Lights, Camera, Murder!: A TV Pet Chef Mystery set in L.A. (Kitty Karlyle Pet Chef Mysteries)

by Marie Celine

  ‘Yeah, our David?’ asked Fran.

  Sylvester nodded. ‘That was his name.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  Sylvester shrugged. ‘He came by and knocked on the door while I was here with Fred and Barney. He seemed surprised when I answered, but seems like a friendly enough guy. He was disappointed you weren’t around.’

  Fran shot Kitty a suggestive look that Kitty chose to ignore.

  After Sylvester had gone, Kitty put out food for Fred and Barney and offered Fran a glass of wine.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ Fran asked, watching Kitty pour out only one glassful.

  Kitty explained that she had to get showered and ready for her date. ‘I’m so tired, I’m afraid that if I have a drink now I’ll never get out the door.’

  Fran nodded her understanding. ‘What about your other beau?’

  ‘What other beau?’

  ‘David Biggins.’ Fran fluttered her long lashes.

  ‘Oh, please,’ Kitty said with a shake of the head. ‘We’re just friends. Old friends.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ teased Fran. ‘So, did the two of you hook up in high school?’

  ‘You’re bad,’ laughed Kitty.

  ‘I’m just saying. I’ve seen the look in that man’s eyes. He’s got the hots for you, Kitty. Now he’s showing up at your door,’ she leered suggestively, ‘like a lovesick puppy.’

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ Kitty said, crossing her arms over her chest, ‘before you get me in any more trouble.’

  ‘OK,’ said Fran, sitting at the kitchen table, running a finger over the rim of her glass. ‘It sure was nice of that Sylvester to cover the rent for you.’

  Kitty gushed on about how nice Sylvester and his roommates were.

  ‘Have you ever thought about taking in a roommate? I noticed you have a second bedroom.’

  Kitty shrugged and started loading up the dishwasher. ‘Not really, I mean, I suppose it would help, but with the hours I keep and them running around underfoot,’ she said waving at her pets. ‘Who’d want me, right?’

  Fran cocked her head and grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t said anything that I couldn’t deal with.’

  Kitty started up the dishwasher and turned. ‘Are you saying you’d like to move in? Here?’

  Fran tilted her head. ‘Well, I did just lose my job. It doesn’t exactly look like you’re rolling in the dough either – no offense.’ She held up her hand.

  ‘None taken,’ said Kitty, dropping into the chair across the table. ‘You know, I never really thought about it. I suppose it could work.’ She leaned back. ‘What about your boyfriend? I thought you were living with him?’

  Fran scowled, downed her merlot and helped herself to another glass. ‘I was. We had a bit of a disagreement.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’

  ‘About his wife wanting to move back in.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kitty didn’t know what else to say and found herself reaching for a glass of wine after all. ‘To roommates,’ she said, hoisting her glass. They drank.

  ‘I guess I’d better go get my stuff,’ Fran said, pushing back her chair.

  ‘I’ll give you a spare key then,’ said Kitty. ‘I’ve got another in the drawer. You can move in whenever you like. I’ve got to leave for Jack’s in less than an hour.’

  ‘Don’t worry, girlfriend. It won’t take me that long. My suitcase is out in the Mini.’

  ‘I see,’ Kitty said with a big grin. ‘Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, having your bags out in your car already?’

  Fran smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s just the one.’ She held up her index finger. ‘But, yeah. To tell the truth, I’ll be glad to get it out of the Mini. Somebody vandalized it last night outside my boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, Richie’s place.’

  ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘Not that I could see. Busted the passenger side window though, so I’ve been nervous about my suitcase being in the back all day.’

  ‘Maybe it was kids.’

  ‘Could be. But I think it’s that crazy wife of his. She has a temper – sure was mad when she caught me and Rich together at his condo.’

  ‘Can you blame her?’

  ‘No, I guess not. Richie never told me he was married. Maybe I ought to go bust out one of his windows,’ Fran said on parting.

  TEN

  Jack Young owned a smallish, nineteen-forties-era house in a working-class section of Burbank. The lot was tiny. A small, detached garage on the right side, next to the alley, occupied a good portion of what little yard there was.

  The house itself was a bunker-looking, white rectangle with no curb appeal at all sitting on a side street from which Kitty could hear the hiss of traffic on nearby Victory Boulevard. The grass was brown and patchy. Jack claimed to enjoy gardening; he just wasn’t very good at it. A chain link fence protected the backyard; from what, she couldn’t imagine.

  Jack lived there with his own black Labrador, named Libby, who Kitty generally adored as much as she adored the master of the house. Though, at the moment, the adoration was tilted more in the dog’s favor. For the past couple of days, Kitty had found that the detective could be even more difficult and irritating than her most demanding clients.

  Then again, maybe it was just his sudden association with the annoyingly attractive, and tall, Lieutenant Elin Nordstrom that was getting under Kitty’s skin. That made her angrier still. She was not going to let that woman make her jealous.

  Kitty vowed to be on her best behavior and put all thoughts of murder and police business out of her mind as she rang the bell.

  Before leaving, she had called her parents down in Newport Beach about the rent on her apartment. She had hated to call them up, again, for money, but as nice as it was of Sylvester and his mates to pay her debt, she wanted to be sure they got their money back as soon as possible. With a struggling band and minimum wage jobs, they were no better off than she was.

  Kitty’s mom had answered and, after pelting Kitty with questions about her life, Jack, and the recent murder, quickly agreed to transfer funds into Kitty’s bank account. She’d also exacted a promise from Kitty to bring Jack down for dinner at the family restaurant later in the week.

  That was one promise Kitty had been reticent to make considering the current strain that her relationship with Jack was under. But Mom had insisted.

  Kitty rang the bell a second time and reminded herself to be on her best behavior, stick to couthie conversation, and not let anything spoil the evening.

  ‘Oh, er …’ Lieutenant Elin Nordstrom, in a tight-fitting pair of blue jeans and tailored white shirt, filled the doorway. Kitty rose on her tiptoes and tried looking past her annoyingly statuesque form. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  The lieutenant smiled. She had a bottle of Spendrups beer in her hand. Kitty’s dad was a beer buff, so she knew this to be one of Sweden’s major brands. ‘Hello, Ms Karlyle.’

  Kitty held back an instinctive scowl. The way Nordstrom said hello made it sound like she was talking down to a child or pet. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Come on in. Jack’s on the patio. Barbecuing.’

  How gracious of you, thought Kitty, but she kept the thought to herself. She went through the side door off the small galley kitchen and found Jack grilling steaks in the chill evening air. Flames fluttered and smoke rose slowly. Libby watched with anticipation of what might come her way.

  ‘Kitty!’ Jack wiped his hands on his Moe, Larry and Curly kitchen apron and gave her a hug that she withstood more than reciprocated. ‘What’s wrong? Everything OK? I thought we’d have steaks.’ He grabbed the neck of an open bottle of Spendrups from beside the grill and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  ‘Since when did you start drinking imported beer?’ She’d always known him to be a Miller man – MGD to be precise. In fact, he was normally quite insistent on Miller Genuine Draft or nothing at all.

  ‘Oh, this?’ Jack looked at the bottle in his hand. ‘Elin brought it.’
He tapped the label with his finger. ‘I never heard of it before. But it’s pretty darn good. You should try it.’ He started for the kitchen door. ‘Let me get you one.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Kitty replied, her voice as frosty as the beer. ‘I can’t stay.’ She turned on her heel. To think she’d spent an hour getting ready for this date, a nice red dress, a light cashmere jacket and heels. Fran had even done her hair for her. Kitty quickly saw that having a professional stylist as a roommate was going to have its advantages.

  Jack reached for her arm. ‘What are you talking about?’ He looked anxious, but still managed to smile. ‘We have a date.’ He waved the spatula over the grill. ‘The steaks are nearly done.’

  At the mention of steak, Libby rose on her back legs, but nothing came her way and she settled back down. Kitty stepped over the dog. ‘Why don’t you share them with the lieutenant? I’m sure she must be hungry.’ For something – she left that part unsaid.

  Jack looked surprised. He took Kitty’s stiff hand. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  His grin only infuriated her and she pulled away. ‘I really can’t stay.’

  ‘Come on, Kitty. The lieutenant only dropped by to talk about the case. She and Detective Leitch had been doing some digging around and she wanted to give me an update.’

  ‘How nice of her.’ Kitty pulled her jacket tight. ‘And she brought you beer.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘She was only being friendly. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  Kitty remained silent.

  ‘I told her we were having dinner. She’s not staying. Come on,’ he urged. ‘Fresh steaks, salad greens with honeyed pecans and goats cheese, just the way you like it.’

  Nordstrom called Jack’s name from inside and a moment later appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ll be leaving now.’ Libby appeared at her side and she ran her hands over top of the Lab’s head. ‘I do hope my being here hasn’t upset you, Ms Karlyle. I came on official police business.’ She smiled in a way that Kitty found inflammatory. ‘We are working to solve Gretchen Corbett’s murder. The sooner we do so, the sooner your name will be out from under a dark cloud, as they say. It was your knife that killed her, after all.’

  Kitty squeezed past the lieutenant. ‘My knife, not me.’

  Jack ran inside after her, Elin Nordstrom hovered in the background. ‘Come on, Kitty. Calm down.’

  Kitty didn’t like being asked to calm down. In fact, it was like putting gasoline on a fire. ‘I do not need to calm down. And I do not need anybody trying to clear my name. Like I said before, I’ll figure out who killed Gretchen Corbett and I don’t need you or anybody else’s help to do it!’ she boasted, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Kitty—’

  Nordstrom laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I think everyone needs to take a breath.’

  ‘Kitty,’ said Jack. ‘Do not, I repeat, do not go doing anything stupid. There is a cold-blooded murderer out there and if you go nosing around, you’re liable to be next.’

  ‘I can take care of myself, Jack.’ She pulled open the front door.

  ‘Kitty—’

  ‘Let her go, Jack,’ Kitty heard the lieutenant say as she stormed out into the twilight. ‘Let her continue her little investigation. What could it hurt? She won’t get anywhere.’

  ELEVEN

  Kitty discovered Fran soaking in the tub when she got back to the apartment. Fred was lying on the robin’s egg blue bathroom rug beside her. He was fond of shag. She could hear Barney mewling in the kitchen, waiting expectantly for his evening treat. He was a creature of habit and didn’t like it when his routines varied.

  The matching blue vinyl shower curtain was pushed all the way to the back wall. ‘Either that was one short date or I fell asleep in here and took one heck of a long nap,’ Fran quipped from behind a wall of bubbles that served to keep her at least somewhat modest.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be with you in a minute. I have to feed Barney.’ Her pets always came first and she didn’t like to let them down.

  Kitty reached into the pantry, grabbed a container of one of Barney’s favorite kibbles – an all-natural, vegetarian blend produced by a local company out in the valley – then poured a scoopful into his ceramic dish that she kept up on the side counter. The dish was a gift from Aunt Gloria and was embellished with cute little blue kitties along the outer edge. No way she could leave Barney’s bowl on the floor with Fred the food-seeking missile on the constant prowl. She stroked Barney while he ate. He liked that.

  Kitty sniffed. The kitchen smelled like the La Brea Tar Pits and a brownish-black, amorphous blob rested in the sink. Either a meteorite had landed in her apartment while she was out or Fran had been cooking.

  Fran appeared in the kitchen doorway, swathed in a fluffy, white, knee-length bathrobe. ‘Oh,’ she said, following Kitty’s gaze. ‘I was going to clean that up. I thought I’d try one of your recipes.’ She pointed to an open, spiral bound notebook beside the cooktop.

  Kitty leaned over the page. ‘This is a recipe for pigs.’

  ‘Huh?’ Fran came closer. ‘You cook pigs? I didn’t see that listed as one of the ingredients.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘No, not a recipe to eat pigs, a recipe for pigs to eat – a Vietnamese potbellied pig to be precise.’

  ‘I guess that explains why the ingredient list called for alfalfa,’ replied Fran, chewing her lip. ‘I couldn’t find any anywhere. Not that I knew what I was looking for.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Substituted some spinach noodles that I found in the pantry. I mean, I figured they’re both green. Alfalfa is green, right?’

  Kitty looked toward the slab in the sink. ‘That must have tasted disgusting.’

  ‘You kidding? You don’t think I actually tasted that goo?’

  Kitty opened the trashcan with her foot and dropped Fran’s failure inside with a loud plop that sent Barney skittering for cover. Kitty yelled that she was sorry and Mirabelle Stein banged on her floor. It was after nine o’clock, Kitty was surprised the woman was still up.

  ‘So,’ said Fran, pulling back a chair at the kitchen table. ‘What happened to your date? Jack get called away on a case?’

  Kitty settled into the chair beside her, but not before pouring them each a healthy glass of Trader Joe’s Chablis. She told Fran how she had found she-who-shall-not-be-named at Jack’s house and how things had gone swiftly downhill from there.

  Fran patted Kitty’s hand. ‘You and I sure aren’t having much luck the last couple of days, are we?’

  ‘You can add Gretchen Corbett to that club.’

  Fran nodded. ‘And Gretchen,’ she said soberly. ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’

  Kitty sat taller. ‘We,’ she said firmly, ‘are going to find out who killed Gretchen and why – or die trying.’ She raised her glass. She and Fran toasted. In your face, Elin Nordstrom.

  ‘Here, here,’ said Fran. ‘I’m with you girl.’ She cleared her throat. ‘But instead of this “or die trying bit”, could we maybe rewrite the script to read “or break a nail trying?”’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Agreed.’ She clamped her hands over her knees. ‘We’ll need to grill some suspects and check out everybody’s alibis. The first order of business is to do some snooping.’

  ‘Snooping? You mean like Nancy Drew or Scooby and the gang style?’

  Kitty downed her wine and smiled her biggest smile. ‘You bet.’ She tilted back in her chair, feeling slightly dizzy. She wasn’t used to drinking on an empty stomach. She pushed ugly memories of her spoiled dinner date with Jack from her head. ‘Now, if we could only figure out where Gretchen lives – lived,’ Kitty said, ‘we could break in—’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Fran raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You heard me. I mean, we’ll be careful and all. Who knows, maybe we’ll find an unlocked door or climb in through a cracked open window.’

  Kitty pulled a small notebook from her purse, along with her Montblanc pen, and began j
otting down her thoughts. ‘We need to compile a list of suspects.’ She pointed her pen at Fran. ‘But I still think a little breaking and entering is our first order of business.’

  ‘But Kitty, girl—’

  ‘Uh-uh. No buts.’ Kitty cut Fran off and poured them each another round. ‘Here, have some more wine. We’re gonna need it.’

  ‘Much more of this and what I’m going to need is another nap,’ quipped Fran, though she didn’t refuse the refill and drank quickly. ‘But Kitty—’

  ‘OK, the way I see it,’ said Kitty, laying her hands on the table, ‘we’ve got lots of suspects.’ She stood. ‘Finish your wine. I’m going to see if I can find some tools and maybe a flashlight lying around. What do you think we’ll need for picking a lock? A screwdriver? I might have one here someplace.’ Her eyes spun around the kitchen. The alcohol was making her dizzy. She reached for a box of wheat crackers and grabbed a handful to settle her stomach, held the box out to Fran who declined.

  ‘Then we’ll head over to Santa Monica Film Studios and search for Gretchen’s address. It’s bound to be there in the personnel files, right?’ She fished around in a kitchen drawer and pulled out a blue-handled flashlight, flicked it on and off to be certain it worked and waved it triumphantly in the air. ‘You probably know where personnel is.’ She looked Fran up and down. ‘So, are you in or are you out?’

  Fran rose. ‘I’m in,’ she said, standing and tugging the belt of her robe tight. ‘But do you mind if I get dressed first?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Kitty answered. ‘Maybe we should dress in black.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Fran, ‘let’s save that for Gretchen’s funeral. I don’t look my best in black.’ She reached for her purse. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. And’ she said, snatching the flashlight from Kitty’s hand and throwing it back in the drawer, ‘you can leave your tools and your toys at home.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Kitty said.

  Fran pulled a key from her purse and a cream-colored keycard from her wallet. ‘This,’ she said, holding up a silver key, ‘is the key to Gretchen’s apartment. And this,’ she held up the plastic card, ‘is the card that gets us into her building.’