by Sparkle Abby
Franklin stood, dismissing us.
We remained seated. April shot me a wide-eyed look.
“There’s one more thing,” I said. Maybe more than one, but we’d start with this one. April Mae seemed to have lost her resolve again, so I stepped in.
“Yes?”
“The police came by and collected all of Kitty’s mail. They say they have information she had received threats. Was that true? And do you know who was threatening her?” Okay, that was more than one.
“We had some threats.” He sat back down.
“From whom?” I leaned forward.
“We weren’t sure. There were four other publicists who had also received them. We’d notified the LAPD. The letters all came to the office. LAPD thought Russian mob. They’d invested in some film. Not our fault it went belly up, but some of our clients were involved.”
“Do you think they could have made good on the threat and shot Kitty?” I had to ask the obvious question.
“Truthfully, no.”
“Other theories, then?”
“If I were to worry about anybody, it would be Petra Rossi. She was furious with Kitty for dropping her. It got ugly.” Franklin grimaced as if remembering the incident.
“Have you told the police?”
He looked up. Guilt washed over his face.
“I haven’t,” he admitted.
“Why would she be so angry?” Even I knew there were lots of other agencies to choose from. A fact I was sure was not lost on Franklin. Petra Rossi, a snowboarding superstar, could have her pick.
“She brought it on herself. Normally, once Kitty takes someone on as a client, she is loyal, even if they get themselves in a jam. Kitty works—worked—” he corrected himself. “Worked to mitigate the problem. You remember when Diana got arrested, and her publicist worked the press? Kitty was a master at turning around bad press.”
“So what went wrong with Petra?”
“There were rumors Petra was pregnant. And she was. Then I guess she gave the baby up for adoption. She hid it all, lied to Kitty about the whole thing.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, is right.” Franklin shook his head. “Now knowing more about Kitty’s own background, I better understand why she was so adamant. The big thing was, she lied to us. That was the last straw. Kitty always said, we’re on their side, but we have to be their best friend, their shadow, their Father confessor.”
“Who is this Petra?” April asked.
“She’s a big snowboarder from Alaska,” I explained.
“We’d gotten her all kinds of great publicity. Product endorsements. Kitty was working on a movie deal for her when the rumors started.”
“I guess I heard them, but there are always rumors, so I didn’t put much stock in them.” I didn’t follow the tabloids.
“Sometimes they’re based in fact.” Franklin rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I was in New York working on a deal for another client when Kitty broke things off with her.”
“She was upset about it?” I prompted.
“She came in the office a couple of weeks ago and was furious. Couldn’t believe Kitty’d sent her a notice we were dropping her. That’s the way it works with our contracts. Kitty always had a clause where we could drop someone with thirty days notice. And it worked the other way around too. They could fire us.”
“Sorry to be so blunt, Franklin.” I couldn’t help but voice the thought. “But you’re not the only game in town.”
“No, but you know how it is in this business.” He stood again. “You’re dealing with major egos.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s true.” It brought to mind Clive in the waiting area and his super-sized ego. He shouldn’t have to wait. He was important. I guess in the star business you dealt with a lot of people who believe the world revolved around them.
“Thanks for your time, Franklin. We appreciate it.” I shook his hand and held it for a minute. “You have to tell the police about Petra.”
“I will.” He patted my hand. Now that was more the Franklin I knew.
April held out her hand, but he didn’t take it immediately. “Call me and let me know when you’d like to come by for your picture.”
Much like Philippe, there was a visible wince. April seemed to have that effect.
“Have you thought any more about adopting?” I’d encouraged Franklin to consider getting another dog.
“I’m not ready.”
“I understand.” I took his arm as we walked out. “You think about it, though, okay?”
Clive was still in the waiting area, and it seemed he now had Cherise wrapped around his little finger.
He smiled and stood as we walked through, as if noticing us for the first time. What? Had we been invisible before?
“Hello, I’m Clive.”
“Nice to meetcha, Clive. I’m April Mae but you can call me June.”
The crazy moniker went right over Clive’s head. Not about him, so not important.
“I hear you are Kitty Bardot’s sister, and you have her painting cats. Are the cats painting again?” It wasn’t quite a sneer but almost. I guess if you’re allergic to cats, maybe you’re not fond of the animals in general.
“Just a little,” April Mae answered. “Getting their feet wet, so to speak.” She giggled.
“Ridiculous,” he pronounced. “Cats who paint. Dogs who paint. What will be next—chickens who paint?”
April Mae laughed at the idea.
I snickered, thinking about Diana’s rooster, Walter.
I almost said, “Don’t tempt this one. She’s an animal charmer; painting chickens just might be next.” But I decided his question was rhetorical.
I also started to mention to Clive that we’d seen some of his work at the Arman gallery, but he’d already turned his back to us and resumed talking to Cherise.
When he wasn’t looking, she gave us a wink. Clearly she was used to dealing with all the stars and wanna-be stars and their egos. Bardot and Chesney had a gem in her. We were having no luck in hiring someone for our office, and I was out of patience with Sourp . . . er . . . Sally Purser. See, I can get it right.
Maybe Cherise had a sister.
Chapter Eighteen
I drove back to Laguna Beach with April Mae in pure chat mode. I’d taken PCH because we weren’t in a big rush and put the convertible top down. What was the point of having one, if you didn’t use it on a day like this one?
April Mae loved the sun, she loved the palm trees, she loved the wind blowing her hair all crazy. She reminded me of Dogbert with his ears flapping in the wind on a car ride. At any moment I expected her to hang her tongue out the window.
After what we’d learned from Franklin, it seemed clear there was at least a person of interest for the police to focus on. It made more sense than a mob hit. I couldn’t picture Kitty in a Get Shorty scenario.
The drive went quickly, and we were home in no time. The sky was washed with primary blue, and there were a few clouds which brought to mind puffy peach pastries. It was a picture-perfect day in Laguna Beach. I hoped the Chamber of Commerce had someone out taking photos. Even more, I hoped Walt was on the move today taking pictures. I stood a better chance of getting one of those.
I went by home so I could drop off April Mae and also let Dogbert out. While I was there I took the opportunity to call Malone and tell him about our talk with Franklin Chesney. I hoped Franklin would contact the police on his own about Petra Rossi, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
My afternoon flew because it was filled with not only the appointments I had scheduled, but also the ones I’d moved from the morning.
I stopped by the office when I was finished to drop off paperwork on the clients I’d visited. Our unfriendly temp was busy on the phone,
and I confess I slipped in quietly and back out just as silently because I just didn’t want to deal with her grumpiness.
When we got together that evening April Mae was full of news. She’d tried to track down Petra Rossi but without any success. She’d done some reading about her on the Internet, and the snowboarder was also a crack shot. There were plenty of pictures of her posed not only with her snowboard but proudly holding various guns.
I’ll admit it sounds far-fetched. It did seem, though, after Kitty dropped her, the girl’s career had gone downhill. She’d had a driving while intoxicated arrest, broken up with the even-more-well-known-than-her snowboarder she’d been dating, and lost several of her product endorsement contracts. We didn’t see anything about the movie deal Franklin had mentioned, but there was the possibility it hadn’t panned out. She’d become a wild child. There were plenty of unflattering photos of her leaving hot-spots in LA, New York, and even one of a pub in London. It was a shame; she was a beautiful girl and an outstanding athlete to boot.
Maybe she’d blamed Kitty for her fall from grace and, fueled by anger and a penchant for alcohol, if the stories we read online were true, decided to go after the publicist who’d deserted her. What was it Franklin’d said? They had to be their client’s best friend and their confessor. Maybe Petra felt her best friend had deserted her and had been bent on revenge.
Wonder where Petra Rossi had been the night of Kitty’s murder? I know what you’re thinking, but all I meant was that Malone should have no trouble finding out.
Chapter Nineteen
April Mae had called Tonya Miles about coming to pick up her two bequests. A painting and a pair of shoes. We still hadn’t discovered the story behind the shoes. But there just had to be one, didn’t there?
She’d asked me to be present for moral support. I think the visit with Franklin had knocked a little of the glint off her rose-colored glasses.
Tonya arrived in style. Her Bentley was driven by a chauffeur who carefully parked the expensive car in April Mae’s drive next to the Cadillac. There was a certain entertaining absurdity in the fancy-schmancy Bentley side-by-side with the pimpmobile. Or maybe I’m just easily amused.
The uniformed chauffeur held the door for Tonya and she stepped out. I felt sorry for the guy, long sleeves and a dark-colored cap in this sunshine.
I’d mostly seen the woman from a distance in the past. Occasionally, I’d been outside when she’d picked up Kitty for a lunch or an evening engagement. The closest I’d been to her was the day of Kitty’s funeral. She was small like April Mae and Kitty. But if Kitty Bardot had been solid gold, Tonya Miles was all brass.
Her imperious attitude was apparent, even from the front step where I stood waiting. She pointed at the backseat, and the chauffeur reached in the car and pulled out a Louis Vuitton bag containing a dog. Oops, two dogs. Two very small dogs. She held her arms out for the bag, and he handed it over.
Now, the Louis Vuitton brand has been around since 1854, and the distinct LV label marks all of their products. They make a ton of different types of trunks, totes, and purses and have quite the celebrity following, but I don’t think Mr. Vuitton ever imagined his luxury bags being used as doggie carriers.
I held open the front door so Tonya could enter, and a waft of expensive perfume engulfed me as she stepped through. Once in, she handed me the bag of dogs.
“I understand you’re a professional pet therapist. Please keep Spike and Hulk feeling safe. Kitty’s monstrous cats could literally eat them in one bite.”
It was an exaggeration, but they were tiny compared to Tobey and Minou, who’d come from their cat perches to see what all the commotion was about. Spike and Hulk peeked out the top of the bag.
Tonya kissed each glistening nose. “Poor sweeties, you must be terrified.”
In my professional pet therapist opinion, they didn’t look terrified. They looked ridiculous. The miniature teacup Malti-Poo puppies were dressed in matching smoking jackets ala Hugh Hefner. They were adorable dogs, but they did not appear happy about the wardrobe choice.
Tonya suddenly noticed April Mae standing there. “I suppose you’re the sister.” She looked down her surgically perfect nose at her.
The little sprite had dressed for the occasion with her new black Laguna Beach tank top and a purple mini-skirt she must have had since high school. “The closet is this way. In the bedroom.”
“I know where the closet is.” Tonya’s haughty tone seemed unnecessary.
She strutted her stuff down the hall to Kitty’s bedroom. She paused for a moment at one doorway, stepped inside Kitty’s study, and pointed to a small painting. “I’ll take that one.”
She then continued on to the master bedroom and Kitty’s still very organized closet.
Wow, the woman came in first for Most Rude. April Mae and I exchanged a look, but kept our thoughts to ourselves.
Tonya brought the makeup stool from Kitty’s bedroom into the closet and proceeded to try on nearly every pair of shoes on the shelves.
She’d pull out one pair and then the next, trying each on in turn and then discarding them for another. These were very, very nice shoes: black Christian Louboutin pumps, brocade Fendi flats, Gucci evening shoes in metallic python, two-toned Michael Kors sandals in red with a high spiky silver heel and lime patent-leather Kate Spade loafers. I wondered exactly what criteria she would eventually use to decide on which shoes to take.
At one point she slipped on a pair of blue suede Via Spiga pumps and then pulled something out of the toe. A brilliant ring glittered in her hand.
She handed it to April Mae. “Here, you’d better put this somewhere else.”
“You might want to lock it up in Kitty’s safe,” I advised.
“Oh, don’t bother.” Tonya waved her hand dismissively. “It’s paste.”
“What?” April Mae and I both asked in tandem.
“Fake, you ninnies.” She laughed as she reached for yet another pair of shoes, but it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. It was just an older version of the Mean-Girl snicker. “It’s phony. Not real diamonds. Nice looking piece but about as real as my hair color.”
I guessed more than her hair color wasn’t real, but there didn’t seem to be anything gained from going there.
April Mae handed me the ring. I turned it over in my hand. It was a great fake. It had fooled me, and I had an eye for good jewelry. A plan began to form in my mind.
“Who does fakes this good?” I asked Tonya.
“I have all my expensive pieces duplicated by Selma. An exclusive jeweler in the Valley.” Tonya had worked her way through half of the closet.
“Are you working with the police?” She turned and pointed her false-eye-lashed gaze at me.
“I am not working with anyone,” I answered in my no-nonsense, heel-you-bad-dog voice. “I’m simply here to support April Mae.”
Tonya reached out for the designer dogs I still held and rubbed each tiny head in turn with one French-manicured finger.
“You,” Tonya turned her fancy finger on me, “should make sure the police know about Franklin Chesney and his secret life. The last time Kitty and I had lunch, they had a major tiff. She’d asked him to cover some unimportant party so she could come to a party at my house. He said he couldn’t, he was going out of town. Kitty said, and I quote, ‘I am sick of you and your secret life. Maybe you need to think about whether you really want to stay in the business or not.’ She was very upset with him.”
She suddenly noticed her finger, still raised in the air. “Oh hell, I hope I haven’t chipped a nail. These take forever to be repaired. The flecks are actual twenty-four-karat gold.” She held her hands out for April Mae and me to admire.
“What is Franklin’s secret life?” If we had to put up with the pretentious attitude, at least maybe we could get some real information out of the
deal.
“I have no idea, but now I hear she left him no money. Before you came onto the scene . . .” This time she poked the gold-flecked finger at April Mae. “He was to inherit everything. Well, except for the part she’d set aside to take care of her precious kitties. I see in my copy of the will she didn’t change that provision.” She stood and walked out of the closet carrying a pair of Stuart Weitzman special edition pumps.
I still had no idea how she’d decided.
She’d left the rest of the shoes in a pile on the floor for us to pick up, like we were shoe department staff at Neiman Marcus. And I tell you, I’ve never done anything that rude to a salesperson. Though I’ll bet Tonya has.
Tonya held her arms open for the bag containing the teacup pups, and I reluctantly handed it over. They were adorable and I was sure well cared for. But brocade smoking jackets? Poor puppies.
She shifted the shoes so she could carry the puppy bag. “I’ll have Theo come back in for the painting. I hope you have something to wrap it.”
Then she was off. Out the door.
No nice-to-meet-you. No thank-you. No good-bye.
Geez Louise, the woman was a piece of work.
Theo, in his stiff long-sleeved uniform, soon appeared at the door. April Mae had let him in while I’d looked around Kitty’s office for something to wrap the painting in. Finally locating some gift wrap and tissue paper, I swaddled the small piece of art, a Jackson Pollock if I wasn’t mistaken. Theo took it from me, thanked us, and wasted no time getting back to his employer.
I pitied him almost as much as I did the poor pups.
Grandma Tillie used to say, “A high-steppin’ horse is a bumpy ride.” Tonya Miles was the personification of that old adage.
The next evening Franklin Chesney arrived to collect his piece of art. It seemed odd to see him in jeans. Even when I’d worked with his Corgis at his apartment, the man was always in office clothes. Today he sported jeans—granted they were nice jeans—and a polo shirt. Also not tacky, evidenced by the little Ralph Lauren logo on the front.
