Never Say Sty (25 page)
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
The woman shook her head. “Mr. DeFrancisco, I tried so hard. You know me as Flossie Murray, my maiden name. I started with HotPets right after my divorce, seven years ago. Before that, I worked for one of your competitors. When I interviewed to become assistant manager here, I expressly requested that my résumé and application information be kept confidential.”
“As far as I know it was, Flossie,” Dante said soothingly. “We didn’t use it to find you. And our sources are confidential, too. If it’s any consolation, we won’t tell the media. Or any police detectives, either, unless we’re asked directly.” He aimed a confirming look at me, and I nodded. “We can’t lie, of course—at least not to the authorities.”
“I understand,” she agreed. “They already know, anyway. I’ve been questioned by a detective looking into Sebastian’s death, a lady cop.” Most likely Vickie Schwinglan. “She was nice enough, said she wouldn’t reveal anything I said unless it became necessary in the investigation, or the conviction of a suspect they ultimately arrested. I tried so hard.” She sighed. “After we divorced, I took my maiden name back immediately and changed all my identification and credit cards.”
“Did you ever speak with Sebastian afterward?” I wanted to lead her gently into other areas.
“Not often, but occasionally at agility trials. I was a trainer, and so was he. We both loved to enter our dogs. We fell in love at agility trials a long time ago. He was so sweet at first. Then he became a judge. That’s when everything changed.”
“How?” Dante asked.
“It was like he’d been waiting to ascend the throne, to become king. Or a god. See, in agility, the judge determines the path the dogs will take, how high the jumps will be, which side they’ll enter tunnels, how complicated it all is—within certain parameters, of course. Sebastian had enjoyed it when his dogs—mostly medium-size guys like Sheltie mixes—were entrants. He did really well. One of his best dogs, Slick, even got as far as his MACH title—the best there is, Master Agility Champion. That’s one reason he was asked to become a judge. After that, he wanted revenge, I guess, for every slight he or any of his dogs ever suffered, and he took it out on many of the contestants—definitely the slowest and worst, but sometimes even the best. I hated seeing that, hearing how badly he was hurting some of our closest friends. When he started bringing some of that egotism home, lording it over me and the dogs I was training . . . well, I had enough. I started despising him. I divorced him and wanted him entirely out of my life.”
“That’s why you changed your name,” I said with sympathy. “But did you also give up agility trials? You’d still have seen him at some of those.”
“Exactly. For a while, I stopped going, missed them terribly. Then I went back but was able to avoid his judging the trials I had my dogs run in. The organizers understood—conflict of interest and all that.”
“And that was—what, seven years ago?”
“Our divorce was. I rejoined agility about two years ago. Did well, although I had to start some young dogs who were fairly green. One’s doing great, though—enough to aspire to MACH someday.”
“But Sebastian wasn’t ever your judge when you returned?” Dante asked.
“No. I pitied the contestants he did judge, though. He seemed to purposely hold them up on the five-second pause table—that’s where, in the middle of all that running around, the dogs are supposed to sit obediently still before going on. If they stay longer than five seconds, they have a much harder time making up for it. See, contestants start out with one hundred points, and some are subtracted for every fault. Plus, they’re given a time limit for getting through the course. Judges raise their hands to signal to the score-keepers when points are to be taken off for things done wrong. Sebastian seemed to have his favorites right from the beginning—a no-no for judges, who, like those in court, are supposed to be impartial. He was really hard sometimes on those he didn’t like. Some wound up really upset. In tears. And I heard that one even attempted suicide.”
“How awful!” I cried, while wondering why anyone would take anything Sebastian had said so seriously. On the other hand, I knew how seriously some people took the results of different kinds of dog shows they entered.
“I don’t know whether it’s just a rumor or true,” Flossie backpedaled. “There are trials at a park in Anaheim this weekend. You could go there and ask around, if you’d like. Oh, by the way, like the detective asked, I had no motive to kill him. Not after all that time. But back then . . . well, if I’d been inclined to revenge, I’d have considered doing something awful.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be afraid now. But in situations like this, people always suspect the spouse—or former spouse. I tried so hard to put Sebastian and all he stood for behind me. But now he’s caught up with me again.” She sighed and attempted a sardonic grin. “I could kill him for that.”
“ARE YOU CROSSING her off your suspect list?” Dante asked as we exited Flossie’s office. “She’s pretty low on mine.”
“Same with me, though she could simply be giving lip service to how long ago her dislike of Sebastian occurred.”
We soon stood near one another in an aisle, with Wagner nearby—sniffing the air as if sampling all the marvelous stuff in the store.
“And you’re going to those agility trials in Anaheim this weekend that she mentioned, aren’t you?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think we could go together. Compare notes, and all that.”
“Sure.” At least he wasn’t telling me, again, to butt out.
“You’re heading back to L.A. now?” he asked.
“Yes. You?”
He nodded. “Don’t suppose you’d want to join me for dinner, would you?”
Dante DeFrancisco, sounding somewhat unsure of himself? That was something new.
“Why not?” I said.
“Great. I’ll be at your place at seven—with all the makings for dinner. I’ll cook again.”
I MADE ONE stop on my way home—at a car dealership in Long Beach. I needed to get my head and arms around the concept of going further into debt for that new car I had to buy.
The prices here weren’t worse than what I saw in L.A. No better, either. It was time, though. I was tired of this tiresome little rental.
Tomorrow was Wednesday. The next
Animal Auditions
taping was Friday. I had no court appearances this week. Maybe by Thursday I’d have a new car.
Animal Auditions
taping was Friday. I had no court appearances this week. Maybe by Thursday I’d have a new car.
And a heck of a new damned debt.
My phone rang as I neared downtown L.A. on the Long Beach Freeway. I recognized Ned Noralles’ number.
“Hi, Ned,” I said with a smile. “I talked to Esther last night, and—”
“Yeah, thanks. Good thing, too. Those fools I work with have just arrested Nita, and I’m on my way to kick their asses.”
Chapter Twenty-two
I CALLED JEFF, Dante, and Darryl as I sped to the North Hollywood station of the LAPD.
Jeff was outraged. “I’m up in Santa Barbara on a security stakeout for another client,” he said. “I’ll be back early this evening, but can’t get there now to look into things for Ned. You’re going?”
“Yes. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Good. I’ll owe you.”
“Make it another round of Althea’s excellent work,” I requested, and he agreed.
Darryl promised to take good care of Lexie as long as I needed him to, and to turn Princess over to Wanda Villareal, whom he recalled from some Pet-Sitters Club of Southern California meetings to which he’d accompanied me.
To Dante, I explained the situation. “I may be late for dinner,” I said. “I’ll keep you advised.”
“I get it. And I don’t suppose it would do me any good to attempt to get you to back off now, for your own safety.”
“No,” I said into the air, thanks to my hands-free phone. “It wouldn’t. And surely you don’t think that Ned and Nita are going to harm me.”
“No, but if you find a way to get them off, whoever is attempting to frame them isn’t going to be your best friend.”
As we hung up, I thought that over. For about three seconds. Yes, Dante was right. But like it or not, as a murder magnet I’d found myself with enemies who killed more than once in the last bunch of months. Did I know how to take care of myself? Maybe. Would fear of reprisals force me to back off?
Hadn’t yet. Why start now?
I reached the North Hollywood station around four in the afternoon. I recognized the bright red Jaguar belonging to Esther Ickes sitting in the small parking lot. I squeezed into a space nearby, wondering if the SUV I was zeroing in on to buy would be as easy to park as this rental. Was I getting cold feet?
Nope, just making a mental observation.
I hurried inside the familiar police station—and stopped. Ned Noralles, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, loomed over Esther in one corner, near the rack of brochures offering advice to citizens on a multiplicity of topics. It was far from the desk where cops greeted entrants, and even farther from the door to the station’s inner sanctum. Esther’s silver hair was flawlessly styled as always, and her sweet, lined face seemed screwed up in anger. She was as impeccably dressed as if she had just come from court. Maybe she had.
I approached quickly, wondering if I’d need to referee or find Ned other representation.
“Are you nuts?” were the whispered words I heard issuing from Esther’s lips as I drew close.
“You’re my lawyer,” Ned responded, sounding equally enraged. “I hired you. Now, do as I say.”
They appeared to have reached an impasse, both standing with arms crossed and expressions filled with fury. Time for intervention from an opportune outside source: me.
“Hi!” I said brightly, my voice not nearly as soft as either of theirs. I lowered it immediately. “Okay, you two. What’s going on?”
“Detective Noralles is a very nice man,” Esther hissed. “Too nice. You see, his sister is now—”
“In custody. Like I said, they’re arresting her for that jerk Sebastian’s murder.” Ned’s fists were clenched and he appeared ready to strike almost anything or anyone within range.
But certainly not two lady lawyers who only wanted to help him—I hoped.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, touching him gently on his bare arm. He flinched as if I had socked him.
Then he looked down at me, bleakness radiating from his dark brown eyes. I hadn’t realized that African Americans could grow so pale, but there was a grayness behind his otherwise dark skin. I wanted to give him a huge hug, but held off. He clearly didn’t want any contact.
“I’ve been trying to talk Ned out of making matters worse,” Esther whispered. “Client confidentiality prevents me from telling you the stupid thing he wants to do, but—”
“Hell, I’ll tell her,” Ned interrupted. “I’ll confess to the killing. If either of us did it, it’s me, not Nita.”
“Oh, Ned,” I said, “don’t let your emotions erase your common sense. You’ve been a cop long enough to know she’d still be held as an accessory.” I looked toward Esther for confirmation. She nodded for a second, then froze. I looked in the direction of her gaze and saw Detective Howard Wherlon emerge from the door to the bowels of the station.
He immediately came over to us. “You ready to add anything to your statement, Noralles?” he demanded.
Flames seemed to shoot from Ned’s eyes.
“I think you’ve spoken with my client enough today,” Esther said quite calmly. “Are you intending to arrest him? If not, we’re going to leave.”
“Nope, he’s free to go. For now.”
“And you’ll let me know before you attempt to interrogate Ms. Noralles any further. Right, Detective?”
Howard didn’t appear happy about it, but he nodded. “She’s lawyered up, so we’ll do it all by the book.”
Esther and I stood on each side of Ned and urged him out of the station.
The three of us stood outside on the sidewalk, its pavement decorated with fake fingerprints.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did Nita say something in her interrogation that sounded like a confession?”
“No way,” Ned insisted a little too loudly.
“No,” Esther agreed. “But they obtained another warrant and searched her home, then showed her something they found there while they questioned her. A harness just like the one they say strangled Sebastian. One designed for potbellied pigs.”
“I gather there isn’t a whole lot of variety in those harnesses,” I said. “Aren’t nearly all of them nylon, sometimes in bright colors? That’s essentially what Avvie Milton has, and what I saw on the set of
Animal Auditions
.”
Animal Auditions
.”
“Yes, but there was something different about this one,” Esther said. “Most manufacturers make them so they don’t have to be pulled over the pigs’ heads, since that apparently makes them upset sometimes. A lot of them have side or top buckles. The kind that killed Sebastian was a different design, handwoven by a pig fancier who lives in Ohio, with similar straps but snaps instead of buckles, and decorated with leather inserts. They’re relatively rare, since the designer doesn’t mass-produce them.”
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