To make it easier on myself, I sat on the edge of the bed rather than on the floor after scooting that particular box right beside me. And then I lifted its lid.
Chapter Twenty-seven
THE FIRST FILES on Philipe Pellera were much as I’d anticipated. They mostly contained data about his professional tours to U.S. cities. Jeff had assessed his security, found it slack, and made suggestions that Philipe and his entourage incorporated into their travel plans. They’d insisted that various venues where Philipe performed beef up security, too.
And no wonder. The voluminous files toward the back described a deranged fan who’d obsessively adored Philipe. Sitting on the guest room bed, I foraged through in fascination. Philipe had gotten an injunction to prevent the woman from even attending his concerts, since she always managed to dupe the guards into letting her up on stage with him. She didn’t seem inclined to injure him but had attacked nearly every woman in Philipe’s backup band and dancers, accusing each of trying to seduce her famous sweetheart.
Someone as obsessed as she was likely to violate any injunction, which she did. Worse, she’d come on stage and nicked a dancer in Philipe’s troupe with a knife, eliciting streams of blood and panicking the audience members.
That was two years ago. Criminal charges were filed against the fixated Ms. Eileen Green. Civil, too, though she had countered with a claim of her own: Philipe Pellera had committed malicious carnal mesmerizing of female audience members, which had caused her to act in a totally uncharacteristic manner.
Not a tort I’d ever heard of, but the claim had apparently caused Philipe to drop his civil action, and both parties had settled sort of amicably. A newspaper clipping in the file indicated that Ms. Green had gotten off the criminal charge, too, with just a slap on the wrist of the hand she’d used to wield her knife: probation and community service.
Rehashing what I’d read, I put it all back as I’d found it. Most was public record anyway, so I felt less ethically challenged about snooping in Jeff’s files.
Nothing there handed me greater insight on why Philipe might have had it in for Chad Chatsworth. Of course, I already knew Chad had fired him, so that could be a clue. So could the way Philipe comforted Trudi. And if Philipe had murdered Chad, that might be motive enough for him to frame Charlotte, Yul, or anyone else that would keep fingers from pointing toward him.
But nothing in the files bent those accusatory fingers away from Philipe, either.
SO, I WAS back to considering Yul’s uncharacteristic chattiness. I left Lexie and Odin together at Jeff ’s the next morning, which was Monday. After my early visits, I headed for Borden Yurick’s offices.
His effervescent receptionist, Mignon, sat in her usual seat behind the big desk at the entry, where the hostess had once awaited diners at this former restaurant. Mignon was on the phone, nodding, and her auburn curls made small corkscrew motions about her face. She smiled as she saw me and waved her dangerously filed fingernails.
I waved back as I headed through the door into the suite’s inner sanctum. My other hand held the file containing my suspect list in Chad Chatsworth’s murder and their increasingly intertwining connections. I peered into Borden’s office, but he wasn’t there. In an empty cubicle with a window, I sat down and booted up the computer. I headed for the best legal database to which Borden subscribed, typed in my password, and dug in.
An hour later, the stuff on my suspect list had expanded further—sort of—and my head was spinning.
I’d gotten lots of data on nearly everyone whose backgrounds I’d researched that day. I knew about Trudi Norman’s family holdings in her hometown. Chad’s relations’ resources, too. And how Dave Driscoll, the computer geek, had gotten into trouble more than once for hacking into multiple government information systems. He’d claimed to be doing it to prove how insecure they were, and had gotten off with warnings … so far.
Philipe Pellera’s records were surprisingly scant on official databases. Or maybe that was just a comparative assessment, since in doing the usual Internet searches the hits on Philipe’s name were astronomical. But other than his owning and driving a car, and maintaining a few business interests, there wasn’t much on him. He owned no real estate, hadn’t been arrested or even sued except in that Eileen Green matter, and he’d also been a witness in the criminal action against her. Otherwise, he had a legally uneventful history.
Same lack of exciting stuff on Charlotte, though her credit report was hurting till she won the riches on her reality show.
No, what really got my attention and caused my brain rotation was the one other person in this equation whom I’d attempted to psych out online: Yul Silva.
The problem?
He didn’t exist—at least not before eleven months ago.
I tried variations on his first and last names. There were references to former celebrity Yul Brynner galore. Others to Silvas and da Silvas. The closest hits prior to last year did not light on men of similar age or background to Charlotte’s Yul.
He had a California driver’s license, and the red sports car he drove was leased. But those were the only records I found in these detailed databases.
No listing of his birth in any state.
Of course, a lot of stuff was verboten to visit in some states for privacy reasons, so it could just be that this guy happened to move from one to another in such a manner as to obfuscate any of the usual early-life info. Or he’d taken on a legal alias in anticipation of movie stardom.
Still, somewhere there should have been something linking his nom de guerre with his given name.
I needed to move along, and so I ended up by doing a final search on behalf of Marie Seidforth, the boxer lady, and Jon Arlen with the treasure-hunting Welsh terrier.
It didn’t look good for Jon and Jonesy, and I had to tell them so. Finders keepers didn’t usually cut it when it came to trespassing on someone else’s property. Sure, I was a damned good attorney, and when I got my license back, I’d craft a great argument for Jon if he was my client. But even great arguments often didn’t succeed in the face of unfavorable precedent.
And yet … As I read one more case about trespassing, I had a passing thought that I caught and held on to. There was one avenue I hadn’t yet researched that just might yield something interesting on which to hang a potentially persuasive argument.
I did an online search for the website of a title company I’d used in litigation last year, called and asked for the title officer who’d been helpful before. I gave her the particulars and asked her to run a thorough title search.
Who’d pay for it? With luck, it’d ultimately be Jon.
AS I HEADED out of Borden’s offices, he was heading in. “How much longer now, Kendra?” he asked, a lopsided grin on his gracefully aging face.
I knew what he was talking about. “Two and a half weeks and counting,” I told him—till the result of the MPRE came out and my law license would, hopefully, be restored.
“I’m counting on it, too,” he said, smiling harder. I sighed inside, hoping I wouldn’t have to burn more bridges behind me as I fled my old legal career.
“Great seeing you again, Kendra,” Mignon called as I headed out the door.
In the Beamer, I did something that I hoped I wouldn’t regret later. I called Jeff.
“I couldn’t find a dratted thing on Yul Silva before last year,” I told him. “Do you suppose Althea could check her resources for me?” She was his P.I. firm’s middle-aged, motherly, and remarkably computer-savvy research techie.
“And how will you pay me?” I could picture his arch grin.
“In pet-sitting services,” I replied primly.
“Fair enough.” He sounded miffed. Had he figured I’d tell him, as I’d often teased before, that we’d work it off in bed?
And why did the thought of that—when all I wanted to do was ease myself out of this guy’s life except as Odin’s sitter—make me tingle in all the right places?
“Is it o
kay if I call and tell her what I need?” I pressed, hoping my inappropriate interest didn’t tingle out of my voice.
“Sure.”
This was a Widget-walking day, so after tending Harold Reddingam’s cats, I headed there. When the terrier and I had tired out, I took him home and called Marie Seidforth.
“Can I come see you this afternoon?” I asked her.
“Sure. I’m so glad to hear from you, Kendra.” That made me feel guilty, but I’d hoped to have great news before calling her again. “Did you find anything to help me fight the association? The vote’s next week, and my damned neighbor’s campaigning against me.”
“I think we should talk about what I did find,” I told her.
“Oh.” Her sad tone suggested she anticipated my answer.
Well, I wasn’t about to let her give up without a fight. In fact, I’d been chewing on an idea since my last visit with her.
An hour later, I pulled up in front of her house.
Damned if her nosy neighbor wasn’t right there, in her yard. All alone. Weeding in her tight blue jeans, though her dark sweatshirt was loose.
The inspiration that had been percolating in my mind started bubbling full force. I got out of the Beamer and approached her.
“Hi,” I said. Putting my hand out, I said, “I’m Kendra Ballantyne, a friend of Marie’s. We met a week or two ago.”
Her hand had a grass-stained glove on it. The shade was similar to the buttoned blouse I’d chosen to wear with my khakis that day. She looked down, then pulled off the glove and shook relatively amiably. Little did she know how much I was about to shake up her life.
“Hi,” she said, looking at me suspiciously. Though the day was chilly, a sheen of sweat dampened her short brown hair. Obviously weeding was hard work, despite the way recent November rain had softened the ground.
“What’s your name? Marie told me, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. Though I’m sure everyone who lives around here knows it. Marie says she’s so pleased that you’re thinking of becoming the new president of the community association.”
“She’s pleased? Are you kidding?”
I smiled sadly. “She told me how she regrets that the two of you haven’t gotten along well. I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Carline. Carline Mallotte.”
“Glad to meet you, Carline. Are you going to be out here for a while? Marie said she wanted to talk to you.”
Carline glowered guardedly. “I’ll bet she does. Yes, it’ll be some time before I’m done here.”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation about your poor cat—Sagebrush, wasn’t that her name?”
“Yes, that was his name.”
“Very cute. I love cats.” Which was true, though my heart had gone to the dogs. “I’d like to hear more about him.”
Though Carline eyed me suspiciously, those same eyes turned moist as she did as I asked. Standing there in her small front yard, she described Sagebrush. “He was silver with dark stripes. I got him from a shelter as a tiny kitten. He wasn’t a persnickety cat but definitely liked things his own way.”
I was glad it was November, so I didn’t have to bake in the sun as I encouraged her to keep talking. She told me all I wanted to know about Sagebrush, and about half an hour more.
When she started to wind down, I said, “You must miss him.”
The moistness from Carline’s eyes trickled down her cheeks. “Yes,” she acknowledged softly.
“Do you have any other pets?” I asked.
“No, I’m not like some people, who turn their homes into kennels.” Her tone hardened once more as she alluded to Marie.
“I understand,” I said smoothly, “but as a pet person, I can’t imagine not having any around. Do you have birds or anything else?”
“No. I’m divorced and live alone.”
“Oh.” I drew that out in obvious sympathy. “That must be particularly hard when you’ve loved a pet. Have you thought about getting another?”
“Maybe someday.”
“A kitten? A puppy? You know, as a pet-sitter, I see all sorts of adorable animals all day. Some are so much cuter than others. Like … have you seen how sweet boxer puppies are?”
Her sad expression segued into a glower. “Ms. Seidforth hasn’t exactly invited me.”
“Wait here.”
Would my not-so-subtle ploy work? Would Marie go along with it? I certainly hoped so. I headed to her door and rang the bell. Instantly, a chorus of canine cacophony rent the air.
“Hi, Kendra,” Marie greeted me when her door opened.
“Let’s talk,” I said sans preamble. I headed toward her kitchen, with Marie and a pack of boxers trailing behind.
A few minutes later, Marie expressed dubiousness about the merit of my scheme, but agreed to go along. We headed back outside. And we weren’t alone.
Carline was still outside her condo, kneeling at the front walk, though darned if I could see weeds in her yard.
“Hi, Carline,” I said. “Come here a minute, will you?”
She stood and glared—mostly at Marie—saying not a word this time. Only—
I cued Marie with a glance, and she came forward, holding out a wriggling puppy in her arms. “Kendra said you might like to meet one of the pups,” she said. I could tell from her tone that she struggled to stay civil, and she succeeded admirably.
At first, Carline simply glared at the small bundle of brindle fur. I took the pup from Marie and snuggled it, reveling in the rough little tongue that sanded my cheek. I laughed. “Okay, fellow, that’s enough.” I stepped toward Carline and held out the two-month-old puppy. “Care to meet him? I’d introduce you, but Marie hasn’t named him yet.”
When Carline stayed still for another instant, I shoved the puppy toward her. Rather than let the little creature fall, she put out her arms and took him.
The puppy did what puppies do—wriggled and snuggled and licked enthusiastically. Would that turn off a cat-lover like Carline?
I smiled in relief when she laughed. “Okay, okay, calm down.” But she hugged him all the more when he didn’t.
Marie took that opportunity to say what we’d discussed before dashing out here. “Carline, I know we haven’t been friendly, and you’re within your rights not only to run for the board but also to enforce our community rules. But there are things I’ve wanted to say to try to smooth things between us.”
“Like?” Carline obviously tried to growl gruffly. Only the growl turned into a giggle when the puppy nibbled her ear.
“Your cat, for one thing. I thought Sagebrush was cute, and I felt so sorry when you lost him. I know you think stress had something to do with it, since he kept getting on my side of the backyard fence and my pups would run him out.”
“That’s right,” Carline said, more irritably than angrily—a good sign, I hoped.
“Well, I don’t know if I actually had anything to do with your loss, and I know it won’t replace him, but Kendra said you’re all alone—and I wondered if you’d like to hang on to that puppy to keep you company.” She pointed at the bundle of wriggling boxer who had started burrowing into the top of Carline’s sweatshirt. “He’s from Vennie’s latest litter, and he’s so sweet that I’ve been looking for a really special home for him. I can’t keep him and figure you’d be a great owner. Plus, I’d get to see him. What do you think?”
“You’re trying to bribe me, Marie,” Carline grumbled without giving back the pup.
“Yes,” Marie admitted. “And I’m also willing to compromise. I’ll find homes for most of my dogs, but I want to be able to keep breeding puppies as long as I find them good homes when they’re old enough. I’ll have a lot around now and then, but I’ll keep them down to three or four otherwise.”
“That might work,” Carline allowed.
“And as to your candidacy for board president, I’ll help campaign for you around here as long as we’ve reached an agreement. Have we?”
I held my breath.
The puppy wriggled so hard that Carline nearly dropped him, just as a car drove by. “No!” she cried, and hugged the puppy tighter. “You need some training, little one.” And then she grinned. “And I’m just the person to do it. Okay, Marie. Let’s give it a try.”
I left them to discuss details, grinning all the way back to the Valley in my Beamer. I wished I had Lexie along, for at times I talked aloud to myself, and I’d look less loony if I discoursed with a dog. Oh, well. Who would know but me?
Had that been too simple? “Hell, yes,” I said aloud in the privacy of my car. But I’d learned as a litigator that sometimes the simplest arguments were the ones that won over juries.
Had I been sure it would work? “Hell, no.” Too often, cat people loathed dogs and vice versa. And Carline had evinced every likelihood of being a felineaphile and potential canineophobe.
But I’d caught a hint of lonely along with her resentment that day she’d glared as I’d left Marie’s.
Could I be sure they’d become best friends? Hardly. But at least they’d taken a positive step toward healing prior animosity.
I’d done something similarly simple for Fran Korwald, and it had worked.
“Now if only I could solve Jon Arlen’s problem that easily,” I observed to the Beamer.
And Chad Chatsworth’s murder, I added silently.
Chapter Twenty-eight
TIME ELAPSED, A few frenzied days filled with the usual pet-sitting routine.
I’d called Althea, Jeff’s computer ace, and laid on her my latest quest: Find out about Yul Silva’s past. I’d checked with her daily, but so far she’d come up as info-empty as I had.
I’d gone to my place to warn Charlotte about the slippery stairway and railing. She’d been justifiably shocked, and claimed to have no idea who could have generated such a slick booby trap.
While there, I’d asked where she’d met Yul, in the guise of gushing over the incredible origins of romantic relationships. He’d been a diversion brought in on her reality show, a gorgeous guy tossed into the mix to see if her head could be turned from the last men still standing.
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