asked, turning the wheel.
‘He’s always there.’
Fran was right. Steve was there. ‘That’s his car – or at least one of them.’ Fran pointed to a late model, black Mercedes E350 with dark windows.
Kitty couldn’t help but notice there were a couple of police cruisers in the lot as well. They were a sad reminder of what had happened only last night. She was relieved not to see Jack’s own unmarked sedan.
The women headed straight to Steve’s office, passing Gretchen Corbett’s office on the way. The door to Gretchen’s office was ajar, with one lonely looking strip of sagging yellow plastic police tape blocking the way in. Kitty paused. There was no stereotypical chalk outline on the floor. Nothing really to suggest that anything unfortunate and deadly had occurred there at all.
The blinds were open and light spilled in.
‘Depressing, huh?’ Fran said. ‘Come on.’ She pulled Kitty along. Steve’s door was open as well.
He was nowhere in sight. But his cellphone was. Kitty nudged Fran. ‘There’s Steve’s phone. On his desk.’
Fran wasted no time going in and grabbing it.
‘What are you doing?’ said Kitty. ‘What if Steve finds us here and you with his phone?’
Fran shrugged. ‘He already hates me. How much worse could it get?’ She began tapping on the phone. ‘Here’s Cartwright’s contact info. Quick, jot this down.’ She recited the number while Kitty wrote on a slip of paper she’d found on Steve’s cluttered desk.
‘I hear someone,’ whispered Kitty, frantically.
‘Hmm,’ said Fran. ‘Steve and Barbara Cartwright have been texting each other all morning.’
‘Come on.’ Kitty pulled at Fran’s sleeve. ‘I think someone’s coming.’
Fran looked up from the phone’s display, nodded, and dropped the phone back on the desk. Kitty stuck her head slowly out the doorway. David Biggins was standing outside Gretchen’s office, hands resting lightly on the police tape.
Kitty and Fran stepped out into the hallway. ‘David,’ said Kitty. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Huh? Oh, Steve called a meeting. Or rather, Bill Barnhard did. Isn’t that why you two are here?’
Kitty couldn’t help frowning. ‘No, we—’
‘Yeah, of course,’ cut in Fran. ‘No way were we going to miss it.’
David turned his eyes back to Gretchen’s office. ‘I still can’t get over it. I mean, only yesterday Gretchen was alive and everything was different.’ He turned to Kitty. ‘I’m going to miss her.’ He wiped an incipient tear from the corner of his eye.
‘We all are,’ replied Fran, laying a hand on his shoulder.
‘Who would want to do such a thing?’
‘You said at dinner last night that you thought it might have been Barbara Cartwright.’ Kitty rummaged through her purse for a tissue and came up empty-handed.
‘Yeah,’ he said, wiping his eye with his pinkie. ‘It could’ve been.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The meeting has probably started. Steve is going to have a fit if we’re late. Come on.’
They walked together to the soundstage that only the day before had hosted Kitty’s television debut. ‘I need some coffee,’ announced Fran, stopping to grab a cup at the pot set up along the wall nearest the door.
‘Haven’t you had enough?’ chided Kitty.
Fran took a careful sip. ‘Hey, I can’t help myself.’ She hoisted the paper cup. ‘Coffee is the new water, you know.’
Kitty giggled then, realizing the solemnity of the situation, blushed and lowered her chin.
Everyone from the studio seemed to be in attendance. There had to be thirty people milling about. Bill Barnhard, dressed in a sharply creased black wool suit, was pontificating while those around him nodded like obedient sheep.
Under his breath, David said, ‘He could have killed Gretchen, too.’
Kitty was shocked. ‘Mr Barnhard?’
‘No,’ he said, with a brief toss of his head. ‘Him. Steve Barnhard.’
‘What possible motive could he have?’
‘Don’t you see?’ asked David. ‘His father has just anointed him the new boss around here.’ He looked at Kitty.
‘How is that possible?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ answered David. ‘CuisineTV owns Santa Monica Film Studios.’
Kitty hadn’t known. ‘So what Mr Barnhard wants—’
‘Mr Barnhard gets,’ finished David. ‘Pretty convenient, if you ask me.’
Kitty nodded. Convenient indeed.
Fran grabbed David’s arm. ‘Isn’t that Sonny standing beside Greg?’
She had spoken too loudly. A sudden and commanding clearing of throat brought Fran and David to a stop and a flush to Kitty’s face. Bill Barnhard was glaring at the three of them.
‘Is there something you would like to add to this conversation?’ He was looking right at Kitty.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot and gulped. ‘I–I wanted to say how very sorry I am for everyone’s loss,’ Kitty began uneasily. ‘And–and what a pleasure it has been to work with you all – if only for one day.’
Kitty was trembling. Show business was for the birds. And like a bird, she couldn’t wait to fly this coop. She couldn’t wait to be out of what was a demonstrably deadly business and back to the much more pleasant, infinitely less stressful, and certainly less dangerous gourmet pet chef gig.
‘Ah, Miss Karlyle, it’s you.’ Bill Barnhard waved her forward.
She hesitated.
‘Please, come here a moment.’ She did as told and he embraced her warmly. ‘It’s been a real tragedy.’ He held her at arms’ length. She fell away smelling of Clive Christian for men. ‘I hadn’t been expecting you this morning.’
‘Well,’ began Kitty, ‘I hadn’t been expecting me either.’
Bill Barnhard’s grin held a touch of sadness. ‘When I called this meeting, I told my people not to bother you.’ He bobbed his head. ‘I know how upsetting this whole situation must be for you. Especially seeing as how you were the one to discover Gretchen’s body and all. I thought you might prefer not to be disturbed this morning.’
Kitty swallowed hard and nodded once. Where was this leading? ‘Yes,’ she said softly.
The CEO patted her hand. ‘Believe me, I understand completely.’ He looked around the soundstage. ‘We all do. Don’t we?’ Murmurs of assent spread around the room. ‘That’s why I want you to take the next couple of days off before continuing our work – out of respect for the memory of dear Gretchen.’
‘You mean you want to continue The Pampered Pet TV show?’ Kitty looked confused. And she wasn’t sure if she was elated or deflated. He nodded solemnly. ‘With me?’
She looked around the big room. Not all of the faces looked as friendly today as they had the day before. Was it her imagination or did they suspect her of murdering their boss?
‘Of course,’ replied Mr Barnhard, with what Kitty expected was a well-practiced, warm smile of assurance. ‘It’s what Gretchen would want, don’t you agree? After all, this show was her pet project,’ he said. ‘Pun intended.’
‘But, Dad—’ Steve blurted.
Bill Barnhard held up a hand. ‘Uh-uh. The show must go on, Steve. You of all people here should know that.’
‘But, Dad,’ Steve tried again. ‘We agreed that Miss Cartwright would be best to take over hosting and—’
Bill Barnhard stopped his son before
he could go any further. ‘Nonsense. Kitty is our host, Steve.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘She’s perfect.’
Kitty blushed.
Steve, on the other hand, looked apoplectic. ‘Yes, sir,’ he managed to spit out from between his steely jaws.
Bill clapped his hands. ‘Well, it is Saturday, so I won’t keep you all any longer. Thank you for coming. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, everybody.’
The CEO began to turn away, then paused. ‘I’ll expect to see you all at the memorial service on Monday. And I expect you all back here and raring to go on Tuesday morning.’
With that, Bill and his officious looking secretary departed, but not before Kitty noticed him exchanging heated words with Steve in the corner.
‘Wow, Steve looks positively murderous,’ Fran said, with unmasked pleasure.
Kitty agreed. If Steve Barnhard was capable of murder and had stabbed Gretchen in the back, then Bill Barnhard just might be next. The soundstage was emptying. Sonny Sarkisian, recently ex-Santa Monica Film Studios employee, was milling about, talking to one of the stagehands. ‘Come on,’ said Kitty. ‘Introduce me to Sonny.’
‘Sonny?’ Fran made a face. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Because he’s here and Gretchen isn’t,’ Kitty answered. ‘And because, a week ago, Gretchen fired him. That gives him a motive in my book.’
Fran shrugged. ‘If you say so. But trust me, Sonny Sarkisian is as harmless as a slug.’
Sonny must have read the ladies’ minds because he rushed to meet them when he saw the two coming in his direction. ‘Fran!’ he cried, squeezing her as if he expected something to pop out. ‘How’ve you been?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Have you heard?’ He was grinning ear to shiny ear. He had a Charlie Brown face, a cleft chin, and a nose that looked like it had stepped into a left hook. He was short, turning to fat and had almost as much hair above his eyes as he did around the ears. Above the eyebrows was another story. A dark ring of hair circled his otherwise bald head, reminding Kitty of an atoll. Albeit a shiny flesh-colored one. He was wearing loose fitting gray chinos and a pale pink dress shirt. All that was missing was the thick gold chain.
However, he had an infectiously pleasant smile. ‘I got my old job back.’ He turned to Kitty and grabbed her arm. ‘So, you’re new here.’ Sonny rubbed his hands together. ‘Fresh blood. That’s what this place needs.’ He turned to Fran. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
‘Sonny Sarkisian meet Kitty Karlyle,’ Fran replied. She was looking at Kitty when she said ‘And don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Sonny squeezed her hand. ‘Kitty Karlyle. Nice stage name.’
‘Actually,’ answered Kitty, rubbing her sore fingers, ‘Kitty is my real name. Well, Katherine, but everybody calls me Kitty.’
‘Well, meow-meow. Good to have you aboard, kid. I mean, Kitty.’ Sonny latched on to her elbow. ‘Looks like you and me are going to be working together.’
‘I suppose,’ Kitty said with hesitation. Sonny’s facial expression was suggestive of a cheap leer outside a peepshow. His large brown eyes were decidedly lupine. Either he was hitting on her or Sonny had some other sort of mental or physical issues that Fran had failed to mention. His fingers pressing against her skin felt like he’d been presoaking them in ooze.
‘So, you got your old job back?’ Fran said. She sounded rather dubious.
Sonny nodded. ‘Yeah, Steve called me up at home and told me to get back to work right away.’
Fran glanced at Kitty. ‘Well, that’s good news …’
Kitty wrestled herself free from Sonny’s grip once more. ‘So sad about Gretchen, isn’t it?’
Sonny pursed his lips. ‘Sure, I suppose.’ He didn’t sound too certain. ‘I mean, she was OK. Don’t speak ill of the dead and all that.’
‘Of course,’ said Kitty, trying to slip the verbal knife in gently, ‘she did recently fire you, I hear.’
Sonny chuckled nervously and shrugged. ‘Yep. But all’s well that ends well, right?’
‘For some of us,’ Fran muttered under her breath. Kitty shot her a look and Fran took a loud sip of coffee.
‘Why did Miss Corbett fire you, Sonny?’
‘Oh, you know how it is. This is show business, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m good at what I do. But Gretchen didn’t always like the way I did what I do.’ Sonny winked. ‘Capisce?’
Kitty didn’t and said so.
Sonny sighed deeply. ‘Let’s just say that Gretchen had some ethical issues with some of my,’ he cleared his throat, ‘business practices.’
‘And Steve doesn’t?’
Sonny smiled. ‘I got my job back, didn’t I?’
Kitty smiled back. ‘Some people might think that’s quite convenient.’
Sonny’s face darkened. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘if you’re trying to imply that I killed Gretchen just to get my job back, you’re out of your mind!’ His raised voice drew curious stares from the crew.
‘Where were you when Gretchen was killed?’ Kitty had heard that line so many times in the movies and on TV, but it sounded odd coming from her lips.
‘I have an alibi,’ Sonny replied. ‘But I don’t have to tell you. Besides,’ he looked accusingly at Kitty, ‘it was your knife the police found lodged in Gretchen’s back, now, wasn’t it?’
Kitty said yes. ‘But my fingerprints weren’t on it,’ she explained, wondering how many more people she was going to have to explain this fact to in the days ahead. ‘The knife was in my bag. Anyone could have taken it.’
Sonny looked decidedly unimpressed.
‘Come on, Sonny,’ cajoled Fran. ‘Kitty’s only trying to help find Gretchen’s murderer.’
‘Gretchen and I may have had our differences,’ said Sonny, looking at Fran. ‘But,’ he said, turning to Kitty, ‘that doesn’t mean I killed her. And I resent the implication.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you killed her. Please, Sonny, accept my apology.’ Kitty gave him her best forgive-me eyes.
Sonny deflated and the smile returned to his face. ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Once again, he wrapped his arms around her. Kitty gritted her teeth. ‘We’re a team, you and me, Kitty. The Pampered Pet is going to be huge. Everybody is going to want a piece of this. You wouldn’t believe the marketing ideas I’ve got. And with your piece of the deal, you’ll be rich.’
Kitty worked herself free and adjusted her slacks, feeling like she’d just been manhandled. She told him what an honor it was going to be to work with him and the entire Santa Monica Film Studios staff. ‘I’m sorry Miss Corbett won’t be around to enjoy the show’s success. It was her idea, after all.’
‘That’s show biz,’ replied Sonny, apparently none too broken up about it. He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘And, listen, if you really want to know who killed Gretchen …’ He jerked his head to the left.
Kitty followed his move. And found herself looking at Steve Barnhard, who was locked in conversation with the show’s director, Greg. ‘Steve? You think Steve killed Gretchen?’
‘Follow the money, right? Or in this case, the power. Look who’s calling the shots now. Steve’s been put in charge of the studio.’
Kitty was confused. ‘But you said Steve is the one who gave you your job back.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘It doesn’t bother you that he might have killed Gretchen?’
‘Nah,’ said Sonny. ‘I mean, what’s that got to do with me?’
SEVEN
Kitty and Fran tried to talk to Steve about Gretchen’s murder and got stonewalled. ‘Later,’ was all he would say. A small, dark cloud seemed to follow him when he left. No doubt he was mad, very mad.
‘What a jerk,’ complained Fran.
‘It didn’t help that you spilled coffee all over his loafers.’ Kitty stuck the key in the door of the Volvo.
‘Big deal,’ shrugged Fran. ‘One time he gets a little coffee on his shoes and he
’s whining.’
‘He said “again?” and looked like he wanted to kill you.’ Kitty got behind the wheel. Fran jumped in beside her.
‘Yeah,’ said Fran, pulling a tube of lipstick from her purse and studying herself in the visor mirror. She pouted. ‘Instead, he fired me.’
Kitty pulled out on to Sunset. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.’
‘I need a drink,’ Fran declared. ‘Can we stop some place?’
Kitty took her eyes off the road. ‘It’s still morning. Besides, I’ve got deliveries to make.’
They stopped first at the condominiums belonging to Kitty’s Television City regulars. Andrew Keagan, a network VP, wasn’t home. It was Saturday morning. That meant he was at his regular squash game. His housekeeper let them in. The pet pug, named Rosco, was happy to see her and presented no problem at all. He never was. The pug wasn’t the least bit fussy, ever.
Kitty offered him a baked turkey hoagie. He got the same dish every Saturday. It wasn’t the healthiest dish she could offer to an already overweight dog, but dog and owner insisted. And since they were paying …
Kitty Karlyle: Gourmet Pet Chef
—The Roscoe Special—
2 slices French bread, cut in half horizontally
4 thin slices of turkey breast
2 tablespoons tomato sauce
1 teaspoon spicy brown mustard
Shredded lettuce
¾ cup shredded blend of cheddar and Swiss cheese
¼ teaspoon fresh basil
The seven cats belonging to a soft-spoken banker named Warren Warfield were another matter. She’d made them her popular California Goldie Rush. She pulled out the menu card while waiting to be buzzed up.
Kitty Karlyle: Gourmet Pet Chef
—California Goldie Rush—
1 cup tuna, lightly browned
½ cup crushed baby carrots
½ cup finely chopped green beans
1 cup risotto, steamed
pinch kosher salt
pinch basil
1 tsp. olive oil
