Dishing Up Death, Gourmet Pet Chef Mystery Series, Book 1

by Marie Celine

  Young carefully laid the index card on the counter. “No, that’s not it at all. I had a call today.”

  “Lucky you.” Kitty prepared herself a cup of hot tea. “Care for some?”

  “Thanks.”

  Kitty prepared two cups of herbal blend sweetened with blueberry honey.

  They carried their cups to the sofa.

  Det. Young took a sip and set his cup on the floor. Fred stuck his nose in it once then took off. “That call was from the coroner’s office. Rich Evan was definitely poisoned by the dish you’d prepared for his dog. No wonder he was lying face down on the plate.”

  Kitty froze, her cup suspended between her lap and her lips. She looked like one of those preserved corpses from Pompeii after the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius enshrined them in ash and lava.

  Young seemed to be enjoying the look. “You know what they do down there at the ME’s office?”

  Kitty said nothing. Slowly she took a drink of her tea. This was like a bad movie.

  “In the case of Rich Evan, they examine the contents of the victim’s stomach. They found the undigested remains of Benny’s intended dinner. Only this dish contained Barbados nut.” The detective detailed the nut’s poisonous properties with an apparent relish.

  “But I never even heard of this Barbados nut!” Kitty pushed forward. Tea ran down her coat. The way the detective was looking at her was making her nervous. Did he expect her to crack? To confess?

  “Then how do you explain it being in the meal you prepared?”

  “I-I can’t.”

  “There were traces of the nut on the dish still, in the uneaten remains.”

  Kitty stared straight ahead, avoiding his gaze, biting her lip. “I don’t know. I can’t. I mean, I prepared the food here like I always do. And then it was with me all day. I swear, I don’t have any idea.”

  She was looking at Det. Young now. “Maybe it was some unlisted ingredient in something that I put in the food.” Kitty was clutching at straws now and knew it. She ran through the ingredient list in her head. It didn’t make sense. “The rice maybe?”

  “We’ve checked everything out. Everything that we could find, that is.” He stood and set down his empty cup. “We’re going to need to search your apartment and your car.”

  “Now?”

  He nodded. “I’ll call and arrange a tow.”

  She blanched. “You’re impounding my car?”

  “I’m afraid so. But don’t worry, if it’s clean, you’ll get it back soon enough.”

  “But I need it in the morning. I have meals to deliver.”

  “Sorry.” He let himself out. “Thanks for the tea.”

  7

  “Thanks for helping me out. Are you sure you won’t get in trouble at work?”

  Velma had a part-time job flipping burgers at a Jack-In-The-Box in Culver City, not far from the little studio-sized room she rented at the back of a small 1940's built home owned by a retired postal worker and her husband, himself a retired veteran who’d been on disability since being shot up in Belgium during WWII.

  “Nah. Those jerks can get along without me for a day. Half the people who work there don’t show up half the time. It’s about time I took a little time off. I’m always covering for those jerks. Let’s see how they like it for a change.”

  Velma dropped two insulated bags into the trunk of her car, adding to several others already piled there. She wiped her hands on her frock. “If we run out of room in here, I can clear some space on the backseat.”

  Velma’s car was notoriously junk-filled. Velma always said that it was because she lived in such a small apartment, but she was only fooling herself. Velma was a hoarder. She’d have a brand new, stretch limo filled with junk inside of a week if you let her.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. This is about everything.” At least she hoped so.

  “I really appreciate your coming with me and letting me use your car like this,” Kitty said again as Velma headed up Melrose.

  “Hey, stop thanking me. What are friends for?” She turned up towards Beverly Hills. “Besides, this is fun. It’s kind of like old times.”

  Kitty nodded. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the cool morning breeze hitting her face. L.A. was beautiful this time of day. The air was crisp, the city vibrant with everyone scurrying here and there. It really was a bit like old times, like Velma said. Kitty and Velma were close. They had been classmates through the San Diego Culinary Institute.

  Velma was from Michigan. She had been living in a house trailer in the woods behind her grandmother’s house in St. Clair Shores. Her only work experience had been writing reviews for mystery novels and posting them on the Internet. Of course, for this she had received no pay as she had done it on her own. But it had given her something to do.

  Except for writing up hundreds of reviews on mystery novels (most of which she rated bad) and old films (which she rather enjoyed), she had little to do besides feed herself and her cat (she’d had a cat then) and play the dulcimer. She wasn’t a very good dulcimer player and the cat looked neglected and undernourished.

  About the only thing Velma did well was criticize. That and grow. The adipose tissue grew around her as if providing a literal layer of insulation between herself and the world-at-large.

  Velma had lived rent-free on her grandmother’s rural property. Her parents were school teachers in the Detroit school system but she rarely saw them. They’d given up on their daughter as a lost cause—she’d barely graduated high school and immediately upon doing so had bought herself a dulcimer and locked herself in her room—and gave most of their attention to the troubled teens who passed through their high school classes believing their energies were best spent here.

  After a few good blow-ups with her folks, Velma moved out in a huff and a puff—it was the most she’d exerted herself since ninth grade gym class when they’d been forced to attempt the Presidential Fitness program. Granny Humphries took her in.

  Velma had been sleeping on Granny’s porch after running away and had caused the spill in which Granny Humphries, whose eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, tumbled from the front porch and busted her right hip on her way to the mailbox. But Granny had a good heart, and a new hip, and told her granddaughter that she could move into the tiny trailer out back that was just sitting empty since her last tenant had moved out as the FBI closed in. It seemed the previous renter had himself a small meth lab and knew his time had come.

  Sitting around, slamming mystery novels and mesmerizing herself watching old films, growing rounder (her grandmother remarked to a neighbor that Velma ate enough cereal to keep Battle Creek on the map), strumming that cheap dulcimer, picking cat fur out of her mou-mous, that had been enough of a life for Velma Humphries and this was exactly how she had spent her first three years post-high school. She’d been known as The Hump in high school due to her slouched posture and zaftig status.

  And while these teasing, taunting high schoolers were wrapping up three years of college and getting ready for the fourth and final, The Hump was sitting in her dump, as the teasers and taunters would say to one another whenever Humphries’ name came up in a what-ever-happened-to sort of way.

  Then one day, Velma had had an epiphany, or maybe it just came to her while watching the umpteenth rerun of the umpteenth episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. In any event, she dropped the cat at her grandmother’s doorstep, ‘borrowed’ Granny’s Chrysler and headed for Tinsel Town.

  But Tinsel Town didn’t want her and after a month she’d drifted down to San Diego. A flyer stuck in her windshield while she was carousing in a Lucky’s grocery store announced the upcoming fourteen week semester at the San Diego Culinary Institute.

  A quick reverse-the-charges phone call to Granny Humphries and her tuition was covered. Velma was in cooking school training to be a chef. It was exhilarating, exciting!

  Hey, it was free. And she was surrounded by food! Life was sweet and so were the pastries she’d be creating
. Granny Humphries, in her own elation at Velma’s sudden nose to the grindstone attitude, had even started sending her a monthly stipend.

  Velma and Kitty soon ran into each other. They had places across the table from one another in a class on meat identification. The instructor, Pierre Durdus, was a tyrant who believed meat identification only second in importance to memorizing the Ten Commandments.

  Velma and Kitty used to get drunk on the wine Velma was swiping from the Institute’s kitchen, while they made up horrible dishes in which Chef Durdus was the main ingredient.

  Velma even went so far as to write the most unusual recipes down. One such was Durdus au Jus; ingredients included one deboned Pierre Durdus, six gallons of mirepoix ( a mixture of chopped onions, celery, carrots, herbs and seasonings), a gallon of jug wine, and bell peppers (Durdus hated bell peppers).

  Velma told Kitty they should write a cookbook. She said she had a lot of experience with books and knew the good from bad. As time went on, the odd duo went from classmates to roommates.

  By the time they had both graduated some eighteen months later, Kitty had formed her idea of becoming a pet gourmet chef. Velma had aimed higher—and fallen lower. Then she had let Kitty talk her into moving back up to L.A. Kitty had her pet gourmet cooking business up and running. Velma was flipping burgers and churning fries at a Jack-In-The-Box.

  Why Kitty didn’t just break down and get them both jobs at her folks’ upscale restaurant in Newport Beach was beyond her and Velma often said so. After all, Kitty’s cutesy folks, Mark and Paula, kept saying the door was open—and that went for the both of them.

  Kitty only shrugged and said that she and Velma would both feel better if they made it on their own.

  “You’ll see, Velma,” Kitty would say. “One of these days, it’s all going to come together for us. We’ll be super successful. I’ll have a dozen pet chefs working for me, taking care of the world’s pampered poodles and you’ll be running your own hoity-toity restaurant in Beverly Hills or maybe West L.A..”

  In the meantime, Velma was chauffeuring Kitty around in an ’86 LeBaron on permanent loan from Granny Humphries. And together they barely had gas money to see them across town.

  The good times had better come soon.

  The first stop was at the Bel Air home of two men that Kitty only knew as Richard and Timothy. They’d seen Kitty’s flyer outside a Trader Joe’s in Toluca Lake and given her a call.

  The girls donned their chef smocks and caps. “You can wait in the car, if you like.” Kitty checked her image reflected in the car window, a hand-smudged and duller version of her self.

  “Nah, this will be fun.” Velma popped the trunk and read the labels Kitty had stuck to the warming boxes. “All of these?”

  Kitty nodded. “If you really think this is fun, you should join me. I’ve said it before, we’d make a great team.”

  “No, thanks.” Velma started for the front door of the manse, a grand early American masterpiece of red brick and white columns, or at least La-La Land’s version thereof. And she wasn’t ruling the whole place out as a prop until she got a closer look. This was the land of façades, after all, and that went for people as well as places. “Cooking for pets is your thing, not mine.”

  Velma had exactly zero interest in kowtowing to the upper class and their little beasties. “I’m holding out for a real job in a four-star restaurant or better.”

  Kitty had heard it all before. “Okay, okay. Just remember, the offer is always open.” She called Velma back. “We’d better go this way.”

  Kitty directed Kitty’s eyes to a small green sign that pointed around the side. On the sign was the word staff and an arrow aiming to the back of the house.

  Velma frowned. “You see? This is exactly what I hate about this job.” Nonetheless she took the redbrick path to the kitchen.

  Kitty introduced herself to the cook who in turn called Richard and Timothy. Within moments, they came in from the garden. Timothy held a basket of pink and yellow flowers. Both men, whom she judged to be in their fifties, were tall and lean. Richard’s hair was still brown and full though, where Timothy’s blond hair was thin and graying.

  Kitty went through her routine. She’d brought three dishes for the dogs to sample. Us and Them were two sleek, muscular Dalmatians, both male, both sporting diamond studded leather collars.

  As Richard and Timothy had requested, all the eggs used were from free-range, cage-free hens and all the meats were organic, the vegetables too. Kitty had gone all out. She really needed some new clients. The demoed dishes included Bowser’s Burritos, Dalmatian Delight (which was her workhorse chicken loaf dish) and Healthy Hotdog Delite, made with tofu sausages.

  Richard and Timothy gleefully read the small menu/recipe cards that Kitty had included. “One-half cup of mixed veggies. . .” Richard raised an eyebrow in Kitty’s direction.

  “That’s broccoli, cauliflower and carrots,” she explained.

  Richard went on. “One-half cup shredded Monterrey Jack cheese, two tablespoons of chopped cilantro, mmm-mmm.” He cleared his throat. “One beef bouillon cube, one teaspoon of chili powder, a quarter of a cup of crushed pineapple, two medium-sized baked sweet potatoes, and two and a quarter tablespoons of soynut butter.”

  “Interesting,” said Timothy. He set his flower basket on the counter.

  Richard went on. “One clove of garlic, one pound of organic beef and a tablespoon and a half of safflower oil.” He beamed. “Delicious.”

  The dogs ate everything up and looked at Kitty, their eyes filled with contentment and hope. Got any more? they seemed to ask.

  Richard and Timothy were thoroughly delighted and signed up for the six day, twice daily service. Richard actually kissed Kitty on the cheek. “You are wonderful, Kitty,” he exclaimed. “Isn’t she wonderful, Timothy?”

  Timothy, by far the quieter of the two gentlemen, agreed.

  “Do you do cockatiels?”

  “Sure,” Kitty quickly replied. “I can do that. I’ve got some great bird recipes.”

  “So have I,” Velma uttered under her breath. “Cornbread stuffed, with aspic is always good. . .”

  “What’s that?” Richard asked.

  “I said you’re getting yourself the best chef money can buy.” Velma blushed. “You can’t go wrong with Kitty Karlyle’s pet gourmet service.”

  Richard and Timothy nodded wholeheartedly. And Kitty agreed to start in earnest the next day.

  As they loaded their wares back into the trunk, Velma said, “I cannot believe how much people are willing to pay you to cook for their pets. It’s amazing.” She slammed the lid down.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Velma said, as they headed up Stone Canyon Road, “if folks like that don’t spend more on their pets than they do on other people.”

  “You know how it is,” Kitty said, “this is Los Angeles. You can find everything here. There are pet astrologers, pet psychiatrists, psychologists.” She smiled. “I’ve even seen advertisements for pet exercise studios.”

  Velma snorted and looked in Kitty’s direction. Any day now, she expected to see a storefront open up offering Pet Taebo or Pet Pilates. As one of her favorites, W.C. Fields, would say, ‘there’s a sucker born every minute.’

  8

  By the time they arrived at Fang Danson’s house for Benny’s evening meal, both girls were bushed. Velma maneuvered the old Chrysler up the narrow drive and killed the engine. She leaned back against the headrest and sighed. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait here.”