Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

“Whose side are you on?” Russ’s ambivalence steamed over me.

  I hissed it right back. “I’m on the side of enjoying life while you can.” And realized I meant it. These days, my life had taken a turn for the better, after the awfulness of a few months back. But even at that, I was all too aware of its transitory nature, after seeing first Ezra’s, then Corrie’s, corpse and being shot at myself.

  Hell, where had all this philosophical musing emanated from? I thrust it all way back into whatever lobe of my brain had shaped it.

  “I’ve got to run,” I said, “so if you wouldn’t mind letting me out of the driveway …”

  “Right away,” Russ said, and he and his daughter perambulated past me and slid into that cool car.

  Maybe I’d be able to talk him into a ride, if he didn’t have to turn it in too quickly …

  I USED LEXIE as my excuse to visit Darryl before dashing off to my meeting. I mean, I couldn’t exactly have her act as my escort for a conference at a major law firm. And so, I accompanied her inside the Doggy Indulgence Day Resort for a short visit. Mine, not hers. She was going to linger for a nice, long while.

  Darryl was in his office, and after releasing Lexie to the care of one of the resort’s enthusiastic caretakers, I dashed inside to say hello.

  “You’re all right.” The sentence contained both a question and an observation from my dear friend Darryl, who stood up at his desk the instant I entered. He stared searchingly at me through his wire-rims.

  “Physically, fine.” With Darryl, dissembling was unnecessary.

  “You’ve gone through an awful lot,” he observed. “Want to talk about it?”

  “I sure do, but I don’t have time now. I’m already running late for a big meeting. Keep a close eye on Lexie for me?”

  “You know I’ll take good care of her. And you take better care of you or I’ll tie you down here like one of my nastier charges.”

  “Sounds kinky,” I said.

  “The kinkiest.” He grinned goodbye, and I left.

  VORPO’S LAWYER, MICHAEL Kleer, might have looked as if he was barely older than a survivor of the frenzied first year of law school, but he had the backing of a major firm behind him. Martin, Martin & Mays had offices in all major California cities, including San Francisco, Sacramento, San Diego, and L.A.’s San Fernando Valley—Woodland Hills, to be exact. I wondered if they’d ever considered opening an office in a place that didn’t begin with the letter S.

  Their offices took up the better part of an elegant three-story building in the upscale commercial area known as Warner Center. I met Brian O’Barlen and his convoy of sycophants in the parking lot, and we stalked inside together.

  Brian was clad in a cable-knit sweater over nice slacks. His toadies were similarly attired. We were all told to take seats in the reception area by a professional-looking older woman, who spoke to someone on the phone and then ushered us into an adjoining conference room.

  In a few minutes, Michael Kleer sidled in, accompanied by his clients, including Millie Franzel and the VORPO pres, Flint Daniels. What, no broker? Bobby Lawrence was missing once more.

  Kleer looked like a kid playing dress-up in his button-down shirt and crisply pleated trousers. Daniels’s scowl didn’t disguise that he hadn’t thought this meeting worthy of wearing anything better than sweats and jeans. Millie wore one of her doggy-decorator blouses, of course.

  After serving ourselves coffee from a waiting carafe, we all took our places around a vast table.

  Let the glaring begin!

  Which it did. I decided to take charge of the meeting first off. But not exactly the way I’d planned it.

  “I don’t suppose any of you would admit to being on Ventura Boulevard in Encino at about eleven o’clock last night, would you? Oh, and carrying a gun?”

  “I would,” Millie said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MICHAEL KLEER WAS immediately on his Ferragamo-clad feet, pushing his upholstered chair far from his firm’s vast conference table. “I’m counseling you to keep quiet, Millie,” he exclaimed.

  “I’ve nothing to hide.” She waved him back down with hands that were, surprisingly, unmanicured, in contrast to her otherwise pampered appearance.

  I leaned forward, anticipating one heck of a confession to spew out—even though, of my suspects, Millie sagged way down on my list of those I’d like to be guilty.

  I was soon deflated on the confession front, but not by the not-guilty part. Millie’s proclaimed motive for hanging out in the neighborhood last night wasn’t the most innocent, but neither did it equate with a shooting spree.

  “I worked till all hours at my shop doing inventory and sending out online orders,” she said. Her shadowed, lined, and mascaraed brown eyes batted a couple of times as if in recollection of how exhausted they’d been. “I lost track of time, so it was late by the time I headed home. I live way out in Thousand Oaks, so I still had a ways to go. I dropped down toward the 101 Freeway and decided to drive by your offices, Kendra, since I was kind of in the area. I hadn’t been by there since Mr. Cossner was killed, so I was curious.”

  I peered around the table to eyeball how everyone else appeared to react to this far-out tale. All the men in this meeting acted engrossed by the prima pet-boutique proprietor.

  “Uh-huh,” I encouraged. “And what time was this?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure, but probably around ten-thirty.”

  “So you saw some lights on?”

  “Yes, which intrigued me. I mean, I know lawyers work hard, but that late?” She glanced at Kleer as if assessing how diligently the young lawyer engaged in efforts for his clients. He lifted his tight chin as if considering a positive nod.

  I aimed another inquiry at Millie. “But you didn’t decide just to drop in and shoot at whoever was there? You did mention, didn’t you, that you happened to drive by in the company of a gun?”

  Millie sat straighter and said, “This isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten how late I’m working. It happens a lot, so I’ve taken shooting lessons and keep a licensed handgun locked in the glove compartment of my car. And no, I didn’t shoot anyone last night or anytime. I only drove by. After I heard of the murder this morning, I called the police and told them what I saw.”

  My turn to throw back my chair and stand. “You saw something? Someone? Do you know who shot at us?”

  Her long nose wrinkled as if she’d suddenly grown disgusted with my denseness. “No, the point was that I didn’t see anything important, though I was there near the critical time. Not that I hung around long, but I was able to describe a couple of cars in the parking lot—which I now think were yours and poor Ms. Montez’s. There wasn’t much traffic, so I slowed down but didn’t see anyone lurking in shadows or waving a pistol or anything.”

  Which meant that, as a witness, she wasn’t worth a criminal’s conviction. Her timing had to have been off.

  Or was her apparently innocent admission a means of explaining herself out of an arrest in case anyone saw her in the area at the critical time?

  Mentally reviewing my malleable suspect list, I forbore from X-ing Millie from it. In fact, though I liked the lady and loved her shop, I elevated her above a few others in the order of possible perpetrators.

  “Okay, Millie,” I finally said. “Thanks for being so up front about your whereabouts last night. Now, I think we’d better get our meeting started.”

  “Good idea.” Kleer straightened his shoulders as if he saw himself taking charge.

  That wasn’t my intent. Instead, I looked at Brian O’Barlen. “Mr. O’Barlen, please show Mr. Kleer and the others T.O.’s proposed development plans for the block on Vancino Boulevard.”

  Michael Kleer lifted a hand as if to stave off something nasty that would offend his clients’ sensitive ears.

  I, in turn, lifted my hand to stave off his anticipated protest. “I understand that VORPO has concerns about this development, Mr. Kleer. But please let Mr. O’Barlen describe what he
’d like to do, and then you and your clients can explain your objections.”

  While one T.O. employee unrolled a giant cylinder of blueprints and another held an end to stop the stack from curling, Brian explained each sheet and all it represented.

  As innovative megadevelopments went, this one was something. It included upscale retail shops along the street, topped by luxury office suites above. Behind those would be a separately entranced building containing an assortment of elegant apartments. Parking would be plentiful for the whole shebang, on several underground levels. Traffic patterns and security concerns had all been anticipated. Perfection!

  But it drew pouts from the naysayers sitting across the table.

  “It’s so ostentatious,” opined a grumbling Flint Daniels. He was about my age, which worried me since his face was already falling into flab. His extra weight wasn’t as obvious when he smiled, but that wasn’t an expression he wore now. “Our area is a nice, settled community. Like everywhere in the Valley, we’ve had some owners come and go thanks to rising property values, but most people who move into Vancino to live or do business stay for a long time. This development is likely to bring more transients.”

  “It’ll also increase your property tax base, so you can command more services and amenities from the City of L.A.,” O’Barlen pointed out.

  “Assuming they pay attention to where the increase comes from and don’t just use it where politicians direct it,” Kleer said.

  “I’m not selling my property,” Millie Franzel asserted stubbornly, her arms crossed and her face puckered in a frown. “You can keep your property taxes and stop spending money on your pretty pictures. No deal.”

  “But, Ms. Franzel,” O’Barlen said in the sweetest and most syrupy tone I’d ever heard from the acerbic business-man, “with the money we’ll offer you—generous, you can be sure of that—you’ll be able to move your shop anywhere you want and have funds left over besides. You’ll be able to—”

  “No deal.” Millie pumped her crossed arms up and down in emphasis.

  “Let’s talk a little about this in private,” said Flint Daniels, with a look at Michael Kleer that I interpreted as meaning that the two of them needed to talk, without Millie’s obstinate interjections. “There are some things about your plans that would need to be modified substantially if VORPO decided to voice no objections to the city planning department,” he said to O’Barlen. “Now that we’ve gotten a better idea of what you’d like to do, we’ll come up with our own suggestions.” Delete that last word and replace with “demands,” edited my brain.

  “Go ahead and waste your time,” steamed Millie. “I’m not selling.”

  With that, the meeting deteriorated even further. We adjourned a few minutes later.

  BY THEN, IT was late afternoon. I met with O’Barlen and crew for a few peeved minutes outside in the parking lot.

  “What can we do about that Franzel woman?” O’Barlen spat.

  “We’ll think of something,” I said, hoping I was right. And not just for my client’s sake. Millie needed a satisfactory solution, too, since it was clear T.O. wasn’t simply going to shred its plans and tiptoe silently away.

  Back in my Beamer, I called Borden, and he told me that the police hadn’t yet released the offices as a crime scene under investigation.

  “They said they’d try to let us return tomorrow but the next day’s more likely,” he said. “I wonder if they think that letting us come back so soon the last time made them miss something that led to Corrie’s murder.”

  “I doubt it’s that calculated,” I told him, watching out the window to make sure the people getting into the car next door didn’t ding my beloved Beamer. “Do you know if Elaine has been able to tend to Gigi?”

  “I talked to her a little while ago. She said they wouldn’t let her take the bird away, which was fine with her, and they’ve supervised her every step when she’s fed Gigi.”

  “That should work. Well, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow, Borden.”

  “And you’re really okay, Kendra?”

  “As okay as someone can be when she was target practice.” Before he could spout some comforting platitude, I said placatingly, “Don’t worry about me, Borden. Honest. My nerves are much more of a mess now thanks to the meeting we just had with VORPO.”

  “Do you have any idea whether the solution you suggested will work?” Borden inquired when I was done describing the unsettling nonsettlement session.

  “Not yet,” I said. It truly needed some teeth. “Let me sleep on it.”

  OF COURSE, IT was a long while until bedtime, and I had lots to do before then.

  Next step was to retrieve Lexie from Darryl’s so she could come pet-nurturing with me that night.

  When I arrived at Doggy Indulgence, I was immediately leaped upon by my lovable pup, and at the same time confronted by a clearly concerned Darryl. “Irma Etherton is here. She called to see if you’d left Lexie here, and when I told her yes, she dropped by.”

  Once more, with Lexie sticking Cavalier-close by my side, I met with Irma in the doggy resort’s semiquiet kitchen. She looked even more depressed than the last time I’d seen her only a few days earlier. Her bouffant black hair sagged as much as the skin on her sixtyish face, and her gray eyes were ringed in red.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Kendra,” she said, sounding surprisingly upbeat. “The timing will work fine.”

  “What timing?” I inquired in confusion.

  “Walt’s kids said I could have a supervised visitation with Ditch if I was there before six this evening.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. “Ditch is the beneficiary dog?”

  She nodded. “I need for you to accompany me to see for yourself how he’s being treated.”

  “You can leave Lexie here,” Darryl said from the doorway. He was leaning his skinny shoulder on the jamb, obviously eavesdropping.

  There wasn’t much more I’d intended to do that day, plus I’d still have plenty of time for my pet-sitting chores. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  IRMA DROVE US in her powder blue seventies Cadillac sedan. It was certainly roomy, although I was suspicious of the lap-snapping seat belts.

  “Walt’s daughter, Myra, lives in Glendale,” Irma said. “She’s taking care of Ditch. If you can call it that.”

  We soon pulled into the driveway of a petite but pleasant house not far north of the 134 Freeway. The front yard was postage-stamp size but boasted a couple of mature fruit trees, laden this January morning with lemons and oranges.

  We walked up to the front door and rang the bell. No barking sounded. Strange.

  The door opened after a minute. A woman who managed to look pretty and harassed at the same time stood there, glaring at us. Clad in jeans and a short T-shirt, she held the hand of a little girl who looked about four. “Come in,” the woman said, sounding not at all pleased about the prospect.

  “Hi,” I said to the child, who remained where she was, inhibiting our entry. “I’m Kendra. What’s your name?”

  Before she could respond, the woman said, “Are you the lawyer? I’m Walt’s daughter, Myra, and that’s Ellie. My brother Moe’s on his way.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Where’s Ditch?”

  “This way.”

  I noticed that Irma hadn’t said a word, not even of introduction. When I glanced at her, she pursed her lips, as if it was an effort not to use them to blurt something offensive.

  So far I’d seen nothing to merit a nasty-gram. But there’d obviously been time and unpleasant circumstances enough for the two women to construct a huge wall of antipathy toward one another.

  We followed Myra, who now held Ellie in her arms, down a hallway and through a tiny kitchen. She opened a door at the far end, which led into a storeroom.

  Inside was an adorable Scottish terrier, who tore out and headed straight for Irma, who elevated him high, with a hug. “Hi, Ditchy,” she crooned. “I’m so glad t
o see you.”

  The black dog wagged its erect tail, obviously excited to see her, too. He licked her face and nuzzled her, and she did the same in exchange, substituting kisses for licks.

  “Everything okay here?” demanded a male voice behind us. I turned to see a guy stride through the small kitchen. His facial features suggested Myra’s, in a more masculine way. Little Ellie yanked away from her mom and hurled herself at the man. “Uncle Moe!” she exclaimed. Since it was the first thing I’d heard her say, I had to figure she was fond of her uncle.

  “We’re fine,” Myra said. “They’ve been here …” She looked at her watch. “Five minutes. They’re allowed ten more.”

  “We’re being timed?” I inquired.

  “Of course,” Myra said. Her brother, holding his niece, drew up to her side, and the two of them, shoulder-to-shoulder, stared similar sharp daggers at us. “We’re just being nice to let her”—she nodded brusquely toward Irma—“come at all.”

  Irma whirled, obviously intending to counter with something equally nasty. I hastily interjected, “I guess you both know I’m an attorney. Are you represented by counsel?”

  “Yes,” Moe said with a sneer.

  “Fine. Then give me that attorney’s contact information, please. Now that I know”—though I’d of course suspected before—“I’ll need to ask permission before coming here again.” I was skating on ethical thin ice—which, after my earlier ills, I usually eschewed at all conceivable costs. And yet, in this instance, I’d leapt at a visitation with the subject pup without having another attorney around counseling these people to be humane to their charge as long as, and only when, they were under observation. I was definitely dismayed by what I’d seen here. Poor Ditch, confined to a closet.

  Poor rich Ditch, if he’d been allowed to inherit …

  I accepted a sheet of paper on which Moe had written the name, Hollywood address, and phone number of a lawyer. All the while I watched from the corner of my eye how Irma and Ditch reacted to one another in this obviously fond reunion.

  I knew what the law said, though I hadn’t finished my research. And I still hadn’t seen Walt Shorbel’s will.