Darryl peered down at me over his wire-rims. “Never mind his confession to you and all his guilty behavior, like threatening to kill you and frame your client for another murder?”
“A good criminal attorney will bring up how this so-called confession was his attempt to get his own client to ’fess up, all the better for him to figure how to defend her ass. Or he was trying to get me to admit my guilt. Or it was coerced without Mitch’s being read his Miranda rights, so every bit of evidence collected afterward is tainted and inadmissible, the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree,’ so to speak. Don’t you just love legalese?”
“Obviously you do,” Darryl said dryly.
“How can you tell?”
“Was Mitch the one who threatened Lexie and you?”
“He sure was. He got a bit nervous that his prime patsy, Amanda, had another attorney championing her defense. He was hoping to scare me so far out of the picture that I’d sail into one of Amanda’s seascapes, taking my poor, threatened pup along, too. He’d apparently been following me closely enough to scare Lexie in the supermarket parking lot and leave me a note. I’ll never forgive him for that. He also kept an eye on Amanda’s house and scratched my car with a screwdriver as an added warning.”
“Do you suppose he’ll hire Quentin Rush to represent him now?” Darryl inquired. I, of course, had informed him about Mitch’s claimed cocounsel.
“Assuming he even knows him,” I said with a sigh. “Quentin’s involvement could have been as fictional as Mitch’s ethics, a ploy to ensure he could control Amanda’s case. Too bad, though. I was hoping to meet the guy.”
“In any event, you done good, kid,” Darryl said and gave me a great big bear hug.
I left there soon afterward, leaving Lexie still playing gleefully, and went first to Alexander the pit bull’s place, where I cavorted with him before walking and feeding him.
Sitting in my Beamer on Alexander’s hilly street, I called Rachel’s cell phone to see if she, too, was on schedule. “Sure am, Kendra,” she said. “But next week …”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m getting together over the weekend with Wanda Villareal and her Cavalier, Basil. We’re going to exchange Cavalier stories and make plans for her to provide backup sitting when you’re unavailable.”
“Good deal,” Rachel said. But I heard something sorrowful in her tone.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“I’d just hate for you to get so much help that you won’t need me anymore when I am available.”
“I’ll always have need of your services,” I told her. “Someone as enthusiastic as you should be great at selling pet-sitting services for Critter TLC, not just performing them.”
“Hey. Yeah! That’s great!”
And even though I’d been irritated before when I’d heard of Rachel’s bet, I heard myself pridefully putting in, “By the way, that bet you made on me, that I’d solve the murder that Amanda was accused of—”
“You did it?” she shouted in my ear. “I knew it! Wait till I tell the others.”
“They’ll hear about it soon enough, I’ll bet.”
But she’d already hung up.
So, I’d set her back to her rounds with a story to lay on her friends later. Or now, while on the road, I suspected, since she had her cell phone in her hand.
Speaking of learning what happened, my next call was to return several messages that Corina Carey had left. “You promised me an exclusive,” she said.
“Sure thing,” I agreed. For speed’s sake, she interviewed me over the phone.
“And I’ll want to do an in-depth interview in person,” she persisted. “Later today.”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I promise.”
Grumbling, she agreed.
Then I headed to Stromboli’s—not to tend him, but to see his owner, Dana Moroni, who’d gotten back into town late last night. She wanted her keys back, and I wanted her check, a pretty fair exchange.
“Thanks so much, Kendra.” She looked as if she’d already been up romping with her dog this morning, since her short brunette hair was mussed and she still wore a sweatshirt despite having the heat on in her house. Stromboli, panting slightly, came over and insisted that I pet him before I slid out the door.
Then I saw Maribelle Openheim walking down the street with the little wiry fellow Meph on a leash.
“Hi, Kendra,” she called.
I joined her in front of her house, where I stooped to stroke a tail-wagging Meph. “How are Baird and you getting along?”
“We’re not,” Maribelle said, a surprising smile crinkling the wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. Despite the slight breeze, her highlighted hair wasn’t a smidgen windblown, nor did it appear over-sprayed and stiff. Well, hey, a hairdresser surely had her secrets.
I hoped one of them wasn’t the reason for her unexpected comment.
“Dare I ask what happened?” I dared to ask.
Her expression turned wry. “That Judge Baird Roehmann’s really a charmer, isn’t he? I was taken with him. Started thinking future and everything … until I called him one evening when I needed an answer about some plans we were making for over the weekend. There was a whole lot of background noise. He’d said he was going to a bar function, and I assumed it was the lawyers’ kind of bar, not a saloon. Even so … well, when he came back to my place later to say good night, there was alcohol on his breath. Not that it particularly mattered, except I wound up walking Meph alone while Baird spent some time in the bathroom. I happened to glance into his car when we passed it, and that’s when I saw—well, you’ll never guess.”
I could guess, but I didn’t tell her that. “What was it?”
“A piece of ladies’ underwear. Well, not really a lady’s, in the real sense of the word. It was so skimpy—well, probably someone a whole lot younger and skinnier than me wore it,” she finished.
So, Judge Roamin’ Hands had done it again.
“Naturally, I told him to leave. Would you believe he had the nerve to ask if I’d let him adopt Meph?” Her eyes rolled but, amazingly, she was smiling again.
“I’d believe you told him no,” I replied.
“Exactly. But you know what? I really thank you for introducing us, Kendra. Before, I was still terribly depressed over losing my husband. Now, though, I’m convinced I have a life left—without someone as fickle as Baird. And I still have Meph to share it with.” She knelt and hugged her sweet terrier, who wriggled in happy response.
So, I was smiling when I finally headed for my law office. There, I decided it was time for some self-back patting, so I asked Mignon to assemble everyone present, including Borden, associates, partners, and paralegals into our bar-boardroom.
“Hey, gang,” I told the assembled throng, most of whom were of the senior lawyer variety. “This murder magnet has done it again!”
“You solved another case?” Borden graced me with one of his adorable lopsided smiles. Today his aloha shirt was mostly pale pink.
“Sure did.” I proceeded to regale those assembled with my story of cat collusion and suspect entrapment.
“Let’s hear it for Kendra!” said Geraldine Glass when I’d finished. The senior attorney, her reading glasses once more holding back her curly brown hair, raised her large white coffee mug.
“Yay, Kendra,” echoed the others, and I was toasted by the whole fine and friendly firm.
Which made me feel warm and fuzzy all over.
Borden took me aside. “The Shermans’ case? Turns out that there’ve been dozens of similar suits filed against the resort. The actions are likely to be consolidated.”
“Figures,” I said. “Maybe we can get it settled ultimately with some real ADR. Would your clients like to wind up owning part of a resort?”
“Maybe.” But Borden sounded doubtful.
“I’d still like to handle it, if I can. I’d also love to see Charley training some of his studio animals, too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The day’s smiling wasn’t over, either. That afternoon, I’d a post-settlement conference to attend, at the Tarzana veterinary clinic of Dr. Thomas Venson.
This time, one of the blue lab-jacket clad assistants showed Mae Sward and me into a different room from the one where we’d held our earlier meetings with the vet and his lawyer, Gina Udovich. They awaited us in a compact but absolutely clean office not unlike an organized lawyer’s—except that the books on the shelves along one wall weren’t legal tomes but animal anatomy volumes.
As always during any meeting, I turned my cell phone off. I didn’t even want to know someone was calling by feeling a subtle vibration.
Today, Mae wore a satin tunic over dark slacks. The tunic’s orange shade clashed garishly with the not-really redness of her dyed hair. But unlike with my other meetings with this client, a huge smile lit her round face.
Like me, Gina had selected a pantsuit that day—hers a chic designer style in a muted plaid wool, and mine a sky-blue knit. She, too, smiled, enough to display her bright, white teeth.
Well, what wasn’t there to smile about? Tom Venson stood behind his immaculate desk—and there was an absolutely adorable Pomeranian puppy in his arms. The white of his lab jacket set off the pup’s rusty shade, and he was smiling, too.
Had I thought him kind of plain for a guy? Maybe, but right then he looked really good.
Maybe that was because the pup he held symbolized yet another success for my ADR.
“Here are the settlement papers,” Gina said, stooping to pick up her leather briefcase from the floor. She extracted a folder, then passed me its contents.
They consisted of four copies of the same agreement form that she and I had negotiated since our last meeting in this office. I scanned them to ensure myself nothing had changed from our last e-mailed and approved version.
“These appear in order,” I said. “Mae, we’ve talked before about their contents. You understand what you’re giving up by signing. This settles all your claims against Dr. Venson for his care of Sugar, including that she is now spayed.”
“I get it,” Mae said. “And I’ve already scheduled some visits to this puppy’s breeder so we can talk over when and how often to let her and my other Pomeranians have babies.”
“Good,” I said. “You can go ahead and sign and date the agreements.”
She did, and so did Tom Venson—after handing me the little Pom pup to hold. It was incredibly sweet as it attempted to clamber inside my suit jacket, and I laughed.
Then, once all the agreements were signed, I handed the pup over to my client.
“Her registered name is something long and Polish,” Mae said as she held the puppy close. “Did you know that most of what was once known as Pomerania is now part of Poland? That’s where this breed originated, of course, although it was part of Germany then, and its ancestors came from Iceland … Well, anyhow, I’ve decided to call her Kendra.”
Talk about a wide grin—What else could I do?
Mae soon left with Kendra the Pomeranian in her hands and her original of the settlement agreement in her purse. Gina accompanied her out.
That left me with Dr. Tom Venson.
“This was such a lovely way to settle the dispute,” I told him once again. “Thanks so much for coming up with the idea.”
“I had an ulterior motive,” he said, still smiling. I enjoyed the sincerity in his brown eyes as they settled on mine, and how his dark hair formed that widow’s peak in the middle of his high forehead.
“What motive was that?” I asked.
“Well, now that Mae’s claims against me are settled, I figured it wouldn’t be forbidden to ask her lawyer to join me for dinner tonight.”
I put a finger on my chin and raised my gaze to his ceiling. “Let’s see.” I pulled my hand back down to my side and smiled at him again. “Nope,” I said. “I still can’t reveal anything that’s attorney-client privileged, and Mae’s still my client. But I don’t think it’d be forbidden for a lawyer to dine with the opposition after a case is resolved.”
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s go.”
I couldn’t right then, of course. I had pet-sitting to perform. But I promised I’d be back in a couple of hours.
He promised to still be there.
I picked up Lexie from Darryl’s and took her home to our garage apartment.
Then I aimed my Beamer back to Tarzana.
There was a perfectly charming Italian restaurant only a block down the street from Tom’s veterinary clinic, so we walked there. The ambiance was awesome—lit largely by candles in empty Chianti bottles, the place was small and intimate and had strolling musicians singing Italian songs. Well, I assumed “O Sole Mio,” which they repeated often, was genuinely Italian. And the fact that they weren’t always on key? Well, who cared? Tom and I enjoyed a delightful dinner of antipasto, seafood linguini and chicken Marsala—all of which we shared. Along with long, lascivious glances.
Hey, the guy was really one hot dude, once he wasn’t my client’s opposition.
We discussed why he’d become a vet, and why I’d become a lawyer. Why we hated L.A. Why we loved L.A.
Afterward, when we walked back to his office, he held my hand.
When we reached my Beamer in his clinic’s parking lot, Tom pulled me so close that I could feel his elevated heartbeat hard against my chest. Hey, if I noticed things like heartbeats, maybe I could become a veterinary assistant in my off time.
As if I had any off time.
“If I promise not to neuter any of your other clients’ dogs without their permission,” Tom whispered, “can we do this again sometime. Like, soon. This weekend, maybe?”
“Maybe,” I said, only the word got lost somewhere in one very sexy kiss that left my insides lavalike and my legs limp.
He promised to call me the next day.
I didn’t turn my cell phone back on until I was at home and had walked Lexie. It beeped at me immediately. I checked.
Five phone messages. “They’re all from Jeff,” I told Lexie, who’d leapt up onto my lap on the living room sofa. “Do you think I should respond?” I asked her. She cocked her head as she listened and pondered.
Sure, she soon said by wagging her tail.
I agreed absolutely.
After all, I owed him my thanks for being there last night.
Plus, I’d mailed to Amanda my exorbitant cat-sitting bill with a reminder that the terms of our other written contract were fulfilled. She was now absolutely out of Jeff’s life.
Did I want to be in it?
I hugged Lexie, then touched my lips where they’d previously been locked with Tom’s …
And smiled at how interesting my social life had suddenly become.
Meow is for Murder Page 23