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

by Marie Celine

  “You are wondering about my room, aren’t you?” Consuelo moved closer to Kitty, forcing her further into the room.

  “No, I wasn’t. I called your name and there was no answer. I smelled your incense burning—it’s really quite lovely, sandalwood, isn’t it? And, anyway, I came up to investigate. I mean, to see if you were up here.”

  “Much of this is Mexican folk art designed for El Dia de los Muertes. You are familiar with this?”

  Kitty gulped. “The Day of the Dead, right?”

  “That’s correct. We honor our dead and celebrate the continuity of Life.”

  “Is that today?” Kitty forced her lips into something resembling a friendly smile.

  Consuelo shook her slowly head. “No. But living in this house. . .one must fight the evil spirits.”

  Did Consuelo consider Rich Evan one of the evil spirits? “About that,” began Kitty, “if I could only ask you what you know. I mean, you lived here with Mr. Evan. Did you ever see or hear anything unusual, Consuelo?”

  “I have already told you all that I know.” Consuelo marched to the door and pointed. “You must leave now.”

  Kitty nodded. She wanted out of Consuelo’s bedroom more than anything and breathed deep once she was safely out in the hall. Still, she stayed away from the balustrade and kept her back to the wall. The more she uncovered about Consuelo’s personal side, the less safe Kitty felt around her.

  Kitty followed Consuelo down the stairs. “So what will happen to you now, Consuelo?”

  “Rich Evan promised me fifty-thousand dollars in his will. His lawyers say there is no such instruction.” She spat. “Another of his lies, just like the lie of helping my father and my younger brother.”

  Kitty made appropriate sounds of sympathy. But inside she was thinking this was a motive for murder.

  “I have been told by the lawyers that I can stay in the house until it is sold. They say they are being generous with me.” Again, she spat. “Then. . .” She shrugged.

  “I’m sure you’ll find another position. I’ll bet Angela Evan will give you a good reference.”

  Consuelo snorted.

  “You and Mrs. Evan didn’t get along?”

  “About as well as her and Mr. Evan did.”

  “How about Mr. Evan’s last wife, Tracy? Did you know Tracy Taylor?”

  “Yes, I knew her.”

  “Had she been around recently? Have you seen her since the divorce, Consuelo?”

  Again, Consuelo shrugged. “She’s come by a time or two. Brought that dog, didn’t she?”

  Kitty nodded. “Was Tracy here the day Rich Evan died?”

  “You’d have to ask her that, now wouldn’t you?” Consuelo opened the front door. “The real estate company is bringing a client by soon and I have cleaning to do. Besides, they won’t like it if you’re here. The agents are fussy when they’re showing their fancy million dollar homes to millionaires. Millionaires are fussy, too.”

  Kitty paused on the steps. The warm sun hit her back. “I still don’t understand where Benny was the morning poor Mr. Evan died. That poison might have been meant for him.”

  “That dog was always running around everywhere. He only got himself locked out. Lucky for him.” A hint of a grin formed along Consuelo’s lips. “Unlucky for Mr. Evan.”

  Yes, thought Kitty. Unlucky, indeed. “Suppose someone wanted to poison Benny out of spite because they were angry with Mr. Evan or were trying to frighten him or warn him off. Don’t you suppose that might be possible?”

  “Like me, you mean?”

  “No, of course not, I didn’t mean—” Of course, this was exactly what Kitty had meant.

  But the housekeeper cut her off. “My English may not be so great, but I know exactly what you mean, Miss Karlyle. You are accusing me of murdering Mr. Evan.”

  “Did you?”

  Consuelo’s eyebrow lifted and her eyes danced like they were on fire. “Now why would I do that?”

  Why, indeed?

  23

  Bird in hand, Kitty once again pressed the buzzer, announcing her presence at Angela Evan’s home.

  “I sure hope she likes you,” Kitty said, sticking her finger through the bars of the cage and stroking the cockatiel’s wing feathers. The cage was growing heavy in her arm. The same arm was holding the bag from the pet shop that contained the bird book, food and all the other cockatiel-related merchandise she’d picked up for Angela.

  She sighed and transferred this bag to her free hand and tapped her foot. Kitty pressed the buzzer again and stepped back. “What have I gotten you into?” Kitty asked the bird. He flapped his wings in reply.

  “I’m going to have to set you down.” Kitty bent and was in the process of lowering the cage to a shady corner of the porch when she heard the crash.

  Kitty screamed and the cage dropped from her hands. The cockatiel screamed angrily as the cage rolled down the steps and came to a stop against a huge red clay pot that now marked the spot where she’d been standing only a moment earlier. The planter was busted into a hundred pieces, some large and some small. One shard had struck her in the leg. But she had her slacks on and no damage had been done. Gallons of black dirt covered the sidewalk and porch.

  The front door was thrown open and Angela Evan herself, wrapped in a pink terrycloth robe ran out. “My goodness? Are you okay?” She ran to Kitty’s side and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She looked up at the ledge where Kitty now saw a matching companion to the broken pot still stood. “That oaf, Gil,” Angela complained, “I told him to water the plants not throw them off the balcony.” She took Kitty by the arm and led her into the foyer. “I am so sorry, dear. Not hurt, are you?”

  Kitty shook her head. She was trembling. She could have been killed! “The-the bird.” Kitty pointed out the open door. The cage was tipped on its side and the bird was hopping madly about.

  “Of course. Don’t worry. Your bird looks all right.”

  A door that Kitty hadn’t really noticed before slid open. It was an elevator and Gil Major stepped out of it. He wore an immaculate dark suit and white shirt. “I am sorry, Mrs. Evan. I was only intending to check the foliage, for parasites, and,” he heaved his shoulders, “I’m afraid the planter got away from me.”

  “Please be more careful in the future, Gil. Someone might get hurt.”

  He nodded.

  “After you’ve brought in Miss Karlyle’s things, clean up the mess you’ve made.”

  He nodded once again, this time bending his back even lower. Gil hurried out the door, carefully picked up the bird and the bag and brought them inside to the living room where Angela and Kitty now stood. He quickly departed.

  Angela looked at the bird in the cage. Gil had set it on the coffee table in front of the chenille sofa. “What kind is it?”

  “He’s an Australian cockatiel.” The cage was scratched and dented but the bird looked okay.

  “I see.”

  “I’ve brought you a book on cockatiel care and some food and—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Angela said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll give them to the housekeeper.”

  “Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Evan, but is Gil Major working for you now? Last time I was here, I remember seeing a young red-headed girl.”

  “Yes, I’ve taken Gil on. Giselle is incapable of taking care of everything around here.”

  “You let her go?”

  “Heavens no. She’s been with me ages. I simply brought in Gil to take care of the things she can’t handle—the heavy stuff.”

  Like dropping giant pots on people’s heads, wondered Kitty? And how did Gil Major go from working for the Randalls one day to Angela Evan practically the next?

  “I fed him this morning. Oh, and here’s your change.” Kitty rummaged through her purse and brought out a handful of paper bills and coins.

  “Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I was about to take my sauna.” Angela drew her robe up around her throat.

  “Certa
inly. Would you like me to come back this evening and serve dinner?”

  “To the bird?”

  Kitty nodded.

  “That would be fine. I may not be home, but I’ll leave instructions that you are welcome anytime.”

  “Thank you.” Kitty practically ran for the door.

  “Does he have a name?” Angela asked.

  “Who?”

  Angela motioned towards the flapping bird. “This.”

  “The bird? No,” Kitty replied somewhat slowly. “I thought you would like to name him yourself.”

  “Oh, of course.” Angela thought a moment, then grinned. “I believe I shall name him Rich, Little Rich, in honor of my dear, departed husband. What do you think, Kitty?”

  “Um, that’s lovely,” agreed Kitty, willing her eyes not to roll around in her skull.

  She ran into Gil Major on the sidewalk, stooped over with a short-handled broom and dustpan, briskly cleaning up the near fatal mess. “Hello, Gil.”

  He swiveled and glanced up at her. “Miss Karlyle.”

  “What a surprise seeing you here.” Kitty accidently stepped on triangle of broken pottery. It scrunched under her foot. “It’s a shame about Mrs. Randall, isn’t it?”

  He set down his whiskbroom and straightened up. “Yes. Quite.”

  “I was at the Randall house the evening she died, feeding Mr. Cookie. She told me you were off for the evening.”

  He watched her but made no reply.

  “And now she’s dead and you’re working for Angela Evan.”

  “Yes, funny thing, that, isn’t it?” He looked at his dirty fingers and frowned.

  Kitty nodded. “How do you know Mrs. Evan?”

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Evan. I know Giselle. We’d once worked for the same hotel. She’d been telling me that Angela Evan was looking to increase her household staff and with Mrs. Randall gone, I didn’t know if Mr. Randall would be keeping me on. . .”

  “So you switched employers.”

  “Precisely.” He resumed his work. “Now, if you don’t mind. I’d best clean up this mess.”

  “Of course.” She watched him a moment, his wrist flicking rhythmically back and forth, whiskbroom in hand. “Mr. Cookie is coming back to health nicely.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I can’t imagine how he’d been poisoned. Dr. Landau, the vet, says it was definitely this Barbados nut thing again.”

  “Perhaps you had best check your ingredients more carefully. It seems to me you’ve caused quite enough harm, Miss Kitty.”

  “And then poor Mrs. Randall,” Kitty ignored his shot and shook her head. “Strangled to death in her own home. I wonder who would do such a thing? Mrs. Randall was a harmless, dear woman.”

  “We mustn’t speak ill of the dead, eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come off it,” he said, a touch of harshness creeping into his tone, “we both know she was an overbearing, prissy, domineering woman who never had a kind word for anyone but her precious Mr. Cookie.”

  Interesting. Except for the bit about Mr. Cookie, that description sounded awfully apt for Angela Evan as well. “Who do you think killed her?”

  He tossed a dustpan full of potting soil into the shrubbery. “I really wouldn’t know. I’m a houseman not a detective. Perhaps it was that spiritualist of hers.”

  “Madame Zouzou? Maybe, but why?”

  “Who knows?” He dusted himself off and strode to the door. “Maybe a ghost told her to do it.”

  Kitty’s eyes widened. “Do you believe in ghosts, Gil?”

  Gil Major’s eyes locked in on hers as if framing an enigma between the two of them. “I believe the dead should stay dead, Miss Karlyle.” He pulled the door handle. “If you do see a ghost, perhaps he, or she,” the houseman added, “fervently wishes to live.” He showed his teeth. “And these spirits will do anything for a chance to rejoin the living.”

  “Anything?”

  He nodded. “Even if it means taking the life of another.”

  Goose bumps crawled over Kitty’s flesh and she felt as if one of the Living Dead was rubbing up against her skin. The last thing Kitty saw before Gil closed the door in her face was his sharp-toothed smile. It blinked like a nefarious and incorporeal spirit then disappeared.

  24

  Richard and Timothy, Hollywood’s self-proclaimed “gayest couple” were throwing a party. And it was a big one. Kitty had to plead with the valet not to take her car but rather help her get past the fifty-thousand dollar and up vehicles clogging the drive.

  Feed the dogs, Us and Them, and the cockatiel and get out, that’s all Kitty wanted to do. Loud music and a bass so pounding that it felt like an unstoppable earthquake resounded through the canyon.

  A bustling kitchen welcomed her. Kitty managed to stop one of the hurrying party helpers long enough to ask where the dogs were. He only shrugged and said, “Beats me. I’m just a temp.”

  Kitty sighed and set down her trays. Dinner was getting cold. The kitchen door swung open revealing a party in full swing. There were hundreds in attendance and the party spilled out into the expansive backyard. Half the guests looked like they could have been celebrities. Kitty recognized many of their faces.

  Kitty spotted Richard holding sway over a small crowd near the saltwater aquarium and shyly approached. He beamed when he saw her. “Kitty, my love! Good to see you!” He embraced her. “Come to join the party?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve come to feed the dogs—and your bird. Where are they?”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “I’ve put them in the guest house. All these people,” he waved his hands, “makes the babies a little nuts.”

  It’s making me a little nuts, too, mused Kitty. “Okay, I’ll take the food to them out back, if that’s all right?”

  “Of course, love. And afterward, come back and join the party.” He was practically shouting over the music and the conversation to make himself heard.

  “I’d love to, but I have one more client to serve this evening.”

  “So, come back after you’ve finished. Believe me,” he said with a half-drunk grin, “the party will still be going on no matter how late you arrive.”

  “Thank you,” she uttered noncommittally. She dodged revelers left and right, scooped up the pets’ dinners and headed out to the guest house. The music vibrated her ears and drummed into her skull. It was oddly familiar yet unfamiliar all at the same time.

  The guest house was larger than the house Kitty had grown up in. It even had its own courtyard with a small swimming pool in the middle. The Dalmatians were happy to see her, or maybe they were simply starved. In any event, she unwrapped their dinners and watched them eat. The cockatiel pecked away at his food as well.

  Kitty was cleaning up her things when she heard shouting. She peaked out the window. Fang Danson and Angela Evan were arguing. Angela’s arms were flying. Fang’s were, too. Were they coming close to taking swings at each other?