Pick and Chews

by Linda O. Johnston

“Very true,” I told him.

  “Then let’s do it,” he said. “Though in the unlikely event that we get into any iffy areas, I’ll have to back off.” He brought out an agreement for me to sign. We went over it briefly, and its contents and price sounded okay—or at least I hoped so.

  After a short while, Shea was my attorney on this matter: the threats against Biscuit, assuming we could determine who was at fault, and any potential related threats against me, including those from Oliver.

  “Okay,” he said. “Tell me who you think left that threatening note and why.”

  He of course knew about Raela’s new clinic and was familiar with my clinic. I went into a brief explanation about Raela, Jon, and Oliver’s connection to the Knobcone Clinic due to Reed’s former employment with them in San Diego and Arvie’s search for a new vet.

  “As her lawyer, I’d imagine you were one of the first people to hear about Raela’s death,” I said to Shea. He nodded slightly.

  “Well,” I continued, “I need to let you know I have a kind of odd nonrelationship with the local cops, especially a couple of the detectives, related to the other murders that have happened in town over the past year. And—well, I guess I can be forthright with you since you’re now my lawyer. I’ve been discreet in how I talk about this in general, but I have to say, I did a better job than the authorities in finding out who those murderers were.”

  “So they think you’re going to do their jobs and solve all murders around here?” Shea’s tone sounded amused, though he maintained a blank expression on his face.

  “Not really. They’re not particularly happy about me, a total amateur, outclassing them in solving these cases.”

  “Interesting,” Shea said. I couldn’t interpret the look he shot at me with his pale blue eyes. Maybe he was trying to see inside me to figure out how I could do better than the trained cops. Well, if he could learn that, I wished he’d reveal it to me, too.

  “Anyway,” I said, “you may be aware that after Raela was found, the detectives spent nearly an entire day questioning those of us who work, in whatever capacity, at the Knobcone Clinic. I gathered this was because Raela was new enough in town that she hardly knew anyone, but she’d met all of us—and rubbed most of us the wrong way. She’d complained very loudly one day, at our premises, about Reed and Arvie not even considering her for an interview. And she made a scene in our lobby, handing out flyers for her new clinic. I guess the cops wanted us to point fingers at one another—and maybe have someone stand out as the probable killer.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.” Shea typed something on his tablet. Then he looked up again. “But I still don’t see where this is going.”

  “Well, the thing is,” I said, “I’ve been getting pretty frustrated recently.”

  “Because the cops, unlike you, are zeroing in on your boyfriend Reed Storme as the likely killer.” This time, Shea’s expression looked strangely challenging. “But you’re willing to do anything to make them look in a different direction.”

  “Because he’s innocent,” I retorted. I certainly hoped so, and it seemed that enough time had passed by now that if there had been any genuine evidence against Reed, the cops would have found it.

  Or so I told myself.

  “Maybe.” Shea sounded as convinced as the cops.

  “Anyway, Reed didn’t threaten Biscuit. No way. But I decided to visit my contacts at the police department—those detectives—and they wanted to know where I stood with my suspicions. So I named everyone I considered to be suspects, and why, and I gather that even though they’d already talked to all of them, they jumped on them again with more questions. Got pushier, maybe.”

  “Yeah, really?” This sounded like sarcasm from Shea, but I kept going.

  “In fact, they may have treated each one of them as if they were the prime suspect. That’s what I think, anyway. I also think that Oliver took it personally. He was very angry when he was told to come in for another interview, and the next day I got the note that told me to stop speaking to the cops and threatened Biscuit.”

  Again, my dog heard her name, and this time edged closer to me, lying with her head on my sneaker-clad foot.

  “I see.” Shea paused, not looking up at me. “Did it ever occur to you to listen to the police? I assume they told you to back off, even if you had an opinion about who the murderer was.”

  That seemed a strange thing for my new attorney to say. “My reason for talking to you isn’t so you can tell me to stop what I’m doing,” I stated. “My closest friends and family do enough of that. I’m involved now, like it or not. Maybe it was a mistake, but I did go back to the station again and tell the cops about the threatening note. They weren’t helpful at all.”

  “You did what?” Shea demanded. “Don’t you think going back to the police was a little foolish?”

  Maybe so, but I also thought the lawyer I’d hired ought to be more sympathetic. Instead of insulting me, he should try to come up with other ways I could protect my dog and myself.

  “What I need,” I continued, “is to hear what kind of legal action I might be able to take against the person threatening Biscuit, and any suggestions you might have as to how to figure out who it is—in case it isn’t Oliver after all. I saw him again, by the way, at the police station after my most recent visit and he was even nastier.”

  Shea’s look hardened, and he shook his head before returning his attention to his tablet.

  Something inside me was starting to do somersaults, though. As I continued to watch Shea, waiting for his suggestions and legal advice, I went over, in my mind, the few comments he’d made since I’d started recounting what I’d done.

  He had already heard about the detectives’ first visit to the clinic after Raela was killed. He was pointing to Reed as the probable killer. He was apparently aware that the cops had gotten pushier with the suspects I’d suggested they ought to talk to again.

  And he also gave me a hard time about talking to the cops about the note.

  I then recalled that in my first visit to the station, I’d told Wayne Crunoll that although I couldn’t get a lawyer to violate attorney-client privilege, I didn’t know whether lawyers were bound by it when questioned by authorities like the police. I’d suggested that the cops talk to Shea about anything Raela might have told him that could have spurred someone to murder her.

  What if they had? What if Wayne and Bridget had pushed Shea the way that Oliver felt they were pushing him?

  Oliver hadn’t liked it, and he’d claimed not to be the killer—of course. But what if Oliver was telling the truth?

  And what if Shea had a reason to be mad that I’d suggested the cops talk to him, and possibly push him? And to be mad that I’d disobeyed the instructions in the note and talked to the cops again?

  Oh, no. Surely this was just my wild imagination.

  But that same imagination had helped me solve three murders already. Was it happening again—with my mind going in a different direction than I’d previously imagined?

  I needed a break to think about it.

  I needed to get out of there.

  “You know what?” I said. “I think I acted too hastily in coming here. I want to ponder the situation a little more before I start any kind of confrontation with Oliver or anyone else, legal or otherwise. Just go ahead and bill me for a full hour of your time. If I decide to go forward with this, I’ll contact you to make another appointment.”

  I made myself smile at him as I gathered my purse and Biscuit’s leash—but it was already too late. Shea had somehow gotten around his desk, and he swooped up Biscuit into his arms.

  My perfect, friendly little dog knew something was wrong and wriggled, even growled—highly unusual for her.

  “What are you—” I started to demand, but Shea interrupted.

  It was then that I saw he had a small gun in his hand—and it was pressed right up against Biscuit’s chest.

  “Guess who threatened your damned dog to s
hut you up,” he said with a sneer. “And now we’re going to get out of here. I thought about meeting with you someplace else, but since you wanted to hire me, I figured it wouldn’t look official enough. And I thought it would be okay, since you didn’t know anything, but … well, I gather you’ve guessed.”

  “That you killed Raela?” I saw his gaze harden even more. “It was a guess, yes—before. And I can’t say it’s more than a guess now, so if you’ll just let us go … ”

  Shea seemed to ignore what I said and began to talk again. “It would be awfully hard to come up with a good excuse as to why I had to shoot you and your dog here at the office. But if you’re a good girl and leave quietly with me, we can make it look like we’re just happily leaving the building together. I’ll let you go when we’re out of here and I can just slip away.”

  Yeah, and I was a monkey’s uncle—or aunt. Or pet dog.

  Never mind that. Shea was right about one thing. Staying here to get shot wasn’t a good idea.

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “Let’s get out of here, and I’ll expect you to live up to that promise.”

  And if I bet my life and Biscuit’s on it, I was sure we wouldn’t be around much longer.

  Twenty-Nine

  As we stepped through the door into the hall, Shea stopped and looked the opposite way from how I’d come. “The damned emergency stairway has an alarm,” he growled, “or we’d just be able to slip out that way.”

  And he’d be able to kill Biscuit and me in there with no one any the wiser about who’d done it. I was grateful for the alarm.

  Was there a way I could stop him from doing anything rash if I tried to get help while walking in a fairly public direction—without anyone getting hurt, including us?

  Where were all the people who’d been roaming the hallway when Biscuit and I had arrived? Wasn’t another elevator supposed to be emptying somewhere around here?

  Surely there would be someone who’d walk by or pop out of an office and see what was going on—then safely duck back in and call 911.

  But I saw no one. And I didn’t dare do anything that could lead to this SOB of a lawyer harming my dog.

  My phone was in my pocket, but Shea would see if I tried to grope for it and push any buttons.

  What was I going to do?

  A stupid idea came to mind—but it was better than no idea at all. Did I dare to do it? If I was the only one who’d possibly be hurt, there was no question at all. But Biscuit?

  And Les?

  No time to ponder. We were halfway to the elevator, near the door I sought. I was walking right beside Shea so I could keep an eye on what he was doing with Biscuit—and he unfortunately could keep an eye on me.

  Suddenly, I grabbed the arm that held the gun targeting Biscuit, since it was closest to me. I yanked quickly downward, so the weapon was aimed away from my dog and me as I grabbed onto it.

  “Hey!” Shea shouted, not letting go.

  At the same time I reached out to my other side and slammed open the door to Les’s outer office. “Help!” I screamed. “Les, call 911!”

  Now Shea was wrenching my hand that had hold of his gun. He’d dropped Biscuit, and my poor little dog had landed sideways on the hallway floor. She stood up right away and started barking.

  That, plus my screams, apparently raised a lot of attention. Some of the other office doors started to open.

  The gun. Shea was stronger than I was, and as hard as I tried to keep hold of it—without doing anything to the trigger—he now had control over it.

  And aimed it at Biscuit.

  “No!” This time I leaped onto him with all my weight, my arms around his throat, somehow slamming him to the floor. The gun went off.

  I half expected, half hoped, to feel the bullet hit me, since that would mean Biscuit was okay.

  It didn’t.

  But someone in the doorway to a nearby office, a man, also began shouting. Had he been hit?

  As I’d feared, I didn’t want to be the cause of anyone else being hurt.

  “Carrie!” That was Les’s loud, authoritative voice. I managed a glance toward his doorway and saw him standing there, phone in one hand and folding chair in the other. Really? But he used the metal chair as a weapon, zooming forward and striking Shea’s back with it.

  Shea, on the floor, turned to aim the gun at Les. No. I couldn’t let him shoot Les. But I didn’t have a weapon I could use against him now.

  Wait. I did have a weapon, one I had never have thought of before, and her name was Biscuit. I didn’t even have to do anything to get her to attack. My perfectly sweet, kind, loving little dog had continued growling, and now she leaped up to where Shea sat on the floor and chomped down onto his gun hand.

  “Ow!” he shouted, trying to shake my dog off him, but it was enough disruption for me to jump onto him, too, and smash his hand down to the floor, holding it in place under my foot.

  “KHPD!” shouted another voice from somewhere beyond us. This fast? Yes! Three uniformed police officers, guns drawn, waved all the people in the hallway out of their way, and in seconds they took control of Shea.

  And me, and Biscuit, too, but that was okay.

  “So glad you’re here, officers,” Shea panted as they cuffed his hands behind him after taking his weapon. “I’m a lawyer. That woman made an appointment to see me and drew a gun on me. I know her, and I think she’s involved with that murder that occurred here.”

  “Oh, can it, mister.” Les was now in the hallway with us, shaking his head. “I’m City Councilman Les Ethman, and I can vouch for Ms. Kennersly. She’s all right.”

  “That’s Carrie Kennersly?” asked one of the cops, looking at me. He grinned. “Hey, can I be brash enough to assume we’ve now got a genuine murder suspect in custody?”

  “We’ll see,” Les said as he winked at me and helped me to my feet.

  Fortunately, when the shot had gone off, it had hit the wall and not any person—or dog. The cops confirmed it and called in a crime scene investigation team.

  And then, even knowing who I was, and apparently aware of my reputation for solving murders, the cops “invited” me to the police station. In other words, one of them was assigned to accompany me there right away.

  “I’ll be bringing my dog Biscuit, too,” I told Officer Maki, an attractive female uniformed cop of Asian heritage. “She’s very much involved in this situation, including my outing of Mr. Alderson as the top suspect in the murder of Dr. Raela Fellner.”

  I now knew that Shea had done it, and I’d let the cops know in the statement I’d provide. But Shea hadn’t actually admitted it to me, and I didn’t know his motive. Most important, I wouldn’t be able to hand over any evidence to prove it.

  Most lawyers don’t murder their clients even if they stop getting along. But Shea had, at least once. And he’d seemed willing to go for twice.

  Since we were near the Civic Center, the walk to the police station didn’t take very long—and that was undoubtedly why the cops had gotten there that quickly. I asked for a special concession not to be given a parking ticket when the time on my meter ran out—I hadn’t anticipated staying in the building longer than it took to talk to and possibly hire Shea.

  Once in the station, I was shown immediately into a conference room where both of my favorite detectives joined me, and so did Chief Loretta.

  “So what happened?” The chief was the first to speak.

  I told her why I’d gone to the lawyer in the first place, and how my suggestion that her detectives talk to Shea—and apparently push him to divulge all he could about Raela and her relationships with others—seemed to be what made Shea snap and try to shut me up.

  “He would have been better off if he’d threatened me and not Biscuit,” I concluded.

  All of the cops were pet parents. All of them laughed.

  Bridget Morana was assigned to get my statement, including my description of how Shea had turned on Biscuit and me, and how he’d made it clear that he w
as the one who’d left the threatening note against my dog.

  But would this prove he was Raela’s killer? Not necessarily. And despite his threatening me with a gun, even shooting it within a public building, I worried that this lawyer, who apparently knew the legal system, would be able to post bail or otherwise get back on the street quickly.

  It was almost six o’clock by the time Biscuit and I returned to my shops, and my assistants had started closing up. I’d called to let them know I’d be late, and included a hint about why.

  I’d found, after leaving the police station, that I was both jazzed and somewhat depressed. No, I wasn’t at all unhappy that this latest murder investigation, or at least my involvement in it, seemed to be drawing to a close. But I wasn’t thrilled that the things the cops were mainly looking for—evidence and, most especially, motive in relation to who killed Raela—still hadn’t been found.

  I knew I didn’t want to be alone that night, so when Janelle had answered her phone, I’d told her to get my assistants together to meet at the resort for dinner, and, of course, to invite Neal, too.

  Then I’d called Reed. “I have some potentially really good news to report,” I told him, and invited him to join us.

  Finally, I’d called Dinah, the best research expert I knew. She’d been able to break away from some customers to talk to me, and I not only invited her to dinner directly but also gave her a brief rundown of all that had happened that afternoon—knowing that when I told the same story to everyone at dinner later, no one would be surprised. Dinah would reveal all—or at least all she knew.

  I finally shot her the real zinger, the reason I’d called. “Please don’t tell anyone else about this,” I said, “but I’ve got some potentially fascinating research for you to conduct. It might even lead to the final resolution of the murder case.”

  And then I told her what I needed her to do.

  When Biscuit and I arrived at the shops, Dinah was sitting at one of the tables in the Barkery at her laptop. The last customers were leaving, so that was fine.

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  “Working on it,” she said with a grin.