Feline Fatale (12 page)

Instead, I immediately decided that directness was the best way of eliciting any useful responses.

“My name is Kendra Ballantyne,” I told him. “I’m a lawyer, among other things, and I’m looking into what happened to Margaret Shiler. I understand that you recently remodeled her unit and a few others at the Brigadoon condominiums in Burbank.”

The good-looking face that had suggested steaminess a few seconds before suddenly turned scrunched-up and nasty. “That’s right,” he replied curtly. “Bitch kept complaining about my work. Said I was taking too long to finish remodeling all those condos, especially hers. But if she’d chosen building materials that were easy to find without having to order them from China or wherever, everything would have gone a lot faster. Plus, she started claiming things were done wrong, insisted I redo them. My specialty is building nice wooden shelving and installing decorative floors, and she even complained about that.”

“Sorry things were so rocky there,” I said sympathetically, wanting to throw him off guard, if possible, before I hinted at any accusations.

“It didn’t help that—Hey, look, I admit I didn’t like the bitch. Especially after she came on to me.”

Aha! Another reason for him to hate her . . . or vice versa. Either way, an even more impressive motive for murder was now out in the open.

“But if what you’re asking,” he continued, “is whether I hated her enough to kill her, the answer’s no. I’ve run into women like her before.”

Ones lusting after him? Considering the way he looked at any female near him, I figured he assumed he elicited sexual interest, real or imaginary, from nearly every woman he came across. Ugh!

He wasn’t done explaining himself. “I’m used to dealing with ladies who seem to think I’m eager to get into their pants, then get themselves into a snit when I don’t take them on that way. I don’t kill them. Though maybe they’d consider offing themselves if I didn’t show them any interest.”

The egotistical idiot! “Oh, I doubt that,” I said, eyeing him up and down and pasting a disgusted sneer on my face. “Anyway, you disliked Margaret Shiler, she’d come on to you—or so you’d believed in your imagination, at least—you’d rejected her, and you didn’t kill her. Is that it in a nutshell?”

His turn to aim a sneer at me. “Thing was, I didn’t reject her till after we’d had one hell of a night together. She was actually okay in bed. But she wanted more, and I didn’t. Most of her complaints started after I made it clear we were over with that. So, I don’t know how she died, but the cops should consider suicide as a possibility, depending.”

I’d heard the murder weapon was a barbecue skewer, though there had been no official public acknowledgment. But if it was, suicide was surely unlikely.

“Far as I know,” I said, “they’re not seriously considering suicide, but we’ll see. In any event, I’m not ruling you out as a suspect, Mr. Harris, and I’d imagine the cops aren’t either. Have they questioned you yet?”

“No.” He sounded suddenly fearful. “Do you think they will?”

“Count on it.”
You egotistical bastard
, I added in my mind. I wondered why he’d be so concerned about an official interrogation.

I wasn’t sure he’d killed Margaret, but neither had I ruled him out.

And I was eager to hear what the cops might otherwise have on full-of-himself Rutley Harris.

 

JUST IN CASE Harris was an overlooked suspect, I called Esther Ickes on my way back toward North Hollywood and my first pet-sitting rounds of late in the day.

She answered her phone immediately. “Hi, Kendra. Tell me something good to help get my client off.”

Which I did, kinda. “I honestly don’t think Harris did it, though I can’t be certain. But there’s some reason he’s eager to avoid the cops—which means it would make a lot of sense for you to mention him to them. Whatever it is might not have a connection to Burbank, where Margaret was murdered, but cops talk to each other.” I related the gist of my conversation to my criminal attorney friend—including how icky the guy was, in a sexually suggestive way. And his claimed liaison with a later-spurned Margaret.

“Interesting,” Esther said, drawing the word out speculatively. “Thanks, Kendra. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Have you heard about the Brigadoon Condo Association meeting tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Yes. Wanda and I will be there.”

“Great!” I said. “Me, too. James Jerome told me about it and invited me. Should be an interesting session. For Wanda’s sake, I hope the pro-pet contingent turns out in droves. We’ll have to watch them all, see if anyone gives away their happiness that Margaret’s not still around to head the opposition.”

“Although,” Esther said dryly as I slowed for a yellow light, “the anti-pets might also have had a motive to kill her: turn her into their martyr, as long as they make it look like someone pro-pet did her in.”

“Hmmm.” I was now stopped at the red light, watching opposing traffic zoom through the wide intersection. “Good point. We just have to hope that someone there simply stands up and admits killing Margaret for whichever reason fits.”

“In your dreams,” Esther said.

“But not tonight’s,” I told her without elaborating.

My dreams tonight would be filled with Dante, since I intended to spend my time in bed and in his arms.

 

DANTE’S ARRIVAL WITH Wagner was fairly late in the evening, which was fine with me, considering my need to rest a bit and get my second—third? fourth?—wind after my busy day including pet-sitting duties.

I was waiting with some wine in my living room, where I’d started watching TV news. I moved the bottle when Dante came in with a pizza, since he also brought Wagner, and the exuberant German shepherd, despite being well trained, could easily knock the bottle off my coffee table with a modest leap or wag of his tail. Lexie could, too, of course, but she’d remained pretty mellow till our company arrived.

“Mmmm.” I peeked into the pizza box. “Extra cheese, mushrooms, and pepperoni—my favorites.”

We sat there and ate and drank, then took the dogs outside for their end-of-evening constitutional.

They even got to romp for a few minutes with Beggar, who was also out in the yard. Rachel was there, too—and we chatted about nothing in particular.

Which was a good thing. I hadn’t told Dante yet about my dilemma involving my tenants’ search for a new home. I needed to decide what I wanted to do before I talked to him about it. I actually was considering, sort of seriously, his offer made some time ago to buy my property and let me lease it back from him. But I wasn’t certain what would happen to our relationship if we added landlord-tenant to our current status as business associates in
Animal Auditions
, plus avid, caring lovers in our leisure time.

“Good night,” I finally said to Rachel and Beggar, and led Dante, Wagner, and Lexie back up the steps to my abode.

Dante knew me well enough to know I hadn’t sat back on my buns and ignored my latest murder investigation. “Have you learned anything else I should know about Margaret Shiler’s death?” he asked once we were again ensconced with wine and pups on the sofa.

I snuggled up against him and told him the results of my latest inquiries. “I didn’t like that guy Rutley Harris at all,” I said with a quick shudder.

“And you went to see him by yourself, without even telling me, because . . . ?”

“Because I’m a big girl, and it was the middle of the day, and lots of other people were around. But”—I put our glasses down on the table beside one another, and gave Dante a big kiss—“I appreciate your concern.”

“And I don’t appreciate your taking risks—but I know you’ll do whatever you want anyway. Just be careful.” He returned the kiss, and then it was my turn again, and . . .

Well, no need to go into any detail about the rest of the night. Suffice it to say that it was delightful.

And when Dante drowsily said, “Good night, Kendra. I love you,” I had to say virtually the same words in return.

Nope, our relationship was absolutely too wonderful to muddy it with my resenting his concern about my physical well-being, whatever the reason. In fact, I was coming to appreciate it—even though I wasn’t ready to tell him everything on my mind, like what I intended to do to find Margaret’s killer.

Or my concern about my living arrangements in the near future.

I might keep Dante apprised about my investigation. With his background, he might offer advice I’d be willing to take. But I wasn’t sure I’d feel the same way if he shoved too many suggestions at me about where I should live.

Whatever I determined about the house, I’d let Dante know when I was ready.

DANTE LEFT EARLY the next day. He needed to take Wagner home, then get to his HotPets corporate headquarters in Beverly Hills for a battery of meetings he had planned.

I’d been to his offices only a couple of times and hadn’t stayed long, but they were every bit as impressive as I’d anticipated this pet products tycoon’s quarters would be. I had a standing invitation to visit but had my own extensive business to conduct that day.

I felt bereft when I saw his Mercedes pull out of my driveway, which was silly. I’d see him again soon. I was getting much too addicted to his presence.

But it wasn’t an addiction I hoped to withdraw from anytime in the near future.

“Time for us to get ready, too, Lexie,” I told my prancing pup, and soon we were off, ready for me to dig in to the day’s pet-sitting.

When I’d spent lots of time with my animal charges—Lexie along with me whenever possible, and safely ensconced in the car when it wasn’t—it was time to take her once more to Doggy Indulgence. I now felt more comfortable taking my dear dog back there. Even with Kiki and her odd behavior—which seemed to have sort of stopped, despite her evil glares toward me now and then when Darryl wasn’t watching—I knew Lexie loved it there and would be well treated. I didn’t think she’d disappear again. I hadn’t made a big deal of the last time with Darryl, since our friendship was somewhat strained then, but now that it might be on the mend, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him about less-than-stellar treatment by any of his staff.

Darryl was greeting doggy guests and their owners, and I gave him a big hug as I headed out the door. “Will you be at the condo association meeting tomorrow night?” I asked. “Wanda and Esther will be there, and me, too.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He smiled somewhat. “Then maybe I can make suggestions about people who might be worth your looking into to clear Wanda.”

“You bet,” I said, then left.

My lawyering that day was relatively painless. I looked forward to the meeting I’d scheduled that afternoon—the one involving pet law, and the lady chafing under the collar imposed by the contract she’d signed with her dog’s breeder.

Joan Fieldmann arrived right on time, and she had brought her adorable French bulldog, Pierre, with her.

“What a cutie,” gushed Mignon when she phoned to let me know that my visitors were there. I popped down the hall to greet them, then showed them to my office.

Joan wore a colorful print dress that drew attention away from the fact that her face vaguely resembled Pierre’s puggish features. She carried a briefcase in the hand not holding Pierre’s bright blue leash. I hadn’t asked her profession previously, and now she told me she was a sales representative for a major home cleaning products manufacturer. She visited grocery chains and discount stores to discuss how her company’s products were being displayed and to encourage store managers to promote them, especially when her employer offered special prices that could be passed along to consumers.

She settled into a chair facing my somewhat organized desk. Pierre occupied the other chair, looking every bit as if he knew the purpose of this meeting.

“So,” I said, “have you brought along that infamous contract?”

She had, and I left my office for a minute to make a copy. Then I scanned the document. It contained the kinds of clauses Joan had described. I’d look them over in greater depth later, but I hated how onerous the document appeared.

Joan confirmed that she had, indeed, signed it. So, apparently, had Elmira Irving—owner of MirVilous Kennels and breeder of French bulldogs.

“I’d fallen in love with Pierre,” Joan said, slinking her hand over toward her pup, who licked it. “I paid more than I’d anticipated, but he was worth it. And I so looked forward to showing him, letting him demonstrate to the world how beautiful he is.”

“Did Ms. Irving go over the contract clauses with you?”

“A little. Elmira said it was standard stuff she put into all the agreements she used when placing one of her show-quality puppies into another home.”

“Did she explain her expectations about showing Pierre?”

“Not really. She made a point of discussing Pierre’s lineage and past champions in his family tree. Said he had a lot of potential, too, and that he should be shown to see how he did. But nothing more specific.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I told her. “Let me read this in more depth, then we’ll talk again, by phone. We can discuss how you can initiate a conversation with Elmira. See if she has an attorney involved, and, if not, you might suggest she get one, assuming you don’t want to follow all the terms of the agreement and she still insists on it. I hope we can reach a compromise without going to court, but that could be a last resort.”

“Whatever you say, Kendra,” Joan said. “I just want what’s best for my Pierre. Being a show dog? Sure, I love the idea—as long as I can be the one to show him.”

 

I HAD TO leave my law office early to be able to spend sufficient late-day time with my pet-sitting charges. My evening was spoken for, thanks to the Brigadoon Condominium Association’s special meeting.

I picked Lexie up early from Doggy Indulgence and left her at home, since I didn’t think she was invited to the gathering—not when a major topic would involve whether pets would continue to be permitted in the place. “Sorry, girl,” I told her, and gave her an extra treat as I left.