by Marie Celine
Fran dropped her glass on the table, where it skittered and fell sideways on to an Architectural Digest magazine. ‘Where are we going? The bar’s still open.’
‘You’ve had enough to drink. And I’ve had enough of Hollyweird for one day.’
Kitty slammed the door behind them, saving the startled liveried doorman the effort.
TWENTY-SIX
Kitty sat in her old friend, the Volvo 740 wagon. Jack had dropped it off at the apartment for her and she was glad to get it back. She was really going to have to do something extra nice for Jack to make up for having been at least somewhat responsible for his beloved Jeep Wrangler now being a hunk of twisted metal at the body shop. There was still no word on whether the patient was going to make it or be officially relegated to the scrap heap. Kitty hoped for Jack’s sake that the Jeep was salvageable.
She raced through her meal deliveries – the ones she had promised her clients in lieu of their usual lunch deliveries. A glance at her watch told her what she already knew. She was running late. Again.
Sitting in the long brick drive at the Fandolfis’ home, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. There were lots and lots of them scooting around in her brain and the task proved pretty much insurmountable.
The live-in housekeeper had informed Kitty that Mr and Mrs Fandolfi were out to dinner when she’d arrived at their pharaonic estate. That was a pity. He had seemed so desperate to talk to her, and she was anxious to find out what about. What secret was he keeping? Was he protecting himself? Cindy?
Looking back at the Fandolfi house, she wondered, for the first time, how much the upkeep on a place like that would cost. A bundle, no doubt. A big bundle. No matter how much the magician earned, keeping up with all his household expenses, and the added burden of supporting a shopaholic wife and money-leeching daughter, could have Fandolfi desperate for money. Kitty needed answers and nothing was adding up.
Kitty ground her teeth. Now she’d have to wait. Fandolfi wasn’t home. She was due at Santa Monica Film Studios in less than twenty minutes and it would take her all of that twenty minutes to make it in city traffic. She couldn’t afford to keep the president of CuisineTV waiting.
She stepped on the gas, even as she punched in the number that David had given her. ‘Hello, David? It’s me, Kitty.’
She was dying to know whatever it was that he might know about Cindy. Had they really been lovers? What dirt could he spill on her? Or was this hypothetical affair of hers with David something she had made up? Was Cindy delusional as well as greedy and homicidal?
Maybe David could shed some light on the mystery of Gretchen’s death, after all. Would he agree that Cindy could have convinced Teddy to murder their mother, Gretchen?
‘Hiya Kitty. What’s up?’
Kitty swerved back to her side of the road as the car beside her honked and shot her a universally known hand gesture. Jack always complained that she shouldn’t be using her cellphone while driving, and she wasn’t particularly adept at it. But this was one of those times where she simply had no choice – at least there were no cliffs to go careening over at the moment. ‘Hey, I’m glad you’re there. I was hoping we could talk.’
‘Sure,’ David said, readily. ‘Come on over, Kit.’ Kitty remembered he used to call her that in high school.
Kitty reminded him that she was on her way up to the studio to see Bill Barnhard and promised to stop by after that. Then she’d go see Fandolfi.
‘Cool,’ said David. ‘See you then.’
Kitty rang off and concentrated on driving – at least for a minute or two. Then she called Jack. ‘Hi, Jack. Thanks again for getting the Volvo back to me today. You fixed the door handle.’ The one Chevy Czinski had accidently broken when she’d innocently mentioned Gretchen’s name in connection with her then impending interview for the pet cooking program.
‘And for washing it. That was so sweet.’ She still couldn’t believe he’d done that. Why, he’d even vacuumed the interior, something she had never ever done though always meant to do. The floor before today had been more dog hair and food crumbs than carpet. She was dying to ask him if there was anything new on Gretchen’s murder and whether Teddy had recanted his story or was sticking with it.
‘No problem. What are you up to? Are you home? How about if I come pick you up and we go grab a bite?’
Kitty said she was sorry but she had an appointment with Bill Barnard. Jack sounded disappointed. ‘He’s the head of the studio, Jack, I can’t say no.’
Jack said he understood though she could tell he didn’t.
‘So, what’s up with Teddy Czinski?’
‘He isn’t saying much and frankly his story doesn’t add up real good,’ Jack answered.
‘So you don’t think he killed his mother?’
She could practically hear Jack shrug through the phone. ‘He says he did.’
‘He may have had help.’
‘What do you mean?’
Kitty outlined her theories about Gretchen and even Gretchen’s other ex, Ernst Fandolfi. She didn’t leave out Chevy Czinski. She explained how Gretchen had stolen the idea for the pet cooking show from the retired actor and what his reaction had been when he’d found out about it. ‘Fran even found some old love letters that we think were written by one of them.’
‘Love letters? Where?’
‘Oh, you know. Lying around the studio.’
‘And you’re only telling me this now?’ Jack didn’t like that she’d been holding out on him and he let her know it in no uncertain terms. He also didn’t sound convinced regarding her theories and conjecture, but he didn’t shoot her down completely. ‘If Teddy does go to trial, I imagine he may be found not guilty by reason of insanity. I’m not so sure he’s entirely aware of his own actions.’
Kitty agreed. ‘I’ll tell you what, how about if I come by after my meeting? I’ll whip something up for the two of us.’
Jack’s laugh spilled through the phone. He agreed and said he’d pick up a bottle of wine and meet her later. ‘Elin and I have some paperwork to finish up. I should be home by nine thirty.’
If Elin was with him in the car when he came to pick her up, she was going to clobber him with that bottle of wine. Kitty stifled a growl, rang off and called Fran, who answered on the first ring. ‘Fran, I’m heading over to the studio for my meeting with Mr Barnhard. Do you think you could feed Fred and Barney for me?’
‘Done and done,’ quipped Fran. ‘I not only fed them, I gave them each a good brushing.’
Kitty told her she was a real trooper.
‘Trooper, nothing,’ replied Fran. ‘The way these two were looking at me, I figured if I didn’t feed them soon, they’d start gnawing at my leg.’
Fran hung up after telling Kitty not to worry about getting fired. Kitty dropped her phone on to the passenger seat. The battery was nearly dead anyway. It was an old phone and the battery never did last for long. She looked at the clock on the dash. With a little luck, she wouldn’t be more than ten minutes late to her appointment.
The studio was all but deserted when she arrived. She pulled up to the guardhouse and came to a stop. Brad was on duty again. She recognized him, of course; she’d spoken to him the other day. Not to mention, he’d found her crouched over Gretchen’s dead body. She put on a smile. ‘Good evening, Brad. Working late again, huh?’
The guard’s lip turned down. ‘Yeah, just little old me. I’ve been out here mostly working the night shift ever since, well, you know …’
Kitty knew.
Brad’s skinny shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘But that’s OK by me. After what happened in there, well, I can’t get the image out of my mind, you know?’ He hugged himself. ‘To tell you the truth, that place,’ he said, with a nod to the soundstage, ‘gives me the heebie-jeebies. That’s why I asked to be on gate duty for a while.’
Again, Kitty knew. She told Brad that she understood completely. When she was finished talking to Mr Barnhard, she intended to ask Brad abo
ut all those names that had not appeared on the sign-in sheet the day of Gretchen’s murder. He hadn’t been working the gate, but he would remember who had and could hopefully put her in touch with him.
‘You go ahead, cat lady.’ He gave a friendly wink and punched a button in the guardhouse. The gate went up and Kitty went in.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Kitty punched in the code at the soundstage door and entered the narrow hallway. A lone bulb at the juncture of two corridors provided the only illumination. She could perfectly understand Brad’s concerns. This place was downright spooky at night, murder scene or no.
‘Mr Barnhard?’ She frowned. ‘Where could he be?’ She should have asked Brad. Then she realized that he was probably using his son, Steve’s, office, which was down the hall from Gretchen’s old office.
She padded off in that direction and soon came to Gretchen’s door. It was ajar. Up ahead, she could see that there was no light on in Steve’s office or any of the others along the hallway for that matter. Was she early? She glanced at her watch. Not if her watch was right.
So that meant that Mr Barnhard was late. Kitty smiled and rubbed her hands together. This meant she had some time – maybe no more than a few minutes, but time enough to get a look inside Gretchen’s office. There was no police tape, nothing to indicate that she should keep out. So why shouldn’t she go in and take a peek?
Kitty pushed the door open. Her heart was beating faster than usual. It had to be the eerie atmosphere. That and the fact that, the last time she was in this room, Gretchen’s dead body was lying on the floor, not inches from where she was now standing, with one of Kitty’s best knives in her back.
The blinds were up. The glow from a tall lamppost in the parking lot allowed a small amount of light to spill into the cramped office. A white studio van and a dark SUV with one of those ridiculous black vinyl car bras were the only vehicles on the lot other than her Volvo. Funny, had they been there when she parked? She couldn’t remember. If so, where were their owners? Something tickled at her brain but slipped away before she could figure out what that tickle was trying to tell her.
Kitty pulled down the blinds; no point drawing attention to herself.
Kitty avoided the spot on the floor where Gretchen had been and gingerly stepped behind the desk. Maybe there was something the police had missed. Some clue as to what this was really all about.
She sat, flipped on the brass desk lamp and quietly slid open the drawers one by one. She found nothing out of the ordinary. Pencils, papers, rubber bands, tea bags.
From her purse, Kitty pulled the envelope she and Fran had taken turns holding and laid it atop the desk. She’d had a sudden and brilliant idea. She didn’t have to tell Jack about the money and about how she and Fran had withheld possible evidence from the police.
All she had to do was slip the envelope into one of Gretchen’s desk drawers, shove it way back where it might look like the police had simply missed it and presto! Or she could stuff it into one of those filing cabinets along the wall.
Yes, brilliant.
As her fingers went to the manila envelope, Kitty thought she heard the sound of steps coming up the hall. Her mouth framed an O, her heart froze, and she held her breath, straining to hear.
There were no other sounds. Still, what if Mr Barnhard came back and caught her spying in Gretchen’s office, riffling through her papers? Totally embarrassing.
She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight fifteen. ‘Where is that man?’ she muttered.
Kitty used Gretchen’s desk telephone to call the guardhouse. ‘Hey, Brad. It’s me, Kitty. I’m still waiting for Mr Barnhard. Has there been any sign of him? Has he shown up yet?’
‘Oh, geez,’ Brad said, ‘is that what you’re doing down here so late? Mr Barnhard came in over an hour ago. But he got a phone call and had to run right back out again.’
Kitty asked how long ago that had been. Brad said maybe twenty minutes or a half hour at the most. ‘So it’s just me, huh?’ This certainly had been a waste of her time. Oh well, she could stick the envelope with the money and ring in it someplace not too obvious, yet easy enough for someone to stumble on when Gretchen’s office got cleaned out. That way, she wouldn’t be in trouble with Jack, and whoever was the rightful heir would get what was coming to them. It was the perfect plan.
‘That’s right,’ Brad replied. ‘The studio’s pretty much empty, except for you and Biggins.’
Kitty twitched. ‘David?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ answered the security guard. ‘He came in a few minutes after you arrived.’
‘Hi, Kitty.’
‘David!’
David stood blocking the doorway. He was wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt. He wasn’t looking nearly so charming as usual. In fact, in his right hand, he clutched a long-bladed knife. He motioned for Kitty to hang up and she carefully dropped the phone back in its cradle.
‘I’ll take that,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The envelope,’ David said. His voice had a harsh quality to it that Kitty had never heard from him before. He wriggled his fingers. ‘I said I’ll take it.’
Kitty looked down at the envelope. Her hand was resting on it. David wanted the envelope? ‘I–I don’t understand.’
David’s laugh came out like an ugly bark. He stepped nearer. ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way, Kitty. Slide it over, now.’ His voice was hard and, worst of all, ominous.
Suddenly everything made sense. David had been in the building right after Kitty discovered Gretchen. He said he’d come back, but he’d probably never left. And that SUV outside in the parking lot, the one wearing the ridiculous car bra. She remembered now that David drove an SUV – a silver one!
She’d seen it before, like when they met at the diner the night of Gretchen’s murder. But it wasn’t a Porsche like she thought – it was an Acura or something. She’d gotten them mixed up. Steve hadn’t tried to run her off the road in the Hollywood Hills at all. It had been David.
The car bra that wasn’t there originally had probably been stuck on to hide the damage to his own vehicle.
She blinked, as if seeing David Biggins for the first time. ‘You’re Cam!’ she exclaimed. Cam, as in cameraman.
David nodded. There had been an issue between Gretchen and David at the time of the taping. What was it? Kitty remembered now. David was nowhere to be found when the show started and Gretchen was furious. In fact, she’d said she could kill him.
Instead, he had murdered her. Kitty knew the who, but not the why. Kitty had a sick feeling in her stomach. If she didn’t do something quickly, she was about to die.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Her shaking hand played atop the envelope of cash. ‘It’s no use, David. What are you going to do after I give you the envelope? Murder me, too?’
He shrugged as if it was all too obvious. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut.
‘You’ll never get away with it, David.’ Kitty was shaking so bad, she was surprised that she could even get her mouth to operate, let alone manufacture words and then string them into sentences. She knew that she had to keep David talking if she was going to keep living. ‘You’re forgetting, Brad knows you’re here.’
David’s smile, that in other circumstances would have looked positively charming, now looked positively scary. ‘Not to worry.’
He stepped closer. Kitty rolled back an inch in her chair. It was all the room she had as the chair bumped the wall behind her. She was cornered. ‘You see, Kitty. I told Brad that you and I had a hot date tonight.’
‘A date?’
He nodded. ‘Yep. So you and I are going to leave here together. As we stop at the guard gate on our way out, you’re going to smile and wave real big and friendly like. Let our pal Brad know that we are all happy-happy.
‘Then later, when you disappear …’ He paused and scratched his cheek with the sharp edge of the knife. ‘Well, it won’t matter. Because I’ll have disappeared too
. A guy can go a lot of places with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket.’
Kitty felt queasy and cold inside. David was sick. He was a murderer to boot. ‘What makes you think I’m going to cooperate?’ If he was going to kill her, she certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him. How she wished now that she had asked Jack to meet her here instead of suggesting that she meet him at his house.
David never stopped grinning. He looked at the hand clutching the ugly knife. Up close, Kitty recognized it as a CuisineTV branded carving knife. The blade was only of middling quality but no doubt would suffice for the job David seemed to have in mind.
‘This knife, for one thing.’ He rested his free hand on the desk. ‘And the fact that, if you don’t cooperate, I’ll go after your new roomie and your pets. Fred and Barney, that’s their names, right?’
Kitty gasped. ‘How do you know their names?’
‘I’ve been to your apartment, remember?’ Kitty did. She had been out. Her neighbor, Sylvester, had been pet-sitting and mentioned that David had stopped by.
‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this, David. Why would you murder Gretchen?’
He clenched the knife so hard his knuckles turned white. ‘I hated that woman. She was a manipulating cow.’
Kitty had been hearing a lot of that ever since Gretchen’s death, but the woman had always been kind to her. And Gretchen and Fran had been close friends.
Mr Czinski had a lot of animosity toward his ex-wife. Kitty wasn’t certain what Fandolfi thought of her. He couldn’t have despised her too badly after all – he had done her the somewhat dubious favor of referring Kitty to his ex when she needed the right host for her cooking show. Now, with David hovering over her with murder on his mind, Kitty was pretty certain she could scratch Fandolfi off her list of suspects.
She swallowed hard. Sweat was building up in her palms. ‘I still don’t understand. What about the money? If you and Gretchen hated each other so much, why on earth would she give you one hundred thousand dollars – and a silver ring?’
‘The ring’s mine,’ he said. ‘My cousin made it for me. I gave it to Gretch.’ He made a fist with his free hand. ‘And I want it back.’
