Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  “I most certainly—” Mae began, but I held my hand up in a shushing gesture.

  To my great amazement, she actually shushed.

  “My opinion was that it was medically necessary, and—”

  My hand went up again as Mae’s mouth opened. Again she sat back, although the expression on her red, round face suggested she choked on her words.

  “And I know you don’t agree. In any event, I understand that you want to have more Pomeranian puppies.” This time he seemed to want a response, so I allowed Mae to give one.

  “I certainly do,” she said.

  “Now, I know you have other bitches at home who can have puppies, but that doesn’t fix things about Sugar. And I have concerns about how often they should be bred. So what I’m suggesting is that I provide you with a new Pom puppy from champion stock. One of my colleagues is the vet for one of this country’s best-known kennels, and he’s put me in touch with its breeders. I will buy you one of their pups that you select, at my expense … but there are conditions attached.”

  Mae’s features had started to soften as he spoke, but they steeled up again. “What conditions?”

  “That you will stay in close contact with those breeders and follow their guidance about when and how often to breed, and at what age to stop breeding, not only for this new puppy but also your other dogs.”

  What a wonderful solution, I thought. I started to smile at Tom Venson before I caught myself.

  It had to be Mae’s decision.

  “Would you like to think about it?” I asked her.

  “I already have.” She was smiling, which was a good sign. “As long as I can choose the puppy, and the breeder is one of the top ones like you said, we have a deal.”

  I caught Gina’s eye. She appeared as if she’d suddenly been struck in the stomach. I suspected she’d wanted to continue collecting lucrative fees from her veterinary client for many more months.

  “We’ll still have to document the settlement,” I said softly to appease her.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Things seemed almost amenable as we said our farewells that afternoon. I hung back just a little to speak with Dr. Venson. Sure, he was still represented by counsel, but Gina hadn’t gone far, and I wasn’t about to say anything to negatively impact the case.

  “That was a fantastic idea,” I told him. “I ought to hire you.”

  “As your vet?”

  “Well, maybe that, too. But I meant mostly as an advisor for my ‘animal dispute resolution.’ You obviously excel at ideas!”

  His warm grin set me to tingling everywhere. Damn, but I really liked this guy.

  “Are you interested in having dinner with me sometime, after we get this all resolved?” he asked.

  Was I ever! I stayed suitably sedate, though, as I told him yes.

  I wondered, on my way east again toward Darryl’s, how I’d ultimately square the possibility of having both Dr. Thomas Venson and Jeff in my life.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I NEARLY WHISTLED while I worked out with my pet charges that afternoon. Alexander the pit bull was in rare form, ready to romp right along with me around his owner’s hilly residential street. Stromboli was a shade less energetic, and I stared at his next door neighbor’s house as we strolled first up his street, then down again. No sign of Maribelle Openheim and her sweet, wiry Meph. No sign either of my onetime least favorite, yet most often seen, jurist Judge Baird Roehmann.

  I had a couple of other dogs to see to, plus a once-a-day visit to a cat’s home to take care of, and then I was done—thanks to Rachel’s availability for now. But after my lunch with Tracy, I felt a whole lot surer I’d be able to find help to handle my thriving part-time pet-sitting business notwithstanding my current helper’s cinema career.

  Lexie looked a bit bedraggled when I picked her up at Darryl’s—literally, since I lifted her into my arms. “Is something wrong?” I immediately demanded, concerned that someone had attempted to hurt her. I glanced around the almost empty main room of the doggy resort. Nearly everyone was gone for the evening, including most of Darryl’s staff.

  “Just a typical doggy fight over a tug-of-war toy.” Darryl slipped a finger behind one of his spectacle lenses to rub one of his brown, puppylike eyes. “Lexie was on one end, Lester the basset hound was on the other, and a bad-tempered beagle decided he wanted a turn.”

  “But we know Lester bit someone while under duress,” I said, Lexie wriggling as if she wanted down. “A person, of course, but does he chomp other dogs that torment him?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” Darryl said. “And tug-of-war is different from an intrusion onto his turf. Lexie and he were playing just fine till the beagle broke in—and he’s now canine-non-grata around here until his owner can show he’s passed an obedience course.”

  “But you’re okay?” I asked my Cavalier. She’d given up attempting to leave my arms and instead licked my chin.

  “Her feelings were hurt when the beagle and Lester started playing without her,” Darryl said, “and she tried to show them whose game it was. Lots of growls and nips, but more barks than bites.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Anything new on the Amanda front?”

  “No time again today. But I’ve promised myself to do better tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you can’t let that Detective Noralles win.”

  “You bet.”

  “Sure do. And I’m always here with my big mouth at the ready if you want to brainstorm about slimy suspects.”

  With Lexie squished between us, I stood on tiptoe and kissed Darryl briefly on that same big mouth—a sisterly buss, of course, for my very best friend.

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  On my way home, my mind circulated around all the stuff I’d do the next day to reinsert myself into Amanda’s investigation—until it was interrupted by my cell phone’s sound. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID but should have, since it had shown up there, uninvited, before.

  “Hi, Kendra? This is Corina Carey. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine until now,” I said grumpily. Since I had slowed down for a red light, it would have been somewhat safe to give the reporter the finger, invisible to her. Only, other drivers around might see it and assume I aimed it at them—not a good idea, given L.A.’s penchant for road-rage retaliations.

  “I just wanted to check in with you,” she said, ignoring my cantankerous comment. “Have you solved that latest murder you were involved in—that Leon Lucero thing?”

  “Number one, I’m not involved.” I lied. “Number two, I’ve no intention of telling you anything, and—”

  “Number three,” she broke in, “you obviously haven’t figured out who the killer is yet, or your friend Amanda wouldn’t have been arrested. Right?”

  I could have engaged in an explanation of exactly why Amanda wasn’t my friend, but I was certain Corina knew it already. She just wanted to pull my chain. And I wanted to unhook that very same figurative chain from around me. Maybe its symbolic metal links were polarized—making me a murder magnet.

  “You’re right, more or less, Corina,” I said with an exhausted sigh.

  “But you’ll call me when you have something exciting to tell the world, right?”

  “Sure thing.” I fibbed again to get her off my phone, since the light had turned green again. Hold your breath till you turn blue, why don’t you? “Bye, Corina,” I said and flipped the phone shut—once again without figuratively flipping anything in the reporter’s direction.

  LATER ON, I prepared for bed at Jeff’s, with Lexie and Odin already curled into one mass of merged fur on the floor.

  I’d stopped at home on the way here to grab a change of clothes and to check in with Rachel, who remained rarin’ to go with our pet-sitting plans for another week or so. I told her about my lunch with Tracy Owens, and she was enthused about my potential involve
ment and officer status with the SoCal Pet-sitters.

  To my surprise, so was I.

  And now, I’d showered and changed into a loose T-shirt for bed.

  Then my cell phone rang … as I’d expected it to.

  “Hi, Kendra,” Jeff said. “How are the dogs and you? And not necessarily in that order?”

  “Odin’s adorable, as usual. Lexie’s fine, and I’m glad to have her here, behind your even spiffier security system than mine—although there’ve been no further threats, thank heavens.”

  “And you? Are you naked? I am.”

  It was a conversation we’d held lots of times before, and even now, when I was ambivalent about the hunk on the other end, it still sent shivers of excitement through my sexiest body parts.

  “Not tonight,” I said with a hint of admonishment in my tone. Didn’t he know I was still upset with him?

  Didn’t I know?

  “I’m wearing a really unsexy shirt,” I finished.

  “Well, I’ll still imagine that you’ve taken it off for me. Good night, Kendra.” And then he was gone.

  But not, darn it all, forgotten.

  I’D INTENDED TO devote a lot of the next day to Amanda’s plight, but she beat me to it.

  She called early and begged me to come to her home.

  Call me stupid, or a sadist, or all the ugliest epithets imaginable, but I did it. I mean, I could have continued to work behind the scenes without subjecting myself to Amanda’s irritating presence anymore. But I’d promised her my assistance, and she might even have something helpful to say.

  Sure, she could actually have killed Leon, as alleged. In her position, with that god-awful, scary creep stalking her, I might have done the same thing. But the weapon, a screwdriver, still seemed all wrong. I’d have assumed someone as snide and attention-seeking as Amanda would have used something with more pizzazz to go after her tormenter—her car, for example, as she’d done with Jeff. Besides, she’d been advised that, if she’d done it, pleading self-defense could get her off the hook.

  “I really didn’t do it, Kendra,” she whined later that morning, as I sat on her Scandinavian sofa facing her.

  Lord, how I’d learned to loathe that whine.

  She looked pale and fragile and, yes, pitiable after all, wearing a loose white T-shirt with the expression, Cardiologists have hearts, on it, tight blue jeans, and blond and bedraggled hair.

  “If I say in court that I did, but it was self-defense,” she continued, “it would be perjury if I lied, right?”

  “Sure, but if it’s the truth, then you’ve a good shot at getting off scot-free.” Even wearing the skirt and periwinkle rough-knit sweater I’d chosen for today, I felt gauche compared with the pretty-even-while-suffering princess across from me on the couch.

  “It’s not the truth,” she protested, pouting. And then, more angrily, “I want whoever did it to be caught. To pay for taking a human life, even one as miserable as Leon’s.”

  Well, heck. When she spouted dramatic and politically correct statements like that, I considered sending her along with Rachel to whoever was producing her movie. Maybe Amanda should be writing trite but theatrical scripts.

  As if cued by their mistress’s outburst, Cherise and Carnie strolled in. And, yes, one carried a mouse corpse, which she deposited proudly upon my pump-clad right foot. Yech! Carefully, I pulled my toes out from under and said sweetly to the kitties, “Hi, ladies. Thanks for the present. Are you mad at me today?”

  And just like that, the thought that had been hovering somewhere beneath consciousness within my percolating brain poked through.

  I felt my grin uplifting every inch of my face. “Amanda, I have an idea.”

  She aimed suspicious silver eyes in my direction. “You want me to confess to everything without claiming self-defense. Right? I know you’ll stop at nothing to get rid of me.”

  “Oh, but I want to do it in a way to rub your nose in how wonderful I am—and how you’ve promised on paper to stay away from Jeff.”

  She brightened considerably, straightening from her partial slouch on the sofa. “You do have an idea,” she said with more animation than I’d seen from her all day. “What is it?”

  I told her.

  I FELT EVEN better about the idea when I discovered a screwdriver on the pavement beside my Beamer outside Amanda’s. Could have been an innocent misplacement of someone’s prized tool, but I doubted it.

  There was a long, ugly scratch in my driver’s door.

  Well, better a threat against me than Lexie, ’cause I could take care of myself. I hoped.

  I was at Amanda’s for the first time after her arrest, which had likely provided some measure of relief. The killer didn’t want me messing with the status quo. “You wish,” I whispered. I enclosed the screwdriver in a plastic bag from my trunk, careful to avoid handling it much and marring any fingerprints. Not that I anticipated any. The killer would be too careful for that.

  I left the bag at the North Hollywood Police Station for Ned Noralles to check out, just in case.

  As I drove away, I thought even harder about my trap.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “I REALLY APPRECIATE you coming here, Corina,” Amanda said the next afternoon as she sat back in the same sofa spot where we’d last connived together, here in her home. Today she wore a lime turtleneck over deep green corduroy slacks, and looked absolutely Amanda perfect with her blond hair styled flawlessly and her makeup immaculate.

  Reporter Corina Carey had dressed to rival her, though. Completely business casual, she looked like the zingy reporter she was, in a violet striped shirt tucked into cuffed slacks, with a purple blazer finishing off the outfit. Her dark hair was short and wispily combed to look casually unstyled. Good thing her mouth was so wide, with all the nasty words it spouted so often. Her teeth were bright, white, and undoubtedly bleached often. Her cunning brown eyes tilted slightly, suggesting some possible Asian ancestry somewhere.

  Okay, I’d seen the woman a lot on TV, spoken with her on the phone much more than I’d wanted to, but this was our first encounter in person.

  If I sound a little catty—as I am wont to do sometimes—well, so much the better, considering my scheme.

  “No problem at all, Amanda,” Corina was saying, rummaging in a big black leather shoulder bag—undoubtedly for a recording device. She sat on one of the simply styled Scandinavian loveseats across the coffee table from us.

  “It’s just that, with all that’s happened, I’m feeling a lot more comfortable staying at home with my cats whenever possible.” Amanda shot a subtle glance at me before turning her attention back on the reporter. Good thing Corina was still fussing with her bag, or she might have seen that little look.

  “I understand. And I’m really pleased that you decided to tell me your side of the whole, sad story. Kendra, I want to thank you for setting this up.”

  “You’re welcome.” I carefully corralled any reaction to the utter truth in the words she’d inadvertently used. But this was absolutely a contrived setup, and I hoped I’d stay proud of it.

  Speaking of cats …

  Well, I also hoped Cherise and Carnie would come in on cue … soon.

  Meantime, I sat and simply listened as Corina interviewed Amanda about how the awful Leon Lucero had entered her life.

  “You mean he painted some of those gorgeous seascapes I passed in your hallway?” Corina asked.

  “Well, yes,” Amanda said. “Although their composition wasn’t entirely original, but the actual paintings were.” She went on to tell about how “her” Dr. Henry Grant enticed cardiac patients with artistic ability to use his medical services. And that had included Leon—who’d way overstayed his welcome.

  Soon, they segued into the whole bit about how Leon had manufactured cardiac symptoms to book appointments at the office … to see Amanda. And how, after she’d only gone out with him once or twice, he’d insisted on more. And showed up wherever she was—a lot.

&nbs
p; Until, eventually, she’d had to get her ex-husband to help her stop the stalking. That had involved hiring a lawyer and getting a temporary restraining order.

  Which was when Carnie and Cherise strutted in, in all their feline glory.

  Sans mouse this time, thankfully.

  “Hi, ladies.” I reached down to stroke them, pleased to hear them purr.

  I allowed Amanda to perform the introductions to Corina.

  “They’re beautiful,” the reporter said. “I love cats. These are so unusual. They look like little leopards.”

  “They’re Bengal cats.” Amanda explained the breed.

  “They’re really smart, too,” I added when she was done. “They’re watch cats, kinda like watchdogs. Not that they bark, but they’re not only opinionated, they warn people they dislike to leave.”

  “How?” Corina turned her incisive reporter’s gaze to me.

  “Well, a lot of cats give presents of their prey to people they like. Not Cherise and Carnie. In fact, when I first pet-sat for them, that’s what I thought, until Amanda set me straight. The dead mice they deposited at my feet were a warning that I didn’t belong here, that I should leave or suffer the consequences—whatever they might be. Fortunately, the kitties never let me know. Now they’re used to me, so I’m not on the receiving end of their threatening presents.”

  “Sounds far-fetched,” Corina said, a skeptical scowl creasing her high forehead.

  “I’m sure Leon Lucero would have though so, too,” I replied, snuggling my smug smile deep inside my head instead of pasting it on my face. This was going as well as I’d wished.

  “What do you mean?” Corina said.

  “A dead mouse was found with his body,” Amanda explained. “Right there in my bedroom, where he was killed.”

  “That’s right,” Corina said pensively. “I remember reading about that.”

  Amanda shuddered. “Poor Cherise and Carnie must have seen the whole thing. They undoubtedly brought the dead mouse and deposited it by Leon when he broke in. And I’ve no doubt they’d now do the same thing with whoever else was here that night.”

  “You mean Leon’s killer?” Corina asked.