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.
Kitty figured the old adage ‘when you’re hot, you’re hot’ was worth a shot. Without phoning ahead, she’d drop in on Rich Evan’s ex-wife, Tracy, and hope to catch her at home. Besides, if she called first, the woman might not want to speak with her. It was better to approach in person.
Kitty found the address. It was a large old Moorish-styled apartment complex off Van Nuys Boulevard. The parking lot was filled up with derelict Seventies era large American automobiles mixed in with tiny later model foreign imports. She found an empty space between a humongous Buick and a small Honda Civic.
A quick scan of the register located beyond the busted security gate at the entrance revealed that Tracy T. Evan resided in apartment 312 East. After a few false turns, Kitty found the door leading to a third floor apartment facing west. The door was chipped and its paint faded. She knocked.
A small, black woman with an attractive face and large, liquid, cocoa-brown eyes, answered the door in her bathrobe. Wads of tissue were stuck between her freshly pink-painted toes and her left hand held a warm curling iron. “Can I help you?”
“Tracy Evan?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Kitty Karlyle. I worked with Mr. Evan, Rich Evan.” Kitty was forced to move as a six-foot, three hundred pounder, dressed like a Hell’s Angel’s attempted to squeeze past. He smelled of Old Spice and Old Milwaukee. “I was hoping I might have a word with you.”
Tracy’s eyes lit with hope. She smiled. “Sure, come on in. Don’t mind the mess.” She kicked newspaper out of her path and flopped down on a broken-down yellow and green striped sofa and motioned for Kitty to sit.
Kitty took the opposite edge of the sofa. The arm was covered in dog hair. It looked like Lhasa apso. She picked at a strand. “You have a dog?”
Tracy shrugged as she pulled the tissue out from between her toes. “Nah. Belongs to a friend. He spends a lot of time here.” She balled up the used tissues in her fist and tossed them in the vicinity of a plastic trash can beside an electric keyboard on the wall opposite.
A dilapidated bookcase held a few tattered books and a CD collection. A poster from one of Tracy’s gigs at a club in San Francisco had been tacked above it. “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Kitty folded her hands in her lap. “Did you know that your ex-husband, Rich Evan, is dead?”
“Sure, I know. It’s been all over the news.” Her eyes scanned Kitty. “Are you a lawyer? Did Rich leave me anything?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m a cook.”
“A cook?”
“That’s right. I cooked meals for Mr. Evan’s dog, Benny.”
Tracy’s eyes became hard. “Then what are you doing here? I don’t need a cook. Couldn’t afford one if I did.” She waved around the tiny, old apartment for Kitty’s benefit. “This isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal, as you can plainly see.”
Kitty held her tongue. This place was worse than her own. It must be tough going from having it all to having next to nothing. “I was in the neighborhood and since—”
“Wait a sec. The cook, huh?” Tracy rose and pointed a finger at Kitty. “You’re the one that’s been in the news, too. They say Rich died because of something in the food that you prepared.”
“It was an accident—I mean, I didn’t put—”
Tracy stomped to the door and threw it open. “Get out.”
Kitty stood. “But if you would just let me ask you a few questions.”
“Get out now!”
All the way to Beverly Hills, Kitty couldn’t help wondering if Tracy Evan was hiding something. Why else had she thrown her out without giving her a chance? Tracy Evan didn’t really believe that Kitty had killed her ex-husband on purpose, did she? And Kitty had noticed a couple of Milky Way CDs in Tracy’s collection. That was Fang Danson’s band. Was there a connection between the two of them or was she merely reading more into it than there was? After all, Tracy had been married to Rich Evan and Fang was one of his best friends.
Then again, what if Tracy and Fang had conspired to kill Rich? What would they have had to gain? And how would they have known that Mr. Evan would eat the meal and not Benny?