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

by Marie Celine

  Kitty backed down.

  “Now, if you don’t mind?” The hand gave the door a push.

  Kitty couldn’t let go. “But if you didn’t recommend Mr. Evan, who did?”

  Mrs. Randall was losing patience. “I really wouldn’t know. Perhaps, it was my husband, Mr. Randall. He deals with all sorts in his business.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Karlyle.”

  Kitty nodded. Her audience was over. The door closed quietly with a click.

  9

  It was way too late when Velma finally dropped Kitty off at her apartment.

  Poor Velma had to chauffeur Kitty around to the markets again so she’d have everything she needed for the next day’s meals. It was nearly eleven p.m. when Velma and Granny’s Chrysler chug-chugged away in search of a bed of her own.

  Climbing the building’s steps, Kitty’s legs might have been lead-filled. Had someone, a mad doctor with a minor in geology, replaced her leg bones with lead replicas?

  Sylvester, one of the high-spirited musicians living next door, was sitting on the top step. He was a skinny twenty year old with slick black hair, a bad case of acne and big dreams of making it in L.A. Los Angeles was full of dreams. Some came true and some didn’t. And kids like Sylvester never stopped coming, never stopped trying to climb the ladder. Kitty was fond of him and hoped he would one day find success.

  “You look crummy.” He scooted aside to let Kitty pass.

  “I feel crummy.” Kitty pushed her hair from her face.

  “What happened to your apartment?” He stood. “You have a party earlier—one of those crazy Hollywood parties everybody always hears about?”

  Was that a tad of envy she noted in his question? “A party? What do you mean?”

  “I took Fred out for a walk,” explained Sylvester. The guys had a key to her apartment and helped look after her dog. Sylvester was from the Midwest and had grown up with dogs around the family farm. He missed having his own pet now and often took Fred out for a walk when Kitty was out. “Your place is a wreck.”

  “That was the police,” she said, putting her key in the lock.

  “The police?”

  Sylvester followed Kitty inside while she explained. Fred barked hello. Barney went immediately to his food dish. That was just like him. Food first, chat later.

  “That’s tough.” Sylvester avoided Kitty’s gaze. “To tell you the truth, me and the guys heard about Rich Evan’s death on the news.”

  “Oh.” Kitty was on the floor giving Barney his evening meal.

  “Tough break. The guy was good. But we don’t think you had anything to do with it,” he added quickly.

  Kitty rose and brushed cat hair from her hounds tooth slacks. “Thanks.”

  “In fact, we’ve got a gig tonight at the Roxy. I can get you in free if you’d like to come. You should,” Sylvester said. “It will cheer you up.”

  “I don’t know. . .”

  “Come on, Kitty. We go on at one.”

  Kitty was shaking her head. “Thanks.” She hated to disappoint the boy. She suspected he had a slight crush on her. “But I’m beat. And one is a little late for this working girl.”

  Kitty yawned to prove her point. “All I want is to go to sleep and forget that today, like yesterday, ever happened.”

  Sylvester stopped at the door. “If you change your mind—”

  Kitty was leaning over the kitchen counter. Her fists held her chin. “I know, Roxy, one o’clock.”

  Sylvester was gone. Kitty swallowed a glass of lukewarm tap water, locked the door and turned out the lights. Barney followed her to the bedroom. Fred was already snoring on the living room sofa.

  Kitty stripped and dropped into bed. She’d shower in the morning.

  It was the rattling that woke her. Kitty sat up. Barney, who’d been making himself cozy on her stomach, complained and went off in search of firmer ground. Earthquake?

  Kitty held her breath and listened. She strained to hear. It had almost sounded like someone was in the kitchen. “Fred?” she whispered. Kitty pulled the bed sheet up and wrapped it around herself like an over-sized toga.

  The familiar sound of Fred’s claws chick-chicking over the tiles calmed her. Fred walked into the room. A faint light came through the blinds. His tail was wagging.

  He pushed his face up on the mattress. She rubbed his nose. “Oh, it was only you. What’s wrong? You need to go out? Are you hungry?”

  Kitty glanced at the clock on her night table. She’d barely been asleep half an hour. It was two minutes till midnight. The witching hour.

  She heard a creak. Fred heard it too and turned his head towards the open bedroom door. “Barney?” Kitty leaned forward, afraid to breathe. Barney wasn’t answering.

  Finally she jumped off the bed. “This is crazy,” she said aloud. Her heart was racing. “I’m making myself crazy. Ever since poor Mr. Evan died, I’ve been letting everything get to me. Well,” she said, leaving the bedroom, “not anymore.”

  Fred followed her up the narrow hall, a reassuring and sharp-toothed presence. Kitty stopped at the entryway to the living room. A chill ran up her spine and spiraled out of control to her hands and toes.

  The front door was ajar.

  Kitty was thinking, I know I locked that. She was positive. It was right after Sylvester left. So how did the front door get opened again?

  Kitty reached out her hand for Fred and felt his familiar warmth. At least he’s not barking, she thought. That’s a good sign. She prayed. Isn’t it?

  It meant there were no evil, hooded strangers lurking in dark, shadow filled corners clutching long and dangerous kitchen knives. Didn’t it?

  Kitty’s other hand felt for the light switch. It was around here someplace. Her fingers found it and after only a moment’s hesitation the room was bathed in stark white light. Barney mewled. He was licking his chops beside his bowl of water under the kitchen counter.

  There was no one here. Kitty took in a long-deserved breath. Going to the front door, she examined the lock. It looked okay. There was no sign of it having been broken and there was no damage to the door.

  Kitty explored outside. All was quiet and all was dark, at least by L.A. standards. Still, this was all too spooky. And she remembered how Mrs. Randall had said some reporter claimed to have been following her around all day without her knowing. She shivered and ran back inside.

  After calling 911 and giving her name and address, Kitty called Velma and got her answering machine. “Vel, this is Kitty. I know you’re probably asleep and I’m sorry to call so late. But if you can hear me, please pick up.”

  Kitty listened a moment, her ear pressed to the receiver. There was no response. “Call me when you get this.”

  Kitty didn’t let Officer Prinze into her apartment until he’d shown her two forms of ID. “Man, the perp made a mess of this place, didn’t he?” Prinze took off his cap and scratched his head.

  “No,” said Kitty. “I mean, the place was already like this.”

  Prinze lifted an eyebrow.

  Kitty knew exactly what he was thinking. “I don’t normally keep the apartment this way.” She crossed her arms. “The police made this mess when they were searching the place.”

  “Searching the place?” Prinze’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to stiffen.

  Kitty explained.

  Prinze nodded. “Right. So what makes you think you were burgled, Miss Karlyle?”

  Kitty told the officer about the open door. Prinze examined the entry as Kitty retold her story. Prinze shrugged. “Everything looks good to me. Maybe you only forgot to lock it.”

  Kitty shook her head. “I’m positive I did. I remember clearly.”

  “Then maybe the door wasn’t shut all the way. You could have turned the lock and the door was ajar,” said Prinze. “A little gust of wind and open she went. Really, isn’t that possible, miss?”

  Kitty said she didn’t think so.

  “All I can
do,” Prinze explained in a tired voice, “is write it up.” He did so and departed.

  Kitty locked the door behind him. “That was a waste of time, wasn’t it, Fred?”

  Fred wagged.

  “And I have locked this door.” Kitty jiggled the handle and pointed her finger at the dog. “You’re my witness.”

  Fang yawned. He was bone tired. His hands reached for his coffee mug. He tipped his brew up to his lips and drained the bitter dregs and spat. Coffee wasn’t doing it. What he needed was a hit. He opened a shallow drawer beneath the console and pulled out a small bag.

  In a few minutes he’d feel like he’d chugged sixteen cups of coffee. But he was paying the price.

  He emptied the bag and went back to work. The two men on the sofa behind him had fallen asleep. They were money men. And he hated them. He hated them because they controlled all the money and all the drugs and all the world or so it seemed.

  And he hated them because he needed them.

  With renewed energy, he dove back into his work. If all went well, he wouldn’t need them much longer. Fang nodded to the young girl in the vocal booth and rolled tape. She was pretty good and he’d gotten her cheap. She was cute looking but not spectacular, with thin hips and a boyish figure packaged in a pair of jeans and an oyster shell colored silk blouse.

  Fang smiled as her sweet voice carried through the monitors. He kept the levels low, not wanting to waken the others. The girl’s name was Mila. He glanced at his watch. He’d keep her working another hour. Then it would be too late for her to go home.

  She’d spend the night. With him.

  The red light on the telephone blinked and he picked it up. “Hey, baby,” he purred. It was Angela. “Have you heard from the lawyers yet?”

  “No,” Angela said. “At least nothing useful.”

  “I don’t understand, Angie.” Fang dropped the vocal levels a smidgen. “Since you and Rich weren’t legally divorced at the time of his death, everything should go to you.” There was a sense of urgency in his voice that he couldn’t control.

  “Yes, well, tell that to the courts.” She sighed. “It’s all this murder stuff that’s got everything else screwed up. If they’d just lock up that pet girl and be done with it, the courts might speed everything up,” Angela said. “At least, that’s what the lawyer tells me.”

  “I’m counting on this money, baby,” Fang said, his voice as hard-edged as a granite slab.

  “You’re counting on it?” said Angela. “That money’s mine. And I intend to get it.”

  Fang trembled. “Yes, of course.” If she pulled the rug out from under him, he was sunk. He was in deep. Too deep. He had to be very careful how he handled things.

  “I was just thinking how good it would be for the both of us to get all this b.s. out of the way,” Fang said quickly, “so we can be together.”

  “And so you can get your record out?” Angela’s voice sounded firm and unwilling to listen to any nonsense. “I’m not a fool, Fang, darling, and don’t you forget it.”

  Fang held his breath. “Of course, baby.” He apologized. “It’s late and I’m a little nuts. I’ve got Frick and Frack here breathing down my neck.” He squeezed the receiver in his hand and whispered, “This record is important to me, Angie.”

  “Don’t worry,” Angela said. “When the sharks are circling, what do you do?”

  He sighed and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s too late for games.”

  “Feed them.”

  Angela hung up. Fang looked at the phone with distaste. It was just as well she’d ended the conversation, Mila had finished her track and entered the control room.

  “How was I?” she asked meekly.

  Fang pushed back his chair and took her hand. “Lovely.”

  “Thanks. I can do it again, if you like. I thought maybe I was weak on the bridge.”

  Fang shook his head. “No, you were perfect.” In truth he’d barely been listening since he’d been on the phone with Angela. “Besides, it’s late.” He rubbed her neck. “I’ll bet you’re beat.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I guess I am.” Mila picked her purse up from the floor and strung it over her shoulder. “I suppose I should be going.”

  “It’s a long drive back to Cerritos.” Fang lifted her purse by its strap and laid it down on the warm console. “Maybe you should spend the night?”

  Mila looked from her purse to the two sleeping men. “Are you sure it won’t be any trouble?”

  “No trouble at all,” he answered smoothly. “I tell you what—why don’t you go run yourself a nice warm bath? Do you a world of good. You can use my tub.”

  “I don’t know. . .” She glanced at the sleeping men.

  Fang opened the door to the hall. Benny was sleeping beside it. “End of the hall. I’ll come check on you as soon as I’ve cleaned up and said goodnight to our guests.” His smile was ten thousand watts of Marquis de Sade seduction hidden behind a carefully contrived mask of Ward Cleaver concern.

  Mila nodded and padded away barefooted. She’d left her sandals in the control room. She wouldn’t be needing them tonight. Fang laid them next to her purse and turned off the gear. She wouldn’t be needing anything tonight. Nothing besides the love he was going to give her.

  Fang roused his two guests and saw them out. Before they left, he said, “I’m going to need another bag.”

  “It’s going to cost you,” replied the taller of the two men. “Same as always.”

  “Add it to my bill.” Fang said sourly. “I’m good for it.”

  The tall man nodded, grabbed his half-awake friend by the elbow and led him out to their car.

  “Good riddance,” muttered Fang. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. He hoped Mila was still in the tub. It was large enough for two.

  10

  It had been three days since Rich Evan had died and Kitty was still feeling like she was living under a giant microscope.

  She was also pretty sure that somebody was tailing her. It seemed like the whole world was watching her with big accusing eyes that said, ‘We know what you did.’ It was making her edgy.

  Her dark mood was a sharp and unwelcome contrast to the cheery Southern California sky. And Kitty was determined to do something about it. Maybe she should get a new hair style? Or a new hair color? Blue, maybe.

  At least there had not been any further incidents at her apartment. And Kitty had become obsessive-compulsive about shutting and locking all the doors and windows whether she was staying home or going out.

  Kitty had instructed the guys next door to be the same when they used her place, but she needn’t have bothered as they’d lost her spare key. She’d have to remember to have a new one made. It was just like those guys. Sweet but careless.

  Det. Young’s house was a bunker-looking white rectangle on a sidestreet from which Kitty could hear the hiss of traffic on nearby Victory Boulevard. The grass was brown and patchy. A chain link fence protected the backyard; from what she couldn’t imagine.

  Kitty pulled into the drive behind a late model, red Jeep Wrangler.