Never Say Sty (26 page)
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“And Nita happened to own one, too?”
Esther shrugged, suggesting client confidentiality.
“She didn’t,” Ned exploded, then quieted down again. “Those fools seem to think that finding a similar harness is enough evidence to haul her in on a murder rap.”
“Do you have one for Porker?” I asked.
“No. I go for the standard nylon kind—bright yellow.”
“Where did Nita get the one that looks like the murder weapon?”
“That’s just it,” Ned said. “She didn’t. She loves Sty Guy but spends money on him for good food and toys and all. No silly designer harness for him. Whoever killed that jerk Sebastian must have planted it at Nita’s place, to frame her. But would my fellow detectives believe that?”
“Apparently not,” I surmised, and Esther nodded.
“My sister suspected of murder? Ridiculous!” Ned nearly shouted. “They should check out who bought that stupid harness.” He sounded serious now. Maybe I’d been mistaken when I’d thought he suspected his sister could have done it. Either that, or he was rallying to her defense no matter what.
In any event, I suspected the detectives were looking into the harness’s source. It was something I’d also suggest that Jeff look into . . . or maybe I’d do it myself. Either way, I’d first ask Althea to seek it out online.
And Dante? If he didn’t personally have knowledge of this particular pet supply, he surely had employees who did.
“Meantime, I’ll do anything I have to, to get her out of there,” Ned said.
“Like get yourself thrown in jail, too?” I asked. “That’s just stupid.”
“And I can’t represent both of you,” Esther said. “Your interests are clearly diverging.”
“Which one will you hang on to?” I asked. The wise thing, given her disagreement with this client, would be to dump him and continue to represent his probably saner sister.
Saner but guiltier?
“I want you,” Ned said, his tone much more subdued than it had been. “But I also want someone really great for Nita. Any ideas, Kendra?”
I reminded him that I’d gotten a referral to an excellent local criminal lawyer named Martin Skull when my dear friend Darryl had been a not-too-serious suspect when I’d been accused of a couple of murders.
“Good choice,” Esther said. “I’ll contact him, and we’ll work out who’ll represent who.” She glared at Ned. “Either way, you’d better behave and take some sound legal advice, or you’ll have to find a different attorney to take your abuse.”
“Got it.” He hung his head as if he actually did finally see some sense.
“I’ll take you home now, Ned,” Esther said gently. “And you’ll be able to care for both pigs? They’ll need you.”
“Yes,” Ned responded, his voice so soft I could hardly hear him. “Are you in touch with Jeff, Kendra?”
I nodded. “He’ll be back this evening. I’m sure he’ll contact you.”
“Thanks,” Ned said. “To both of you.”
I DID MY pet-sitting stuff rather emotionally that evening. A little faster than I should have, sure. I couldn’t help feeling somewhat distracted, considering all that Ned and his sister Nita were going through.
Could one or the other have killed Sebastian? Why? Because he was an S.O.B. of a nasty judge on a TV reality show? Not hardly. A cop like Ned wouldn’t be that sensitive, and although I didn’t really know Nita, I doubted she would, either—even though I’d seen a hint of a temper.
Who, then? Sebastian’s ex? Unlikely, after all this time and her successful escape from his life . . . unless she was hiding something, which was entirely conceivable.
Or was it one of our other contestants, either a pig owner or dog owner? Seemed as unlikely as one of the Noralles siblings, but I’d keep it in mind.
I supposed it could even be one of my buddies who’d helped put together the show. Charlotte? Unlikely, but she really threw herself into the success of our reality show venture. If she thought Sebastian was going to spoil it . . . ?
Same went for my other co-producers: Charley Sherman, the animal trainer, and Shareen or Corbin Hayhurst of ShowBiz Beasts. One of them? Nah . . . I hoped.
My mind quickly glossed over Rachel, my young and eager assistant. But what about her co-host, Rick Longley? What if the former weatherman didn’t want to undergo any more thunderstorms and considered Sebastian Czykovski a major threat to his TV future? Nah . . . I didn’t think so. Still . . . I’d have to urge Althea to unearth the worst on him.
And what about Matilda Hollins? She’d seemed upset lately, and why not? Her fellow judge had been offed . . . by her? Sure, she was a shrink—of the veterinary persuasion. In my experience, people who became psychologists often had mental issues of their own.
Or could it have been our other original judge, Eliza Post? I hoped not. I’d much rather the killer be someone unrelated to the show whom Sebastian had pissed off somewhere along the line. That seemed feasible. But who? Most likely, I hadn’t even met the murderer. It was probably someone connected with Sebastian’s other life as a dog trainer and agility judge. That was something I would certainly look into. Fast.
When I finally arrived home, I wasn’t in the least surprised to find Dante’s Mercedes parked inside the gate. His dog, Wagner, and Lexie both greeted me at my own door, tails wagging.
“So Rachel let you in again?” I entered my kitchen, following my nose as it filled with luscious spicy aromas.
“Of course.” Dante came close and took me into his arms. His smile was suggestive as he kissed me but good. Really good. And I had a feeling I knew what he intended for dessert.
We walked the dogs along my narrow, twisting street while the savory pot roast in my oven finished cooking. Night was drawing near, but since this was still summer, there was enough light for us to see and be seen. Wagner and Lexie were engrossed in smelling the outside world and doing what doggies do on walks, leaving the humans to talk.
I filled Dante in on what was going on with Ned and Nita, ending with “As the country’s, maybe the world’s, most successful pet entrepreneur, what do you know about potbellied pig harnesses that are handwoven in Ohio?”
He laughed. “I’ve got purchasing managers who’ll know a lot more than I do. But, believe me, I’ll find out.”
We soon headed home. Dinner was, of course, delicious, although it was interrupted by a phone call from Jeff. “I’m at Ned’s now,” he told me. “Fill me in on what you know.”
“Ned has a lot more info than I do,” I said, “although I’m conducting my own research into the type of pig harness that seems to have gotten Nita into trouble.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” Jeff growled. He must have figured out the source from which I was gathering information. “You’ll keep me informed?”
“As long as you do the same. Althea, too.”
“You got it. Oh, and tell your friend DeFrancisco that I asked about him,” Jeff said as he hung up.
I took a big swig of the delicious wine Dante had brought before I conveyed that message.
“Too bad your buddy Hubbard had nothing to do with Sebastian while he was alive,” Dante said. “I’d love to be able to put together a case against him as a killer. But I guess he’s been there, done that, the last time you looked into someone’s untimely demise.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And that sounds familiar. I’d bet he’s hoping to prove you’re the one who did away with Sebastian.” An excellent segue, or so I thought. I smiled innocently at Dante, expecting his vehement denial. Or at least an incredulous laugh that I would even suggest such an amazing thing.
He did neither. Instead, he took a sip of wine and stared thoughtfully into the goblet.
Could Dante genuinely be guilty? I certainly hated that idea . . . especially since I was sure that suspicion wasn’t enough to keep me out of bed with him that night.
Turned out I was right.
Wagner and he stayed until morning. I didn’t sleep well, even when I wasn’t otherwise occupied. My mind kept turning over all the suspects in Sebastian’s murder.
And as I lay there listening to his deep breathing, I realized I simply couldn’t rule out the reputedly ruthless Dante.
Chapter Twenty-three
“WHAT ARE YOUR plans today?” Dante asked as we stood outside our respective cars in my driveway.
I’d already conferred with Rachel about who would do what in our pet-sitting that morning, so I was good to go. She was discreet enough not to inquire about the extra car in the driveway.
Now, Lexie was in my rental car, blocked in the backseat as always. We needed to go pick up Princess, which would make that rear area awfully crowded.
“Pet-sitting first, as always. While I’m on the road, I’ll check on Ned and Nita via Esther, to see how that situation’s going. After that . . . I’m going to buy a car,” I asserted impulsively. And then, more subdued, “I think.”
“Really? What kind?”
I told him how I’d loved the Escape. I didn’t tell him my fears about affording it. I’d manage, even if Lexie and I had to reduce our food intake for a while. Or she wound up visiting Darryl’s fewer days despite our excellent discount.
“Sounds good,” he said. “Would you like me to—”
“I’d like you to call me later.” I stopped any follow-up with a kiss. I wasn’t certain what he’d been about to say, but I had no doubt he intended, somehow, to attempt to assert control.
We parted ways—Wagner with Dante and Lexie with me. I immediately had a sense of loss. And supreme sexual tension. I’d had a wonderful night with Dante, but it wasn’t only sex I saw in that man.
As long as he wasn’t giving me orders—ostensibly for my own good—I found him a great guy with a wry sense of humor that occasionally snuck through, combined with compassion and an incredible amount of intelligence. Over a brief breakfast, we’d brainstormed about our mutual Sebastian murder investigation, and he’d said he would share with me some stuff he knew Brody Avilla was unearthing . . . later.
I still wondered about Brody’s investigative credentials, and hoped Althea would unearth something soon. In any event, I appreciated Dante’s cooperation. Maybe we genuinely would work together to learn who’d killed Sebastian.
Unless, of course, his promises were simply a ploy to get me searching in a direction other than directly beside me.
After my morning animal activities, I headed to my law office, where my silver-haired boss, Borden, was his usual sweet self, inquiring again, almost as I stepped in the door, how
Animal Auditions
was doing—and whether I’d figured out yet who’d killed its nastiest initial judge.
Animal Auditions
was doing—and whether I’d figured out yet who’d killed its nastiest initial judge.
“Still working on it,” I said, and he smiled. So did Mignon, the receptionist, who sat behind him, eavesdropping.
“Knowing you, you’ll get it solved before too long,” Borden said. “I heard on the news that the police think one of their own, or at least his sister, is the guilty party. Do you agree?”
“Remember Detective Ned Noralles?” I inquired obliquely.
“He’s the cop you’ve butted heads with before. I thought so. Are you hoping he did it? Nope, I can see otherwise in your expression. Well, good luck on a speedy solution. Any law matters I should keep my eye on while you’re partly unavailable?”
“I think I have everything under control,” I said. “In fact, I’m taking this afternoon off. Finally buying a car . . . I hope.”
“Really? That’s great. If you need a loan, or an advance on your salary or partner’s share, let me know.”
“Thanks, Borden.” I gave the guy a hug right over today’s yellow aloha shirt. “You’re a dear. And I’ll take you up on it only if I have to.”
I had calls to make on a couple of Borden’s senior citizen clients whose cases I was handling, and a response to a motion in another matter to draft. I left a message for the Jeongs’ attorney, but he still—again—wasn’t available. Lunchtime soon arrived, and I had things under control well enough to leave.
I’d already checked the local Ford dealers online to see their respective inventories of Escapes. I’d made one of my inevitable lists of those I was most interested in, and headed for a dealership on the other side of the hill from the San Fernando Valley first—in Hollywood.
I drove to the back and stepped into the lot—where I found the car I was looking for. It was shining ice blue, and it was loaded.
When the sales guy spotted me and sauntered over, I was ready. I let him convince me to take a drive, which was lots of fun, since this car had a GPS system, and all the info about whether it was in gas or hybrid mode showed up on the screen. But I stayed unconvinced, at least externally. Somewhat internally, too. I wanted everything on this one, though it cost a lot more than the basic, stripped-down hybrid—which itself wasn’t cheap.
I nonchalantly told the guy to give me the best price he could, especially since I hadn’t a trade-in after the demise of my once-beloved Beamer. I told him to throw in a screen accessory to keep dogs I drove with in the backseat for their safety. Since I’d need to finance it, he could play games with the figures that way, giving me the supposed best interest rate and payment schedule.
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