by Sparkle Abby
“Of course, I’ll represent them. It’s the least I can do for Kitty.”
“Thanks! That’s so nice.” April Mae stood up, clearly glad to have that part out of the way.
“Cherise will send you some papers so it’s all official.”
I rose also. “I guess you handle a variety of clients. I knew Kitty handled models, actors, and some sports figures, but I didn’t realize until we saw Clive the last time we were here that you handled artists as well.”
“Clive who? We don’t, I mean I don’t,” Franklin stumbled. “Sorry. I can’t seem to get used to the idea that there’s no ‘we’ anymore.”
“But that guy, the not-so-tall, but dark and handsome artist. He was here the last time we were here and also at Kitty’s funeral.”
“Oh, that guy. He’d come in to try to talk me into taking him on. Kitty’d already turned him down.”
“Oh, I assumed he was a client.”
“No, he isn’t. And he isn’t going to be.” His tone said he was done discussing it. He stood and walked us to the door. “I’ll have Cherise send you the papers. I look forward to working with the cats. And you.”
Franklin’s slight hesitation and his pained expression said he wasn’t all that happy to be working with April Mae. Maybe the guy needed to work with a voice coach himself to see if he could eliminate the condescending tone.
“Thanks for your time, Franklin.” I shook Franklin’s hand.
“Yeah, thanks.” April Mae, never content with a handshake, hugged him good-bye.
As we left, we stopped for a quick chat with Cherise under the guise of making sure she had April Mae’s contact information. She confirmed Franklin disappeared from time and time, but either she didn’t know where he went, or the woman was doing her best to keep his confidence. An admirable quality. Unless he was a murderer.
On the way back to the car April Mae and I talked about Franklin. I still didn’t see him as a cold-blooded assassin, and shooting a person down the way Kitty had been would take a heartless killer. Maybe he’d arranged a contract killing. If the mob hit was really a possibility, it could be as simple as he was involved somehow with them. I thought back over what we’d learned. Franklin knew where Kitty was going to be the night she died. His whereabouts were unaccounted for as far as we knew.
He did have a motive, if cash was what was he’d needed. However, my sense was that Kitty had been even more valuable to the agency, and to Franklin, alive than any amount of survivor’s payout.
The conclusion we came to? We needed to follow him.
We waited in the street with the car running, and it wasn’t long before Franklin’s black Lexus drove through the parking garage exit. I pulled in behind him. This would be wasted surveillance if he was only headed toward his apartment.
He turned north on Galaxy Way and then onto Avenue of the Stars. It was early in the day, but traffic was still brisk as Franklin pulled into a parking lot. He got out of the Lexus and changed vehicles.
The new hottest publicist to the stars now drove a late model red Chevy Silverado truck. He’d also replaced his suit with jeans before he’d left the office.
Following him through traffic, he merged onto the 405, and we were right behind. While the Lexus had been harder to follow, the red truck was much easier. We managed to keep the pickup in sight, and he continued north. April Mae did a great job keeping him in view. I apparently didn’t do as good following without being seen, because as the truck pulled off the freeway, he turned into a parking lot, rolled to a stop and waved us forward.
Franklin got out of the truck and walked to my car. He didn’t look too happy.
“I can save you two some trouble,” he said. “I’m headed to Agua Dulce. It’s a long trip, so you may want to gas up.”
“Agua Dulce?” The only thing I knew about the place was the nearby Vasquez Rocks Natural Area Park, which was a popular Hollywood filming location. “Why are you going to Aqua Dulce?”
“Well, not that it’s any of your business, but I have a ranch there.”
“A ranch?”
“Yes, a goat ranch.”
“You raise goats?” I suddenly noticed the vanity plate on the red pickup said, “GOATZ.”
“I raise Myotonic goats.”
I knew nothing about goats. We’d had a few goats on the family ranch in Texas, but mostly we had cattle. Goats are generally cute. Nothing sensational about them. Not exactly a deep dark secret.
April Mae leaned forward to look at him. “Your secret is that you raise goats?”
“Yes, Myotonic goats. Some people call them fainting goats.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those kind. They are so adorable! Does it hurt them when they fall?”
“Why would you need to keep goat farming a secret?”
April Mae and I spoke at once.
Franklin looked off in the distance, like he wished we’d disappear, but then apparently decided to answer.
“Kitty herself had suggested I not talk about it. We’re very much seen as an extension of our clients. That’s why it was so important for her to go to all the best parties. Which is why she maintained her relationship with that beast of a woman, Tonya Miles.”
Fainting goats? Really? I felt silly.
I also had a great idea about a dog for Franklin. I’d found a new home for Rawnsley, the Great Pyrenees at the animal shelter. Oh, and I had a thought about Diana’s goat, Henny, who Bella had thought was sickly. Turns out if you have the facts, it helps solve a lot of things.
Like the pastoral painting he’d chosen from Kitty’s collection. The one with the rustic barn and the goats.
We apologized to Franklin for thinking he was part of the mob, part of some secret scandal, part of a plot to kill his partner.
Actually we didn’t apologize for any of those theories. We kept all those to ourselves and simply apologized for following him.
I gave him Don Furry’s number to contact about potentially adopting Rawnsley, and we wished him a wonderful goat-herding weekend.
By the way, he says the goats don’t actually faint; their muscles stiffen and they appear to faint. He also assured April Mae they don’t feel any pain when it happens.
Franklin headed on north to his goat ranch, and we headed back south toward Laguna Beach.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After our two ill-fated forays into following people, I was more than ready to leave the shadowing of suspects to the police. The next day began with what had become the usual, a news story about Kitty’s death.
The irony was not lost on me that Kitty, whose job had been getting her clients in the news, would not have been thrilled with the publicity. For one thing, they continued to use the same tired photo of Kitty at a premier from a couple of years ago. There was a new angle today, but still the same picture of Kitty entering Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
The voice-over was full of melodrama, “This has all the making of a Hollywood murder mystery, but investigators seem to have little evidence to go on. They have looked at footage from red light cameras, private security cameras, literally hundreds of hours of footage. Forensic experts we spoke to tell us it sounds like it was personal, but was it road rage, a crime of passion, or some manner of revenge?”
They switched to a view of the footage from the night of Kitty’s death. “According to the Laguna Beach Police Department, the first 911 call they received simply said that a car had crashed into a light pole. Now, more than two weeks since that call, police seem no closer to solving this crime.”
The shot went back to the studio, and the veteran anchor chimed in, “The death of Kitty Bardot, whose hard-hitting style was contrasted by her petite blonde looks and quick smile, has hit Hollywood hard, maybe because it always seemed like she was everywhere. She attended almost every premiere,
party, or awards event. Unmarried and with no children, Ms. Bardot focused all of her attention on her clients and her two cats. Now Hollywood has stepped up for Kitty Bardot. Yesterday, Franklin Chesney, her partner in the PR firm they ran, announced a fund has been put together by several of her clients and friends offering a ten-thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of her killer.”
Wowza. That amount, though pocket change to many of Kitty’s crowd, was nothing to shake a stick at, and would undoubtedly bring the crazies out of the woodwork. I’d bet the phones were ringing (and Lorraine was swearing) at the Laguna Beach police station right now. I could only imagine what Detective Malone had to say about the reward.
I showered and dressed quickly. I’d run a little behind because I’d gotten caught up in the news story.
I had a meeting at nine with the other business owners in my shared office about hiring Verdi. Then Grandma Tillie’s brooch and I were going to visit Selma, the jeweler who Tonya Miles had sworn was a master at producing reproductions.
The meeting with my office mates—the accountant, the real estate agent, and the psychic—went well. I know, it sounds like the beginning to a bad joke, doesn’t it? I still felt like the psychic owed us an explanation of why she hadn’t been able to forewarn us about Paris, our former receptionist, leaving or our miserable matches with unsuitable temps. What good was it if we couldn’t rely on each other for shared services?
No matter, they were all in agreement we would give Verdi a try, based on my recommendation. I had no doubt she would win them over on her own merit.
I hurried to my car, called Verdi and gave her the good news. She was to start the next day. Then checked my directions and headed to the Valley to meet with the jeweler.
I’d called Malone with my report on Franklin and his goat-raising secret. I wished I’d been able to make my report in person so I could have seen his face. But I have to tell you I could hear him tapping his pencil on his desk while we talked. I couldn’t see his irritated expression, but I could picture it.
It goes without saying, he was not thrilled we’d followed Franklin.
“Did you ever find out anything regarding the client who was so upset, Petra Rossi?” I asked.
“We checked her out.” He hesitated and then went on. I think he was afraid we might tail her. “Believe it or not, she was the special guest at a charity fund-raiser in New York on the night Kitty Bardot was murdered.”
“Well, shoot.” I sighed. “Where does that leave us?”
“It leaves you nowhere.” I think I heard his pencil snap. “You are not to investigate. You are not to follow suspects. You are simply to keep an eye on April Mae Wooben and keep her out of trouble.”
Sam had dinner planned at the Balboa Bay Club in Newport Beach, and I’d been looking forward to it. We’d been cheated out of a leisurely dinner the day I’d found the gun in April’s truck, and we’d finally been able to reschedule.
The First Cabin restaurant always kind of reminds me a bit of a cruise liner, and I think that’s their intent. The big windows look out on sailboats and the Pacific coastline, and the food is outstanding.
I’d picked a sleeveless sheath in bold blue and white by Maranda, a new LA designer. I loved her combination of the traditional with a twist. Old-fashioned but flirty, it was a fun, feel-good, pick.
Once we were seated, Sam asked me about the investigation and what had been going on with April Mae and if she’d forgiven me.
We ordered, and then I filled him in. I realized as we talked that a lot had happened over the past few days.
He enjoyed the story about following Tonya Miles, though his face did get a little serious when I talked about shadowing her through downtown LA and into an alley. But when I told him about Franklin and our discovery of his secret life as a goat farmer, I thought Sam would shoot his elegant “Belle Cote” Chardonnay right out his nose. Not that he ever would, you understand, but it was a hoot to see him try not to in the midst of the uber-exclusive club with its hovering staff.
“Good grief, Caro! How did you maintain after that revelation?” he’d finally recovered enough to ask.
“I’m not sure.” I laughed, picturing April Mae and I hot on the trail of Franklin in his red Silverado. What the man must have thought when he saw us behind him.
“What next?” he asked as our entrees arrived.
“That’s just it, Sam.” I took a sip of the lively and exotic wine. “I’m afraid we’re at a dead-end. Petra Rossi has an air-tight alibi, Tonya Miles really doesn’t have a motive, and Franklin’s secret life turned out to be a fainting goat farm. Crazy as it sounds, I guess we’re back to a mob hit.”
“What do the police say?”
“I talked to Detective Malone earlier today, but he didn’t give out any details.” I took a bite of my salmon.
“I know you can’t leave this alone, but please promise me you’ll not take unnecessary chances that put you in danger.”
I started to poo-poo his concern, but the unusually serious look on his face stopped me.
He reached across the table and took my hand. “Caro, I know you don’t need my help, but if things get out of control, give me your word that you’ll call me?”
“I promise, Sam.”
He sat quietly for a few minutes studying my face.
I studied him back, not an onerous assignment at all.
Finally, I broke the silence. “I’m not really investigating, though, so I’m not in any danger. I’m simply keeping an eye on April Mae.”
“I know.” He let go of my hand, and we went back to our food. “But I worry.”
On the drive back to Laguna Beach, I filled Sam in on the situation with our office receptionist leaving, bringing Verdi from the Koffee Klatch to replace our grouchy temporary worker and other more mundane things.
When he kissed me good-night, Sam reiterated his concern. “I am going out of town for a few days, but promise me you’ll call if you need anything. I can have our security people at your disposal in minutes.”
“No need to worry,” I assured him. “I’m sure April Mae and I are in no danger.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I have to say though I’d been skeptical about the idea of dogs and cats painting, there was something appealing about Tobey and Minou’s new art. April Mae had chosen a mixture of soft blues and vivid red-orange hues. Maybe it was just that the colors in the new art spoke to me in the same sense Laguna Beach did. Whatever the reason, the paintings were fun.
I’d helped April Mae wrap the canvases to protect them, and we’d loaded them into her car.
While I always felt a little freaky about riding in the mob car, in this case we needed the extra space because the paintings were so big. They never would have fit in my roadster even with the convertible top down.
The idea of Philippe Arman doing a whole month long exhibition of cat art still made me shake my head. Internally, that is. I would have never told April Mae to her face I wasn’t completely sure the cats were artists.
And I certainly would have never told her I wasn’t even convinced Philippe Arman thought so either. That’s not to say the man didn’t know his art. I’m sure he did. He also knew his business, and his business was selling art.
In the past several months, there’d been a huge interest in both canine and feline paintings. Serious art collectors were decrying it a hoax, but art collectors around the globe with an appreciation for satire were buying up the pet art like mad. Which, of course, in turn drove up prices. I’m sure a concept not lost on Philippe.
He was calling this exhibition, Mewsings. I hoped Diana was back from Italy in time for the event. It was right up her alley.
Once we’d carefully loaded the Caddy, we went back in for our handbags, then headed to the Arman Gallery.
Dusk had settled for the day and rewarded us with one of those priceless Pacific sunsets that are one of the reasons real estate with a view in Laguna Beach brings such a premium price.
The deeper orange where sky met water said it would be dark soon. Lordy, I loved Laguna Beach sunsets. I wondered if Tobey and Minou would paint one for me.
Artistic cats, a car from the mob, and a long-lost sister. Plus a will detailing the distribution of millions of dollars, two paintings, and a pair of designer shoes. The world had gone bonkers.
I leaned back in the leather seat with a sigh. I cared about April Mae, I really did, but some days I felt like ever since she’d shown up next door, my life had become a cartoon episode. Most days, I wasn’t sure if I was Wile E. Coyote or the Roadrunner.
Maybe it was because I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t react right away to the sound of something hitting the side of the car.
At first, I thought fireworks. Then I thought rocks. It was like I couldn’t put the two sensations together.
Something made a loud crack.
Something hit the side of the car again.
Several somethings in a row. Too hard and too close together to be rocks unless they were being thrown by a whole crowd of major league pitchers.
April slammed on the brakes and started to get out. I grabbed her arm. “Wait!”
I don’t know if I was channeling Wile E. Coyote or what, but something told me this was not going to turn out well.
The sounds stopped.
We heard the squeal of tires. After a few minutes of silence, I jumped out. Too late to see the make or model of the car. It was long gone. A license plate number was never a possibility.
April was also out of the car. “Could you see anything?”
“No, not enough light. I think the car was silver or gray, but I’m not even sure about that.”
“Caro, look at this.” Her voice was suddenly tense with emotion.
I walked around to her side of the car.
You know those cartoons where bullets bounce off of cars? Yeah, not in real life. There were at least a dozen puncture holes in the side of the Caddy.
