“Yes—Kendra. Ms. Faust?”
“Betty. Come in.”
After my assessment of Amanda’s physical prettiness—notwithstanding her pitiful personality—I’d assumed Leon stalked lookers. Not necessarily. Betty Faust was short, with a thick neck and squat build. Her black hair was beautiful, though—thick, wavy, and long enough to reach her waist in the back.
Maybe Leon had a hair fetish. Or maybe, since he’d painted seaside scenes, he also stalked ladies who lived near the ocean.
Passing a central stairway in the hall, Betty led me into a very blue living room. Not that it rendered me morose, but everything seemed nautical and picked up the shade of the sea.
She motioned me to a vivid blue settee, and I sat.
“Are you trying to help that poor lady who finally had enough and killed Leon?” Betty dove in sans preamble.
“I’m looking for facts that will help in the defense of Amanda Hubbard,” I corrected as a lawyer should. “I’m not her attorney, but I haven’t seen any indication of evidence that would prove her guilty.”
“I see.” Betty ran her fingers through the part of her hair that had slid over the side of her face. Her skin was an olive tone, her cheeks prominent. The more I stared at her, the more attractive her appearance seemed. Beautiful? Maybe not, but absolutely arresting. “Well, if she did it, I applaud her.” Which she did, and the staccato of her clapping reverberated through the small room. “If not her, I still congratulate whoever did it. The man was a menace. He hurt people.” She paused. “He hurt me.”
Her pale brown eyes suddenly studied the blue rug beneath the chair facing mine that she had taken.
“Tell me about it,” I encouraged.
That was all it took to get her to spout out a horrendous story of how she’d met him at a friend’s birthday soiree. She’d learned later that Leon had been a crasher, but he’d acted so sweet and romantic that she’d provided him with her phone number. “And then he’d call all the time,” she said with a shiver. “Somehow, though I never told him where I lived, he found out and showed up nearly every night. I lost two jobs because of him, since he kept coming into the gift shops where I worked and followed me around.”
“But you got a temporary restraining order against him?” I prompted.
“As if those ever help. I read in the paper about how your client Amanda got one, too, and how Leon ignored it.”
“Unfortunately,” I acknowledged, recalling all too well how he’d confronted me at Amanda’s house. “When did Leon stop stalking you? I assume he ultimately did, right?”
“Yeah, when I started seeing Betty,” boomed a deep voice from the doorway. Startled, I turned that way. The man who stood there filled the space, an Incredible Hulk look-alike except for the sweetly human face. The guy, dressed in jeans and a dirty workshirt, was huge, and Leon would have been a wimpy shrimp in comparison. “I told the jerk hands off. He listened.”
“I bet he would,” I said. Only, had he honestly? Betty’s guy clearly could have taken on Leon in any kind of physical contest. If Leon hadn’t listened, who’s to say that Mr. Muscles wouldn’t have decided to do something final about it?
As if he knew exactly what I was surmising, the guy said, “I’m glad the creep’s dead, too, like Betty. And if it helps, I’ll give you a check toward the cost of that poor lady’s legal defense. I’m Coprik, by the way. I own Coprik Marine—sell lots of boats and equipment at the harbor. Fix stuff myself, too.”
That I believed.
“Kendra Ballantyne,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m—”
“A lawyer. Yeah. Betty told me you were coming, which is why I’m here. I wanted to be sure you didn’t try to pin anything on either of us. Sure, neither of us is sorry the jerk’s gone, but we didn’t do it. Hear?”
I heard, and after only a little further discussion I soon took my leave.
Did I believe Coprik and his Betty? Not necessarily—especially when they spoke so often and explicitly about their delight in Leon’s demise.
I kept them on my list of potential people for Mitch Severin to depose in the event his illustrious cocounsel and he needed additional suspects in Amanda’s defense.
BY THE TIME the Beamer and I sailed out of Channel Islands Harbor, it was mid-afternoon. I could head back to the office for a couple of hours before commencing my evening’s pet-sitting chores. Or, I could make a stop along the way—to further check out Dr. Thomas Venson’s veterinary prowess.
I settled on the latter. After all, I hadn’t spent as much time as I should have on Mae Sward’s Pom-battery case.
This time, instead of taking up a spot in the lot behind the building, I parked along the street, not far from the front entrance. First, I watched the caliber of client who entered the clinic. No one seemed especially noteworthy, and their pets appeared essentially standard: big dogs and little dogs on leashes, and handheld cages that I assumed held mostly cats.
This wouldn’t get me any information I required to make a case for Mae. I needed to talk to those normal people and see what they thought of their regular vet.
I exited my car. I’d be too obvious if I entered the waiting area and began badgering folks with questions, so I sauntered down the driveway into the parking lot. Standing outside might not be fun, since it was a cool February day, and I’d dressed for legal success, which meant that my outerwear was a light jacket—more attractive than functional.
The first person I saw was a twentyish lady wearing an all-weather coat and carting a cat carrying case. “Hi,” I said jauntily. “Mind if I ask you about the vet? I’m thinking of starting to use Dr. Venson’s services for my own cat.” I bent and peered through the bars at an irritated-appearing feline who hissed. “Guess he doesn’t like confinement.” I forced a smile.
“No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t like Dr. Venson at all, but, then, what animal does like coming to the doctor?”
“True. And what’s your opinion?”
“He’s really nice to the animals. Seems to care a lot about them. I’d recommend him.” With that she hurried past.
My next victim—er, target—was an older Asian fellow with a large mixed breed on a short leash. The dog lunged at me as I neared, and the guy struggled to keep control.
“Hi,” I said and attempted to start my spiel about researching the vet for future pet care, but the man and mutt just passed me by.
“The doctor’s a good one,” the fellow shouted over his shoulder.
Two for two. But what did I expect? Anyone who came to see the vet was likely to consider him competent, or why bring a beloved pet for torture instead of treatment? Except Mae, of course, who’d claimed she’d continued coming because of the vet’s good reputation.
I decided on one more volley of veterinary inquiry. I headed back into the parking lot, avoiding a car that was exiting and eyeing a second for a possible subject.
That meant I wasn’t paying enough attention to the rest of the crowded surroundings.
“Ms. Ballantyne, what are you doing here?” came a familiar and forceful masculine voice from behind me.
Cringing and pivoting at the same time was no mean feat, but I managed it, along with a sheepish smile.
“Hello, Dr. Venson,” I said to the man who’d come up behind me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter Fifteen
“MY SENTIMENTS EXACTLY,” voiced the vet. He’d come outside in his white lab coat, which contrasted nicely with the darkness of his hair. I’d recalled how sincere his eyes had appeared to me in our prior meeting. Now they were wary.
An intelligent potential defendant.
“Who, me?” my own tone shrilled. “I was just looking around to see—”
“To see what my assets appear to be, so you’ll know how much to sue me for on behalf of Mae Sward?” He didn’t sound happy. I shrank at his continued assessing stare—right against the nearest Mercedes sedan. A lot of people don’t like strangers leaning against their cars, and I’d
no idea who this one belonged to. I stepped sideways toward the next auto in the row, a smallish SUV.
“I can’t talk to you about that,” I responded primly. “You’re represented by counsel, and your lawyer isn’t present.”
“That’s because you appeared here with no warning, Ms. Ballantyne. Why? What’s the real reason?”
Damned if I knew. Or maybe I did, not that I wanted to express it to him, let alone myself.
The truth was, I’d found the guy an iota too attractive the other day.
There. I had thought it. Nothing appeared from the sky to strike me down.
Jeff didn’t drive up in his big, black Escalade and start browbeating me. At least not the real Jeff. The one in my mind’s eye didn’t appear exactly thrilled.
I realized I was shivering slightly, and it had nothing to do with the lightness of my jacket. I’d been caught. And Tom’s question was pending. Yes, I was thinking about him on a first-name basis, even if that hadn’t been his means of addressing me this day. I’d liked him and his apparent attitude about animals.
But had he committed actionable battery on Mae Sward’s prize Pom?
I wondered what it would feel like to have those skilled veterinary hands of his commit battery on me. I glanced at those well-trained digits and noted he wore no wedding ring. Of course, since he performed pet surgery, he might simply ignore such customs out of convenience.
Okay, so he wasn’t as handsome as Jeff. Or as tall. Or as hunky.
But he seemed so genuinely nice and caring and … well, comfortable.
“Look,” I said, hastily discarding my inner thoughts, “I’m somewhat sorry you caught me here, but maybe it was for the best. Of course I can’t discuss the case, but you know I represent Mae Sward in a dispute with you. I’ve also developed a bit of expertise in legal situations involving pets, and my preference is always to attempt ADR. Do you know what that usually stands for in a legal context?”
His features segued from mistrustful to bemused. “How about if I ask you for the definition of a veterinary term instead?”
I laughed. He smiled. The tension between us seemed to vanish.
Not necessarily a good thing.
“Okay,” I said. “‘ADR’ most often means ‘alternate dispute resolution.’ With me, though, it’s ‘animal dispute resolution. ’ I always try to work out a way to craft win-win situations for parties on both sides of a pet-related issue.”
“That’s what you were doing here?”
“Just getting ideas,” I said. Lots of ideas. Ideas that didn’t necessarily have to do with Mae Sward and Sugar. But he didn’t have to know that.
Only, by the assessing and interested way he regarded me, I had a sense he already did.
“Anyway,” I continued hastily, “I’ll try to set up another settlement conference with your attorney, Gina Udovich. The best way to resolve disputes is for both sides to consider a compromise. I’d suggest you think about what you might be able to offer Mae in exchange for settling her claim, and I’ll tell her to do the same.”
“Good deal,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Kendra.”
He did remember my first name. As I strolled bemusedly to the Beamer and got in, I tried to tell myself that he’d sounded so pleased about the prospect of our next meeting only because of the potential for ADR it would bring.
IF I HADN’T had a foot alternating between brake and gas pedal as I headed the Beamer back to the Yurick office, I might have kicked myself in my own behind. Assuming I was agile enough to do such a thing.
I had a relationship with Jeff that hadn’t yet reached a resolution. I cared about Jeff. Maybe even loved him.
And he’d said he loved me.
If I found Leon Lucero’s killer and coerced Amanda into honoring our written contract—and, better yet, Jeff did as promised and enforced his prior assertion of preference—she’d no longer loom between us as a barrier to what might be. Only, maybe her presence over the past months had already caused too much damage.
Did I want Jeff? Did I want to drop Jeff?
Heck, I’d known forever that I was a loser in the love department. I mean, what winning charmer lets herself be seduced by the senior partner of the first law firm where she’d worked? Not that I’d started sleeping with “Drill Sergeant” Bill Sergement with my eyes closed—figuratively, at least. I’d known how ill-advised and ephemeral it would be. But that had been several years back. He’d since seduced another associate, after marrying someone else altogether. My affairs afterward had been blessedly brief—till now. And—
I had to cease my silly self-flagellation to slip several lanes over on the freeway for my exit. Thank heavens.
In several more minutes, I’d parked the Beamer in my prize parking spot and scurried into the office.
“Hi, Mignon,” I said to our exuberant and reliable receptionist. She wore a flowing silky top that day in shimmering red, festooned with decorative rhinestones. “The Shermans aren’t here yet, are they?”
“Not yet,” she sang. “It’s only three forty-five. They’re due at four, aren’t they?”
“Sure are.” I hustled myself down the open hallway to my office, where I speedily shuffled my files and notes together for the upcoming meeting. I was fully prepared when Mignon buzzed and bade me to come to the conference room. Or bar, depending upon how one regarded it. It was once the saloon side of this former restaurant building, and Borden had elected to retain the original décor. One end was lined with the large wooden bar, and the rest was filled with high-backed booths. Of course there was now a sizable and serviceable conference table in the center.
The Shermans, standing in the doorway, had already been schmoozed by my skinny, smiling senior partner. Like many of Borden’s prized clients, they seemed like swinging seniors. Connie was slightly stoop-shouldered with a well-wrinkled face, but her smooth hair was a highlighted medium brown, as attractive as mine had been when I’d been a high-priced litigator who hadn’t thought twice about spending big bucks on the area’s most sought-after stylists. Her husband Charley’s physique suggested the Pillsbury Doughboy, and he grinned equally pleasantly.
After initial amenities, including the ritual pouring of libation—no, not liquor despite the décor, but rich, aromatic coffee in large white mugs—we sat around the conference table and dissected the complaint.
“You’re sure this’ll entitle us to lots of money for our suffering?” Charley demanded when we were done.
“There’s no guarantee of winning anything,” I cautioned, “since we can’t completely predict what any judge or jury will do. But this is definitely enough to get the attention of that resort’s management, as long as they hire reputable counsel.”
“That’s for sure,” Borden seconded. “Especially that cause of action for fraud and misrepresentation.”
“The one that lets us claim punitive damages?” Connie shrilled excitedly.
“Exactly,” I agreed.
They soon signed their declarations and prepared to depart.
“Thanks so much, dear,” Connie said, giving me a small kiss on the cheek. “Go get’em.”
“Yeah,” Charley said. “I’m looking forward to using whatever we win here to take a nice, long cruise.”
“Don’t count your cruise before it’s embarked,” Borden admonished.
“We know,” Charley said, and then they were gone.
“Cute couple,” I said to Borden.
“Yeah, I’ve known them for years. Connie knows the odds of winning. She knows lots of odds. She used to be the head actuary for a huge insurance company.”
“And Charley?”
“He’s a longtime animal trainer for Hennesey Studios, semiretired now. I told him you’re a pet-sitter on the side. You might hear from him someday as a client when you’re wearing your other hat.”
“Interesting idea … sitting for performing pets.” And with that idea simmering in my skull, I headed back to my office to make
the minor edits to the complaint that we’d collaborated on.
By the time I was finished and handed it to a paralegal for finalizing and filing, it was time for me to slide away for the day for my pet-sitting stuff.
In a couple of hours, I’d completed all of my adored chores except seeing to Stromboli. I’d intentionally saved him for last. I’d no idea about his neighbor Maribelle’s schedule, but I figured that if she worked what was usually considered typical hours, she might be home later in the day.
I was bound and determined to continue my monologue about her treatment of poor Meph.
When I slipped the Beamer into Dana Maroni’s driveway, her automatic lights already glowed inside. There were lights on at the Openheims’, too—home of Maribelle and Meph—automatic, or an indication the place was inhabited by human fingers?
I did my usual enjoyable romp with Stromboli, feeding and walking and playing with the exuberant shepherd mix. When I started out, Meph wasn’t leashed in the lot next door! I was thrilled for the wiry little mutt. Maybe he was enjoying some attention after all.
But by the time I prepared to give Stromboli his exit hug and treat, there Meph was once again, seeming solitary and sad at the end of his leash.
Still … maybe I’d gotten through to Maribelle, since he apparently hadn’t been exiled all day. If so, I decided to give her a pat on the back. I went next door and rang the bell. I heard some sound as the peephole was used, and then the door opened. The middle-aged Maribelle today wore dark slacks, dark shirt and a tentative smile. “Yes—Kendra, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. I just wanted to tell you how glad I was not to see Meph hanging outside when I first got here. And—”
I saw tears slosh down her cheeks from brown eyes that today appeared more morose than suspicious. “You were right. I shouldn’t have taken it out on him, only—” She stopped. “Never mind. But thanks.” She started to shut the door.
Okay, I’m the nosy sort. At least where animals are involved. “If you’d like to talk, I’d like to listen,” I said.
Meow is for Murder Page 13
