Nothing to Fear But Ferrets (15 page)

“Thanks,” I said, feeling foolishly at a loss. “What’s your name?”

“Mignon. As in filet.” She giggled, rolling dark-lined blue eyes as if this was a joke as old as she was—which couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. “It means ‘dainty’ in French, which is kind of silly, don’t you think?”

I had to agree, for though she wasn’t exactly overweight, certain parts of her were curvy enough beneath her frilly white shirt and pencil skirt to bring to mind someone not dainty but
zaftig
, a term I heard sometimes from Yiddish-speaking cronies. Meaning “built.”

“Anyway, it’s so great to meet you,” she said again. “I mean, I saw you in the news when you were all over it because of those murders you supposedly committed, and then you proved who really did it! And today Borden said you were coming and that you used to work with him and—”

“Down, Mignon,” commanded a soft voice from somewhere behind her. I looked over her shoulder to see Borden Yurick coming toward us from what had once been the dining room. I’d been used to seeing him in suit coat or sweater, and always with a tie. Now, he was clad in one of those soft-looking Hawaiian shirts where the material is turned inside out, and beneath it he wore white pants. All he needed was a lei around his scrawny neck to complete the effect. “Kendra. Welcome.”

I’d pondered how to approach an aging man who’d recently had a mental breakdown. Supposedly. I hadn’t really been able to learn whether that was solely a fabrication of his former Marden partners to explain his defection. I figured I’d treat him as I always had—professionally polite.

Which was soon squeezed out of me when he threw his arms around me and constricted me in a heartier hug than anything Charlotte—or even Py the python—had ever tried on me.

“Good to see you, my dear,” he said, stepping back. His smile was as sweet and lopsided as ever, and was his third most prominent feature, after old-fashioned large-framed bifocals beneath a huge shock of silvery hair. “Come into my office. Mignon, please get us some coffee, would you?”

“Right away, Borden,” she chirped.

He preceded me through the former dining room, which was now refitted with an assortment of empty cubicles on the inside, with offices framed in as-yet unfinished wood toward the walls. I heard noises from inside a couple and figured they were occupied.

“I’m still remodeling,” Borden remarked unnecessarily. His office was at the end, and its walls were well established, lined with oak paneling. His desk was an antique, his client chairs an eclectic assortment probably bought with the restaurant building. “Take your pick,” he told me as he took his own place behind his desk. “So what have you been up to?” he asked. “Besides what I read in the papers.”

“Depending on which papers you read,” I told him, “you probably have a pretty good idea.” He hadn’t asked why when I’d asked to see him in our phone call earlier, so I decided to lead into it. “You haven’t been around the Marden offices for a while, so you might not have known when I was accused of turning over a strategy memo to the other side in some litigation. That led to the suspension of my law license. I took up pet-sitting to earn some money while figuring out what to do next, and really liked it. I’m still doing it, though I just took the MPRE yesterday, the last step in getting my license reinstated.”

“And you’re not going to mention all those murder victims you keep stumbling over?”

“No,” I said. “Sounds as if you heard about them anyhow.”

He laughed. “At least my problems weren’t made public,” he said. “And no, before you ask, I didn’t really have a mental breakdown. It was something my esteemed colleagues made up to explain why I was cruising around the South Pacific when there were so many clients clamoring for my attention at home.” He held up a thin, bony hand. “Oh, I worried about them, all right, when I thought about who was going to be taking care of their legal matters in my absence. Bill Sergement.” He grimaced. “Royal Marden.” His grimace grew uglier as he shuddered. And then he grinned again. “I was burned out. I needed some time to get my head on straight. Isn’t that the current phrase?”

“Sure,” I said.

We paused in our conversation to take a couple of big, steaming mugs from Mignon. “Call if you need anything else,” she sang, then left.

“So when I came back,” Borden continued as I took a sip of deep, dark, delicious coffee, “I knew exactly what I needed. That’s when I withdrew from the partnership and contacted the clients I’d brought in. And do you know, nearly all of them decided to stay with me, despite the bad-mouthing I’d received while away and especially when I returned.”

“So I heard,” I replied.

“Of course, everything’s still in transition. I’ve got some old—and I do mean old—law school friends coming out of retirement to join me here. We’re going to have a lot of fun practicing law. That’s what I want.”

I laughed. “What an oxymoron!”

“Anyway, what can I do for you, Kendra? I assume you’re not here to try to keep clients for the Marden firm.”

“Not hardly,” I huffed. “I’m through with them, too. Talk about unsupportive to a junior partner they should have backed. They’re lawyers, for heaven’s sake. Didn’t they ever hear about being innocent till proven guilty?”

“Only when it’s convenient for them.”

“Anyway, I have to admit that Avvie was the one to suggest I call you. I intend to rent access to one of the online legal research services but I don’t want to subscribe till I have my license back and settle somewhere to practice law again.”

“You mean you’re dumping pet-sitting?”

“I didn’t say that. But it’s led to some other stuff.” I told him about how I’d helped Fran Korwald resolve her pug custody problem, which led to referrals of others whose issues were pet-related. “I’ve got something I might have to refer to someone with a license if things break before mine’s back, but for now I’ll do the legal research without providing advice.”

“So you’d like to use my Lexis hookup?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I’ll reimburse you for the cost.”

“No need. I have a flat rate. Only one little fee to you.”

“Which is?”

“Tell me the kind of issue it is.”

“One that’s utterly fascinating,” I said, wanting to tantalize him without telling him too much. “Believe it or not, it’s about buried treasure.”

He laughed, then leaned toward me, pushing his large glasses back up his elongated nose. “Okay, I’ll have Mignon give you office keys. Come in anytime to do research, at least till I tell you to stop. The only charge will be that you’ll tell me everything that client confidentiality will allow. Deal?”

“Deal. Borden, you’re a dear.”

“Tell that to the Marden firm folks,” he said with one of his sweet, signature grins.

 
I SAT IN one of the makeshift offices, choosing a parking-lot view as I used one of Borden’s brand-new computers. Lexie had apparently given up trying to bark her way out of the Beamer, for I only occasionally saw her stick her nose by one of the windows I’d left cracked open.

Because it was late and I still had clients to cater to, I didn’t get far into the law of treasure trove. The initial stuff, though, didn’t bode well for Jon Arlen.

California Civil Code Section 829 provided that the owner of land has the right to the surface and to everything permanently situated beneath or above it. At least buried treasure was unlikely to be considered a permanent fixture by the courts.

Then there were the laws relating to trespass. Jon Arlen and his dog probably had no right to be on the property where Jonesy had dug up the long-buried goods.

But I was a lawyer, even if I wasn’t a practicing one at that point. Past experience, not to mention my passion, convinced me: I’d come up with excellent arguments on behalf of my client somehow—though I wasn’t sure yet what they’d be. Maybe something would come to me by the time my license was actually held once more in my eager hands. In the meantime, I’d take advantage of Borden’s kind indulgence as often as I could.

While I was there, I usurped the use I’d previously made of Jeff ’s top computer geek, Althea, and also took advantage of the special subscription databases to do searches on people in Chad Chatsworth’s sphere who might’ve had cause to kill him. Not that I had the hacking prowess I posited that Althea had. I printed out pages to study later, since I was running late.

I needed to go wind Widget the terrier down with his afternoon training. And then I’d get busy with the rest of my evening rounds.

But I was ever so grateful to Borden for granting me the right to return at will to do whatever research I wanted, gratis.

 
I WALKED—OR rather ran—Widget. My other pet-sitting clients had been tended to. I was about to call Jeff, to let him know Lexie and I were on our way.

What would I tell him? I hoped I’d know it before I said it. But before I dialed Jeff on my cell, it sang out, “It’s My Life.” I lifted its cover.

“Kendra?” A female voice blasted hysterically into my ear, and I had to pull the phone back to listen.

“Yes?”

“It’s Charlotte.”

“Oh, good. Did the insurance adjuster come today? Did you let him in?”

“Yes, of course. But that’s not why I’m calling. Please come home. That awful detective is on his way here, and I think he’s going to arrest me. Please help me.” And then she hung up.

Chapter Seventeen

TIME TO CALL in the big guns. And that wasn’t me.

First, while driving east down Ventura, ducking cars slipping in and out of parallel parking spots, I phoned Charlotte back. She was crying too hard to hear me, so I demanded that she hand her cell to Yul.

“Has she called Esther Ickes yet?” I demanded.

“Who?”

“Esther Ickes. The criminal lawyer who helped me when I was dangling by my fingernails, trying my damnedest not to get arrested for murder. Among other things.”

“Ickes?”

Yul was up to his old single-syllable tricks. “Esther Ickes,” I repeated. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes.”

I gave him Esther’s phone number. “Call her now,” I commanded. “Use my name and tell her the problem. As long as she’s not in court, she’s the kind who’ll drop everything and be there for a client, new or old. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

I edged the Beamer onto the freeway on-ramp, then juggled the phone while I merged and called Jeff. I was pretty adept at patting my head and rubbing my gut at once, when I had to. Multitasking was my middle name.

“Hi, Kendra,” Jeff said immediately, obviously extracting my identity from caller ID. “Coming over tonight?” His voice was sweet, deep, and seductive, and it made me remember exactly why we had to talk—and told me what my answer should be.

But not yet. “Yes,” I said, “but right now I’m calling to beg a bit of your P.I. expertise.”

“You’re not solving everyone’s problems on your own?”

“Don’t get smart. But do get over to my place, right away.” I filled him in on my conversation with Charlotte.

“My old buddy and yours, Detective Ned Noralles?”

“None other. No wonder the poor woman needs help.”

“And you’d like nothing better than to show him up again on another murder investigation.”

“Wouldn’t you?” I countered.

“Come to think of it . . . See you at your place in a bit.”

Lexie and I beat Jeff there. Esther, too. But not the neighbors, for with all the cop cars clustered around the place again, they’d begun to gather once more.

“What’s going on, Kendra?” Tilla Thomason demanded as I wended slowly through them, car window open so I could call out to people to get out of my way. I’d have honked and scared them out of their skins, but they were, after all, my neighbors. I’d leave their skins—and nerves—intact.

“I don’t know,” I called to Tilla. Which was somewhat true. Charlotte could have been wrong about her impending inquisition or arrest. Though if Noralles was involved, I doubted it.

I parked the Beamer in its usual spot and left Lexie upstairs at our place. Then I headed for the main house.

I was just in time to find a way to finagle a path for Esther Ickes to join me. She’d parked her jaunty red Jaguar somewhere on the street and seemed lost in the middle of the massing crowd. I knew better, of course. Esther might look like a frail septuagenarian, but she had the street smarts of an alley cat. Better yet, she knew her way around a court better than the criminal attorneys of which legends were made.

I slunk back through the opening in my wrought-iron fence and led Esther in. As always, she was clad in a suit, this one lime green and long-skirted. Her blouse was cream crepe, which only underscored the abundance of wrinkles that added character to her aging face.

“Kendra, my dear, what a delight to see you,” she said as cool as if the crowd that had grudgingly parted to let her pass weren’t there at all. “This isn’t about another legal problem of yours, is it?”

“Don’t you think that after bankruptcy, alleged ethics violations, and murder accusations, I’ve had more than my share?”

“Absolutely.” We reached the house’s front door. “So this isn’t about you? The man who called wasn’t clear what he wanted, but he said it was an emergency and dropped your name.”

“No, it’s not me. It’s my tenant, Charlotte LaVerne.” I gave a one-minute overview of her reality show results, Chad Chatsworth, and his demise here in my house, complete with the presence of ferrets.

Esther nodded sagely, causing the wattle of skin beneath her chin to bob. “I wondered. I’ve been reading about how those nasty little animals killed someone around here, but I didn’t realize it was actually at your house.”

“I’m sure they were set up, and I suspect Charlotte’s soon to follow, if we don’t help her.”

“We? Do you have your law license back now?”

I felt myself flush. “Well, no, though I’m hoping it’s only a few weeks off, since I just took the MPRE. But Charlotte asked for my help, and I’m kind of acting as a quasi-P.I. In fact”—I stared over her shoulder at the big black Escalade creeping up the street amid the crowd—“I’m helping Jeff Hubbard. Or maybe he’s helping me. That’s him now.” I pointed behind her, and she turned.