Fine-Feathered Death

by Linda O. Johnston

  So why was Gigi using Jeff’s ring tone as her off-key aria? And was her squawking and flapping a reaction to running into the man with that phone?

  She’d picked up the phrase “bottles of beer” fast.

  Could Gigi, the only witness to both killings, have heard Jeff’s cell phone ring during one or both of the horrible happenings and picked up on the sound? Maybe macaws didn’t usually do that, but murder wasn’t a usual situation.

  Jeff had admitted Amanda would lie for him. Maybe she already had. Maybe he hadn’t actually been in her company on either night. Maybe—

  Hold on. Did I really believe Jeff was a killer?

  He might be a louse as a lover, and absolutely abominable as a prospect for a permanent monogamous relationship, but a killer?

  I just couldn’t buy it.

  But I also couldn’t buy that this particular birdbrain of a witness could lie.

  Worst of all, I’d already wondered if Ned Noralles read the same books and watched the same movies that Darryl did. I might convince myself to slough off the obvious answer regarding Gigi’s new song, but Noralles might not.

  He was on his way here. He might want Gigi around, just in case she emitted some avian revelation.

  Would Gigi’s terrible tune be used as incontrovertible evidence against Jeff?

  I WAS STILL musing over all this when that same man slung his dejected body back into my office. “I almost forgot to show you,” he said.

  “Show me what?”

  “This.” He gestured for me to get up from my desk chair so he could plant his own trim behind in it. He turned to my computer. I didn’t have anything confidential sitting on the screen, so I let him commence kanoodling with my keyboard.

  In less than a minute, he logged on to a website, and what looked like a black-and-white video came up on my computer.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  “Where I go?” I replied, then took a position at his shoulder overlooking the view.

  And quickly chortled with glee. Until I gasped and growled, “Is that who I think it is, doing what I think he’s doing?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Jeff responded, apparently able to interpret my imprecise inquiries. “It’s a video filmclip from the security camera my company installed at your request. I had my employee Buzz set it up as soon as you asked, doing it after dark so no one would see it.”

  “Thank Buzz for me,” I said, recalling the tall dude with a shaved head I’d seen at Jeff’s office when I’d visited there. “He did a great job!”

  “He sure did, and at a timely moment, too.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  The film showed Sheldon Siltridge, neighbor to my client Cal Orlando, tossing his own mail into Cal’s yard. Poor old Lester the basset hound must have seen the trespass, as he was intended to. He soon appeared, barreling across the footage, in time for Siltridge to whip a rolled-up newspaper from behind his back and start bopping the pup with it. Lester cowered at first, then got mad and started snapping.

  “A sequence just like this must have led to Sheldon’s getting a bite taken out of him by Lester,” I crowed. “The bite he’s suing Cal about, the bastard. Oh, this is great. Willful misconduct, assumption of the risk … I’ll need a couple of copies and access to this website so I can send it on to Sheldon’s shyster lawyer, Jerry Ralphson.”

  “I thought lawyers avoided calling each other shysters out of professional courtesy,” Jeff said.

  “I do it only when the shoe fits damned snugly,” I told him.

  “Like now?”

  “Like now.” I couldn’t help it. I leaned over his substantial shoulder and gave him one heck of a kiss. Which he gave as good back. And that started me thinking that I just might decide to stay at his place for the night.

  Only … even if I could ignore Amanda, there was a little matter to be reconciled between Jeff and Gigi. And Jeff’s cell phone.

  “May I see your phone?” I asked him.

  He gave me an odd look. “Sure, if you tell me why.”

  “I just want to see whose numbers you have programmed in.” And listen to its unique, Althea-generated ring tone. And—”

  “You’re in it. So is Amanda. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Well …” I didn’t want to go into my whole unwinding thought process yet, till I made sure my suspicions weren’t just planted by my unraveling mind. “Yeah, that’s it. Would you please bookmark that site for me on my computer and e-mail me the web address? Right now?”

  “Okay.” He spoke slowly, as if he sensed I had something entirely separate in my brain. But he did as I asked … even as I slipped over to the side of my desk and lifted the phone receiver.

  And called Jeff’s number.

  And heard the Magnum, P.I. theme song ring tone. Gigi’s version consisted of a repetition of the first four notes, raspy and off-key, and without the catchy rhythm.

  “It’s only me,” I said. “Checking to see where you keep your phone. Do all men stick it in their back pockets like that?”

  He finished fiddling with my keyboard and stood. His dusty blond brows were knitted into one scorcher of a scowl. “I don’t know what you’re really up to, Kendra, but I know it has something to do with the murders—and whether you think I committed them.” He apparently either hadn’t heard Gigi’s rendition of his cell phone song or hadn’t a clue about the supposed significance. “Obviously you haven’t yet exonerated me, based on what Amanda’s said or otherwise.”

  “I thought I had,” I said softly, my eyes staring at the light Berber carpet on my office floor.

  “You know what? I think we should skip your visit tonight. I’m feeling a bit sick.”

  I glanced up to meet his stony gaze.

  “Good idea,” I said. “You ought to rest. I hope you feel better.”

  Me, too, I thought this time as I watched him walk out my office door.

  NOW I REALLY did have a meeting to prepare for. After Jeff left, my anguish segued into anger, and I made a few phone calls. The first was to my client Cal Orlando, who didn’t know the Internet from a basketball net, but had a brother who successfully surfed all day. I told him where to find the case-finishing film, then called opposition counsel, Jerry Ralphson. I likewise reeled off the web address to him and suggested a time that afternoon for all parties to meet and confer. And if all went as spiffily as I anticipated, settle.

  I ordered the others, in the nicest way possible, to come to my home turf, my office, where it’d be even more obvious who ruled. My client and I held all the cards.

  At precisely 4 P.M., Cal Orlando arrived with Lester on a leash. I’ve often subscribed to the saying that people choose pups who resembled them, but not so in Cal’s case. Lester, the basset hound, had long, bedraggled ears and wonderfully woeful eyes. Cal was cool—optimistic, upbeat, and obviously fit, the kind of chap who, when not working, spent all his waking hours at a gym. Nothing bedraggled about him, and he smiled often to reveal his straight white teeth. We strategized for a short while in my office, then headed to the bar-turned-conference room.

  I wasn’t exactly an electronics whiz, but I’d learned a lot about presentations thanks to my years of courtroom performances. As a result, I ensured that I had everything ready, so when Mignon announced that the other parties were present, I started the show: a life-size projection of the damning video right on a bare wall.

  Jerry and his client, the self-proclaimed bite victim Sheldon Siltridge, entered the room just as the video Lester bounded up to that very same Sheldon, the vicious neighbor who’d strewn his own mail on Lester’s turf. In seconds, as the others took seats around the conference table, Sheldon—skinny and scowling and an all-around miserable character—was seen striking Lester with a rolled-up newspaper.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” I said, proud that only a hint of satisfaction slipped from my tone. “First, I’d like to refer you to page forty-six of the transcript of Mr. Siltridge’s deposition. There’s a copy at ea
ch of your places at the table.”

  Jerry Ralphson had a buzz cut and bow tie—both of which might have set him apart before a jury, but neither appeared particularly snazzy here. I watched as his superior and slyly confident gaze stuck on the video on the wall, and then moved uneasily down to the depo. He turned to the page I’d designated, blanched, then bade his client to read what he’d run into.

  “I trust you saw the website even before you got here today?” I asked Jerry. He nodded nastily. “And are you now paying attention to the part of the depo in which Mr. Siltridge says he never baited Lester by tossing things into his yard? And that he absolutely never struck the dog, whether with a newspaper or anything else? Of course the stenographer administered the appropriate oath before we began our deposition. Can anyone here say ‘perjury’?”

  Jerry Ralphson sat up straight and glared at me, as if I were the one in the wrong. “My client never consented to be photographed, Ms. Ballantyne.”

  “These were taken with a security camera aimed only on my client’s own property, Jerry. For his peace of mind and safety, and all that. Don’t bother posturing.”

  But my admonishment fell on ears that had elected to stay deaf. “And whatever this film shows,” he continued, “which is unclear, very poor quality, it had to have been taken after the deposition. Long after the dog bite at issue. And after your client gave Mr. Siltridge the idea of acting in such a way. He’d never have done so before, but the bite, and these proceedings, have been hard on him. He—”

  “Forget the sob story, Jerry. And stop cluing your client on how to testify. Here’s what we want. Your client drops the suit and pays Mr. Orlando the amount of my fees plus expenses, plus another five thousand dollars for Cal’s pain and suffering, they sign a settlement agreement in which Mr. Siltridge admits no wrongdoing but promises never to enter Mr. Orlando’s property again for any reason—mail, female, or neutral—or to get within fifty feet of Lester, and we’re happy as basset hounds.”

  Jerry glanced at Sheldon Siltridge, whose white face seemed stricken. Sheldon only stared back at Jerry.

  “A moment alone with my client,” Jerry commanded.

  With a smile at Cal and Lester and a crook of my head toward the door, we assented.

  Ten minutes later, we held a formal handshake with the opposition, temporarily sealing the deal until the settlement papers were signed.

  WHEN I PICKED Lexie up before pet-sitting rounds later, I related briefly to Darryl how my day had been, starting with the good stuff—the settlement—and ending with the bad—my ongoing ambivalence about Jeff, his relationship with Amanda, and his innocence.

  He gazed over his glasses at me and slowly shook his head. “Sorry things are rotten again on the relationship front. Any chance of salvaging it?”

  I sighed so loud that Lexie, who’d been sniffing her playmates goodbye a few feet away, darted over and leaped sympathetically on to my lap. “I doubt it.”

  Darryl gave me a hug. “You need a vacation, Kendra.”

  “I need a life.”

  LEXIE AND I stopped for Rachel Preesinger before hitting the road for our evening pet-sitting patrol. She was excited and animated, telling me her dad’s trip was delayed till tomorrow.

  When we returned to my rented-out house, Rachel said, “I can’t think when I’ve had so much fun, Kendra. Are there any other pets you sit for?”

  “Maybe,” I said. I’d asked Darryl to slow down on referrals due to my reduction in time, but with her assistance I might order him to rev it up again. Maybe even for daytime walks now and then, which I’d forgone to avoid exiting my law office or even court midday for a visit to a client of a canine kind. “If you’re serious. And if you can work out access to a car. I’ll have to add you to my insurance. And we’ll both probably need to get bonded one day. But if you really want to become my assistant, we’ll set things up like a real business, and I’ll pay you a generous percentage of what I bring in for the work that you do. Think about it.”

  “Cool!” she exclaimed, just as her dad exited the big house with Beggar in tow—or vice versa. She told him concisely what was so cool, and the two invited me to share their pizza dinner—Lexie, too.

  When I headed for bed much later that night, my mind was a vortex of visions of films of furtive neighbors leading to lucrative settlements, a possibility of an accelerated pet-sitting business, the excellent time I’d shared with Rachel and her attractive dad, Russ … and the sound of a macaw singing a particularly familiar cell phone ring.

  And the resulting argument.

  And the certainty that the usual call I received at bedtime when Jeff was on the road wouldn’t come tonight.

  I wanted, for Borden’s sake—and my own rejuvenated legal career—to work things out for T.O., and to dig into the other cases Ezra had left which were assigned to me.

  But mostly, I still wanted to solve the two murders and pray my key suspect would not ultimately be Jeff.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  THE NEXT MORNING, my ego still tasted a touch of triumph over the resolution of one of my pet-related cases—even if that same ego also sat in the toilet mourning the other issues in my life.

  As a result, after easing Lexie off my arm and pep-talking myself out of bed, I called Rachel and asked if she could be ready to accompany me pet-sitting half an hour earlier than I’d originally told her. She eagerly agreed. Ah, youth. With someone else bearing all burdens of the business, my young associate could bask worry-free in the pleasure of pet-tending.

  As I dressed in a rust-colored sweater and cargo pants, then tended Lexie, I considered the course of my pending day.

  I wanted to massage the good emotions engendered by my success and cast aside the regretful ones. But the only other pet-advocacy issue I was involved in looked as dire as my murder investigation, my representation of T.O… . and my nonrelationship with Jeff.

  I’d already called to tell Irma Etherton about my interview of Walt Shorbel’s estate attorney, Dennis Kamura, and his take on Walt’s stubbornness in deciding on the contents of his will.

  I needed a new angle here, one that stood a chance of success when I argued Irma’s case in court.

  When I’d ended escorting Rachel and pets on our morning constitutionals, I brought Lexie along to my office. As was now my habit, I asked Mignon where Gigi was. Today, Elaine had taken the bird to her turf. After settling Lexie under my desk, I visited Elaine’s office, glad when Gigi didn’t warble out Jeff’s melody. Instead, Elaine and the macaw managed to appear at peace with one another. Gigi sat uncaged on her large perch in the center of the office, and all looked well.

  “Hi, gorgeous girl,” I said as I popped my head in. “You, too, Gigi.” As I anticipated, that engendered a giggle from Elaine.

  When I returned to my office, I patted Lexie, then called Irma. “I’d like for us to meet,” I said when she answered. “To discuss strategies.” I drummed a pen on a legal pad as I prepared to make notes. “I’ll dig into legal research today so I can draft a complaint with enough substance that the suit won’t appear frivolous, but I have to warn you again, before I throw much time into it, that our chances of getting a court to order anything similar to Walt’s stated wishes are slim to zilch.”

  Especially since attorney Dennis Kamura could testify that such stated wishes might not be what Walt wanted when he first executed the will. Kamura had advised him then that his bequest could fail and his kids would then take all. At least the wording of Walt’s later codicil suggested he’d intended the will to work. Since the codicil was all in his handwriting, a court would likely consider it the equivalent of a holographic will, so it could be valid despite the lack of witness signatures. Enforceable? That was another legal dilemma.

  I’d at least run my ideas by Elaine Aames, since her legal specialty was estates and trusts.

  “We have to try,” Irma asserted into my ear. “When I think of that poor pup Ditch, I could cry. I was going to call you today, Kendra. I lef
t word with a neighbor of Myra Shorbel’s to keep in touch, to let me know how Ditch is being treated. She called me early this morning saying that she thought Ditch was left outside all night, tied on a cold, hard patio.”

  I glanced down at Lexie, who cocked her head soulfully and stared back. The idea of a dog left outside without shelter on a chilly January night, even a dry one, caused my skin to shudder.

  But still … the law might provide for care of mistreated pups, but it didn’t provide that one could inherit a million dollars. At least not directly. “I’m concerned that if we report abuse to the authorities now, Ditch might be put into Animal Services custody, not necessarily yours. We need to go about this carefully so the court will buy into our arguments. If we try to get Ditch his full million dollars plus your custody, his kids will argue that you’re only fighting their claim to get your hands on all that money. What if we ask for something less, like—”

  “Ask for a lot less, as far as I’m concerned. Like nothing, as long as I get Ditch to take care of.”

  My sense of possible settlement suddenly went on full alert. “Are you serious, Irma? I mean, are you willing just to adopt Ditch and let Walt’s kids keep all the money?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll call their attorney,” I said. “We’ll set up a conference. Soon.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, THE SHORBEL siblings’ lawyer, Gina Udovich, was out of town, or so I was informed by her secretary. It was Thursday now, and she was not anticipated to return to her office until Monday.

  At least that gave me the opportunity to probe into the research I’d planned anyway, to give myself an edge and scope out whatever leverage I could provide.

  Over that weekend, I also spent time on my T.O. matter, researching approaches that other attorneys representing developers had taken against vocal and vehement antidevelopment property owners.