Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

  When I received a panicked phone call from Avvie Milton saying her trip was unexpectedly commencing that very afternoon, we headed for her home—where Rachel also seemed ecstatic about interacting with Pansy, the pot-bellied pig—an adorable, fuzzy black-and-white porker with a protracted snout and cloven feet.

  “Do you mind if I have Rachel help while you’re gone?” I asked Avvie. Even now, frazzled about her impending trip, my former legal associate still looked professional in a pantsuit and neatly trimmed and highlighted hair. Thanks to me, I thought as usual. I’d insisted that she lose the short skirts and silly demeanor she’d started out with when she’d first joined the Marden firm—which now seemed eons ago—when I’d been the firm’s foremost litigator.

  “Not at all,” she said. “As long as we add her to your pet-sitting contract.” I’d faxed her what I was using now, since I’d lately determined to approach my pet-sitting as professionally—almost—as my legal career.

  “Good idea,” I agreed.

  A little while later, we were back at my rented-out home so I could drop off Rachel. Her dad was still in town but would be leaving on a location-scouting mission later that day, so I was unlikely to see him for a while. A good thing? Probably. I was annoyed by the idea that I found him attractive. Especially now, while I was so confused about the other man who I thought was in my life.

  “Thanks a lot, Kendra,” Rachel said, and I noted that the pout I’d first seen on her pretty, young face had been replaced by a more permanent smile. “Will you come by for me later, before you take care of your pet clients this afternoon?”

  “Sure thing,” I said. I didn’t necessarily need an assistant. On the other hand, if things worked out well, it would allow me to take on more pet-sitting clients while my law practice continued to grow.

  Before Lexie and I had driven fully down the hill, my cell phone played its song. Jeff? Was he free and focused on talking?

  No, it was Darryl. “Hi, Kendra,” he said. “Can you come by here today? Irma Etherton dropped off an envelope for you. She said it was important, and that you were expecting it.”

  Walt’s will, I figured. “Lexie and I will come by in a little bit,” I said. “And since we’ll be there anyway …” I glanced over at my alert canine companion. “How would you like to stay at Darryl’s today?” I inquired.

  Her fuzzy tail wagged ferociously.

  “You’ve got another customer today, if that’s okay,” I said into the phone.

  “Lexie’s always welcome,” Darryl responded, as I’d been certain he would.

  AS BORDEN HAD hoped yet hadn’t expected, we were permitted to practice law in our own offices that day. The atmosphere felt even gloomier than after Ezra’s exit. Because we’d now experienced two murders here, or because Corrie was even more the sort of person who’d be sorely missed? I couldn’t say.

  I tracked down Gigi before starting anything else. She was again in the kitchen, clutching her perch and looking listlessly through the slats in her cage. She seemed miserably sad today as she regarded me somberly with one of her beady black eyes, her blue head bent and her wings tucked to her sides.

  “Gorgeous girl?” I prompted without eliciting any response. “Gigi?”

  “She didn’t eat much breakfast this morning,” said Elaine from behind me. She as usual wore a neat suit, but she looked as downcast as her avian almost-adoptee.

  “Have you talked to Polly Bright about poor Gigi apparently witnessing a second murder—and how she now seems so dispirited?”

  “I intend to call her later today.”

  “Will you let me know what she says?” I pleaded.

  “Positively.”

  I’D WAITED UNTIL the privacy of my own office—now unkempt and untidy after so much chaos and crime-scene investigation inside, outside, and around it—before opening the envelope Irma Etherton had left for me with Darryl. The will was substantially as Irma had described: a document dated two years earlier that appeared properly executed and witnessed, effectively making Walt’s adored Scottish terrier Glenfiddich his heir. He had named his two children in it so it would not appear he’d forgotten them. Each inherited a thousand dollars from his estate. Along with the formal will was a wholly handwritten codicil dated about eight months ago naming Irma as Glenfiddich’s caretaker and heir.

  I stared at the stuff, then, still ignoring the abnormal disheveled disarray of my environment, I picked up the phone and poked in some numbers. I got through first try to the fellow I sought. “Hello, this is Dennis Kamura.”

  “Mr. Kamura, this is Kendra Ballantyne. I’m an attorney representing Irma Etherton regarding the estate of Walter Shorbel—”

  “I’ve been expecting a call on this. Would you like to come to my office to discuss it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  THE LAW OFFICE of Kamura & Dunn, P.C., was in downtown L.A., not far from my old Marden, Sergement & Yurick digs.

  I enjoy walking in the bustling downtown area, especially these days when people even live here, mostly in chic lofts constructed within lovely antique structures—at least antique for L.A., which is far from the oldest metropolis in this youngish nation. The Kamura office was just off Figueroa near Ninth Street, not in the mainstream of major office buildings, but no longer in a panhandler’s paradise.

  I was shown in immediately to see Dennis Kamura. He had a vast corner office, with all the trappings of a successful and lucrative law practice. Did he earn rent money by rooking his clients? Keep your mind and ears open, Ballantyne. And not necessarily your argumentative mouth.

  Dennis Kamura was fortyish and Asian-featured, with a thin face and even thinner black hair.

  “Please sit down, Kendra.” He motioned to a stiff-backed chair facing his glass-topped desk.

  I complied. The instant I opened my mouth to inform him of my errand, he interrupted.

  “I know what you’re going to say, and you’re wrong. Partly. I’ve practiced estate law for fifteen years, and I did not commit legal malpractice with the will I drafted for Walt Shorbel.”

  That blasted the wind out of my steaming sails. Not that I’d have overtly accused the guy of malpractice. What I’d been about to say would have been substantially more subtle.

  He continued, “It’s elementary that personal property cannot inherit under the law of the State of California, and a pet is considered personalty. I advised Walt against his silly estate plan. If he wanted his dog taken care of, I told him we’d set up a trust. But he asked me what would happen if he just left everything to … Ditch. That’s the dog’s name, isn’t it?”

  I nodded but stayed silent. Maybe it was self-serving hindsight guiding him, but this attorney appeared agitated, as if amazed at the stupidity of a client who’d shunned competent legal advice.

  “I told Walt that a court would probably toss out his will. Heck, a judge worth his gavel would probably question the testator’s competency at the time of entering into such an absurd estate plan. I said that, if the will was disregarded, Walt would be held to have died intestate, so the statutes governing people who died without making any will at all would apply. He sounded pleased when I explained that, since he was a widower, his two surviving children would probably inherit everything. He said that if his kids inherited that way, it would show them he felt more loved by his dog when he was alive.”

  Poor Walt. And Ditch. And maybe even Walt’s kids, though since they were Irma’s opposition, I’d never let on that I thought they might have been wronged as well. “What about the codicil?” I asked. “The handwritten one, written afterward, designating Irma Etherton as Ditch’s guardian.”

  Dennis shook his head. “He didn’t consult me before doing that, though I heard about it when Irma called me after Walt’s death. I told her I was sorry, but I couldn’t represent her to fight Walt’s legitimate heirs over this travesty of a will. By the way, I had him sign an acknowledgment that the terms of the will were written against my advice.” He thrust a piece
of paper over his desk toward me. “Here’s a copy. I wanted to go on record as having counseled him competently, in case this wound up in court, which I assume, since you’re here, it will.”

  “Probably,” I admitted. Although now, Irma’s case seemed even flimsier. If the Shorbel kids got hold of the disclosure Dennis wrote and Walt executed, they’d have even more likelihood of having the will virtually shredded by the court and tossed in the trash. Why hadn’t the guy agreed to a trust? He could have arranged for Ditch to be nurtured and cared for, for the rest of his canine days. I didn’t ask Dennis. He claimed he’d advised Walt that a trust was the way to go.

  “Thanks for your time,” I told the agitated attorney, holding out my hand as I prepared to depart.

  He shook his head. “I know better than to wish you luck, Kendra, but for Walt’s sake—and his dog’s, of course—I do.”

  I’d study the acknowledgment he’d handed me later, I thought as I left. But unless I could prove Walt’s signature was forged, it would effectively eliminate any chance I’d have had to get Dennis’s malpractice insurance to cough up the amount of Walt’s estate on Ditch’s—and Irma’s—behalf.

  Poor Ditch’s case was likely to be as much of a goner as Walt.

  But I’d learned well how to think like a lawyer. Every client had an argument, one that might withstand all evidence to the contrary.

  I wasn’t about to give up.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DESPITE MY DETERMINEDLY optimistic outlook on the Glenfiddich situation, I felt a bit bummed as I aimed my Beamer north on the 101. I decided to do something even worse to spoil the rest of my day—as if inevitably heavy Hollywood Freeway traffic wasn’t enough.

  I would go to the vital block of Vancino Boulevard for a visit. There, I could see for myself what a new and uplifting mixed-use development by T.O. might do for—and to—the place.

  T.O. Ezra had explained that the initials stood for “Tomorrow’s Opportunities,” but I had figured out the actual significance of those two letters in tandem: “Taking Over.”

  Not inevitably a bad thing. Hey, I wasn’t against responsible development.

  And when a client’s interests were involved, well, like I’ve often said, I was damned good in the “think like a lawyer” department.

  So, while I was there, I’d consider how best to represent T.O.’s interests in acquiring the remainder of the property, and then in obtaining the requisite permits to build their project. Maybe even seek a solution that would garner support from the locals who now objected so obstreperously.

  And if I happened to find some additional information about how much antipathy any VORPO sorts might have had against Ezra—enough, perhaps, that I’d form a more educated opinion on who killed him, and Corrie—well, why the hell not?

  Better yet, I’d discover evidence to free Jeff from further inquisition by Detective Ned Noralles and his supposed superior in these investigations, Detective Candace Schwinglan.

  And then I could break off whatever I didn’t have with Jeff without residual feelings of guilt that I’d abandoned him at a time he needed assistance.

  I eased into the merge with the 134 Freeway and continued west. After passing the interchange with the San Diego Freeway, I took an exit and turned onto a northbound street. Soon, I found myself on Vancino Boulevard. I meandered till I located a vacant metered space and shoe-horned the Beamer into it. And then I looked around.

  This block was unquestionably commercial. On the north side, all storefronts seemed occupied, including a greeting card and gift store, a dry cleaner, a mortgage lender, and the inevitable chain coffee shop.

  On the south side sat Pamperville Pet Boutique among a couple of vacant shops and one that showcased a people boutique. Another was a cellular phone store.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. But it still elicited a question from me.

  Wishing Corrie were available to call—she would absolutely have had the answer—I sat back down in the Beamer after paying the parking meter and called Brian O’Barlen. He wasn’t available, but I was connected with one of his assistants. “What’s the address of the site on Vancino Boulevard that’s still owned by SkinFlint Associates?” I asked. Besides Millie Franzel, SkinFlint was the other property owner on the critical block.

  The address was congruent with the clothing boutique on the corner. I called Althea.

  “Could you please find out for me who’s behind SkinFlint Associates? They own property on Vancino Boulevard.”

  She promised a detailed response as soon as possible. “Oh, and Kendra?” she said. “As you requested, I’ve been checking into everything on Corrie Montez. I haven’t found anything unusual in her background. She was born in El Paso to a Mexican immigrant family, moved to L.A. a few years ago, and attended college at night, became a paralegal, and worked for the firm of Jambison & Jetts, and recently left there to start working for Yurick & Associates. She rented an apartment in North Hollywood, owned a four-year-old Nissan but no real property, and was overextended on one credit card but up to date on three others. Shall I keep looking?”

  Nothing there mentioned how she’d made mortal enemies. “Only if something exciting comes to mind.”

  When we hung up, I walked the block. I strolled the street behind it, too—full of nice enough houses that in the local real estate market likely cost a mint. If plopped down by a tornado in, say, Kansas instead of popular and overpopulated L.A., they’d be moderately priced.

  I popped in and said hi to Millie Franzel. Her store was full of shoppers, so I couldn’t casually ask if she’d decided yet to confess to the murders after admitting that she was in the area of Corrie’s demise while toting a gun.

  As I exited her shop, my cell phone rang. Althea. “Here’s the scoop on SkinFlint,” she said.

  This time I had to extract a notebook from the big purse I always carried. Stopping close to the shop window so as not to disrupt the sidewalk’s ample foot traffic, I said, “Go ahead.”

  Well, hell. I should have figured that out at first, all by myself. One of the biggest investors in SkinFlint was the outspoken president of VORPO: Flint Daniels.

  He was already high on my suspect list as one of those angry after Ezra’s outburst at the big VORPO meeting. I was certain Daniels held property around here, since all VORPO members did, although many owned homes, not commercial sites.

  “Thanks, Althea,” I said, and hung up.

  I needed to speak with Flint Daniels. I also needed to converse with broker Bobby Lawrence. But both were VORPO members and hence represented by counsel—at least on development issues.

  Had either of them, or anyone else in their association, hired criminal counsel yet, just in case?

  An interesting question. Maybe Ned Noralles would know.

  But would he tell me? I assumed he’d rather pour hot pepper on his notes and eat them than disgorge anything to this nosy attorney.

  So what next, I asked myself. Well, first I sat back in the Beamer. I still had time on my parking meter, although I received some irritated honks and insulting finger gestures when I didn’t exit my prized Vancino Boulevard space pronto.

  Forbearing from gesturing back, I used my talented fingers instead to punch in the number Althea had given me for SkinFlint Associates. “I’m Kathy Barnes,” I prevaricated when someone answered. “I’m with the Daily News. Could you tell me whether SkinFlint Associates is a member of VORPO?” If Flint Daniels himself was the member and not his company, then I might be able, ethically, to discuss his activities with someone else on staff.

  But the organization itself maintained membership in the property owners’ association. As a result, obtaining answers to my questions for Daniels was delayed.

  Not so with Bobby Lawrence. His real estate firm, Nessix, held no VORPO membership. No one at his office knew if he did—although of course everyone was quite interested in what the organization did, since its actions could have an effect on area property purchases.


  That’s what the person who answered the line informed me when I again suggested I was with the press. And no, Bobby wasn’t there currently. He was out showing a client some property. But his secretary was there.

  “What’s her name?” I balanced my notebook on my knees behind the steering wheel—not exactly comfy, but sufficiently efficient for now.

  The answer to my inquiry was Jessie. Of course I asked to speak with her.

  “Hi, Jessie,” I said so cheerily I nearly made myself cough up my sugar hype. “My name is Kathy Barnes.” Same name, different needs, ergo another backstory. “I’m with T.O. Development. I understand one of our guys has been talking to Bobby Lawrence about representing us for some property purchases in the Vancino area. Would you know anything about that?”

  Silence. “Who did you say you are?”

  “Kathy Barnes. I’m an administrator here, and I was told to follow up on the proposal to hire your firm, specifically Bobby Lawrence.”

  “I think you’ve gotten false information, Ms. Barnes. Are you sure you wanted this office?”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told. May I speak to Mr. Lawrence?”

  “He’s not here now.”

  Whew. “Well, we were referred to him as being an expert in property in the Vancino area, and—”

  “There has to be some mistake. I know he recently approached T.O. and was told they wouldn’t hire him. He has listings in the Vancino area, and knows the area well, but …”

  Very interesting. I decided to make a giant assumption from this little innuendo. “Do you happen to know if it was T.O.’s attorney who decided we wouldn’t hire Mr. Lawrence?”

  “T.O.’s attorney?” Her hesitation made it clear she hedged.

  “Ezra Cossner,” I said, poising my pen to write her response. The Beamer was becoming stiflingly stuffy, but I didn’t want to take time to crack open the windows or crank up the engine and air-conditioning.