Nothing to Fear But Ferrets (12 page)

Or maybe while lying on her back, while Sergement and she . . .

“Then you hadn’t heard. I told you before that old Borden Yurick had gone off the deep end. He’s gone through with his withdrawal from the partnership. And he’s taken all his clients with him. The firm tried to stop him, and it’s gotten ugly.”

I didn’t want to hear the awful details. Only . . . “So are there any clients left?”

“Fewer than half,” she said with a sigh. But then, resuming her perkier self, she continued, “But that’s not why I called. I want to hire you, if you’re still pet-sitting.”

“You have a pet?” That was a surprise. She’d enthusiastically visited once while I’d stayed with a mama dog but had acted more excited about meeting Jeff than the pups.

“Yes,” she said. “Bill hasn’t had as many evenings free lately for us to stay late and work together.” I was amazed that she said the word
work
without a hint of hesitation. “I’ve started taking more things home to do instead of staying in the office, and to keep me from getting too lonely, he bought me the cutest potbellied pig. Pansy is her name.”

“Really? That’s sweet of him.” I had to say something nice, after all.

“We have a trip coming up—some depositions in Las Vegas.”

How convenient. I wondered if Bill’s wife would come along to gamble while the two attorneys diligently deposed witnesses. At least Bill hadn’t been married when he and I had been a clandestine couple.

“Would you watch Pansy for me?” Avvie ended pleadingly.

“Of course, if I can,” I hedged. “When is your trip, and for how long?”

It was next week, for four days. I agreed to make myself available, promised to get the particulars from her, and gracefully gestured away her profound gratitude.

She’d be a paying customer, after all.

What did I know about caring for a pig?

As much as I’d known about caring for a python, before I’d gotten lessons on Pythagorus.

Avvie would teach me what I needed to know.

 
WHEN I ARRIVED at Darryl’s, he was in his office convincing an indecisive canine owner that Doggy Indulgence was the Valley’s prime resort for her pampered, pompadoured poodle.

I knew this because my thin, spectacled friend, appearing more frazzled than he was prone to, ducked out long enough to greet Lexie and me. He explained his situation and motioned for his most obnoxious assistant, Kiki, the bleached-blond self-styled starlet, to take Lexie to play with the pups in the penned-in sports area at one end of the resort’s big room.

Darryl told me Jon Arlen was already waiting. He’d planted Fran Korwald’s latest referral in the kitchen to talk to me. It was the most private area in the place, except for Darryl’s office, which was occupied, and the bathrooms, which were hardly suitable for our meeting.

I headed that way. Dwarfing the table in the tiny room where the resort’s staff ate lunch was a very large man with dark, curly hair. He stood as I entered, as did a sturdy russet-and-black dog at his side. The dog had a wiry coat and a squared, bearded face.

“Hmmm,” I deliberated. “He’s not an Airedale. And he’s not a wire-haired fox terrier. Give me a clue.”

“The breed used to be called black-and-tan wire-haired terriers,” the man said in a rumbled rasp. “They were originally bred for hunting in the British Isles.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What is he—he is a he?”

“Yes, that’s Jonesy. I named him after Tom Jones, the singer, because—”

“Ah!” I interrupted. “That’s the clue I needed. He’s a Welsh terrier.”

“You got it!” The man held out his hand. “Jon Arlen. You’re Kendra?”

I acknowledged I was as we shook hands. His grip was what I’d anticipated in such a large man: firm, focused, and fast. When it was ended, I knelt to jostle Jonesy a bit, which quickly got out of hand when the dog decided I was fair game for a round of let’s-wrestle-the-human. My kneel soon ended when the pup pinned my shoulders to the linoleum, licking my face proudly with a long, wet tongue.

“Jonesy, no!” Arlen commanded.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “He’s just being friendly.” But I didn’t object when Jon jerked his terrier off my face and into a sit.

“So,” I said when I’d risen and planted myself on a molded plastic chair, “Fran Korwald suggested that you talk to me?”

“Yes.” Jon wore a short-sleeved shirt as wrinkled as the edges of his eyes. Its whiteness emphasized the man’s tan, and if I’d had to guess, I’d deduce Jon’s job kept him outdoors. He rested thick, bare arms on the small slab of wood that was the table. “It has to do with Jonesy, and something he did.”

I glanced down at the culprit without yet knowing his crime. His tan tail was covered in wiry hair and stuck straight up. As I eyed him, that tail began to wag, and I had to smile. “And what was that?” I asked.

“Well, as I said, Jonesy’s ancestors were bred to hunt. That included badgers, which live in underground tunnels, so—”

I guessed. “Jonesy has a digging addiction.”

“That’s right,” Jon said.

“And he’s pissed off some neighbors or your landlord by leaving holes in their property?”

Jon sighed. “If it was something as simple as that, I could handle it. I have a tree-trimming company, so I’m used to dealing with yard issues. I’d work something out.”

So I’d been right about his outdoors occupation, but not about his problem.

“So what did Jonesy do?” I asked.

“He’s discovered some buried treasure,” Jon said, “but it wasn’t buried on my property. I need to figure out how to keep it.”

Chapter Fourteen

I SAT SPELLBOUND at that little table, my mind filled with visions of ancient Spanish doubloons and their valiant and determined doggy digger, Jonesy. Jon’s tale wasn’t complicated, though his dilemma might defy satisfactory solution.

“I live in the hills over Cahuenga Pass,” he said. “My home’s near Lake Hollywood reservoir. There’ve been rumors forever that when the Treaty of Cahuenga was signed back in 1847, ending the Mexican-American War in California, some Spanish-ancestry Californians left for Mexico in such a hurry that they couldn’t take all their belongings with them. Supposedly, they buried a bunch of gold.”

“And you found it? Rather, Jonesy did?”

“Some, at least. The thing is, it wasn’t on our property. Jonesy was digging one day in the yard next door. Fortunately, I found him and was ready to shoo him home and replant the evidence when I happened to look in his hole. And there they were—a bunch of old coins. I dug ’em out, all I could find, took them in small loads to my place, and was just finishing when the neighbor came home. I’d already been calling her Beatrice the Bitch, at least in my mind, since she keeps a dog that howls like a coyote. And
she
complains about Jonesy’s barking, and his skill at finding ways out of my yard. When she saw Jonesy’s hole that I’d expanded, I thought she’d have a stroke.”

“But you offered to fill in the hole with a tree,” I surmised.

“Sure, or whatever landscaping she liked. At first, I thought that would satisfy her—till she spotted a coin I’d missed. She picked it up, and like a fool, when she asked if I’d found any more, I admitted I had. She held out her hands for it. Of course, even if I had been inclined to give it to her, she couldn’t have held it all.”

My head began to throb. That much unburied loot?

“I told her where she could put those greedy hands, and she didn’t like it. She said whatever I found, it had been on her property so it was hers. But I just recited that old adage we all learn as kids.”

“Which is?” I prompted.

“ ‘Finders, keepers, losers, weepers.’ Of course that didn’t satisfy her. She’s promised to sue me.”

I sighed. “Jon, what you’ve described is a legal matter. I warned you over the phone, just as I told Fran. I’m a lawyer, yes, but right now I can’t practice law.”

“But Fran said you told her you’re taking an exam this week, and when you pass it, you’ll get your license back?”

“The deity of legal ethics willing,” I agreed. “But it’ll take weeks before scores are released, and even then I’m no longer affiliated with a firm.” Which meant no malpractice insurance, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to practice law naked. “I can refer you to someone, but—”

“I want
you,
” he interrupted. The way his rasp had turned into a roar, and his body half rose from his too-snug chair, reminded me that this was far from a miniature man. Still, I didn’t feel threatened—too much. “Who wouldn’t? Have you heard Fran Korwald sing your praises? She says you’re a legal genius. And a nice person. And a pet-lover to boot. Plus you helped her put one over on her bastard of an ex-husband—and made him think it was all his idea. Genius!”

I’d liked the guy before. Now, I adored what he was doing to my ego. But that didn’t reframe reality. “That was something practical that didn’t involve the practice of law,” I said.

“That’s what I’m asking for, too. Something practical that will make Beatrice the Bitch get down on her knees and beg me to keep those old coins Jonesy found in her yard.”

“But—”

“Besides, this all just happened a couple of weeks ago. I can keep Beatrice busy for now by ducking her phone calls, pretending to play along. Then when you can practice law again, you can send her one hell of a letter on my behalf telling her to butt out. Jonesy found the treasure fair and square.”

I should have told Jon Arlen to go elsewhere to endeavor to keep his buried treasure. But the issue was too enticing for me just to throw away.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I can’t even think about this until after Friday—that’s when I take the exam. Then I’ll do some legal research—for myself, not you. If I think you’ve a legal leg to stand on, I’ll hand what I find over to someone who’s licensed now, and—”

“No,” he growled. “If you find research stuff that’ll help me keep what’s mine, fair and square, then I’ll wait until you can do whatever’s necessary for me to keep it. Deal?”

“As long as you understand that if I don’t pass the exam this time around”—
Please, no, no, no,
shrieked my stressed-out psyche—“you’ll have to hire someone else, then, yes. Deal.”

 
I DON’T WANT to discuss the rest of that Wednesday, or Thursday. I did little but study and pet-sit and nibble on snacks when my stomach grumbled. Sleep was out of the question, except for a discreet doze here and there.

And all the while I tried to keep every synapse of my beleaguered brain focused on ethics and study guides and practice exams. Yet too often, things I didn’t want to think about tiptoed in and played kickball against the lining of my skull.

Buried treasure near Barham Boulevard in Cahuenga Pass. A gripping legal mind game to ensure that my potential clients, Jon Arlen and Jonesy, got to keep their ill-located treasure trove.

And each instant that I studied, despite the fact that he was out of town, Jeff Hubbard’s presence loomed large over my shoulder—even between his evening phone calls to check how we were getting along. It didn’t help that Lexie and I stayed at Jeff ’s to keep Odin company, as part of my paid pet-sitting gig.

What if we moved in permanently?

And then the time came for me to leave Lexie at Jeff ’s with Odin and head the Beamer deep into the Valley, toward Cal State Northridge and the ethics exam.

It took two tedious hours. All multiple choice—like that TV game show where no one ever wins the million dollars—and I could only conjecture how well I did. In a room full of other aspiring attorneys sweating it out, I read each factual situation as carefully as if my career depended on it—which it did. I anguished over the described conduct, then selected which choice I thought was correct. Would the conduct toss the hypothetical legal professional deep into a boiling cauldron of ethics enigmas, or was it okay to do without worrying about appalling consequences?

Usually, two answers seemed conceivably correct. I used my best legal judgment about which eye to close while letting my finger drop onto the response to choose.

When done, I felt as drained as if I’d run a thousand-yard dash. How did I think I did? Who knew? I was a damned good litigator, could argue my way through any issue and make a credible showing for a client’s most favorable position. But I couldn’t talk my way out of a multiple-choice problem.

Results would be mailed in four weeks. I’d have to wait until then to find out.

 
GOOD THING MY Beamer was filled with gas, for it had all the energy between us late that afternoon. I still had to do normal pet-sitting rounds, and it seemed as if all my charges had saved up their extra energy until a time when I was utterly exhausted. Dogs that had hitherto heeled without balking took up barking on their walks and lunging at cawing crows, who simply took wing and soared off with taunting cackles. Litter-accustomed cats had chosen to shun habitual boxes and leave smelly urine samples all over their owners’ homes.

And Jeff would be home that night.

I wasn’t ready to face him, for I hadn’t had sufficient time to consider his cohabitation offer. Not that I’d ignored the idea—not when it sat on my back and shrieked for attention at the most awful times. But I’d not come to a decision.

And so, when I was finally done with everything pet-related, including an enervating late-afternoon outing with Widget, I fed Odin and scrammed from Jeff ’s with Lexie.

We’d spend that night in our own digs. I’d have to face Jeff the next day, but surely it would be easier while wide awake.

Only, when Lexie and I reached our home in the hills, it was obvious that Charlotte and Yul had chosen to throw one of their inevitable, irritating shindigs. The front gate was open, against all lease rules. The Beamer’s reserved parking spot was subject to a squatter—a Porsche Carrera that could only give my poor, ten-year-old car an inferiority complex.