“No,” he growled. “If you find research stuff that’ll help me keep what’s mine, fair and square, then I’ll wait until you can do whatever’s necessary for me to keep it. Deal?”
“As long as you understand that if I don’t pass the exam this time around”—Please, no, no, no, shrieked my stressed-out psyche—“you’ll have to hire someone else, then, yes. Deal.”
I DON’T WANT to discuss the rest of that Wednesday, or Thursday. I did little but study and pet-sit and nibble on snacks when my stomach grumbled. Sleep was out of the question, except for a discreet doze here and there.
And all the while I tried to keep every synapse of my beleaguered brain focused on ethics and study guides and practice exams. Yet too often, things I didn’t want to think about tiptoed in and played kickball against the lining of my skull.
Buried treasure near Barham Boulevard in Cahuenga Pass. A gripping legal mind game to ensure that my potential clients, Jon Arlen and Jonesy, got to keep their ill-located treasure trove.
And each instant that I studied, despite the fact that he was out of town, Jeff Hubbard’s presence loomed large over my shoulder—even between his evening phone calls to check how we were getting along. It didn’t help that Lexie and I stayed at Jeff ’s to keep Odin company, as part of my paid pet-sitting gig.
What if we moved in permanently?
Concentrate on civil and criminal sanctions, Kendra!
And then the time came for me to leave Lexie at Jeff ’s with Odin and head the Beamer deep into the Valley, toward Cal State Northridge and the ethics exam.
It took two tedious hours. All multiple choice—like that TV game show where no one ever wins the million dollars—and I could only conjecture how well I did. In a room full of other aspiring attorneys sweating it out, I read each factual situation as carefully as if my career depended on it—which it did. I anguished over the described conduct, then selected which choice I thought was correct. Would the conduct toss the hypothetical legal professional deep into a boiling cauldron of ethics enigmas, or was it okay to do without worrying about appalling consequences?
Usually, two answers seemed conceivably correct. I used my best legal judgment about which eye to close while letting my finger drop onto the response to choose.
When done, I felt as drained as if I’d run a thousand-yard dash. How did I think I did? Who knew? I was a damned good litigator, could argue my way through any issue and make a credible showing for a client’s most favorable position. But I couldn’t talk my way out of a multiple-choice problem.
Results would be mailed in four weeks. I’d have to wait until then to find out.
GOOD THING MY Beamer was filled with gas, for it had all the energy between us late that afternoon. I still had to do normal pet-sitting rounds, and it seemed as if all my charges had saved up their extra energy until a time when I was utterly exhausted. Dogs that had hitherto heeled without balking took up barking on their walks and lunging at cawing crows, who simply took wing and soared off with taunting cackles. Litter-accustomed cats had chosen to shun habitual boxes and leave smelly urine samples all over their owners’ homes.
And Jeff would be home that night.
I wasn’t ready to face him, for I hadn’t had sufficient time to consider his cohabitation offer. Not that I’d ignored the idea—not when it sat on my back and shrieked for attention at the most awful times. But I’d not come to a decision.
And so, when I was finally done with everything pet-related, including an enervating late-afternoon outing with Widget, I fed Odin and scrammed from Jeff ’s with Lexie.
We’d spend that night in our own digs. I’d have to face Jeff the next day, but surely it would be easier while wide awake.
Only, when Lexie and I reached our home in the hills, it was obvious that Charlotte and Yul had chosen to throw one of their inevitable, irritating shindigs. The front gate was open, against all lease rules. The Beamer’s reserved parking spot was subject to a squatter—a Porsche Carrera that could only give my poor, ten-year-old car an inferiority complex.
I parked on the street, trying to pump up what energy still resided in my downtrodden body, snapped Lexie onto her leash, and headed home.
I was stopped almost immediately by the across-the-street neighbor, Phil Ashler. “Hi, Kendra,” the thin fellow said. He wore a starchy white shirt and beige trousers, and in one hand he carried a bottle of wine. His thin silver hair was slicked back with shiny gel. “Glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure which neighbors might be at this party.”
“I’m not—” I began, but the words were smothered inside me by a huge, hard hug from our would-be hostess—Charlotte.
“Oh, Kendra, I’m so glad you’re here.” That thought was becoming a bit repetitious. “I’ve invited a whole bunch of suspects in Chad’s murder over tonight. I figure the cops will want to arrest more than a few ferrets and will eventually go after us and anyone else who could have killed in their name. That’s when they’ll arrest one or all of us. Oh, Kendra.” Her voice ramped up into a wail, and she hugged me again, her pale but powerful perfume wafting about us.
When Charlotte first rented my nice, large house, I used to shudder each time she graced me with an enthusiastic embrace. Hugging was a showbiz thing—and definitely uncomfortable for a cynical litigator like me.
But as I’d gotten to know Charlotte, I came to realize that gusto for everything around her was as natural as the way the long, black braid down her back swayed the opposite way from her rump when she sashayed. Her penchant for throwing parties with the most ridiculous of rationales was still tedious, especially on nights when I had no intention of joining the ruckus but ached for sleep in my upstairs apartment.
But a party for possible murder suspects? Talk about bizarre. Especially since Charlotte had chosen to wear stripes. Not the old-fashioned jailhouse kind, at least, but a slinky black-and-white creation decorated with diagonal bands.
On the other hand, I’d promised Charlotte I’d see what I could do to take the heat off all my tenants—two-legged and four—as Detective Noralles’s top suspects. For me to question some of the possible perpetrators tonight seemed a good thing.
“Am I included?” Phil Ashler inquired of Charlotte, hiding his bottle behind his back.
“Sure,” she said, pulling away from me. “Oh, you mean do I think you’re a potential suspect? No, you’re just invited because you’re such a dear neighbor.” Phil’s turn for a big hug, which was fine with me. Him, too, I guessed, by the way his sallow complexion shifted to bright pink. I watched Phil as Charlotte led him inside, then I took Lexie up to our apartment.
Suddenly, I’d gotten my second wind. Me, a party animal? Perish the thought. But I had people to watch. I washed my frazzled face, added a smattering of makeup to mask the pastiness, then headed back toward my main house.
I realized that days had passed without my hearing squat from Ike Janus’s insurance company about paying to heal my house’s wounds. I’d remind him tonight if he was here. Worst case, I’d wait till my law license was restored and then suggest strongly to the insurer how much I loved to sue.
Plus, it had been exactly a week ago when I’d last attended a party at Charlotte’s. That had been post-ferret finding, but pre-Chad murder.
Most of the same cast of characters was in attendance. Neighbors Tilla and Hal Tomason and Lyle Urquard had already arrived and tarried in the kitchen with tall glasses in their hands. This time, when I went into the living room, I recognized a couple of reality-show players whom Tilla had eagerly identified to me, including the south-of-the-border music phenomenon Philipe Pellera and the next-to-last-guy-standing in Charlotte’s show—tall, blond Sven Broman.
“There are a couple of people I want to introduce you to,” said a soft voice in my ear. I didn’t have to turn to know it was Charlotte, for I recognized her signature costly scent. “Just in case, though, can you recommend a lawyer to me? That Detective Noralles keeps smiling at me every time I see the guy,
so I figure he either wants to do a reality show with me or he’s waiting for me to confess and clear the sweet little ferrets altogether. Either way, I’m afraid it’s about time I hired a lawyer.”
“Sure,” I told her. I jotted Esther Ickes’ number on a cocktail napkin. Esther was an incredibly effective attorney who’d kept me from being arrested for murder when I’d skated on the thinnest of criminally laced ice. Since I still didn’t seem to be a suspect this time, I figured I could share her.
Charlotte then urged me to the conversation area where Yul stood among a crowd. He was clad in a shiny black sport coat that contrasted sexily with his sleek golden hair. In this crowd, his height didn’t stand out, but he still was a handsome hunk.
“Everyone, here’s Kendra,” gushed Charlotte. And then she introduced me to a plethora of people, most of whose names I forgot as fast as she fed them to me.
Except for two. One was Dave Driscoll, the guy I knew was Chad Chatsworth’s former apartment mate. The other was Trudi Norman. She was the girl Chad had allegedly left behind to find fame and fortune on the West Coast. Instead, if Charlotte was to be believed, Trudi had plotted every instant of Chad’s reality TV career. Had she plotted his murder, too?
Dave was as geeky as I’d been led to believe—not very tall, very bespectacled, and teeth as buck as a bunny rabbit’s. He stuck out a hand that turned out to be clammy and shook mine with a smile. “Welcome to my roommate’s unofficial wake, Kendra,” he said. His voice was nasal but not unpleasant. “And also the first meeting of the Chad Chatsworth Murder Suspects Pre-Prison Fraternity.”
“That’s not funny, Dave,” snapped Trudi. She was about my height—that is to say, five-five, considerably shorter than Charlotte. Her hair was an even mousier brown than my natural, unhighlighted shade, the way I currently wore it now that my income was no longer litigator-enhanced. Where mine was shoulder-length and somewhat sassy, hers was blunt cut and rather blah. But she had a sweet face, makeup-free except for some soft lip gloss, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Sweet and wholesome-looking. Were her looks deceiving?
“Who’s laughing,” Dave countered, then bent down and gave her a fast, loud kiss on the cheek.
And then it was Trudi laughing, if a little.
No better time than the present to form an opinion about her involvement. I sidled my way beside Trudi, then said to her softly and sincerely, “I understand that Chad and you were close.”
She nodded, tears in her pale brown eyes. “I even encouraged him to try to get on one of those shows, since it was his dream.” Or hers? Charlotte had said his old girlfriend pushed him into it. That same old girlfriend sighed and stared down at the floor. “What a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, not totally swayed by her show of sorrow. “I’m the one who found him, you know.”
She glanced up immediately. “No, I didn’t know. Was he—I mean, the police haven’t said much, and the media always exaggerate. But I heard there were some awful little animals all over him.” Her voice rose before she choked it off and took a stiff shot of whatever clear liquid was wetting the inside of her glass. By the smell of it, it wasn’t water.
“I think the ferrets got a bum rap,” I told her. “Have you ever seen any? They’re actually kind of cute.”
“If you happen to like weasels,” she countered with a shudder. “Where I come from, they’re sometimes shot on sight to keep them from getting in with the chickens.”
“Oh, do you live on a farm?” If so, no matter what she seemed to think about the “awful little animals,” if she’d been raised near livestock, she might not have been loath to loose the ferrets and scatter their food over the remains of the rascal who’d loved, and possibly left, her.
“No, though there are a lot in the area in Nebraska where I grew up. I work at my father’s plant nursery. So did Chad. That’s where we met.”
“I see.” Well, that didn’t foreclose the possibility that she had the fearlessness of a farm girl.
“A toast!” came a shout from nearby, and Dave Driscoll raised his glass. Geek or not, he was the life of tonight’s party, especially when he proposed his paean to his former roommate: “To Chad Chatsworth, reality show winner, loser in love, and loser in life. Chad, wherever you are, we miss you. I miss you, though I have to say I don’t miss your puking in our powder room all night after drinking and singing ribald songs to Charlotte in the solitude of our apartment, songs she’ll never hear—and a good thing, too. Anyhow, the joke’s on us, roomie, since every one of us is a possible suspect in your murder. Care to say a few words, Chad, and let the rest of us off the hook?”
Dave grew silent, as did the crowd around him. In a moment, though, the silence was broken by a crack from none other than Yul Silva, who almost never said more than a word or two at a time. “You forgot some witnesses, Dave.” His speech was slurred, and I realized he was breaking his own tradition thanks to courage cadged from a bottle. “Here’s to my poor pals the ferrets. If we don’t figure out who really killed you, Chad, you may wind up with ferret companions in hell, and though you belong there, they don’t. Now, Chad, is the time to speak up.”
Again, silence.
Again, no chatter from Chad’s unseen shade spewed out to identify his slayer.
Fascinating evening, I thought. But I doubted I’d learn anything more now to help me keep my promise to figure out what really happened.
But I had made some interesting acquaintances. I’d consider whom to follow up with, and how.
I hung out only a short while longer before heading to my apartment, where Lexie was waiting.
MUCH LATER, AS I lay in bed and Lexie lay on me, my phone rang. I answered.
“Kendra, it’s Jeff.” As if I couldn’t tell. “I was hoping you’d be here waiting for me tonight.”
I didn’t want to explain the real reason I’d fled his domicile that evening, so I told him about Charlotte’s party. “I need more information to figure out who set up the ferrets that night,” I finished. “I’ve a few more suspects in mind now, thanks to Charlotte’s ingenuity.”
“And you think you’ll be able to keep the ferrets from being put down and Charlotte from being arrested?”
“I’m going to try,” I said. Gad, but it was good to hear his voice. I wondered if I’d made a mistake after all, still leaving miles, though fewer, between us this way.
As if reading my mind, or sharing my sentiments—maybe a bit of both—Jeff said, “I’ll miss you tonight. Have you thought about what I said?”
“I sure have,” I admitted. It was a good thing he didn’t urge an answer right then and there, or I’d have agreed to nearly anything. And I wasn’t sure I wanted that kind of commitment—was I?
“Well, we’ll talk about it tomorrow night when we’re together. Okay?”
“Okay.”
And maybe then, when I was rested and rational and ready to think, I’d nevertheless say yes.
Chapter Fifteen
I ALMOST OVERSLEPT the next morning. That’s what came of trying to get to sleep with so much on my mind—trying being the operative word till three A.M. or after.
With my pet-sitting charges stuck in their homes, legs crossed and tummies rumbling, I had to speed my own spaniel through her morning routine. I apologized profusely to Lexie as I plopped her bowl of premium breakfast kibble before her even as I climbed into my clothes. Good thing she already wore her fur coat without my help. Of course, I owed it a firm brushing, but that could wait till later.
Her usual moderately long walk turned into a fast near-run on the hills around our street. As we returned, I saw someone sneaking around our gate. A thief breaking in?
No, a guest from last night breaking out, or at least so it appeared. Philipe Pellera, Latino singing legend, gyration king of the cosmos, was finally leaving Charlotte’s party.
An opportunity for me to ask about his knowledge of Chad Chatsworth?
Why not? I ignored the bigges
t reason, apologizing mutely in my mind to all the animals in my care. My errant late-night attention was focused on the suspects I’d spoken to last night, including his former roomie Dave Driscoll, and his ostensibly dumped damsel Trudi Norman. I’d not talked to Philipe about any interest he might have had in framing the ferrets while seeking Chad’s demise. Till now.
“Hi.” I edged up to him at the gate. He wore the same white shirt and dark trousers as last night, the oodles of wrinkles in both suggesting he’d slept in them. “Guess I left the party too early. Are Charlotte and Yul awake?”
I looked into his dark bedroom eyes and wondered if I ought to have hung around for last night’s orgy. If there’d been one. But what woman could have resisted, having Pellera not only in their dreams but in the same house?
“I think so,” he said in his sexy Spanish accent. “I did not want to disturb them, though, so I just snuck out.” He gave me a cute conspiratorial smile that made my insides turn sloppy.
“Silly reason for a party, though, don’t you think?” I managed to maneuver Lexie and her leash so we blocked Pellera’s path to the street. “I mean, inviting everyone they knew who could have cheered on the ferrets.”
“The ferrets did nothing wrong, Kendra, and you know it.” The deep male voice that slapped at me hadn’t a hint of Spanish in it. I looked beyond Philipe to see Yul stalking toward us, jeans hugging his hips beneath his tight tank top. I knew he was annoyed from the number of words he’d hurled into his sentence.
“Hey, I saw what I saw,” I replied truthfully and with a wince. As much as I’d like to clear the ferrets from all accusations, they had gnawed on Chad. What I didn’t know was whether they’d be made to pay. “Did you know anything about Chad that would cause you to kill him, Philipe?” I knew what Yul’s answer would have to be. “I mean, if the ferrets were really framed.”
I grinned at the obvious humor on the performer’s face. “Do you think I would tell you if that was so?” He gave me a wink that made my tibia and fibula go flaccid.
Nothing to Fear But Ferrets Page 10
