by Marie Celine
Kitty nodded. “This won’t take long.” She carried Benny’s dinner, Hickory Dickory Duck, up to the house and rang the bell. Edvard Grieg chimed her presence and Fang Danson himself opened the door.
“Come on in,” he said with a wicked grin. He was in crumpled jeans, his feet were bare and he was shirtless. He sniffed, his nostrils pulling wide. “Mmmm, dinner time.”
“Where’s Benny?” Kitty walked to the kitchen and began pulling out the dog’s dinner.
“Good question.” Fang’s head tilted to one side. “Must be out back.” He went to the kitchen window and looked outside.
Kitty followed suit. Fang Danson’s yard was large by Santa Monica standards. There was even a pool and a hot tub with room left over. But there was no sign of the dog. “I don’t see him.”
Fang snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, I think I saw him upstairs earlier. I’ll bet the little dickens is messing around up there.” He grabbed Kitty’s hand. “Come on, let’s have a look.”
Kitty dropped the plate of Hickory Dickory Duck on the kitchen counter. “But, Mr. Danson, really I don’t think I should—”
“Come on.” Fang wasn’t taking no for an answer and he held Kitty’s hand as far as the stairs when she was finally able to wrestle her fingers free from his sticky grasp.
Nonetheless, Kitty followed Fang upstairs. He pushed open a door. “Not in the guest bath.”
He led Kitty down a hall lined with more hit records and photos of himself and his bandmates with a host of other celebrities. There were a number of photos that included Rich Evan as well. Pangs of remorse and guilt stung Kitty’s heart like killer bees as she passed each of these.
Fang turned, mischief dancing in his eyes. “You know, he might be in the bedroom. The little guy has taken a liking to sleeping on the bed.”
Kitty hesitated at the threshold. Danson’s master bedroom was a huge suite, all white, with a massive canopied bed with an intricately carved frame its centerpiece. A fluffy white satin comforter floated on top. The room even boasted a fireplace. A pile of neatly stacked logs looked ready to go. “I don’t think Benny’s here, Mr. Danson.”
Fang’s toes wriggled in the thick white carpet. “Call me Fang. All my friends call me Fang. Haven’t I already told you that? Besides, I’m not big on formality.” He took Kitty’s hand again. “Let’s check under the bed.”
Kitty dropped to her knees and looked. “I don’t see—” Fang dropped down behind her, up close and personal. Kitty reddened and jumped to her feet. “Mr. Danson!”
He laughed. “What? I thought we might have some fun.”
Kitty quickly pushed her skirt down. “I barely know you.”
“And I barely know you. What better way to get to know each other?”
“I thought we were looking for Benny?” Kitty’s eyebrows came together. “You haven’t lost him, have you?”
“No,” grunted Fang. “Of course not. The little bastard’s around here someplace.” He looked meaningfully at the bed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to—”
Kitty’s arms were crossed over her chest and she was tapping her foot.
“No, I suppose not.” Fang sighed. “Ah, well, I think he’s in the studio. The bugger’s been running around in there all day. Taken a liking to it for some reason. Come on.”
Though dubious, Kitty followed Fang back down the hall. He pulled open a redwood door that had to be six inches thick and motioned for her to enter.
“Benny?” Kitty slowly took in the room. She stood in a large control room. On the other side of the glass, running the length of a futuristic looking recording console, was the recording booth, with a baby grand piano in one corner, microphones, music stands and cables crisscrossing a wooden floor.
She felt a whoosh of air as the door closed behind her. She turned. Fang locked his arms around her waist and dragged her to a sofa that she hadn’t noticed when she’d stepped in.
He pressed his lips to hers. Kitty valiantly tried to push him off. But the man was nearly a foot taller than she and quite a bit heavier as well.
The door opened. Fang looked up in surprise. His hands, which only a moment ago had been groping Kitty, were now pushing hair from his face.
Kitty smiled. Velma stood in the doorway. In her extended arms she held Benny, a squirming tangle of puppy energy. Velma looked with interest at the scene on the sofa. “I found this little guy scratching away at the front door trying to get in. I knocked but nobody answered. I figured I’d better bring your pooch in before he ruined the door.”
Kitty took this moment to push Fang off the couch.
He crashed to the floor. “Who the devil are you?”
Velma explained.
Fang was shaking his head. “No. That’s not it. Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“That depends,” Velma said.
“On what?”
“On how much you like Jack-In-The-Box.” Velma winked at Kitty. Kitty had taken Benny and Benny seemed as glad to see her as she was to see Velma. Velma held out a hand. Fang took it and she helped him to his feet.
He dusted himself off. “If you ladies don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do. Why don’t you take Benny downstairs and feed him.” Fang turned his back on the girls, plopped himself down in a black leather chair on wheels at the console and began pushing levers.
Kitty and Velma gave Benny his dinner in the kitchen. “Thanks for saving me back there.”
“It was nothing. That guy looks sort of creepy to me.”
“I agree,” said Kitty. “And I don’t like the way he’s taking care of Benny, or rather, not taking care of him. What was Benny doing running around outside unsupervised, anyway? He could have been lost or stolen. Maybe ended up in one of those awful labs where they experiment on poor, innocent creatures.”
“Beats me.”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for Mr. Danson to have Benny. He’s really not very responsible, is he?” Kitty petted the puppy lovingly. “You poor thing.”
“Why don’t you just take him?” Velma whispered.
“What? You mean take Benny?”
“Sure,” urged Velma. “That creep isn’t going to give this little guy a good home. You take him.”
“I can’t do that. That would be wrong. Besides, I’ve already got two pets. I don’t think the manager of my building would like it if I brought home a third. You want him?”
Velma picked up Benny’s empty plate and stuffed it in the bag. “Can’t have pets where I live, remember?”
Kitty’s phone went off like an alarm. She answered on the third ring. It was Mrs. Randall. “Hello, Mrs. Randall. How are you this evening?”
“Not well at all, young lady. These reporter people are creating quite the nuisance.” Mrs. Randall had said ‘reporter’ like it was a four-letter word.
“What reporter people?”
“The ones tramping all over my lawn wanting stories.”
“What sort of stories?” Kitty was getting a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Lurid and sensational stories. They want to know about you. And some man named Rich Evan that they say is dead.” Mrs. Randall sighed in frustration. “There they go again ringing the bell. What are you going to do about this, Miss Karlyle?”
Kitty groaned. “But it’s not my fault. What can I do about it?”
“You can come here and get rid of them,” Mrs. Randall demanded.
“Get rid of them? How am I supposed to do that?” Kitty dropped her phone back in her purse. There was no point in waiting for an answer as Mrs. Randall had hung up.
Velma asked, “What was that all about?”
“Mrs. Randall. She says a bunch of reporters are asking questions about me and Mr. Evan. She wants me to get rid of them.” Kitty shook her head. “How on earth am I going to do that?”
“Don’t worry.” Velma pushed Kitty out the side door. “We’ll take care of them.”
By the time they got to Beverly Hi
lls, a small troop of pushy reporters had gathered around the Randall manse. Kitty groaned. “I had no idea.”
“You haven’t been watching television much, have you?” replied Velma.
Kitty shook her head. “I haven’t had time. I’ve been busy.”
Velma shrugged and pulled over to the curb several houses away from the Randall residence. There were several news vans on the street. One had a long antenna sticking from its roof like it was expecting to contact aliens or something.
“Rich Evans was a pretty big celebrity. What did you expect?” Velma said, looking at Kitty whose eyes had grown as big as saucers, flying or otherwise.
Kitty looked around her, soaked it all in. She felt like she’d slipped into another world. Not the one she intended. Not the one she belonged in. Not the one she wanted to live in.
All she wanted was to earn a living cooking for a few pets. “I didn’t expect all this.”
Velma opened her door. “You stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“They’re reporters. I’m going to give them what they want.”
Kitty’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“A story.”
Velma walked towards the reporters who lingered about like well-dressed sharks on the sidewalk. She quickened her pace as she approached. “Help! Quick!”
Heads turned.
“You’ve got to call the police!” Velma cried. “I was walking my dog—he’s a Doberman Pinscher—on the next street and,” she huffed and leaned forward, her hands clutching her knees, “he got away from me.” Her eyes flicked from face to face. “And he’s mauling Robert Redford!” She pointed.
The street cleared. As the vans shot past, Kitty heard someone yelling at his partner to get his camera ready. Interestingly, not one of the news crews had been overheard mentioning calling the police or fetching an ambulance.
Velma wiped her hands and slowly walked back to the car. There was a big grin on her face. “Reporters are so easy.”
Despite her troubles, Kitty found Vel’s smile infectious and combined with Velma’s bravado, this was enough to make her laugh and went a long way towards lightening her worried heart.
Kitty jumped out of the LeBaron. “I’d better go and have a word with Mrs. Randall.” Still, a frosting of reluctance covered her words. “Why don’t you come with me, Vel?”
“Nah. Think I’ll wait here.” Velma turned on the car radio.
“Come on,” urged Kitty, not wanting to face an angry Mrs. Randall alone, “you were responsible for me getting Mrs. Randall as my first client after all. Since we’re here anyway, the least you can do is say hi.”
“That was Granny Humphries’ doing.”
“Sure,” said Kitty, “but give yourself some credit. You were the one who telephoned Granny Humphries and asked her to refer my service to Mrs. Randall.”
“Like I said at the time,” Velma was fiddling with the radio dial, “it’s no big deal. Granny knew Mrs. Randall from back in Mrs. Randall’s Michigan days. Randall Department Stores started in Detroit, you know. Granny worked the perfume counter there for forty-five years.”
Velma suspected that forty-five years of breathing in perfume and cologne fumes had addled Granny’s brains, but as this addled state usually turned out in Velma’s favor, she kept this opinion to herself. She still had the Chrysler, didn’t she?
Granny was a free spirit and deserved her independence. It would be terrible for Granny to end up in a nursing home somewhere. She’d die if they stuck her in a place like that.
Kitty nodded. She’d heard the story before. Granny Humphries had joined with Randall when it was only the one small store in East Detroit. Granny Humphries had known Mrs. Randall personally and had generously telephoned her on Kitty’s behalf. The Randalls had been Kitty’s first, and to this day, were her most difficult, clients. And this included the recent addition of the all hands Fang Danson.
Her second client had been Rich Evan, whom the Randalls had subsequently referred. In the service industry, and very much so in L.A., word of mouth was key to success. People like Mr. Evan and the Randalls could make or break her.
Kitty tried once more. “Still, you know Mrs. Randall would love to meet you. You ought to come up and say hello, Velma. She’d be so glad.”
“Another time maybe.” Velma yawned. “These old bones are beat. I thought working a long shift on my feet in front of a fryer at Jack-In-The-Box was hard. I don’t know how you can stand this; driving around L.A. and the Valley, back and forth and back and forth. Yo-yo city. Give me a warm spot in front of a Viking range in a five-star restaurant any day.”
What could Kitty say? She knew how Velma felt, but she loved her job and wouldn’t change it for anything. Kitty sighed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
The front door opened even as her feet lighted on the porch. “It’s about time you got here, Miss Karlyle.” Mrs. Randall’s sharp nose led the way.
“Good evening.” Kitty forced a smile, though it was admittedly weak as watered down tea. “The reporters are gone, I see.”
“Yes, finally. It has been most upsetting with them all malingering about, tramping all over our lawn. Mr. Vickers just planted petunias, you know. Most upsetting,” she tut-tutted, “for all of us, including Mr. Cookie.”
“I am so sorry. I can’t imagine what they were doing here.”
“I overheard one of them say they had been following you.” Mrs. Randall’s eyes were hard. “And since you had been here earlier feeding Mr. Cookie they wanted to speak with me and my help about you.”
“Following—” Kitty’s eyes looked up and down the dark street. It was disturbing to imagine that some reporter might have been following her around all day and she hadn’t even been aware of it.
“Yes. I expect you to be more circumspect in the future.”
“Yes, Mrs. Randall.”
The woman pushed and the door half-shut.
Kitty stuck out her hand. “Wait.”
“Yes?” Mrs. Randall looked at her narrowly.
“I mean, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Rich Evan’s passing.”
Mrs. Randall cocked her head. “You mean that rock person that I heard on the news had died?”
Kitty nodded. “Yes, I’m so sorry.”
A bemused eyebrow arched her way. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, I mean, Mr. Evan was your friend and all and I—”
Mrs. Randall managed a slight chuckle. This was about the best a woman like her could do. Tickle her feet and she’d look at you as if you’d lost your mind. “I assure you that musician was no friend of mine.” Her hand was on the door.
Kitty talked quickly. “But Mr. Evan was my client. I fed his puppy, Benny. I was told that you had referred me. That’s how I’d gotten the job.”
“That’s impossible, dear. You are mistaken.”
“Are you certain?”
Mrs. Randall dropped her eyebrow. No one questioned her authority and got away with it.
