Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  But I was an attorney and an advocate. And I had some advocacy to accomplish here. “I’ll discuss the situation with my client,” was all I could say. “I’ll be in touch with you soon, Gina. Goodbye, Dr. Venson.”

  “Tom,” he repeated his earlier request. “Bye, Kendra.”

  OKAY, SO I’M a fickle female. Or at least my mind insisted on being inconsistent right about then, as I drove my Beamer east from Woodland Hills toward Darryl’s doggy care.

  Well, what the heck? It wasn’t as if Jeff and I had any commitment to force me not to fantasize about the really nice Dr. Venson. And Jeff had been the one who’d sort of spoiled what we had, thanks to his ongoing fixation with his ex-wife, whether or not he’d committed to cut it off.

  Maybe I was rationalizing.

  Or allowing myself to consider yet another mistake in the arcane arena of relationships, since those sorts of errors engorged my life. Kick Jeff out before giving him a final chance to make good on his promise?

  Let another guy attract my attention simply because he loved animals like I did?

  I turned on my car radio as I determined to think of other things, like growing irritable over the usual, miserable, hardly moving freeway traffic.

  Instead, I nearly started singing along when the unmistakable intro to “It’s My Life” started. Only it wasn’t the radio but my cell phone.

  I reached across my seat and pulled it from my purse. I was traveling slowly enough to have no trouble glancing at the caller ID.

  What a surprise. It was my kinda investigative client, Amanda.

  “Hello, Amanda—” I began.

  “Kendra, you have to come here. Now. I’m getting scared that when I go to the police station to get questioned this time, that terrible detective won’t ever let me leave. You have to tell him your list of suspects. Better yet, can you prove who Leon’s killer was yet?”

  I swallowed the malicious retort that rose into my embattled mind. “It’s been less than a day since your last demand, Amanda. I haven’t even had a chance yet to ask Althea to do an online search about all the potential suspects you gave me today. And with a horrible person like Leon as the victim, I figure the list we have now is far from complete. Have you called Mitch yet to tell him how worried you are?”

  “No. I called you first.”

  “Well, he’s your lawyer.” I paused as a big bruiser of an SUV bullied its way into my lane. “He’s the one who’ll represent you at the police interrogation. Contact him now, tell him about our conversation, and let him reassure you.” If he can. “Got it?”

  “Yes.” She sounded sullen, sweet person that she was. “But we have a deal, Kendra. You promised to help me.”

  “And I will,” I assured her.

  But as I flipped my phone shut, I considered yet again shredding that symbolic shackle of a silly contract.

  Chapter Twelve

  A FEW HOURS later, I stood in the small reception area in Jeff’s Westwood office, the central hub of a suite composed of rooms radiating off it.

  Lexie was with me. I’d already picked both pups up from Darryl’s and dropped Odin off at home. His master wasn’t there, sadly for the Akita but fortunately for me. Then Lexie and I had done our pet-sitting visits a bit early. And now, here we were.

  “This is everyone?” asked Althea, the amazing Hubbard Security computer guru. She’d joined me and my Cavalier, who’d sat down obediently by my feet.

  When I’d met Althea face-to-face a bunch of weeks ago, I’d been surprised to see how pretty and well preserved the slender, blond grandma was. Sure, as Jeff had suggested, she was middle-aged in years, but for a lady in her fifties, she looked damn good. Her image was dynamically assisted by how she dressed, like someone decades younger.

  “That’s all I’ve got so far,” I said. “But I know you looked Leon up before. If there’s anyone else on your list of people he’s harmed, who could have hated him enough to off him, please pursue those strings, too.” Of course some of the threads Althea chased weren’t precisely public domain as provided by standard Internet search engines. There were those databases paid for by Hubbard Security.

  And then there were those that Althea accessed by avenues of her own devising. Hacker? Who, her?

  “Will do. I’ll update you by e-mail. Oh, and by the way, what’s the ETA for our fearless leader? I gather he’s coming home early because of the situation with our dear Amanda.”

  “I’d thought I had a monopoly on sarcasm when it came to Jeff’s ex.”

  “No way. There’s so much to despise.”

  “Amen,” I said.

  “I knew you felt that way.”

  “He’ll be home tonight. And our friend Amanda is why I need info from you.” I described my devil’s bargain to Althea. She might be Jeff’s employee, but she’d become my buddy.

  “I get it,” she said. “And I’ll feed you all the info I can. So … what’s the real 411 behind that L.A. Times story? The hype says there’ll be a follow-up on TV on that National NewsShakers Show.”

  My grimace undoubtedly qualified for Halloween gremlin status. “Just another nasty reporter who tried to bully me to tell my side.”

  “Considering her innuendoes against you and your possibly acting as an unlicensed investigator in a whole lot of murders lately, can I assume you didn’t give in?”

  I cringed. “You sure can.” Maybe it was a mistake. Only … how could I be sure the relentless reporter would get things right even if I explained my involvement? Or at least the part I didn’t mind the world knowing about—if there was such a part.

  “Anyway, thanks, Althea,” I called over my shoulder as Lexie and I dashed out. “We’ll talk again soon.”

  NEXT STOP: THE back room of a chichi pet boutique in West Hollywood where the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal was scheduled to meet. I’d brought Lexie without asking if pets were permitted. I mean, come on. Of all associations imaginable, this one, composed of an assortment of animal lovers, had to allow members to bring their own best friends.

  As Lexie and I strolled into the store, the barks from its rear, combined with human chatterings, told me the meeting’s actual location. The sales clerk’s directions confirmed it.

  Sure enough, the thirty or so people who milled around, caught up in at least a dozen conversations, all appeared to have brought their buddies along: a couple of macaws, but mostly dogs—mutts and purebreds—and among them, another Cavalier!

  That was the direction in which Lexie and I headed, of course. I quickly introduced us to Wanda Villareal, who in turn presented herself and her pup, Basil, who was the Blenheim coloration—red and white—so characteristic of the majority of Cavaliers. “The breed’s of British descent, of course,” she explained, “and I’ve always been a Sherlock Holmes fan.”

  “Basil Rathbone,” I asserted approvingly. “The actor who epitomized Holmes in all those early black-and-white films.”

  “Exactly.” Wanda’s heart-shaped face beamed as her Basil and Lexie exchanged interested sniffs. She was a particularly petite person, and I couldn’t imagine how she handled some of the larger or more robust animals that might come under her charge as a pet-sitter. Wanda wore a loose-fitting pink gauzy top over blue jeans, and her brown hair was pulled loosely into a clip at her nape. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’ve never seen another Cavalier at one of these events.”

  I gave her a grin. “It’s a lot easier to keep track of pets I’ve met, too, than the people who own them.”

  “That’s for certain,” said someone else who’d approached from behind Wanda. “Hi. I’m Tracy Owens.”

  “The originator of this august organization,” said Wanda.

  “You could say that,” Tracy admitted modestly as we shook hands. She stood around my own stature of five-five, and appeared as if the exercise she obtained as a pet-sitter didn’t quite keep her in shape. Or maybe her chubby cheeks and full lips were what gave that impression, since she was far from fat.

  Attached
to the end of the brown leather leash she held was a small, short-haired sweetie of a pup. “Is that a puggle?” I guessed. I’d never before seen one of the touted designer dogs that were hybrids between a pug and a beagle.

  “Sure is. This is Phoebe.” Who also got along famously with Lexie and Basil.

  Tracy soon called the meeting to order—after we’d all helped ourselves to cheese and crackers for us and gourmet biscuits for our babies. She introduced the store’s owner who graciously allowed the group to gather there, and who also gave a sales pitch for her darling canine duds and other merchandise.

  I could wax eloquent for an amazingly long time about what went on at the meeting—introductions and discussions of who pet-sat where and why, where the organization hoped to head, that kind of thing.

  Suffice it to say that my spirits soared! Here were all kinds of kindred souls, including some who also saw clients in the San Fernando Valley. One of them was Wanda, and afterward she and I exchanged contact info as fellow Cavalier lovers.

  “Maybe we could meet for coffee someday,” she said, “and you could tell me how you got into all those messes that the media talk about. Or not,” she added, after I emitted a rueful sigh.

  “I’d hoped no one here would associate me with that Kendra Ballantyne,” I explained.

  “It’s an unusual enough name that you’re out of luck,” said Wanda.

  “Amen,” I agreed and started to mingle.

  And stopped short as I eavesdropped on a conversation in which one pet-sitter complained to another. “Trust someone else to take care of a client now and then? No way. Just guess who stole three of my customers after I asked for her help.” I turned to see Wanda talking with someone I hadn’t yet met.

  Sigh. One of my major reasons for joining was jeopardized from the get-go. Lexie and I headed for the door.

  We were stopped by Tracy. “Are you leaving, Kendra?”

  I admitted I was, then bent to give Phoebe a parting pat. Basil, too, as Wanda and he joined us.

  “Glad you came,” Tracy said. “Oh, and by the way, we’re looking for a slate of officers for the organization for the upcoming year. Are you interested?”

  “Most likely not, but I appreciate your asking.”

  Seeing the look exchanged between the two women whom I’d just met and shared a simpatico situation with, I suddenly had a sinking sensation that my polite but less-than-firm refusal could lead to my affiliation with this new organization sucking in whatever was left of my over-extended time.

  LIKE A GOOD citizen and possible pet-sitters club member, I’d had my cell phone turned off in the meeting. I turned it back on again when Lexie and I sat inside the Beamer. It immediately beeped—I’d received a message. I checked the missed-call list first.

  Amanda.

  If I’d thought I’d hate being subservient to that nasty lady as her cat-sitter, that was nothing compared to how overused I felt now. But unless and until I dumped Jeff, her, and investigating, I’d have to respond. “Hang on a sec,” I said to a bouncing Lex as I called in for the message.

  Amanda’s habitual hysterics came across in her recorded voice. “Kendra, all their questions—terrible! I’m on a potty break now. And, yes, Mitch is with me at the police station. It looks like they’ll keep me here all night. Please check on Cherise and Carnie for me. They’ll be so lonesome.” Click. Once again, no thank-yous, not that I’d ever observed the slightest evidence of etiquette from Amanda.

  I couldn’t let her cats suffer as a result of her insufferability. But I still needed some info before I could go care for them. Would she be able to answer her phone?

  I would only find out if I called her back.

  Her voice, when she answered, sounded drained. “You didn’t need to call back, Kendra. Unless—you are going to look in on my kitties for me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but you’ll need to tell me if they’re at your house. Has the crime scene been released back to you?”

  I heard a strangled sound. “Crime scene? Yes, my home’s mine again now, and the cats are there. And with all the confusion before, I never got the key back from you.”

  “True.” You never paid me, either. I didn’t say that out loud—this time. I’d insist on pet-sitting payback, though, whether or not I exonerated her of Leon’s slaying. “I’m on my way now.” With only an instant’s hesitation, I added, “Good luck with Ned Noralles.”

  Her laugh was cynical. “Yeah. Oh, and … Well, I know Jeff’ll be back tonight. Please tell him what’s going on. For now, at least, he may be interested.”

  Translation: You haven’t earned my obligation to leave him alone, Ballantyne, so I’ll twist the screwdriver in your stomach—ersatz this time—until you fulfill your end of our bargain.

  LEXIE WASN’T EXACTLY elated when I left her in the Beamer in Amanda’s driveway. I almost parked on the street after recalling all too well being blocked in there by the loud and angry Leon.

  That was one occurrence I no longer had to fear.

  Both leopard-cats came straight out to see me as I entered the seascape-lined hallway. Their striped tails waved in the air airily, as if they felt utterly nonchalant in my presence, and one issued an irritated meow.

  “How are you two doing?” I asked somewhat anxiously. I mean, even though they were Amanda’s charges, they had sensibilities as much as any other pets. All the upset and excitement in their lives couldn’t have been good for them.

  Their response was to stick a lot closer to me than usual during this visit, which was indeed an answer. “Poor ladies,” I said to them, and they even purred and rubbed up against my legs as I prepared to pour out their supper. “If you’d known I was coming, would you have caught a special mouse for me?” I still wasn’t certain whether it was a sign of affection from these particular felines, or whether conveying rodent corpses was a threat to trespassers.

  The media, including Corina Carey, had picked up on the mouse near Leon’s corpse and seemed also to speculate on its significance.

  While I watched the cats glance into their dinner bowls and grudgingly each grab up a morsel, Amanda’s kitchen phone rang.

  Knowing that she had a message machine, I pondered whether to answer it.

  Well, why not? I was supposed to be assisting her in finding who really did Leon in, in this very house. Anyone who knew where she lived could theoretically become a suspect.

  Amanda’s kitchen phone was a handset sitting in a cradle on the tile counter, near the sink. I picked it up and pushed the button. “Hello, Amanda’s home.” Even after all this time, I sometimes had a hard time using her last name, since she still shared it with my own sometime lover.

  “Who’s this?” demanded the male voice at the other end.

  “Who’s this?” I responded.

  “Bentley,” he said.

  “Bentley who?” I asked sweetly, even while despising how this conversation was degenerating into a weird game of “knock-knock.”

  “Bentley Barnett.” The name sounded squeezed through clenched teeth. “Amanda’s brother. And you?”

  “I’m Kendra Ballantyne, her pet-sitter.” I’d headed across the shiny hardwood floor toward the square table in the corner, where I pulled out a squat chair and sat.

  “Oh, yeah. She told me about you. The one who’s after ol’ Jeff these days.”

  My turn to grit some teeth. “They’re divorced,” I said. Then, more brightly, I added, “Unfortunately Amanda can’t come to the phone right now. She’s under police interrogation.”

  “Damn! That’s why she didn’t answer her cell phone.”

  She must have been ordered to turn it off after our conversation. Either that, or she noticed the caller ID and chose not to speak with her sibling.

  “That bastard Leon’s getting to her even now that he’s dead,” Bentley continued. “Why she even went out with that slimy muscle-shirted son of a bitch in the first place—”

  “Oh, then you met Leon?” And hated him?


  And killed him?

  Amanda might not like it if I pinned the murder-tale on her apparent jackass of a brother, but better than her, right?

  “Oh, yeah, I met him. I was even hanging out at her place one night when he did some of his stalker routine. I got him to leave. Fast.”

  “Then why didn’t you hang out with Amanda more, scare him off her back permanently?”

  “Because my job’s in San Diego, not there. I convinced her a few months ago to move in with the folks for a while up north, near Bakersfield. But did she stay? No. She just had to go back to L.A. She wouldn’t even think of coming down to stay with me. Not with your buddy Jeff there.”

  “Of course.” Now, how was I going to extract the information I intended? Oh, what the hell? I dove into the direct approach. “I don’t suppose you were in the L.A. area yourself late last week … say, Friday?”

  I heard a semblance of a sardonic laugh. “You asking if I killed the guy? Well, if I’d happened to have been there when he snuck into my sister’s home, I might have done it—strictly self-defense, of course. I know how those things go, and what defenses there are in murder trials. I’m a bailiff down here, in the San Diego Superior Court. Do I have a great alibi for the night the bastard died in Amanda’s house? No. I went out early with some buddies, got drunk, drove home, and went to bed, all by myself. I could have had time to drive to L.A., kill the bastard, and get back before anyone noticed. Will I admit to you that I did it? Hell, no. I wish you luck finding out who did, though. One thing I’m sure of is that it wasn’t Amanda. She’s too prissy to get blood on her hands. Poison … maybe. But I heard it was a screwdriver. Anyway, tell her I’ll call her later. Nice meeting you, Kendra.”

  “Likewise, Bentley,” I lied.

  I checked once more on Carnie and Cherise, then headed out toward my Beamer and Lexie, musing every moment.

  Interesting conversation I’d had with Amanda’s brother. Was I convinced he didn’t do it? No way. Did I assume his filial devotion would force him to confess to save his sister if he did do it? Nope.