Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  I immediately regretted having tempted fate by such a positive cogitation when the person who called—with a caller ID I didn’t recognize—identified herself. “Hello, Kendra. I’m so glad I caught you. This is Corina Carey.”

  Oh, shit. She wasn’t someone I’d ever met—nor had I ever wanted to. But I knew her only too well.

  She was a news reporter on a local network affiliate TV station who seemed to hog air time by taking on the world’s most notorious stories. Plus, she often wrote articles for local papers that were picked up by national news services.

  I chose to stay silent. Hanging up might only result in another call. Or multiple messages if I chose not to answer.

  And maybe on-air insinuations I wouldn’t even be able to sue about, since they’d doubtless fall short of the legal definition of defamation.

  But I did pull the car to the nearest curb. If my wrath rose as it was apt to, I didn’t want to add a car accident to elevated blood pressure.

  “Kendra? We must have a bad connection. Kendra Ballantyne? Can you hear me now?”

  Unfortunately, I could. “Hello, Ms. Carey,” I finally responded frostily.

  “Oh, good. I’m a reporter, largely for the National NewsShakers Show.” As if I didn’t know. “I’ve started a story on police investigations in L.A. and your name came up regarding a homicide that just occurred today. You’ve been mentioned in broadcasts before, plus I looked you up on the Net and … well, this isn’t the first murder investigation where you’ve been involved. I gather you’re a lawyer but not in law enforcement. I’d love to come and interview you. Can we set up a time and place?”

  Hoping my voice didn’t shudder as much as my body, I searched my mind for an immediate reason to be unavailable for the next fifty years. Well, hell. I was a litigator. And a former murder suspect myself. I was used to unpleasant surprises, and knew how to handle every situation.

  Almost.

  My experience with the raft of reporters who’d covered my circumstances before had been anything but pleasant. Same went for those who’d sniffed around and spouted stories when I’d looked into murders to help friends.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Carey, but I’m really not interested.” As if this pushy reporter—a redundancy in expression, of course—was prone to take no for an answer.

  “I understand,” she said much too smoothly. I stared at Lexie, who sat shotgun and regarded me with sympathetic yet curious brown eyes. “But if I don’t get to talk to you, I’ll only have your story from other people, who’ll give me their perspectives, which may not be yours.”

  “If the story you’re talking about concerns the apparent murder that occurred earlier today in Sherman Oaks, then I really don’t have a perspective. Goodbye, Ms. Carey.”

  “Goodbye for now, Kendra,” she responded, and I heard a smile every bit as snide as one of Amanda’s in her voice. “I’ll talk to you soon. Count on it.”

  MY CELL PHONE didn’t ring again until we’d reached our garage-sweet-home and I’d settled down after organizing what apparel to take along for the next day and taking time to veg out in our compact living room.

  I had laid my cell on the coffee table near my comfy beige sectional sofa and it both sang and vibrated on the glass surface, startling Lexie and me.

  I peered at it suspiciously, having hated to hear from the last caller. This time, though, I nearly grinned in pleasure.

  Jeff.

  “Hi,” I said perkily after flipping the phone open. I eyed the table where I’d balanced my dinner, knowing that Lexie’s nose would nudge it, followed by her eager tongue, if I didn’t watch it. “Did you see that you missed my call before?” He could have called back earlier. “There’s some stuff I wanted to tell you about, but right now Lexie and I are heading to your place to keep Odin company tonight. How are things?” Like, are you surviving Chicago alone now, without having Amanda there to comfort?

  “What the hell is going on, Kendra?” he demanded, startling me. “How did that jerk Leon wind up dead in Amanda’s house? And with all your experience dealing with such things—not to mention the fact you’re a goddamned lawyer—why the devil aren’t you helping her?”

  Chapter Seven

  I COULDN’T QUITE respond for a few appalled instants. Then my words dripped so frostily from my lips that I might have been sipping a Frappuccino. “I’m delighted to speak with you, too. I really don’t have any specific information to impart to you about the recently departed Leon and your dear Amanda. I merely attempted to call you earlier to let you know what had occurred. And even though Amanda isn’t exactly my favorite person, if it appears that she didn’t commit murder, then I’ll commiserate with her—figuratively. I’m not exactly eager to subject myself to her difficult presence again. You’re the investigator, Jeff. Utilize your license and come back to L.A. to help your beloved ex, if that’s what you want.”

  This time, the pause wasn’t from my perspective. Back stiff despite the comfortableness of my soft sofa cushions, I waited for Jeff to jump in and say he’d take control. Or better yet, to apologize.

  And waited.

  And was finally rewarded with something substantially less than an admission of contrition. But at least it wasn’t accusatory this time, either.

  “You’re right, Kendra,” he said slowly. “That wasn’t fair. After all the good work you did to help me clear myself of murder, I guess I started taking too much for granted.”

  I’ll say. But I kept that thought to myself.

  He continued, “You know how I feel about Amanda now, and—”

  “No, Jeff, actually I don’t,” I interrupted. “So what if you made a huge pronouncement telling her to use another P.I., presumably choosing me over her? Talk, as they say, is cheap—and my pet-sitting and legal services aren’t. I’ve only acted as an intern P.I. when it was the only way I could get information to assist in cases I chose. Amanda’s isn’t one of them.”

  “I understand.” His soft voice smacked of remorse at last. “And I will be home soon. I only hope you’ll understand if I try to help Amanda through this. It doesn’t mean there’s still anything between us—”

  “Except history. I get it.” But I didn’t believe it.

  As we hung up a minute later, after goodbyes that were more uncomfortable than amatory, I couldn’t help recalling all over again what a loser I was in the long-term lover selection process.

  WELL, ODIN WASN’T to blame for his master’s treachery in dealing with females. That was why I gathered my clothing and Lexie within the next five minutes and hustled us out the door and down the steps from our apartment.

  Just in time to see Rachel pull her small, recently acquired blue sedan through the security gates and into the driveway. The new, used car had been her dad’s gift to allow her to assist me in pet-sitting. She opened the garage door remotely and drove inside, and was out of the car almost immediately.

  “I did it, Kendra!” she shouted with exuberance that left no doubt what she was talking about. She’d landed a speaking role in a film—major or minor, it didn’t matter. In her mind, at least, she was on her way to a substantial starring career.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I gushed, almost meaning it, as she stopped near enough to bend and stroke Lexie, then rose with a huge grin. She squeezed me in a healthy hug, bumping her huge shoulder bag against my side.

  “It’s a chick flick about a mother and three daughters,” she explained as she pulled away, “and I play their next door neighbor who’s the same age as the oldest. Daughter, that is, not the mother. I’m on camera four times, and I have at least a couple of lines, too. I’m so excited!”

  “Justifiably.”

  How could I do anything but feel happy for someone so young and optimistic? Was I ever there? At her age, I’d been intensely immersed in undergraduate studies, since I’d planned all along on law school. But surely I’d been as certain as she that every nuance of my fondest dreams would come true and my life would be spectacular.r />
  Well, hell. Most of the time it was. Or had been. And these days it was absolutely getting back on track—even if my caboose was headed in a way different direction than I’d initially anticipated.

  “So when does shooting start?” I asked.

  “Soon. Not right away, so I’ll still be able to do some pet-sitting. But for when I can’t, here’s some help—I hope.” She reached into her tote bag and extracted what appeared to be a tabloid news-simulator … er, newspaper.

  Instinctively, I yanked my hands away, causing a gleam of indignation to appear on Rachel’s gamin face.

  “It’s for you,” she insisted. “Look.” She yanked the pages open and scanned down some columns until she spied what she was searching for. “Here.” She pointed to something in a calendar section.

  I looked at the top of the page first. This wasn’t a tabloid but a throwaway sheet from a neighborhood on L.A.’s west side.

  And the entry to which Rachel was pointing?

  It was a notice of the supposed second meeting of a group calling itself the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal, claiming it was a new professional organization. The group would get together this Wednesday evening.

  A professional pet-sitters’ group? Hey, what an intriguing idea!

  Rachel must have read the interest on my face. “See? If you go there, maybe you’ll meet others who can help you out when I can’t.”

  “Rachel, you’re the greatest.” And this time, I was the initiator of a huge hug.

  Causing a jealous jump from my currently ignored canine. Both Rachel and I bent to rectify that sorry situation.

  “I’ll walk Widget tomorrow,” Rachel said. “Any other pets you’d like me to check on?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Come up to our place, and we’ll work out who goes where.”

  AND SO LEXIE and I got an even later start on our late-day pet-sitting service, which didn’t much matter since Rachel took over two of the visits.

  Adorable assistant!

  Especially since she’d given me a hint on how to recruit her replacement—if necessary.

  I’d kept the Stromboli assignment to myself. I really liked Dana Maroni’s well-trained shepherd mix. And my insatiable curiosity and canine-loving led me to want to check on his apparently lonely next door neighbor.

  Sure enough, Stromboli seemed excited to see me. Or at least his supper. With Lexie waiting patiently—I hoped—for me in the Beamer, Stromboli and I took a nice, exercise-energizing walk through his flat residential neighborhood.

  I peered through a back window into the neighbor’s yard before and after our evening stroll. Sure enough, that middle-sized wirehaired pup was there both times. Alone. Tethered to something near his back door.

  Didn’t the people who lived there ever let him in? Or even, if he was a dedicated outside dog, didn’t they show him some occasional appreciation in that large, lonely yard?

  I’d have to ask Dana on her return, scheduled for later in the week.

  Meanwhile … well, okay, I admit it. I’m a big softy, especially when it comes to apparently abandoned dogs. After settling Stromboli back in his abode, I went into his backyard and looked at the neighbor’s dog.

  He looked back at me, ears down and dejected.

  “Can you come here?” I asked him.

  He appeared to perk up a whole lot at the attention, and he did extend his lead far enough to reach the yard-dividing fence.

  I looked around, in case his owners were around and interested enough to chastise me for calling him.

  No movement at all from that house.

  So I reached into my pocket and gave the pup a biscuit. Bad form for a professional pet-sitter? You bet! How would I know if this particular pup had a major biscuit allergy?

  I doubted he did, and this was a fairly vanilla kind of doggy cracker.

  The dog obviously appreciated it. I noticed, close up, just how skinny he was, too.

  Was someone starving him, not only for attention, but for food, too?

  I’d have to find out. If I called Animal Control, though, they might remove him and then not be able to find him a suitably loving home.

  And what if I was wrong, and all was right with this neighboring dog?

  For now, I’d just wait and see what happened as I continued to visit Stromboli.

  FINALLY IT WAS time for Lexie and me to head to Odin’s place. Jeff’s place, too, although we went there for the lonesome pup that night, and not his mind-taxing master.

  The adorable Akita was delighted to see us, and we three engaged in a fast-paced tramp beneath the streetlights in the Sherman Oaks neighborhood, both to settle the pups’ evening evacuation urges and to exercise my beleaguered brain into exhaustion.

  The last part didn’t work too well.

  Even so, I took my shower and prepared for bed. Good thing I’d brought along a folder full of cases downloaded from the Yurick firm’s online legal service. Since elder law was the firm’s focus, I was determined to learn all I could about how courts viewed senior citizens. I’ve recognized, after long experience, that case law isn’t the most stimulating of reading material, unless one concentrates on the human aspect of who did what to whom. Even then, clerks assigned to appellate judges tend to be detailed and dry in their writing—and they’re the ones who do at least the initial drafting of published decisions.

  As anticipated, my eyelids started sinking after only a few minutes of studying the pages.

  I’d nearly fallen asleep, canine companions snoring on the floor beneath the bed, when my cell phone sang.

  I stared at it, charging at its place on the bedside stand, for a few seconds. This was the time that Jeff usually called to make some sexy insinuations before we both dropped off to sleep, but our last conversation had surely snuffed out any sizzling embers between us, at least for now.

  But as I glanced at the caller ID, I saw that it indeed was the owner of the home and the bed in which I reposed.

  “Hi, Jeff,” I said in a soft yet neutral tone. I didn’t need further verbal abuse to disabuse me of the idea of sleeping that night. I wanted my rest.

  “Hi, Kendra. Are you in bed yet?” His soft, suggestive tone didn’t even hint that he recalled our earlier fiasco of a conversation. Did I want to play this game now, when my mind, apparently unlike his, was hung up on our dismal dialogue?

  “Yes, I am.” My tone stayed businesslike, avoiding any semblance of sensuality.

  “Good. Me, too. I’m sleeping in the nude tonight, and I plan to dream of you. And, Kendra? I’m coming home early so we can talk. See you the day after tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  “HEY, BORDEN,” I said second thing the next morning, popping my head into my senior partner’s office. “Have a minute?”

  “Always for you, Kendra,” he replied. “Almost. Unless I’ve got to talk to a client. Or another attorney at the firm. Or—”

  I laughed. “Okay, I know where I rate. But I caught you between crises, so I’m sneaking in.” Which I did. I slid into my current favorite of the diversely styled chairs facing his attractive old desk—complete with rococo carved back and arms, and blue embroidered upholstery.

  Borden’s Hawaiian aloha shirt du jour was muted aqua covered in a print of large pineapples.

  “How was your pet-sitting this morning?” he asked as soon as I was seated.

  “Just fine,” I responded. It had been the first thing I’d accomplished that day after Lexie, Odin, and I completed our morning routine. My rounds had been abbreviated since I still had Rachel’s assistance for now. I’d left Lexie with Odin, since I had one more night to care for Jeff’s Akita. And tomorrow, when he came home, where would my Cavalier and I sleep?

  At our own digs, I felt certain.

  Almost, my mind echoed Borden’s earlier word.

  “I didn’t get back to you yesterday on the complaint you drafted for the Shermans.” His senior citizen clients with the big beef with the small and shoddy Santa Barbara resort. �
�I think it’s fine. Okay if I ask them to come in this afternoon to go over it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Oh, and I wanted to tell you about another possible pet law matter. Darryl referred me to someone else, Mae Sward, who said her Pomeranian was spayed by her vet without her permission. I’ll need more info before saying yes or no, since the neutering was done in the aftermath of the poor little dog’s birthing some pups. Mae said the vet’s motive was an ulterior one, and he didn’t spay strictly to preserve the mama’s health.”

  “Sounds potentially interesting. Any chargeable fees?” Borden knew full well that many of my animal dispute resolution cases were less than lucrative, and not because I could dispose of them by spending minimal time.

  “Unknown so far, but I wouldn’t count on redoing the office décor on our receipts.”

  “What redecorating are you talking about? Don’t you like our ambiance?” I was sure his apparent affront was a put-on. At least I hoped so. No way did I want to injure this kind and generous man’s very deep feelings.

  “Couldn’t love it more, Borden. That’s why I don’t want to earn the firm too much bread, or one of the other attorneys might want to apply some of the dough toward alternate decoration of our former restaurant digs.”

  “Who’d want to do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No one,” he insisted.

  “I agree,” I agreed.

  We smiled at one another.

  “Troublemaker,” he accused.

  “If the shoe fits …” I stared down at the black leather loafers on my feet, which fit just right. I’d dressed down just a little, since it wasn’t a court day, in nice charcoal slacks and a silky blue blouse.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Go to it, kid. I love your form of ADR. I’ll be eager to hear how this one turns out.”

  I grinned all the way down the hall toward my office, turned the corner and headed down the next hall.

  “Hi, Kendra,” said Geraldine Glass, heading the opposite way from me with a cup of coffee in her hand. One of Borden’s former law school buddies who’d joined the firm as a partner, she was as senior a citizen as he was. Her curly brown hair was decorated by her reading glasses snugged up on her head today and acting like a headband.