Meow is for Murder (20 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Meow is for Murder
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“Sounds educational,” I said, trying not to shadow her exuberance by my lack of enthusiasm.
“Oh, Kendra, I’m so sorry . . . but the people you met at that pet-sitters group will be able to help you, won’t they?”
“Of course. We traded information and promised to backstop each other. It’ll be fine.” I figuratively crossed all my fingers. And made a mental note to call my new best pet-sitting friends Tracy Owens and Wanda Villareal today.
But recalling the conversation I’d eavesdropped on at the group meeting, I sighed at the idea I could wind up casting some of my client list to the competition.
 
I DROPPED LEXIE off at Darryl’s before heading for my first client of the morning. That happened to be Piglet the pug, whom I’d known for about as long as I’d been a pet-sitter. Not that I’d commenced being Piglet’s sometime caretaker immediately, but he’d been the beneficiary of my first attempt at animal dispute resolution. I’d helped to ensure his continued ownership by Fran Korwald, who’d evinced eternal gratitude and now hired me to care for Piglet when she was out of town. She’d sent other customers my way, too—both for sitting and for ADR-ing. Even with my abbreviated sitting schedule now that I was practicing law again, Fran was one of those clients I catered to myself, whether or not I had an assistant available.
And Piglet? A pug-load of fun as he waddled alongside me on our long walk.
Fortunately, Fran’s home wasn’t far from Dana Maroni and Stromboli’s in Burbank, where I headed next.
I sucked in my breath in irritation when I noticed poor Meph alone and leashed once more in Maribelle’s backyard. I’d thought she’d undertaken an improvement in her pup’s situation, but apparently I was mistaken. I did my usual enjoyable routine with Stromboli, then hugged him and locked him inside.
From Stromboli’s yard, I slipped next door to treat Meph to a biscuit and, more important, some attention—which was when I noticed the note tied around the wiry and excited pup’s collar.
It had my name on it.
So, of course, I unlooped the string and scrutinized the surprisingly long missive of loopy letters squeezed onto a not-so-large piece of lined paper.
It read,
Kendra, I knew you’d see Stromboli so I left Meph out for fresh air. House unlocked. Please put Meph in, give treat, and pat head. I’ll pay when I see you. Thought of someone I can give him to who’ll love him? I’ll miss him awfully. M.
I smiled and shook my head as I complied with M.’s wishes. More than one pat on the head, of course, and Meph wagged all over. But, no, I hadn’t thought of someone else to love this lovable mutt. At least not yet.
I pondered that, Corina Carey, Amanda, and more as I finished up a couple more pet-sitting visits and headed to the office. My conclusion? It was way past time for more proactive probing into Leon’s death. Now.
Well . . . as soon as I’d dealt with my other duties.
First thing after exchanging hellos with chirpy Mignon at her reception desk, I noted Borden holding a conclave of firm attorneys in our bar-turned-conference room. I slid inside and gave my morning’s greetings to the group of them: Borden in an aloha shirt I’d seen before, curly-haired Geraldine Glass, plump William Fortier, and classy Elaine Aames, all products of Borden’s senior generation of attorneys.
I’d spent time over the last months bonding with silver-haired estates and trusts attorney Elaine and the amazingly intelligent Blue and Gold Macaw she’d adopted—Gigi. Poor Gigi was previously owned by a former attorney at this firm, Ezra Cossner, who’d been slain by a killer right in his office down the hall. Hey, I said I was a murder magnet.
“Borden, I’ll be working on one of my own matters most of today,” I said. “Okay?”
“Is your question rhetorical?” he responded with a smile. “You’ll do it anyway, won’t you?”
“Sure,” I said, “but figured this was a good time to let you know, so if you had something urgent to attend to, the gang would hear about it here, take pity on you, and volunteer. Right?” I scanned the room, but no one’s hands elevated. Lots of grins suddenly appeared, though. Gad, how I loved this group!
“Does this have anything to do with that stalker slaying?” Elaine asked. She’d been smack-dab in the middle of Ezra’s murder investigation and knew how I operated—whether I liked it or not. “I read about it in the paper, and last night there was stuff on TV, too. That Corina Carey is some investigative reporter.”
“You could say that,” I said.
“I just did,” Elaine jabbed back.
“She’s a reason I have to delve deeper into who could have killed Leon Lucero besides Amanda Hubbard. Okay, gang?”
“I’ve got nothing pressing for you now since you’ve got the Sherman case under control,” Borden said. “Go to it, Kendra.” He was seconded by the rest. I smiled all the way down the open restaurant hallway to my office.
Then I frowned as I tried to figure out how to approach my many possible suspects—literally or figuratively? I referred to the amazing list generated by Jeff’s computer guru, my pal Althea.
The only prior stalking victim of Leon’s I’d spoken to in person was Betty Faust. She was still on my list, as was her sweetheart, the incredibly hulking Coprik.
I considered calling some of Leon’s other victims again, but none had returned my earlier messages. Many lived far enough away that sitting on their doorsteps to ensure they couldn’t avoid me was simply too impractical. I chose a couple of locals, though, for follow-up.
I referred to my notes, which suggested that I look further into the doctors and others at Amanda’s office. Might any of them have wanted to dispose of Leon at Amanda’s expense?
Then there was Amanda’s brother, Bentley Barnett. And . . . hey, there could be a whole universe of suspects out there.
Corina Carey had even suggested she had a growing list. Neither the cops nor she were likely to share their thinking with me, of course.
Only—I dug out a phone number and called it. “Hi, Mitch,” I said to Amanda’s attorney when he answered. “Did you see Corina Carey’s report on Channel—”
“Of course,” he responded, sounding huffy. “I’ve even tried to talk to the woman about what she’s found so far, but she only asks me questions and won’t answer mine. She refers me to the attorneys for her paper and TV station. They’re claiming journalistic privilege regarding sources, or something else that shouldn’t work but is at least delaying things.”
“Damn,” I said. “I promised Amanda last night to push even harder to figure out who else could have killed Leon, and Corina made herself sound like an ideal resource. What does your cocounsel, Quentin Rush, think about all this?”
“I haven’t reached him yet to ask,” Mitch said. “Do you have any other information you can share with him and me?”
“Sure. You and I can get together and compare notes. Feel free to bring Quentin. I’d love to meet him and get his perspective. Meantime, I’ll continue trying to talk to Leon’s stalking victims. He was definitely a champion.”
“Lots of people with motive,” Mitch agreed.
Yeah, and if you’d done your homework, you’d be able to save me a whole lot of research right about now.
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ve already talked to some and I intend to speak with even more.”
“Great! Yes, let’s do lunch and discuss it soon. Today’s Friday . . . next week? I’ll check Quentin’s schedule, too.”
“Great,” I said.
Today
was
Friday, I realized as I hung up. I’d have the whole weekend to attempt face-to-faces with other local stalking victims. Wouldn’t it be a kick if I could impress famous counsel-to-the-stars Quentin Rush with my snooping prowess?
Which made this an excellent opportunity to return to Amanda’s medical office and see what I could learn.
Not much, as it turned out. Oh, her boss Dr. Henry Grant was in, and I was able to convince the receptionist to allow me a brief audience between patients in the disinfectant-fragrant hall near the waiting room. But the heart of the cardiologist seemed in the wrong place that day. His beard-laden chin twitched as he reiterated how he hoped the best for Amanda, but out of sight, out of mind, was how he now looked at Leon Lucero. He hadn’t exactly wished his difficult patient dead, but now that he was gone things were much more serene around this office. And, no, he still hadn’t any ideas who besides Amanda might have murdered the man. Not him, certainly.
When he stalked off, I was glad enough to find myself still in that hallway. For the next ten minutes, I hastily interviewed other doctors who looked alternately angry or impatient or unnerved by my pointed questions. Same went for their equally irritated and upset staff. More than one suggested strongly that I leave, but it wasn’t until a white jacket-clad Amanda herself exited one of the examination rooms that I was given a direct order.
“You’re supposed to be helping me,” she hissed, “not putting my job in jeopardy. Get out of here.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “I’m just doing my best to absolve you of Leon’s murder.”
The whites of her gray eyes were shot with red, and I noticed wrinkles at the edges of her eyelids and mouth that had appeared overnight. The woman was aging before my eyes.
Which, nasty person that I was, seemed just fine with me.
“Well, until you do, I don’t have to stay away from Jeff,” she said with a snotty smile.
Incredible! I drew in my breath. Talk about things growing old. I was getting damned tired of my disagreements with this irritating ex-wife. And, by extension, with her ex-husband. “Fine. Knock yourself out,” I said. “Better yet, knock
him
out.” I stomped out of there.
Only . . . well, I didn’t expect her to take me literally.
But late that night, when I’d finished my pet-sitting and picked up Lexie, and she and I sat on my small living room sofa staring at some silly TV sitcom, my cell phone sang. It was Jeff, not much of a surprise at that hour.
But what he said nearly knocked my socks off.
“Kendra?” His voice sounded weak. “Can you come over to my place and take me to the emergency room? Amanda just ran me over with her car.”
Chapter Seventeen
“SHE MAY NOT have killed Leon Lucero, but she sure as hell tried to kill you!” I exclaimed to Jeff a couple of hours later, after he’d gone through the emergency room and been poked, prodded, x-rayed, and bandaged.
He looked truly awful, but he was going to live. I helped him climb into my Beamer in the parking lot of St. Joe’s—the Providence St. Joseph Medical Center in Burbank.
I always adored how Jeff’s blue eyes twinkled, but just then they looked more like black holes than lively stars. “She didn’t try to kill me,” he protested. “The woman’s just at her wit’s end. Like I told you, I made the mistake of explaining to her I’d continue helping you find suspects in Leon’s murder, but reminding her yet again that she wasn’t welcome to drop in on me at home. I made the even bigger mistake of walking her out to her car. I walked behind the car to get back on the sidewalk, and she backed into me. She claimed she lost control.”
“Not of the car, but her emotions,” I said. “Even if she didn’t intend vehicular homicide, it could have been the result. And she didn’t even stick around to see if you survived.”
“No,” he said sadly. He stayed quiet for the rest of the ride to his home.
We’d gone through most of this before. He’d no intention of reporting anything to the cops, and he’d prevaricated plenty at the hospital when asked what had happened.
He was protecting his ex-wife, who’d bopped him with her bright red car.
He’d claimed over and over that he was over the woman, but this said otherwise.
Tonight wasn’t a good time for me to make up my mind where my relationship with Jeff was heading. But I was afraid I had a pretty good idea.
Under Amanda Hubbard’s wheels.
Back at Jeff’s, Lexie and Odin acted delighted to see us. Yes, I’d brought my pup when I’d dashed to Jeff’s. I figured poor Odin would need company while I rushed his master to medical care. I was especially glad about the dogs as a diversion while I helped an aching Jeff sponge-bathe and change into nightwear—no nudity or canoodling this night, that was for sure.
Lexie and I slept—or at least I tried to—not in Jeff’s spacious bedroom, but back in the semistoreroom where I’d spent nights when I’d first started pet-sitting for the P.I. and his Akita. I didn’t snooze much. I spent too much time checking on Jeff, standing in his bedroom door and listening for his breathing. Yes, he stayed alive for that night. And my feelings for him?
Well, let’s just say they’d started hovering somewhere in purgatory.
I definitely drifted off, since I was awakened in the morning by barking dogs and chiming doorbells. I hurried to the front door. Unsurprisingly, Amanda stood there.
“Let me in,” she insisted. Her beautiful blond hair was in absolute disarray, and her eyes were red enough to assert that she’d cried all night.
I opened the door but stayed in her way. “Jeff’s okay, more or less, no thanks to you,” I said.

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