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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Never Say Sty
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“Pretty much.” Which clinched my suspicion as being true.
“I should thank you,” I said coldly. “I like the car a lot, and I can certainly live with the terms. But why didn’t you simply ask if I wanted a little help?”
“What would you have said?” he asked shrewdly.
I hesitated. “Point taken. Even so—”
“Even so, you’re right. I won’t do it again.”
I tried to conjure up some warm and fuzzy feelings that this wealthy man I cared about had fixed a situation to make it work better for me.
Instead, I felt resentment still swirl inside.
He was again attempting to control, if not me, then at least stuff going on around me. For my own good? Perhaps.
But I wouldn’t put up with it.
That night, Lexie and I retired early in our home-sweet-garage. Alone.
While I stewed sleeplessly about all that would occur tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-eight
FIRST THINGS FIRST, and that meant, the next morning, that I took my dear Lexie to Darryl’s so she’d have a delightful day, notwithstanding whatever happened to mine.
I didn’t see my best bud Darryl when I arrived, and his staff seemed preoccupied with a couple of oversize pups who’d apparently decided to mix it up in a doggy play area. After I ensured Lexie was properly ensconced in her favorite place filled with people furniture, I decided to seek out Darryl in the most likely locale, since he wasn’t refereeing canines.
As I’d been permitted to do in the past, I opened his office door without knocking—and found the answer to one mystery that had bothered me for the last few weeks. One that, had I truly thought it through, I might have solved for myself. Or maybe could have seen without bursting in, had I peeked discreetly through Darryl’s office window.
“Wow!” I spontaneously exclaimed as I discovered Darryl and Wanda Villareal engaged in one heck of a sexy kiss. “Excuse me.”
The two pulled apart, red-faced and clearly sheepish. “Good morning, Kendra,” Wanda said with a too-bright smile.
“Hi,” Darryl blurted simultaneously.
I ceased my polite and embarrassed retreat to stare at them suddenly. “So why didn’t either of you tell me what was going on?” I glared pointedly at Darryl. I always confided the worst of my love-life stories to him—almost, although never with graphic detail. So why hadn’t he confided the best to me?
“We’re really sorry, Kendra.” Wanda approached first and sort of engulfed me in a big hug for such a petite person. “But . . . well, this is kinda new for both of us, and we were afraid that if we mentioned it to anyone, especially someone whose opinion we both care a whole lot about, like you—”
“It would go away before we could give it a chance,” Darryl finished. My lanky buddy looked defiant now, as if wanting to suggest I get lost.
“This is really cool,” I said, hoping I’d feel that way when I’d had a chance to think it over. At the moment, most of what I felt was hurt. Surely they could have told me. “Congratulations. You deserve each other.” Maybe.
“Thanks!” Wanda’s exclamation sounded genuinely grateful. “And we have something for you, too. About poor Princess’s separation anxiety. You know we thought we had a solution?” I nodded, full of sudden optimism that something good might actually occur—for me, not just for them.
And wondering whether, on some level, this particular problem had helped to draw them closer as they pondered the possibilities. “We checked with other Brittany spaniel owners, who said that the best thing would be for Princess to have company. So, we’ve visited a breeder with Brittany puppies nearly ready to go to a new home.” She squatted on the floor, lifted her purse, and pulled out some papers. “Here! You can have your law clients go check out the pups when they get home later this week. Okay?”
How simple a solution—maybe. It absolutely had ADR possibilities: a feasible solution short of going to court.
One that I could suggest to the attorney representing the Jeongs’ neighbors if we ever ceased putting off our often rescheduled meeting.
Yeah!
I thanked them both and, swallowing my hurt at their prior failure to disclose, gave them hugs and kisses. “Thanks so much,” I said. “And I’ll stay out of your love life. But—”
“Yes?” Darryl said somewhat hesitantly.
“I’d be happy if you’d keep me informed.” I headed out the door . . . pleased that, at least to some extent, this day that could be full of misadventures had at least started in a manner with plenty of possibilities—if I stopped worrying about my hurt feelings and focused on my happiness for my friends.
 
 
I RECEIVED A call from Althea on my way from Darryl’s. “I wanted to give you the last tidbit of information you requested,” she said. Turned out that Rick Longley had had a teensy glitch in his path to weatherman stardom, which was why he wound up back in L.A. “Some station mucketymuck in New York threatened to fire him,” Althea said, “and Longley punched him out.”
“So the guy’s got a temper,” I mused.
“Maybe it grew enough to cause him to kill Sebastian,” Althea said. “Better find out if the judge ever threatened to can your host.”
Could what I had planned for today be a mistake? Maybe. But it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
I called Rachel on my hands-free. The approach I decided on wasn’t exactly fair, but it would provide the info I needed. “Why didn’t you tell me that Sebastian threatened to fire Rick?” I asked—not knowing, of course, if it could be true.
“Because I knew you’d start suspecting poor Rick of murder, Kendra,” my assistant retorted. “But he didn’t do it. I’m sure of it.”
Okay, I’d pretty much concluded that Dante was no longer on my serious suspect list. Maybe because I didn’t want him there. Even so, I hadn’t fully eliminated a lot of others as potential perpetrators—and now that I’d zeroed in on the person I felt fairly sure did it, I didn’t exactly like the fact that my list of possibles kept expanding.
Well, if all went as anticipated, it would shrink down to one . . . today.
 
 
FOR MY NEXT act, I had to accomplish the possibly impossible. I needed privacy, and a whole lot of luck.
Inside my Escape, I made a critical phone call, on which the entire day’s pending circumstances hinged. To my surprise and delight, I reached the object of my call immediately. More important, I ascertained that the person was alone.
Our conversation at first was full of my fielding incredulity, which I had anticipated. I tried to keep it light, as if what I intended was actually a practical joke. And after a few minutes of frantic attempts at convincing . . . lo and behold—it worked!
Now, we were all set for this afternoon’s activities. I only hoped they resulted in the consequences I intended—as long as my initial assumptions were, in fact, true.
Which, hopefully, we would find out within hours.
 
 
I ARRIVED EARLY at SFV Studios. Taking a deep breath, I exited my Escape and headed inside the three-story front structure, passing the offices and heading for the sound stage we used for
Animal Auditions
.
I gave a deep sigh of relief when I saw that at least some of my setup was already in effect. Charlotte was there, running around with her clipboard and frazzled expression. Rachel stood at the side of the stage area with Avvie Milton, whose adorable potbelly, Pansy, was at her side. A few of our remaining piggy contestants were there, too, with their owners, mostly staring out of the dressing rooms, awaiting our signal to come out for the start of the show.
That included Ned and Nita Noralles.
I approached Avvie first. I’d especially requested her appearance without going into any of the gory details. “What’s going on, Kendra?” she asked softly.
“You’ll see as things go on,” I told her. “Right now, I particularly want Pansy to demonstrate some of her most perfect piggy sniffing prowess.” I explained in vaguest generalities what would occur. “I’ll use this scenario with some of the other piggies, of course, but if none delivers the exact result I need, I’ll count on Pansy.”
“And me, I suppose,” Avvie said. I nodded, and we went over some of the signals that might be given to the pigs.
Pretty pig Pansy seemed to nod her large head as she lifted her big, expressive snout in agreement. I laughed. “I knew I could count on you,” I said.
Next it was time to visit the dressing room containing Ned and Nita. I’d have to be especially careful with them. One word from Ned, in particular, and today’s whole event would be toast.
Ned was dressed in a nice casual outfit for filming: light blue button-down shirt and dark slacks. “I’m counting on you, Kendra,” he said, stooping to pat Sty Guy distractedly. “Jeff promised to come today, too, but I’m afraid this is the last
Animal Auditions
either Nita or I will be able to participate in, the way things are going.”
Nita knelt on the floor, decorating Porker’s standard black nylon harness with artificial pink flowers. She didn’t even look up at me as she spoke with extraordinary emotion. “I hate this. I never thought my swan song would be a piggy performance, but those damned colleagues of Ned’s . . . they won’t leave us alone, Kendra.” She looked up, and tears swam in her dark eyes. “They’ll really arrest me next time, not just ask questions. And I’m afraid it’ll even be today.” She stood, looking highly photogenic in her long, dark skirt and frilly white blouse.
I wanted to reassure her that today’s activities would end with her total exoneration—but I couldn’t. Who knew if my piggy plot would succeed? And even if it did—well, my assumptions on whodunit could be entirely incorrect. I didn’t think so, but . . . gee, even I’m not perfect. Sometimes.
One critical component of my plot arrived a minute after I excused myself from Ned and Nita: Dante. He had Wagner at his side . . . and a nice, large HotPets totebag over his shoulder.
I hurried over to him. I still wanted to sock him in that almost-perfect nose after what he pulled regarding my Escape. I didn’t dare address that particular gripe again now, when I needed something so important from him.
“Hi,” I said in an anticipatory tone. “Did you get it?” I glanced tellingly at his tote.
His smile was almost chilly, which made my heart sink to way beneath the low but classy heels I’d put on this morning to set off my slim and stylish red dress. I really wanted to look good in case I got oncamera with my crime-solving scenario. I’d also donned a lawyerly jacket over it, in case that was the image I decided I needed at the time.
“Do you have any doubt?” he asked sardonically.
“Nope.” I smiled almost apologetically. “Is Brody on board? He needs to get the other judges in sync.” I glanced toward their table. Eliza was there, and Brody, too.
Not Matilda. Uh-oh.
I was just about to call her on my cell when I saw her come through the increasingly crowded soundstage’s door.
Good. I could talk to her first. “Excuse me,” I said to Dante and headed in her direction—only to find him still at my side, with Wagner keeping pace. “She might not talk to me if you’re along,” I hissed.
“Good point.” He peeled off toward the judges’ table.
He actually paid attention to something I said? That could be a first.
I reached Matilda, who looked especially frazzled. Her short blonde hair stuck up on one side, and the lapel of her brown suit jacket was twisted and tucked inside. I almost reached over to remedy that, but our production people would handle it. I didn’t want to do anything at that instant to annoy her.
“Hi, Matilda,” I said cheerily. “Ready for a fun day judging our potbellied contestants?”
She stopped and stared as if she’d never seen me before. Her complexion was pale, and I was afraid that even standard onscreen makeup wouldn’t make her appear as upbeat and charming as she’d been on our first shows.
Surely she didn’t know what to expect here today. But if not, something else was clearly upsetting her.
“Is everything okay?” I inquired. Maybe my suspicions were completely wrong, and her conscience was bothering her enough to change her personality. After all, I’d made assumptions about why she’d behaved as she did because of interference by my now primary suspect, but perhaps I’d gotten it backwards.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she said. “I just learned on my way here—Never mind.” She suddenly put on a burst of speed that carried her toward the judges’ table . . . and Dante, who greeted her effusively. She regarded him with discomfort, I thought, but took her place at the end.
I hurried toward Charlotte, who stood at the sidelines, surveying the crowd of pigs, owners, and production people. I made my own mental survey. The usual suspects were all there: Charlotte, co-hosts Rachel and Rick, trainers Corbin and Charley, all three current judges, Dante, and the primary pig folks—Ned, Nita, and other contestants who’d railed against Sebastian before his demise.
Then there were the members of the audience filing in whom I especially needed to see. One in particular. Was she there?

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