“Of course,” I said.
DID I ACCEPT her invitation and go? Yes. Did I have fun? No. Did I at least achieve my purpose of pushing for answers from the usual suspects—er, guests—about Chad’s murder? Yes to the pushy part, but no to getting any answers.
Oh, yeah, one good thing came of being present at the party: a chance to talk to Ike Janus about his insurance people. Once again, he promised to do some pushing of his own. And I believed it, like I believed someone would saunter over to me and confess to killing Chad.
Eventually, exhausted, I crossed the yard and mounted the steps to my apartment. Apparently Lexie was dog-tired, too, since she barely padded over to greet me before following me back to the bedroom and crashing on the bed while I undressed to shower.
The phone rang. I considered letting it roll over to the machine, since it was so late.
Was it Jeff? I didn’t want to talk to him. On the other hand, I liked the idea of letting him know I’d just come in after one heck of a fun party, all wined up and mellow and getting along fine without him.
And so I picked up the receiver and said very sweetly, “Hello.”
“Keep your nose out of the Chad Chatsworth matter, if you know what’s good for you,” said a voice I didn’t recognize—probably because it sounded hollow and electronically enhanced.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I countered, “Who is this?”
The only answer was a loud thump as my caller hung up.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE DAMN VOICE definitely spooked me, but it didn’t render me stupid. I immediately dialed *69.
Apparently the caller wasn’t stupid, either, since caller ID was blocked.
I stood there for a good minute staring at the receiver. No, it was a not-so-good minute, since my thoughts swirled indecisively.
Should I take the warning seriously and leave Charlotte to save herself from a murder prosecution?
She wasn’t exactly on her own. Yul was on her side. But the strong and silent Yul could actually be the killer, which would keep him from saving his sugar mommy’s behind in favor of protecting his own.
Charlotte had Esther Ickes as her lawyer. That, at least was a good thing. But was it enough to save Charlotte?
Could I save her? I would never know, if I did as I’d been told and butted out.
Okay, then. I might be standing here quivering in my Reeboks, but I wasn’t easily intimidated. Especially not when I thought I could help an almost-friend in imminent peril of being framed for something I didn’t think she’d done. Fine. That decision was easy.
Next … should I notify the cops about the call?
What, and have Noralles tell me that, no matter what kind of creep the person who threatened me was, he—or she—had sent a sensible message? He, too, would rather my relatively well-shaped and definitely functional nose not be smack-dab in the middle of the Chad Chatsworth matter.
Speaking of noses, I was jolted out of my indecision by a cold, wet one applied to the hand free of the phone, which I’d let fall to my side. “I’m okay, Lexie,” I told my pup, who regarded me with as much concern in the cock of her head and anxious glimmer in her deep brown eyes as if she’d understood the ugly call. Maybe she couldn’t speak English, but she definitely comprehended all a dog could.
I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and carried my cell phone and my sharpest kitchen knife—which was still damnably dull—as Lexie and I engaged in our last actions of the night. I ensured that the outer gate was engaged behind us and triple-checked all the locks in my apartment. I wondered whether there was such a thing as an A-number one security system, complete with 24/7 monitoring, that could be counted on—assuming I could afford it someday.
To make sure I’d get at least a little sleep, I left my phone off the hook in the living room, so I wouldn’t hear buzzing in the bedroom reminding me to hang it up.
I HAD A new potential client to call on the next morning—a guy referred to me by Darryl. Harold Reddingam, a construction company executive, lived in a home in North Hollywood with a couple of cats. November was edging toward December, so I didn’t have a lot of sun to worry about as I left Lexie in the Beamer.
“My buddies don’t need a lot of attention,” Harold told me after asking me in. He was tall and chunky enough to appear as if he belonged in construction, though he didn’t look like a Harold or a man fond of felines.
Good thing for me he was, though, since he was heading out of town tomorrow for a week for an industry conference, and was willing to pay a premium to have me visit three times a day.
“Though you might not see them when you come,” he told me, “they’ll know you’re here. That’s what I care about—letting them feel like I haven’t abandoned them.”
They’d been invisible when Harold first invited me in. But once he’d called them as if they were pooches, they’d appeared in his den from different parts of the house. One, Abra, was a sleek, beautiful Siamese; the other, Cadabra, a fluffy tabby. Both arched their backs in similar ecstasy as Harold stroked them, and regarded me with twin expressions of disdain when I attempted the same.
“We’ll get along fine,” I assured Harold after he led me to the kitchen and showed me kitty food and the litter box.
After that, I leapt into regular rounds, visiting Pansy the pig, followed by some pampered puppies, and ending the morning with a call on Widget for his day’s energy-burning gambol.
Finally I had a few minutes. Lexie and I beelined for Doggy Indulgence. I needed to talk to Darryl.
As if waiting for me, he sat alone in his office. I aimed a grateful wave toward Darryl’s least likable assistant, Kiki, when she eased Lexie into a group of cavorting charges.
“That’s different,” I said to Darryl when I pushed my way into his office after the most perfunctory of knocks.
“What?” he asked.
“The color.” Taking my usual seat on a chair across from his cluttered desk, I pointed to his skinny chest. He wore his typical Henley-style shirt with the Doggy Indulgence logo over his heart, but instead of green, it was red.
“Just needed a little change around here,” he said, peering at me playfully over his wire-rims. “Shake things up a bit.”
“Go wild,” I agreed.
“Yeah,” he said. And then, “What’s wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?”
“You’re going to tell me, with that extra wrinkle between your eyebrows, that nothing is?”
“What extra wrinkle?” I reached for the offending spot over my nose.
“The one I haven’t seen since you were being accused of murdering your pet-sitting clients every couple of weeks.”
“You didn’t tell me about any wrinkles then.”
“You had enough problems. So, are you going to tell me?”
I told him about the threatening call.
“And you’ve been asking questions about who might have killed Chad Chatsworth?” At my nod, he asked, “And who’ve you been interrogating, Sherlock?”
“That’s Ms. Sherlock to you.” Since I valued Darryl’s point of view, I ticked off on my fingers the various suspects from whom I’d sought information, futilely or not. “What do you think?” I finished.
“I think that, this time, you ought to let Detective Nemesis do his job.”
“Noralles?”
“That’s the one.”
“But he’s liable to arrest Charlotte.”
“And your point is—?”
“You don’t really think she’s guilty.” I stood and leaned over Darryl’s desk.
“Who says?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want her to be. She’s begun to grow on me.”
“I gather she began to grow on Chad Chatsworth, too, in front of millions of viewers—before she dumped him for money.”
“I know. But the ferrets weren’t hers. They’re Yul’s.”
“They’re the ones getting the shaft in this situation. First, accused of mur
der. Then, maybe they’re only accessories, but they’ve also been seized. Best case, they’re still going to be shipped to new homes—out of state.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve intended to visit them, too. Want to come?”
“Absolutely,” Darryl declared.
THE EAST VALLEY Animal Center, part of the City of L.A.’s Department of Animal Services, crouched in a gaudy commercial area of mom-and-pop businesses and chain discount stores along Sherman Way in North Hollywood. Its reception building, squat and as aqua as the bottom of a swimming pool, lurked off the street, behind a parking lot and a line of palm trees and flag poles.
I’d never been there before. And I wanted never to go there again—after I’d exited the front building and followed, beside Darryl, the path of painted paws along the driveway toward the long metal warehouse containing the dog kennels. As members of the public wanting access to a building behind the main shelter, we had to walk the woeful gauntlet of captive canines. Some seemed blasé behind their chain-link barriers, lying on the concrete floor with hardly a roll of their sleepy eyes as we passed. Others sat at attention, wagging and woofing as if begging, “You’d love me if you got to know me. Get me out of here!”
There were even a couple of litters of little puppies. The impound forms fastened to the fronts of their enclosure stated they were unweaned, and their mothers, incarcerated along with them, were noted as lactating.
“They’re so cute,” I whispered to Darryl.
I noticed that my skinny, soft-hearted buddy was striding with his eyes full front, as if he wore a set of blinders. “Yeah,” he said, his voice as sorrowful as I felt.
Not that I had any sense of mistreatment here. Each enclosure even had an opening to its own area outdoors. But all those poor, lonely pups, praying for a good home …
Think of Lexie, I reminded myself. And the size of our apartment. And—
Somehow Darryl and I made it to the end and through the doors, into a smaller area with desks and stacked cages on the concrete floor, and a few rooms opening out of it. One was the cat corral, in which kitties of all persuasions were layered in crates laid side by side and piled several high. It smelled riper than the doggy haven, but that could be because the room was smaller and didn’t have the access—and commensurate ventilation—to the outside world that the canine area did.
“Can I help you?” asked a pleasant-faced man wearing one of the charcoal-and-blue-striped shirts of the shelter’s staff.
We’d already checked in at the front area to explain our errand, and the attendant we’d spoken with had phoned someone back here. “We’re here to see the ferrets,” I told him.
“Oh, yes. Come this way.” He led us out the back door and up some stairs into the next building.
What I saw surprised me—and that was even before I found the ferrets.
“Yul!” I exclaimed to the hulking hunk who stood at one side of the room, gazing into one of the stacked cages.
He turned to look at me. “Hi, Kendra,” he said.
He wasn’t alone. As we approached, I noticed the animal control officer who stood by his side—golden-skinned, Polynesian-featured, a badge on his khaki shirt. His name tag read KAALANA. The guy who’d walked us over here said something to him, then left. Our custody was now Kaalana’s charge.
I introduced Darryl to Yul, then asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,” he said in his basic brief-speeched style.
“He’s here nearly every day at this time,” Officer Kaalana confirmed. “And your reason for being here?”
“Visiting, too,” I said. I didn’t want to explain that I was Yul’s landlady, which might imply, by my presence and interest, that I’d bought into his keeping illegal pets. “I was worried about the ferrets. Being by themselves, I mean. Whether they were lonesome.” And how they were being treated, though I didn’t say that. “I didn’t realize Yul came to see them, too.”
I faced their cage. Cages, actually. They were housed in two matching crates with solid plastic sides and metal grate fronts. The long, furry ferrets seemed to have adequate room, though they didn’t look as comfortable as they had at home.
Two of those impound forms I’d seen on the dog enclosures were on the fronts of each double-occupancy cage. They had ID numbers, the kind of creatures they were—ferrets—and even their names, probably supplied to the shelter by Yul: Hamlet. Macbeth. Juliet. Regan. Ophelia.
I had no prior idea that their monikers were Shakespearean. Was Yul fond of the Elizabethan bard? Maybe his sensibilities ran deeper than his appearance suggested.
The kind of impound was noted on each form: OTC. Over the counter? And then there were the stamped signs on each. USE CAUTION. Because these ferrets had tasted human flesh? PERSONAL PROPERTY. They all belonged to Yul.
And most telling of all: EVIDENCE.
Which was better than stamping them as MURDER SUSPECTS.
“It looks as if they’re being well treated,” I ventured, watching Yul’s reaction.
His dark eyes grew even darker. “Yeah. I guess.”
“If there’s anything you think needs to be done differently, feel free to tell the staff,” Officer Kaalana said smoothly. “They’re not too used to taking care of ferrets. When we get custody of any, we usually call a ferret rescue organization immediately, but this situation is different. They’re evidence.”
“How long can you keep them here like this?” Darryl asked. He stood close to one of the cages, and the two occupants had their long little snouts pushed up to the bars as if they recognized an animal lover when they saw one.
“Till we’re told otherwise by the court,” the officer said.
“But the coroner’s report said the crime they’re accused of was committed by a human,” I blurted. “Aren’t they ready to be released yet?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
“Why not?” Yul interjected. He turned angrily toward the officer, who stared coolly back at him.
“I won’t be the one to make the decision,” Kaalana said. “Personally, I like the little critters.” He gave a wide grin toward the cages, but quickly turned back toward Yul. “But like I’ve told you before, Mr. Silva, they were impounded at a crime scene. If the court says we have to turn them over for humane euthanizing”—that ridiculously oxy-moronic term again—“then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Not if I can help it,” stormed Yul.
“Which is why you’re always accompanied while you’re here.” Kaalana turned toward Darryl and me. “The shelter has had people try to steal back their dogs who’ve been picked up for attacking neighbors. That’s not something we’re inclined to allow, especially when an animal could be dangerous.”
“But they’re not.” Yul’s tone had turned pleading, and he looked at Darryl and me.
This wasn’t the time to get into my own investigation into who did what to Chad. All I could say to Yul was, “I agree. And we’ll do all we can to clear them, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” But Yul had turned glum again, and his back was toward us as he bent to talk to his little weaselly buds.
Like the dogs we’d passed before, the ferrets seemed to beg for release, for they began issuing shrill little sounds, though less frantic than I’d heard in my home after the Hummer hit.
I wished I could help them. I wished I could help the slumping Yul.
Officer Kaalana walked Darryl and me to the door of the building. “I feel for the guy,” he told us. “The ferrets, too.” He shrugged his khaki-clad shoulders. “But what can you do?”
His question was rhetorical, so I didn’t respond. “Thanks,” I told him as we left, though I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for.
This time, I took Darryl’s hand as we strode through the dog-filled shelter, needing his moral support.
“That was rough,” he growled after we’d both climbed into his van.
“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “And now I’m even more conf
used.”
“Why?” he asked, his brown eyes especially somber behind his wire-rims.
“I’d hoped to clear Charlotte by finding out who really did kill Chad. I’d nearly talked myself out of suspecting Yul, but half hoped I’d learn something here to prove he did it after all. I’d already doubted he’d try to frame the ferrets except as a last resort. And now that I know he cares about them enough to visit them in their incarceration every day, I’m positive he’d do nothing to point the police toward them.”
“So?” Darryl said.
“So now I’m totally convinced it wasn’t Yul, and I sure don’t think it was Charlotte. Who the hell killed Chad?”
Chapter Twenty-three
I DIDN’T SAY much to Darryl on the ride back to his place. Didn’t have to. Driving his large Doggy Indulgence van with one hand on the wheel and gesturing with the other, he talked enough for both of us. That signified that my good friend Darryl had inverted into a demonstrably good mood.
What I didn’t know was why. Not after that enervating visit. I, for one, felt exhausted.
“Have you talked more with Marie Seidforth?” Darryl asked.
Marie … ? Oh, the boxer lady boxed in by her community association’s rules. “No,” I said guiltily. “But I will. Her question’s essentially a legal one. If I had my license back—”
“You helped Fran Korwald with an issue that could have been decided in the courts instead,” Darryl reminded me unnecessarily.
“Right,” I agreed. “And I’ll try to help Marie, too.”
“And Jon Arlen? Have you fixed his treasure hunt problem?”
“No, though I’m really intrigued and have been doing research whenever I can.” I understood why the guy didn’t want his snotty neighbor to benefit from his finding the cache of antique Spanish booty—even though it was on her property. The easy answer was to go all Solomon and split the baby, but Jon had indicated that he doubted the bitch next door would bite at that solution. She’d want it all.
So did he.
Something—or someone—had to change. And then there were all the extra complications that could occur …
Nothing to Fear But Ferrets Page 16
