Never Say Sty (19 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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I glanced in my rearview mirror at Lexie, whom I’d just picked up at Darryl’s. She regarded me quizzically, and I had to ask, “Will any animals be there?”
“No training or tryouts, but pets are permitted, if you’d like to bring Lexie.”
“Great! Who else is coming? I could carpool with Rachel and Beggar.”
“Good. See you then.”
As soon as I got home after completing my pet-sitting agenda, I called Annie, the Jeongs’ doggy-sitter. She confirmed she had no classes that weekend and intended to keep Princess with her constantly. That would prevent the pup from disturbing the neighbors in the short run, and I told Annie about my intent to take Princess to Darryl’s on Monday.
“I need to warn you,” she said, “I have some late classes and study group sessions next week that I can’t miss. Is your doggy day care open late?”
“No,” I told her, “but I’ll work something out either myself or with one of my other pet-sitter contacts.”
Still, this was only a stopgap fix, I figured. The Jeongs wouldn’t be home for another week. I’d try to talk to their neighbors’ lawyer. But even if I somehow made the legal situation go away this time, it wouldn’t solve the long-term dilemma of Princess’s lonesome anguish.
That night, my phone didn’t ring—except once, when Avvie Milton called to inquire about upcoming piggy scenarios on
Animal Auditions
. I told her I’d be back in touch after tomorrow, when I had better information.
No calls from Jeff—a good thing. Or from Dante . . . maybe not so good, at least for my psyche. But much better for my own long-term dilemma over my absurd attraction to the man.
Next morning, my pet-sitting went like clockwork—time-consuming yet utterly fun as I checked on my charges, walked and fed them as required.
Later, Rachel seemed in a good mood as I drove us both to the studio. All four of us, in fact. Lexie and Beggar camped in the backseat of the small car, sometimes sniffing out the slightly open windows, and other times sniffing at each other.
“What’s this meeting really about?” I asked Rachel.
“Coordination, I think.” My pretty, young assistant was all grins as she sat in the passenger seat. Today, since she wasn’t to go oncamera, she wore a bright green T-shirt that said
Animal Auditions
over tight jeans.
I’d dressed a little less casually: my gold, silky shirt tucked into cream-colored slacks. No telling who’d be there. . . .
“We want to schedule the final potbellied pig sessions and start creating more scenarios for dogs,” Rachel continued. “Get started filming them. Figure out which will air when on the Nature Network. Like that.”
Sounded fine to me.
When we arrived, Dante was already there, with Wagner. Everyone else on our staff was present, too—almost. Only two of our judges joined us. Matilda was absent.
That wasn’t necessarily a major issue, except that Charlotte seemed to be flitting around in some kind of panic.
“She left me a strange message,” Charlotte said to me as we pulled chairs into a circle for our conclave. “Something about needing time to herself to determine how to deal with Sebastian’s death and the problems it created. That’s partly what we’re all doing here today. But when I tried to return her call and tell her, I only got voice mail, and she hasn’t called back. What should we do?” Her voice rose into a pitiful wail that reminded me a little of the pup Princess. But Charlotte’s had little to do with separation—unless she was that attached to Matilda, which I doubted. It had everything to do with anxiety. She was our guru of reality shows, and the reality of this one was becoming all too unnerving.
I didn’t intend to raise Charlotte’s hopes unnecessarily, so I excused myself as if to head to the restroom—leaving Lexie cavorting with Wagner and Beggar. I saw Dante watch from the corner of his gorgeous brown eyes and immediately raised my chin. I wasn’t embarrassed by the call of nature—especially since this exit wasn’t caused by one. Instead, it was a call of another kind—to Matilda. But I, too, got only her voice mail. I left an upbeat message requesting that she call me back. And then I did head for the ladies’ loo, since the suggestion had, in fact, instigated what came naturally.
When I returned to the meeting, stuff had apparently gone on in my absence, which was fine with me.
“Okay, are we agreed on this schedule?” Dante demanded, apparently having assumed at least temporary control.
Everyone concurred. I was informed that our next potbellied pig filming would occur on Monday, when it would have been scheduled anyway had Sebastian not died. It would be dedicated to him, whether or not that was written in his will.
I agreed to call my main media contact, Corina, to invite her to attend our Monday session. She’d also be officially invited to participate in our next canine training scenario with her Puli, ZsaZsa, who’d put on a pretty good performance during our session to choose our replacement judge.
Eliza was designated to impart our upcoming schedule to Matilda. “I’ll suggest that the three of us, including Brody, get together an hour ahead of filming to coordinate how we interact.” She glanced at our newest judge, who gave a nod. She’d worn her glasses, but otherwise looked as good as if we’d been scheduled to shoot a show today. The way she smiled at Brody suggested she had ulterior motives for dressing up.
Now, why would anyone do that? I refused to look down at my own nice outfit or wonder whether Dante had noticed. . . .
No matter if it was how I dressed or something more substantial, I got a dinner invitation from Dante. I considered saying I’d check my schedule, but decided that would sound too contrived. Instead, I agreed.
He invited Brody to join us, which was fine with me. I anticipated that Dante would come to pick me up, but instead he said he’d meet us at a nice restaurant in Beverly Hills. “We’ll eat inside,” he said, “so, unfortunately, no dogs allowed.”
I hid my initial disgruntlement that quickly dissipated. This obviously wasn’t a date. But why did Dante want to dine with Brody and me?
I agreed to meet them both at seven. Which meant I had to hurry to return Rachel, Beggar, and Lexie to our Hollywood Hills home, then accomplish my evening’s pet-sitting visits early. That would give me time to dress and primp before dinner.
But as I backed my car out of my driveway, my cell phone rang. The caller’s number was Matilda’s.
“Hi, Matilda,” I said heartily. “You missed an interesting meeting today, but I’m sure Eliza will fill you in.”
“She left a message.” Matilda’s voice sounded strained.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said, although I was certain she lied. “Someone ran into my car today and I couldn’t drive it.”
But she hadn’t returned either Charlotte’s or my call to let us know—not until now.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You weren’t in it, were you?”
“No. It was parked. A hit-and-run.”
“Oh, my. Are you insured?”
“Sure,” she repeated, then stayed oddly quiet.
“Well, just so you know, your next judging will be on Monday. A continuation of the potbellied pig scenario. I hope the timing is all right with you. It’s the time we’d already planned for.”
“It should be fine.”
This didn’t sound like the outspoken and self-assured veterinary shrink I’d spoken with only a couple of days earlier.
“Matilda, is everything okay with you?” I asked. “I mean, I know you’re upset about your car. But you’ll still be able to act as one of our judges, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said curtly. “Wouldn’t dream of backing out. I’ll see you then.”
But as I hung up, I felt absolutely certain something was wrong with Matilda.
I could only hope that, whatever it was, it did not affect her role on
Animal Auditions
. The loss of one judge had been one judge too many.
Chapter Sixteen
THE RITZY RESTAURANT where we were to meet had valet parking. Of course.
Even so, I sought a spot on the street. I used to do that with my beloved Beamer so no careless cowboy who’d lassoed a parking job could carom it into another car. I didn’t care so much whether my rental car got another ding—except that I’d be liable for it. Mostly, it was my obstinacy that dictated I do that on this night. Dante had decided that I’d drive here. I would decide how to handle it.
The Italian
ristorante
was on a busy street, behind an elegant facade. It was late enough that I didn’t have to feed the meter, and I strode from my car straight inside. No sign of Dante or Brody . . . till I mentioned to the high-chinned, dark-suited maître d’ that I was meeting two men. “Ah, yes, Ms. Ballantyne?” He grinned at my confirming but pseudo-blasé nod. I wasn’t about to convey that I was impressed in the least by his personal greeting. “Follow me.”
I saw my two dinner companions at a table in a corner. Their heads were bowed and they seemed to be engrossed in a chat I was about to interrupt. Unless, of course, they included me in their inner circle of conversation.
Dante glanced in my direction as I approached. He immediately ceased talking, and stood. So did Brody. The maître d’ pulled out my chair, and I levered my butt into it gracefully.
I’d dressed for the occasion in slinky gray slacks with a sequined, sleeveless top beneath a silver-trimmed black jacket. I’d glanced into the mirror in the visor before exiting my car to ensure that my shoulder-length hair appeared neat as it framed my face, and that my makeup was enhanced, but not overdone, for the evening. Beautiful, no—but absolutely acceptable. And I basked in what appeared to be the appreciation of both men.
Each wore a dark suit, but neither resembled the other in the least. Dante seemed all smoldering Italian: olive skin, dark hair, eyes deeper than the richest dark chocolate.
Okay, so I was smitten by the guy. I admit it.
But Brody was no slouch in the looks department. How could he be, when he was movie-star handsome? His jaw was even firmer than Dante’s, his cheekbones so prominent they practically pierced the skin beneath his golden eyes. His hair was a light brown, thick and wavy.
Both guys greeted me with such effusion that I almost blushed—and I’m not the blushing kind.
“Kendra, delighted you could join us.” Dante motioned over a suited waiter who set a wineglass before me with a flourish, then lifted a Chianti bottle from the table and poured me a substantial serving. Dante and Brody lifted their already filled glasses, and we toasted each other and
Animal Auditions
.
The white-clad table was set with elegant dishware surrounded by sparkling silver. A small vase in the center held one red rose. I felt like a fairytale princess surrounded by two princes, each appearing to vie for my attention.
Wow.
I ordered a salad with, of course, Italian dressing and a delicious-sounding chicken and pasta dish. The waiter dashed off to see to our order. We were far from alone, since the place was crowded, but our corner seemed somewhat private.
“Okay,” Dante said after a sip of wine. “Here it is, Kendra.”
I smiled. Damn, but the guy was sexy. And there was more to it: I really liked him. Unwise, sure. He probably had a slew of women waiting to be beckoned by one of his slender, well-groomed fingers. But there was electricity between us. And . . . well, I genuinely had a sense that, somehow, we communicated, both verbally and non. I waited eagerly for him to continue.
“I know you have a reputation for solving murders,” he said, “but I want you to leave Sebastian’s to us.”
Communication? Man, had I been mistaken! I stared. His dark eyes seemed absolutely commanding, as if he wasn’t used to anyone contradicting anything he said.
But I simply smiled sardonically. “And you’re ordering this because . . . ?”
“For your own safety.” Brody was the one to respond. He appeared earnest, his brown brows knit as if he gave a damn. Even so . . .
“Are you threatening me?” I demanded, sending my glare from one to the other.
“Not at all,” Dante said quite calmly. “The danger isn’t from us, but since we don’t know who killed Sebastian and why—”
“That’s it exactly,” I said. “And assuming it wasn’t either of you”—I stared only at Dante. Brody hadn’t had anything to do with the show or, to my knowledge, with Sebastian at the time of his demise—“there’s no reason to assume that whoever killed him will have anything against me.”
“Do you consider me a suspect, Kendra?” Dante’s tone seemed somewhat amused. “And what would my motive be?”
Our salads were delivered just then. Our waiter offered us freshly ground pepper, which I declined, and grated Parmesan cheese, which I accepted. When he’d again ceased his hovering, we began once more.
I responded to the pending question. “I don’t know you well, Dante, but your reputation of being, well . . . let’s say powerful . . . precedes you. Sebastian alive was possibly a good pick for our production, since home audiences love nasty reality show judges. But even the nastiest, other than Sebastian, often come across with some redeeming qualities. Sebastian didn’t. And Sebastian dead brings in more viewers because of curiosity—about the show itself, and how it’ll survive without him . . . and, of course, who might have killed him.”

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