Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  “Morning,” I responded, inhaling the rich caffeine as we passed one another. The next person I noted was the firm’s receptionist, perky young Mignon who sat at a big desk at the entry where the hostess had once greeted diners at this former restaurant.

  “Hi, Kendra,” she said, a lot less perkiness than usual in her singsong tone. Even her auburn curls seemed a smidgen droopy.

  “Everything okay?” I asked immediately, stopping beside her chair.

  “Absolutely,” she sang, somewhat off-key. Her eyes met mine and her head tilted sideways in what appeared to be a signal.

  I looked in the direction she’d indicated, toward the room that was once a bar and was now the firm’s main conference room.

  My breathing suddenly stopped, then started again. Fast.

  “Hello, Amanda,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  WE SAT IN my office, as Amanda requested. A good call, I thought. If we got into a heated exchange, I’d no desire to allow all my coworkers their daily dose of fun by eavesdropping. Not to mention ammunition to ambush me with if ever they needed blackmail material.

  “This is very nice,” Amanda said, looking around my cluttered but comfortable environment, with its lived-in law office look. My desk was Early Litigation style, with lots of stacks of papers on top. My chairs were ergonomic, upholstered in blue, and my rug was rugged Berber.

  I was unsure how to react. Amanda acted humble, not haughty or hysterical. She wore a tailored skirt and blouse that bordered on conservative, instead of underscoring how attractive she was.

  What did she want, inserting herself so moderately into my milieu? I sure as hell didn’t trust her.

  And how had her latest contact been with Jeff? In between his two phone calls to me yesterday, shading from insults to almost apology, had she somehow determined to dump him?

  Well, sitting at my desk, waiting till she got good and ready to speak her piece, wasn’t exactly my style.

  “Why are you here, Amanda?” I echoed my earlier startled greeting.

  “Cherise and Carnie sent me.” Her smile almost seemed tentative, as if testing whether I enjoyed her attempt at humor.

  “How are they?” I played along. “Have they left any more mice as presents? I’ve been wondering whether their gifts to me were really intended to be threats. Maybe they gave Leon his, then screwdrivered him to death.”

  Amanda’s lovely face faded to ashen. “That’s not a joke,” she rasped, then dropped her gaze to her lap. “It isn’t my kitties the cops think did it, but me.”

  “If so, you have defenses, Amanda,” I responded seriously. “Have you spoken with your attorney?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure Mitch feels comfortable handling a possible capital criminal case.” She swallowed hard, and when she lifted her eyes to stare into mine, they were definitely misty. “He might refer me to someone else. And with your background in helping innocent people who’re accused of murder, I told him I want you both to get together and agree on who I should hire. Will you help me, Kendra?”

  Why should I? my mind immediately shot back. You’ve been a barbed thorn in my side from even before I knew you existed. But the remainder of my brain ordered that edge of my mind to stay open, at least a little.

  “What’s in it for me?” I heard myself demand. “You haven’t even paid me for pet-sitting yet.” Oh, well. So much for remaining even a nuance neutral.

  “I will,” she said with a sigh. “And if you help clear me of killing Leon, I promise I’ll get out of Jeff’s life, forever.”

  “You’re willing to put that in writing?” I shot back.

  “If you want.”

  “I want,” I said. “It’s an old saying among lawyers that verbal agreements aren’t worth—”

  “The paper they’re written on. I’ve heard it.” Her tone was taking on its old edge once more. Which made me feel a teensy bit more sure she was serious.

  At least for this moment.

  I turned to the computer sitting on the side of my desk and typed up a short yet official-looking contract, inserting boilerplate by copying and pasting from a fine form I’d previously created for a very different purpose. Not only did it appear binding; it was binding—once we’d both signed it. In duplicate. Assuming a court would enforce it in the event of a breach.

  Dumb? Decidedly. Even so, it assisted me with arguable leverage over Amanda if I ever wished to assert it—in the event she truly was innocent, and I assisted her in extricating herself from this mess.

  “Good,” I said, handing Amanda her fully executed agreement. “So now I’ll need more information about anyone you think could be a suspect, and whoever else you’re aware of who knew Leon. Plus, we’ll need to set up a meeting with Mitch Severin. Want me to come to your home later this afternoon? Or have you been permitted to go back, since it’s a crime scene under investigation?”

  “Not yet. Cherise, Carnie, and I are staying with one of my coworkers for now.”

  “Okay, then, when and where should we meet with Mitch?” The logical location popped into my mind. “How about at your medical office? Tomorrow. You can introduce me to some of the folks you work with—notably, those who knew Leon, too.”

  Amanda’s turn to seem startled. “You don’t really think anyone there killed him, do you?”

  “My mind is open to every possible perpetrator, and yours should be, too. Right now, you need to prepare that list of everyone you’re aware of who knew Leon, and that means doctors, other assistants, any of your neighbors who might have had run-ins with him … anyone.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Of course. You’ve been through this before.”

  Yep, that’s what murder magnets do. Not that I let her in on that definitely disquieting thought.

  She stood and held out her hand. “Thanks, Kendra. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “I’ll let Jeff know.” But I couldn’t quite manage a snide smile at her sad look as she exited my office door.

  I MANAGED ONLY one more meeting that Tuesday. The Shermans with the Santa Barbara beef were unavailable until Thursday. But Mae Sward, my new client with the Pomeranian problem, had called and spoken with Mignon, who’d set up a time later that day.

  She arrived with Sugar, still clad in her surgical collar, on a rhinestone-studded leash matching Mae’s sparkling handbag. Her large figure was well-hidden behind the long jacket of her elegant gray suit.

  My non-court attire, though nice, didn’t match her chic-ness, but I didn’t feel overshadowed, either. “Come in, Mae,” I told her. “You, too, Sugar. How’s the mom business?”

  “Her pups are getting along just fine,” Mae said, beaming, as she followed me into my digs. But her pleasure paled as she took her seat. “It’s so hard to believe this is her last litter.” A tear escaped the edge of one brown eye and she swiped it away with a gesture suggesting determination. “I want you to sue that terrible vet,” she said. “And it’s not just for the money. If I could turn back the clock and have Sugar the way she was, that’s how I’d be happiest.”

  “I understand,” I said. Interesting idea. I wondered briefly how much litigation could be avoided if the parties could simply march backward in time and amend critical incidents like accidents that caused suable situations.

  Well, heck, that could put poor litigators like me plum out of business. Good thing sci-fi couldn’t be integrated into real life. Unless one counted all the stuff of onetime fiction that eventually entered our lives … Submarines. Space travel.

  Okay, I hardly had time to philosophize with an eager client occupying my office.

  “You were going to tell me why you thought Sugar’s vet decided to spay her for nonmedical purposes.”

  “He hates me. He’s always telling me how to take care of my little darlings, then bawling me out for feeding them treats and making sure the mommies have lots of babies.”

  “Those could be health reasons for Sugar,” I rat
ionalized. “We’ll need something more.”

  “Well, I reported him to the state one time before this for how he treated Sugar and a couple of my other Poms. He insisted that one of his assistants hold them when they got shots, and even had one muzzled when she nipped at him. He treated them like … well, dogs. And he was really mad when an inspector came to check him out.”

  Somehow, I couldn’t quite get excited about this terrible veterinary behavior. And I hadn’t yet done any research on the kind of claim I could make for involuntary neutering of one’s pet. But I would.

  “What is it you want out of a lawsuit, if we file it?”

  “I’d love to have his license pulled, but the board didn’t seem inclined to do anything before, so I don’t trust them now. I’d like a lot of money from that horrible man, enough that it’ll hurt. Okay?”

  “We’ll see what we can do. One question, though. If you didn’t like this vet, why didn’t you go to another one?”

  She regarded me as if I’d suddenly grown stupid. “Because he’s the best in my neighborhood. His reputation is great, and everyone else loves him. I wouldn’t even think of taking my babies to someone less well regarded.”

  “Of course.” I mentally shook my head. Mae might have an arguable claim, but I figured she wouldn’t exactly impress a jury with her emotionalism over her Pom and against her vet. That meant a possible ADR situation, resulting in some kind of settlement that would satisfy her.

  Did I like her case? Not really. But I also despised the idea that her vet could have harmed her pet out of revenge against her.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Give me the particulars.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, we discussed names, dates, and details. Then I said, “I’m going to call Dr… .” I looked down at my notes. “Dr. Thomas Venson. I’ll ask if he has an attorney, and if so request a meeting.”

  “You mean I have to see that horrible man again?”

  “You’d have to face him in court anyway,” I reminded her.

  “Well, all right.” But she seemed utterly disconcerted.

  The vet did indeed have an attorney, not that the receptionist revealed who. Even so, she promised to set up a meeting for the next afternoon and suggested a time that her boss wouldn’t be busy with a patient.

  What with my planned visit at Amanda’s medical office in the morning and a meeting with a new pet-sitters’ society in the evening, tomorrow would be a thoroughly intense day.

  Was this day done with surprises? No way! My phone rang just after Mae and Sugar had skedaddled.

  “Hi, Kendra,” said a voice from my not-too-distant past. “This is Baird.”

  Judge Baird Roehmann was a jurist with roamin’ hands whom I’d known well in my days as a litigator with the Marden law firm. He’d gotten a temporary restraining order against me when he’d believed I was stalking him a few months earlier.

  Ergo, hearing from him was one huge surprise.

  “Are you busy for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I have an issue I’d really like to run by you.”

  As always, when I’d not needed something from him, my gut reaction kicked into negative mode. “I’m sorry, Baird. It’s great to hear from you, but—”

  “Please, Kendra? I’m really sorry about how things were left with us before, and I’d really like to talk to you.”

  Would wonders never cease in this amazing day? First, Amanda’s agreement to leave Jeff forever—at least if I helped her.

  Now this. There was a humbleness to Baird’s tone that I’d never before imagined even existed inside him.

  If nothing else, it stoked my curiosity.

  “I don’t have a lot of time, Baird, but if you can meet me at seven-thirty in the Valley …” Past my prime pet-sitting time.

  “Done. Tell me where and I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Nine

  DESPITE AN INCLINATION to dash through my pet-sitting duties that evening, I couldn’t help it. I knocked on Stromboli’s neighbor’s door.

  As my shepherd-mix charge had cavorted in his own backyard, that poor wiry pup had slunk as close as his lead would allow, wagging his tail and entreating my attention. I, of course, heaved a treat over the fence as my sympathies soared. Sure, the canine could be a skilled con-dog, but I’d always seen him leashed outside without an iota of human notice—either for the dog or for my interference.

  So as soon as Stromboli was through inhaling his dinner and had a final frenetic foray into his yard, I said my good nights to him and hied my irate self next door.

  The house was quaint and cottagelike, but looked as if no one had mowed the front lawn or trimmed the rose-bushes for eons. To my amazement, I got an answer to the doorbell—and not just the dog’s “someone’s intruding on my turf” barkfest. A middle-aged woman pulled open the door. “Yes?” she asked with a somewhat fearful frown. Her loose blue jeans and Universal Studios sweatshirt didn’t say much more about her than her suspicious brown eyes, but her short, well-styled hair, complete with pale highlights, suggested she gave some consideration to her appearance.

  I held out my hand. “Hi,” I said in a tone assumed for its friendliness, to throw her off guard. “I’m Kendra Ballantyne. I’m a pet-sitter, and I’m taking care of Stromboli next door, while Dana Maroni’s out of town.”

  She said nothing during my pregnant pause.

  “I noticed you have a dog. I’ve seen him in your yard.”

  Still not a word.

  “Do you ever need a pet-sitter to walk him during the day, or take care of him when you’re not around?”

  “No,” she said solemnly and started to shut the door.

  I stuck my vulnerable toe out and levered it, in my nice black loafers, to keep her from closing me out altogether. “The thing is, he looks lonesome sometimes, and I’d—” Surely my accusation hadn’t been especially harsh … yet.

  Even so, tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “Aren’t we all?” She sounded so bitter that the words I bit back tasted terrible in my mouth. She again attempted to shut the door, but I hadn’t removed my shoe, nor the toes within it. She stared down at the offending intrusion, then back into my face. “I know you mean well, Ms. Ballantyne, but taking care of Meph is the least of my problems now.”

  “Meth—as in methamphetamines?” I tried to keep her talking.

  “Meph, as in Mephistopheles. That cute little terrier is actually a devil.”

  “He still doesn’t deserve to be shut in the yard with no attention twenty-four/seven.” Okay, could be I’d blown it by my inability to keep my criticisms curled inside.

  The woman blinked and allowed her bottom lip to sag, as if amazed at my effrontery. She immediately closed her mouth, and the action apparently created a pump that set her tears flowing.

  “Sorry,” I said hastily. “It’s not really my business. Except that it is. Pets, I mean, are my business, and I hate to see one seem neglected.”

  “People can be neglected, too, Ms. Ballantyne.” She threw up her hands and attempted to erase the residue of her words from the air. “Never mind. You didn’t come here to hear about me.”

  “Even so, if there’s anything I can do … I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “I didn’t give it, but it’s Maribelle Openheim. And I’ll try to pay more attention to Meph, okay? Now leave me alone.”

  “Sure,” I said softly. “But obviously you have something on your mind. If there’s anything I can do to help …”

  “There is. Get your foot out of my door.”

  I did, and she closed that door firmly in my face.

  I SQUEEZED LEXIE in an extra-loving hug later after retrieving her from her daily delights at Darryl’s and driving her home with me. Then I deposited her gently back on the floor. “I won’t be long, I promise,” I vowed as I prepared to abandon her for a couple of hours at our garage-top home while I joined Judge Baird Roehmann at a restaurant.

  Near the door, my adorable tricolor Cavalier cocked her head and re
garded me solemnly as if attempting to assess my veracity.

  “We’ll get together with Odin afterward, okay?”

  As if understanding and agreeing, she wagged her tail.

  I had to hustle from our hilltop abode down the sloped street toward Cahuenga Boulevard. After further discussion with Baird, I’d selected one of my favorite neighborhood bistros, one that served both great food and delightful wine.

  On the way, my cell phone sang. Amanda. Of course. “I have everything all set up at my office tomorrow,” she said.

  “Good. See you then.”

  “And you’ll figure out who killed Leon?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Well, succeed!” she exploded. “We have a contract now, and that damned Detective Noralles won’t leave me alone. He just called again. All those questions and insinuations, and—”

  “That’s his job, Amanda,” I interjected irritably. Not that I enjoyed defending Ned.

  “Well, yours is to fix things for me. Fast.” Before I had a chance to shove some reality toward her, she hung up.

  I considered calling back and telling her exactly where to go—like, to court and to prison, sans my investigative assistance. But I absorbed my anger instead—this time.

  That didn’t leave me in the best of moods to meet Baird.

  The tall, silver-haired jurist waited for me in a wooden-backed booth, a small candle glimmering in a multifaceted glass on the table. He stood as I joined him … and shook my hand.

  Shook my hand? And immediately released it? This from the judge who’d always given me the once-over, his look lingering on my bust, every time we met outside a courtroom?

  Something was obviously up with him. Since he’d invited me to dinner, I suspected I’d soon find out what it was.

  I slid into the booth, then allowed Baird to order a bottle of wine. He was the smooth sort, and although I’d seldom allowed him to treat me to meals, the few times we’d eaten together I’d been impressed by his expertise in vintages.