Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

  “I’d love to hear about it,” I lied, meeting Jeff’s eye. He’d managed to maneuver an apologetic expression onto that susceptible and sexy face, but I wasn’t buying it. “But I’ve got one more pet-sitting stop to make tonight that can’t wait. I just wanted to pick Lexie up to join me. Ready to go, girl?”

  Of course she was.

  “Enjoy your talk,” I said sweetly, and then Lexie and I were gone.

  LEXIE TOOK ME at my word when I wailed, “I don’t want to talk about it,” once we were in the car. She didn’t demand any explanation, but I found myself following up nonetheless. “It’s not as if we have a real relationship.” I let the Beamer take a corner a little too quickly, and that elicited a concerned blink from Lexie as she scrambled not to slide off the seat. “It’s business. I pet-sit for him and he does occasional investigations for me. In between, during the rare times he’s in town, we take advantage of our mutual admiration of each other’s bodies.” And how!

  Jeff and I had decided a few weeks ago to continue seeing one another despite my prior retreat when Amanda insinuated herself back into his life. We’d determined to just see how things progressed.

  I suspected that progression was now past history.

  “I’ve never professed to have good taste in men,” I reiterated to my long-suffering pup as I pushed the button to open the gate to the grounds of my house. Electric lights lit the yard. I aimed the Beamer toward the empty space beside the garage—over which was the apartment where Lexie and I resided.

  I allowed Lexie the relief of relieving herself before climbing the steps and entering our home. “Now, you stay here,” I told her, “while I go take care of Beggar.” Since I’d left the lovely Irish setter till last on my pet-sitting list tonight, I wanted to lavish some extra individual attention on him.

  And maybe roughhousing with a larger dog than Lexie would help me settle down for my solo evening. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to converse with any convivial neighbors as I walked Beggar. I’d seen a lot less of the local residents since my party-tossing tenant Charlotte moved out.

  Lexie whined while I shut our apartment door behind me. I skipped down the steps and onto the driveway, maneuvering myself toward the mansion that was mine by title but occupied by a subtenant. I didn’t know Russ Preesinger nearly as well as I’d come to know Beggar, since the guy traveled a lot, which suited me fine.

  Although it was January in L.A., this week had been dry. Last week was a different story, and the lush vegetation constituting my landscape—now maintained by the subtenant as part of his lease obligations—had grown a little wild. Birds of paradise, roses, and shrubbery lined the path to the main house’s front door. I used my key to enter and flicked on the lights to the large, multilevel entry, expecting Beggar to greet me as he usually did.

  He didn’t.

  “Beggar?” I called. He didn’t come.

  Which gave me an eerie feeling. I’d entered homes before where the pets avoided me, and sometimes that was because they were guarding their owners, who’d been brutally murdered.

  In this very house, I’d discovered the body of a reality television star only a couple of months ago.

  Damn! After Ezra’s death, obviously my imagination had erupted into overtime.

  But where was Beggar?

  I held still for an instant, listening.

  And heard something from upstairs.

  Swallowing, I crossed the rustic tilework—fortunately now denuded of the ugly rug my tenants had formerly draped over it—blinked up at my favorite crystal chandelier, and started up the stairs.

  I heard murmuring from somewhere. “Beggar?” I whispered, wondering why I didn’t feel right shouting for the dog. He wasn’t the one doing the murmuring. It sounded like some low voice …

  At the top of the steps, I stared down the hall. The walls held no pictures. The rug remained the same pretty beige plush I’d had installed. Nothing appeared even remotely menacing.

  Yet I was damned anxious.

  Should I call the cops? But why? For all I knew, subtenant Russ Preesinger had arrived home early and had forgotten to let me know. That would explain Beggar’s forbearance from greeting me at the door.

  Holding my head high, I headed down the hall. “Russ, are you here?” I called. “Beggar?”

  The Irish setter suddenly bounded out of a bedroom. “Hi, boy,” I called.

  Then someone screamed … and so did I.

  Chapter Nine

  THE SCREAM THAT had instigated mine was nothing like a macaw’s screech. I saw its source immediately: an obviously frightened young female who emerged from the bedroom down the hall.

  I stopped screaming first. “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “I live here,” she said without identifying herself. “What are you doing here?”

  This kid seemed a teen, if my age assessment was anywhere on target. I suspected that the hugeness of her big brown eyes was natural and had little to do with how she’d apparently been startled by my appearance. She would appear waiflike with her short, shaggy black hair if not for the way her lips pouted petulantly.

  “I own this place,” I replied, then rebutted, “And you don’t live here. Or at least you’d better not.”

  “Why not? It’s my dad’s.”

  Ah. That constituted a clue. “Your dad is Russ Preesinger?”

  She gave an emphatic nod, then scanned those big brown eyes up and down my person as if assessing me. “I’m Rachel. And you’re not his girlfriend,” she asserted.

  “No, I’m not. I told you, I own this place. Your dad”—assuming she was telling the truth—“sublets this house from my tenants.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged a skinny shoulder beneath a tight, short T-shirt that barely reached her midriff. The slight curves the shirt hugged suggested adolescence, but I suspected she was slightly older than that.

  The heat wasn’t on in the house, so it was chilly in here, maybe mid-sixties. I considered how cold I would feel had I been dressed similarly and shivered slightly beneath my comfy wool jacket. At least her gray, baggy slacks with mid-thigh pockets on the sides were full length. But how she could walk in those ugly platform shoes …

  “My dad likes women who are prettier than you,” she continued snidely as she bent and threw her arms around Beggar, who’d sat down calmly beside this young intruder. His apparent acceptance of her suggested she told the truth. At least the Irish setter seemed to know her. She peered up from beside the pup. “He likes blondes, mostly. Ones younger and thinner than you, like those he meets when he’s working on a film location.”

  That did it. The kid obviously was attempting to feed my inferiority complex. And after all I’d gone through in the last year, my complex had reason—at times—to feel inferior. I’d thought I’d nearly shed the uncertainty. I didn’t need anyone to recall it now. Icily, I said, “I came here this evening because I’m in charge of taking care of Beggar, and that’s what I’m going to do. As soon as I’ve fed and walked him, I’m calling Russ Preesinger, who may or may not be your dad.”

  That seemed to startle her, for she stood and stared at me. “Of course he’s my—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “If he assures me you’re who you say you are, then you may stay until he gets back. There is nothing in the lease that allows another person to live here, so I’ll most likely throw you out at that time. Is that clear?”

  Those huge eyes of hers grew even greater in diameter and dampened. She nodded slowly.

  “Did Russ give you a key?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Then how did you get in?”

  The sudden stubborn set to her jaw suggested this would remain her secret, at least for now. Which didn’t give me much confidence in my home’s recently refurbished security, despite the perimeter gate.

  Maybe I’d have to consult my security expert again. Jeff Hubbard came to mind … and I immediately hurled him out.

  “Come here, Beggar,”
I ordered. The pretty red setter stood. He looked along his long muzzle, first at the girl, then at me. And then he obeyed. Together, he and I headed down the stairs. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to turn my back on Rachel, but nothing battered my behind except, I felt certain, her evil glare.

  I took good care of Beggar, making sure to spend the extra time with him that I’d previously allotted. When I was done, I brought him upstairs to my apartment so Lexie and he could exchange the obligatory doggy sniff while I searched for Russ Preesinger’s phone number. I brought it along when I returned to the house with Beggar, and my cell phone as well.

  I stood in the brightly lit downstairs entryway when I called Russ, speaking loudly enough that Rachel would know what I was up to. When I explained the latest events to my subtenant, there was an explosion from the other end of the phone. “Yes, I have a nineteen-year-old daughter named Rachel,” Russ exclaimed.

  “This girl looks younger,” I contradicted.

  “I know, but she’s nineteen. And Rachel looks the way you’ve described her: large eyes, snappish mouth, too thin, and no common sense.” Ah, it did sound as if we were talking about the same girl. “She’s supposed to be with her mother, my former wife, in Arizona, going to college there. Let me call my ex and find out what’s going on, and I’ll get right back to you.”

  I mounted the steps to assure myself that Rachel was indeed eavesdropping. I smiled at her disagreeably. “Mr. Preesinger is calling his ex-wife to see if his daughter is there.”

  “I told you—” She started to shout, but then my cell phone sounded, “It’s My Life,” and I lifted its cover to respond.

  “She ran away from her mother, the brat,” Russ Preesinger shouted into my ear. “Kendra, I know it’s a huge imposition, but please let her stay for now. I’ll try my damnedest to get home tomorrow and talk to her. Just keep an eye on her for me.”

  “I’m a pet-sitter, not a people-sitter, Russ,” I reminded him, aghast at the very thought of becoming responsible for a runaway teenaged adult.

  “I know. And it’s not fair of me to ask. Tell you what. Put her on the phone.”

  I did so gladly, thrusting my phone at the pouting teen. Rachel wasn’t so glad. I could tell from the gripes I overheard.

  I felt my eyes bulge and my anger build as she blurted to him how she’d happened to get into the house. She’d gotten a ride here from a friend early this morning and slipped in when I stepped out to walk Beggar.

  I did need to secure Jeff’s further advice on security, damn it!

  Rachel soon sullenly handed the phone back to me. She continued to glare as I spoke once more to Russ.

  “I told her I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he informed me hastily, as if assuming I’d want to hang up on him. The thought had crossed my mind … “I also told her that if she doesn’t stay there and behave, she’ll have to start earning her own living immediately. Her mom and I have both had enough.”

  Something I could certainly understand … especially since, when I hung up from speaking with Russ, Rachel immediately exploded into a tirade against both parents.

  “Good night,” I shouted before she could get very far. “Since he’s in my care, I’ll be back to see to Beggar in the morning. Early.” And after a hasty hug to the setter in question, I hurried back to the haven of my apartment.

  THE NEXT DAY was Saturday, and I greeted it rather grumpily.

  Thank heavens Lexie was the only one with me. After last night’s disastrous confrontations with Rachel Preesinger plus Jeff and his ex, I had no interest in seeing anyone remotely connected with the human race, at least not too soon.

  I brought Lexie along on pet-sitting rounds, then drove us both to the Yurick offices. I wanted to check on Gigi, even though she wasn’t one of my pet-sitting charges. I also intended to be present for Elaine’s ten o’clock appointment with parrot expert Polly Bright to hear any bright suggestions about how to care for the traumatized bird.

  Plus, I intended to produce a strategy memo to pass along to Brian O’Barlen and his T.O. clan, to suggest how best to salvage the Vancino situation.

  I was surprised to find the firm parking lot as car-filled as on weekdays. When Lexie and I entered, no receptionist greeted us, but as I approached my office, I found that most firm attorneys and paralegals were present that day. So much for eschewing company. At least, when Elaine saw me, she confirmed that I could sit in on her session with Polly Bright.

  Leaving Lexie inside my digs, I ran into senior citizen attorneys William Fortier and Geraldine Glass in the kitchen getting coffee as they pretended to ignore the big bird occupying the cage in the middle of the floor.

  Gigi’s schtick today was to moan mournfully. Had she picked that up by listening to Ezra’s last gasps? I shuddered at the thought, even as I tried cheerfully to ignore her, too, while bantering with the older attorneys.

  “Does that creature have to stay here?” demanded Geraldine right in Gigi’s presence. Geraldine had curly brown hair and a thick neck, and constantly wore reading glasses clipped to the end of her nose.

  “Yes,” I asserted firmly. “She’s had a hard time, losing her owner that way, and at least for now she needs to be in familiar surroundings.”

  “Gigi want a cracker?” chirped plump and well-preserved William as he stuffed a sliver of English muffin between the cage bars. Gigi barely eyed it before grabbing it in her sharp, black beak and making short shrift of it—then returning to her sorrowful sounds.

  “She could at least say thank you,” Geraldine said with a sniff, then slipped from the kitchen holding her coffee mug.

  Borden was in his office, and I shot the breeze with him for a short while. “I’m going to suggest that T.O. put together a dog-and-pony show to wow the Vancino opposition,” I told him. “Anticipate their every complaint and address it first, like noise, parking, upscale businesses and residents the development will attract, mitigation measures to propose to the city to secure building permits—such as low-income housing units—everything. Once the plans are complete, we’ll let the media meddle in it, too. Obtain as much public opinion on our side as possible. Then, if we go to trial, we’ll insist on a jury, and most members will have seen a discussion of the best points about the project in the papers.”

  “Will that work?” Borden asked.

  “Who knows? But we’ll also make it damned clear that even as T.O. tries to accommodate VORPO’s reasonable requests—assuming there are any—they’re ready to commit a fountain full of money to fight. Of course, they’re willing to use it as sums for settlement instead of enriching their attorneys. Money sometimes works where words don’t.”

  Borden grinned his agreement. “Sure, but we’re their money-hungry attorneys, so let’s not toss away those fees too fast.” He frowned. “The police have questioned me a lot, Kendra, about how well I knew Ezra. I thought I knew him well. I liked him. I told the detectives that, but they seem to think I could have killed him.”

  “It’s their job to think that anyone who knew a victim could have killed him,” I assured the senior partner. “They’re probably not serious about you. Unless …” Okay, I had to ask. As I’ve said, circumstances over the last few months had set me thinking like an amateur sleuth. “Was there any animosity between Ezra and you? Anything the cops could latch on to as a motive for you to have murdered him?”

  Borden’s eyes grew horrified behind his bifocals. “Of course not.” He hesitated. “Although …”

  “Although?” I prompted.

  “I gently suggested to Ezra that he act a little nicer to people around here. He responded by telling me I could either let him be or rely on my own stable of clients to keep everyone busy.”

  “It sounds as if he’d have left willingly if you’d told him to. I don’t see that as a motive for murder.”

  “Me, neither.” Borden’s shoulders visibly relaxed beneath this day’s Hawaiian shirt. He even sent me one of his lopsided smiles.

  I didn’t
suggest that it would have been a motive for murder if he’d decided to keep Ezra’s clients while dumping his difficult personality by disposing of him more direly.

  Back in my office, I spent the next hour at my computer listing scenarios, both logical and inane, petting Lexie as she lay beneath my desk, and trying to tune out the creepy cries that Gigi continued to make in the not-so-distant kitchen.

  At ten o’clock, I told Lexie to stay and shut her again inside my office. My feet started sidling toward the kitchen.

  Polly Bright was already there. So was Elaine. And Gigi, too. Instead of moaning, she was once again issuing ear-splitting shrills.

  “Should we go someplace else to talk?” suggested Elaine.

  “For a few minutes,” Polly agreed. Pale, plump, and poised, she was clad once again in bright, flowing colors—turquoise slacks and a loose blue-and-magenta blouse, with a long yellow scarf wound around her artificially red hair and trailing down her back. “And then, if you want me to try to help Gigi, I’d like to spend time alone with her. She needs an application of parrot psychology, but I may need to startle her first to get her attention.” The brilliant smile she sent my way seemed to double her double chin. “Something like your singing the other day.” Smiling back, I shepherded her toward the former bar. Elaine joined us, and we all sat at a booth, each nursing a cup of coffee, though Polly had brought her own black mug wrapped in plastic that she extracted from her tote and jammed full of our java. Since it was Saturday, Elaine was dressed somewhat casually for her: dark brown slacks and a beige sweater with small green and pink flowers forming a pattern across her chest. A lacy blouse collar peeked out at her neck.

  I had to ask. “Can you describe macaw psychology for the layperson in twenty-five words or less, Polly? I mean, Gigi was screaming even before she saw Ezra killed. Is there something wrong with her?”

  Sadness seemed to shadow Polly’s face, and she fastidiously folded the napkin that she had wrapped about her cup. “Only that Ezra bought her for all the wrong reasons.”