Meow is for Murder (28 page)
Read Meow is for Murder Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
I couldn’t help recalling how, the first time I’d seen him, I’d immediately noticed the brilliant-colored tie around his neck . . . that just happened to be his pet python.
“Likewise, Kendra. Come on in. Py’s waiting for you. I told him you’d be visiting again, and he seemed really excited to hear it.”
Most pet owners were guilty of anthropomorphism, so why should Milt be any different? Of course, pets like dogs and cats had traits that could, without straining one’s imagination, appear somewhat human. But a snake?
Sure enough, the large glass enclosure still took up most of Milt’s living room. It consisted of two connected chambers kept at different temperatures, so the cold-blooded Py could choose his environment.
And there he was, curled in the corner of one of his rooms. Darned if he didn’t lift his head when I looked in and said, “Hi, Py!” Maybe there
was
something to what Milt said about Py’s recognizing and reacting to my name.
was
something to what Milt said about Py’s recognizing and reacting to my name.
Or maybe I’d been pet-sitting too long.
No, never. I loved animal tending. So . . .
“You remember the routine, don’t you?” Milt asked. He waved me to an easy chair facing Py’s home and took a seat on a metal folding chair.
“Sure do. That’s one of the reasons I called you in the first place. I need to know where you get Py’s food.”
I’d never asked before where the abundant carcasses of deceased mice that Milt kept in the freezer for Py came from. But now the information was absolutely necessary.
“I order it online.” His smile pudged out his poochy cheeks even further and revealed his slightly uneven teeth.
“Oh.”
My dismay must have been obvious in my tone, since he said, “Why do you ask? Kendra, are you getting a pet python?” He sounded absolutely ecstatic.
“Well, no. But I do need some frozen mice . . . for a friend.” I didn’t want to explain, even to someone as easy-going as Milt, exactly why I needed a supply of deceased rodents. “Could I buy some from you? Do you have enough in stock to do that?”
“Sure. I’ll order more in any event, and they’ll arrive when I get back in a week—although you can keep an eye out for them in case they come early. The shippers sometimes act fast since they don’t want to be responsible for what happens if the dry ice evaporates. Meantime, help yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.” I was delighted when Milt picked Py up and draped him around my neck.
I went over my new paperwork with Milt, had him fill in the info I needed and sign the agreement, and put a set of his keys in the appropriate corner of my large purse.
And left, a little while later, with a plastic bag filled with regular, refrigerator-generated ice . . . and frozen mice carcasses.
I WENT STRAIGHT to Amanda’s, where she reported to me right away, really excited. She’d gotten a better response to her invitations than I’d ever imagined.
“The first person will be here in about an hour,” she said with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, shooing me quickly into her kitchen, and from there into her living room.
I only hoped her cats were as accommodating. Or at least didn’t mess things up.
She wore a snug red ski sweater over leg-hugging stretch slacks. As if Los Angeles was cold enough for such a form-enhancing outfit.
Me? Well, it was Sunday afternoon, after all. I’d chosen a bright blue turtleneck over relatively new jeans—becoming enough for this less-than-gorgeous attorney’s off time.
Dr. Henry Grant arrived ten minutes early. I went with Amanda to open the door—starting the routine we’d ultimately decided on. No sense in her facing her guests first thing all by herself. The one we were seeking might do something nasty, if there was even a hint of suspicion about what we were up to. Maybe even if there wasn’t.
The cardiologist with the Welsh terrier whiskers seemed somewhat startled to see me standing in the doorway, but he regained his aplomb instantly. “Are you all right, Amanda?” he asked at once.
“More or less,” she responded. “Come in, Henry.”
“Well, if you’re okay, why did you want to talk to me here on a Sunday, rather than at the office tomorrow? Oh, by the way, hello, Ms. Ballantyne.”
“Kendra,” I corrected. “Hello to you, too.”
We led the doctor down the seascape-laden hallway and into the living room.
“Nice house,” he said, his short neck still craning as he took a seat. “I like the way you’ve showcased our patients’ artwork.”
“To answer your question, Henry,” Amanda said, “I wanted to see you here because I’m a little nervous. I mean, the police arrested me for murdering Leon right here in my house, but, of course, I know I didn’t do it.” Her tone went up in a wail, which I could understand, even if she was acting. Maybe she wasn’t. “What if they don’t find out who really killed him? What’ll happen to me?” Her eyes misted up as if on cue, and the doctor, sitting at the far side of the Scandinavian sofa from her, also took his cue and slid closer.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He took her hands in his. “Leon was my patient, and I’ll be glad to testify in court how he was stalking you. How miserable he was around our office. How he even threatened some of the staff.”
Interesting. And kind of what I’d suspected. “Were any of them”—
You included
, I kept to myself—“upset enough with him to harm him, and let someone else take the blame?”
You included
, I kept to myself—“upset enough with him to harm him, and let someone else take the blame?”
Henry turned his affronted gaze toward me. “I certainly don’t think so,” he huffed.
Not that I’d take that as gospel, even about him.
Now came the tricky part. We’d talked ad nauseum about how best to stage this—especially considering how unpredictable two of our players were.
I gave a teensy nod that I hoped was nearly imperceptible to Amanda, who acknowledged it by looking away.
“Henry, I have some coffee and scones in the kitchen.” She all but fluttered her eyelashes.
I’d already assumed that “her” doctor and boss was sweet on her ... like a certain P.I. I knew, who always denied it. Not that I was worried, at this moment, about him. “Will you please help me bring them in?” she finished.
“Of course.”
Their departure allowed me to do as we’d intended. Quickly, I slipped to my knees, opened a wooden door in the side of the coffee table, and extracted a plastic bag we’d stuck there just before Henry’s anticipated arrival. Keeping my eye on the door and my ear on the conversation from the kitchen, I reached into the bag, happy that my hand first encountered a paper towel. I used it to remove the bag’s other, more important contents, which I positioned on the floor near the couch.
Then I started talking despite remaining alone in the living room. “Well, hello, girls. Good to see you. What’s that?” Followed by a shout, “Amanda!”
She entered seconds afterward, carrying a couple of mugs of coffee. Henry was behind her, and he also held coffee plus a plate of scones.
“It was the strangest thing,” I said to Amanda. “Cherise and Carnie came in, put that there, then ran right out again.”
I half anticipated those intelligent cats to come in and set the story straight—that everything I said was a lie. But, fortunately, they didn’t.
So the dead mouse, defrosted from the stash I’d obtained from Milt, lay on the hardwood floor near the side of the sofa where Dr. Henry Grant had previously been parked.
“Do you suppose,” I said, “that they were trying to tell us something?”
“Like what?” Henry’s face constricted into a clueless expression.
“Didn’t you see the articles in the paper about how my cats leave presents as threats for people they don’t like—like Leon?” Amanda said. “Right there, where he died? I’ve been wondering whether they’d give a mouse present to his killer, if they happened to see him.”
“Who has time to read the paper?” Henry asked, stepping gingerly over the mouse and placing his mug and plates down on the coffee table. “Ugh. A dead mouse. Well, I don’t buy into cats giving meaningful presents.” Amazingly, the man appeared to have an appetite, since he lifted one of the pastries to his lips. “Great scones, Amanda.”
Cherise and Carnie took that moment to make their grand entrance. “Hi, girls,” Amanda crooned. “Did you leave Dr. Grant a present? Is he the one you saw kill big, bad Leon?”
“Now, wait a minute,” Henry said, standing so suddenly that his scone dripped crumbs near the mouse corpse. “I didn’t even know where you lived before today.”
“It’s in your office records,” I reminded him, also standing. Amanda’s eyes switched anxiously from Henry’s face to mine, then back again. Only Cherise and Carnie seemed calm, continuing to pad closer to us.
“I’ve never been here before. And I most certainly did not kill Leon Lucero here or anywhere else. Is that why you wanted me to come here—to accuse me? Amanda, I’m disappointed in you.”
At least he didn’t fire her. And, not that I’m an expert, but his tone suggested sincerity. This wasn’t evidence I’d ever consider bringing to court—assuming I ever started arguing criminal cases—but I felt somewhat convinced that Dr. Henry Grant could be crossed off our suspect list.
And so, I was quite ready to see him leave when he departed indignantly a few minutes later.
VISITORS NUMBER TWO and three that day: former Leon stalking victim Betty Faust and her dear defensive friend, Coprik.
Since they lived an hour away in Channel Islands Harbor, it made sense to see if they could come on a Sunday, rather than during the week. Whatever Amanda had said to them had made them curious enough to show up on her doorstep late that afternoon.
Unlike Dr. Grant, these two arrived late. Due to the distance? Traffic? Unwillingness to step into a possible trap? Well, they were unlikely to know about the latter, but I supposed they could have considered it.
In any event, it was nearly five o’clock when the doorbell chimed. Meantime, I’d had to pass tedious hours in Amanda’s irritating presence. I felt ready to accuse them, then absent myself, fast.
But this scheme of mine required a whole lot more subtlety.
Once again, I was with Amanda when she answered the door. Due to the time of year, it was nearly dark outside.
There stood short, squat Betty, with her beautiful black hair swept up on top of her head in a strange, unkempt kind of do. Beside her was the hulk called Coprik, clad, like last time, in a partially unbuttoned workshirt over jeans that were a whole lot more scruffy than mine.
“Please come in,” Amanda said. “You remember Kendra Ballantyne, don’t you?”
“I remember her, not you,” grumped Coprik while obeying her and entering. He glanced with only minor interest toward all the artwork along her hallway.
Betty, on the other hand, stared at it in awe. “These are beautiful,” she said in a hushed voice. “Who painted them?”
“Several different people,” Amanda said. “Mostly patients at the doctors’ office where I work. And these two”—she pointed toward a couple across from each other—“were Leon’s work.”
“Really? That awful man had a talent like this? Why didn’t he concentrate on that instead of scaring people?” As Betty shook her head, some of her hair escaped its mooring and formed curlicues at the sides of her broad, arresting face.
“‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’” Coprik quoted from
The Shadow
comic strip, radio, and TV shows. “Or what good stuff, either.” He seemed pleased enough to plop his substantial bod down on Amanda’s couch that, with its thin wooden legs, appeared too rickety to accommodate him. Fortunately, it didn’t fly into pieces, even when Betty sat down by his side.
The Shadow
comic strip, radio, and TV shows. “Or what good stuff, either.” He seemed pleased enough to plop his substantial bod down on Amanda’s couch that, with its thin wooden legs, appeared too rickety to accommodate him. Fortunately, it didn’t fly into pieces, even when Betty sat down by his side.
Amanda’s excuse for inviting these two over was that she said she was considering forming a support group for stalking victims, especially Leon’s. “Assuming I’m not convicted of killing him,” she said with a sorrowful sigh.
“Did you?” Coprik asked. Which didn’t mean
he
didn’t do it, or Betty, either. He could have been affecting ingenuousness.
he
didn’t do it, or Betty, either. He could have been affecting ingenuousness.
“I admit I wanted him out of my life, in whatever manner it happened,” Amanda affirmed. “And I also admit it looks suspicious that he died here, in my home. But I didn’t do it.”
“Not even in self-defense?” Betty inquired. “You’d surely not get sent to prison then.”
“Maybe that’s why he was killed here,” Coprik added. “Someone who hated him as much as you did but didn’t want to fry for it—or make you fry, either. Whoever it was could have assumed you’d get off.”
“Convoluted,” I chimed in, “but possible. Since you came up with the idea, do you want to confess, just to us?”
Betty laughed, albeit a little nervously. “It wasn’t either of us,” she said sans any hesitation.
“I’ll bet Coprik knows his way around a screwdriver,” I persisted. “Since he owns a boat sales and repair shop. Leon was slain with a screwdriver,” I added, most likely unnecessarily.
“If he’d still been nosing around Betty, I might have done it,” Coprik belted out belligerently. “But I’d already scared him off.”
Maybe. Still—“Weren’t there times you preferred not telling Coprik when Leon was around, Betty? I mean, to keep him from murdering the bastard—like what happened—so Coprik wouldn’t get into trouble? Maybe, to protect Coprik, you’d even kill Leon yourself.”
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