by Marie Celine
Kitty dropped her spatula. It sizzled with the sliced ham in the cast iron pan. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Good morning. Det. Young, LASD.”
Fred ran up, sniffed the detective’s shoes, seemed satisfied and went back to his post in front of the stove, waiting not so patiently for handouts or accidents. Barney raced out the door for parts unknown.
“I remember. What do you want? Ouch!” Kitty removed the spatula, licked her fingers and turned the ham. Afterward, she went to work chopping green beans, which she planned on steaming. But time was in short supply so she’d have to heat them up in the pan. “I’m kind of busy here.”
“I can see that.” Det. Young was poking his nose into her grocery bags, some paper and some plastic, which were lined up across the kitchen counter. He gingerly pulled up a deboned tuna wrapped in plastic. “Been shopping?”
Kitty glanced up from her cooking. “What do you want?”
“I thought you might want to know how the investigation into Rich Evan’s death was going. He was your client after all.”
“Was it a heart attack?”
The detective shook his head.
“What then? Drugs? It was drugs, wasn’t it? Like I said. She sighed. “Poor Mr. Evan.”
“It wasn’t drugs. At least,” said Young, “not directly. Things are up in the air. I’ve just heard a preliminary report.” He grinned. “Go ahead, guess again.”
Kitty stopped her chopping and wiped her hands on her apron. The detective was smirking. She hated smirkers. And she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of taking his bait.
After a moment of stalemate, Det. Young said, “It appears that Rich Evan may have had a close encounter with a deadly substance.”
A deadly substance? Kitty blanched. “You mean. . . ?”
Young nodded.
All her fears had come true. She’d sweated through the night, tossing and fretting, praying that Velma would be right and that Mr. Evan’s death had nothing to do with her or her cooking.
“The ME seems pretty certain it was something he ingested. We’ll know soon enough.”
Kitty turned off the stove. She poured herself a glass of water from the sink, which was usually the last place in the world she’d drink from. She drank the cool water down in one awkward gulp.
“What I don’t get is why would this Rich Evan character be eating dog food? I mean, you said you cooked for the dog, not him.” The detective leaned over the pan of seared ham and sniffed. “Smells good. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”
Kitty pulled the pan off the stovetop. “Sorry, this is for my customers. And what I feed Benny isn’t exactly dog food. I use the finest ingredients. My food is not something you simply dump out of a can. There’s nothing in my meals that a person couldn’t eat if he or she chose. Not that I’ve ever known Mr. Evan to eat Benny’s food before.”
Young shook his head. “You always feed dogs this good?”
Kitty pulled a carton of eggs from the Gooch’s bag and broke two into a bowl. “And cats, and pigs, birds and reptiles.”
Young laughed. “I get it. Whatever they pay you for.”
“That’s right.”
He popped a raw green bean over his tongue. “And you go to people’s houses and you cook for these things?”
“That’s pets. And, yes, I do. If you had pets, you’d know how people, caring people, look after their pets. We consider ourselves caretakers, not owners.”
“As a matter of fact, Miss Bleeding Heart, I do have a pet.”
“Oh?”
“That’s right, a dog. A black lab. Like yours.”
“Oh.” That had caught her by surprise. She regrouped and fired back. “I bet you feed the poor thing out of a can.”
“The poor thing has a name and it’s Libby. And, yes, I do. Got a problem with that?”
“No, not as long as you eat out of the same can.”
“Funny. You’re real funny. Maybe you should be a pet standup comedienne.”
Kitty checked the flame and poured the eggs into an eight inch pan. “Why not? If the police can afford to pay a detective to do standup comedy like you do, I suppose I could find someone to pay me to do the same for their pets.”
Young reached down and petted Fred. “So, how much do you charge for preparing meals?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I don’t know about that.” He scratched Fred behind the left ear. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll hire you to come and cook up some gourmet treats for Libby.”
Kitty looked the detective in the eye. “Thirty dollars for once a day, fifty for twice.”
Young whistled. “You’re kidding?” He scratched his head. “A guy could buy a lot of Alpo for those kind of bucks.”
Kitty finished up and set about preparing to leave on her daily rounds. “Are we finished?”
Young’s voice turned serious. “We are going to need to confiscate your food.”
“You want to know if anything is contaminated.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Kitty knew she shouldn’t be giving the detective a hard time but he was so infuriating, she couldn’t help herself.
“Do I need one?”
Kitty sighed. “No. Look, I already thought about this. That’s why I went shopping this morning. I didn’t want to take any chances. If there was anything wrong with the food, it was an accident. I still don’t believe it though. Still, Velma took it all, everything that was in the fridge, and threw it in the dumpster.”
“Velma?”
“One of my friends. She said I shouldn’t take any chances on the food being tainted.”
“Well, she’s right. But then again, that food needs to be tested. You should have called before throwing it out. That could be evidence.”
“I’m sure it’s still out there.” Kitty pointed. “The dumpster is down in the back of the parking garage. They don’t pick up until Thursday.”
But she didn’t get away from Det. Young that easily. He made her accompany him to the dumpster, identify her trashbags and help him carry them back up to his car. The stink was incredible. She hoped it stayed with him all day, with his car, too.
Before driving off, Young said, “Tell me, Ms. Karlyle, if you’re Benny’s chef, why did you leave the food on the kitchen table? I’d say Benny’s a little short to eat from a chair.”
Kitty went over her movements once again. “I told you yesterday. When I got to Mr. Evan’s house, no one was around. I let myself in and set out Benny’s plate. I called him and he didn’t come. He’d had an accident on the floor. So I thought he was only hiding because he knew he might be in trouble. Dogs can sense it.
“And then my cellphone rang and it was Mrs. Randall having a fit because Mr. Cookie wasn’t eating.” Kitty shrugged. “I raced out of there. I left the plate on the table, I suppose, without thinking.”
She looked into the distance. “It’s my fault, isn’t it, that Mr. Evan is dead?”
Young backed up his car. “When I come to that conclusion,” he said grimly, “you’ll be the first to know.”
Kitty stood, letting the morning sun beat down on her. Some days it felt so light. Today it was a heavy, onerous weight hanging over her head. Det. Young had said ‘when’ not ‘if.’
5
“Calm down,” replied Velma. “Even if it does turn out to be food poisoning and the police can prove that it’s the food you had prepared for Benny, it’s still only an accident. An unfortunate accident.”
Kitty nodded but she wasn’t assuaged. This was more than just an unfortunate accident. Rich Evan was dead and there was a good chance she had killed him. “I have to go, Velma.” There was a small space across from the house and she managed to parallel park. “I’m at the Rabinowitz’s.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rabinowitz were all comforting hands and words of sympathy. They made Kitty sit down on the sofa in the living room and tell them all about it.
<
br /> By the time she pulled free and fed their plump little Pekingese, Goldie, her brunch, Goldie Lox and the Three Bears, Kitty was running late once again.
Benny was going to be her next stop, though it was out of the way. She wondered how the little pup was doing without his master.
Pulling up to the pitch-roofed gatehouse of the decidedly un-Hollywood-like Malibu Colony entry, Kitty wondered whether the guard would even allow her to enter, given what had occurred the day before. But, after painting her with a somewhat odd and questioning look, he let her pass without a word.
Kitty sighed with relief. Now if only Consuelo, who was bound to be up at the beach house, would just not start screaming at the top of her lungs the minute she arrived, point her finger and brand her a murderess, this day might not turn out so badly.
The Evan home was located on Malibu Colony Road. A yellow Ferrari was at the edge of the driveway. Kitty wondered whom it belonged to. It wasn’t Mr. Evan’s. The driver’s side window was open and a cigarette smoldered in the ashtray.
Consuelo was in the kitchen sweeping up. One hand held a green-handled, nylon bristled broom and the other a gray metal dustpan. Kitty was gladdened to see this left no hand free for a lethal weapon, pointed or otherwise.
The housekeeper looked up as Kitty gingerly crossed the kitchen threshold. “Oh, it’s you.”
Kitty said hello. “I brought Benny some food. I thought he might need it.” She looked about. “Where is he?”
“I’m only sweeping up. Like always. It’s impossible to keep the sand out of this house. Stupid to live at the beach, if you ask me.”
Kitty nodded obligingly. She set Benny’s meal on the granite-topped island. “Have you seen Benny, Consuelo? I don’t want his food getting cold.”
Consuelo rolled her eyes. “That puppy is around somewhere. Probably following Mr. Danson about.”
“Mr. Danson?”
“Mr. Danson is Mr. Evan’s friend.” Consuelo looked briefly at Kitty then returned to her sweeping.
The woman sure didn’t seem too shook up today about Mr. Evan’s passing. It briefly crossed Kitty’s mind that Consuelo herself might have done her employer in. The way she wielded that knife, Kitty wouldn’t put it past her. Consuelo was as volatile as a jug of nitro.
And Kitty sure wouldn’t turn her back on the woman again, especially in a room full of cutlery. Still, what motive might Consuelo have had for murdering her employer? Might he have provoked her?
Recipe:
Take one volatile Mexican with a flair for knife wielding.
Add one crazed and sometimes obnoxious rock star.
Stir briskly.
Result:
One less rock star?
Kitty called softly to Benny. He wasn’t in the media room or out on the back patio watching the surf, which she knew he was fond of doing. Benny often took his meals out on the redwood deck. The doors were open. Kitty helped herself to a breath full of luscious, life affirming sea air. It was another bright, sunny day in sunny southern California.
Too bad Rich Evan wasn’t around to enjoy it.
Kitty followed the sound of rustling papers and found a tall, gaunt looking man with an unruly head of brown hair, riffling through the desk in Mr. Evan’s office. Benny was at the man’s feet. The puppy ran to Kitty and she bent down to pet him.
The man dropped the papers and glared at her. “Who are you?”
“I-I’m Katherine Karlyle. I brought Benny his food.”
The tall man pushed the desk drawer shut, slowly and thoughtfully. His hard green eyes seemed to penetrate her skin. “Fine. Just leave it in the kitchen, will you. I’ll take it with me when I leave.”
Kitty began to retreat then stopped at the door. “But I’m afraid his meal will get cold. He really ought to eat now.”
The man’s eyebrows pinched together. He snapped his fingers and his dour countenance brightened considerably. “Oh, I know who you are. You’re that chef girl that Rich recently hired to cook for his doggy.”
Kitty nodded.
The man came out from behind the desk and introduced himself. “I’m Fang Danson.”
“Katherine Karlyle. Everybody calls me Kitty though.”
“How appropriate.” Rich’s eyes darkened. “I hear from the police that it might have been your cooking that did old Rich in.”
Kitty didn’t know what to say. After all, he could be right.
“Look, I was going to take Benny home with me. Rich would have wanted it, I’m sure.” He bent low and ruffled the pup’s coat. “Why don’t you go feed Benny and then we’ll be off.”
After the girl and the dog left, Fang returned to his friend’s desk. He’d made a pretty good search of it and turned up nothing. Nothing but a baggy containing about an ounce of hash. He’d stuffed that in his pocket. What the hell. It was better than leaving empty-handed.
Sitting in Rich’s chair, he dialed a number from memory. “Yeah, this is Danson. I’m at Rich’s house and there’s nothing here. Nothing that I can find anyway. I thought you told me he had the papers?”
The voice on the other end told him not to worry.
“That’s easy for you to say.” Fang dropped the phone in its cradle.
He found the girl sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, Benny between her legs, scarfing up something that smelled awfully good. Looked good, too. So did that cozy spot between the girl’s legs. She was a looker, despite the cook’s getup.
She glanced up as he came into the room. Fang smiled. What had she said her name was? Katherine? Cat? Kitty, that was it. “He looks happy.” Fang showed his teeth.
Benny’s tail waggled back and forth as he ate. “Yes. Still, I feel terrible. I mean, what if the food I prepared yesterday was bad somehow? It was meant for him. Benny could be dead right now,” she said softly. “And poor Mr. Evan. . .” Her voice trailed off.
Fang dropped to his knees beside the girl and laid a comforting arm over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry none. It’s not your fault, Kitty. Rich, he had a good run of it.” She was looking at him now. There was hope in those eyes. “The way I hear it, he went without any pain. A fella can’t ask for much more than that.”
She was surprised to find she was crying again. Fang grabbed a paper towel and handed it to her. “Sorry,” she said.
Fang helped the shaken girl to her feet. “Listen, Benny needs you. And I can see he likes you. You take good care of him,” Fang said smoothly. “Benny’s going to be staying with me now. I want you to continue cooking for him.”
“You do?” Her eyes cleared a little.
“Absolutely. Benny needs you.” Fang stared into her light blue eyes. “I need you. I’ve never had a dog before. I wouldn’t begin to know what to feed him. I’d probably go out and buy some bag of kibble or something.”
Kitty looked aghast. She couldn’t help herself.
“You see?”
“Well—” She did love Benny, but seeing the little pup only served to remind her of Rich Evan’s death and how close Benny himself might have come to being killed by her hand; accidental though it might be. She was beginning to wonder if this whole pet gourmet business was a mistake. Maybe she should give it up altogether?
