Fine-Feathered Death (20 page)

“Do you have any idea whether the solution you suggested will work?” Borden inquired when I was done describing the unsettling nonsettlement session.

“Not yet,” I said. It truly needed some teeth. “Let me sleep on it.”

 

OF COURSE, IT was a long while until bedtime, and I had lots to do before then.

Next step was to retrieve Lexie from Darryl’s so she could come pet-nurturing with me that night.

When I arrived at Doggy Indulgence, I was immediately leaped upon by my lovable pup, and at the same time confronted by a clearly concerned Darryl. “Irma Etherton is here. She called to see if you’d left Lexie here, and when I told her yes, she dropped by.”

Once more, with Lexie sticking Cavalier-close by my side, I met with Irma in the doggy resort’s semiquiet kitchen. She looked even more depressed than the last time I’d seen her only a few days earlier. Her bouffant black hair sagged as much as the skin on her sixtyish face, and her gray eyes were ringed in red.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Kendra,” she said, sounding surprisingly upbeat. “The timing will work fine.”

“What timing?” I inquired in confusion.

“Walt’s kids said I could have a supervised visitation with Ditch if I was there before six this evening.”

I glanced at my watch. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. “Ditch is the beneficiary dog?”

She nodded. “I need for you to accompany me to see for yourself how he’s being treated.”

“You can leave Lexie here,” Darryl said from the doorway. He was leaning his skinny shoulder on the jamb, obviously eavesdropping.

There wasn’t much more I’d intended to do that day, plus I’d still have plenty of time for my pet-sitting chores. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

 

IRMA DROVE US in her powder blue seventies Cadillac sedan. It was certainly roomy, although I was suspicious of the lap-snapping seat belts.

“Walt’s daughter, Myra, lives in Glendale,” Irma said. “She’s taking care of Ditch. If you can call it that.”

We soon pulled into the driveway of a petite but pleasant house not far north of the 134 Freeway. The front yard was postage-stamp size but boasted a couple of mature fruit trees, laden this January morning with lemons and oranges.

We walked up to the front door and rang the bell. No barking sounded. Strange.

The door opened after a minute. A woman who managed to look pretty and harassed at the same time stood there, glaring at us. Clad in jeans and a short T-shirt, she held the hand of a little girl who looked about four. “Come in,” the woman said, sounding not at all pleased about the prospect.

“Hi,” I said to the child, who remained where she was, inhibiting our entry. “I’m Kendra. What’s your name?”

Before she could respond, the woman said, “Are you the lawyer? I’m Walt’s daughter, Myra, and that’s Ellie. My brother Moe’s on his way.”

“Fine,” I said. “Where’s Ditch?”

“This way.”

I noticed that Irma hadn’t said a word, not even of introduction. When I glanced at her, she pursed her lips, as if it was an effort not to use them to blurt something offensive.

So far I’d seen nothing to merit a nasty-gram. But there’d obviously been time and unpleasant circumstances enough for the two women to construct a huge wall of antipathy toward one another.

We followed Myra, who now held Ellie in her arms, down a hallway and through a tiny kitchen. She opened a door at the far end, which led into a storeroom.

Inside was an adorable Scottish terrier, who tore out and headed straight for Irma, who elevated him high, with a hug. “Hi, Ditchy,” she crooned. “I’m so glad to see you.”

The black dog wagged its erect tail, obviously excited to see her, too. He licked her face and nuzzled her, and she did the same in exchange, substituting kisses for licks.

“Everything okay here?” demanded a male voice behind us. I turned to see a guy stride through the small kitchen. His facial features suggested Myra’s, in a more masculine way. Little Ellie yanked away from her mom and hurled herself at the man. “Uncle Moe!” she exclaimed. Since it was the first thing I’d heard her say, I had to figure she was fond of her uncle.

“We’re fine,” Myra said. “They’ve been here . . .” She looked at her watch. “Five minutes. They’re allowed ten more.”

“We’re being timed?” I inquired.

“Of course,” Myra said. Her brother, holding his niece, drew up to her side, and the two of them, shoulder-to-shoulder, stared similar sharp daggers at us. “We’re just being nice to let her”—she nodded brusquely toward Irma—“come at all.”

Irma whirled, obviously intending to counter with something equally nasty. I hastily interjected, “I guess you both know I’m an attorney. Are you represented by counsel?”

“Yes,” Moe said with a sneer.

“Fine. Then give me that attorney’s contact information, please. Now that I know”—though I’d of course suspected before—“I’ll need to ask permission before coming here again.” I was skating on ethical thin ice—which, after my earlier ills, I usually eschewed at all conceivable costs. And yet, in this instance, I’d leapt at a visitation with the subject pup without having another attorney around counseling these people to be humane to their charge as long as, and only when, they were under observation. I was definitely dismayed by what I’d seen here. Poor Ditch, confined to a closet.

Poor
rich
Ditch, if he’d been allowed to inherit . . .

I accepted a sheet of paper on which Moe had written the name, Hollywood address, and phone number of a lawyer. All the while I watched from the corner of my eye how Irma and Ditch reacted to one another in this obviously fond reunion.

I knew what the law said, though I hadn’t finished my research. And I still hadn’t seen Walt Shorbel’s will.

One way or another, I would find a way to get this poor persecuted pup and his generous inheritance into Irma’s hands.

 

STILL, ON THE drive back to Darryl’s, I couldn’t hold out false hopes to Irma. “I didn’t like what I saw there,” I said.

“Of course not,” she sputtered, stopped at a light. “Those terrible people. They’re treating Ditch like a . . . dog!”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do all I can to fix things for the poor pup.”

“Thank you, Kendra,” Irma said, her words sounding so hopeful and heartfelt that I felt like a heel and a liar. Litigator or not, how could I create a winning case in this loser of a situation?

Back at Darryl’s, I lifted Lexie into my arms and gave my wriggling pup as big a hug as the one Irma and Ditch had indulged in.

I realized I was starting to miss the days when I’d spent more time pet-sitting, when law wasn’t so much on my mind. But to help Irma and Ditch, law
had
to stay centered in my stressed-out thoughts.

I was pleased, though, when on the drive toward my first dog client of the evening my cell phone sang out a call from a number familiar yet seldom heard from lately. It was Avvie Milton. She was an associate at the law firm where I’d once worked, and my onetime protégé. I’d long since forgiven her for her bad judgment in taking up with my former lover there, senior partner Bill “Drill Sergeant” Sergement. After all, I’d forgiven myself for the same bad judgment.

Kind of. I still had dire doubts about my terrible taste in men . . .

“Hi, Kendra,” Avvie said. “Are you okay? I mean, I’ve seen a lot in the news about the murders at Borden Yurick’s new law firm.” She was one of the many people at Marden & Sergement, formerly Marden, Sergement & Yurick, who hadn’t forgiven Borden’s defection with a substantial segment of the firm’s client base. As a result, I figured everyone who remained was ecstatic about Borden’s execrable publicity—the more lurid the better.

“I’m fine, though I’d love to have a little less excitement in my life.”

“I’ll bet. You weren’t the lawyer who was shot at, were you?”

“Not exactly,” I dissembled. “How are things at the old firm?”

“Great! In fact, Bill and I are going on a business trip to New York next week, and I’d love for you to watch Pansy for me. You are still pet-sitting, aren’t you?”

Partial translation: Bill and she were going on a trumped-up business trip-slash-tryst, which excluded Bill’s wife. Well, that was their business, not mine.

My business, though, did concern her last question. And I enjoyed Avvie’s pot-bellied pig a whole lot. “Yes, I’m still pet-sitting, though taking on fewer clients. But I’d be glad to watch Pansy for you.”

“Excellent! I’ll be in touch next week to make arrangements.”

We hung up, and Lexie insinuated herself onto my lap from the passenger’s seat. At least we were on surface streets, so she wasn’t too distracting.

In a while, I took my time walking and caring for my clients, letting Lexie accompany me inside every place I could. I hugged every pet possible, even the haughty kitties. “Just remember how good you have it, even with me in charge,” I told them, and described poor Ditch’s life.

When I was done, I realized I had a decision to make: to Jeff’s, or not to Jeff’s. I figured I’d call him first to assess our respective attitudes.

He answered his cell phone first thing. “Hello, Kendra,” he said in a tone most formal. Which made me figure I’d sleep alone that night.

I was ready to say something silly and ring off when he said, “Kendra, do you suppose you could call your friend Esther Ickes on my behalf?”

Esther was a simply superb attorney who specialized in criminal law. I’d considered referring Elaine to her after Ezra’s murder but fortunately hadn’t had to.

I drew in my breath now so sharply I felt it sting. “Why? Are you under arrest?”

“Imminently,” he admitted, and I heard a touch of trepidation in his tone. “It seems that my missing sport coat wasn’t gone after all. It was found on the ground near your office. And some of Corrie Montez’s blood was on it.”

Chapter Nineteen

“THANKS SO MUCH, Kendra,” said Esther Ickes over the phone.

I settled back onto my own apartment sofa. I’d called Esther the second I’d hung up with Jeff, notwithstanding the late hour. She hadn’t answered, but I left a sufficiently detailed message and she’d just phoned me back.

As an attorney specializing in such intense areas as bankruptcy and criminal defense, Esther was used to having clients call at all hours to weep on her sweet-little-old-lady shoulders—which weren’t far from her go-for-the-jugular fangs. I’d certainly done so when I’d been on the top of Noralles’s suspect list for two murders a few months ago.

“I really appreciate your referral of so many nice murder suspects to me,” she finished.

“You’re welcome,” I said, then paused. “Is there such a thing as a murder magnet?” I blurted. “I mean, there’ve been so many in my life lately. Even when I’m not an alleged killer, people I know keep dying violently, and others—friends and acquaintances—are the topmost suspects. Am I doing something wrong?”

“From the perspective of my firm’s pocketbook, dear, you’re doing something
right.
”

I laughed, and we chatted about what pleasantries I could manage for a few more minutes, and then I hung up.

Jeff was the primary suspect in the murders of Ezra Cossner and Corrie Montez. Partly because of his lost sports jacket. The one he’d asked me to locate in my office.

“What do you think, Lexie?” I asked my Cavalier, who’d curled up against me on the comfy cushions on the beige sectional couch. Her soulful brown eyes popped open immediately, and she gazed seriously up at me, her black-and-white tail hazarding a halfhearted wag. “I mean, let’s assume he did leave it there after wearing it at a meeting that included the top honchos on my suspect list. I figure that the person most likely to want Ezra dead would have been one of the VORPO folks—although I’ve partially written off Millie Franzel.”

Lexie gave a Cavalier snort, which told me she disagreed.

“I know. Her admission of driving innocently around the area when Corrie was killed, and just happening to have a gun along for the ride, should make her a key suspect, at least in that murder, but I’ve given her some credit for honesty. And I don’t know her alibi for when Ezra was assassinated . . . yet. Anyway, let’s assume the killer noticed Jeff’s jacket in our offices and knew whose it was. He or she might have leapt at the chance to enlist it to drag Jeff into deeper shit, since he was already soiled with suspicion in Ezra’s murder.”

The allusion to poop got Lexie’s attention. She leapt down to the floor and woofed.

“Is that a request to go out?”

Judging by her fervent circles, it was.

“Okay, let’s take a little walk. Maybe it’ll help me clear my head while you clear your innards.”

I clipped on her leash and we clomped down the stairs beside the garage. The evening was already late. The only overhead illumination was artificial, from my security lights and my neighbors’. It was sufficient to impart some sense of safety as we took a short walk up and down our slender, serpentine street in the Valley side of the Hollywood Hills.

While Lexie sniffed and squatted in the chilly evening air, I mused about the matters on my mind. I had to assume Corrie’s killing was related to Ezra’s. Had Corrie witnessed her boss’s murder? That was certainly a possible scenario.

But what if it had worked the other way? What if the paralegal was the projected prey in the first place, and Ezra was snuffed for being in the wrong place at a Corrie-less time?

By force of long-standing habit, I’d stuffed my cell phone in my slacks pocket. Impulsively, I pulled out my phone and pressed in a now-familiar number. Unlikely my target would be there so late, but—

“Hubbard Security,” responded the voice I’d been hoping for.

“Althea? It’s Kendra. Have you heard from Jeff?”

“Sure did. Damn that single-minded freak Noralles anyway. Just because Jeff bested him—how many years ago was it?”