by Marie Celine
Kitty nodded. “Mom and Dad keep telling me to come home for a while.”
“Maybe you should.” She held her niece at arm’s length. “You look tired.”
“But I’ve just gotten my pet chef business off the ground. If I stop now, it’ll spell the end of it. Not that I don’t sometimes think that’s just what I should do. If it doesn’t fail anyway. If the police don’t find Rich Evan’s real killer soon, I’ll be facing the reputation of the chef who kills pets and their owners.”
Aunt Gloria pushed her reading glasses up her nose and told her niece not to worry. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Kitty wished this was true but she’d read enough news over the years to know that not every crime could be solved. And if this one wasn’t. . .
Aunt Gloria told Kitty to follow her and the two ladies retired to her office in the corner of the children’s department. Aunt Gloria made a note of the poison that Kitty mentioned. “You know me,” she explained, “I like to research and I’m curious about this poison and how it might have interacted with the other drugs that the police say were in Mr. Evan’s system. Is this Barbados nut considered poisonous to pets?”
Kitty told her how Mrs. Randall’s cat, Mr. Cookie, had also been poisoned and nearly faced death himself.
“How curious.”
Kitty, anxious to change the subject from the dead to the living, explained how she’d recently taken on some new clients, including two with birds and needed some interesting cockatiel recipes.
“That shouldn’t be too much trouble. I believe we even have several books on bird care and feeding here in the system. I’ll take a look for you and send you up anything appropriate that I find.”
“Thank you, Aunt Gloria.” Angela Evan’s cockatiel was spending Sunday at her apartment. She would take it to the woman tomorrow, first chance she got. Having the bird in the house was driving her cat, Barney, nuts. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help. Without everyone’s help.”
Her aunt smiled. “You’d do just fine, dear. You’re quite capable and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She leaned over her desk and took Kitty’s hand. “Now, young lady, capable as you are, I can see right through you. You did not drive all the way down to San Diego from Los Angeles on your only day off just to ask me about bird food recipes. We could have handled this on the telephone. What is it? What’s on your mind?”
“It’s this Rich Evan murder,” sighed Kitty. “Nothing about it makes sense. I mean, it seems as though someone was actually trying to kill Benny and poor Mr. Evan got killed instead.” Kitty hesitated, glancing at her aunt, then the floor. Finally, she said, “It’s almost as if the stories are true.”
“Stories?” Aunt Gloria asked. “What stories?”
“About Mr. Evan’s house being haunted.”
“Haunted?” Kitty’s aunt looked skeptical.
“Or evil.” Kitty shook her head. “I don’t know. I realize it must sound silly—”
Aunt Gloria built a tall steepled church out of her fingers. “Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s been a lot of literature about,” she searched for the words she wanted, “spiritual emanations, vortexes of weird energy and other unusual and unexplained phenomena. We’ve an entire section devoted to such things here in the library. The paranormal.”
“Exactly!” cried Kitty. “You wouldn’t believe half the weird things that have happened in that house.”
Aunt Gloria grabbed a pencil. “Tell me more about these stories, Kitty.”
Kitty left the library lighter of heart and with renewed determination. Aunt Gloria was not only going to help her with the bird food recipes, she’d promised to research the old Wright house and its occupants. Kitty had given her aunt all the names she could remember. Aunt Gloria was confident she could uncover the names of the rest.
After seeing her niece off, Gloria Casselberry headed to the reference section to check on some things that Kitty had mentioned. On the way, she passed the news racks where the day’s papers were kept. The headline of the San Diego Times caught her eye. DEPT. STORE CHAIN WIFE FOUND DEAD.
The librarian pulled the paper off the rack and read. Mrs. Lucille Randall, wife of Henry Randall, founder of the Randall Department Store chain, had been found dead in her home, strangled. Was this the same Mrs. Randall with the cat who’d been poisoned that Kitty had mentioned earlier? How odd for her niece not to have mentioned this. Perhaps she didn’t know? She’d better give Kitty a call.
Just then a patron tugged on the librarian’s arm searching for a copy of Books In Print and Gloria Casselberry’s attention turned to more immediate concerns.
“Well,” grumbled Fang, “now that you’ve chased Tracy out of here and I’m not likely to get any work done, I’d might as well read the paper.” He carried the newspaper out to the backyard and settled down to read. He ordered Derrick to bring him some breakfast.
A few minutes later, Angela appeared, dressed in an anil blue leotard with a bare midriff. She leapt down to the lawn and began doing stretches. She warmed up with a Trikonasana—the triangle, one of the easier poses her yoga instructor, Jean-George, had taught her.
Fang unfolded the paper. A line appeared in his forehead. “What the—”
Angela stopped mid-pose. “What is it?”
Fang lowered the paper. “It says here that Lucille Randall has been murdered.”
“Really?” giggled Angela, dropping into a lotus position. The grass was damp. She should have brought an exercise mat. “I hope it wasn’t something she ate.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Randalls were clients of Kitty Karlyle’s Pet Gourmet service.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don’t you remember?” sighed Angela, wondering why she stuck with such a dolt—Rich was a certified genius compared to Fang—“Rich let them use a song of his for a radio and TV ad campaign.”
She went from a Bhujangasana—the cobra— to an Adho Mukha Svanasana, carefully synchronizing her breathing with her movements. Her rear lifted upward, like a gift, and Fang was of a mind to take it.
“Henry Randall recommended Miss Karlyle to Rich when Tracy gave him that damn puppy.” Angela turned her head. She was beaming. “And now Randall’s wife is dead. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What’s so wonderful about it? What’s her death got to do with us?”
Angela rose and sauntered over to the table where Derrick had just delivered Fang his breakfast, eggs, sausage and toast. “It means that the police will be locking up Kitty Karlyle sooner rather than later. The Rich Evan case will be solved. The lawyers will get the courts moving and I’ll get my settlement.”
Fang grumbled.
“It seems our pet chef is a serial poisoner.” Angela rubbed Fang’s shoulders. “Speaking of which, you haven’t touched your breakfast.”
Fang pushed his plate away. Angela was making him uneasy. “Killer or not, Kitty Karlyle didn’t poison Lucille Randall.”
“She didn’t?”
Fang reveled in Angela’s confused look. “That’s right,” he said, smacking the paper. “It says here the old woman was strangled.”
“Strangled?” muttered Angela, clenching her fist.
21
“Where are you?”
Where Kitty was right at that most difficult moment was entering Interstate 5 in San Diego. Where she was heading was back home. What she needed were two hands free to grip the steering wheel. What she didn’t need was a call on her cell phone. Now of all times. This of all people.
“How did you get this number?” she shouted into the phone, ignoring his question. A trucker shot past her and the Volvo shook. There was a giggle at the other end of the line.
“A little bird told me,” Det. Young said. “And you haven’t answered my first question.”
“A little bird? How did you know about the bird?”
“What bird? Where are you?”
“San Diego. Now
is there a reason for this call or are you simply trying to get me killed trying to merge with seventy-mile-an-hour traffic while shooting the breeze with you?”
“Boy, you’re pretty snappy today. And on your day off,” Young said. “Not getting enough sleep?”
“How do you know this is my day off?”
“So what are you doing in San Diego?”
Kitty stared at the phone then practically stuck it in her mouth as she settled into the slow lane. “What? Are you afraid I may be making a break for the Mexican border, detective? Pet chef escapes justice in Tijuana?”
“Are you done?” He waited and since she said nothing he pushed ahead. “Actually, the reason I was calling was to invite you on our second date. But it might not work out now. I mean, if you’re all the way down in—”
Her scream pierced his ear. “Excuse me?! Second date? When exactly was our first date?”
“Hey, what do you mean? I mean, that really hurts. I went with you to visit your sick client. If that doesn’t qualify as a first date, I don’t know what does. I mean, I did that totally for you—how thoughtful and modern can a guy get?”
“My sick . . ?” Kitty’s head was throbbing. If only she had an aspirin. She ground her fist into her temple, it was the next best thing. “You mean Mr. Cookie?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
There was silence at her end.
“So? What do you think? What time will you get back? We can meet at your apartment, or better still, I know a great little place at the edge of Beverly Hills.” He named a place on Little Santa Monica Boulevard that was popular with the locals. It was also one of the cheapest. “You could meet me there.” Young looked at his watch. “In two hours?”
Kitty had to unclench her jawbones to manage an answer. If she had been any angrier, it would have taken the Jaws of Life to unlock them.
Oh, she’d meet him there all right. And she’d give Jack Young a piece of her mind that he would never forget.
She had to park a block away and even then had to squeeze into a parking space foreshortened by the cars sticking out in front and in back. Not to mention that parallel parking was not one of her best talents. She ignored the parking meter and headed to Augy’s Restaurant.
Kitty blundered past a server balancing a loaded tray. “Excuse me,” she uttered. She spotted her quarry seated at a small table near the window. The detective was wearing his brown suit again and apparently no one had told the man to stop wearing black loafers with brown clothes. To make matters worse, he’d chosen white socks. He was reading the newspaper and didn’t see her coming.
“You have a lot of nerve!” she began loudly. “First that nonsense the other day telling me how you are going to marry me and calling me up and talking like we’re going to have a second date.” Her face was purplish and her cheeks bulged. “When you know very well we’ve never had a first date.” She was shaking her head and her body followed along as she bounded on the soles of her feet. “Like I would ever go out with you—”
“Hi, Kitty. Great to see you again, too.” He looked up and he was smiling.
“There is absolutely nothing funny about this. And I want you to know that I find your behavior despicable.” She ignored the stares of the other patrons and the ugly glare of the staff.
Det. Young slowly laid down the sports section, rummaged around in the thick pile of paper on the table, dug up the front page and held it up. “Seen the paper today?”
“Are you out of your mind?” She was clearly flabbergasted. Her eyes glanced at the paper. “Haven’t you even heard anything that—” What the? “—I—” Mrs. Randall? Dead? It couldn’t be! “—said?”
Kitty’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the detective for answers.
He rose and pulled out the chair opposite his. “Have a seat.” He pushed her up to the table. “I’ll order us some drinks. How about a Mimosa? I hear it’s the specialty here.”
Kitty merely nodded. The drinks arrived. She raised her glass and sipped slowly. It seemed to carry a subtle hint of cranberry in addition to the orange juice. She’d scanned the front page that Det. Young had laid before her. He watched her in silence.
Finally, she looked up at him. “Is this what this was all about? The phone call? The second date?”
He looked back at her as if she was speaking Martian.
“It was all a trick, wasn’t it? You only wanted to question me about Mrs. Randall’s death.” She pushed back her chair. “Do you think I killed her, too?”
The manager rushed over. “Is everything all right?” He looked about nervously.
“Yes, fine.” Det. Young assured the manager it was nothing and he left.
Kitty fumed. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“Are you done?”
She glared.
“Fine. Then you can listen for a change. I asked you here because I really did want to see you again.”
“Sure, so you can lock me up. Tell me, will they give you a shiny medal for your shirt?”
“I thought you were going to let me talk?”
Kitty drummed the table with her fingers.
“I wanted to see you—” He appeared to fumble for the word. “Socially. The rest is mere coincidence. I read about Lucille Randall’s death in the paper just like you did.”
Kitty felt herself softening. “You mean, you only found about it now yourself?”
“Well, no. I read about it this morning. I put in a call to the Beverly Hills Police Department and inspected the scene.”
“So this is an interrogation.”
He swirled his drink. “I guess it was stupid. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone as they say. See you again, socially, and ask you about Lucille Randall’s murder.”
Kitty laughed out loud. “I don’t believe you.” She was shaking her head. “So this is like a combination date and third degree interrogation? Clever. And charming. You must be quite popular with the ladies, detective.”
“It’s Jack, remember?” He tugged at his skinny brown tie. “And I’ve done just fine, thank you.”
“I’ll bet.” Kitty folded her arms. “Are we done here?”
“Look,” he leaned across the table, “I’m sorry. It was a dumb idea.” He cleared his throat. “I really am sorry. How about if we order some lunch and start over?”
Kitty winced. This did not sound like such a good idea.
“Please?” He picked up the newspaper and tossed it on the floor. “We don’t even have to talk about the investigation or police business or anything.”
“So what do we do? Sit and stare at one another? This isn’t going to work. We have nothing in common and absolutely nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Young smiled. “I know. We can talk about pets. Let’s take dog food, for instance. I’ve been buying Libby the Alpo. But Walmart’s got an unbeatable price on Ole Roy.”
“Would you like it if you belonged to someone and they fed you solely out of cans?”
The detective shrugged. “I don’t think I’d mind. Sure, why not? Plenty of good food comes in cans.”
“Name two.”
Young scratched an ear. “Spaghetti, soup.”
