Never Say Sty (18 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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“So what are your thoughts about
Animal Auditions
?” I asked. “You mentioned when we spoke yesterday that you had some ideas about what happened to Sebastian.”
Matilda sat back in her desk chair, and her round face suddenly seemed frozen in frustration. “I wish that man had never been chosen as a judge for the show in the first place—even though I should have respected him. Or at least appreciated him. He sent several dog patients to me—dogs who would never have required psychological counseling at all, if it wasn’t for him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Do you know anything about Sebastian’s background?” Matilda studied me as if determining my suitability to be given additional knowledge.
“A little,” I said. “He was involved in agility training, right?”
She nodded. “First and foremost, he is . . . er, was . . . a trainer himself, plus a judge well known in his field, primarily agility matches. He knew his stuff there. He also was just as critical as he was at
Animal Auditions
. He reduced many a dog to frustration and exhaustion, and many owners to tears.”
I kept my silence, recalling Matilda’s patient who’d departed as I’d arrived.
“But because of his expertise,” she continued, “he was greatly admired. That’s probably how Charlotte found him for the show—recommendations from agility folks who knew him by reputation. Plus, he was a nice-looking man. And he certainly could treat people well—and even animals, too—if he chose to.”
Oddly, Matilda’s expression grew suddenly dreamy, and her taut lips relaxed into a soft smile.
“So you sometimes saw Sebastian socially?” I surmised.
The hard look returned to her face, and she glared at me as if in chastisement. “For a short while, yes, since I wanted to get to know the man whose harsh treatment at agility trials sent so many new patients to me. He could be charming. When he wanted to, he turned on all the charisma you could imagine. But I saw through it. After a few dinners at which he seemed really sweet, I started asking him cogent questions about why he judged animals so harshly. ‘Because I love to see them, and their owners, squirm and try to please me,’ he said. I realized that’s what he wanted from me. Not necessarily the squirming, but when I stopped trying to anticipate what he wanted from me and started acting myself, he let his real self shine through, too. And his true character was . . . let’s just say he wasn’t a very nice person.”
So Matilda had dumped him. Or that’s what she seemed to be saying.
What if it went the other way, though, and she had, over time, stuck her own spin on it? When they were put in close contact with one another at the
Animal Auditions
judging table, had that made her edgy enough to want to teach him the ultimate lesson?
And there was something else. Something I recalled from just before Sebastian was killed and Ned lost his cool after his critiques of Porker and Sty Guy.
“So you’re not sorry that Sebastian isn’t an
Animal Auditions
judge any longer,” I stated instead of asking.
“Not particularly, though if you’re asking if I killed him, the answer is ‘of course not.’ I neither liked nor disliked him by then. And even if I’d hated him, killing him that way was much too harsh. I’d have had more fun humiliating him on the show.” The way she smiled then almost made me shudder. And I believed she was serious. She’d adore humiliating Sebastian, or anyone else who got in her way.
Me included.
Even so, I wasn’t through. “Thanks for your insight,” I said insincerely. “I’ll definitely take your suggestions for separation anxiety into consideration while giving legal counsel to my client. And . . . well, I assume you’d tell the police if you had any thoughts about who killed Sebastian. And as an animal psychologist, I’m sure your ideas would have a lot of credibility. Care to share any possibilities with me?”
Of course she did—but without knowing any details. “I wasn’t there, of course, but I heard that someone punched Sebastian out after he criticized his dog at one agility trial. Maybe there were more, too. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Neither would I, but that wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.
And then I had to ask what had been eating at me ever since I’d heard Matilda’s comment a couple of days ago. “You know,” I said, as casually as I could muster, “I’ve been a little curious about why, when Ned Noralles threatened to dig something up on Sebastian and the other judges, you said that you didn’t want them to snoop around in
your
business. I’d love to know why.”
She smiled a cryptic, psychologist’s smile and said, “I’ll just bet you would, dear.”
My return smile was somewhat snide. “I suppose I could mention that to some of the cops I know, in case they’d want to dig further.”
Her expression grew hard. “There were accusations against my professionalism a while back,” she growled. “Entirely false, but the authorities could jump on them and make untrue assumptions about my ethics. Not that they would lead to my murdering anyone, but I’d hate for the whole thing to get sticky again.” Her glare suggested that she’d be glad to stick something up me if I dared to mention this.
I wasn’t about to reveal that I’d gone through something similar. Of course I’d been innocent, and that had ultimately been proven.
“But you know what?” she continued. “That was the past. Right now, I don’t think the police would care one way or the other if they heard about those terrible things that were untrue in the first place. In fact, if you mention this to the detectives investigating Sebastian’s death, I think they’d be more likely to come down hard on you for obstructing justice or whatever they call it, since you’d get them to waste time on a suspect they’d know fast couldn’t have hurt a fly.” She beamed brightly, the picture of psychological innocence.
But as I said my goodbyes and thanks to Matilda for her time, I couldn’t help wondering. Whether or not she was innocent of those claims against her, what if Sebastian had learned about them and held them over her, in the context of her judging the show or otherwise? Even if she’d had no social motive to kill the man, she might have had a professional one.
She had no fear of the police digging into her background, so I should probably assume she was innocent.
Even so . . . I couldn’t help pondering the phrase that dissected the word “assume”: to make an ass out of u and me.
I didn’t consider myself, murder magnet that I was, the rear end of any kind of equine.
And my mind kept inquiring: Was Matilda the murderer?
Chapter Fifteen
BACK AT MY law office that afternoon, I had a heck of a time concentrating on anything attorneyish. Which made me wonder if I should just go home. It was Friday. Maybe what I needed was a long weekend to get my head on straight—without thinking about doggy separation anxiety,
Animal Auditions
, Sebastian Czykovski’s murder . . . and Dante DeFrancisco.
As if that was possible. As it turned out, I stayed involved with all of the above.
Still, instead of fleeing, I sought out our senior partner, Borden. Unsurprisingly, he was in his office. Seated behind his neat antique desk, he looked up immediately as I entered, and smiled. His aloha shirt today was bright pink with golden posies. “Come in, Kendra,” he said happily. “We haven’t talked for a while. Have you solved that man Sebastian’s murder yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, as if it was a foregone conclusion that I’d ultimately figure out whodunit again. “Any ideas?” I slid into one of his ornate client chairs.
He waved his hands at me as though warding off an ancient curse. “I love the idea of your
Animal Auditions
show,” he said, “and I’ll bet your ratings are sky-high now, with this additional thing for your audience to consider. But solving mysteries is your thing, not mine. Although . . .”
“ ‘Although’ . . . ?” I prompted, hoping for an insightful idea. Instead, he mentioned a problem more pertinent to him.
“I probably shouldn’t bring this up since you already have so much on your mind, but Geraldine Glass popped in this morning and mentioned that her clients, the Jeongs, had called her. They’re really concerned about their own mystery—well, dilemma, really: the fuss their neighbors are making over their dog’s noise while they’re away. They asked Geraldine to talk to you about it. Since you weren’t here, she spoke to me.”
I forbore from rolling my eyes. Geraldine was the attorney who’d referred the Jeongs to me in the first place. “I’m sorry, Borden,” I said, “that you got stuck in the middle of this. I’ll let Geraldine know I’ve been working on it, but the legal issues are really just a part of this whole sad situation. You know I’ll defend our clients vigorously, and their pup, Princess, too, if the threatened lawsuit is filed. Better yet, I want to learn what attorney is representing their grumpy neighbors and try some animal dispute resolution. For now, I’m researching doggy separation anxiety. I even spoke with a veterinary psychologist of some repute about it this morning.” Absolutely true, even if it was utterly false that I felt I’d gleaned anything remotely useful from Matilda Hollins.
I withdrew from Borden’s office, then peeked into Elaine Aames’s to say hi to her and Gigi, the Blue and Gold Macaw. Then I stopped at Geraldine’s, but she was the one absent this afternoon—maybe a good thing. I soon sat behind my messy desk and moved things out of my way so I could lean on it as I talked to the Jeongs. I reached Treena right away in New York City, where they’d ended up on their prolonged business trip.
“I understand you’ve expressed concern about how your matter is being handled here,” I began in a stern yet friendly tone. “I’d be glad to discuss it with you directly.”
The silence lasted for a few seconds, and I was sure Geraldine would get another earful. Instead of defensive-ness or criticism, though, I heard a soggy sigh. “Sorry, Kendra,” Treena said. “I didn’t mean to make trouble for you, but we heard from our neighbors again. It’s not only that they’ve told their lawyer to go ahead and file the lawsuit; I feel so awful that poor Princess cries so much and is so sad while we’re gone. If only we could just come home and be with her more, but we’re both involved in lining up investment possibilities for our electronics business, and that takes time.”
“I understand,” I said. “And I’m trying some nontraditional ways to research your problem, although of course I’ll deal with any legal action on your behalf. A veterinary psychologist I’ve spoken with suggested giving Princess some additional training in the future, but that won’t help now—and I’m not absolutely convinced that it’s the way to go.”
“Me neither—especially not after the stuff we already tried—but thanks for checking. My neighbors correspond with me by e-mail, and I’ve told both them and my house-sitter to contact you, okay?”
“Not your neighbors, if they’re represented by counsel,” I said. “But I’d love to hear from their lawyer. Give me the sitter’s number, though, and I’ll see if she can stay home longer hours. If not, I could check with some of my pet-sitting friends to see if they could back her up. But I don’t want to intrude on your relationship with your sitter.”
“Anything that will help,” Treena cried. “I don’t suppose you could just stay at our house. . . .”
“Not full-time,” I said. “And I suspect that might be what’s needed. I know of a great doggy day resort, though. It’s reasonably priced but not really cheap. Would you like me to take Princess there for a few days?”
“Next week? Absolutely. Our sitter should be around most of the weekend, and tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Fine.” I wondered how I’d fit the additional doggy transport into my already difficult schedule. But I’d give it a try . . . while still looking into how to keep poor Princess from crying her puppy heart out while alone.
 
 
ONCE AGAIN I thought how welcome the weekend would be, starting tomorrow. But though I’d wanted a much-needed break from all that was squeezing my brain, I got a call in my car late Friday from Charlotte LaVerne. I listened on the hands-free phone.
“It’s the oddest thing, Kendra,” she said. “Sebastian’s next-of-kin is a nephew, and he said that the instructions in his uncle’s will insist he’s to be cremated and his ashes spread on some agility field in New England, where he’s originally from. And there’s to be no memorial service for him.”
Damn. There went my idea of observing everyone who showed up to mourn—or gloat. Who else had it in for him besides disgruntled show contestants . . . or Dante? People he worked with, those he’d judged in agility contests or elsewhere? Well, I’d check out as many as I could find, via Google, Althea, or whoever.
Even so, I heard myself grump, “Dante promised a big send-off for him.”
“He told me that, too, but he’ll honor Sebastian’s wishes.”
I bet Dante regretted it. Less chance for a big HotPets promo that way.
“We’ll dedicate some shows to Sebastian,” Charlotte continued, “but I don’t think we can do more. Anyway, since everything went well today and we now have a replacement judge, we’ve decided to get together for an all-hands production meeting tomorrow morning at ten, to plan where we’re going. The main SFV Studios facility has been released back to us, so we’re having it there. Can you come?”

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