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

by Marie Celine

  Kitty squealed and gave Fran a hug. ‘This is going to be so much fun.’

  ‘Oh yeah, fun,’ Fran said, the skepticism clear in her voice. ‘Until your boyfriend and his tagalong, the Swedish inquisitor, bust us for breaking and entering.’

  TWELVE

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve done this a million times.’

  They’d left the Volvo in a visitor spot along the perimeter and approached the luxury high-rise straight on. Kitty was duly impressed. Gretchen’s condo must have cost her a bundle.

  ‘In fact, the last time I was here was the day Gretchen got herself killed. Makes me feel kind of weird now, you know?’

  Kitty did.

  Fran waved the keycard in front of the door and Kitty watched as a red light on a metal box turned to green and Fran pulled open the big glass door. ‘There’s no security on duty after seven, so we won’t have to explain ourselves to anybody.’

  Kitty gulped. She was beginning to feel a wee bit nervous about this and she wasn’t sure why. What could go wrong?

  They rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor. ‘It’s this one,’ said Fran, sticking the key in the lock. She punched in the alarm code, entered and closed the door behind them.

  The apartment was dark and the lights of the city shone below. Kitty gasped. Gretchen had a corner unit with amazing views of Los Angeles. The place appeared to have been decorated by one of those expensive designers you see spreads about in magazines. Either that or the producer had had a flair for decorating. However, in this case, a layer of clutter seemed to have settled like dust over every available surface.

  A single cracked and yellowed elephant tusk hung from two hooks on the wall over the fireplace. Kitty thought it looked more like it belonged in some smoky old hunting lodge than a chic LA condominium.

  Fran seemed to read Kitty’s face. ‘Gretchen had good taste – mostly – but she was a bit of a slob.’ She plucked a frilly pink bra by its strap from the back of a sleek leather chair facing the window. ‘So, where do we start?’ Fran draped the bra over a nearby lampshade, giving the light a pinkish hue.

  Kitty turned in a circle. The apartment was expansive but there was a staleness in the air, as if it had been closed up for a very long time. Perhaps it was only her imagination. It hadn’t been that long since Gretchen’s demise.

  Fran had turned on only the one lamp. Though they were eleven stories up, both women were concerned that someone might notice that the lights were on in a murdered woman’s apartment and telephone the police. ‘I’ll take the desk,’ said Kitty.

  An espresso-colored desk and chair sat between two floor-to-ceiling windows, near the main sitting area comprised of a couple of chairs and a loveseat. A large, flat screen computer sat atop the desk. ‘How about starting in the bedroom?’

  Fran nodded and disappeared down the hall. Apparently, she knew her way around Gretchen’s place pretty well. Not surprising, since she’d explained to Kitty on the way over here that Gretchen had often sent her here to pick things up for her. Plus, it seemed that Fran and Gretchen’s relationship had been more than simply employer-employee. Sometimes they’d hung out together. They had been friends. That was why Fran had the key to the producer’s place.

  Kitty ran her hand over the computer keyboard and the screen came to life. She clicked on several directories, but there was so much to see and she didn’t know what she was looking for. The computer wasn’t password protected but it was still doing her no good.

  Kitty moved her attention to the desk drawers, performing a perfunctory search. This was frustrating; not knowing what to look for and realizing she might not recognize something as important, even if she held it in her hands, was making this whole breaking and entering thing seem useless.

  There was nothing in the top drawer but a clutter of pencils, pens, paper clips and random scraps of paper. The second drawer held files. She riffled through several – bank statements, bills, and invitations, all very businesslike.

  Why couldn’t Gretchen Corbett have some folder conveniently labeled skeletons in my closet or some such? Kitty was growing more and more disheartened. Maybe Gretchen’s death had nothing to do with her personal life. It couldn’t have been random – it hadn’t happened on the street or in some cold, dark alley, after all – but maybe the killer was someone she did business with … or someone from work.

  That was more likely, wasn’t it? She was stabbed in her office, after all. Kitty needed to learn where everyone was at the time of the murder. Most would have been on set with her, so that let a number of people off the hook.

  Kitty closed the drawer. That put Steve Barnhard, his lover – Barbara Cartwright – and Sonny Sarkisian at the top of her list. Sonny certainly had a good motive; Gretchen had fired him the week before.

  She made a mental note to learn why. Sonny had been evasive on the issue when she’d pressed him about it. He was slick. Too slick. And he wasn’t on the set, of course. Neither was Barbara Cartwright, to the best of her knowledge. Besides, Kitty would have recognized her if she had been. Where had Steve been?

  Kitty’s thoughts were interrupted by a shout. ‘Hey, come here and look at this!’

  Kitty hurried to the bedroom where she discovered Fran waving a rubber-banded pack of letters in the air. ‘What is it?’ Gretchen’s bedroom had ornate French-style furnishings and an ethereal looking four-poster bed with a heavy lavender quilt. The scent of Gretchen’s favored Chanel No. 5 lingered in the air like a sweet memory.

  ‘Love letters,’ replied Fran, triumphantly. ‘I already opened one of them. Looks like Gretchen had a secret lover.’ She fell down on the edge of the king-sized bed. ‘I can’t believe she never told me about this guy.’

  She ripped the rubber band from the rest of the stack and the letters scattered across the comforter. ‘Here,’ she said, grabbing up a handful. ‘You take some.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Kitty started pulling open envelopes. ‘And who even writes love letters anymore?’ She’d never received a single one from Jack.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Kitty’s heart raced. This could be the first thread, the one that opened up the entire investigation. Her eyes scanned the first letter and she blushed. Lots of passion and plenty of sex talk. ‘Wow,’ she whispered.

  She felt Fran squirm beside her. ‘Yeah, “wow” is right.’

  ‘I still don’t know who he is.’ Kitty threw the last letter down on the bed in frustration. All the letters had been signed only by Cam, no surname.

  ‘Yeah, me either. I mean, who is this Cam guy? Gretchen never mentioned any Cam to me.’ She harrumphed. ‘Here I thought we shared everything.’ She slammed a fist into the mattress.

  ‘Maybe he’s someone from her past. Here, take a look at this one.’ She handed Fran one of the last letters in the bunch.

  Fran’s eyes scanned the wrinkled page. ‘You mean they broke up?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ answered Kitty. ‘And none too amicably. It looks like he was giving her the old heave-ho.’ Though it was hard to say for certain what had occurred since they were only reading one side of this unhappily-ever-after love story. Yet, Gretchen must have continued to care about him. After all, she’d kept all his love letters, even when things had turned nasty.

  Fran yawned.

  ‘Come on,’ said Kitty. She snatched some letters and shoved them in her purse. ‘Let’s get home and grab some shuteye. We’ll pick this up in the morning.’

  Fran nodded. ‘You’re keeping them?’

  Kitty explained that the letters might prove useful in uncovering Gretchen’s killer. ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘who’s gonna miss them? If the police had wanted them, I’m guessing they would have already taken them.’ She really was only guessing. She had no idea whether the police had explored Gretchen’s condo or not, though it seemed likely that they would have.

  Kitty scooped up the remaining letters and closed the dresser drawer. She didn’t want to leave any evidence of
their having been in Gretchen’s condo. There would be fingerprints, of course, and she regretted that they hadn’t thought to wear gloves. She had plenty of toss-away latex gloves that she used for prepping food and should have brought some along. They would have been perfect for the job.

  Kitty wandered back down the hall. ‘Fran?’

  ‘In here.’

  She found Fran with her hand on the refrigerator handle and her face in the fridge. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m starved,’ whined Fran, her mouth full of cold pasta. ‘I’ve got to eat something. Especially after all that wine you plied me with. You want some? This stuff is delicious. I wonder where Gretch gets-got her take-out Italian?’

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea, Fran.’

  ‘Why not? Gretchen’s dead. She’s not going to mind if I eat her leftovers.’ Reaching toward the back of the top shelf to grab the plastic container of raspberry lemonade standing there, Fran knocked a carton of vanilla soymilk to the kitchen floor. ‘Oops.’ She inspected the carton and the floor. ‘No harm done.’

  No, no harm done except for the minor heart attack the sound of the milk carton slamming into the tile had given her. A noise like that would have set off her upstairs neighbor, Mirabelle Stein. What if whoever lived below Gretchen heard the noise and was on their way up, or, worse still, sending the cops up to investigate?

  ‘Good thing the carton wasn’t opened yet. Maybe we should take it with us?’

  ‘Fran!’

  ‘What? Look at the date on this carton, it’s about to expire.’

  ‘But I think …’ Kitty froze.

  Fran made a face. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Shhh.’ She held out a hand to shush Fran. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. Kitty held her breath. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Fran shook her head slowly. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘I did,’ insisted Kitty. A chill went up her spine. ‘It sounded like somebody was trying the door handle.’

  Fran dropped the container of pasta. It fell with a dull thunk. Both girls gasped. Sorry, mouthed Fran.

  ‘I’m going to go check it out,’ whispered Kitty.

  ‘Be careful,’ urged Fran as she bent to scoop the take-out container from the tile.

  Kitty tiptoed to the front door and peered hesitantly through the peephole. There was no one in sight. She turned the knob slowly, eased the door open and stuck her head out, half-expecting to be attacked by a mysterious, dark clad stranger.

  She wasn’t. But what she saw was almost as frightening.

  She saw Steve Barnhard open the door to the condo up the hall, then step inside.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Fran pressed her ear to Steve’s door.

  Kitty nodded. ‘Now, come on. Let’s get out of here. What if he finds us lurking out here in the hall?’ She tugged at Fran’s arm. ‘Get away from there. You’re going to get us both arrested, if not for breaking and entering, then for harassment or something.’

  Fran pulled away and shrugged. ‘So what? We have just as much right to be here as he does.’

  Kitty raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, maybe not quite as much …’ Fran’s voice trailed off.

  The whooshing sound followed by the gentle ping that signaled the opening of the elevator door sent them both skittering around the corner, like mice when the lights blink on in a dark basement.

  ‘Come on,’ motioned Fran. ‘We’ll take the stairs.’

  ‘Good idea,’ whispered Kitty. With a cop for a boyfriend, it wouldn’t do to get caught in this security building. The stairwell was dimly lit and hot. Their footsteps echoed maddeningly as they hurried for the ground-floor exit.

  Kitty greedily sucked in fresh air as they hobbled back to the car.

  ‘I had no idea Steve lives in the same building as Gretchen,’ gasped Fran. ‘And I can’t believe Gretch never mentioned it.’

  ‘It sounds like Gretchen was keeping more than one secret from you.’

  ‘Yeah. Hey!’ Fran slammed to a halt and pointed.

  ‘What?’ Kitty asked, wearily pushing the key into the door lock.

  ‘Your window’s busted.’

  ‘Busted?’

  ‘Yeah. On my side. See?’ Fran pushed her hand through where the glass should have been and wriggled her fingers. ‘Busted.’

  Kitty marched around to the other side of the car. Bits of glass covered the passenger seat. ‘Great, just great.’ Ka-ching, this was going to cost her even more money that she didn’t have. Would she have to telephone her mom and dad for a loan? She couldn’t very well drive around with a smashed out window.

  Kitty peered inside. Junk everywhere – but then there always was. And it stank like the back alley of a cheesy restaurant – but it usually smelled that way too. After all, she used the Volvo mostly for hauling around herself, her pets and her customers’ meals, so it wasn’t exactly going to smell like the perfume counter at Macys. She leaned closer. The glove box hung open.

  ‘That’s different,’ Kitty said, reaching through the window frame. ‘I know I didn’t leave the glove box lying open like that.’ The odds and ends she kept inside had spilled out or been pushed out on to the seat and floor. Shoving papers and miscellaneous items, such as a tangled mp3 cord, a rusty can opener and a couple of dried out lipstick tubes back inside, she pushed the glove box shut before any of the stuff could fall out again.

  ‘First my car, then yours,’ Fran griped. ‘You’d think the jerks breaking into cars would at least have the sense to stick to Mercedes and Porsches and the like. There are enough of the bloody things around. And I suspect they have much better pickings than our jalopies.’

  Kitty agreed. She pulled open the passenger side door and began sweeping out the broken glass. ‘Give me a hand.’ Together they scooped out most of the shards and tossed them in the back. They weren’t sharp at all – the wonder of safety glass.

  As Kitty drove, Fran hung her head out the broken window for fresh air, bits of glass still in the floor mat scrunching underfoot, as she reached in her bag for her hairbrush. ‘Huh.’

  ‘What is it?’ Kitty asked, though she was too tired and hungry to care much at that point. Though it was late, there was always a lot of traffic on the streets of LA.

  Fran pulled a thick, unaddressed manila envelope from her satchel. ‘Nothing. I just remembered, I’m still carrying around this envelope that Gretch asked me to fetch for her from her condo the day she died.’ She shoved it back in her bag. ‘Guess I should have left it back in her place while we were there.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘How should I know? I’m no snoop.’

  Kitty decided it wasn’t worth bringing up the fact that ten minutes ago snooping was exactly what they had been doing.

  Fran pressed her fingers against the side of the envelope. ‘Papers, I’d say. Work stuff, you know? Gretch always took her work home with her.’

  Kitty turned left at the light. ‘Maybe it’s my contract for the show.’

  ‘Could be,’ Fran agreed. ‘Or it could be a script for some other show. Gretch was always balancing a hundred projects at once. It could be receipts for her accountant, for all I know.’

  The road ahead was clear and Kitty turned her face to Fran. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  Fran looked surprised. ‘You want me to open it? I was thinking maybe of giving it to the cops.’

  Kitty turned her attention back to the traffic on the street. Her shoulders bobbed up and down.

  ‘You, Miss Goody Two Shoes, want me to open it?’

  ‘If you don’t want to—’

  ‘No,’ Fran replied quickly. ‘I want to. I’m just surprised you want to.’ She pulled the thick envelope out of her purse, laid it on her lap and quickly ripped open the end. Her scream pierced the air like the shriek of a supersonic jet passing through the open windows.

  Kitty jammed on the brakes. The car slid sideways across tw
o lanes of traffic. The old Volvo bounced up the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant on the sidewalk in front of a 24-hour pharmacy. The station wagon shivered for a moment, then fell still.

  A weary-looking pharmacist with a hairline that receded up his skull and thick dark-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, one thin hand holding a white prescription bag, stared out the window at them from behind his counter. He made no move to come to their rescue. Kitty figured that was just as well.

  After a couple of deep breaths, she managed to speak. ‘What on earth?’ Kitty shook. Neither of them seemed too hurt, more rattled than anything. At least the airbags hadn’t gone off. That would have been a bother. Then again, this was one old Volvo and it might never have had airbags in the first place. Thank heaven for small blessings.

  ‘What’s gotten into you, Fran?’ A sedan had pulled up alongside them and the driver, a young fellow in a black T-shirt with silver plugs in his ears the size of thimbles, asked if everything was OK. Kitty said they were fine. To prove it, she turned the key in the ignition and the beached Volvo cranked right back up. She gave the driver of the other vehicle a forced smile and a thumbs up. He shook his head, silver flashing under the streetlights, and sped off.

  Kitty slowly eased the car down off the sidewalk, wincing as it scraped the curb, and back on to the street. Better to get away before the police showed up and gave her any more trouble that she didn’t need.

  Besides, there was no real property damage, except to her front bumper where it had bounced off the fire hydrant. She’d check that out once they got back to her – their – apartment. The stubby hydrant itself looked none the worse for wear, except for a bit more chipped red paint than it had five minutes ago.

  ‘Uh, Kitty …’ Fran’s voice trembled.

  ‘What?’ Kitty’s heart was still racing and adrenaline coursed through her body.

  ‘You might want to take a look at this.’ Fran held up a bundle.

  Kitty’s hand went to the overhead light, but Fran pulled it back down again. ‘No,’ said Fran, ‘no lights. Just look.’

  Kitty looked. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  Fran nodded soberly. ‘Money,’ she whispered. ‘And lots of it.’