Fine-Feathered Death (9 page)

“I like your style, Ms. Ballantyne,” O’Barlen said, causing me to cringe.

Was the long-awaited hint of my returning confidence causing me to slather on promises way too thick? Could I deliver the rosy future I’d begun to paint, or was this client doomed to deal with the black-and-white starkness of court pleadings?

“We’ve been discussing what to do about our legal representation now that Ezra’s gone,” he continued, “but for now we’ll stay with your firm. And yes, I can gather my people together for a meeting this afternoon. How’s three o’clock? We’ll arrive a little earlier to talk over our approach.”

“Perfect,” I purred, though inside my engine sputtered. Could I deliver?

How could I not?

 

THE T.O. CONTINGENT met first with Borden in his office, where he assured O’Barlen and his team of toadies that I’d stay assigned to their matter, and that the firm would do all it could to assure a smooth transition now that Ezra was gone.

I’d invited the VORPO side to meet with us here, and when they arrived, they were shown into the area of the offices that had once been the restaurant’s bar. It was, after all, the building’s biggest conference room.

Unfortunately, at three o’clock, the acknowledged time for our meeting, Gigi, still in the kitchen, apparently awakened and started her usual screams.

I had to explain it first thing to the people on both sides of the table. “It’s poor Ezra Cossner’s pet macaw,” I said. “She’s taking his loss very hard.”

“I can understand that,” sighed Millie Franzel. Yes, Millie, owner of the best pet boutique I knew of, was one of the VORPO representatives at the table that day. “I’ve had a parrot or two in my shop, and they’re definitely emotional at times. That poor bird—losing her best friend in such a terrible way.”

Damn, but I liked Millie—except that, at this moment, she sat on the wrong side of the table.

I closed the door to mute Gigi’s cries as much as possible.

Flint Daniels was present, too, which was no surprise. He was introduced as the group’s president at last evening’s meeting.

And then there was Michael Kleer. VORPO’s legal counsel was definitely clear, living up to his name as he laid out their list of demands.

First was that no mixed-use development be built on the critical block. “There are homes along the streets behind Vancino Boulevard,” Kleer said. The boyish lawyer with the baby face looked too young to be taken seriously. Almost. His hair was deep brown and wavy. His eyes were huge and guileless—those awful, insincere orbs. “The residents like things as they are. They don’t want a bunch of apartments to be built near them, especially above the area’s commercial establishments.”

Which was the essence of mixed use—stores, offices, and apartments constructed to coexist harmoniously in the same neighborhood. One use was often stacked on top of another.

I glanced at Brian O’Barlen. His round face had grown red beneath his flowing silver mane, and I almost anticipated seeing flames shoot from his flaring nostrils. “What else?” he growled.

“I don’t like the fact that you own nearly all the other property along Vancino Boulevard,” Millie Franzel piped up. Her dark hair poofed up on top even more poodle-like than I’d ever seen it. But her similarity to canines was more pit bull than snugly pet, in the way she aimed for the T.O. jugular. “I think you should be forced to sell it all again.”

“You’d change your tune if we offered to buy you out at an outrageous price,” O’Barlen baited her through gritted teeth.

“What are you offering?” asked Kleer, baring a boyish smile.

“Its appraised value,” O’Barlen barked. “Not a penny more.”

“Whose appraiser?” countered Kleer. “Yours or ours?”

I held up my hand. “We won’t resolve anything at this rate,” I reminded them. “Let’s have each side describe what it wants so we can see if there’s any common ground.”

There wasn’t. The meeting adjourned less than half an hour later. It had become clear that VORPO couldn’t be bought. Or so they wanted T.O. to think at this point. In any event, the meeting had dissolved into mush.

I was a litigator at heart. As a result, that same heart should have sung, since it appeared we were destined to take this dispute to court.

But as one who wanted the best possible deal for her client, I felt depressed.

Once everyone had left, I ducked into the kitchen to see Gigi. The beautiful mostly blue macaw did nothing to shriek my own blues away.

“Scream a few for me, gorgeous girl,” I said, then headed toward my office for my purse. I was more than ready to commence the evening’s pet-sitting.

At this moment, I was ecstatic that I had an alternate career. Despite my temporary rally this afternoon, I had a sad, sneaking suspicion that my lawyering days were numbered—as in, perhaps, three.

Or would it even take three days before T.O. told Borden to can me or face the loss of a potentially lucrative client?

Chapter Eight

TO MY SURPRISE, when I got to the Yurick firm parking lot, Millie Franzel was still there. She stood beside a black minivan with a sign on the side that said PAMPERVILLE PET PLACE—THE BOUTIQUE FOR THE VALLEY’S MOST PAMPERED PETS.

“Hi, Kendra,” she said. I’d been a lucrative enough customer in the past, when I was a well-paid litigator, for her to remember me.

“Hi, Millie.” I beelined straight for my Beamer, not wanting to stop and talk. It wouldn’t have been ethical. She was represented by another attorney, and I hadn’t gotten his consent to chat with her.

“Kendra, wait,” she said. She was an attractive entrepreneur with her poodle-pretty hair and otherwise well-enhanced looks. Her makeup was applied skillfully enough to draw attention to her sloe brown eyes and away from her longish nose and lightly protruding teeth. I hadn’t noticed when she was seated at the conference table, but she was clad in black, satiny pants and very high heels. I’d mentally remarked upon her white-and-rose-striped blouse with its line of schnauzers marching along the neckline. It was undoubtedly one of the products she sold at her store—for people, not their pets.

I stopped expectantly, my hand on the Beamer’s door handle. Though I’d dressed nicely in creased khaki slacks, a brown blouse, and a light wool sport jacket, I wasn’t nearly as dressed up as she. “How’ve you been, Millie?” I asked neutrally. Even if I couldn’t chat about our respective sides in the legal matter looming between us, I abhorred the idea of acting antagonistic.

“I’ve been better.” Her dark, arched brows slumped into a scowl. “I’m sorry about what happened to Ezra Cossner, Kendra, but I despised how he came across at the VORPO meeting. Now that you’re representing T.O., I thought things would improve, but after the meeting we just had, I’m losing hope.”

Did she dislike Ezra enough to do something about him and slip me into his negotiating shoes? I hated to think such a thing about someone I knew and liked . . . but it was entirely possible that someone I knew and liked had slain Ezra, whether or not it was the bowwow boutique owner before me.

She hadn’t stopped speaking. “How can you represent that creepy Brian O’Barlen? I don’t care how much money he has. He shouldn’t think he can buy—”

I lifted my hand from the Beamer and waved it to cut off her chatter. “Sorry, Millie. I can’t discuss the dispute between T.O. and VORPO with you.”

She seemed shocked. “Why not?”

“Because I’m an opposing attorney, and you’re represented by counsel. It’s unethical for me to discuss the case with you unless your lawyer is present or otherwise okays it.”

Her brown eyes narrowed to sly slits. “But I’ve read about you, Kendra. Ethics isn’t exactly your middle name. And surely you see our point. Our block on Vancino Boulevard is fine the way it is. You’ve been to my store and seen how great it is. The other establishments around there are nice, too. And . . .” Her talk trailed off as she met my gaze, and she suddenly stepped backward. It was her turn to touch the Beamer, but in her case it was for balance. Those high heels of hers wobbled woefully as she gaped at me. Was it fear I saw on her face?

Well, good. Not that I’d really pop the pet-store owner in the puss, but my mind had stalled on an earlier sentence in her speech. I’d drawn myself up to my full five-five height, not nearly as tall as she in my flat shoes, but my anger must have been obvious. “Ethics is, in fact, my middle name, Millie,” I hissed. “If you’d read all the articles about me, heard everything that happened, you’d know that all the accusations against me were proven false. I’m a damned good and ethical lawyer.” And again I didn’t suggest that those two words might present an oxymoron in many people’s minds. “Now, let me repeat: I can’t discuss this matter with you. Ask your own counsel, Michael Kleer. You know how much I enjoy your store, but—” Oops. I was slipping into dangerous waters by even bringing up her boutique. “Have a pleasant evening,” I ended, shining a contrived smile at her.

“I’m sorry, Kendra,” she said, and she truly looked contrite. “I wish we weren’t on opposite sides.”

“Me, too, Millie,” I admitted, then ducked quickly into my car before I could say anything else.

 

A FEW SECONDS after I’d exited the parking lot, my cell phone sang, “It’s My Life.”

I groped inside my purse and grabbed my phone as I navigated Ventura Boulevard toward the freeway. I barely scanned the screen to see the caller ID: Darryl.

“Pooper-Scoopers Anonymous,” I quipped. “We pick up what your pet puts down.”

“I’ll remember that next time one of our guests has an accident,” Darryl said dryly. “I’ll call you first.”

“No thanks. How’re things?”

Darryl nearly never called just for the heck of hearing my voice. I figured he had a reason.

I only hoped it was one I wanted to hear.

He apparently aspired to shoot the breeze first, though. “How’s your malcontent macaw?”

“I’m just leaving the office. Yes, I know it’s late,” I inserted to stave off his inevitable comment. “I needed to be around for a negotiation. I checked on Gigi just before I left. She made a lot of background noise during the meeting, but after snapping her big beak at me, she quieted down a little. Elaine’s going to feed her later.”

“Did you ask Gigi what she saw during Ezra’s murder?”

Of course that was why he’d inquired. “Sure. She described in detail exactly who came in with the gun and killed him. She’s a little shy, though, and refuses to testify to the police.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Yep, the left one. It’s my favorite.”

“What’s wrong with the right one?”

“It’s even skinnier than the other.” I smiled as I let the Beamer barrel up the freeway on-ramp.

“No way,” Darryl said. “So, bird’s help or not, have you solved the murder yet?”

“Not hardly,” I replied with a sigh. I didn’t have to ask why Darryl would make such an inquiry. Sure, I had two genuine careers these days: pet-sitter and lawyer. I’d also, inadvertently and unintentionally, taken on another: amateur sleuth, since I’d solved two murders of which I’d been accused, plus one that had been heaped on my tenants.

Would I now figure out who’d ended Ezra’s life, too? Not if Detective Ned Noralles had anything to say about it.

But I found myself yet again in the thick of a miserable situation. I could more easily ask questions without anyone knowing exactly what I was up to.

“Don’t be surprised if I do solve it,” I answered Darryl.

“I figured. Anyhow, that’s not why I called. Now that you’re a big-time lawyer again, I know that the fact that tomorrow’s Saturday doesn’t mean you’re not going to the office, but do you have an hour to meet with someone I’d like to refer to you—a lady with a dog-related legal problem?”

“Another unneighborly bite situation?” That was the basis for the brief I’d been writing—to support a summary judgment motion in a pet law dog bite matter that involved one of my pet-sitting clients, Lester the basset hound. Darryl had referred me as a sitter to Lester’s owner, so I’d kept Darryl informed about the nonconfidential side of the case.

“No, this one’s about an inheritance.”

Though the VORPO thing could take a lot of time, I’d found that practicing pet law, like that dog chomp case, was of particular pleasure to me, although I wouldn’t know if this one was something I could help with till I heard more about it.

“Can I count on you?” Darryl asked.

“I’ll come and discuss it,” I said. “No promises I’ll take it on.”

“I think you will. See you around three?”

My curiosity churning, I said, “I’ll be there.”

Traffic was abysmally slow, the common state these days on local L.A. freeways. I got off soon and maneuvered even more rapidly along local streets toward the pets I was sitting.

Once again I anticipated Alexander the pit bull’s eager need for exercise, walking him for an extra mile in his owner’s neighborhood. I saw another couple of canines who craved food and attention. Then, I visited Harold Reddingam’s place to ensure that his feline friends Abra and Cadabra were well fed and that their litter boxes were raked to suit their finicky fancies.

I had only one more pet client to visit—Beggar, who made his home these days in the mansion that was more or less mine. At the moment, though, I was nearer to Jeff’s Sherman Oaks abode than the house I rented out, so I decided to stop by and pick up Lexie before heading back.

And if I happened to run into Odin’s good-looking, sexy owner . . . well, that would hopefully only provide me with incentive to finish my pet-sitting pronto and hurry back for another memorable night.

Only . . . yes, Jeff was home with Odin and Lexie. But the three of them weren’t alone.

I realized that the moment I curbed my Beamer in front of his pseudo-Spanish-style hacienda and stared at the driveway. His Escalade was blocked in by a cherry red Camry that looked way too familiar. It belonged to Jeff’s ex-wife, Amanda.