Feline Fatale (11 page)

“There’s an emergency board meeting on Tuesday evening,” he told me, “and all residents are invited to attend. I can get you in as a guest. It would be a great way to introduce you to more people on both sides.”

“I’ll be there!”

I COULD HAVE spent all of Monday drooling in anticipation of the delightful evening to come . . . with Dante.

But first I had pet-sitting to do. And all of my charges took priority over my own emotional—and physical—expectations.

I brought Lexie along with me first thing, and we visited all of my standard morning animals—Abra and Cadabra, the cats; Stromboli, Beauty, and some other adorable dogs; and, of course, Py the python. Where appropriate, Lexie came inside with me to assist in pet care and play.

Then we headed toward Doggy Indulgence. As always, I wanted to indulge my Lexie while I did my legal work.

Plus, I wanted to see Darryl. If possible, face him alone in his office. See how he was doing.

Determine whether I could further mend our fragile relationship.

As we went inside, Lexie immediately dashed off to play with some of her Indulgence pup pals. Kiki was the one to sign her in. She glared at me, but didn’t say anything especially nasty.

Maybe she was waiting for her boss to do that, since Darryl came over to me after ending a conversation with another pet owner.

“Could we talk for a minute in your office?” I asked.

He seemed somewhat reluctant, but he shrugged his narrow shoulders beneath his orange—today—Doggy Indulgence knit shirt and said, “Sure.”

Inside, with the door shut, I took one of the seats facing his messy desk. His window on his world, the day care facility, was behind him, and the mostly soundproof glass kept out the noise.

It was just him and me.

“Darryl,” I began, “I—”

He started speaking at the same time. “I’ve been acting like an ass, Kendra.” His head drooped before he raised it again to look at me sadly through his wire-rimmed glasses. “I apologize. I know you can’t help being a murder magnet, and you certainly didn’t wish this on Wanda—or me, for that matter.”

“So what’s the ‘but’?” I urged him on. Foolishly? Maybe. But since we’d started to try to clear the unhealthy air between us, I figured we’d better try to finish it, too.

“
But
. . . I’ve been blaming you in my mind because I’m just so frustrated. Have you ever loved someone so much that you’d do anything to protect them?” His tone was anguished. So was his look.

Even worse were his words. I’d had relationships before, and every one of them had ended badly.

Now, I was involved with a man who had it all—wealth, power, sexiness, and, yes, sweetness. Would I do anything to shelter Dante?

I knew he would for me. He’d even tried to force protection on me the last time I’d looked into a murder, but at least then he’d known some nasty secrets about the guy who was killed, plus his enemies—and Dante himself was the major murder suspect. Now he was doing it again as I leaped into attempting to fix things for Wanda. Sweet, sure, but also a bit too controlling.

Or caring. He’d once lost a woman he’d loved in a car accident. He mentioned it the first few times without follow-up, but I’d eventually managed to extract some additional details. It happened just after he’d opened his first HotPets stores. She was a rep for a major pet food manufacturer. He’d fallen for her—hard. Her death occurred on a slick freeway during an early-season Los Angeles rain. An accident, and that was that. End of story—and he didn’t really want to talk about it.

I suspected he was being so overprotective of me now because his wound reminded him of his loss, and life’s fragility. Never mind that he’d formerly enjoyed a potentially toxic government job. That was then, and this was now.

As sweet as his caring was, I’d remind him—often—that I could take care of myself. Would I do anything to protect him, like Darryl asked? I’d certainly managed to blame myself a bit after Dante got stabbed . . .

“How much I’ve cared for anyone isn’t the point, Darryl. You obviously feel that way about Wanda, and that’s a wonderful thing. She’s my friend, too. And I’ll do everything in my power to help her out of this mess—even though I didn’t really get her into it. You know that, don’t you?”

He was staring at me. For a horrible instant, I thought he might contradict me and claim I’d not only chosen to be a murder magnet, but I’d also wished suspect status on many of my friends, including Wanda. Instead, he nodded. “I do know that, Kendra. I’m sorry for even considering otherwise. Can we still be friends?”

In a second, I was on his side of his desk, hugging the long, lanky, lovable guy. “Friends,” I said soggily in agreement. I backed away. “Now I’m on my way to my law office. I plan to follow up on at least one suspect from there. And tomorrow night, I’ll go to the special condo association meeting to see what I can learn there. And—”

Darryl held up his hands and laughed. “Whoa, Kendra. I know you’ve been successful in solving all those murders, but—”

“But it really matters this time, Darryl. Not that it hadn’t with the others—especially when I was accused.” And when Dante was accused. But enumerating suspects here seemed inappropriate. “You know I can’t make any promises about clearing Wanda, but I’m sure as hell going to try.”

“Thanks, Kendra,” he said softly as I headed for the office door. “Either way, I’ll owe you.”

“All I want from you, Darryl, is your friendship.”

“Count on it,” he said.

But I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if helping Wanda was my first failure.

 

“HI, KENDRA,” EFFERVESCED Mignon, the bubbly receptionist at my law firm. Her auburn curls bobbed as she spoke while seated at a small desk in the area that had once been the hosting area of a restaurant. “You had a few calls this morning. The callers all asked to be sent to your voice mail.”

“Thanks.” We conversed for a few lively minutes about her weekend, and I sipped on a cup of coffee I’d picked up along my way. Mignon had just started dating a new guy, and was really jazzed.

“And how about you?” she piped after extolling the exciting virtues—or sinfulness—of her new guy. “Are you still seeing Dante DeFrancisco?”

Word got around everywhere—especially places where I spent lots of valuable time. Like here.

“Yeah, Kendra,” said Elaine Aames, a senior-aged attorney who’d just walked into the reception area with Gigi, a Blue and Gold Macaw, perched on her shoulder. “How’s Dante?”

I noticed the silver-haired founder of our law firm, Yurick & Associates, standing behind her in what had once been an aisle between booths in this former restaurant building. “What about you, Borden?” I said somewhat ruefully. “Are you going to ask about Dante, too?”

“Not me,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “I’m not going to ask . . . but I’ll listen to your answer.”

Which made me consider wringing a neck or three. But, hey, Dante was definitely newsworthy, so it wasn’t surprising he’d be the subject of gossip around here—and everywhere else. But I preferred privacy.

Not that I’d get it. “Dante’s fine,” I said rather smugly. “I spent some time with him yesterday at a pet adoption event, and we’re getting together for dinner tonight. Any more questions?”

If they wanted to know how he was in bed, they were at least discreet enough not to ask.

“Nope, but I think it’s really cool that you’re seeing him,” Mignon chirped.

“So do I,” I said.

As Borden and Elaine headed into the conference room that was once a bar, I went down the aisle past attorneys’ offices along the outer wall of the single-story building. Cubicles for secretaries and paralegals abutted on the inside. My office was a comfy corner one, and my litigation style of collecting files everywhere made it feel even cozier.

I sat down in my ergonomically correct chair behind my cluttered desk and noted that the light was indeed blinking on my office phone, indicating messages.

There were four. The first was from Corina Carey. Surprise! But I owed the tabloid reporter, since she had given me contact info for Margaret Shiler’s former husband. I called her back immediately.

“Why didn’t you call me on my cell?” I asked.

“I did, earlier today, but you didn’t answer. You might have been doing your pet-sitting, but it was late enough I figured you could be at your office.”

I wasn’t certain why I’d missed her, but I gave her a rundown now of the little I’d learned from Paulino Shiler.

“So who else are you interviewing now?” she asked.

“Off the record?”

“Of course . . . for now. But if you give me anything interesting, I’ll want to run with it.”

“Right. Well, a couple of possibilities. I’m going to try to contact a contractor Margaret was arguing with. And tomorrow night’s a newly scheduled meeting of the condo association. I’ve been invited to attend.”

“Now, that could be damned interesting,” Corina said. “Keep me informed.”

I wondered if she’d attempt to show up there. Guess I’d find out tomorrow night.

Two other calls were from clients referred to me by Borden, both with some elder-law issues I was working on. I returned those immediately, too.

And the fourth? It was from the lady I’d met at the pet adoption fair, Joan Fieldmann, who had a bone to pick with her French bulldog Pierre’s breeder.

I reached her right away. “I’m really upset, Kendra,” she said. “I purposely chose a really good-quality purebred pup, one who could compete in dog shows. And he’s so sweet, definitely my baby now.”

“He’s adorable.” I agreed. I’d met him at the pet adoption event.

“The thing is,” she continued, “the breeder had me sign a contract—that’s not unusual. But she kept so much control over my Pierre . . . I’ve shown Pierre once, at a show where that woman was present. I enjoyed it, want to do more, even though Pierre didn’t do as well as I’d hoped. Well, the breeder—Elmira—didn’t like how I handled him, and now she wants to take over everything. Maybe even take my Pierre back if I don’t let her be the one to show him.”

“Is that allowed by your contract?” I asked.

“So she says. But Pierre’s mine now. I want to be the one to show him. To decide where and when he should compete and, in between, keep him home with me. I don’t want her intruding or having him travel without me.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Bring Pierre and your contract to my office tomorrow. I’ll look over the documentation, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

We determined a mutually agreeable time—early afternoon, so as not to conflict with my pet-sitting or my attending the condo association meeting.

“Thank you so much, Kendra,” she said. “I’ll look forward to your helping me out of this mess.”

“No guarantees,” I told her. But I was hoping for a nice, pleasant, and enjoyable bout of animal dispute resolution—assuming the other side would be reasonable.

And lawyers all know how big an
if
that can be.

AFTER JOAN’S PHONE call, I drafted a response to a motion in one of the elder-law cases I’d taken on for Borden and his senior buddies. I also looked over some interrogatory answers I’d received in response to questions I’d sent out in another case. I reviewed a couple of additional files, both in anticipation of upcoming court appearances—argument of a motion in one, and the possibility of a trial in the other. Yes, the Yurick law firm kept me busy.

But not so busy that I ignored the other matter making me nuts.

I made one phone call relating to Margaret Shiler’s murder. Fortunately, it turned out to be fruitful.

Which meant I left the office a little earlier than I otherwise would have for my late-day pet-sitting.

I headed to the area where the person who answered the phone at Harris Commercial Construction said the man in charge, Rutley, would be. Of course I lied a little to get the information. I’d indicated that I was a supplier of construction materials, and Rutley Harris had left me a message to meet him at his current job site with some quotes on costs. Only, dumb little me, I’d lost the address.

Harris was working in Simi Valley, a distance north-west from my Encino office. I’d have to hurry there and back to avoid keeping my animal charges waiting too long.

Turned out he was upgrading another condo complex. Fortunately, enough work was being done there that I had no trouble sneaking through the partially ajar gate in the fence surrounding the place. No trouble, either, locating Harris, since his van had his company’s name painted on the sides. It was parked just outside a building with doors left wide open.

I wasn’t sure which guy he was, though, since the unit being remodeled that day was occupied by half a dozen workers, all dressed equally grungily. Couldn’t tell the company owner from his employees.

So I asked. Rutley Harris turned out to be the shortest of the crew, but his Harris Commercial Construction T-shirt’s contours suggested he was substantially strong. His dark hair was long, his jaw thick, his expression indecent when I’d barely said hello. In fact, I gathered that Harris always attempted to ooze slimy sexiness.

I wondered uneasily if, this once, I should have let Dante know what I was up to this afternoon. No doubt he’d have thought so.

“Hi,” I said to Harris. “Could I speak with you?”

“Sure can, babe.” His leering assessment of me plus his suggestive tone made my skin crawl.

We went out onto the balcony of the condo unit being worked on. It was still noisy, with power saws slicing away at boards propped across wooden saw-horses. But at least I was in less danger of inhaling the sawdust fluttering everywhere. And I was within plain sight of the other workers, in case I wound up in an altercation with Rutley.

I’d considered my approach on my way there. How I might hide what I was really asking, and why. I pondered mentioning a nonexistent remodeling project I was considering at my house. Or questions about who’d designed the changes made at the Brigadoon condos.