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?”
Kitty decided to be tactful. “Yes, sir. She was looking forward to the séance.”
Mr. Randall nodded. He seemed to find solace in this simple statement.
“To be honest, she did get a little shaken when I asked her about the Wright house.”
Mr. Randall blanched. “Did you say the Wright house?”
Kitty nodded.
“Oh, dear.”
“Rich Evan owned the Wright house at the time of his death, you see. Didn’t you know?”
Mr. Randall shook his head and tumbled back into his chair. His hands clutched the bolsters.
“Your wife said that you knew someone who’d lived there previously—a Bruce Churchill? He was an attorney.” Mr. Randall’s eyes stared listlessly at the distant wall. “Mr. Randall? Are you all right?”
“Bruce Churchill was a fine young man. And a promising attorney.” He groaned and pressed his face into his hands. “But that was long, long ago.”
Kitty had a sudden inspiration. “What ever happened to his lover?” Could it have been a young Lucille Randall? That would explain her strong reaction to hearing the name from the past suddenly brought back to haunt her. “Do you remember his lover’s name?”
There was a long pause before he answered and that was only to say, “I do not remember.”
“Are you sure? Think, Mr. Randall. This could be important. I mean, what if your wife’s death and Mr. Evan’s are somehow related?” Kitty knew this was grasping at straws but straws were practically all she had. And if there was a connection between Rich Evan and Lucille Randall, no matter how tenuous, she was determined to uncover it.
Had the Wright house’s evil spread? Mrs. Randall had said that Madame Zouzou was going to attempt to contact some spirits that had inhabited the Randall house previously. Did this have something to do with her death?
Mr. Randall was shaking his head. “I don’t see how this is possible, Miss Karlyle. It was all so long ago.”
“We all make mistakes, Mr. Randall. I’m sure your wife—”
He eyed Kitty with sad amusement. “You think it was Lucille?” Mr. Randall shook his head. “No.”
Kitty realized she’d stepped way over the line. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mr. Randall, sir.”
“Bruce’s lover was declared insane. Landed in an asylum. Here in L.A.” He swiveled his head. “That’s all I can tell you. I made a promise. Do you understand?”
Kitty nodded.
“Oh, maybe it doesn’t matter any longer.” His lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. “Everyone is dead now. Kresge,” he said at a near whisper. “It was Kresge.”
Kitty longed to ask more but old Mr. Randall was too far gone. She’d better tell Patti Belle to come take care of him.
Head in hands, Mr. Randall uttered, “Lucille always meant well.”