by Marie Celine
Fang hollered some more, but his voice was muffled and Kitty couldn’t make out a single word. A moment later, the tall man stomped off.
Kitty grabbed her trays and, on impulse, hurried after him. She lost him on the dark grounds, then caught sight of him again as he reappeared near the six-car garage to the left of the estate. Over her shoulder, Kitty saw that Angela had rejoined the party.
The rumble of an automobile drew her attention. A blue Aston Martin spun out of the garage and along the edge of the long drive, heading towards the street at a high speed. Fang Danson was at the wheel.
So much for him. Kitty decided to see what Angela Evan was up to. She tossed her trays in the Volvo and went back through the kitchen. A red-head at the sink, rinsing champagne glasses, caught her eye. “Excuse me,” said Kitty, “but aren’t you Giselle?”
The woman turned and smiled. Her hands were dripping with soapy water. “That’s right.”
“I’m Kitty Karlyle. Remember, I saw you out at Mrs. Evan’s house yesterday.”
“Oh, sure, I remember. You’re the girl she’s hired to cook for that bird of hers.”
“That’s right. I’m on my way over there now, in fact. Though if no one is home, I don’t know how I’ll get in. . .”
“Don’t worry. Gil’s there.”
“That’s right, Gil. He works there now. I almost forgot.” She’d forgotten no such thing. “It must be nice for you, to have some help around that big house, I mean.”
Giselle nodded.
“Especially since you two were already acquainted.”
“Already acquainted?”
“Yes, I heard that you and Gil knew one another before he came to work for Mrs. Evan.”
Giselle was shaking her head. “Whoever told you that is confused. I’d never met the man before.” She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “If you want to know the truth, that man gives me the willies. I’m glad to get out of the house for a few hours. Making a few extra dollars working this here party is a lot nicer than being stuck in that house with Gil Major.”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Evan mind you moonlighting?”
“Nah. This was her idea. The gentlemen that live here mentioned they were short-handed on staff this evening and Mrs. Evan asked if I’d like to make some extra money.”
“That was certainly kind of her.” Kitty wondered if she was going to have to revise her opinion of Angela Evan upwards.
A tall woman with a high forehead and a sharp nose wearing a black wool blazer and matching skirt clapped her hands. “We have guests waiting for those in the billiards room,” she said sharply.
Giselle snatched up a towel and quickly began drying the glasses. “Gotta go!”
Speaking of which, Kitty suddenly remembered she was supposed to drive back out to Malibu to give Little Rich, Angela’s cockatiel, his dinner. And a late dinner it was going to be. But the idea of going back to that house and being alone with Gil Major after he had practically killed her, intentionally or otherwise, creeped her out.
Did she dare call Velma and ask her to meet her out in Malibu just so she could feed a bird? Velma, friend that she was, would probably do it, too. It would be a terrific imposition, though.
However, did she dare go there alone? At night? With only Gil Major in the house?
Kitty stepped out of the noisy kitchen and dialed Velma’s number. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing much. Surfing.”
It took Kitty a minute to figure out what Velma meant. The only surfing Velma did was on the Web. “I know it’s a huge imposition, but do you want to come out to Malibu with me?”
“What?”
Kitty explained her situation and uneasiness.
“Wow. Look, I wish I could, but I’m working the late shift tonight. Glen, the manager, has really been getting on my case. If I take off again, he might fire me and I haven’t got that new job locked up yet.”
“Oh,” Kitty couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Don’t worry. It was silly of me to ask anyway.”
“It wasn’t silly at all. And if you get in trouble, you give me a call, okay?”
Kitty promised.
Arriving at Angela Evan’s house in the Malibu Colony, Kitty couldn’t help but look up at that ledge where the pot had come crashing down from.
Gil Major let her in and stepped aside to let her pass with the small tray she carried. “Little Rich is in the den.”
Kitty tried to make small talk. “So, do you miss England, Gil?”
“What makes you think I’m English?” he barked.
Kitty quickly placed Little Rich’s food bowl inside the cage and shut the door. “I’m sorry,” she gulped. “Am I wrong? I mean, your accent—”
He eyed her levelly. “What time will you be returning tomorrow?”
“Um, ten-thirty?” She backed away from the table. Why was she letting this guy get the best of her?
“Fine. Mrs. Evan would like it very much if you could keep to a tight schedule. She is an exacting woman.”
“Yes, of course. I saw her tonight at a party that Richard Couric and Timothy Toms were hosting at their house.”
Gil headed towards the front door in long, determined steps. Kitty followed. “She was arguing with Fang Danson.”
Gil Major pulled open the door. “Goodnight, Miss Karlyle.”
Kitty held her tongue and climbed in her car. Gil Major was a major pain.
Kitty woke early the next morning to get the most out of the day. Life had become too hectic. And her clients were spread out all across Southern California. Her job and the murders were taking a toll on her.
Kitty was determined to do nothing but cook today. Cook and take care of her clients’ pets. Maybe she would forget all about trying to figure out why Rich Evan died and who killed Mrs. Randall—forget about haunted houses and the sordid lives of her clients.
Showered, dressed and bolstered by two cups of freshly ground coffee, Kitty got busy. She felt badly about ignoring her own pets, Fred and Barney, and gave them extra generous breakfast and rewarded Fred with a long walk around the block.
The telephone was ringing as she turned the key in the lock and she rushed to answer. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Good morning. Man, I must have let the phone ring twenty times. You’re a late sleeper.”
Kitty’s bubble of bliss burst. “You.” Her lips scrunched up like she was sucking up the world’s tartest lemon. “What do you want?”
“Oh, a third date would be nice,” he drawled.
“A third—” It was all she could do to keep from slamming down the receiver. “We never had a second date.” Her voice rose with each word and then each syllable. “We never had a first date.”
“Hey, is that any way to talk to your fiancé?”
“You are not my fiancé.”
“I asked you to marry me. You never said no.” He chuckled over the line. “I take that for a yes.”
“Well, then take this for a no. N–O. No!”
“You need more time. I can understand that.”
“Is this the only reason you’re calling this morning. Don’t you have anything else to do with your life? Like open a can of Alpo, maybe?”
The detective allowed a short silence to pass and then said, “Actually, I did have some news.”
“What? About our honeymoon?” quipped Kitty.
“See? Now you’re getting it.”
Kitty growled.
“Relax,” said Young. “This is news you’ll be interested in.”
“Is it good news? Because if it’s bad news, I’m not interested and I am hanging up.”
“Hold on, hold on. Let me tell you and you can decide whether it’s good or bad.”
“I’m listening.”
“Fang Danson was taken into custody late last night, or should I say, early this morning.”
“What?” Had he killed Rich Evan? Was the nightmare over?
“That’s right. He tried to run An
gela Evan down with his car.”
Kitty gasped. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, yeah. Everybody’s fine. The two of them were having a big blow-up outside her house in the Colony. A neighbor called the L.A.S.D. after watching Fang go for Angela with his Aston.”
Kitty chewed her lip. This wasn’t good news or bad news. This was just weird news. “Do you think this has anything to do with Rich Evan’s death, Jack? Or even Mrs. Randall’s?”
“Who knows? Too early to tell. And Fang Danson and Angela Evan aren’t talking. In fact, we already had to let Fang go.”
“What?”
“That’s right. The victim has refused to press charges. Mrs. Evan claims it was all a misunderstanding—Fang only lost control of his vehicle. If you ask me, he’s lost control of his mind. Her, too. She was there when we let him out and they took off together, the happy couple and their lawyer.”
Kitty had to think. Fang Danson tries to kill Angela Evan. Why? “I saw them last night, you know. At a party at a client’s house. I saw Fang Danson and Angela Evan arguing there.”
“Interesting,” said Young. “What client is this?”
“Richard Couric and Timothy Toms. They have a house out in Benedict Canyon.”
“I know where their house is.” Was that an undertone of alarm she heard in his voice. “Those guys are clients of yours?”
Kitty said yes.
“I don’t like it,” said Young. “You should stay away from those two.”
“What do you mean ‘stay away from those two’? They’re sweethearts. With two lovely dogs that they simply dote over and a cockatiel that they treat the same.”
“Drop them.”
“Drop them?! Are you mad? Richard and Timothy are two of my best clients. What’s going on? What do you know about them and why don’t you like them?”
“Nothing,” he sighed. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Kitty.”
25
Mr. Randall sat in the study, rumpled and pale. His thin hair was pulled to one side. A dark blanket covered him. His body was a wrinkled mass of wool.
Kitty had brought Mr. Cookie a delicious four-course meal and he’d eaten every bit. The Randalls’ regular cook, Patti Belle, had let her in and told her that Mr. Randall was locked away in the study.
Kitty had opened the door and was looking at him now. This was the same room that Mrs. Randall had been found dead in. Why was he sitting here now?
“Mr. Randall?”
His chin rested on his chest. Only his eyes lifted. “Miss Karlyle.”
“How are you, sir?”
His answering shrug was barely perceptible.
“I brought Mr. Cookie his meal.” She stepped a little further into the study. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
He shook his head. “No, dear.”
“I’m very sorry about your wife. I’m sure they’ll find whoever did this terrible thing soon.” She waited, but he said nothing. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going.”
His voice shot out. “So many people dying.”
She turned. “Sir?”
“Mr. Evan, now Lucille. I never thought I’d face so much death. At my age, it is I who should be in the ground.”
“Did you know Rich Evan well?”
“No.” Mr. Randall rubbed his wrists. “Not well. He gave us permission to use one of his tunes for a commercial for our stores. And we played golf a time or two. A fine young man, sorry to see him go.”
“Yes, sir. Have the police questioned the psychic, Madame Zouzou, about Mrs. Randall’s death?”
He snorted derisively. “Psychic! Ah, my wife and her indulgences. Always trying to help others. She liked to meddle, she did. Bless her heart.” Mr. Randall crossed his legs and grimaced. “The police went to the home of Madame Zouzou. She lives in Tarzana. But she was not there. Her roommate says Madame left for Sedona, Arizona, the day after my wife’s death. On her way to some sort of crystal skulls conference—whatever that is.”
“I see.”
“They are trying to track her down now. They have spoken to my wife’s friends. Those who were at the séance. No one noticed anything unusual and the séance was over by midnight.”
He came unsteadily to his feet and took Kitty’s hands. His fingers were icy. “You will keep cooking for Mr. Cookie, won’t you? Mrs. Randall would want that. After all, she has always had a soft spot for Mrs. Humphries.”
“Yes, Mr. Randall. I’d be happy to.”
He smiled and patted her hand. “Good. Too many changes around here. I don’t like changes.” His eyes teared up.
“I heard about Gil Major leaving.”
“Ummm, just as well. He was an odd bird.”
Kitty couldn’t agree more. “Had he been with you long, sir?”
“Six months or so.”
“Do you mind if I ask how he came to be employed by you?”
He rubbed his unshaven jowls. “Well, that’s Lucille’s department. I left all the household matters to her. But, as I recollect, he was referred to her. Same as you.”
Kitty heard a phone ringing in the distance. Patti Belle appeared and told Mr. Randall that the office was calling. He told her to tell them to go away.
He picked up a silver picture frame holding a shot of his wife in younger days. “We were married fifty-three years in January.” Mr. Randall seemed to disappear into the photo and Kitty decided to leave him there.
But he stopped her. His words came out strong. “My wife always meant well.”
“Sir?”
He sagged and laid the picture down on the table. “She always meant well.”
“She was always kind to me,” replied Kitty.
“How is Mrs. Humphries’ granddaughter? Velma, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Velma.”
“A good girl, is she?”
Kitty smiled. “The best, Mr. Randall.”
He seemed delighted. “How’s she doing?”
Kitty explained how she’d been having some trouble since finishing culinary school but how things were now looking up with a shot at a chef’s position at one of L.A.’s best restaurants.
“I look forward to eating there. And you tell her she should come visit me sometime. Not to be a stranger. We’re practically family, after all.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear that. And again, I want to express my condolences on your wife,” Kitty said softly. “I had spoken to her just Saturday evening.”
He sighed mournfully. “And I was out of town on business. Sometimes, I believe I’ve spent too much time building up this business and too little with family and friends. Tell me, did Lucille seem happy when you saw her?”
