“Not much can be done tonight, but I’ve insisted on a speedy arraignment, and we’ll ask for bail then. Probably tomorrow.”
“She can make bail?” Jeff asked.
“Depends on the amount. We’ll ask for O.R.—own recognizance—but the chances of that aren’t high since this could be a capital case. Failing that, we’ll try for as low as we can convince the judge.”
“Well, let me know,” Jeff said. “I know some good bail bondsmen.”
I wasn’t extremely familiar with the criminal world, but in my limited experience I suspected that was an oxymoron.
“I could kick in something,” Jeff said. To get the ex-wife he purportedly disliked out of jail.
Jeff and I walked out together to the small parking lot for the public in front of the station, and he invited me to join him for a drink.
No time to answer before Ned Noralles strolled up to us. “Hubbard, how are you?” Obviously not caring a whit, he continued to me, “And Kendra. You haven’t handed me a better suspect than the one I’ve got. You must be slipping. Or, gee, could it be that I’m right this time?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Ned,” I said, “especially when you’re wrong once more. And this time it’s personal … again. The killer threatened my little Lexie.”
“Your dog?”
“Yep. You’ve met her. Anyway, I’ll be sure to let you know when I determine who the real murderer is.”
“Don’t bet on it,” he said with a scowl. “We’ve all the evidence we need. Amanda Hubbard is definitely it.” He stressed the last name, stealing a nasty grin toward Jeff.
“Oh, you bet I’ll bet on it. As if you didn’t know, I love a challenge.” With that, I slipped into my Beamer.
What an interesting end to Valentine’s night.
I COULDN’T LET Ned win that way. With Amanda under arrest, I obviously had to pick up my investigating pace.
I called her home the next morning, just in case she’d gotten out of jail earlier than anticipated. Not reaching her, I added her home to my list of pet-sitting places for the day.
Cherise and Carnie shouldn’t have to suffer due to their mistress’s untimely incarceration.
First thing, though, after dressing in a relatively casual skirt and blouse for an off-court day, I took care of my own pup—as well as my unsteady frame of mind. Lexie and I headed for Darryl’s.
“Kendra!” He sounded pleased to see me as we entered. Clad in his usual green Henley-style knit shirt with the Doggy Indulgence logo on the pocket, he was busy checking in the day’s clientele at the big front desk by the door.
Lexie beneath my arm, I watched in amusement as a large-sized shepherd mix played with a shih tzu, both tearing around the doggy resort, from the peoplelike sitting area to the canine toy-filled side and back again. Some of Darryl’s employees appeared a little less enthused, especially as other guests whose leashes or collars they held started woofing and acting eager to join the fun.
My own pup started to wriggle in earnest, but I held on.
“They just got here,” Darryl said with a little-boy grin. “They’re good buddies and like to wear off excess energy together first thing in the morning.”
“Cute,” I said. Then, “Could I see you in your office?”
“Sure.”
I kept Lexie in my arms, of course. For her protection, in the unlikely—I hoped—event that the boogeyman that threatened her still followed us.
Of course, Darryl didn’t know about that yet. “Is something wrong with Lexie?” he asked anxiously as he closed the door behind us.
“Not if I can help it.” I filled him in on all that had happened. “Ned Noralles notwithstanding, I must have worried someone. I don’t want to take Lexie with me, since that could mean leaving her alone in the car. But if I leave her here—”
“No worries,” he assured me, holding out his arms till I shifted Lexie into them. He gave her a big Darryl hug and held on. “You know I’m always around. I’ll tell everyone that she gets special attention, but the most special of all will be that she and I will be joined at the hip. Okay with you, girl?”
Lexie wagged her approval.
I headed out to see to Cherise and Carnie and my other charges.
The cats seemed surprisingly happy to see me—or at least to get some human company. They padded immediately into the seascaped hallway from the vicinity of the kitchen.
As if they’d anticipated my arrival, Carnie carried a poor, slain rodent that she dropped proudly on the pumps I’d put on for a day at the law office.
“Love you, too,” I told them both, then impulsively did lift the closest—Cherise—and give her a hug.
Damned if she didn’t give me a pleased purr. At least until I gingerly, and with a grimace, disposed of the day’s dead present.
“With luck, your mom will be home by tonight,” I told them, hoping it was so for all our sakes.
I kept my ears open all day for my cell phone to sing. And when it did, I felt a huge sigh of relief each time when it wasn’t Darryl telling me that disaster had struck.
And late afternoon, I did hear from Amanda. “I’m finally home,” she said in relief. “Did you look in on Cherise and Carnie this morning?”
“I sure did. Did they tell you otherwise? They even brought me a mouse.”
“Thanks, Kendra.” She sounded exhausted, and I knew she wasn’t her usual difficult self—not when she actually sounded appreciative. “I want to tell you what the cops said, what evidence they claim they have against me. We’ll get together soon. But when the hell will you figure out who’s doing this to me?”
Chapter Twenty-one
TO MY AMAZEMENT and irritation, three days passed with no additional information.
At least there also were no miserable contacts with Amanda to elevate my blood pressure—just a few quick phone calls now and then to put off our strategy session.
Which was fine with me.
There were no further threats to my Lexie, whom I ensured was always well watched and as protected as possible. Which was more than fine with me.
A phone call from Jeff, but not to verbally slap me down or seduce me. He merely hired me to come care for Odin while he traveled once more.
“We’ll really talk about us when I get back, Kendra,” he told me. “I promise.”
I could wait.
But I got too busy at the office on Borden’s burgeoning cases to do much more about Amanda’s arrest—Ned’s challenge notwithstanding. I was arguing motions that week for some of Borden Yurick’s senior-citizen clients—one claim against a car insurance company and another defending the client against an overzealous overcharging and under-installing swimming pool outfit. Nothing was happening yet regarding the Shermans’ claim against the schlocky Santa Barbara resort, but a response to the complaint we’d file would ultimately be due.
I attempted to relax by performing my usual enjoyable pet-sitting rounds, visiting pups and pussycats all over the east Valley. Each time I saw Stromboli, I looked outside for Meph but didn’t see the little wirehaired guy. I did hear from Baird, though, nearly every day.
“I can’t thank you enough, Kendra,” was his general conversation. “Meph is just the greatest dog. And Maribelle … did you know what a whiz she is at hairstyling? She’s given me a whole new look. I’ll show you someday. She’s sure I’d be a great new owner for Meph but doesn’t want to give him up now. She told me how depressed she was before, and that she’d unintentionally wound up ignoring Meph, but no more. I’m seeing enough of both of them, though, that I feel like I have a whole new family. I owe you a drink. Dinner. Both. Whatever you want.”
I felt certain, with that kind of enthusiasm in Baird’s tone, that Maribelle was most likely messing up his hair each night and restyling every morning.
Although, if so, they trysted with some kind of discretion, since I never ran into Baird while strolling with Stromboli.
Judge “Roamin’ Hands” may have met h
is match—both human and canine. Hey, maybe I could increase my pet-sitting and attorney-related ADR into a matchmaking service involving pets, too!
Sure thing.
In any event, I was relieved that Rachel’s latest trip to film her new movie role was postponed by a few weeks. Which should work out well, now that I’d scheduled a lunch with Tracy Owens of the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal for Thursday to discuss snake-sitting. It was important enough to fit in among Borden’s cases. I intended to get advice from Tracy about obtaining assistance without ceding clients to other sitters. I hadn’t yet phoned my other best contact from that enjoyable evening—Cavalier owner Wanda Villareal. Between both of them, I hoped to gain a lot of good guidance.
Later that day, there would be another attempt at settling the Mae Sward Pom-spaying situation: a conference including attorney Gina Udovich and her seemingly caring client, veterinarian Tom Venson. Althea had searched her many sources and had found no other complaints filed against the guy.
Meantime, I took on another pet-sitting client. Well, not exactly a new one. I was back to watching one of my longest-term pup charges, a pit bull named Alexander.
I was busy, yes, and loving every second of it. But at the same time, I was irritated that I’d eked out no time to excavate in Amanda’s quagmire.
Thursday soon slapped me in the face, and I stole off to the area around Beverly Center where I was meeting Tracy for lunch in a trendy yet not too expensive restaurant. The moderate-weight pet-sitter with the chubby face was puggle-less, just as I hadn’t brought my sweet Cavalier along. Waiting for me near the entrance, Tracy was clad in a nice blouse over a sparkle-designed shell, loose slacks, and athletic shoes. I felt a little overdressed in my lawyerly purple pantsuit.
“Hi, Kendra. Good to see you.” She gave instructions to the hostess that she wanted a seat near a window so she could observe the parking lot. “I’ve got Phoebe in my car today along with one of my clients. We’re off to a dog park after lunch.”
“I know how that goes,” I said.
“How do you handle your law career along with pet-sitting?” she asked as we took our seats.
“I juggle a lot,” I replied with a wry smile.
Her close-set light brown eyes seemed to sparkle with admiration as I described a typical day: a conversation, when possible, with my sometime-assistant, Rachel; then off to Darryl’s; early and protracted pet-sitting rounds; then a full day at the office—usually sans a lunch break—followed by more pet-sitting; back to Darryl’s for Lexie; then slipping into exhausted vegging out by the TV at home.
No need to tell her that, as a murder magnet, I also slipped in inquiries and investigations when I could.
“Then you don’t do daily exercise romps for owners who stay in town?”
Since the smiling female server, clad in the place’s black-shirted uniform, suddenly hovered above us, I held my answer until we’d placed our orders—mine a Cobb salad and Tracy’s a tostada.
“Not anymore,” I eventually answered Tracy. “Not myself, at least. My assistant takes care of midday stuff. Only, her services are a lot less predictable right now.” Tracy nodded her sympathy as I told about Rachel’s intent to become a film star. “That’s one reason I thought that Pet-Sitters of SoCal could be so helpful. I’d love to have a set of someones to back me up so I don’t have to drop good clients when Rachel’s not available.”
“A bunch of us work in the Valley,” Tracy said. “You should absolutely stay in contact with Wanda Villareal. She’s the one who had her Cavalier King Charles spaniel at the meeting.”
“I know. I’ve wanted to get together with her but I’ve been too busy. I’ll absolutely give her a call.”
“Do that.”
“Er … one thing, though. If sitters in your organization are asked by other members to help as backup in a crunch, do many try to keep the clients they’ve assisted with?”
“Only the awful ones,” Tracy snarled indignantly.
“But I overheard someone say something at the meeting—”
“About a former member whose butt we’d just kicked out of the club,” Tracy said. “We have our standards.”
“Great.” Relief rushed through me. Not that I’d begrudge a dissatisfied client’s finding someone more suitable to care for a beloved pet—as long as that someone wasn’t backbiting me.
“Anyway, be sure to come to our next meeting,” Tracy said. “I’ll bring up our anti-client-stealing policy. We’ll also have someone talking about animal first aid. And we’d adore having you speak someday on combining careers, or legal aspects of pet-sitting. And … well, a vice president who’d intended to stay on next year just found out her husband’s being transferred out of town. I’d love to say you’ve agreed to replace her.”
I felt myself blanch. “I know you asked, but I didn’t expect to be considered for something so soon. I doubt I’d have time to do justice to a club office.”
Tracy’s grin widened her already pudgy cheeks, revealing her perfectly straight, white teeth. “Someone as busy as you can slip in a dozen new responsibilities without a second thought.”
“Well … Send me an e-mail about what I’d have to do, and I’ll think about it.” And take the time to come up with a suitable excuse to say no.
We soon segued into the real reason she’d wanted to get together. At her request, I told her my experiences sitting for Pythagoras, the ball python. “He wasn’t a whole lot of trouble,” I said, “although there were times he was so sedentary I was concerned he’d died.” I explained his habitat with multiple temperatures to suit the cold-blooded reptile’s moods, plus feeding him defrosted mice. “His owner said that live ones weren’t a great idea since they could attack him.”
“Right,” Tracy said, starting to look as green as her salad.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I assured her. “Obviously you’ll have to get instructions from the king snake’s owner, though, since things could be quite different from a python.”
“Yeah, like maybe I’ll need to feed it live mice so it can have a good fight first.”
I laughed, and so did she. I said, “There’s a lot more contact with rodents in our business than I ever anticipated.” I told her about Cherise and Carnie and their pride at their presents—whether warnings to their perceived enemies or gifts for their human friends I couldn’t yet tell.
Which started something percolating back at the edges of my brain. Not that I extracted it quite then.
Our lunch was soon over. I exited with Tracy after we’d paid and got to say hi to Phoebe the puggle as well as her companion for the day, a black, fuzzy mixed breed twice her size.
“This was fun,” Tracy said.
“I agree.” We vowed to do it again soon.
“I’ll send you that e-mail right away about the vice presidency. We’re fairly informal and could hold a vote at the next meeting to get you in.”
“I’ll definitely think about it,” I said, holding my sigh inside.
I HAD TO scurry the Beamer back over the hill toward the Valley fairly fast to get to the settlement meeting for Mae Sward.
But scurrying over boulevards like Beverly Glen wasn’t always as fast as one intended. Still, I made reasonable time, hopped on the Ventura Freeway west, and was soon in Tarzana, outside the bland, short building housing Dr. Thomas Venson’s veterinary clinic.
Mae was already pacing up and down the sidewalk, appearing thunderous. “You’re late,” my largely built client berated me. She looked ready to do battle in a bright red tunic over dark slacks, her feet slipped into surprisingly high heels.
“By”—I looked at the serviceable round-faced watch on my wrist—“five minutes. They’ll still be there.” I nodded toward the building.
“I almost wasn’t,” she fumed, and somehow I forbore from rolling my eyes. “Do you know what that horrible vet wants? I can’t imagine he’ll say anything that’ll make me change my mind about suing him.”
“A lawsuit
is intended to seek payment for damages you’ve suffered,” I reminded her as we headed toward the front entrance. “If he’s offering to pay you something, we should listen.”
“Nothing will be enough,” was her parting shot as we stepped into the vet’s den. I didn’t bother asking if she’d considered a compromise to suggest, as I’d requested. I’d no doubt what her answer would be.
We sat in the waiting room for a minute before we were ushered into the same examination room where we’d met before. The metal table in its middle seemed newly polished, as did the gleaming linoleum floor.
“Have a seat,” I told Mae, gesturing toward a vinyl chair.
She complied, her ample form hanging a bit on either side. I took a seat, too.
Soon, Gina Udovich and her client, Dr. Tom Venson, slipped into the room. “Hello, Kendra,” Gina said. Her designer black dress, simple but elegant and definitely not formal enough for a soiree, suggested that this had been a court day for her. Or maybe she merely wanted to impress me. I was glad for my nicely styled purple suit.
“Hi, Gina. Dr. Venson.”
The vet was clad, of course, in his usual white lab jacket. Which, of course, set off the blackness of his hair. He appeared unharried, and unfazed by this meeting in the middle of his busy pet-healing day. His brown eyes held mine as he shook my hand hello.
Damn, but there was something appealing about this guy despite his position on the opposite side of my litigation table!
Once again, he took his spot near the door as the rest of us, all women, sat in the room’s three chairs.
“Why are we here?” demanded Mae. “What are you offering?”
Gina’s plain but well-made-up face appeared shocked. This wasn’t how settlement conferences were played.
But heck, I hardly ever stood on ceremony. Even so, I said mildly, “Your client asked for this meeting, Gina. You have the floor.”
“I’ll turn it right over to Tom.” She glanced toward her standing client.
“I have an idea that might get us past this disagreement, Ms. Sward.” His eyes were on Mae. “You’re unhappy because I spayed Sugar.”
Meow is for Murder Page 18
