Authors: Linda O. Johnston

Meow is for Murder (8 page)

BOOK: Meow is for Murder

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Amanda hardly reacted. She barely even looked up, and certainly didn’t do the polite thing and offer her hand. Not that Ned was likely to want to shake it anyway. With all that blood about, it was likely to be evidence.

But . . .

Oops! No wonder the detective’s dark eyebrows shot way the heck up his forehead. My recollection hadn’t veered in that direction before, but Ned had a long history with Jeff Hubbard, who’d once been a cop himself. The two of them had allegedly gotten into a heck of a fistfight once upon a time, one that had resulted in Jeff’s resignation from the LAPD.

On top of that, Jeff had been Ned’s pet suspect in the last murder investigation where he and I had butted heads.

Not that Jeff had done it, of course. And I’d proven it.

Which had caused Ned jokingly to offer me a job.

“Well, hello, Amanda.” His syrupy voice sounded scads too friendly to me. The subtext shouted excitedly in my ear:
Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing if I could get to your ex through a back door, by proving you’re a murderer, since I couldn’t pin the last killing on him?

“Have you two already met?” I asked a little too casually. Like years ago, when Ned and Amanda’s ex were competitive coworkers.

“I know his name,” Amanda responded frostily, her first sign of spunk since she’d risen off the floor before.

“And I know yours,” Ned practically purred, which made me want to shove his face into some used kitty litter.

A noise from the doorway attracted my attention. The two other detectives who’d arrived earlier stood there. One was Howard Wherlon, Ned’s sometime sidekick who often showed up at scenes of Noralles’s investigations. He had large bushy eyebrows and short, receding hair. As always, when I’d seen him, he was garbed in a drab gray suit.

The other had enthusiastically introduced himself as Detective Elliot Tidus. He looked maybe half the age of the fortyish Wherlon, and in his checkered sport jacket appeared more like an eager pre-owned car hawker than a professional cop.

“Detective Noralles,” said Tidus as he strode into the room. “We’re ready to start our interrogation.” He smiled eagerly, as if awaiting his superior’s blessing to pull out the rubber hoses and whip the truth out of these two suspect civilians.

“Very good,” Noralles responded. “Detective Wherlon and you may take Ms. Ballantyne outside and question her. I’ll ask Ms. Hubbard a few questions.”

Whatever color Amanda had, besides the blood on her clothing, faded fast from her face. I wondered if she was about to faint. The uniform at the doorway, who’d stepped aside to allow the detectives to enter, must have wondered the same thing, since he strode forward as if to catch her when she fell.

Instead, she rose and looked absolutely regal as she stared down her nose—hard to do at her height compared with the taller Detective Noralles—and said, “Under the circumstances, I’d prefer that one of the other detectives question me.”

“Under what circumstances?” asked the obviously naïve Tidus. Or maybe he was simply uninformed. He was clearly too junior to have been around during the Noralles-Hubbard bout.

“I’m totally objective,” Noralles said, clearly stung, “but to avoid any appearance of impropriety I’ll allow Detective Wherlon to question you, Ms. Hubbard. Detective Tidus, you come with me. You, too, Ms. Ballantyne.”

Detective Tidus practically skipped from the room behind Ned and me, obviously itching to ask questions about the situation. Which might be a good thing. Maybe I could turn their focus back to why Amanda didn’t want Ned to question her, and away from any incisive inquisition of me. Not that I had anything to hide. I simply hated being subjected to a police interrogation.

I’d gone through way too many lately.

A result of being a murder magnet.

As we stepped outside onto Amanda’s well-lit front porch, I heard her offer Detective Wherlon some tea. How polite, to entertain one’s police examiner. I imagined his response would be negative, since serving refreshments might mean a sojourn into the kitchen, still under scrutiny by the SID.

Ned motioned me to the sole lawn chair on the wooden deck. He planted his behind against the railing and motioned for Tidus to take a similar spot.

“Okay, Kendra,” Ned said. “Will you tell me what you know? Or do we need to play games again and let me extract the information word by word?”

He was referring to the fact that, as a lawyer, I knew to instruct a witness to answer questions only as asked, and not volunteer extraneous information. That could lead to long interrogations, where questions answered by “yes” or “no” were followed up by queries requiring more informative responses. In our prior course of conduct, Ned had been treated to some of my single-syllable replies, which drove him nuts.

Of course, the fact that we had a course of conduct for homicide interrogations didn’t exactly cause me to turn cartwheels.

“No games, Ned. I’ll tell you what happened.” And I did, mostly ignoring young Tidus beside him and editing only a little. I told how Amanda had first invited me to her home, where she’d asked me to pet-sit while she fled her frightening foe, Leon.

But I didn’t reveal to this sometimes snide cop how I’d recognized that Amanda had intended to manipulate me into caring for her calculating cats, or that I’d given in due to her tale of potential kitty-calamity.

Or that I’d finally figured out why she had done such a dastardly deed: She’d determined Jeff’s destination, and planned all along to call me while with him. Her intent was to imply they’d arranged a Chicago assignation, leaving me in L.A. cleaning kitty litter.

Which should make me loathe the scheming bitch even more. Except that, when she worried about her pets enough to return early, alone, and to potentially brave her horrible harasser if he showed up again at her home, I’d discovered a soft spot inside for Amanda.

Of course, rot also resulted in soft spots . . .

“So Ms. Hubbard said she was leaving town because she felt threatened by Leon Lucero?” Detective Tidus interjected as I wound my story down.

“That’s right,” I said. “And I absolutely understood her rationale when the slimeball showed up and blocked my Beamer right in Amanda’s driveway.”

Ned ricocheted from the porch rail, sailing toward me and stopping only inches from where I sat. “He was here before? You talked to him?”

I nodded. “I figured out fast who he was. He demanded that I tell him where Amanda was. I was honest when I told him I wasn’t sure, except that she wasn’t at home. Wrong answer. He threatened not only Amanda, but me, too.”

“Are you trying to hand me a motive why you might have killed that miserable so-and-so?”

“A fairly flimsy one, don’t you think?”

“Could be. So, I assume you called 911, or at least whoever at the North Hollywood Station is managing Amanda’s TRO.”

I stuck my hand in the air, stopped it from shaking, and started counting my responses on my fingers. “One, I didn’t call 911, since I didn’t consider the situation life-threatening. Call me naïve, but I figured he wouldn’t hurt me, only Amanda.”

“Okay, Ms. Naïve. Go on.”

“Two, I don’t know who at the station had a copy of Amanda’s TRO, or what cops she’d spoken with to enforce it. I could only guess its contents, so it might have allowed Leon to be on the street but not on her property. Three, I didn’t have a copy of the TRO to wave at Leon and your enforcement guys, and that’s supposed to be necessary even when a TRO’s on file. Four, he’d have been gone anyhow even if I had called you cops.”

I paused for breath, allowing Noralles to get a word (or several) in edgewise. “So what’s five?”

“Who says I have anything more to say?”

“You’re still holding up your hand.”

“Oh, right.” I bent my final finger down, forming a fist that I quickly lowered. No sense getting Ned concerned I was about to kayo him—as Jeff had many years ago. “Finally, five. Even if I’d done all that, who’s to say you cops would have paid the puniest bit of attention? The TRO’s to protect Amanda Hubbard, which isn’t exactly my name.”

“They’re sometimes worded to keep the stalkers certain distances from places generally occupied by their victims,” Tidus intoned from over Ned’s shoulder, as if quoting from some kind of cop manual.

“True,” I acknowledged. “And that absolutely would have been my argument, if I’d had a copy and sought to have it enforced. But I didn’t. Oh, one more thing you might be interested in knowing. I can’t tell you how Leon got into Amanda’s house last night, but I suspect it wasn’t the first time.” I explained how I’d found the refrigerator door inexplicably open a few nights earlier and patiently responded to his ensuing inquiries. Soon, I figured I’d conveyed all I could. Even so, I asked, “Any other questions?”

“Actually, yes.” Ned had moved slowly back to where he’d stood before, and again he rested against the wooden porch railing. Tidus also scooted back and scowled in concentration. “One. Do you think Amanda killed Leon Lucero, and, if so, do you think it was in self-defense?”

“That’s two questions, Detective. Or one compound one.” I pondered for a prolonged moment how to respond. Not that my word would count as irrefutable evidence, but if I replied yes and no, in that order, would I help to put Amanda away for the rest of her life—and keep her the hell out of Jeff’s?

Perhaps.

But I was still and again an officer of the court. Despite the alleged ethics violations of which I’d been unjustly accused, I didn’t lie easily. Even when it gave me an advantage.

“I don’t think she did it, Ned,” I said. “In self-defense or otherwise.”

He shook his head and sighed. “One day you’ll agree with my assessment of a case, Kendra. You know I can still consider you a suspect here?”

“Only if you’re really reaching for one,” I responded while my insides plummeted at the mere idea.

“We’ll see. In any event, I’ll want to hear Amanda’s answers. And though I sometimes want to kick your butt, I have to admit you’ve been right in some of my cases lately. If you don’t think it was Amanda, who’s your favorite suspect?”

“I don’t have one yet, Ned.”

“And if I asked you to stay out of this investigation and not even think of coming up with a suspect of your own . . . ?”

“Even if I agreed, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“You wouldn’t believe yourself, either, Kendra.” His head was still shaking as he disappeared into the house, Tidus behind him.

Chapter Six

I CONSIDERED CHASING the two cops inside the house and checking on Amanda.

Bad idea. They’d officially dismissed me. And Lexie was waiting.

Carnie and Cherise? No sign of the clever cats. If not with their beleaguered owner, they’d made themselves scarce.

Besides, hanging around a murder scene was never my idea of a rollicking adventure, no matter how much experience I’d had with such situations lately.

I headed for Darryl’s.

On the way I attempted to call Jeff to impart the latest events, but his cell phone was apparently turned off. I sighed at the sound of his outgoing voice message. I kinda missed the guy—or at least I missed what I’d assumed we had together till this latest Amanda mess. I hung up fast, leaving no message. His caller ID would let him know I’d tried, and though I wasn’t at a loss for words—I never was—I admitted to myself some uncertainty about how relieved I should sound about Leon’s demise, and how pleased I should be that Jeff’s execrable ex was a suspect.

I was greeted at the doggy resort not only by Lexie and some other pups who’d escaped from their play areas, but also by another familiar state of affairs these days.

Darryl had collected yet another law client for me.

She sat in his office with her Pomeranian on her lap. Darryl stood at his establishment’s big front desk, near where I entered.

“Her name is Mae,” he whispered, then unobtrusively waved toward the large indoor window he’d installed so he could watch his world from the sanctity of his hideaway.

“The owner or the Pom?” I asked.

“The owner. Mae Sward. Her pup is Sugar.”

As I entered Darryl’s office with him right behind, I noticed that Sugar had one of those plastic cones cupping her head, the kind that kept dogs from gnawing stitches and skin after surgery.

“Kendra, meet Mae. Mae, this is the attorney I’ve told you about, Kendra—”

Mae Sward didn’t dally for further introductions but stood, securing her dog under her large left arm. She was more than a little bit chunky, with curly hair in an orange shade that suggested she’d tried hard to resemble her cute little Pom. She wore an oversized silky blue top over well-filled jeans.

“Oh, Kendra, I’m so glad to meet you.” She stuck out her right hand, and I shook it. Her grip was businesslike. “Did Darryl tell you what happened?”

Her eyes, somewhat hidden beneath the flesh of her face, overflowed with tears. The poor lady’s pain was nearly palpable. That spurred my sympathy.

BOOK: Meow is for Murder

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