Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

  Both Ezra and Elaine spotted me at the same time. Elaine smiled—sort of. A classy older lady who adored her specialty of estates and trusts, she was in her late sixties, with laugh lines that suggested she spent a lot of her life in mirth. She dressed like an old-school ladylike lawyer, usually clad in skirted suits. We were of similar height, but she wore her five-foot-five so much more elegantly.

  “Why are you here so late, Kendra?” she asked. Whatever her gripe with Ezra, it was gone from her voice as she spoke warmly to me. The look she shot him from the edge of her eye suggested strongly that they keep their disagreement to themselves.

  Which was fine, as far as I was concerned. Except that I was curious.

  “I was working,” I responded with a smile of my own. “Until Gigi gave me a start. I didn’t know she was here.” I sure did now, though. Her cries continued, carrying raucously through the open doorway.

  Ezra apparently didn’t like the noise. He approached his office and shouted inside, “Shut up!”

  The bird complied … for all of two seconds. And then she started up again.

  Ezra repeated his ignored order, then slammed the door shut. He was well into his seventies. I’d heard he’d had health problems a decade ago that he’d fought off like an embattled homeowner exterminates ants. They’d left him with stooped shoulders and, I’d imagined, added to the forest of wrinkles on his wizened face, but he seemed healthy to me.

  Now, arms folded, thin brown brows flexed and head angled back, he stared with suspicion from the bottom part of his bifocals, as if he could read the awful answers about me on my face. Well, I’d emerged from his office, but I had good reason to be there. And I thought my explanation was self-evident, especially after his attempt to silence his still-squawking bird.

  Even so, he sputtered, “What were you doing in there?”

  Though I’d met Ezra only yesterday, his reputation had preceded him. Borden had warned us all that it wasn’t easy to warm up to the eccentric, edgy Ezra, but that he was a damned fine attorney—and he was bringing a damned fine portfolio of clients who’d stuck with him when he was forced to retire from his prior firm.

  Clients who apparently saw through his grumpy side to his lovably successful lawyering.

  “Oh, I just used Gigi as an excuse to snoop through all the boxes in your office,” I said with a smile.

  Elaine’s eyes widened. She shook her head slightly, as if in warning. Maybe no one who knew Ezra well dared to tease him.

  I held my breath for an instant, awaiting the inevitable explosion. Instead, to my surprise, he smiled back. Then he opened his flat lips and guffawed.

  I glanced at Elaine. Her grin looked more relieved than riotous.

  Feeling on a roll, I continued, “I didn’t find anything of interest, though, darn it. Except for your bird. She’s beautiful, Ezra—even if she likes to hear herself talk. And screech.” Which she still did from behind the door, ad nauseum. “She said her name was Gigi. Is that right?”

  “Sure is. And don’t be so hasty about saying you didn’t find anything of interest. Borden said you work on matters for other attorneys in this firm, and that you’d help me. In fact, I expect to use your services on one big bugger of a case I’m involved in right now. Maybe more, if you do a good job with this one.” He stood up straighter, as if to point out that he was several inches taller than me and many years my senior, both in age and in experience.

  My smile sagged as I waited for the punch line, but the smugness settling into the lines on his skinny face told me there wouldn’t be one. Hmmm. That would teach me to tease a guy with a cantankerous reputation.

  “Er … what kind of case?” I inquired.

  “I’ll tell you about it when it’s not so late.”

  Good entrée to change the subject. “Why are you here at this hour?” I asked.

  “Elaine and I lost track of time over dinner.” Ezra shifted a telling look toward his companion, only I couldn’t read what it told her. “We’re old friends. We got to talking and—Well, never mind.”

  “So I heard,” I blurted.

  I watched Elaine’s pale face flush pink. “Sorry,” she said. “No one was supposed to hear our little disagreement.”

  “I figured,” I replied, my gaze on Ezra. He reddened, too. “What house were you talking about?”

  “No big deal.” I admired how airily Elaine attempted to talk, though the rapid way she respired suggested that it was, indeed, a big deal. “I’m selling the condo where I’ve lived since I was widowed ten years ago, and only recently found a house I’d like to buy. Ezra doesn’t like it. He says it’s too big, too San Fernando Valley. Too architecturally ordinary. Just too … too. But it’s my decision.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, though I had the distinct impression, from the tomato tint to Ezra’s complexion, that he wasn’t used to anyone disputing his demands.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Ezra growled.

  “Right,” I agreed, staring daggers back at him. And this guy wanted me to work with him on a legal matter?

  “We’ll talk tomorrow about my case,” he continued, his tone not a lot lighter, “since I need you to dig right in.”

  I wouldn’t tell him to go pound sand till I’d talked to Borden, who was, despite his easygoing approach to practicing law, my boss. But work with this ill-mannered ass of an attorney? Unlikely.

  Besides, I had cases of my own to complete.

  I equivocated. “I was here late working on a brief I have to file tomorrow,” I told him. “And until—”

  “Fine,” he interrupted. “File it. Then talk to me.”

  Suddenly, the exhaustion I’d been setting aside all evening seemed to settle into my weary mind. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  Maybe, by then, I’d have thought of a good excuse to evade Ezra’s case.

  AFTER GOODNIGHTS TO noisy Gigi and silent, unsmiling Elaine, I headed home.

  Rather, I aimed my nine-year-old BMW toward the Mexican ranch-style house in Sherman Oaks where I was hanging out this week. And had been for a lot of weeks, on and off. It was the place I’d been invited to move into. Permanently. I had even considered it … briefly.

  Before I’d found out that my dog-sitting client, host, and would-be live-in lover, Jeff Hubbard, had lied to me.

  Okay, an exaggeration. He simply hadn’t told me the whole truth.

  I pulled my Beamer into Jeff’s driveway and parked, turned off his security system, and slipped into his house, where I was greeted effusively by my little furry tricolor Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Lexie, and by bigger, sleeker white and red Odin, an Akita.

  Gad, did that ever feel good, to have the dogs go wild just because I was there. I stooped and hugged them. “How ’ya doing, guys? I’m glad to see you, too.”

  If they’d spoken English, I was sure they’d tell me about their evening, since I’d walked and fed them earlier, before finishing my day’s pet-sitting rounds and heading back to the office. They’d probably complain that I hadn’t stayed home to snuggle with them on the sofa and watch TV.

  After I accompanied them on their final constitutional of the night, and just before I prepared to plant my exhausted bod in bed, the phone rang. It was Jeff.

  “How are things?” he asked.

  “Other than being nearly scared to death by a scream in the night, just fine.”

  My smile at his initial silence felt deliciously evil.

  “What—?”

  I didn’t let him get far before I explained about Gigi.

  “Glad it all worked out, darlin’. I’ll be home tomorrow, so think about me in bed tonight.”

  It was a way he often ended our conversations when he was traveling—which was a lot of the time. The hell with my ambivalence about the guy. I grinned as I hung up, and the dogs leapt on me. We roughhoused for a full five minutes, till my exhaustion told me I’d better head for bed or I’d wind up sleeping with the pups on the floor. />
  I felt damned good, thinking about Jeff after I lay down.

  Until my Ezra dilemma popped back into my head.

  No matter. I’d handle him just as I’d handled all of my many problems as of late.

  I hoped.

  AS ALWAYS, WEEKDAY or workday—heck, for me there was no such thing as a non-workday—I awoke early the next morning, showered, dressed, and lovingly tended to Lexie and Odin. I spent extra time walking them in the friendly, flat residential area where Jeff lived. After all, the likelihood was that I’d have another long lawyering day.

  I was clad in nice slacks and a sweatshirt over a pink blouse dressy enough to throw my suit jacket over if, despite my most negative druthers, I wound up meeting one of Ezra’s clients. Despite the dampness, I took my time as I let Odin and Lexie sniff around Jeff’s street.

  Rain threatened to intrude into the Los Angeles basin. That meant I was likely to get wet. My canine clients, too.

  I still enjoyed my pet-sitting gig. Still appreciated how it had helped me over the indignity of having no income. Sure, I’d agreed to the temporary suspension of my law license—that, or go to trial and risk a longer loss. Like, permanent. My alleged infraction? Leaking a strategy memo to the other side in a complex lawsuit I’d been defending on behalf of a corporate client. The plaintiff to whom I’d purportedly handed the memo, a lunatic named Lorraine, had been so incensed over its contents that she had murdered the head of my client corporation.

  I subsequently cleared myself. Someone else had leaked that memo. But I’d kept pet-sitting because I liked it.

  Now, since I was again practicing law, I had less time to sit, so I had fewer pet-type clients. Once I settled Lexie and Odin back in Jeff’s house, I reviewed my list to ensure I remembered to visit all my charges. I’m a confirmed listaholic. Few events in my life avoided being stuck on sheets of paper in the order of priority I gave them. I relied on lists in both of my revered careers: pet-sitting and attorneying. And I’d lately developed a pet-sitting contract for client owners to execute. It detailed my duties and limited my liability. I was, after all, a lawyer.

  Once I knew what I was doing that day, I headed for the home occupied by Alexander the pit bull, one in my stable of pets to sit.

  After taking excellent care of Alexander, I was off to tend the remainder of my morning charges, spending all the time each dog needed for eating and walking. I would also make certain each cat on my route was equally well tended, though they didn’t demand as much attention.

  At the moment, all my charges were canine and feline, though I’d also tended rabbits, a pot-bellied pig, and a ball python.

  I adored every one of them.

  I savored my twice-daily dose of the bittersweet when I visited the newest addition to my client list: Beggar, a beautiful Irish setter. He belonged to Russ Preesinger, who sublet my very own leased-out mansion. My prior tenants were on location in another state, shooting yet another reality TV show.

  Eventually, my morning chores were completed. I shoved my Beamer’s nose farther out in the Valley, toward the Yurick offices. I had a feeling I would have more shit to contend with there than I’d already managed this morning.

  “SURE, KENDRA, BORDEN’S in,” chirped Mignon, the Yurick & Associates receptionist—an adorable, effervescent twenty-two-year-old who seldom spoke without singing. She sat at a big, file-littered desk in the office suite’s entry, where a hostess once awaited diners at this former restaurant. “Want me to let him know you’re on your way?”

  “No need,” said a high-pitched male voice from behind me. I turned, and there was the very man I’d intended to chat with as soon as possible. “Morning, Kendra.”

  Borden Yurick was a slender senior citizen with a soupçon of a paunch, big trifocals, and an adorably lopsided smile. These days, he favored wearing Hawaiian-print shirts. Because this was January, though, and a little chilly in L.A. for short sleeves, he’d donned a bright red sweater, and only the collar of his pink-and-green floral shirt peeked out.

  “Hi, Borden,” I said. “Have a minute?”

  “Sure. Let’s go to my office.” Since he was senior partner and founding father of the firm, his office was, appropriately, the biggest, in the corner at the far end from mine. That meant we made a ninety-degree turn, passing cubicles of paralegals and legal assistants on one side, and attorney offices on the other.

  Ezra Cossner’s closed door, three past mine, was shoved open as we approached. Ezra appeared, holding the door open as if attempting to usher someone out.

  A short, stocky man wearing a shirt, tie, and scowl stood just inside. His glare at Ezra appeared explosive enough to ignite the older guy.

  I was beginning to know the feeling.

  From inside the office came a chorus of “No, no, no, no,” followed by a series of clamorous squawks. I recognized Gigi the macaw’s raucous ripostes.

  On top of that, the stranger spat stridently at Ezra, “You haven’t heard the end of this. Stealing clients is unethical.”

  Before Ezra could shout a retort, Borden stepped between them and stuck out his creased hand toward the stranger. “Nice of you to visit, Jonathon. And I’m sure any clients Ezra brought with him haven’t been coerced to allow us to do their work. It’s because they’re fond of Ezra and the results he gets. Right, Ezra?”

  “Yeah.” Ezra’s eyes were as angry as his accuser’s, but his voice stayed smugly soft. “They like me. They really like me.” He laughed. “Tell the other partners that they’d have been better off if they hadn’t let you convince them I was suddenly too old to practice law—which we both know wasn’t the real reason you got rid of me. Do you have enough clients left to keep the place running?” He didn’t pause for a response. “See ’ya sometime, Jonathon.”

  He stood back, and the man named Jonathon edged around him and stamped his furious glare on everyone nearby—including me. Mostly me. Maybe he’d given up on Borden, since his next comment was definitely aimed in my direction. “You really want to work with this guy? You’ll be damned sorry. Believe it.”

  I already did.

  But he wasn’t through. “He ruins everything he touches. Of course clients love him. He lets them run amok, do whatever they want, even if it’s illegal.”

  Before I could ask for an explanation, he stomped down the hall toward the exit.

  “You okay, Ezra?” Borden asked.

  “Never better, partner,” the snide senior said, then glanced at me. “So, Ballantyne, ready to work on my matter this morning?”

  I blinked, definitely uncomfortable to be suddenly put on the spot like this. I’d intended to broach the bumpy subject with Borden before talking again to Ezra about it.

  “I need to finish the brief I was working on last night,” I said. “And I want to discuss it with you first, Borden.” I hoped my stare spoke enough exclamatory sentences for Borden to understand what I really needed to talk about.

  It did. But spending twenty minutes immersed in the matter with Borden’s door closed behind us, I knew what I’d feared was the fact. Like Ezra, Borden had cadged his own caseload of clients from the firm where we both had formerly worked, Marden, Sergement & Yurick. He’d had a huge workload, which was why he’d wooed me to join him here.

  He’d also hired a growing stable of his own old cronies—stress the word “old.” His caseload was now adequately staffed with aging but agile attorneys who’d do a great job with them.

  The pet law matters I’d begun to bring in were still fairly few, and in any event weren’t likely to be lucrative.

  As a result, taking on Ezra’s clients would help assure my own longevity at the Yurick firm, since Borden wasn’t apt to want to boot out his aging buddies if the business dwindled. Seniors would have harder times finding other law jobs. At my age, more numerous doors might open to me. Supposedly.

  So much for Borden’s promise that we’d all have fun here, practicing law. The practicality of it was that, if I wanted to hang around, I neede
d Ezra’s meat-and-potatoes legal platter to keep myself employed.

  Ezra needed help. Borden wouldn’t order me to provide it, although we both knew that I owed him.

  But I couldn’t help cogitating on what Jonathon had said. Did Ezra act unethically? Counsel his clients to ignore the law?

  Even though I’d been exonerated, I didn’t need further ethics insinuations interfering with my legal career.

  I returned a couple of calls, then made the interoffice approach I’d dreaded. “Ezra? This is Kendra.” I knew I’d phoned the right office since I heard Gigi screeching in the background even louder than I heard her from down the hall. “I’d like to talk to you about the matter you want me to work on in, say, fifteen minutes?”

  “Make that bird be quiet!” he shouted, though his voice sounded muffled, as if he’d covered the telephone receiver with his hand. Who was he talking to? Not me, surely. In a second, he said, “Ah, yes, Kendra,” loudly enough that I knew he was speaking directly into the phone. In fact, I heard his silent yet victorious chortle as he said smugly, “I’ll be ready.”

  Chapter Three

  WHEN I ENTERED Ezra’s office a little later, he wasn’t alone. Gigi was there, of course, loose and perched on the pedestal outside her cage. She was squawking rhythmically as usual, this time bobbing her blue-and-white head along with her chosen cadence. Making noise wasn’t all she’d been up to—I noticed some gnawing on the edges of Ezra’s antique desk.

  Uh-oh.

  Ezra sat silently behind that desk, a yellow knit shirt emphasizing his thin, stooped shoulders. Judging by the grumpy grimace on his wrinkly face, he wasn’t happy—which seemed to be his perpetual mood. Next to Gigi stood a short, slightly overweight woman with pale skin, a broad double chin, and unnaturally bright red hair.

  “Kendra, meet Polly Bright,” Ezra said, surprising me with my own perspicacity. I’d already thought of the word “bright” upon noticing her—and that included her clothes. “Polly, this is Kendra Ballantyne, one of the firm’s partners.”

  “Glad to meet you, Kendra.” Polly proffered her hand in greeting, and we shook soundly. Speaking of bright, her nails were tipped in scarlet as vivid as her lipstick, a hue that clashed with the artificial shade of her shiny hair. “I’m a bird psychologist and trainer,” she continued. “I’ve worked with a friend of Ezra’s who owns another member of the parrot family. Macaws are a type of parrot, you know. Isn’t that a hoot—a bird trainer named Polly Bright?” She said it lightly with a laugh, and it sounded like a well-used refrain. “Here’s more information about me.” She slipped a flyer from the pocket of her flowing orange coat and handed it to me. It depicted the covers of half a dozen books on bird psychology—all written by Polly. “I’m known everywhere for my expertise on parrots, you know.” Her eyes lowered in a modicum of modesty before she again met my gaze. “Ezra called and said Gigi needs counseling,” she continued, “so here I am.”