by Marie Celine
They stopped at a Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard for coffee and, though he tried to draw her out, Kitty barely spoke.
Young dropped some bills on the table and they drove back to his place in silence. “I’ve got to go on duty in an hour.” He opened Kitty’s car door and she quietly slipped behind the wheel of her Volvo. “But don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Rich Evan’s murderer is out there somewhere.” He rapped the car door with his knuckles. “I’ll find him.”
Kitty cocked her head. “I thought you believed I was a murderer, that I killed Mr. Evan?” She rubbed her eyes. They were red and itchy from crying. It was embarrassing to cry in front of a stranger, a policeman no less, but she hadn’t been able to help herself and was all the more infuriated because of this lack of self-control.
“Nah,” Young drawled, “you may be a lousy cook, but I don’t think you’re a killer.”
“Excuse me? A lousy—”
“Sorry, I mean chef.”
Kitty flared, fire coming back to life inside her gut. “I am not a lousy cook.”
“I don’t know about that.” His eyes danced. Was there a hint of mischief in them? “Rich Evan and Mr. Cookie might disagree with you there.”
He was grinning, big and toothy, and Kitty felt like socking him, knocking a few of those white teeth loose for him. So smug, so full of himself. “So why,” Kitty demanded angrily, “are you helping me, detective?”
“I’m helping myself,” Young said as he headed up the walk to his door. “Catching killers is part of my job.” He stopped at the door and crossed his arms, holding the screendoor open with his foot. “Besides, I’ve got to prove you’re innocent.”
“You do, do you?” What was it with this guy? Did he get a kick out of watching other people’s blood boil?
Kitty stuck her head out the window and yelled. “And just why do you have to do that?” With one hand, she thrust the key into the ignition like she was skewering a small bird and twisted.
“Because it wouldn’t look good for me, being on the force as I happen to be, if you were a convicted murderess.”
“What?” Kitty hissed through her teeth.
“Seeing as how I’m going to marry you.” He beamed and went inside. The screendoor banged shut.
Kitty hollered, “Excuse me?” Her foot pressed down on the accelerator and only stopped when the pedal hit the floorboard. The engine hollered.
Det. Young reappeared, his nose pressed against the inside of the screen. “Hey, you keep saying Libby ought to eat healthier. What better way than you marrying me? Lib will be your responsibility then. You want her to eat better? Feed her better.”
Kitty clung to the wheel, listening in stunned, seething silence. Why didn’t he shut up already?
“I can’t afford to hire you, so I’ve decided to marry you.” Young looked at his watch. “Well,” he said with a waist-high wave, “got to go.” With that, the solid wood door swung closed.
“EXCUSE ME?!” Kitty’s eyes bugged out of her head. The engine was howling and she took her foot off the gas. A man out mowing his front lawn stared at her. She made a face and thrust out her tongue. The man looked away.
Kitty stuck her head back inside the car. “Why, that arrogant, conceited, tasteless, tactless,” her hands pounded the dash until it cracked, “obnoxious man.”
Kitty was spitting mad and she pulled down the drive with a squeal of rubber. Det. Young had a lot of nerve. “Marry her! She’d rather die first. She’d rather marry Fang Danson first!
And she ought to report Det. Jack Young to the ASPCA for the way he treated that poor dog of his.
That’s what she ought to do.
12
Perhaps to prove her point, Kitty drove until she found herself at Fang Danson’s home. It was Fang’s personal assistant, Derrick, a pasty-faced, dark-haired young man with an acne scarred face, who let her inside and led her into the den.
Fang, stretched out on a black leather sofa, turned his head away from the college football game he’d been engrossed in. “Time to feed the doggie, is it?”
“Actually, no.”
Fang sat up. He grabbed the remote and turned down the volume. “What is it then?”
“I wanted to talk to you—about the other day.”
Fang leered. “Get us some drinks, Derrick. What will you have?”
Kitty looked from one man to the other. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Fang nodded. “Two Stellas.” He motioned for Kitty to join him on the sofa. “You follow American football?”
“Not really.”
Fang turned off the set.
Derrick returned shortly with two tall glasses of beer. Kitty wasn’t much of a drinker but she took a sip, caught mostly foam and coughed.
“Where’s Benny?”
“Out back, I expect,” replied Fang. “The little guy likes to sleep in the shade.” He sidled closer. “So what is it precisely about the other day that you would like to discuss, Kit?” His voice sounded oily and hot as an over-cooked french fry.
Kitty held her glass close to her chest, a liquid barrier between herself and Fang Danson. “I haven’t seen you the last several times that I’ve come to feed Benny. It’s almost as if you’ve been avoiding me,” she gulped, “Fang.” Kitty nearly choked on her words.
Kitty had trouble calling him by his first name, but knew he would like it. As for Fang having been avoiding her, she liked that. “I don’t want there to be any hard feelings.”
“Fang Danson doesn’t have time for hard feelings.” He leered and swigged his beer. “At least not that kind of hard feelings, if you know what I mean?”
He fluttered his eyelashes and set down his glass. “I’m not much of a ladies man, you know, Kit.” His arm snaked out along the back of the couch, making its snake-like way towards her shoulders. “Not like Rich was.”
Kitty leaned forward.
“It’s just that there’s something special about you.”
“What do you mean ‘not like Rich was’?”
Fang shrugged. “Rich was into the ladies. Nothing wrong with that. Famous ladies, single ladies, married ladies.” His hand had fallen on Kitty’s knee. “Fat ladies, skinny ladies. It didn’t matter none to Rich.”
“I see.” Kitty inched away but she’d hit the side of the sofa and had no room left to maneuver. “Tell me, when was the last time you saw Mr. Evan?”
Fang sat back. “That was the night before he was found dead at his house. We’d hung out at a club together.”
“What club was that?”
“The Disco Den. Ever hear of it?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Nice place, up on Sunset. I could take you there sometime, if you like.”
“Sure,” said Kitty, uneasily, “that would be nice.” She plucked his hand from her knee. “So that was the last time you spoke to Mr. Evan. Did he seem normal to you?”
Fang laughed. “There wasn’t nothing normal about Rich Evan. He was an artist. Artists,” he said, tapping his skull, “aren’t normal.”
Amen to that, thought Kitty. “And everything seemed ordinary? I mean, he didn’t behave differently and you didn’t notice anything unusual?”
“Nope. We left the club. I had to get back because I had some sessions booked here for the next morning. Rich, he wanted to keep going. Find some action.”
“Action?”
“Yeah, find a bird. Know what I mean?”
“I think I do.” And she found it disgusting. “Do you know who she was?” This mystery woman could be important.
“No.” Fang scratched his neck. “I don’t remember Rich saying.”
“Oh.” Kitty sounded deflated. There were millions of women in Southern California. Unless the woman came forward, she’d be nearly impossible to find.
“And that wasn’t the last time that I talked to him.”
“It wasn’t?” Kitty leaned towards Fang. “You talked to him agai
n?”
Fang nodded.
“When?”
“He called me in the morning.” Fang chuckled. “Said he’d gotten lucky. Ah, well, at least he had some fun before he died. Good for him.”
“Got lucky? You mean with a girl?”
“I don’t mean playing poker.” Fang drained his glass. “You’re hardly drinking. Finish up, I’ll get you another.”
Kitty rose. “No, I really should be going. I have so much cooking to do.”
Fang came to his feet and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. “About that. The cooking. Since you’re cooking for Benny, what do you say you cook for me, too?”
“Cook for you?” This caught Kitty by surprise.
“Sure, I’ll pay you. The stuff you’re cooking up smells terrific. I wouldn’t mind getting some myself.”
“What about Derrick?”
Fang waved his hand. “He’s a gofer, nothing more. Of course, he calls himself a personal assistant. What a load that is. Everybody’s got to have himself a title these days. And then there’s the woman who cleans the house.”
His lip curled. “What’s her name? Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged, “wouldn’t trust her to cook toast. She barely cleans.” He smiled broadly. “How’s about it, Kit?”
Once again she cringed. She hated it when he called her Kit. “Well,” said Kitty, “I don’t know. I never really gave much thought to cooking for people, too.” It would be a lot more work. Then again, it would mean a lot more money. The corner of her lip turned down. And possibly a lot more problems. Complaints.
“I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to anger him. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“You do that,” said Fang amicably, following her out the door.
She unlocked her car. “So I suppose you were home the morning Mr. Evan died?”
“That’s right,” he said casually. “And all that night, too. I came home. I went to bed.”
“Alone?”
He tucked his chin into his chest. “That’s right. Sleeping. Alone. I told you, I’m a one woman man.”
She started the engine and rolled down her window. “You don’t suppose it could have been his ex-wife, do you?”
“I don’t suppose who could have been his ex-wife?” Fang looked perplexed.
“The woman Mr. Evan slept with. Do you think it could have been his ex-wife?”
Fang grinned. “Which one? Pamela, Tracy,” he ticked the names off on his fingers, “Chloe. . ?”
Kitty blanched. “How many ex-wives did Mr. Evan have?”
“Three—four, if you count Angela.”
“I don’t understand. Consuelo told me Rich Evan and Angela were divorced. Do you mean they weren’t?”
“Not yet. Not officially, depending on how you’re counting.”
“So maybe he’d slept with Angela before he died? She could have a motive.”
A dark cloud passed over Fang’s face. His pupils narrowed. “Angela? A motive for what?”
“For killing Mr. Evan.”
Fang clenched his hands. “That’s impossible,” he said. “Angela wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, I don’t care what the police say. Rich Evan lived hard and died hard. And his ticker wasn’t what it should be.”
“You mean his heart.”
“That’s right. He’d seen a specialist in Beverly Hills about it. Had himself some sort of murmur. The doc told him to take better care of himself.” Fang shook his head. “But Rich didn’t believe in doing anything halfway. He lived life to the fullest,” Fang paused, “to the end.”
“Maybe. But the police are sure that he was murdered.”
Fang shrugged. “The police have been wrong before. They’ll no doubt be wrong again.” He leaned over the Volvo. “If you want to know the truth, it was that house that killed him.”
Kitty’s brow shot up. “The house?”
“That’s right. The place is haunted. Cursed!” He banged the roof of the car so hard that she jumped out of her seat. “But you don’t hear the cops talking about that now, do you?” He shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
Kitty didn’t know what to think. Fang sounded scared and almost bitter. “I still don’t understand—”
Fang lowered his voice and said in a frightening manner. “You don’t know the history of that house, do you?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Well,” he began, “let me tell you. That house is haunted. There’s been a curse on it for more than sixty years.” He held up his fingers. “I told Rich not to move into that place. I’d heard the stories. But he wouldn’t listen. Rich never listened to anybody. And now he’s dead.
“Four people have died in that house. Five if you count poor Rich now. Two movie stars, a film director and a lawyer.” He paused and took a shallow breath. “Now Rich.”
Fang’s warm breath rushed across her face. She tasted fear. She looked skeptical.
“Don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Well. . .”
“How about evil? Do you believe in evil, Kit?”
With a tremble, she managed to nod.
“Well,” Fang’s thin white-knuckled hands gripped the edge of the car door, “that house is evil. It kills everybody.”
13
Kitty pulled into Rich Evan’s driveway.
Consuelo’s car was up in front of the garage. Was the place really haunted? she wondered. Or was Fang only trying to scare her, playing a prank on her? If so, why?
Was he hoping she’d stay away from the house? Was the clue to Rich Evan’s death inside and was Fang Danson a part of it in some way? What had he been doing in Rich’s den the other day when she’d burst in on him? Was he looking for something?
Well, thought Kitty, I’m going to find out. Even if it kills me, she mused; then quickly took back her thoughts.
As she headed up the drive, she heard a sob and turned. A chubby woman in high-back khaki overalls was on her knees in the side garden next door. Uncombed locks of black hair fell from beneath an olive-green cartwheel hat perched on her head. Her hands held a pair of long-bladed gardening shears. Tan chukkas protected her feet.
The woman was pruning and weeding the flower beds. A small pile of shriveled weeds lay in a clump beside a small trowel.
“Hi,” said Kitty.
The woman gave a start. “Oh!”
“Is everything all right?”
The woman raised a gloved hand to her nose and sniffed. “Yes, fine.” She laid down her shears. “Are you the realtor or the new buyer, perhaps?” The woman rose and dusted off her knees.
“No.” Kitty held out her hand. “I’m Kitty Karlyle. I worked for Mr. Evan.”
