by Marie Celine
FOURTEEN
Kitty could barely see straight. Fran had started counting, careful to keep the money low in her lap, out of sight of any passing vehicles. By the time they had reached the apartment, she had tallied one hundred thousand dollars.
‘Ten packs of one hundred dollar bills. Thank you, Ben Franklin,’ Fran gasped. ‘We’re rich!’
Kitty pulled a face. ‘We can’t keep it, you know.’ She made to lock the door, realized the passenger side window was nothing but a recent memory, and so didn’t bother.
Fran fondled an elaborately carved silver ring in her fingers.
‘What’s that?’
Fran shrugged. ‘Found it at the bottom of the envelope.’ She bounced the ring in her hand. ‘Do you think it’s valuable?’
‘Not as valuable as that pile of money,’ Kitty replied.
Fran frowned.
‘What is it?’
‘I dunno. I feel like I’ve seen a ring like this before. I just can’t remember where.’
‘Well, put all that loot away, will you?’ All that cash in plain sight, money whose provenance she had no clue about, was making her sweat. What on earth was Gretchen going to do with all that cash?
Fran stuffed all the bills back in the envelope, shoved the envelope back in her bag and followed Kitty to the apartment. The minute they were inside, Fred came bounding toward them. Barney wasn’t far behind. For a cat, Barney didn’t like to be left out. Kitty figured Fred’s companionable dog nature was rubbing off on him. Maybe she should get a second cat as a role model so Barney could see how other cats had the whole aloof thing down pat.
Sylvester appeared in the kitchen doorway, giving Kitty and Fran a start. They’d had more than enough excitement for one night. ‘Oh, Sylvester.’ Kitty saw Fran push her bag behind her back. Was she afraid Sylvester’s x-ray vision would see right through the leather? Spot all that loot?
‘What are you doing here?’ Kitty struggled to keep her voice even.
Sylvester’s hand held a glass of tea. He shrugged. ‘Fred was barking up a storm. I’m not sure why. I knocked and since you weren’t home, I figured I’d keep him company until you got back or he calmed down.’
Kitty rubbed Fred’s head and he licked her hand. ‘Thanks.’
Sylvester said goodnight. Kitty found Fran in the spare bedroom with the navy blue curtains pulled shut. There was a white futon along the wall under the window, a leftover from her college days. Right now, it was covered with boxes of restaurant supplies that Fran was moving to the floor.
If Kitty had to assign an odor to the bedroom it would have to be dog. Fred had taken to sleeping on the futon. Maybe now he’d go back to using the big plaid doggie bed she’d shelled out good money for at the warehouse club – either that or Fran was going to have to get used to some cuddling.
Fran looked up when Kitty entered. ‘Does that guy always come and go like that?’
Kitty nodded. ‘You get used to it.’
‘If you say so.’ Fran punched the futon’s mattress and watched the dust and pet hair billow all around. ‘Don’t you think it was kind of weird that he was here?’
‘Not at all. I told you, he has the key. He’s good with the guys.’ By the guys, she meant Fred and Barney.
Fran came closer. ‘What if he was looking for something? What if Fred hadn’t really been barking and this Sylvester character was searching the place?’
Kitty laughed. ‘For what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fran whined. ‘Money, evidence.’ She punched the futon. ‘I don’t know,’ she repeated. ‘Maybe he’s the killer?’ She squeezed her eyebrows together. ‘Does he have an alibi?’
‘You’re forgetting,’ Kitty replied. ‘Sylvester is my neighbor. He’s not a murder suspect. He didn’t know Gretchen and, as far as I know, he’s never been to Santa Monica Film Studios.’
‘As far as you know,’ Fran parroted pointedly.
Kitty tossed her hand. ‘Let it go, Fran. Sylvester’s harmless.’
‘If you say so,’ Fran said, not sounding quite ready to let go. ‘But wouldn’t you like to go snoop around in his place sometime?’
‘Not especially.’ Sylvester and his roommates may be harmless, but they were not the cleanest bunch around. That was one apartment she’d rather leave untouched.
‘Yeah? And what if we did and found one of those CuisineTV potholders?’ Fran plopped down on the futon, as if to emphasis her point. ‘He could be the killer.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘Next you’ll be telling me that Mrs Stein upstairs might have stabbed Gretchen in the back.’
Fran pursed her lips. ‘What do you really know about this old lady? She’s obviously a little whacko and she has got a violent streak, the way you talk about her banging on the floor all the time.’
‘I’m taking a bath and then getting some sleep.’ This conversation was leading them nowhere. Rest was what she needed.
‘What about all this,’ Fran lowered her voice, ‘money?’
Kitty thought a moment. ‘Use it for a pillow. Maybe you’ll have some pleasant dreams.’
‘Very funny,’ said Fran. She pushed her bag under the futon’s frame.
Kitty headed down the short hall to the bathroom. ‘Hey,’ she called, ‘you left the window open when you took your bath. Please be careful that Barney doesn’t get out.’ Kitty stepped into the tub and pulled down the window. ‘Hmmm, I’ll have to get Mr Frizzell to fix that,’ she muttered, noticing for the first time that the screen was bent and hanging loose on the outside.
‘No, I didn’t,’ cried Fran in her own defense. ‘Don’t go blaming me. I never even opened a window.’
After a million phone calls and endless pleading, Kitty was able to find a Vietnamese shop that was open on a Sunday and willing to replace the glass in the women’s cars. Though Fran suggested using some of their newfound cash, Kitty insisted that they pay with plastic.
Kitty drove alone then to Bunny’s Bakery in West Hollywood. It was almost ten o’clock; Mr Fandolfi should still be there. Like Barney, Fandolfi was a creature of habit. Holly had let slip the day before that her husband would be back in town Saturday night. That meant he would be at Bunny’s Sunday morning. Mr Fandolfi’s Sunday morning ritual was a medium latte and fresh blueberry bagel.
Holly rarely tagged along, apparently preferring to linger in bed a little longer than her hubby did. That meant Kitty would be able to catch him alone, which was what she wanted. That’s why she told Fran to stay behind. Fran was sweet, but she could be, well, brash was a pretty good word for it.
Kitty found a spot on the street just up the road from Bunny’s. The magician sat alone at a black metal table for two tucked up against the brick-clad building in the shade of an elm. He looked dapper as always in a pair of gray wool trousers and matching jacket, with a crisp white shirt underneath. A floppy dark blue paisley kerchief jutted out of his pocket. Kitty wasn’t sure if it was for decoration or if a dozen more would follow if she yanked on it.
Fandolfi had intelligent black eyes and a long face. His hair had long ago conceded the battle, and what was left of his follicles he kept swept back over the top of his domed skull. His hair was as unnaturally black as his wife’s skin was unnaturally tan.
He stroked the edges of his immaculate moustache. Now that she was here, she realized she needed a plan. The best thing to do was to make the encounter look like a casual encounter. She grabbed her purse, angled across the street and slowly approached from the magician’s blind side.
As he lowered his cup from his lips, she strategically dropped her purse at his feet. ‘Oops!’
‘Ms Karlyle? Is that you?’ Fandolfi scooted backward, his eyes sparkling.
‘Mr Fandolfi!’ Kitty waved, then bent down and snatched her purse off the sidewalk, quickly giving its bottom side a dusting off. Her smile was as broad as a navy destroyer and twice as dazzling – or so she hoped.
‘Coming to indulge in a bit of sweetness this fine morning?’
Kitty nodded and let Mr Fandolfi beg her to join him.
Men could be so easy.
She grabbed a coffee and an oatmeal raisin muffin at the counter inside, then joined him on the sidewalk, leaving again for only a moment to wash up inside. ‘Mmm,’ she said, returning to her seat and taking a whiff of her muffin. ‘Smells heavenly.’
Fandolfi agreed. ‘Everything Bunny creates is to die for.’
Kitty took a cautious sip of her coffee. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Trip?’
‘Yes, your wife said you were out of town doing a show.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The magician twisted his napkin around his fingers. ‘It went well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What about you, young lady?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘How was your TV show?’
Kitty walked Fandolfi through her first day shooting the show. ‘I don’t know if you heard, since you were gone, but Miss Corbett was murdered the same day.’
He nodded somberly. ‘Yes, I heard all about that. Such a tragedy. A dear woman.’ His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment.
‘Did you know her well?’
Mr Fandolfi shrugged. ‘Well enough. We were business associates more than friends. I hadn’t seen Gretchen in ages. Of course, we spoke on the phone recently. That’s when I recommended you to her.’
Kitty nibbled at her muffin. ‘Thank you again for that.’
‘Tell me, with Gretchen gone, will the show go on?’
Kitty nodded. ‘That’s what Bill Barnhard says – he’s the head of the network.’
‘I see.’
‘Unless Steve Barnhard, his son, and Barbara Cartwright get their way. I think they’re trying to force me out so she can take over.’
Fandolfi leaned toward Kitty and patted her hand. ‘Don’t you let them do that to you. Nobody deserves that show more than you.’ He rolled the last bite of bagel around in his hand and then Kitty watch it disappear into thin air. ‘And no one is better suited.’
‘Thanks, you’ve been very supportive. I really appreciate it, Mr Fandolfi. You must really be a fan. In fact, I noticed you had a potholder at your house.’
The magician sat back, confused. ‘Potholder?’
Kitty nodded. ‘You know, one of those CuisineTV potholders with the name of the show on it.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He scratched his chin. ‘The potholder. It was a gift from Gretchen.’
‘Oh?’
He cleared his throat, then laced it with the remnants of his latte. ‘I forgot. I stopped by the studio on my way out of town to see Gretchen – to thank her for giving you a shot. We had made plans.’
He looked uneasy and his eyes ran up and down the street. ‘At the last minute, something apparently had come up and she wasn’t able to see me but had left me a note – and the potholder that you mentioned.’
‘I see,’ replied Kitty. What she’d like to see was that note. What had it said? Had Mr Fandolfi really forgotten that he had been to the studio to see Gretchen the day she was murdered, or had he been trying to hide that little fact?
She grabbed her cellphone from her purse and pulled up the image she’d shot of the framed picture at Chevy Czinski’s house. ‘Do you recognize this picture?’
‘Ah, Gretchen and the ape-man.’
‘Chevy Czinski,’ Kitty said.
The magician nodded. ‘Gretchen’s first husband. She’d always kept her maiden name.’ Mr Fandolfi made a show of looking at his watch, pushed back his chair and bowed. ‘I’m afraid I must be off, Kitty. Holly is expecting me and she gets …’ he paused, ‘concerned when I am tardy.’
‘I understand.’
‘Will you be attending Gretchen’s funeral?’ Fandolfi inquired as he slid a tip under his saucer.
Kitty nodded and they said their goodbyes. Getting back to the Volvo, Kitty spotted a crumbled sheet of unlined paper tucked under the driver’s side wiper blade. Probably another flyer for a store opening, a store closing, some band giving a concert, whatever. If you left your car on the street long enough in LA, it would be plastered with handouts from people selling something, wanting something or missing something.
Kitty snatched this one from the window, wondering which it would be. She turned the paper over. KEEP AWAY was all it read, in big orange block letters that looked like they could have been scrawled with a child’s hand.
Kitty’s heart skipped a beat, decided that wasn’t enough, and skipped another. She looked quickly up and down the busy sidewalk. Who had left the note? And what did it mean?
FIFTEEN
Kitty spent the entire drive looking over her shoulder and only stopped looking as she pulled up to the gate at Santa Monica Film Studios and rolled down her window. ‘Hi, Kitty Karlyle,’ she said quickly. ‘I know I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping—’
The guard leaned out the window of the guard shack, his head practically in the Volvo. ‘You’re the cat lady, right?’ He was nodding and chewing his lip.
‘Um, that’s right.’
‘Yeah, I know you. I found you standing over Ms Corbett.’
Kitty’s eyes fell on his name badge. ‘Oh, Brad. Right.’ The pasty white face and bristle brush black crew cut. How could she forget? ‘I remember you.’ She smiled. ‘How are you? Working the gate today, huh?’ A car tooted its horn behind her. Kitty saw a black Mercedes in her rearview mirror, practically breathing down her neck. ‘Listen, Brad. Mind if I talk to you for a second?’
His brow scrunched up and he looked at her somewhat dubiously. The driver of the Mercedes tooted once again. Mercedes drivers probably weren’t used to being kept waiting, this one certainly wasn’t.
Brad hesitated, then his hand went to an unseen button and the gate rose. ‘Pull up along the side of the gatehouse over there,’ he instructed.
Kitty parked, waited until the Mercedes had been waved through, and then entered the gatehouse. Brad was leaning against the built-in countertop desk. ‘What do you want?’
She ran a finger through her hair and laid a flirty smile on the hapless guard. ‘We–ell, Brad.’ She let the well draw out like she was casting a fishing line – and she was. She wanted to take a look at the logbook of entries for the day that Gretchen was killed. The police had probably already seen it, but there was no way Jack or anyone else on the force was likely to give her any information on what it had or had not contained. Who had come and gone that day? And did they have alibis?
The answer to those questions could point to a murderer. She was trying to think of the best way to frame her question when the driver of the Mercedes, now idling several yards past the gatehouse, tooted yet again.
Brad stuck his head outside. ‘What?’
The driver yelled something unintelligible.
Brad cursed under his breath. ‘Just a sec—’ He turned to Kitty. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Kitty told him not to hurry. But she did. The sign-in log was right there on the countertop and she wasted no time turning the pages back to last Friday. There were quite a few names, several that she didn’t recognize and several that she did, including hers.
All in all, it seemed pretty useless. Oh well, she thought. No harm done. Then it struck her. The one name she did not see was Fandolfi’s. She looked once more, running her finger up and down the page, even jumping back to Thursday and ahead to Saturday on the off chance that the magician’s name had been wrongly entered.
Nothing.
‘That’s weird,’ she muttered.
‘Huh?’
Kitty jumped. Brad stood in the doorway, hands on his hips. ‘What’s weird?’ He eyed her suspiciously.
‘Oh.’ Kitty’s arms fell to her sides. ‘It’s weird the way they have you working out here, instead of inside, like the day we first met.’
He didn’t look convinced that her answer made sense, but he shrugged when he answered. ‘Happens all the time. We rotate around.’ He moved closer and glanced at the open logbook.
Kitty nodded. ‘Well,’
she pulled her purse close to her chest, ‘I suppose I’d better let you get back to your duties.’
He stepped across the entry, blocking her in. ‘What exactly was it you wanted anyway?’
‘Oh,’ Kitty tried to hide her jitters behind a broad smile. ‘I was wondering if you had any ideas about who might have wanted to see Ms Corbett dead. Do you?’
‘The police already asked me that.’ He folded his arms across his chest.
‘What did you tell them?’
He wavered a moment, then answered. ‘I told them that if the cat lady didn’t do it, then her kid probably did.’
Kitty nodded. ‘You mean Ms Corbett’s daughter, Cindy?’
Brad laughed. ‘Her daughter? Why would she kill Gretchen? Heck, Gretchen gave that girl everything – and then some. Kill the goose that’s laying the golden eggs?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I don’t think so – the spoiled brat.’ He practically spat the words out.
‘I’m confused. If not Cindy, then who?’
A delivery van pulled up at the gate. Brad twisted around. ‘Be right with you!’ He turned back to Kitty. ‘Her dimwitted son, that’s who.’ He stepped outside the gatehouse and laid his hands on the open windowsill of the delivery van. ‘How you been, man?’ he said to the driver.
Kitty squeezed out past the guard and the van and hurried to her car. Mr Fandolfi had lied about coming to the studio the day Gretchen was murdered. Why? Why would he claim to have been there when he hadn’t?
And the biggest discovery yet – Gretchen had a son. A son that Brad the security guard thought could be a killer.
She couldn’t wait to tell Fran what she’d learned. But first, she’d do some snooping around inside. Kitty slid through the unlocked soundstage door and headed for Gretchen’s office. Maybe she could find some more clues there, perhaps even some more love letters. Letters that might explain who this mysterious lover had been. Something that the police might have missed.
There were few people about and no one paid her much attention. Sonny was ensconced behind his desk with his door open. He waved as she passed. Sonny had wasted no time getting back to work since being given his old job back. He had certainly benefited from Gretchen Corbett’s sudden demise.
