Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  I’d not been impressed by his assumption that plying females with wine led to bedroom gymnastics later. That was one reason I clothed myself conservatively that night: a sexless beige shirt with a high collar that skimmed my chin, and loose navy slacks.

  “So how are you, Baird?” I inquired after our server, a nice young man surely too homely to be one of L.A.’s usual wannabe movie stars, had served our wine, taken our orders, and obsequiously sailed toward the kitchen.

  “I’ve been better, Kendra.” Although his voice held the peal he’d practiced to allow its resonance through any courtroom, it lacked its usual verve.

  Knowing a cue when I heard one, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed, staring with solemn brown eyes over his slightly misshapen nose. Rumor had it that he’d broken it while boxing as an undergrad, but I’d never confirmed if that was myth and part of his mystique, or an actual occurrence. “I asked you to join me tonight since I knew you’d understand. Daisy is gone.”

  Daisy. A recent lover who had succumbed to the judge’s charms? A particularly skilled court clerk who’d grown tired of Baird’s lustfulness and left?

  “I’m sorry. But I didn’t know Daisy.” And wasn’t sure I should have.

  “She was so beautiful. So loving. And I simply don’t know what I’ll do without her.” He gulped down a goblet of Merlot, then filled his glass again.

  Okay, he’d handed me a hint with the word “loving.” That surely couldn’t apply to an assistant. Had Baird been married all this time? If so, Daisy’s defection, with all the sexual harassment Baird foisted on females on and off the job, didn’t seem a stretch. Or was she a longtime, long-suffering lover?

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, then, still searching for a clue, said, “Tell me about her.”

  “You never met her?” He glared as if I’d insulted him, but then his expression mellowed. “I guess not. We’ve known each other more professionally than personally, haven’t we?” I nodded, and he continued, “Well, Daisy was the most beautiful damned Dalmatian you could ever imagine.”

  Oh, so that was Daisy’s pedigree!

  For the next forty minutes, over appetizers, salads, and entrées, Baird all but bawled on my shoulder about his dear, departed dog. And I absolutely sympathized with him, which mellowed my post-Amanda mood.

  His mourning didn’t appear to injure his appetite. Or maybe it was the tastiness of the excellent French cuisine that kept him eating. In any event, over coffee, he finally ended his extolling of Daisy’s virtues.

  “I’m really sorry, Baird,” I said yet again. “I know how hard it is to lose a pet you really care about.”

  Poor Daisy’s problem had been simply growing old. And I honestly did share Baird’s pain. I’d had pets before Lexie that I’d lost, and each time I’d felt I’d never get over it.

  That thought triggered a suggestion. “Have you considered adopting another dog?”

  He glared as if I’d told him to dine on Daisy’s remains. “No. How could I? It would feel … disloyal.”

  This from a judge who hopped from one willing female to the next without compunction, flirting shamelessly with unwilling ones in between.

  “I understand. There’s no way to replace her. But having another pet might help to ease your pain.”

  “I’m lonely Kendra,” he asserted, then appeared aghast at the revelation. He inhaled a final swig of wine, then shook his silver mane. “I know what you’re thinking. A man as well-liked as I am, who never lacks for female company … how could I possibly feel lonely? Well, if I had one woman I really cared about, one who’d be good company every night, then it might not feel so bad to go home without Daisy to greet me.”

  “Sure, Baird.” Surely he wasn’t suggesting that I could be that sole eternal female. Was he?

  No, thank heavens. “If you’ve any lady friends that you think might be worth introducing me to, ones with looks and brains”—I noticed which he’d fed out first—“please introduce me. Meantime, I’ll consider adopting another dog. I still can’t get over the fact you decided not to return to your rightful place as one of this city’s premier litigators to join Borden Yurick’s firm and stay a pet-sitter, too. That’s why I thought you might understand about Daisy.”

  “I do, Baird. I’ll think about who to introduce you to.”

  “And if you have any ideas about another dog … well, give me a little time, but I’ll want to hear your suggestions.”

  Which was one heck of a first. Baird Roehmann agreeing to listen instead of grope?

  Not that he totally disabused me of my recollections of his penchants for pinches. When we eventually said goodbye beneath the lights outside the restaurant, he enveloped me in a judicial bear hug—followed by an unambiguous feeling up of my butt.

  THAT NIGHT, I elected to take the offensive. Instead of waiting for Jeff to call after the pups and I had prepared for bed, I phoned him. “Have you spoken with Amanda today?” I asked.

  “Yes, and she says you drive a hard bargain, Kendra.”

  “Well, you’re the P.I. If you want, you can investigate Leon’s murder on her behalf, instead of me. That way she won’t be contractually obligated to remove herself from your life.” And perhaps she would stop provoking me … please!

  “I was serious when I chose you over her, Kendra,” Jeff said. “None of us could have foreseen Leon’s murder, and I appreciate your trying to help her. And I apologize for yelling at you for not helping her. Once this is behind us, I really will insist that she stay out of my life. Okay?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m lying here in the nude now, thinking about you … and how things’ll be when I’m back home tomorrow night.”

  Which was exactly what I thought about as I attempted to drop off to sleep after we hung up. Only … I realized I was far from sure about how I wanted things to unfold after Jeff ’s return home.

  Chapter Ten

  I’D HAVE OVERSLEPT the next morning, the clock radio’s crooning notwithstanding, if Lexie and Odin hadn’t leapt onto my bed and let me know it was time to eat and walk, not necessarily in that exact order.

  I obeyed their instructions, then gave Rachel a call from my cell phone to ensure she was on duty that day. She assured me she was, although she issued a warning that she’d need to go to some readings and rehearsals next week.

  With luck, I’d have a backup assistant figured out by then.

  Odin appeared so sad when Lexie and I started to depart that I decided to provide him with a special treat. It meant I’d need to return to Jeff’s in the evening, but, especially after his speech last night that I nearly believed, I had assured myself I could handle seeing him again if I happened to be there dropping Odin off when he appeared.

  “It’s been awhile since you’ve visited Darryl’s,” I told Odin. “How about a doggy resort for today?”

  He exuberantly wagged the enthusiastic, fuzzy tail curled over his back, and the decision was made.

  I couldn’t spend much time at Darryl’s though.

  “Busy day planned?” my lanky friend asked from his front desk after greeting the pups and me.

  “Absolutely.” I listed the rundown: Amanda’s office, a visit to the potential defendant vet, and a pet-sitters’ conclave. “Not to mention the usual.”

  “Pet-sitting and playing lawyer,” he finished for me. “No wonder these two can’t keep up with you.” He bent to stroke Lexie and Odin, whom I hadn’t let loose yet, despite their fascinated observation of the doggy resort’s multiple pup-play areas.

  I accomplished the items Darryl had delineated first. Borden also appeared amused at my many irons in my well-stoked fire that day, as did receptionist Mignon and a couple of the senior-citizen attorneys who lingered around as I explained them all.

  Then I was off to Amanda’s office.

  The address she’d given was on Third Street near Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There were lots of doctors’ offices in several nearby buildings, ma
ny served by the same overstuffed parking lots. Nevertheless, the Beamer and I found a spot, and I hurried inside and up an elevator to the designated suite.

  The reception area was decorated with a plethora of original paintings—big surprise after Amanda’s description of her doctor’s patients. What was unexpected was that few were seascapes. Apparently Amanda’s affinity was not everyone else’s.

  When I gave my name, an efficient-looking Asian lady behind a big, glass window scanned a sheet of paper. “Which doctor are you here to see? I don’t find you on the appointment list.”

  “I’m here to see one of their assistants, Amanda Hubbard.”

  Was it my imagination, or did the woman’s expression morph a mite into irritation? In any event, she was too much of a pro to say anything, nasty or nice. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “You’re Kendra Ballantyne?” asked a voice from behind me.

  I turned to see a moderate-height man in a yellow button-down shirt standing behind me, holding a large black briefcase in his left hand. “I’m Mitch Severin,” he said. “Amanda’s attorney.”

  “Good to meet you, Mitch.” We shook hands and assessed one another, as opposition attorneys often do. Except we were, at least nominally, on the same side. Perhaps only I assumed so.

  He was maybe mid-thirties, like me, with a wide mouth that dominated his facial features. His pale brown hair grew sparse both on his head and in thinnish brows over oddly inexpressive eyes. He must have practiced the latter as part of his litigator repertoire, at least when he interviewed witnesses.

  “Come over here a second,” he said, gesturing with a wide shoulder toward a window between a still life and a portrait of children at play. I joined him obediently, curious as to what he intended to impart at this end of the reception area where no other patients awaited their examinations.

  “Look,” he said sternly. “It’s one thing for you to want to help Amanda, but to make it a media event—well, that’s not in her best interests, and I really must insist that you stop.”

  “Media event? What are you talking about?” But I had a sinking suspicion I already knew.

  “This, of course.” He lifted his briefcase to lay one edge along the windowsill while he popped the clasp and opened it. He extracted a newspaper: this morning’s edition of the Los Angeles Times. The second page included a teaser leading to an article further inside, about the ongoing murder investigation of an alleged stalker named Leon Lucero.

  When Mitch turned to that article, not only was Amanda mentioned as a possible suspect, but several paragraphs were devoted to my knowing her—plus my own recent forays into far too many murder investigations.

  The byline? You guessed it. The reporter who’d attempted so assertively to interview me: multimedia maven Corina Carey.

  I didn’t actually owe Mitch an explanation. Even so, I said, “She wrote this without my input or cooperation.” Time to turn the subject to something different—fast. Although I made a mental note to pick up a copy of the Times somewhere, later. And hope I didn’t get heartburn from sizzling over the contents of that article. “Anyway, I assume you’re here so we can discuss potential attorney referrals for Amanda during the police investigation of Leon’s death, in case they continue to regard her as a person of interest—or, worse, a suspect.”

  “Well, sure, we can talk about it.” Mitch appeared a little affronted. Or maybe that pallor was created by the hazy light haloing from the window. In any event, he placed his reclasped briefcase on the floor and faced me with a frown. “But there’s been a little misunderstanding. I told her that while I’m mostly a civil litigator, I do criminal work, too—although I’ve never represented a defendant in a possible murder trial. I handled her temporary restraining order against Leon, you know.”

  “So she said. But are you suggesting that you represent her now? If you’ve no experience in potential first-degree murder cases, maybe that’s not such a great idea.” I folded my arms, unsure whether I intended to do battle, but preparing at least for a protracted disagreement. The guy’s ego was definitely overflowing into our conversation.

  “You’d be right, Kendra, if I didn’t take all the steps available to educate myself and do a great job for Amanda.”

  “What steps are those, Mitch?” I inquired with an ingenuous smile, as if I expected him to spout a good answer.

  To my amazement, he actually did. “I’ve found myself cocounsel of impeccable credentials.” The name he dropped was that and a whole lot more. Quentin Rush was the most recent lawyer to get celebrity murder suspects exonerated in high-profile criminal trials. “He’s promised to go over all evidence with me and sit second chair in the unlikely event this matter winds up in court.”

  Well, hell. The wind was definitely out of my anticipatory sails. I admitted to myself how impressed I was with this guy’s gumption.

  “That could work well,” I admitted, relieved despite myself. I mean, I’d committed to assist Amanda in exonerating herself. I’d certainly not volunteered to act as her criminal counsel, since all the litigation I’d ever done was on the civil side. And I hadn’t wanted to hand her a referral to my own excellent criminal attorney, Esther Ickes. I liked Esther way too much to wish Amanda on her. I’d come to today’s meeting prepared to provide an alternate referral, to Martin Skull. He’d represented one of my two original tenants when they both were murder suspects and their interests had started to diverge enough to require separate counsel.

  “Kendra. Mitch. Hi.” The female voice reverberated through the reception area. I turned simultaneously with the other attorney to face Amanda.

  Her pretty features seemed drawn and dismal—perhaps as a reaction to the LAPD staying steadfastly on her case. But did she apologize for taking that out on me? Hardly.

  “Come with me,” she directed. “I’ve reserved a small room where the doctors usually counsel patients and their families. It’s got a table and chairs—maybe a little like an attorney’s conference room.”

  “Sounds good,” Mitch said.

  The chamber to which she ushered us was indeed very small, and smelled of something antiseptic. The examination table in the middle of the room was no larger than one that could be found in a compact kitchen, and around it were packed six plain wooden chairs. About the edges of the room were several sorts of medical equipment I couldn’t identify, all full of tubes and wires and gauges. Beyond them, on the walls, was another assortment of original watercolors.

  Mitch and I sat while Amanda left us alone again for five minutes, returning with plastic cups and a bottle of mineral water. I didn’t even want to imagine what those cups might alternately be used for in a doctors’ office. I decided I wasn’t an iota thirsty after all.

  “So,” Amanda said brightly. “I guess, first thing, since I’m surrounded by lawyers, is to talk about who I should hire to represent me. Fast. When I heard from that Detective Noralles last night, he told me to come to his police station later today just to talk.”

  “Without counsel present?” Mitch asked angrily. “He should know better.”

  So should Mitch, I imagined. As long as Amanda was simply being questioned as a possible witness, and wasn’t in custody, she wouldn’t be read her Miranda rights, which would inform her of her right to counsel.

  No matter. If she wanted to bring a lawyer along from the get-go, the cops shouldn’t tell that attorney to get gone.

  “In any event,” Mitch went on, “I was just explaining to Kendra that there might be a misunderstanding that I’ve easily corrected.” He went on to tell her what he’d just enlightened me about—including the name of the illustrious media-impressing attorney whom he’d enlisted as his assistant: Quentin Rush.

  Amanda’s gray eyes glowed in apparent optimism. “That’s great. Now I won’t even have to think about hiring anyone else.” Nevertheless, she shot a gaze to me as if questioning my concurrence.

  “Mitch’s solution sounds fine to me,” I said.

 
; That settled, Amanda said, “If you can wait just a few minutes, I’ve told some people that you’d be here and that you needed their opinions on whether I could have done anything to Leon.” She leaned conspiratorially toward us over the table. “What I think, though, is that these people really disliked Leon. Not that I believe either one killed him,” she interjected hastily. “At least I don’t think so. But, Kendra, you asked for me to introduce you to at least a few potential suspects that you could start investigating, right?”

  Her change of mood from last night annoyed me. In the interest of accomplishing something, I played it commensurately cool and nodded. “Even if they don’t seem murderous to me, their answers to questions could point to other suspects.” I turned to Mitch. “I hope Amanda informed you that she asked for my assistance this way. But if you feel I’m treading on your toes, I’ll stop.” Which would in effect breach our semiserious contract and give me a great excuse to walk away—which I could always do anyway. But, hey, I didn’t want to hand Amanda the satisfaction of seeing me quit.

  “No,” Mitch said. “Go ahead and help Amanda, Kendra. She told me your agreement, and if I wasn’t already aware of your expertise in handling homicide investigations, that newspaper article gave a lot of interesting details.”

  Oh, joy. Seldom had I wanted to throttle someone more than I did reporter Corina Carey. But maybe all she’d shoved into her story was nothing but the truth.

  “I’m sure,” I said acerbically. Then, to Amanda, I said, “Okay. Bring on your first Leon-loather.”

  That happened to be Amanda’s direct boss, Dr. Henry Grant, a cardiologist extraordinaire, if his description of his credentials was to be believed. And who was I to doubt such an illustrious physician—notwithstanding the fact that he resembled Jonesy, a Welsh terrier whose acquaintance I’d once made, with his short, neat brown hair and matching, close-cut wiry beard.

  He entered the room with his white lab coat open and his eyes on the watch on his wrist. When he looked up, he smiled all around. “So this is Amanda’s defense team. I’m delighted to meet you. This is all such a travesty. First the poor woman is hounded by that terrible man, and then she’s accused of killing him.”