Fine-Feathered Death (12 page)

He must have thought so, too, since he bent down, patted Lexie, and said, “Sorry, girl, but I left Odin at home.”

As if she understood, Lexie sat and glared, though she wasn’t too miffed to pull away from his petting. Or to snub the biscuit he picked from the pocket of his navy sport jacket.

When Jeff stood up again, elevating to his full six-foot height, my irrational lower body began buzzing as if wishing for some petting, too.

Until I reminded it about Amanda’s visit last night.

Coolly, I said, “Come with me. You’ve already met Borden and Elaine, and I’ll introduce you to the other attorneys who are here today. And to Corrie Montez. She was a paralegal with Ezra’s old firm. You’ve met Gigi, too, haven’t you?”

“The bird? We haven’t been formally introduced, but I’ve seen her and been privy to her screeching.”

As I led Jeff down the hall, my most senior partner appeared from his office. “Hi, Borden,” Jeff said. “I’m assisting with the investigation into Ezra’s death.” I noted that he naturally sidestepped on whose behalf he was helping—not the cops’, of course, but his own. “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

The older attorney looked a bit suspicious, but he nodded. “Sure. Come in.”

I had work to do before departing to meet Darryl’s referral, so I left Jeff to his own investigative devices. About forty-five minutes later, when I was getting set to go, I decided first to check on his progress. With Lexie strolling beside me, I peered into each office door as I passed. No Jeff.

Corrie Montez appeared from the room containing the firm’s photocopier with—surprise—an assortment of files in her arms.

“Have you seen Jeff Hubbard?” I asked.

“The detective? He sure asks a lot of questions. But I don’t know where he is now.”

That was when I noticed him exiting the now-quiet kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hands.

“So you did speak with Gigi?” I teased, happy that whatever technique Polly was using must be at least somewhat successful. No screams filled the office air.

“Her teacher wouldn’t let me,” he responded with a shrug. “But at least she answered—” A song suddenly rang out, and Jeff reached into his pocket. “Hello,” he said to his cell phone.

Okay, I had no reason to immediately assume it was Amanda, but I did. I started to stalk away, but Jeff met my gaze and mouthed a different name that started with an “A”: Althea.

“No kidding?” Jeff’s grin was deliciously devilish. “How long ago?” He paused, then said, “I’ll definitely look into that. Not that it’ll change things, but . . . Right.” He flipped his phone shut. “Wait’ll I tell you what she found out about—”

He suddenly stopped speaking, and his cute smile segued to a cold frown as he faced someone over my shoulder.

“What brings you here, Mr. Hubbard?” asked a familiar silky voice from behind me.

“Just doing your job, Detective,” Jeff replied to Ned Noralles. “About time someone did it right.”

I pivoted so I could plant myself between them, my arms out to ensure they didn’t draw too close. “Chill out, gentlemen,” I cautioned.

Fortunately, Jeff’s cell phone chose an excellent time to sing its rhythmic ringtone again. He glanced down, flipped it open, and intoned, “I’ll call you back later, Althea.”

“Gee, she must have thought of something else to tell you,” I said unnecessarily, keeping my tone totally light. I turned toward Noralles. “Is there something else we can help you with, Detective?”

“Sure thing. Is Ms. Aames here? I have a few more matters to discuss with her.” When I assured him that Elaine had indeed reported for work on this Saturday, he seemed pleased. “Oh, and the macaw? How is she getting along?”

“Better, I think,” I told him. “We’ve brought back our bird specialist to assist her over the trauma.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll want to talk to her again, too.”

Gigi or the specialist? I had a fleeting suspicion, as I considered the question, that Detective Noralles might read the same mystery novels Darryl did. Only, from what Polly had said, other birds would be better than a macaw at conveying clues.

At this opportune instant, Polly Bright popped her head out of the kitchen. She glared at the group of milling people just as Elaine and Corrie joined us. “Too much noise out here,” she complained. “Elaine, please come in here. I want to show you how I’d like you to work with Gigi for the next day or so.”

The hesitant expression on Elaine’s aging face emphasized her wrinkles and belied her prompt response. “Of course,” she said, then added with hope, “I don’t hear her complaining.”

“Of course not,” Polly said. “We’ve made some progress.” She beamed—brightly, of course—with apparent professional pride. “But she’s still going to need some TLC.”

“Definitely,” Elaine agreed.

“When you’re done working with the bird, I’d like a word with you, ma’am,” said Noralles. He flicked open his cop credentials. “Police business.”

Polly backed up, as if taken aback. Then, after examining the badge, she nodded. “Give us about ten minutes, Officer, and then we’ll talk.”

 

WHEN NORALLES MADE it clear he intended to question Jeff alone during his wait, I swallowed my sympathy for Jeff and used the opportunity to pick up my purse, leash Lexie, and leave the office. I headed my Beamer toward Darryl’s.

Doggy Indulgence was now open every day but major holidays. Since it existed in Studio City and catered to a showbiz crowd, it had a decent clientele even on weekends.

When Lexie and I entered, Darryl rushed over to us. “You’re right on time. Good. Irma Etherton is waiting for you in the kitchen.” His kitchen was the pet resort area where Darryl introduced me to his referrals, previously for pet-sitting and now, in addition, for lawyering. It was the best location for potential privacy in this place.

Darryl unleashed my Cavalier, who today chose the canine area filled with human accoutrements. She sailed up onto one of the several sofas and curled into a ball beside a much bigger mixed breed who seemed mostly black Lab. Her companion opened an eye then shut it again, obviously okay with letting the cute little intruder join him.

Satisfied she’d be occupied—snoozing usually enthused her when she wasn’t insisting on attention—I followed Darryl to the kitchen.

The lady who sat at the staff lunch table seemed to be in her sixties, with a bouffant of black hair. Her bone structure suggested classic beauty, but the skin around her eyes and mouth sagged sufficiently to show her age.

“I’m glad to meet you, Kendra,” she said in a soft alto after Darryl introduced us. Her handshake was cool and quick. “Darryl’s told me so much about you.”

“Let’s see,” I said, sitting across from her. “I’ve been keeping score.” I raised my hand as if to tick stuff off on my fingers. “Best I can figure, you can believe about fifty percent of what he says.”

“And you can put even more stock in the other half,” said the man I’d just maligned. He stood behind me so I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he’d take my teasing in stride.

He always did.

“Well, let’s hope that what he told me is in the second half,” Irma said. “I really need to rely on it . . . and you.” My banter didn’t make her back away. In fact, she’d begun to smile, a good thing since my first impression of her serious expression was of a woman who’d lost her laugh.

“So tell me your problem,” I prompted. “Darryl said it’s a legal issue?”

“Absolutely,” Irma replied. “A stolen inheritance. I need for you to get it back for my dead lover’s dog.”

Chapter Eleven

A PASSEL OF legal principles immediately started circling in my head. The most important was that pups
were
property. They couldn’t
own
property. Ergo, hounds were forbidden by law from inheriting fortunes from deceased owners.

I didn’t blurt that out, though. Not with the way Irma Etherton’s gray eyes had puckered, and tears puddled in them.

“I’m sorry to get emotional on you,” she said, “but it’s just that my dear love Walt recently died. He left everything to Glenfiddich.”

I blinked, but instantly made an obvious assumption. “Glenfiddich is the name of his dog?” I doubted that Walt had attempted to make a Scotch liquor manufacturer his heir.

Still, I had a sudden image of some guy named Walt giving a final toast with Glenfiddich before keeling over.

“That’s right. We call him Ditch. He’s Walt’s Scottish terrier, and Walt’s kids have kept him away from me, which is the worst part of this mess. I’m supposed to have custody of dear little Ditch . . . as well as the million dollars Walt left to him.”

Dear little Ditch indeed!

“Please tell me what to do to save Ditch’s fortune, Kendra,” Irma entreated. “It’s what Walt wanted.”

Okay, I’d learned lots of tact as a litigator. And as I’ve mentioned before, I’d been a law school scholar and had learned to think like a lawyer. Every side to a legal issue had arguments that could be asserted to promote a client’s position.

But I believed this was black letter law. No inheritance rights for pets . . . Still, without seeing the will and how it phrased the purported inheritance, and without doing legal research on the current state of case law, I couldn’t completely burst Irma’s inheritance bubble. Or Ditch’s, either.

“I’ll be honest with you, Irma.” I leaned toward her, hoping my expression suggested earnestness, not hopeless-ness. “This doesn’t sound like a case we’re likely to win. But I’ll be glad to look into it for you. I’ll need for you to obtain a copy of Walt’s will for me. In the meantime, I’ll have a paralegal start some research.”

“Really? You’ll look into it?” Her careworn demeanor seemed to turn instantly optimistic. The age lines on her face grew shallow. She smiled. And my insides sank. Especially when she continued speaking. “I don’t know whether Darryl told you, but I’ve spoken with several other attorneys, and none thought the matter was worth fighting. But I have to, for the sake of Walt’s memory.”

“I understand,” I said in my most solemn lawyerlike tone. “But you need to recognize that all those other lawyers could have been right. I can’t make any promises.”

“Except to look into it, right?” Anxiety started again divoting wrinkles into her face.

“Absolutely, I’ll at least look into it. And another thing I can promise is to charge you no more than a fixed amount if what I find out makes it imprudent to continue fighting.” I named an amount that I thought would be fair, a couple of hours’ worth of time at the rate Borden charged for my current work.

“Oh, that’s too low,” she said. “I’ll be glad to pay your standard fee.”

Interesting, I thought as I said a temporary farewell to Irma. If money wasn’t the object, then she must desperately want to give effect to her dear, departed Walt’s wishes.

And if that was the case. I’d make every effort to help Irma gain what she wanted.

 

IT WAS TIME for my eagerly anticipated pet-sitting tour of duty. I rounded up my sleeping pup, then Lexie and I said goodbye to Darryl.

“Do you think you’ll be able to help Irma?” my thin friend asked anxiously.

He stood at the large reception desk holding a container of beef-flavored biscuits. He’d been studying the box from over his wire-rims till I approached. Treats for his favorite patrons, I surmised and reached out my hand. He deposited a biscuit in it, and I broke off a piece for a bouncingly eager Lexie.

“She’s a neighbor of mine,” he continued, “and she’s really bummed out about this situation. Did she mention that a lot of lawyers already turned her down?”

“You could have let me know that before I talked with her,” I chided him cantankerously.

“If I did, you might not have agreed to see her. Although I’d have enticed you by mentioning it was a juicy pet law matter.”

“Which it is, though from the way she described it, I’m afraid her buddy Ditch and she are out of luck. Terriers can’t inherit in this state.” Of course, my mind had been mulling over this matter for . . . oh, five minutes by now. “Then again, as I told her, I need to see the will. If her departed friend was handed incompetent legal advice by the attorney who drafted the document, that’s one avenue to explore. And maybe, as a layperson and not a lawyer, she’s not fully describing what the will attempts to do. Maybe—”

“I knew you’d throw yourself into the case.” Darryl’s triumphant grin elicited a return one from me, though I attempted to obfuscate it by gnawing on my lips.

“Don’t count Ditch’s inherited millions before they’re in his little Scotty paws,” I grumped.

Darryl’s lanky arms enveloped me in a bear hug that enticed Lexie to leap on both of us. He bent and gave her a hug as well, and then we were off.

 

I TOOK MY time during my gamut of pet-sitting rounds that evening. It was still Saturday, a sloppy day in January since the skies had decided to sprinkle a fine mist around L.A. That meant making sure my canine charges had dry feet after their constitutionals and before being let loose in their owners’ homes.

My feline friends Abra and Cadabra took the opportunity to unnerve me. When I reached Harold Reddingham’s home, left Lexie in the car, and let myself in, I saw no sign of cats anywhere. They hadn’t eaten the food I’d left yesterday, and not even their litter box appeared used. I sniffed the air for an indication of kitty accidents elsewhere but sensed none. Harold had warned me once that I’d never see his kids, but I always had . . . before.

“Hey, guys,” I called out. “Don’t do this to me. You’re here, aren’t you?” Just in case, I examined all the windows in Harold’s one-story abode, along with exits to the outside and the garage. No indication of a way the cats could escape. That was a relief, yet my psyche grew even more macabre, and I imagined deceased felines lying around somewhere, dying alone with no one to care for them. “Please come out,” I cried.

I doubt it was because they deigned to feel sorry for me, but I discerned a faint mew from the direction of Harold’s den. I hurried down the hall and slung open the door.