by Marie Celine
“Why?” asked Kitty. “Were they trying to protect the beaches?”
“Nothing like that. You see,” explained Mrs. Goodman, they believed this house was built on a lodestone—a lodestone that attracts evil energy from far and wide across the universe itself, drawing it in. . .”
Mrs. Goodman spun a hypnotic tale. “Day after day, hour after hour. Until the energy becomes too great, the stress too awesome.” She turned and bore into Kitty with hard, flat eyes. “And when it becomes impossible, do you know what happens?”
Kitty shook her head, almost imperceptibly. She found herself incapable of taking her eyes away from Mrs. Goodman’s face.
“The evil must escape.” Mrs. Goodman’s hand clenched tight. “And someone must die.”
A wicked and taut silence filled the air.
Mrs. Goodman finally exhaled and grinned. “At least, that’s what they say. But one would have to be crazy to believe the nonsense. Don’t you think?”
Kitty forced herself to agree. “There were two more deaths. Wh-what about the others?”
Mrs. Goodman shrugged casually. “Tina Talbot. She was a soap star. She lived here in the seventies. Died around seventy-five, I believe. Poor thing was only twenty-six years old.”
Though she wasn’t certain she wanted to know, Kitty found herself asking, “How did Miss Talbot die?”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Goodman, tapping her cheek. “Now that was an interesting one. Stephen often talks about it. It’s the doctor/scientist in him, I suppose. You see, Tina Talbot was found in the middle of the living room. Burnt to death.”
“There’d been a house fire?”
The woman was shaking her head. “Not even a living room fire. Only Tina Talbot burnt to a crisp. There wasn’t a sign of a fire having come from or spread to anywhere else.”
“Maybe she was smoking a cigarette or something and her clothing caught fire?”
“The coroner’s report says she wasn’t wearing clothes. She was naked.” Mrs. Goodman laid her hand on Kitty’s shoulder. Kitty could feel its icy coldness through the fabric of her shirt. “It was spontaneous combustion.”
“But,” said Kitty, “that’s impossible.”
“Tell that to Tina Talbot.” Mrs. Goodman glanced at the gold watch on her wrist. “Oh, dear. I must be going. Stephen will be home soon. He won’t like it that I’m at Rich’s house.”
“But Rich is dead, what does it matter?”
Mrs. Goodman shrugged. “I only know he won’t like it.”
Kitty rose and followed Mrs. Goodman as she bustled out the door. “But you never told me what happened to the fourth victim!”
Mrs. Goodman glanced at her house, seemed satisfied, and paused between Kitty and Consuelo’s cars. “That was some entertainment attorney.”
“A lawyer?”
“Yes. A Bruce Churchill, I believe. They say he blew his brains out all over the kitchen floor. His lover went mad. Totally mad.” A long black Mercedes pulled into the Goodman drive and Mrs. Goodman ran to meet it.
15
Kitty glanced at her watch. At least she tried to, then realized she’d forgotten to wear it. She glanced at the microwave. It was time to go. She had an appointment with Angela Evan. When? Five minutes ago.
Why? She didn’t know.
Since Angela Evan had a beach house in the Malibu Colony it was only a few minutes later when Kitty pulled into the drive of the ultra-modern, ultra-pink two story glass and concrete structure that Angela called home.
She rang the bell attached to a security camera setup and a moment later was rewarded with the buzz of an electronic lock being opened. Kitty pulled on the brass door handle and let herself in.
She half expected a robot to greet her but it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform. Kitty gave her name and in exchange the maid led her to the deck out back where Her Highness was waiting in a chaise lounge.
Kitty stepped out into the sun and squinted. A cool breeze ruffled her hair. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, dear. I did. Thank you for coming by.”
Kitty nodded. She’d been quite surprised when she’d checked her answering machine and found that message from Rich Evan’s estranged wife asking her to come by today. “No problem.”
Angela rose and went to the railing. A man and a woman jogged along the beach. The surf was low. Angela suddenly turned. “I’d like you to cook for me, dear.”
“Cook for you?” That’s what this is about? thought Kitty. This was the second time that someone had asked her to cook for them. “Sorry, I only cook for pets.”
Angela was smiling patiently. “Yes, I know. And that’s what I’d like you to do—cook for my pet. You do have an opening, don’t you?”
Kitty nodded.
“I’ll pay you your going rate.”
Kitty looked around. “You have a pet?” She hadn’t noticed anything four-legged running around when she’d come in. No barking, no meowing, no squawking. . .
“No,” said Mrs. Evan, “not yet.”
“But, then I don’t understand—”
Angela patted Kitty’s arm and Kitty felt her skin crawl. It was like rubbing up against a boa constrictor. Cool and slick. The image of Rich Evan in bed with Angela made her skin crawl all the more.
Angela explained. “I’d like you to handle that as well.”
Kitty’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“I’d like you to pick out a pet for me. Don’t worry,” said Angela, reaching for her purse on a small opaque glass table near the edge of the patio, “I’ll pay you for your time.” She withdrew some cash and held it out in her fine, tan fingers. “How does fifty dollars an hour sound?”
Kitty looked at the money then at Angela. “You want me to go to a pet store and pick you out a pet and then cook for it? Is that it?”
“Precisely,” said Angela. She offered the money.
Kitty found herself taking the cash though the whole thing seemed goofy. “Is there any particular sort of pet that you’d like?”
Angela waved her hand. “Nothing too furry, dear. I abhor shedding. Gets into the furniture and the rugs. Very difficult to clean.”
Kitty nodded her understanding though she had no doubt that Angela herself had never cleaned anything in her life with the exception of her own temple-like body.
And if Angela Evan had been an Egyptian queen in a previous lifetime, she wouldn’t have even had to do that for herself. She’d have had servants to bathe her. For all Kitty knew, she had them doing it for her now.
Before Kitty could raise any further questions, Angela said, “Let me show you to the door.”
As Angela was about to close said door in her face, Kitty asked, “Tell me, did Mr. Evan have any children?”
“Not with me he didn’t.”
“What about with any of his other wives?”
“No. Of course, Rich was always quite indiscriminate. Like they say, ‘Sex, drugs and rock and roll.’ There may be a child or two born out of wedlock in the world. But I am not aware of any.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering who was going to inherit. You know, the house and all. Of course, if Mr. Evan didn’t have any kids and the two of you were still married, well,” said Kitty, batting her lashes, “I guess that means you’ll inherit everything?”
Angela had her hand on the side of the door. “That’s really none of your business, now is it?”
“No,” replied Kitty, “of course not. I didn’t mean to be nosy. It’s just that I’ve heard a lot of stories about Mr. Evan’s house being haunted or cursed or something and I wondered if you were intending to live in it?” Kitty raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know about you, but you wouldn’t catch me living in a place with a history like that.”
“I have no intention of moving into Rich’s house,” Angela replied icily. “I’m quite happy here.”
“I’ll bet,” Kitty said. “You’ve got a great house. Didn’t it bother you living in a house where so many
deaths had occurred?”
Angela merely shrugged. “I’d heard the stories. Not before I moved in, but after.”
“And you weren’t concerned?”
Angela smiled. “This town’s full of stories. It’s part of Hollywood’s charm.”
Kitty thought this an odd comment. “And you never noticed anything unusual while you lived there?”
“Only my husband’s behavior,” Angela deadpanned. “Now, if there is nothing further, I have a tennis lesson in half an hour.”
“Of course.” Kitty started away, then turned. “I wonder what made Mr. Evan get Benny?”
Angela sighed. “That’s easy. Rich never had a pet, at least not while he was with me. But I know he was fond of dogs. Tracy knew it too and since she was obviously trying to get back in Rich’s favor, she bought him a puppy as a present.”
“Tracy? Do you mean his ex-wife Tracy?”
“That’s right. Tracy Taylor Evan. She’s an R&B singer. She came right before me in the marriage chain. If you ask me, she got tired of living in Rich’s shadow. She wanted to be a star herself and couldn’t compete with Rich’s success and celebrity.
“I imagine she married him with the expectation that he would help her career, open doors for her, et cetera.” Angela smiled. “But what she didn’t know at the time was that Rich only worried about his own career. He wanted a little housewife to look pretty and cater to his every need. Tracy wanted the spotlight. From the stories I’ve heard, it turned into a real battle. By the time the divorce was settled, they loathed one another. For the longest time, it was forbidden to even mention Tracy’s name.”
Kitty nodded. “If everything was so horrible, why was Tracy trying to ‘get back in his favor’ as you say?”
“Easy,” answered Angela. “Money. Rich had money and Tracy had none.”
“Yet she must have had a good settlement.”
“Rich had made her sign a prenup. She got two million. One for each year of their marriage.”
That sounded pretty good to Kitty. More than enough to last her a lifetime at any rate.
Angela read her mind. “Sounds like a lot to a person like you, doesn’t it?”
Kitty ignored the slight. “Yes. It does.”
“Well, Tracy went through it all pretty quickly. Spent it all in less than seven years.”
Kitty whispered, “That doesn’t seem possible.”
“Lawyers, houses, cars, agents, promoters,” said Angela. “It all adds up. Tracy was desperate to make herself a star. That takes money. And Tracy had run out of money and luck. She’s been reduced to living in a one-room apartment in Van Nuys and waiting tables between singing jobs.”
“That must be tough.”
“That’s when she started to worm herself back into Rich’s life.”
“How do you know all this, Mrs. Evan?”
“Rich and I separated nearly a year ago. But we were still on good terms and in touch with each other nearly daily.”
“That’s very civil. So many marriages end in such an ugly fashion.”
“We were hoping for a reconciliation.”
Somehow Kitty doubted Angela Evan wanted this. But what about Mr. Evan? Had he wanted her back?
“Rich told me that Tracy was pestering him constantly; phoning, writing him notes, sending emails.”
“She wanted him back?”
“Tracy wanted his bank account back.”
“Do you think she’ll get anything now that he’s dead?”
Angela glowered. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Kitty thought hard. Tracy Evan could have murdered her ex-husband even if there was no financial gain. Sheer spite would be enough to drive a person to murder. Revenge driven by the anger of seeing her ex-husband living better than she? Kitty’s head throbbed. There were too many questions and not enough answers. “How about a bird?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you like a bird?” repeated Kitty. “For a pet?”
“Hmmm,” a finely manicured nail traced the bottom of her chin. “That would mean feathers, wouldn’t it?”
Kitty swallowed her reply. Yeah, birds usually meant feathers—unless you planned on plucking, panning and plating them.
“I suppose,” drawled Angela, “that would be all right. Would it talk?”
“You mean like a mynah bird or a parrot?”
“No, no. I mean like a person.”
It took Kitty several moments to digest and decipher Angela’s words. How could a woman who seemed so sharp and shrewd one moment appear so dumb and blonde the next?
Picking out a pet for Angela Evan wasn’t going to be easy.
16
Kitty counted the bills before pushing them into her purse. Eleven hundred dollars. Maybe she’d buy Angela Evan a boa constrictor with all that cash. A boa constrictor with a gold choker chain.
She drove out to Ira and Iris Rabinowitz’s home and delivered a late lunch to Goldie, their Pekingese. Today’s luncheon was The Doggie and the Hare.
Kitty Karlyle Gourmet Pet Chef
—The Doggie and the Hare—
1/4 lb. boiled rabbit
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/8 cup finely chopped onion
1 black olive
2 ounces white grape juice
1/4 teaspoon tomato puree
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 artichoke
pinch kosher salt
hint of sage
1 sprig marjoram
Kitty carefully set Goldie’s plate on the floor with one of her recipe cards folded tent-like behind it. The Rabinowitz’s were out, having left Kitty a note saying they’d gone to Temple.
Kitty knew where they kept the spare house key and they’d given her the alarm code, so this was no problem. In fact, it was a nice feeling to feel so trusted, especially in light of what had happened and all the troubles swirling around her.
Kitty waited until Goldie was finished and then removed the plate, washing it carefully in the sink and leaving it standing in the counter rack to dry.
She ran into a pet shop on Ventura Boulevard and picked up a get well card and a treat for Mr. Cookie. She didn’t want to show up at the Randalls’ empty-handed and that was where she was headed next.
At least she was until she realized how close Sherman Oaks was to Van Nuys. She pulled into a gas station, found a phone book and was, despite her low expectations, rewarded with an address for a Tracy T. Evan in Van Nuys.
Maybe she was in for a lucky streak. Not only had there been a Tracy Evan in the phone book, there had been a phone book. Usually the phone books were missing from the payphones or at best the pages were ripped out.
