Meow is for Murder (27 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Meow is for Murder
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Reporter Corina Carey had dressed to rival her, though. Completely business casual, she looked like the zingy reporter she was, in a violet striped shirt tucked into cuffed slacks, with a purple blazer finishing off the outfit. Her dark hair was short and wispily combed to look casually unstyled. Good thing her mouth was so wide, with all the nasty words it spouted so often. Her teeth were bright, white, and undoubtedly bleached often. Her cunning brown eyes tilted slightly, suggesting some possible Asian ancestry somewhere.
Okay, I’d seen the woman a lot on TV, spoken with her on the phone much more than I’d wanted to, but this was our first encounter in person.
If I sound a little catty—as I am wont to do sometimes—well, so much the better, considering my scheme.
“No problem at all, Amanda,” Corina was saying, rummaging in a big black leather shoulder bag—undoubtedly for a recording device. She sat on one of the simply styled Scandinavian loveseats across the coffee table from us.
“It’s just that, with all that’s happened, I’m feeling a lot more comfortable staying at home with my cats whenever possible.” Amanda shot a subtle glance at me before turning her attention back on the reporter. Good thing Corina was still fussing with her bag, or she might have seen that little look.
“I understand. And I’m really pleased that you decided to tell me your side of the whole, sad story. Kendra, I want to thank you for setting this up.”
“You’re welcome.” I carefully corralled any reaction to the utter truth in the words she’d inadvertently used. But this was absolutely a contrived setup, and I hoped I’d stay proud of it.
Speaking of cats . . .
Well, I also hoped Cherise and Carnie would come in on cue . . . soon.
Meantime, I sat and simply listened as Corina interviewed Amanda about how the awful Leon Lucero had entered her life.
“You mean he painted some of those gorgeous seascapes I passed in your hallway?” Corina asked.
“Well, yes,” Amanda said. “Although their composition wasn’t entirely original, but the actual paintings were.” She went on to tell about how “her” Dr. Henry Grant enticed cardiac patients with artistic ability to use his medical services. And that had included Leon—who’d
way
overstayed his welcome.
Soon, they segued into the whole bit about how Leon had manufactured cardiac symptoms to book appointments at the office . . . to see Amanda. And how, after she’d only gone out with him once or twice, he’d insisted on more. And showed up wherever she was—a lot.
Until, eventually, she’d had to get her ex-husband to help her stop the stalking. That had involved hiring a lawyer and getting a temporary restraining order.
Which was when Carnie and Cherise strutted in, in all their feline glory.
Sans mouse this time, thankfully.
“Hi, ladies.” I reached down to stroke them, pleased to hear them purr.
I allowed Amanda to perform the introductions to Corina.
“They’re beautiful,” the reporter said. “I love cats. These are so unusual. They look like little leopards.”
“They’re Bengal cats.” Amanda explained the breed.
“They’re really smart, too,” I added when she was done. “They’re watch cats, kinda like watchdogs. Not that they bark, but they’re not only opinionated, they warn people they dislike to leave.”
“How?” Corina turned her incisive reporter’s gaze to me.
“Well, a lot of cats give presents of their prey to people they like. Not Cherise and Carnie. In fact, when I first pet-sat for them, that’s what I thought, until Amanda set me straight. The dead mice they deposited at my feet were a warning that I didn’t belong here, that I should leave or suffer the consequences—whatever they might be. Fortunately, the kitties never let me know. Now they’re used to me, so I’m not on the receiving end of their threatening presents.”
“Sounds far-fetched,” Corina said, a skeptical scowl creasing her high forehead.
“I’m sure Leon Lucero would have though so, too,” I replied, snuggling my smug smile deep inside my head instead of pasting it on my face. This was going as well as I’d wished.
“What do you mean?” Corina said.
“A dead mouse was found with his body,” Amanda explained. “Right there in my bedroom, where he was killed.”
“That’s right,” Corina said pensively. “I remember reading about that.”
Amanda shuddered. “Poor Cherise and Carnie must have seen the whole thing. They undoubtedly brought the dead mouse and deposited it by Leon when he broke in. And I’ve no doubt they’d now do the same thing with whoever else was here that night.”
“You mean Leon’s killer?” Corina asked.
“Exactly,” Amanda replied.
 
“YOU THINK SHE bought it?” Amanda asked awhile later, after Corina had packed up recorder, pad, and pen, and taken off.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, “as long as she includes the possibility in her story.”
Which she did, in the Sunday paper the next day, as well as in her on-air report, including shots of Amanda and her home that she’d taken with a video camera—also extracted from her big black totebag—before she left.
Amanda called me first thing on my cell phone, but I was already communing with pet clients despite the early hour. “She did it!”
“I saw—I checked the paper before I left Jeff’s this morning.” Lexie remained there with Odin, behind Jeff’s superior security system . . . just in case.
“Left? You’re already out, at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning?”
“The trials and travails of a professional pet-sitter,” I reminded her.
“Sounds as bad as being a lawyer. Anyway, tell me when I should start making calls.”
“Right away,” I said. “Although . . . you’re right about the ungodly hour, at least to some folks. Give’em time to wake up and go to church, if that’s what they do. If all goes well, someone may need to make his peace with his—or her—maker before we’re finished.”
“Amen,” Amanda responded, right on cue.
 
“AMANDA SAID YOU told her to grant an interview to Corina Carey,” Mitch Severin said when he called me a half hour later. I was in the middle of walking Alexander the playful pit bull along his hilly home stretch. That usually took two hands if he spotted another pup. Not that he’d attack—I didn’t think—other than to nuzzle the other canine till it rolled over.
And, of course, I saw someone else out for a morning constitutional—fortunately before Alexander did.
“I’ll have to call you back, Mitch,” I said, and was treated to a substantial roar from the other end before it was cut off as my phone’s flap fell.
Oh, well. I couldn’t have my concentration severed by two kinds of distractions, so I chose the one that was my current responsibility: Alexander and his amazing antics.
I encouraged my charge to concede to the bullying standard schnauzer he’d charged, then herded him back down the steep hill to his home. Only once I’d returned to the still-scratched Beamer did I call Mitch back.
“Sorry,” I said. “Duty called.” I realized right away what normal bodily functions he might assume I was talking about. In a way that was true, since that was the main reason besides exercise for walking dogs.
Their
functions, though, not mine. “Anyway, what’s on your mind?”
“That damned news article in today’s
Times
,” he exploded. “Plus, that reporter is also talking about the case against Amanda on her TV shows. Amanda said you talked her into giving an interview. That could hurt her case, Kendra.”
“Actually,” I said, sitting back in my car seat, “the point was to help it.” But I’d discussed with Amanda the importance of not letting anyone in on our little plan, not even Mitch. For one thing, it could be totally unsuccessful, so why embarrass ourselves . . . mainly me?
For another, part depended on absolute secrecy. Sure, Mitch was on our side, but what if he let something drop to someone whose knowledge ruined the entire endeavor?
“Well, I don’t like it,” Mitch said. “For one thing, putting things out on the news sounds like a last-ditch effort to save her, an attempt to sway public opinion since the evidence is against her.”
“The evidence
is
against her,” I reminded Mitch, as if I needed to. “Leon was a threat to her and he was found dead in her house.” Recalling my pet-sitting requirements, I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the small notebook I used to keep track of my client visits. Sticking the cell phone under my chin, I noted my latest Alexander call.
“But not beyond a reasonable doubt. Plus we can always use self-defense. And—well, hell, even though you’re an attorney, I can’t discuss my strategy with you. You’re not helping with her legal defense, only as an outside investigator, and you’re not even licensed for that.”
“We’ve already discussed that, Mitch. I’m working within the aegis of Jeff Hubbard’s license, as his investigator trainee.”
Maybe. Jeff and I had decided several murders ago I could claim that when I dug in to find out who really did it. And right now, Jeff had to back me up, especially if he aspired to resolving this situation with our relationship still possible.
“And Amanda and I have an agreement that requires my assistance,” I continued. I returned the notebook to the glove compartment. “Besides . . . have you discussed this with your cocounsel, Quentin Rush? With all the media attention he engenders in all his high-profile cases, I’ll bet he’d applaud your ingenuity”—why not let the guy get the credit, as long as we got the results we wanted?—“for swaying public opinion to Amanda’s side. Or, if you’d rather, you could let
me
talk to him about it. You’ve said you’d set up a lunch for all of us to talk.” Hey, why not follow up on an opportunity to meet someone as savvy and celebrated as Quentin? “Anyway, I need to get going now. And Corina Carey’s news is already out there. Maybe someone knows something about who was sneaking around her property the day Leon died but hasn’t come forward yet. Sympathy might make that silent witness speak up.”
“I’ll talk to Quentin, but I still don’t like it,” Mitch grumped.
What, no lunch? No meeting? What a bummer. But I wasn’t entirely discouraged. I’d insist on an intro some other time.
“I’ve told Amanda,” he continued, “and I’ll tell you, too, that before you pull anything else like this, you check with me. No more contacting the media. No contacting anyone else involved with the case, not even discussions with possible witnesses, unless you clear it with me. I didn’t insist on it before, but this changes things. I’ll make myself available as much as I can so you can get my okay, but no more talking to anyone,
anyone
,” he stressed, “without my prior, preferably written, approval. Are we in agreement on this, Kendra?”
“Sure, Mitch,” I said, even as I stared straight at my lie-hiding, crossed fingers resting on my steering wheel.
Chapter Twenty-four
FIRST THINGS FIRST. I couldn’t count on cats Cherise and Carnie to come through with what we needed, at least not every time, so I had to be prepared.
Which called for a call to my longtime pet-sitting client Milt Abadim, owner of Pythagorus, the ball python.
I used the phone in my apartment when my morning pet-sitting cycle was complete. It seemed odd and lonesome being there sans Lexie, but she remained at Jeff’s with Odin, so
she
wouldn’t feel odd and lonesome that day—with a nice, protective Akita by her side.
“Hi, Milt,” I said into my portable phone receiver as I sat on my living room’s comfy beige sofa.
“Kendra! How wonderful to hear from you. Must be ESP. I was going to call to ask you to watch Py starting later this week.”
“Really? It’ll be great to see him.” Whoever imagined I’d ever say that about a snake? Not I, until a bunch of months ago when the python had won my heart . . . and helped me solve some murders. “You, too, of course.”
Milt laughed. “I need to go out of town again because of—who else?—my mom. She’s reconciled with her new husband, so they’re renewing their vows.”
“Really?” I didn’t even try to remove the surprise from my voice.
“Yeah, I know. It’s only been a few months since they took their vows in the first place, and they came so close to getting it annulled right away . . . Anyhow, what’s your schedule like? Can you come over this afternoon?”
Could I ever! That worked perfectly into my plans. “How’s two o’clock?” I asked.
“See you then.”
 
MILT’S MODEST ONE-STORY home in North Hollywood served as a showplace for Py’s habitat, which sat squarely in the middle of his small living room. Or at least it had when I’d been there last to care for the colorful snake.
“Great to see you, Milt,” I said when he answered the door, then gave the sweet and pudgy man a big hug. He still looked somewhat nerdy with his handlebar mustache emphasizing the lack of hair on his head. Today he wore a white T-shirt with red letters that read,
Get squeezed by a python today.
Appropriate.

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