Meow is for Murder

by Johnston, Linda O.

  “Exactly,” Amanda replied.

  “YOU THINK SHE bought it?” Amanda asked awhile later, after Corina had packed up recorder, pad, and pen, and taken off.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “as long as she includes the possibility in her story.”

  Which she did, in the Sunday paper the next day, as well as in her on-air report, including shots of Amanda and her home that she’d taken with a video camera—also extracted from her big black totebag—before she left.

  Amanda called me first thing on my cell phone, but I was already communing with pet clients despite the early hour. “She did it!”

  “I saw—I checked the paper before I left Jeff’s this morning.” Lexie remained there with Odin, behind Jeff’s superior security system … just in case.

  “Left? You’re already out, at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning?”

  “The trials and travails of a professional pet-sitter,” I reminded her.

  “Sounds as bad as being a lawyer. Anyway, tell me when I should start making calls.”

  “Right away,” I said. “Although … you’re right about the ungodly hour, at least to some folks. Give’em time to wake up and go to church, if that’s what they do. If all goes well, someone may need to make his peace with his—or her—maker before we’re finished.”

  “Amen,” Amanda responded, right on cue.

  “AMANDA SAID YOU told her to grant an interview to Corina Carey,” Mitch Severin said when he called me a half hour later. I was in the middle of walking Alexander the playful pit bull along his hilly home stretch. That usually took two hands if he spotted another pup. Not that he’d attack—I didn’t think—other than to nuzzle the other canine till it rolled over.

  And, of course, I saw someone else out for a morning constitutional—fortunately before Alexander did.

  “I’ll have to call you back, Mitch,” I said, and was treated to a substantial roar from the other end before it was cut off as my phone’s flap fell.

  Oh, well. I couldn’t have my concentration severed by two kinds of distractions, so I chose the one that was my current responsibility: Alexander and his amazing antics.

  I encouraged my charge to concede to the bullying standard schnauzer he’d charged, then herded him back down the steep hill to his home. Only once I’d returned to the still-scratched Beamer did I call Mitch back.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Duty called.” I realized right away what normal bodily functions he might assume I was talking about. In a way that was true, since that was the main reason besides exercise for walking dogs. Their functions, though, not mine. “Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

  “That damned news article in today’s Times,” he exploded. “Plus, that reporter is also talking about the case against Amanda on her TV shows. Amanda said you talked her into giving an interview. That could hurt her case, Kendra.”

  “Actually,” I said, sitting back in my car seat, “the point was to help it.” But I’d discussed with Amanda the importance of not letting anyone in on our little plan, not even Mitch. For one thing, it could be totally unsuccessful, so why embarrass ourselves … mainly me?

  For another, part depended on absolute secrecy. Sure, Mitch was on our side, but what if he let something drop to someone whose knowledge ruined the entire endeavor?

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Mitch said. “For one thing, putting things out on the news sounds like a last-ditch effort to save her, an attempt to sway public opinion since the evidence is against her.”

  “The evidence is against her,” I reminded Mitch, as if I needed to. “Leon was a threat to her and he was found dead in her house.” Recalling my pet-sitting requirements, I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the small notebook I used to keep track of my client visits. Sticking the cell phone under my chin, I noted my latest Alexander call.

  “But not beyond a reasonable doubt. Plus we can always use self-defense. And—well, hell, even though you’re an attorney, I can’t discuss my strategy with you. You’re not helping with her legal defense, only as an outside investigator, and you’re not even licensed for that.”

  “We’ve already discussed that, Mitch. I’m working within the aegis of Jeff Hubbard’s license, as his investigator trainee.”

  Maybe. Jeff and I had decided several murders ago I could claim that when I dug in to find out who really did it. And right now, Jeff had to back me up, especially if he aspired to resolving this situation with our relationship still possible.

  “And Amanda and I have an agreement that requires my assistance,” I continued. I returned the notebook to the glove compartment. “Besides … have you discussed this with your cocounsel, Quentin Rush? With all the media attention he engenders in all his high-profile cases, I’ll bet he’d applaud your ingenuity”—why not let the guy get the credit, as long as we got the results we wanted?—“for swaying public opinion to Amanda’s side. Or, if you’d rather, you could let me talk to him about it. You’ve said you’d set up a lunch for all of us to talk.” Hey, why not follow up on an opportunity to meet someone as savvy and celebrated as Quentin? “Anyway, I need to get going now. And Corina Carey’s news is already out there. Maybe someone knows something about who was sneaking around her property the day Leon died but hasn’t come forward yet. Sympathy might make that silent witness speak up.”

  “I’ll talk to Quentin, but I still don’t like it,” Mitch grumped.

  What, no lunch? No meeting? What a bummer. But I wasn’t entirely discouraged. I’d insist on an intro some other time.

  “I’ve told Amanda,” he continued, “and I’ll tell you, too, that before you pull anything else like this, you check with me. No more contacting the media. No contacting anyone else involved with the case, not even discussions with possible witnesses, unless you clear it with me. I didn’t insist on it before, but this changes things. I’ll make myself available as much as I can so you can get my okay, but no more talking to anyone, anyone,” he stressed, “without my prior, preferably written, approval. Are we in agreement on this, Kendra?”

  “Sure, Mitch,” I said, even as I stared straight at my lie-hiding, crossed fingers resting on my steering wheel.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  FIRST THINGS FIRST. I couldn’t count on cats Cherise and Carnie to come through with what we needed, at least not every time, so I had to be prepared.

  Which called for a call to my longtime pet-sitting client Milt Abadim, owner of Pythagorus, the ball python.

  I used the phone in my apartment when my morning pet-sitting cycle was complete. It seemed odd and lonesome being there sans Lexie, but she remained at Jeff’s with Odin, so she wouldn’t feel odd and lonesome that day—with a nice, protective Akita by her side.

  “Hi, Milt,” I said into my portable phone receiver as I sat on my living room’s comfy beige sofa.

  “Kendra! How wonderful to hear from you. Must be ESP. I was going to call to ask you to watch Py starting later this week.”

  “Really? It’ll be great to see him.” Whoever imagined I’d ever say that about a snake? Not I, until a bunch of months ago when the python had won my heart … and helped me solve some murders. “You, too, of course.”

  Milt laughed. “I need to go out of town again because of—who else?—my mom. She’s reconciled with her new husband, so they’re renewing their vows.”

  “Really?” I didn’t even try to remove the surprise from my voice.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s only been a few months since they took their vows in the first place, and they came so close to getting it annulled right away … Anyhow, what’s your schedule like? Can you come over this afternoon?”

  Could I ever! That worked perfectly into my plans. “How’s two o’clock?” I asked.

  “See you then.”

  MILT’S MODEST ONE-STORY home in North Hollywood served as a showplace for Py’s habitat, which sat squarely in the middle of his small living room. Or at least it had when I’d been there last to care for the colorf
ul snake.

  “Great to see you, Milt,” I said when he answered the door, then gave the sweet and pudgy man a big hug. He still looked somewhat nerdy with his handlebar mustache emphasizing the lack of hair on his head. Today he wore a white T-shirt with red letters that read, Get squeezed by a python today. Appropriate.

  I couldn’t help recalling how, the first time I’d seen him, I’d immediately noticed the brilliant-colored tie around his neck … that just happened to be his pet python.

  “Likewise, Kendra. Come on in. Py’s waiting for you. I told him you’d be visiting again, and he seemed really excited to hear it.”

  Most pet owners were guilty of anthropomorphism, so why should Milt be any different? Of course, pets like dogs and cats had traits that could, without straining one’s imagination, appear somewhat human. But a snake?

  Sure enough, the large glass enclosure still took up most of Milt’s living room. It consisted of two connected chambers kept at different temperatures, so the cold-blooded Py could choose his environment.

  And there he was, curled in the corner of one of his rooms. Darned if he didn’t lift his head when I looked in and said, “Hi, Py!” Maybe there was something to what Milt said about Py’s recognizing and reacting to my name.

  Or maybe I’d been pet-sitting too long.

  No, never. I loved animal tending. So …

  “You remember the routine, don’t you?” Milt asked. He waved me to an easy chair facing Py’s home and took a seat on a metal folding chair.

  “Sure do. That’s one of the reasons I called you in the first place. I need to know where you get Py’s food.”

  I’d never asked before where the abundant carcasses of deceased mice that Milt kept in the freezer for Py came from. But now the information was absolutely necessary.

  “I order it online.” His smile pudged out his poochy cheeks even further and revealed his slightly uneven teeth.

  “Oh.”

  My dismay must have been obvious in my tone, since he said, “Why do you ask? Kendra, are you getting a pet python?” He sounded absolutely ecstatic.

  “Well, no. But I do need some frozen mice … for a friend.” I didn’t want to explain, even to someone as easy-going as Milt, exactly why I needed a supply of deceased rodents. “Could I buy some from you? Do you have enough in stock to do that?”

  “Sure. I’ll order more in any event, and they’ll arrive when I get back in a week—although you can keep an eye out for them in case they come early. The shippers sometimes act fast since they don’t want to be responsible for what happens if the dry ice evaporates. Meantime, help yourself. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I was delighted when Milt picked Py up and draped him around my neck.

  I went over my new paperwork with Milt, had him fill in the info I needed and sign the agreement, and put a set of his keys in the appropriate corner of my large purse.

  And left, a little while later, with a plastic bag filled with regular, refrigerator-generated ice … and frozen mice carcasses.

  I WENT STRAIGHT to Amanda’s, where she reported to me right away, really excited. She’d gotten a better response to her invitations than I’d ever imagined.

  “The first person will be here in about an hour,” she said with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, shooing me quickly into her kitchen, and from there into her living room.

  I only hoped her cats were as accommodating. Or at least didn’t mess things up.

  She wore a snug red ski sweater over leg-hugging stretch slacks. As if Los Angeles was cold enough for such a form-enhancing outfit.

  Me? Well, it was Sunday afternoon, after all. I’d chosen a bright blue turtleneck over relatively new jeans—becoming enough for this less-than-gorgeous attorney’s off time.

  Dr. Henry Grant arrived ten minutes early. I went with Amanda to open the door—starting the routine we’d ultimately decided on. No sense in her facing her guests first thing all by herself. The one we were seeking might do something nasty, if there was even a hint of suspicion about what we were up to. Maybe even if there wasn’t.

  The cardiologist with the Welsh terrier whiskers seemed somewhat startled to see me standing in the doorway, but he regained his aplomb instantly. “Are you all right, Amanda?” he asked at once.

  “More or less,” she responded. “Come in, Henry.”

  “Well, if you’re okay, why did you want to talk to me here on a Sunday, rather than at the office tomorrow? Oh, by the way, hello, Ms. Ballantyne.”

  “Kendra,” I corrected. “Hello to you, too.”

  We led the doctor down the seascape-laden hallway and into the living room.

  “Nice house,” he said, his short neck still craning as he took a seat. “I like the way you’ve showcased our patients’ artwork.”

  “To answer your question, Henry,” Amanda said, “I wanted to see you here because I’m a little nervous. I mean, the police arrested me for murdering Leon right here in my house, but, of course, I know I didn’t do it.” Her tone went up in a wail, which I could understand, even if she was acting. Maybe she wasn’t. “What if they don’t find out who really killed him? What’ll happen to me?” Her eyes misted up as if on cue, and the doctor, sitting at the far side of the Scandinavian sofa from her, also took his cue and slid closer.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He took her hands in his. “Leon was my patient, and I’ll be glad to testify in court how he was stalking you. How miserable he was around our office. How he even threatened some of the staff.”

  Interesting. And kind of what I’d suspected. “Were any of them”—You included, I kept to myself—“upset enough with him to harm him, and let someone else take the blame?”

  Henry turned his affronted gaze toward me. “I certainly don’t think so,” he huffed.

  Not that I’d take that as gospel, even about him.

  Now came the tricky part. We’d talked ad nauseum about how best to stage this—especially considering how unpredictable two of our players were.

  I gave a teensy nod that I hoped was nearly imperceptible to Amanda, who acknowledged it by looking away.

  “Henry, I have some coffee and scones in the kitchen.” She all but fluttered her eyelashes.

  I’d already assumed that “her” doctor and boss was sweet on her … like a certain P.I. I knew, who always denied it. Not that I was worried, at this moment, about him. “Will you please help me bring them in?” she finished.

  “Of course.”

  Their departure allowed me to do as we’d intended. Quickly, I slipped to my knees, opened a wooden door in the side of the coffee table, and extracted a plastic bag we’d stuck there just before Henry’s anticipated arrival. Keeping my eye on the door and my ear on the conversation from the kitchen, I reached into the bag, happy that my hand first encountered a paper towel. I used it to remove the bag’s other, more important contents, which I positioned on the floor near the couch.

  Then I started talking despite remaining alone in the living room. “Well, hello, girls. Good to see you. What’s that?” Followed by a shout, “Amanda!”

  She entered seconds afterward, carrying a couple of mugs of coffee. Henry was behind her, and he also held coffee plus a plate of scones.

  “It was the strangest thing,” I said to Amanda. “Cherise and Carnie came in, put that there, then ran right out again.”

  I half anticipated those intelligent cats to come in and set the story straight—that everything I said was a lie. But, fortunately, they didn’t.

  So the dead mouse, defrosted from the stash I’d obtained from Milt, lay on the hardwood floor near the side of the sofa where Dr. Henry Grant had previously been parked.

  “Do you suppose,” I said, “that they were trying to tell us something?”

  “Like what?” Henry’s face constricted into a clueless expression.

  “Didn’t you see the articles in the paper about how my cats leave presents as threats for people they don’t like—like Leon?” Amanda said. “Right ther
e, where he died? I’ve been wondering whether they’d give a mouse present to his killer, if they happened to see him.”

  “Who has time to read the paper?” Henry asked, stepping gingerly over the mouse and placing his mug and plates down on the coffee table. “Ugh. A dead mouse. Well, I don’t buy into cats giving meaningful presents.” Amazingly, the man appeared to have an appetite, since he lifted one of the pastries to his lips. “Great scones, Amanda.”

  Cherise and Carnie took that moment to make their grand entrance. “Hi, girls,” Amanda crooned. “Did you leave Dr. Grant a present? Is he the one you saw kill big, bad Leon?”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Henry said, standing so suddenly that his scone dripped crumbs near the mouse corpse. “I didn’t even know where you lived before today.”

  “It’s in your office records,” I reminded him, also standing. Amanda’s eyes switched anxiously from Henry’s face to mine, then back again. Only Cherise and Carnie seemed calm, continuing to pad closer to us.

  “I’ve never been here before. And I most certainly did not kill Leon Lucero here or anywhere else. Is that why you wanted me to come here—to accuse me? Amanda, I’m disappointed in you.”

  At least he didn’t fire her. And, not that I’m an expert, but his tone suggested sincerity. This wasn’t evidence I’d ever consider bringing to court—assuming I ever started arguing criminal cases—but I felt somewhat convinced that Dr. Henry Grant could be crossed off our suspect list.

  And so, I was quite ready to see him leave when he departed indignantly a few minutes later.

  VISITORS NUMBER TWO and three that day: former Leon stalking victim Betty Faust and her dear defensive friend, Coprik.

  Since they lived an hour away in Channel Islands Harbor, it made sense to see if they could come on a Sunday, rather than during the week. Whatever Amanda had said to them had made them curious enough to show up on her doorstep late that afternoon.

  Unlike Dr. Grant, these two arrived late. Due to the distance? Traffic? Unwillingness to step into a possible trap? Well, they were unlikely to know about the latter, but I supposed they could have considered it.