Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  “I’ve seen stuff about it on the news,” she admitted. “In fact, since hearing that Leon finally got his, I’ve been addicted to seeing what the media say about it. I recognize you now from some of the reports—the nosy lawyer who solves murders.”

  I tried to swallow my irritated reaction and managed a weak smile instead. “That’s me.”

  “So you think the main suspect, Amanda whatever, didn’t do it? She was one of his stalking victims, or so the reports say.”

  “I know firsthand that she was a stalking victim,” I said, “but even though his body was found in her house, I doubt that she did it.”

  “Maybe not,” Nellie said. “And I assume that, since you’re here, you wanted to find out if it was me. Well, Leon’s been out of my life for a long time, thank heavens. And in a way I have him to thank for all this.” She waved blunt-nailed fingers in an arc that seemed intended to encompass the whole gym. “I was an actress before. Got a lot of character roles—you know, the ingenue’s best friend. Then Leon decided he loved me, the bastard. I got damned tired of running away from him, hollering at the cops to stop him before he hurt me, and not just arrest him after. I realized real soon that no one was really going to help me but me. That’s when I started taking self-defense lessons. And did it ever feel fine to kick Leon’s butt the first time. And the second. There never was a third. I didn’t see him again after that.”

  “How long ago was that?” I asked.

  “A couple of years,” Nellie said. “I might have murdered him before then, given an opportunity. Now, I’d take great pleasure in squashing his balls with my best karate kicks. But kill him? No, Kendra, it wasn’t me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I BELIEVED HER,” I said to Lexie while we navigated the San Diego Freeway north on the way home. “How about you?”

  As always, my cheerful Cavalier seemed to agree with me as she looked over and smiled—well, panted. She then stuck her nose back toward where the passenger window was cracked open a bit to let her enjoy all the scents we passed.

  It was early evening, but the sky was darkening. We fast approached Saturday night with no social plans. Oh, well.

  Worse, I realized, was that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. We’d spend it together, but, undoubtedly, alone.

  Except … well, there’d been a little scheme I’d been mulling. The answer to two people’s problems. And maybe I could fix things for them both with a smidgen of my specialty: ADR.

  As I exited the freeway awhile later, I made a couple of cell phone calls. Amazingly, both people were available. I scheduled a Valentine’s Day dinner for more than two.

  Little did I know then how Cupid had decided to deal with us that day.

  I TOOK A generously long time with my pet-sitting rounds that evening, reveling in my visits with Stromboli, Piglet, and my other cute charges. With these guys, at least, Lexie got along famously, so I walked her right along with them.

  I realized I’d soon have a passel more clients without a whole lot more time to tend to them if I didn’t corral some backup during Rachel’s unavailability. I’d call my new pet-sitting cronies tomorrow. And subtly query them about any penchant for customer-pinching.

  I called Jeff that evening after Lexie and I returned home. He claimed to be recuperating well from his confrontation with Amanda’s fender. And, no, he still had no intention of reporting her to the authorities, or even his insurance company—which slew most of the sympathy I felt for his sore body.

  “Sorry,” I said to his repeated dinner invitation, delighted that my response would ring of truth. “I already have plans for a Valentine’s Day dinner.” I cringed at his sudden silence. Did I honestly want him to exit my life?

  Hell if I knew.

  The next morning, after a surprisingly sound sleep, I engaged in déjà vu, seeing most of the same animals again, all except for a couple of cats whose visits were confined to one a day. I even waved to Maribelle Openheim, who surprisingly was in her yard with Meph that morning.

  “See you tonight,” she called.

  “Right,” I returned.

  Then, speaking of cats, I called Amanda. “Can I come talk to you about what I’ve been learning lately?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But I gather you haven’t solved Leon’s murder yet.”

  “I need a lot more clues,” I admitted, shifting irritably in the Beamer. Lexie glanced at me in apparent alarm, and I reached over to pat her pretty head. “I’m hoping you can give me a few.”

  “I’ve told you all I know,” she stormed.

  “Have a fun time on trial,” I countered sweetly.

  “Okay, come on over.”

  THERE WAS A car in Amanda’s driveway in addition to her red Camry—one of those hybrid Toyotas that were supposed to provide better mileage than the majority on the road did by gobbling gasoline like chocolate and belching smog.

  Definitely not Jeff’s gourmet Escalade.

  I pulled my Beamer behind Amanda’s car. The day was overcast enough that I didn’t have to find a shady spot for Lexie. I went up the walk and stopped on the porch of the plain stucco cottage as I’d done days before, when Amanda wound up conning me into caring for her cats. It felt like a distant memory—long before Leon had leapt out at me, then got screwed with a lethal screwdriver, and I’d wound up entering into a devil’s bargain with Amanda, with Jeff as our possible pawn.

  I looked around toward the pittosporum, but no Cherise or Carnie appeared. I rang the bell.

  Amanda answered, dressed in a green gauzy thing over slacks. She appeared exhausted. “Come in,” she said. I followed her down that hall lined with seascapes, wondering which were Kennedy McCaffrey’s and which were Leon’s likenesses. There were several different signatures on the pictures’ respective corners. Walking as fast as I was, I couldn’t make out the names or count how many of each. In any event, their styles still seemed similar to me. Cheap style-copying? Amanda’s art preference? Both?

  I couldn’t see how this related to Leon’s demise, but without any suspect taking precedence, my mind stayed open.

  As I’d surmised, Amanda had company. A man I hadn’t met sat smack in the middle of her red-pillowed Scandinavian sofa. Obviously overweight, he had little hair and lots of flesh pudging out his round cheeks. He stood as we entered the room.

  “You’re Kendra?” he asked. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be, with that mouth on you.”

  He absolutely had me at a disadvantage, but solely for a moment. “You must be Bentley.” Amanda’s brother, the booze-drinking bailiff I’d spoken to on the phone.

  “Yes, I must.”

  As I recalled our conversation, he’d been the one with the annoying mouth. I’d simply suggested some directions for him to wander in. Like, had he happened to have driven up from San Diego the night Leon was murdered in his sister’s home? He’d said no, but who knew? Only Leon and him.

  Sitting in one of the matching white loveseats at the sides of the sofa, Amanda appeared confused. “How do you two know each other?” she asked.

  “Your ears weren’t burning the other night when we talked about you?” her brother inquired. “I’d tried calling you here, and Kendra picked up.”

  “The night you were being interrogated,” I explained, seating myself on a wooden chair atop the striped, shaggy rya area rug adorning the hardwood floor. Interesting, I thought, that Bentley Barnett would look so different from his annoyingly beautiful sister. What genes did they share? None that I could see. “I’d come to take care of Cherise and Carnie. Where are those cute cats, by the way?”

  “Around,” Amanda said distractedly. “How come I didn’t hear about this call?”

  Why did she seem so concerned about it? Could she be worried that her brother’d been the one to off her stalker?

  “Never came up in conversation,” Bentley replied.

  Amanda looked nonplussed. “So what did you want to talk about?” she grumped, aiming her annoyance at me.
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  “I’m still trying to fulfill my end of our bargain,” I said. “I wanted to run my progress, or lack thereof, by you for your edification and any information it brings to mind.” I described my discussion with Kennedy McCaffrey, followed by stalking-victim-turned-self-help paradigm Nellie Zahn.

  “She sounds perfect!” Amanda gushed when I’d finished. “I mean, there she is, all buffed up and strong enough to stab someone right where it hurts. She’s got to be our murderer.”

  “Did you listen to what I said?” I asked incredulously. “Sure, she won’t mourn Leon, but she wisely put that part of her life far behind her. Even used it to better herself. What would her motive be now?”

  “What if she planned it all this time?” Bentley interjected. “She could have started her martial-arts stuff intending to get into top condition, then get back at the jerk who’d stalked her.”

  Amanda clapped her hands. “Good thinking, baby brother.”

  I leaned back on the stark wooden chair and pondered this proposition. They could be right. Not that I bought it, but I couldn’t necessarily eliminate Nellie from the suspect list.

  Any more than I could dump Bentley Barnett. I mean, the guy obviously cared about his sister. And San Diego wasn’t so far from the San Fernando Valley. But Leon had had the strength of possible insanity. Bentley appeared too soft to get very far in any physical altercation.

  On the other hand, he was a bailiff. He was therefore a sworn peace officer with the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department, so he’d had law-enforcement training. He probably knew moves to put a suspect—or in this instance, victim—off guard.

  “You could be right,” I said. “I’ll look a little deeper into Nellie’s background and location on the night in question.”

  “Have you talked to Mitch lately?” Amanda asked. “He called late Friday to ask how well your investigation was going and didn’t sound pleased with your progress.”

  “He called you to criticize me?” I found that a whole lot irritating. I mean, Amanda’s lawyer could have discussed things further with me. Besides, he was supposed to be setting up a lunch so I could meet Quentin Rush—and talk about the case then.

  “That’s not exactly how it went,” Amanda admitted. She sighed. “He mostly asked if I’d heard any more from the cops. Which I had. That Detective Noralles of yours certainly likes to ask questions. I’ve had to tell him more than once that I’ll want my attorney involved if I answer any more.”

  “Good call. And for your information, he’s absolutely not my detective. Although the way he keeps showing up in my life, I sometimes wonder if he has it in for me personally.”

  “Do you think?” Amanda asked anxiously. “If so—well, is it possible to ask for a different detective to head the investigation about Leon?”

  “No way,” Bentley broke in. “Don’t you watch all those detective shows on TV?”

  I considered contradicting Bentley for assuming that what he watched was true. He should have known better. Most other people in the know, like Jeff and even my nemesis Noralles, were quick to say that the spate of TV crime-scene analysts, although absolutely enthralling at times, didn’t exactly do things the way reality required.

  “Anyway,” Amanda went on, “I informed Mitch you were doing a great job, and that the only thing I’d told the cops was that you were coming up with lots of better suspects than me.”

  “I bet Noralles loved that,” I said, shaking my head. “He gets particularly peeved when he thinks I’m butting into one of his investigations and showing up his detective skills.” Something I intended to accomplish this time, too. I hoped.

  That was when the two little felines stalked proudly into the room. The one in front—Cherise, since she was larger—had a small and definitely dead rodent hanging from her mouth.

  “Eeew,” Amanda groaned. “What are you doing, Cherise?”

  Both continued their approach until they’d walked onto the area rug and Cherise deposited her prize in front of Barnett. Interesting. Once again I wondered: The cats either gave presents to people they liked, or they considered Amanda’s brother an interloper.

  Giving weight to the latter possibility, the kitties both raised their hackles when Bentley stood and kicked at them. Or at least at the mouse. Either way, I started liking Amanda’s brother even less than I had a few moments earlier—which hadn’t been much.

  “Don’t do that!” Amanda ordered, even as the two Bengal cats backed off a bit and regarded Bentley as if he were scum beneath the feet of the deceased rodent.

  “They’re disgusting!” Bentley exclaimed. “Why are they carrying dead mice?”

  “According to Amanda, they give mice as warnings to people they consider intruders in their home. And that might basically be true, since one was found by Leon’s bloody body.”

  “Ugh. Get rid of them, Amanda.”

  “I’d sooner get rid of you, baby brother.” She stooped and picking up Carnie, who went limp with apparent ecstasy as Amanda stroked her furry back.

  “Time for me to go.” I stood. Because I felt sorry for poor Cherise, who still stood on the floor staring haughtily toward the humans, I went over and picked her up. Damned if the little snooty little feline didn’t start purring at me. I grinned. “I think we’re finally friends,” I told Amanda.

  “Don’t count on it.” She didn’t exactly sound thrilled. “So, do Jeff and you have something romantic planned to celebrate Valentine’s Day tonight?”

  The nasty way she smiled over those words suggested she knew I’d brushed Jeff off. But at least I now knew the two of them hadn’t made hot plans, either.

  Maybe.

  “Nothing for certain yet,” I said, speaking the truth. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch when I have something else to report. And keep me informed about any other people you think of who could be suspects.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I put Cherise down, and said a brief and insincere goodbye to Bentley. Amanda saw me to the door.

  “Have fun tonight,” she called as I strode down the walkway toward my Beamer.

  AS ALWAYS, I yearned for a shower after leaving Amanda’s company. Maybe more so, having met her dork of a brother.

  Instead, I said to Lexie, “I need chocolate. Mind if I stop at Ralphs?” The supermarket wasn’t far away, and Lexie seemed amenable—most likely because I had a hard time shopping anyplace there were doggy supplies without buying her some treat or other.

  I found a spot in the crowded parking lot, once again glad that the day remained overcast since I didn’t have to be choosy about seeking shade. “I won’t be long,” I told her.

  Which I wasn’t. Though we’d only recently started spending all our nights at home alone, I had adequate supplies to feed us, but, heck, you can never have enough salad or fruit … or chocolate. Or dog biscuits.

  I didn’t spend long in the store. But when I pushed the cart up to the trunk of the car, I didn’t see Lexie.

  I did, however, see a piece of paper stuck in the windshield wiper.

  My heart racing, I first rushed up to stare in the driver’s side window.

  Lexie was there, thank heavens. That was the good thing.

  The bad thing was that she was cowering on the floor.

  I pushed the button to unlock the door and dashed inside. Seeing me, she leapt up onto the passenger seat and into my arms. She was trembling as she laid her head on my neck and cuddled close.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her. Sometimes, I’ve known what my pup was trying to tell me as if she could speak English. This time, I didn’t. And it was one of those occasions when I ached to understand Barklish.

  As I sat there holding her, my eyes lit on that piece of paper lodged beneath the windshield wiper. I felt certain it would give at least some explanation.

  I snugged Lexie under my arm as I slid back out of the car and reached for the page. It appeared to be a common sheet of paper, and its contents had probably been printed on an ordinary computer.r />
  Its contents, though, were anything but ordinary:

  No more prying, or your dog will pay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LEXIE STILL BENEATH my arm, I rushed around frantically, attempting to find anyone who’d seen what happened. I mean, Lexie wasn’t exactly the most timid pup, yet she’d seemed awfully intimidated. Whoever left the note must have menaced her in some manner. At least the car windows were intact, so hopefully the threat hadn’t been too traumatic.

  But if someone had viewed whoever had approached my car, left the note, and possibly yelled at my poor puppy, no one still scrambling about in the busy parking lot admitted to seeing anything.

  “If only you could tell me who it was,” I said wishfully to Lexie once we were both ensconced back in the Beamer. “You might even be able to tell me who killed Leon. But who even knew we’d be here?”

  The disquieting answer was that someone had followed me from Amanda’s. Amanda herself? Bentley? Another person who was Leon’s killer, still casing the place to see what progress was being made in his or her identification? Had someone pursued me to Amanda’s in the first place?

  Did this mean I was getting close to identifying the murderer without even knowing it?

  If only I had a clue!

  AS I GOT ready for my Valentine’s Day “date” much later in the day, I was still pondering who the menacing party might be.

  Standing in the shower, I considered …

  Had I shook Kennedy McCaffrey enough to cause him to stalk me for the rest of the day? Had Nellie Zahn’s recently acquired self-defense skills allowed her to kill Leon, as Bentley had alleged, then threaten my beloved pup as a result of my even suggesting her as a suspect?

  What about onetime stalking victim Betty Faust, or her lover and protector, the muscular Coprik? Were one or both hanging around this area in an attempt to see if anyone suspected them in Leon’s death? If they’d killed him, they’d know where Amanda lived, of course, since the stalker was eliminated right in her home. Perhaps they’d followed Leon around a bit before he died to see where he hung out, and who his current victim was.