by Marie Celine
Warren was on the phone when he opened the door, so he let Kitty and Fran in with no questions and little fanfare. But, as Kitty began laying out the Delftware, Fran began sneezing. Big and loud, like cartoon shotgun blasts. She couldn’t stop to save herself. The cats were howling and Mr Warfield came storming into the kitchen to see what was wrong.
‘Sorry.’ Fran rubbed her nose. ‘Guess I’m allergic.’
‘Perhaps you had better wait outside, miss.’ Mr Warfield clutched his phone by his side and pointed to the door with his free hand.
Fran nodded and left quickly. By this time, there wasn’t a cat in sight and Kitty had to coax them all out of hiding.
‘Maybe you’d better wait for me in the car,’ Kitty said, pulling up in front of the Fandolfis’ Brentwood estate. It was their last stop and she was exhausted. ‘The Fandolfis have two dogs and a cat.’ The couple had no children, only the pets, who they adored to death.
‘Please, one measly cat I can handle.’ She threw open the passenger side door before Kitty could argue.
Kitty hoped so. After all, she had a cat herself. Thank goodness rocker, Fang Danson, and his girlfriend, Angela Evan, were in Colorado. They had an adorable pup named Benny that Kitty adored to death, and a cockatiel that Angela had named Little Rich. Rich had been the name of her deceased husband. Kitty didn’t know or want to know whether she’d dubbed the bird that in honor of his memory or as some sick joke.
Fang and Angela had gone to his chalet in Colorado and taken the pets with them. That meant three weeks of not having to schlep meals over to Santa Monica and put up with Fang’s wandering ways. His wandering eyes Kitty could put up with – his wandering hands were another thing altogether. Kitty couldn’t figure out how Angela put up with the guy. Come to think of it, she couldn’t see how he put up with the Ice Princess either.
Mrs Fandolfi, Holly, opened the door herself – a rare act of working class labor by the young woman who preferred the rare atmosphere of the upper class. She was dressed for the swimming pool in an above-the-knee blue silk robe, casually unbuttoned to the middle of her chest. From what Kitty could see of the bikini underneath, it was as itsy-bitsy as itsy-bitsy could get. ‘Ah, Kitty.’ She tapped her expensive Piaget watch. ‘It’s about time.’
‘Sorry I’m late, Mrs Fandolfi.’ She shot a quick look at Fran. ‘I had a little trouble.’
Holly made a sour face. ‘Who is your friend?’ She made way to let Kitty and Fran inside. Kitty was carrying the insulated bags containing the meals for Hocus, Pocus and Houdini.
‘Fran. She–she’s helping me out today.’ This wasn’t quite true from Kitty’s perspective, but there was no harm done in saying so.
Fran said, ‘Hi. Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ She squinted.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Holly, with a shake of her polished and poised head. Her thick, chocolaty-brown hair was tied up in a girlish ponytail. The sunglasses kept hidden provocative, almond-shaped green eyes that, in another age, would have sent ships and their masters crashing into the rocks off someplace exotic like Gibraltar and to their ultimate death and destruction.
As if reading Kitty’s mind, Holly removed the dark shades now, dangling them lightly in her long, slender fingers. Her hands were smooth and delicate, as if she’d never lifted anything heavier than a boar bristle hairbrush. Holly’s fingers and toes were impeccably manicured and her nails were currently painted clementine orange. Holly had painted her lips in a complementary orange hue, and their fullness would have done Angelina Jolie proud. Kitty had no way of knowing if that fulsomeness was real or of the injected variety. There was a lot of the latter in LA.
Kitty noted the tube of Chanel Rouge Coco Shine sticking out of the pocket of her robe – expensive stuff. The color was called Flirt and Kitty figured that probably summed up Holly to perfection. Holly’s flawless little toes wiggled in the sunlight spilling through the door like tiny aliens come to worship Earth’s sun.
‘You sure look familiar …’ Fran began.
‘Please come see me after you have fed the children,’ Holly said airily, and headed towards the other end of the house. ‘I’ll be in the study.’
‘Come on,’ said Kitty, giving Fran a tug. ‘Their food will be getting cold.’
Fran allowed herself to be dragged behind. ‘I still say that lady looks familiar. I never forget a pair of eyes.’
‘She’s got a pair of eyes, all right.’ Kitty set the food down on the counter. ‘Among other things.’ The intricately carved island was the size of a small aircraft carrier. Small planes could practice takeoffs and landings on it.
‘Would you look at this place?’ Fran ran her hands appreciatively across the marble. ‘I could get used to living like this, girlfriend.’
Kitty did her best to ignore Fran while she went through her usual setup – setting out menu cards: a hearty beef stew for the dogs and broiled crab cakes for the cat. She fed the dogs first; they were always the most eager. And, though Houdini hovered, he maintained a certain aloof spirit that Kitty found rather endearing.
She washed up the dishes, leaving them to dry out atop a The Pampered Pet – CuisineTV embossed potholder lying near the edge of the sink. She wiped her hands on her apron afterward. ‘I suppose I had better go see what madam wants.’
‘If she wants a daughter,’ quipped Fran, ‘tell her I’m available.’
Kitty laughed. ‘I’ll bet you’re older than she is.’
‘Hey, that doesn’t mean I won’t call her mommy if the price is right.’
Kitty pointed a finger at Fran. ‘Wait for me right here. I’ll be right back. Do not,’ she said sternly, ‘go wandering off. I can’t afford to get fired.’ She was already learning that show biz was a fickle and ruthless biz. Who knew how long she or the show would last?
‘Please,’ replied Fran. ‘You’re going to be a TV star. I don’t know why you’re even dealing with this little business anymore at all. I’m the one who got fired.’
Kitty bit her lip. ‘It still doesn’t seem real to me. Besides,’ she added, ‘I haven’t seen one cent out of Santa Monica Film Studios yet. Who knows if I’ll ever get paid? I can’t live on promises.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Fran motioned for Kitty to go. ‘I’ll be waiting right here, Miss Karlyle. Don’t you worry about me.’
When she got back with Fran, Kitty told her what Holly had said during their conversation in the study. It was really quite strange. Holly had asked her all sorts of questions about Mr Fandolfi and about her own love life. Kitty had been quite uncomfortable and found the entire conversation baffling. She’d much rather have talked about the pets. ‘I’m still not sure what the point of our conversation was.’
‘That Holly is one weird chick,’ opined Fran, combing her hair, or at least trying to while Kitty swerved through traffic. They were running late on their way to Chevy Czinski’s house. ‘Slow down, what’s the rush?’
‘Buster likes to eat punctually.’ As for Holly, Kitty wouldn’t have agreed with Fran’s assessment of the woman if it weren’t for her most recent conversation with the lady of the house.
‘Oh, good grief. Anyway, I still think Holly looks familiar.’
‘She works as Mr Fandolfi’s stage assistant sometimes, Fran. You’ve probably seen her at one of his shows. That’s how the two of them met.’
‘I have caught a couple of his specials on cable. I guess that’s it.’ Fran gasped as Kitty cut in front of an LA Metro bus. ‘So, she gets a job as his assistant and, the next thing you know, the barely legal lady lands a gig as the old magician’s wife. Who does he think he is, Hugh Freaking Hefner?’
‘Mr Fandolfi is really quite charming. And elegant. Too bad he wasn’t there so you could meet him.’
‘Maybe Holly’s afraid that her husband is cheating on her or even that you might have designs on snatching him up for yourself?’
‘Please, Mr Fandolfi’s not the type to cheat. He adores Holly. And he’s practically twice my age.
He must be sixty, at least.’ Not to mention that, while Kitty, with all due humility, might consider herself pretty, Holly was gorgeous. Could someone with her looks be that insecure?
‘Hey, look at Holly. Mr Magician likes them young. Maybe he’s got his eyes on a fresh young assistant.’
Kitty considered the idea preposterous, but had to admit it wasn’t impossible.
‘What I can’t imagine is what she sees in someone who is nearly three times her age.’ Fran answered her own question with some possibilities. ‘Maybe he’s got magic hands?’ she quipped.
‘And a million bucks or two,’ Kitty threw in. Both ladies laughed. Kitty slowed as she advanced up the long, meandering, hard-packed earth drive leading to her next client’s house.
Chevy Czinski resided in a log cabin that he claimed to have built by hand. Kitty had no reason to doubt him. The former Tarzan actor certainly looked like he could have done it single-handedly. While posh by the standards of an ordinary working girl like Kitty, the home was modest by Beverly Hills standards; at about twenty-five hundred square feet some of her clients had larger master bedrooms.
The cabin was nestled in a small valley, halfway up the mountains in the Malibu Canyon region of the Santa Monica Mountains. It was a long way to go for a delivery, but at this stage of her business, Kitty took what she could get. Besides, he paid well. The Volvo rolled to a stop, tires crunching over gravel. ‘We’re here.’ Kitty’s fingernails tapped the steering wheel. ‘Please, be on your best behavior now.’
Fran made a face. ‘You’re kidding, right? This place looks more like somebody’s poor attempt at a petting zoo.’ Except there were no people around – the place looked forlorn and empty.
Buster appeared out of nowhere and barked in the window. Fran hit the ceiling. ‘Dang it, dog. You’ve got some lungs!’
Kitty laughed. ‘Hey there, Buster.’ She saw Chevy limping down from the tiger’s den. ‘Here he comes. Like I said, be on your best behavior.’
‘Hey!’ Fran scowled but put up no further argument.
Mr Czinski’s knees were so bad they squeaked. When she’d suggested knee replacement surgery, he’d replied that he didn’t believe in such things. The former actor clapped his hands, setting off a muffled explosion that rolled through the canyon. ‘Here, boy!’
Buster turned at the sound of his master and dropped from the car. ‘How are you today, Mr Czinski?’ asked Kitty as she climbed out of the Volvo and popped open the rear to fetch Buster’s lunch.
The smell coming from the pens – a mixture of hay, several fruits and vegetables in various stages of decay, and a healthy dose of dung – always reminded Kitty of her visits to the LA Zoo and the San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Mr Czinski didn’t like to refer to the animal pens as cages. He preferred to use the term abodes.
Czinski had catlike blue-gray eyes and puffy cheeks. A full head of medium-brown hair and angular features gave a hint of his once ruggedly handsome good looks. ‘Fine. How about you, Kitty?’ Czinski wore a blue chambray work shirt and tan cargo pocket khakis over steel-toed work boots, like he always did. There was a half-chewed cigar protruding from the pocket of his shirt. The frazzled end looked like it might have been gnawed on by a lion.
Czinski had explained to Kitty that the steel-toed boots were a necessary precaution as some of his menagerie found toes quite the delicacy. She wasn’t sure whether he’d been teasing or not. Maybe it was his way of seeing that she didn’t wander into any of the abodes. Not that there was any chance at all of that happening.
Kitty said she was doing well and introduced her friend, Fran.
‘Tell me,’ he said, watching Kitty prepare Buster’s meal out on the wide front porch, ‘how did this cooking show go that you were telling me about?’
Kitty was surprised he’d even mentioned it now. She had told him all about it the last time she had been out to his place. ‘Not so good,’ she admitted, setting a menu card on the front stoop.
Kitty Karlyle: Gourmet Pet Chef
—Busterlicious Beef Stroganoff—
1 ½ pounds cubed round steak
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
1 small onion, sliced
2 medium carrots, sliced
½ cup green peas
4 ounces fresh mushrooms, sliced
8 ounces beef broth
6 ounces cream of mushroom soup
Salt and black pepper
½ cup sour cream
1 ½ cups cooked egg noodles
‘Not so good?’ Czinski scratched his knee. ‘How not so good?’
When Kitty had first explained how she’d been offered a cooking show for pets, Mr Czinski’s Tarzanlike muscles, though normally buried beneath layers of fat due to years of neglect, had bulged and his face had swollen up like a red balloon. His fist had been wrapped around the door handle of her car at the time and Kitty could have sworn she’d heard her old Volvo squeal like a pig that had been snatched by the throat by some predator.
Then when she’d told him the name of the producer, he’d given the door handle a twist that broke one end loose. Looking askance, he’d said he was familiar with the studio. He’d tried in vain to reattach the handle but the bolt was broken. The door handle still dangled against the metal door like a broken wing.
Kitty had asked him if he knew anything about Santa Monica Film Studios. He stepped back from the car and looked toward his prized animals. As he’d turned back toward Kitty, there had been a hard look on his face that hadn’t been there before. ‘If I were you, I would stay very far away from Santa Monica Film Studios,’ he had said, his Polish accent grown thicker than normal. ‘You should very much stay away from that–that producer, Gretchen Corbett.’ Mr Czinski had practically spat the producer’s name. So Kitty would never have dared broach the subject again if he hadn’t brought it up himself.
Kitty plated Buster’s food in a large stainless steel dish that Mr Czinski kept near the front door as she formulated a reply. ‘Well,’ she said softly, ‘the producer got murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Mr Czinski’s hand went to his chest and his face paled.
‘Are you OK, Mr Czinski?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He shook himself. ‘I’m fine. I hadn’t heard, that’s all. I don’t get the paper and I rarely watch television.’ He glanced toward his little menagerie. ‘Murder is always such an awful business.’
‘Mind if I use the little ladies’ room?’ Fran asked. She shrugged. ‘Sorry, guess it’s all the coffee.’
Mr Czinski nodded and gave her directions. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on the animals.’
‘Sure, Mr Czinski,’ said Kitty, eying him curiously. The murder seemed to have hit him hard. Maybe he wasn’t used to such things, living out in the country, far removed from the city and all its crimes. He did seem very happy out here with his animals. In many ways, Kitty envied him his chosen lifestyle. ‘I’ll wait ‘til Buster is finished and then clean up.’
He nodded and trudged toward his animals.
Kitty spent a few minutes playing with Buster after he’d finished, and then picked up his bowl. She carried the dirty dog dish to the kitchen and rinsed it out in the farm-style sink. She noticed a CuisineTV potholder next to the toaster. These things were popping up everywhere. Gretchen had wasted no time promoting her newest show.
‘Wow!’
Kitty turned. ‘Fran?’
‘Yeah,’ called Fran. ‘Come here, you have got to see this.’
Kitty followed the sound of Fran’s voice and found her in a large, oak-paneled den with a big bay window looking out across the small valley.
‘Look at all this stuff,’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you seen this?’
Kitty looked about. She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve never come further than the main room and the kitchen.’ And she was feeling uncomfortable doing so now. ‘Come on,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘we shouldn’t be snooping.’
<
br /> ‘Who’s snooping?’ replied Fran, waving her arms around. ‘I mean, all this stuff is on display. On the walls, on the floor, on the shelves.’ Kitty followed with her eyes. ‘He wants people to see this stuff.’ Fran picked up a stuffed lion’s head and examined it at arm’s length. ‘You think all these trappings are real?’
Kitty nodded. There were all sorts of stuffed animals: the male lion and its female mate, a tiger, a rhino and various exotic birds that she couldn’t name. An eight-foot alligator was sunning itself in the window. Fortuitously, it was dead and stuffed. There were scores of photographs, both in color and black and white, and a dozen large movie posters in glass frames – just like at the cinema.
‘What is he, some kind of weird collector?’ She set the lion’s head back on the trophy table and examined a four-foot movie poster on the wall. Above the poster hung a solitary elephant tusk, yellowed with age.
‘No,’ explained Kitty. ‘He used to be Tarzan. That’s him in the picture you’re looking at.’
‘Get out!’ shouted Fran. ‘This hunk?’ The hunk in question was hanging one-handed from a thick, twisted vine showing a well-muscled arm, and wearing nothing but a skimpy loincloth. His other hand clutched a dangerous looking knife. Coiled on the vine next to him was an impossibly large and predacious looking snake of some sort that looked more Hollywood than natural. Its two fangs were as long and curved as sabers.
Kitty explained how Mr Czinski had once been a very big star back in Europe. ‘But that was a long time ago,’ she said. ‘I really don’t think he likes to talk about it much these days.’
‘Hey, isn’t that Gretchen Corbett in this picture?’ Fran’s fingernail pushed against the glass of a small, grainy black and white photo on the wall.
‘No.’ Kitty took a closer look. ‘I don’t know. It could be, I suppose.’ The woman in the picture with her arms around a much younger version of Chevy Czinski couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old at the time that photograph was taken.
‘The picture’s not that clear though.’ Kitty shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s her. In fact, when I mentioned the meeting I was going to be having with Gretchen at the studio, he didn’t say anything at all about being friends with her.’ Kitty stopped and made a face.
