Nothing to Fear But Ferrets (28 page)

“Meantime,” I continued, “I need to let you know that I’m a lawyer, though I’m not acting in that capacity right now. But let me tell you what I’ve learned by doing a little research.”

I described the fascinating facts I’d found. It seemed that the property behind both of their houses, as well as many others in that area, had been part of an old Spanish land grant that showed up on the chain of title. It had been a roadway, and today it would be considered an easement reserved for the benefit of the Catholic Church or the government, or both.

That was where Jonesy had dug up the treasure.

The reserved rights had never been vacated, so arguably the government succeeding the Spanish one could have kept the same interests. Under today’s law, a person couldn’t obtain property by adverse possession or gain prescriptive easements—legal ways of stealing property of others simply by using it—of property interests owned by governmental entities and not even equitable easements applied where there were no improvements to the part of the property in question. As a result, California might in effect own that strip of land. The treasure could be the state’s, and not Beatrice’s or Jon’s.

Or the coins might be deemed lost property. In that case, Beatrice might be considered their trustee until their true owners could be found—descendants of the Spanish settlers who buried it there. If that was the decision, said descendants would undoubtedly descend en masse to make a claim once word got out—genuine or illegitimate.

There was a good argument, of course, that the treasure belonged to the ostensible owner of the property where it was found—Beatrice. Of course, when Jon asserted his finders-keepers argument, he might be the one to prevail.

Years of litigation later, after the value of the treasure was already spent on the lawyers, the court would decide who owned the coins—one or both of them . . . or someone else altogether.

Wouldn’t it be better to share it, to act as a cohesive unit to fend off the inevitable claimants if word got out that the treasure was found? And assuming the world learned about it, imagine the extra wealth that could be won, from talk shows, interviews, book deals, and all. The two of them could form a terrific team to handle it . . . together.

I watched her face as I talked. Glanced at Jon’s, too. They looked equally dazed. I’d told Jon what I’d found, not what I intended to say about it or any of the rest.

“Nothing’s absolute, of course,” I finished. “And please don’t think I’m giving either of you legal advice, just telling you the way I see things. But I really think it would be in the best interests of both of you to talk this out, reach a compromise.”

I looked at Jonesy, who was doing his schtick of digging on the property that was the subject of this discussion. Only this time, he wasn’t alone. Beatrice’s dog, too, had entered into the game.

“Why don’t we have dinner together tonight to discuss this?” Jon asked Beatrice tentatively. “My treat. Have you been to Dalts since the last time we were there?” He named a trendy restaurant in Burbank not far from there.

“No,” Beatrice said. She was silent for a moment. “Sure. Why not? If we can reach an amicable solution, I’m all for it.”

So was I. I took my leave soon after, a huge grin on my face. Could this be the onset of a rekindled romance or two—Jonesy and the larger sandy dog, and Jon and Beatrice?

Even if it was simply a start to renewed neighborly détente, I was all for it.

As to the legal implications—well, I hadn’t totally overstated the potential quagmire. I wished them both luck—and hoped they’d hire me if they needed a lawyer when I was practicing once more.

 
I DASHED TO Darryl’s when I was done at Jon’s, and told him all about what I’d accomplished.

“Good job, Kendra,” he enthused, standing near the front desk with his back toward the chaos that was his doggy resort on a Saturday afternoon. “I’ve heard Marie Seidforth is ecstatic, too, over how you helped solve things with her neighbor and their community association. And even that stud fee situation, where the small claims action was filed. You knew that’d get the breeder’s attention so she’d talk. In fact, you seem to be specializing in getting people to talk to one another.”

“Yeah.” I’d realized that, and all I’d done had seemed somewhat simple. It wouldn’t always work, of course. I was certain of that. But still, I supposed that even the most fractious people sometimes craved compromise that let them save face and feel they’d aced an argument. And where the result was a new pet, or sharing of a small treasure—hey, why not?

“I think I’ve discovered my own form of ADR,” I said. I’d considered this some after I’d helped Fran Korwald figure a solution for her pug custody dilemma. “When used relating to legal matters, that usually stands for ‘alternate dispute resolution.’”

“But yours—let me guess,” Darryl broke in. “It’s ‘animal dispute resolution.’”

“You got it! Maybe I can run with it even more when I get my law license back.”

“Which is when?”

“Less than two weeks,” I crowed optimistically.

“Can you make a living at animal dispute resolution? Or will you go back to litigation? And most important, are you going to keep on pet-sitting? I’m asking that since my clients keep requesting referrals.”

“Stay tuned,” I told my long, lanky friend. “I’ll tell you first, whatever I figure out.”

“Interested in grabbing dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

It wouldn’t be a date with Darryl. That wasn’t the nature of our friendship. “Rain check,” I told him. “Charlotte’s having what might be a pre-arrest party, and I intend to be there. I really would like to figure out exactly who and what got those ferrets munching on Chad Chatsworth, preferably before it’s too late for Charlotte.”

“I remember when you complained about your tenant almost as much as you complained about your ex-lover Bill Sergement,” Darryl said with a grin.

“Whoever accused me of being consistent?” I said. “I’ll tell you all about what happens when I drop Lexie off here on Monday, okay?”

“I didn’t know she was coming,” he said.

“Neither did I, till now.” I gave his skinny bod a big hug, then hurried out to speed into my late-day duties.

 
LEXIE WAS DELIGHTED to see me. After we took our walk and I fed her, I rushed to get ready for Charlotte’s murder suspects’ soiree. Time for one of my dressier informal outfits: silver sweater over a long multicolor skirt that swished as I walked. I doubted my makeup would stick me on the pages of
Elle,
but what the hell? It enhanced what I had. I’d kind of gotten used to my hair in its natural nondescript shade of brown, but I combed it back and stuck on some dangling earrings. I stuck a comb, some emergency cosmetics, and my cell phone in a small purse.

I left while Lexie was eating, so she’d pay less attention to my latest defection. As I prepared, in open sandals despite the crisp November air, to span the enormous distance between my humble abode and my unhumble, rented-out home, I saw Charlotte standing in the backyard between the two structures, near my swimming pool that was now off-limits to me. Despite the fact that her party was imminent, she was all alone—not like the ultrasociable hostess. I headed in her direction.

“Hi, Charlotte,” I called through the wrought-iron fence.

She looked up from the tiled deck about the pool fast, as if I’d startled her. Though her snazzy purple tunic and matching pants had obviously been donned for the party, her pale face reflected anything but a party mood. The shadows from the ample landscaping didn’t help.

“It’s awful, Kendra,” she responded in a halting rasp.

“What is?” I asked.

“Yes, what?” echoed a male voice from behind me. I turned to seek out its source. Lyle Urquard, the mad bicyclist, had left his cycle at home and had cleaned up rather well for this latest party. His charcoal shirt looked silky, and his black slacks barely suggested the contours of his bulging belly. He looked concerned, as his out-jutting lower jaw sagged in a frown.

“Is everything okay, Charlotte?” chirped Tilla Thomason. She and her husband, Hal, plus others from the neighborhood gang, had flocked through the open front gate after Lyle.

“Sure,” Charlotte lied with an obvious effort to be cheerful. “Let’s go inside.”

As we all followed her in through the kitchen, I had a sinking feeling that tonight’s festivities would seem more like a wake than a gala.

And I intended to grill Charlotte till I got the reason why.

Chapter Thirty

BEFORE I CAUGHT up with the crowd, my cell phone rang. “So why the heck did you bring it, Ballantyne?” I muttered to myself, knowing the answer even as I checked out the caller ID.

“Hello, Jeff,” I said stiffly. Since I’d headed home after the Amanda-and-the-key affair, I’d heard from him often. Wasn’t sure whether I wanted to. But tonight was a good time. “Sorry I can’t talk to you now. I’m just on my way to a party.”
Enjoying my social life sans you,
was my unspoken gibe.

“Another of your tenant’s shindigs?” he asked. “I’d like to crash one, one of these days.”

“Without an invitation?” I responded breezily. “Let me tell you all the interesting research I recently did on trespassers. It’s not a good idea to become one. Are you going out of town anytime soon? Lexie misses Odin.”

“I’ve got something planned for the end of next week, but—”

“Great. I was wondering why you called. I’ll be glad to pet-sit. We’ll talk before you leave.” And I hung up.

I’d handled that as I’d intended to. Friendly, professional, not suggesting a smidgen that the Amanda bit was still bothering me.

So why did I feel as if Jeff had heard all the stuff I hadn’t said? I sighed.
Get over it, Kendra.

When I finally entered my leased-out house, Yul was in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to cuisine for guests craving calories: chips and melted cheese for nachos, fixings for French dip sandwiches, and a couple of different kinds of quiche. The aromas that encircled the room and all who passed through suggested impending paradise for the taste buds. And for those eschewing rich and fattening fare, there was a tray of finger-sized veggies and dip.

Charlotte stepped around the food and headed for the bar, and the rest of us followed.

I noticed, as I grabbed my drink, filled my plate, and headed for the heart of the revelry, that the big UGLY ROOM sign was back on the door to the den. Obviously it was off-limits for this gathering. A good idea, since a murder scene wasn’t a prime venue for a party.

“Next week, I promise,” said someone standing beside me. Ike Janus, in a sporty sweater tonight instead of a suit, held a wineglass in his hand and a hang-dog expression on his bespectacled face. “The insurance company assured me you’d have a check then.”

“Thanks,” I said, recalling how I’d thought he was can-do enough to get this done a hell of a lot faster. Of course, a murder had slowed the situation down. Still . . . “I’d love to get the wall fixed.” Though even doing that and redecorating wouldn’t keep me from remembering all that had happened in that room.

A short while later, we all gathered in the black-and-white beast of a living room. Mostly, it was the same mob of people present when I’d partied here before: Charlotte and Yul, her showbiz friends including Philipe Pellera and Sven Broman, and the same stable of neighbors. Each established clique again sat on its own side of the room—neighbors on one side, and celebrities and wannabes on the other.

Charlotte’s red carpet had really rolled out that night. Trudi Norman and Dave Driscoll were there again, too. Dressed in a skimpy, shimmering shirt and slacks, and made up like a model, Trudi sat on the sofa between Philipe and Dave. I wasn’t sure which she was with. Or if she’d come stag with the sole purpose of latching on to one or the other, for she seemed to cozy up first to Philipe, then turn to Dave before he ran for another drink to drown his sorrows.

I’d have spent more time studying those suspects if it hadn’t been for Charlotte. She seemed to hold court at a side of the room as she downed one glass of Smirnoff after another. How did I know her choice of vodka? She kept the bottle on the area rug on the floor beside her, lifting it often for refills, not even bothering to pretend to water it down with juice or anything else of a lesser proof.

At first only Yul and Sven seemed to be the recipients of whatever she whispered about. Sipping my own clear liquid beverage—solely soda water, as I wanted my wits at full throttle—I nonchalantly edged toward that end of the room. I needn’t have bothered with subtlety, though, since the volume of Charlotte’s voice grew louder with each passing swig.

“Yes, it was that terrible,” she said, standing with a lurch as Yul steadied her by grabbing an arm.

Though her handsome hunk had dressed well in a muscle-hugging ski sweater over designer slacks, something I didn’t recognize sizzled in his somber expression. Apprehension? Anticipation? No, it was more than that. Something that suggested even more intelligence than I’d imagined as he listened with apparent alarm to what Charlotte said.

“That damned detective, Nor . . . Nor . . . Nor . . .”

“Noralles,” I supplied to end her sloshed stammering.

“That’s it. He insisted that I come to his stupid police station today. Of course I brought Esther, but it didn’t go well. I hadn’t told her . . . Well, now she knows, and she said she’s still my lawyer and she’ll help me anyway. But how on earth did that damned detective learn any of that?”

“Any of what?” Yul asked the exact question that had slipped to the tip of my tongue, his tone soft and placating while his eyes studied her with both caring and wariness.

“He told me more about that latest tip,” she responded, not quite on point. “Someone phoned it in anonymously and untraceably this time, or so he said. If he knew whether it was the same person as sent the package, he didn’t let me in on it, but it probably was. The question’s still ‘Who?’”