by Marie Celine
“For Benny’s sake?”
Benny had finished eating and was barking to be let out. Consuelo, who’d been dawdling over a few dirty glasses in the sink, sent him on his way.
Maybe, Kitty thought, if she helped take care of Benny, it would atone some little bit for whatever responsibility she might have had in his owner’s death. “Okay. But I won’t charge you. I can’t take any money for it. This is on me.”
“We’ll worry about that later.” Fang scratched out his address on the back of one of Kitty’s business cards. Kitty promised to bring Benny his dinner later that same day.
Making her way back to the station wagon, Kitty spotted Fang Danson with his arms around a knockout of a young woman in a blue leotard and jogging shoes. Her hair was long, flowing and naturally blonde. Kitty had always wanted hair like that. Heck, she’d always wanted thighs like that. The woman had the looks of a Hollywood starlet.
Fang released the young woman and drove off.
Consuelo was emptying her dustbin in the trashcan along the side of the garage.
Kitty approached her. Hands open. “Who was that woman?”
“What woman?” Consuelo’s eyes were suspicious and wary.
“The one in the drive that Mr. Danson was talking to.”
Consuelo practically growled. “That was Mrs. Evan.”
“Mrs. Evan?”
“Yes, the former Mrs. Evan. Angela Evan. Mr. Evan, he divorced her.” She shook her head. “I was happy. I did not like that woman.”
“What do you suppose she was doing here?”
“She lives here in the Colony also.” Consuelo left Kitty standing there and retreated to the house.
Benny was running around the yard. Kitty went to him and picked him up in her arms. “Say, little guy. I thought Mr. Danson was supposed to be taking you?” She frowned. Danson was long gone. She scratched Benny’s tummy. “Looks like he forgot.” What should she do? She didn’t really want to leave the helpless puppy at Mr. Evan’s house, not in the care of Consuelo. “I guess you’ll have to come with me.”
Kitty carried Benny to the car and told him he could ride shotgun. “You can be my assistant for the rest of the day.”
Heading back up through the Colony towards Pacific Coast Highway, Kitty noticed Mrs. Evan walking briskly on the side of the street. Her arms swung side to side like a pro’s. One hand clutched a cellphone.
Kitty pulled up alongside.
The blonde stopped. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on her. Up close now, Kitty looked her up and down. There wasn’t so much as an ounce of fat on her either, except for those regions men found irresistible.
“Can I help you?” Mrs. Evan seemed to look at Kitty’s old car and immediately put her in her place. The driver of this car was ‘the help’ not a peer. The blonde’s chest rose and fell confidently and serenely.
Kitty was trying awfully hard not to hate her. “Mrs. Evan?”
“What do you want?” The woman’s eyes were teal colored and marble hard.
Kitty took the woman’s reply for a yes. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry to hear about your ex-husband’s death.”
Mrs. Evan half-smiled. “Richie is my husband—was my husband.” Her eyes darted up to the distant Malibu hills. “Yes, it’s a shame. Now, if you don’t mind, I really must be going.”
“Yes, of course,” Kitty said. Benny took this moment to stick his head out the window and yap.
“What are you doing with that dog?” demanded Mrs. Evan.
“This is Benny, Mr. Evan’s dog.”
The blonde frowned. “I know what the thing is.” Benny leaned out the window and she awkwardly patted his snout. Her fingers came back gooey. She frowned, then wiped her hand on the side of her leg, leaving a long silvery streak, like a snail’s trail, which she tried unsuccessfully to rub out. “What are you doing with him?”
Kitty explained.
The more she explained the more Mrs. Evan’s eyes narrowed and her soft body stiffened. “You’re the chef Richie hired.”
“That’s right. Katherine Karlyle.” She reached for her purse, which was on the floorboards. She fished about. “I’ve got some cards here someplace.”
“That really isn’t necessary. I am not a pet person.”
Kitty didn’t think the woman was much of a people person either.
“The way I hear it, it was your cooking that killed Richie. Maybe I should be thanking you. My dear husband was a real bastard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Serves him right being poisoned to death eating dog food.”
A stunning young brunette in salmon-colored sweatpants and a matching bikini top jogged up and patted Mrs. Evan’s arm. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Evan. She turned her back on Kitty and Benny and went running off with her girlfriend.
“Be grateful you’re not going home with that woman, little guy.” Benny barked. Kitty took this as the dog’s way of expressing his agreement.
6
“So there’s no doubt?” Det. Young held the phone pressed up between his ear and his left shoulder. His hands were busy applying glue to the left front fender of the scale model Porsche 359 spread out across his desk.
“No doubt at all.”
“That’s tough,” said Young, and he meant it. That Karlyle girl, though goofy beyond a doubt, had seemed like a nice girl. Cute, too. “Thanks, doc. What was the name of that stuff again?”
The doctor happily repeated his results.
“The Barbados nut. Spell that for me.” He dropped the fender and scratched down the name. “Got it.” He ended the call and reattached the fender, holding on a good minute until it had had time to affix itself to the front body. So Rich Evan had been poisoned. That dish he’d eaten had been laced with Barbados nut.
According to the ME, the stuff was lethal and had once been used by veterinarians as a purgative. Hell Oil, he’d called it. That explained the diarrhea the victim had suffered on his way out of this world. The detective had come across a lot of ugly ways to go in his career, and this was one of the ugliest. To top it off there were traces of multiple illicit drugs in Evan’s bloodstream.
The man had been a walking high school chemistry experiment. That combined with the Barbados nut had made a potent and lethal combination.
But was it murder or stupidity combined with carelessness? In this town, you saw both.
Young made a mental note to himself to research this Barbados nut later. Right now he was going to have to figure out whether this Karlyle woman had killed Evan on purpose or by accident.
Was she a nut herself? Had she set out to kill Rich Evan? Maybe she had intended to murder the dog? Maybe she considered herself a chef who practiced a little euthanasia on the side?
Young resealed his glue pen. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he would order the lab to search the food he’d retrieved from Karlyle’s dumpster and check it for this Barbados nut.
He’d have to have a second word with the Karlyle woman, too. And he wanted to take a look at that recipe. He found her phone number in his notebook and gave her a ring. She wasn’t home or wasn’t answering.
True to her word, Kitty arrived at Fang Danson’s manse around seven-thirty that evening. She was exhausted. It had been a nightmare of a day, running around, preparing meals, taking care of her own pets, Fred and Barney, while dragging Benny along everywhere she went. Of course, he’d had to stay in the car when she was servicing her other clients’ animals.
The dog, like all puppies, was a never-ending swirl of paws, legs, tail and tongue. Even now, he twisted in her arms as she rang the front bell. The chime was playing a piece that Kitty identified as something by Edvard Grieg. Those youthful hours lost to piano studies hadn’t been totally wasted.
Fang Danson’s Santa Monica home was a modernistic, three-storied palace, white with a blue tile roof, standing out among the smaller homes on the quiet street where he lived. The garage was open and Kitty co
uldn’t help but notice the yellow Ferrari, along with a blue Aston Martin and a metallic black Rolls Royce. There were also two motorcycles and a racing bike.
Fang answered the door himself. He was in loose jeans that hung off his bony hips. The jeans were torn at the knees and the floppy white T-shirt was wrinkled and had brown stains. Danson was barefoot as he stepped out on the Chicago brick porch. For a moment, it didn’t look like he recognized her. “Oh, you’ve brought the dog,” he said finally.
Kitty held out the puppy. Fang took him and set him down. Benny ran off sniffing the bushes.
Kitty adjusted her toque. Her chef’s coat was covered with dog hair. She held out her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Danson. Yes, I brought Benny as I promised. I have his dinner in the car. I hope it’s not too late.”
“Nah. Day’s just begun. Come on in.” He turned and disappeared inside.
Kitty stared at the open door. “Wait right here, Benny, while I go get din-din.”
Framed gold and platinum albums adorned the walls of the high-ceilinged entryway. So, Fang Danson was a rock star also? Funny, she’d never heard of him. She read off the names of his records silently. They were all by one band: Milky Way. Of course, they’d been huge in the seventies and eighties, producing album-oriented rock along with their peers like Pink Floyd and the Alan Parsons Project.
“Surprised?”
Kitty turned. Fang stood behind her, his hands in his pockets.
“Me and the boys didn’t like to tour. We considered ourselves more a studio band. I like to stay home with my toys.”
Kitty nodded. He seemed to have a lot of toys, expensive toys. “I really love your music.”
“Thanks.” Fang sniffed the air. “That smells good.” He reached over and unzipped the warming bag she carried. “This is for the dog?”
“Yes.” He was smiling but something about the man frightened her.
“What is it?”
“I call it Peas Porridge.”
Fang scrunched up his nose. “What?”
“See?” Kitty pulled the small white card from her pocket and handed this to Fang.
He read, “Peas Porridge. Fresh peas, minced chicken breast, diced shitake mushroom, whole milk, one-quarter teaspoon cod-liver oil . . .” Fang made a face before continuing. “Sea salt and fresh pepper.”
“Where shall I feed Benny?”
Fang shrugged. “Wherever you like.”
“The kitchen?”
“Kitchen’s through there.” He pointed down a long hall leading to the right. At the end of the hall, a bright light protruded. Kitty and Benny headed this way.
Fang disappeared up to the second floor. A hand reached out and pulled him into his expansive and professionally outfitted home recording studio.
“What on earth is she doing here?”
Fang kissed the woman on the neck. “Relax. Nothing to be jealous about, love. The girl’s only here to feed the dog.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not jealous, you idiot. I don’t like it, that’s all. There’s something about that girl that rubs me the wrong way.”
Fang could think of plenty of ways that Kitty could rub him and none of them were wrong. “How do you mean? Besides, I wasn’t even aware that you knew her.”
Fang turned to the recording console where he’d been mixing down some tracks and rechecked his levels. Today’s session had gone well and with luck the new album would be out in three months tops. Now if those record promoters he was paying a bundle to could only get some airplay. Not easy in this day’s tight-arsed, cookie-cutter, youth-driven market.
“She stopped me on the street this morning to tell me how sorry she was about Richie’s death.”
“We’re all sorry.” Fang nestled up behind and squeezed her buttocks. “Relax, Angela. So she stopped to give you her condolences. The girl’s a kook, I mean, got herself a job feeding cats and doggies, but there’s nothing peculiar about her saying how sorry she was about your ex’s death.”
Angela pushed up against Fang, leaned back and caressed his chin. “Well, I still don’t like her. I know her type. She looks like trouble to me.”
“And you look like trouble to me,” Fang said, lustily, as he spun Angela around and pushed her down atop the chenille sofa along the back wall.
Halfway into things, Angela came up for breath and managed to say, “What about that girl? She’s downstairs, for Heaven’s sake.”
Fang grinned and removed Angela’s pants in a smooth and practiced move. “Good thing this room is sound-proofed.” He kissed her hard. “A girl could scream here if she wanted to. And no one would hear.”
“Mr. Danson?” Kitty poked her head out the hall. Where had he disappeared to? She’d finished feeding Benny. The pup was sleeping it off in a corner of the kitchen, near the back door.
All she wanted to do now was go over her arrangement with Mr. Danson, work out a schedule of feedings, et cetera, and she could be on her way. Kitty yawned loudly. A good night’s sleep was the only thing she needed after that.
Kitty searched the entire first story. There was no sign of Mr. Danson.
She left a note for him on the kitchen counter explaining that she would be back first thing in the morning to feed Benny his breakfast.
She let herself out the front door.
Det. Young was waiting outside her building.
Kitty ignored him as she unlocked the door to her apartment. He followed her inside.
She wearily set her supplies down on the sofa. Fred came running and leapt into her lap. “How’s my baby?” She stroked his back. Barney mewled from the kitchen. Kitty looked at Det. Young. He had wandered back to the bedroom, apparently casing the place.
Kitty stood and went after him. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, detective, or am I supposed to guess? Because if I’m supposed to guess, I’m afraid you are going to be very disappointed, because I am very tired.” She folded her arms and blocked the hall.
“I was hoping to get a recipe.”
“A recipe?”
“That’s right. For that Benny Had A Little Lamb stuff of yours.”
Kitty’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Curious, that’s all.”
Kitty turned her back on him and went to the kitchen. Her fingers scanned through her recipe file. She had her entire collection on index cards in a small box near the stove. She whipped out the recipe in question and thrust it into Young’s hand.
He read it over.
“Satisfied?”
“No Barbados nut?”
“Excuse me.” Kitty found some leftovers in the fridge from the meals she’d prepared that morning and laid out plates for Fred and Barney. They ate greedily.
“No Barbados nut.” He flicked the index card. “The recipe doesn’t call for any Barbados nut.”
Kitty smirked. “Don’t tell me. You’re a chef now as well as a detective and a comedian.” She shook her head. “So now you’re going to tell me how to cook, is that it?”
