“Thank you, Aunt Gloria.” Kitty squeezed Aunt Gloria hard. “So do you.” Kitty’s aunt, her mother’s sister, was head librarian in the City of San Diego Public Library system and Kitty adored her. Kitty believed librarians like teachers, culinary or otherwise were about the greatest and she held them all in high esteem.
Aunt Gloria swept a lock of blonde hair from her round face. “So, you went to see your parents?”
“Yes. They said to say hello and send their love.”
“I haven’t seen Mark and Paula in over a month, not since Jay’s birthday.” Jay was Aunt Gloria’s son.
“They must be quite worried about you. This Rich Evan murder even made the papers here. The library was buzzing over it for a few days. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but even librarians can be quite gossipy at times.”
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.