by Marie Celine
A black Lab answered the door, pushing her snout against the screen to get a better noseful of the new arrival.
Well, thought Kitty, at least he does have a Lab, like he said. She rapped on the aluminum screendoor. The dog barked.
“Okay, okay! I’m coming.” The detective’s voice was muffled and distant. “It’s you.” His surprise was evident on his face.
It was the first time that Kitty had really noticed the young detective as a person, not a cop. His eyes were pale green, the color of steamed, julienned green beans and he had fine brown hair. Kitty figured he’d look even more handsome if he’d let his hair grow out some instead of keeping it in that harsh, unflattering crewcut that made his head look way too square.
Young dropped a trowel onto the side table near his sofa and unlatched the door. “Come on in.” His hands were covered with black soil and he wiped them on his shorts.
The Lab shot past him and jumped up on Kitty, placing her paws on Kitty’s chest. Kitty fell off the porch backwards and landed on the sidewalk.
“Lib!” remonstrated Young. He ran to Kitty’s rescue. He lifted her and wagged his finger at the dog. “I am so sorry about that.” He turned to the dog. “Bad girl. Bad.”
The dog hung her head and sulked.
“It’s okay.” Kitty managed a smile. “Nothing’s broken or torn.” She clapped her hands and the dog came right to her. “Libby, right?”
Young nodded.
“That’s a good girl, Libby. I know you didn’t mean to push. You don’t know your own strength, that’s all.”
Libby gave Kitty a couple of licks. “I should have brought you something to eat,” began Kitty, “that’s what I should have done.”
“That isn’t necessary. Believe me,” said Young, “Libby eats just fine.”
Kitty rose. “I remember. Out of a can.”
“That’s right,” Young said defensively. “ See how healthy she looks?”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Kitty replied pointedly.
“Besides, sometimes I bring her home an Arby’s.” Young grinned.
Kitty rolled her eyes. “You poor thing,” she said to Libby. Libby barked.
“Come on inside and get cleaned up if you like.” The detective held open the screendoor.
Kitty paced the small front room. “Very nice.” There was a rickety yellow sofa with one front leg about a half-inch shorter than the other, two small end tables and a diploma from the L.A. Sheriff’s Academy in a cheap, smudgy frame on the wall above the sofa. Not exactly Better Homes and Gardens, but her folks had raised her to be polite.
“Yeah, right.” Young let Libby out in the backyard through the kitchen and returned to the living room. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the sofa. “I was working in the yard.”
“You’re a gardener?” It seemed so out of character. He was a cop after all. She would have figured his hobby would be lifting weights, going to the shooting range or maybe sharpening his exotic weaponry collection. Kitty sat on the edge of the sofa and the flimsy cushion curled up around her legs like a Venus Flytrap.
“I like to mess around.” He rubbed his dirty hands together. “Helps me relax.”
Kitty nodded. “I’m sure police work is very stressful.”
For the first time since her arrival, Young smiled. “Yeah, well, if I had to go around cooking for the pampered cats and dogs of the upper class like you do every day—” He left his thought unfinished.
“I don’t think of it that way.”
“How do you think of it?”
“I think of it as getting the opportunity to practice my skills on customers who truly love my cooking. And you know what else?” she asked.
“No. What?”
Kitty grinned. “If my customers don’t like what I feed them, or it’s undercooked or cold, too salty, not salty enough—”
The detective raised an eyebrow.
“—they can’t complain.”
Young tipped back his head and laughed. It was a deep, wholly natural laugh that bared his teeth and brought tiny wrinkle lines to the corners of his eyes and made her want to smile too.
Young said, “Can I get you something to drink?”
“What have you got?”
He shrugged. “Soda, water.”
“Soda water?”
“Sure.” He returned with two bottles of cold lemon-flavored Perrier. “So,” he said as he dropped down on the opposite end of the sofa, “how did you find me and what do you want?”
“I found you by going to the LASD. Malibu substation. A nice man there gave me your address. He even wrote out directions.” Kitty pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her purse and showed it to Young.
“Nice. I’m gonna have to thank him. You remember his name?”
Kitty thought a moment. “No, sorry. As for why I’m here, I wanted to find out what’s happening with Mr. Evan’s death.”
“You mean his murder.”
Kitty bit her lip. “Is it really so certain?”
“It’s certain alright. This town’s got a lot of drugs floating around, anybody can get them. But Barbados nut doesn’t just fall from the sky, even in L.A.” He paused dramatically. His green eyes pierced her defenses. “And you’re our main suspect.”
She squirmed. The way he’d said ‘you’re our main suspect’ made her feel like she was about to become his main course. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“I’m not saying you’re guilty,” Young said, “but I’ve got to tell you, there are a lot of folks in the department and in the D.A.’s office who think otherwise.”
“Is that why the police have been following me around?”
He leaned towards Kitty. “What do you mean? As far as I know, nobody’s following you anywhere.”
“Oh.”
“Are you sure you’re being followed? This could be important.”
“Well, no,” confessed Kitty. “I just feel like I’m being watched.”
“That’s normal,” he said with a shrug. “You’re feeling guilty whether you are or not. It’s a natural reaction, like cringing when a police car is in the traffic lane behind you. Everybody gets that way. Sometimes I forget I’m a cop and react that way myself.”
Kitty was nodding. “I suppose. But then there was that break-in the other night.”
Once again the detective expressed his surprise and Kitty explained how she was certain her door had been opened while she slept.
“That’s news to me. But like the LAPD told you, it could have been nothing.”
Young rose and took a long sip of his mineral water. “Listen, Miss Karlyle, I still don’t think you’re coming clean with me.” His eyes barreled in on her. “What is it you really want? You didn’t drive all the way out to Burbank for a glass of water.”
Kitty swallowed and squeezed the Perrier bottle between her legs. “I want to know who killed Mr. Evan.” She stood now. “And I want whoever is following me to stop. And I want the press to leave me alone.”
Her voice was rising. “I just want to be able to do my job without worrying about the police and murderers and everybody thinking that I had anything to do with any of this!”
Young applauded lightly. “Nice speech.”
She scowled and marched to the door. “Thanks for your sympathy. I should have known better.”
The detective stopped Kitty with a hand on her arm. “I want the same thing you do—Rich Evan’s killer. It’s my job to find him,” he looked in her eyes, “or her.”
“I did not kill Rich Evan,” Kitty said through clenched teeth.
“Then who did?”
Kitty pulled her arm free. “I don’t know.” She pushed out the door. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Leave it alone, Miss Karlyle. That’s a job for the police.”
She threw open her car door and climbed inside. Her phone was ringing. She reached into her purse and pushed the button. “Yes?” she barked.
“Are you sure?” Kitty paled. �
��Is he okay?” Kitty nodded. “I’ll be right there, Mr. Randall. Give me the address.”
Det. Young approached the car. “What’s that? Is something wrong?”
“That was Mr. Randall, one of my clients. Mr. Cookie is in the hospital.”
“Mr. Cookie?”
Kitty’s pupils grew large and round and her voice trembled. “They think he was poisoned.”
11
They took Det. Young’s Jeep to the Landau Veterinary Clinique and Spa of Beverly Hills where a valet, much to Young’s annoyance, insisted on parking his car. Reluctantly, the detective pushed a crumpled dollar bill in the kid’s hand. “There better not be any scratches on it when I get back!”
Kitty couldn’t help feeling sorry for the valet. There were already twenty-odd scratches that she could count and that was just along the front fender on her side of the Jeep. Looked like Libby had used the car for a scratching post. What was the valet supposed to do? Buff them all out?
Young hopped out and ran to catch up with Kitty who was already at the entrance where another well-dressed young man was holding the door for her. “Can you believe this?” grumbled Young. “A doorman and a valet—at a vet’s office, for crying out loud. And I am not tipping him.” The detective jerked his head in the direction of the doorman.
Kitty ignored Young’s grumblings and raced to the reception desk where a platinum blonde who looked like she ought to be out auditioning for a role as the next Bond Girl was buffing her nails. “I’m Kitty Karlyle,” she said breathlessly. “I’m here to see Mr. Cookie. Is he all right?”
Blondie looked up. “The doctor is with him now. Examination Room Three.” She pointed up the hall with her nail file.
Kitty, with Det. Young in her wake, walked quickly up the corridor. Her footsteps echoed loudly on the black granite floor. The door to the examination room was open. She marveled. The large examining room looked like it had been done up by an interior decorator with a budget larger than Kitty’s next year’s projected income.
Mr. Cookie lay on his side. Mr. Randall was conferring with an elegant looking African-American in gray slacks and a white smock; no doubt the doctor.
Mrs. Randall was stroking Mr. Cookie and looked up as Kitty and the detective came bursting in. Mr. Cookie barely managed to raise his head. His tail didn’t stir.
Kitty stopped in her tracks and Det. Young bumped into her from behind. He whistled softly, his eyes drawn to a wall-mounted 42" plasma screen TV displaying an idyllic forest scene. The picture was so clear and realistic, he could almost smell the pine needles.
“Is he okay?” Kitty asked softly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Randall, quietly, her hand never stopping. Back and forth, back and forth, she stroked the little guy. “Dr. Landau says Mr. Cookie appears to be out of danger now.”
Dr. Landau and the three-piece suited Mr. Randall stopped their conversation and the doctor turned his attention to Kitty. “Are you the one that feeds Mr. Cookie?”
Kitty nodded. Why did it suddenly feel like the walls were closing in on her? Why did she suddenly feel like this outwardly serene looking veterinary clinic had turned into a Temple of Doom?
“Mind telling me just what you gave him this morning?” The doctor’s hand fell onto a file. Mr. Cookie’s file no doubt.
“Here We Go Round the Mahi Go Round.”
“What?” Dr. Landau shot a look at Mr. Randall who merely shrugged his soft, round shoulders.
“Here We Go Round the Mahi Go Round.” Kitty turned to Det. Young for support but he’d chosen this particular moment to look at his feet. “It’s Mahi Mahi,” she said quickly, “with mixed vegetables and couscous.”
The doctor said, “And some heavy duty laxative, I’d say. Had to be to cause that strong a case of diarrhea.”
“You should see my car,” spoke Mr. Randall.
“The Rolls,” sniffed Mrs. Randall, “is a mess.”
Dr. Landau was shaking his head. “We’ll get the results of the blood tests in the morning,” he said to Mrs. Randall. “I’m sure Mr. Cookie is going to pull through, but you had better watch his diet,” he added, “carefully.”
“But there couldn’t have been anything in my dish to have caused Mr. Cookie to be sick,” said Kitty. “I prepare everything myself. Maybe someone else in the household fed him something?”
“Impossible,” stated Mrs. Randall. “This is forbidden.”
Kitty addressed Dr. Landau. “Couldn’t he maybe have an allergy to Mahi Mahi or one of the other ingredients? Couldn’t that have made him sick?”
Det. Young cleared his throat. “Excuse me, doc,” he interrupted, “but you said diarrhea?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’d like to see a copy of those reports when you get them. If you don’t mind.”
“Who are you?” Mrs. Randall’s tiny eyes finally seemed to notice the poorly dressed stranger.
“Det. Jack Young, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department.” He held out a hand. Since it was dirty, Mrs. Randall merely glanced at it dismissively.
Mr. Randall skirted around the stainless steel examination table, however, and shook the detective’s hand. “What’s your interest in this, young man?” Mr. Randall looked meaningfully at Kitty. “Are you two an item as they say?”
Kitty blushed.
“No, sir,” Det. Young replied with a grin. “I’m investigating Rich Evan’s murder. He was poisoned by something called the Barbados nut. I’d like to find out if your Mr. Cookie here ingested the same thing.”
“Barbados nut,” Dr. Landau said thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, tapping his jaw with a long, finely manicured finger, “that would do it all right.”
Outside Dr. Landau’s office, Young tapped his foot while waiting impatiently for the kid to bring his car around. He looked at his watch. “How long can it take to get valet service at a freaking veterinary clinic?” he complained.
Kitty ignored his complaints. She had bigger problems. Far bigger problems. Rich Evan was dead. Mr. Cookie might have been killed. What was going on? Was she somehow responsible or was this only some awful coincidence?
Was she dishing up death? She’d have to close down her business. Stop cooking altogether. She wouldn’t go anywhere near food for fear she’d poison someone else. Maybe she should ask Dr. Landau about the possibility of interning with him as a veterinary assistant.
No, Kitty shook her head. After what happened to Mr. Cookie and the way Dr. Landau and the Randalls were all looking at her—like she was Lizzie Borden’s sister and Lizzie was the good sister—he’d never hire her. Not even to clean out the cages. And she couldn’t blame him.
“Hey,” Young shook her. “Wake up, the car’s here. You coming?”
Kitty’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes turned glassy.
“Oh, no,” Young said, “don’t—”
Kitty began to sob.
“—cry,” sighed the detective. He opened the passenger door and helped Kitty up.
