Fine-Feathered Death (25 page)

With a smile at Cal and Lester and a crook of my head toward the door, we assented.

Ten minutes later, we held a formal handshake with the opposition, temporarily sealing the deal until the settlement papers were signed.

 

WHEN I PICKED Lexie up before pet-sitting rounds later, I related briefly to Darryl how my day had been, starting with the good stuff—the settlement—and ending with the bad—my ongoing ambivalence about Jeff, his relationship with Amanda, and his innocence.

He gazed over his glasses at me and slowly shook his head. “Sorry things are rotten again on the relationship front. Any chance of salvaging it?”

I sighed so loud that Lexie, who’d been sniffing her playmates goodbye a few feet away, darted over and leaped sympathetically on to my lap. “I doubt it.”

Darryl gave me a hug. “You need a vacation, Kendra.”

“I need a life.”

 

LEXIE AND I stopped for Rachel Preesinger before hitting the road for our evening pet-sitting patrol. She was excited and animated, telling me her dad’s trip was delayed till tomorrow.

When we returned to my rented-out house, Rachel said, “I can’t think when I’ve had so much fun, Kendra. Are there any other pets you sit for?”

“Maybe,” I said. I’d asked Darryl to slow down on referrals due to my reduction in time, but with her assistance I might order him to rev it up again. Maybe even for daytime walks now and then, which I’d forgone to avoid exiting my law office or even court midday for a visit to a client of a canine kind. “If you’re serious. And if you can work out access to a car. I’ll have to add you to my insurance. And we’ll both probably need to get bonded one day. But if you really want to become my assistant, we’ll set things up like a real business, and I’ll pay you a generous percentage of what I bring in for the work that you do. Think about it.”

“Cool!” she exclaimed, just as her dad exited the big house with Beggar in tow—or vice versa. She told him concisely what was so cool, and the two invited me to share their pizza dinner—Lexie, too.

When I headed for bed much later that night, my mind was a vortex of visions of films of furtive neighbors leading to lucrative settlements, a possibility of an accelerated pet-sitting business, the excellent time I’d shared with Rachel and her attractive dad, Russ . . . and the sound of a macaw singing a particularly familiar cell phone ring.

And the resulting argument.

And the certainty that the usual call I received at bedtime when Jeff was on the road wouldn’t come tonight.

I wanted, for Borden’s sake—and my own rejuvenated legal career—to work things out for T.O., and to dig into the other cases Ezra had left which were assigned to me.

But mostly, I still wanted to solve the two murders and pray my key suspect would not ultimately be Jeff.

Chapter Twenty-four

THE NEXT MORNING, my ego still tasted a touch of triumph over the resolution of one of my pet-related cases—even if that same ego also sat in the toilet mourning the other issues in my life.

As a result, after easing Lexie off my arm and pep-talking myself out of bed, I called Rachel and asked if she could be ready to accompany me pet-sitting half an hour earlier than I’d originally told her. She eagerly agreed. Ah, youth. With someone else bearing all burdens of the business, my young associate could bask worry-free in the pleasure of pet-tending.

As I dressed in a rust-colored sweater and cargo pants, then tended Lexie, I considered the course of my pending day.

I wanted to massage the good emotions engendered by my success and cast aside the regretful ones. But the only other pet-advocacy issue I was involved in looked as dire as my murder investigation, my representation of T.O. . . . and my nonrelationship with Jeff.

I’d already called to tell Irma Etherton about my interview of Walt Shorbel’s estate attorney, Dennis Kamura, and his take on Walt’s stubbornness in deciding on the contents of his will.

I needed a new angle here, one that stood a chance of success when I argued Irma’s case in court.

When I’d ended escorting Rachel and pets on our morning constitutionals, I brought Lexie along to my office. As was now my habit, I asked Mignon where Gigi was. Today, Elaine had taken the bird to her turf. After settling Lexie under my desk, I visited Elaine’s office, glad when Gigi didn’t warble out Jeff’s melody. Instead, Elaine and the macaw managed to appear at peace with one another. Gigi sat uncaged on her large perch in the center of the office, and all looked well.

“Hi, gorgeous girl,” I said as I popped my head in. “You, too, Gigi.” As I anticipated, that engendered a giggle from Elaine.

When I returned to my office, I patted Lexie, then called Irma. “I’d like for us to meet,” I said when she answered. “To discuss strategies.” I drummed a pen on a legal pad as I prepared to make notes. “I’ll dig into legal research today so I can draft a complaint with enough substance that the suit won’t appear frivolous, but I have to warn you again, before I throw much time into it, that our chances of getting a court to order anything similar to Walt’s stated wishes are slim to zilch.”

Especially since attorney Dennis Kamura could testify that such stated wishes might not be what Walt wanted when he first executed the will. Kamura had advised him then that his bequest could fail and his kids would then take all. At least the wording of Walt’s later codicil suggested he’d intended the will to work. Since the codicil was all in his handwriting, a court would likely consider it the equivalent of a holographic will, so it could be valid despite the lack of witness signatures. Enforceable? That was another legal dilemma.

I’d at least run my ideas by Elaine Aames, since her legal specialty was estates and trusts.

“We have to try,” Irma asserted into my ear. “When I think of that poor pup Ditch, I could cry. I was going to call you today, Kendra. I left word with a neighbor of Myra Shorbel’s to keep in touch, to let me know how Ditch is being treated. She called me early this morning saying that she thought Ditch was left outside all night, tied on a cold, hard patio.”

I glanced down at Lexie, who cocked her head soulfully and stared back. The idea of a dog left outside without shelter on a chilly January night, even a dry one, caused my skin to shudder.

But still . . . the law might provide for care of mistreated pups, but it didn’t provide that one could inherit a million dollars. At least not directly. “I’m concerned that if we report abuse to the authorities now, Ditch might be put into Animal Services custody, not necessarily yours. We need to go about this carefully so the court will buy into our arguments. If we try to get Ditch his full million dollars plus your custody, his kids will argue that you’re only fighting their claim to get your hands on all that money. What if we ask for something less, like—”

“Ask for a lot less, as far as I’m concerned. Like
nothing,
as long as I get Ditch to take care of.”

My sense of possible settlement suddenly went on full alert. “Are you serious, Irma? I mean, are you willing just to adopt Ditch and let Walt’s kids keep all the money?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call their attorney,” I said. “We’ll set up a conference. Soon.”

UNFORTUNATELY, THE SHORBEL siblings’ lawyer, Gina Udovich, was out of town, or so I was informed by her secretary. It was Thursday now, and she was not anticipated to return to her office until Monday.

At least that gave me the opportunity to probe into the research I’d planned anyway, to give myself an edge and scope out whatever leverage I could provide.

Over that weekend, I also spent time on my T.O. matter, researching approaches that other attorneys representing developers had taken against vocal and vehement antidevelopment property owners.

Talk about precedents and ingenious endeavors, they were prodigious in the L.A. area, especially these days when environmentalists, pseudo and real, were eager to slam lids down durably on developers’ dreams to change still-existing open space into private homes and commercial areas.

One constructive component of the Vancino situation was that the bitterly disputed block was already built out into commercial structures. T.O. intended to increase the density of the use—like, they would sardine scads of prosperous people into upscale high-rise apartments, while adding offices and chic stores as well. But no additional endangered species would be forced to flee their habitats—unless one included obsolescent, antiprogress property owners like Millie Franzel.

Also during the weekend, I spent more time rooting Rachel in the ins and outs I’d learned about pet-tending. I even had an unanticipated opportunity to take her to meet one of my favorite charges, Pythagoras the ball python, who welcomed us with open coils . . . after his owner, Milt Abadim, called and mentioned he’d be traveling to see his mother again soon, and he’d love for me to keep an eye on Py.

I enjoyed the company, during those days, not only of Rachel, but also her dad. Russ’s trip had been delayed yet again, until early next week. All of us strolled with Lexie and Beggar. I came to feel included in their incomplete family.

And I definitely sensed that Russ was interested in me as more than his daughter’s quasi-employer and substitute big sis.

And me? I made a damned fine effort to keep Jeff Hubbard as far from my frazzled mind as the moon was from the earth. Only I realized that analogy was apt in too many ways, for the earth’s gravity didn’t let the moon sail off into space . . .

He didn’t call me. I didn’t call him.

But I amazed myself by calling Detective Ned Noralles. I wasn’t surprised, and felt a smattering of relief, when he wasn’t accessible. And no wonder. It was Sunday. Only, I assumed that L.A.P.D. detectives’ days on duty could occur anytime. I left a message suggesting that he and I speak soon. What would I tell him? I wasn’t sure. I wanted more from him than I intended to relate. But if he insisted, I’d give him the benefit of my so-far unsuccessful investigative work. Most of it.

I’d keep Gigi’s song to myself. After all, it was unlikely to have any significance.

Monday finally meandered around, and I heard back from attorney Gina Udovich. She hadn’t a moment to spare until Wednesday, which was when we scheduled the all-hands meeting regarding the case that, if I had to file a complaint, would be known as
Etherton v. Shorbel et al.
I was pleasantly surprised when Gina agreed we could confer on my turf instead of hers, giving me a kind of home court advantage. Or was that only to patronize me and put me off guard so she could swoop in and clobber me in front of her clients?

Oh, yes, all the old slimy litigator tricks were still simmering in the back of my brain. They might have slipped there to curl up into a cold little unused ball while my law license was lifted, but now they were unfurling, stretching, warming up, and making sure I grew reacquainted with every one of them.

Which turned out to be a good thing, since it became clear by the grand finale of our settlement conference that this case was going forward.

 

WE CONVENED AT one o’clock in the Yurick firm’s handy-dandy bar-slash-conference room. Gina Udovich appeared to be vying for the title of superchic attorney of the year, clad in a short leather skirt over black stockings, and boots with amazingly high, skinny heels. My feet ached just observing them. On top, she wore a black vest over a silky peach blouse. In all, it was a good thing that the only guys around this office were old enough to be her grandpa. Not that William Fortier and Borden Yurick didn’t ogle her as if they were forty years younger.

In the beauty department, she was upstaged by her pretty client Myra Shorbel. Myra wore a vest, too—a knit one—over her ordinary blue blouse. Her makeup was lighter than her lawyer’s. Her slacks were black denim and she’d donned sports shoes that nearly matched her brother Moe’s.

Moe hadn’t worn clothes that might concede he had come to a business meeting. His grungy T-shirt had torn-off sleeves, which I noticed immediately as he took off his equally dirty denim jacket. His bony knees knobbed their way through the holes in his jeans.

Irma, about the age of most of my firm’s attorneys, had donned a dress for the occasion. Her hands fluttered nervously when we all took seats at the conference table, but she wisely shoved them into her lap to keep them still. The bouffant style of her dyed black hair had deflated a bit, but on the whole she appeared prepared for the impending ordeal.

And me? Well, I’d dressed in a regulation pantsuit that I could wear equally well had we headed for court. I’d checked in the mirror before meeting up with everyone here, and my shoulder-length, still ordinary brown hair hung neat and professional. My makeup was neither over- nor underdone. Most important, I was psyched.

“Okay,” I said after I’d ensured that everyone who wanted any had gotten coffee from the carafe on the bar. “Listen up. We have a situation here, and before Irma files an action against the Shorbels regarding Walter Shorbel’s estate, we wanted to see if there’s any possibility of compromising on the issues.” I wasn’t about to blurt right out that Irma had already determined to forgo the funds if she got custody of Ditch. Let them stew a bit, then make it appear that Irma was making a colossal concession. Which she was.

Gina Udovich stretched her arm out over the table and idly drummed long red nails that looked anything but lovely on the wood. “We’re here because my clients aren’t interested in being sucked into a frivolous lawsuit. Their father was quite obviously in his dotage when he made such an absurd will. His dog can’t inherit his estate. Even if the court attempts to impose a different interpretation, we have a diminished capacity argument. The will must be disregarded, and Mr. Shorbel will be deemed to have died intestate.” Exactly the arguments I’d have asserted had I been in her uncomfortable boots.

Calmly, I said, “Interesting theory, counselor. I’ve got some of my own that I won’t share with you just yet. We’ll wait for the trial, if it comes to that. But we have a proposition for you, plus some teeth to back it up.”