Feline Fatale

by Linda O. Johnston

  “I’ve finished my morning rounds of petsitting,” Wanda continued. “That adorable, dratted Lady Cuddles did it again, by the way. I had to chase her down at a balcony on the other side of her family’s building. At least she didn’t scratch me this time.”

  “Wish we knew what’s on her mind when she wanders. In fact, I wish there was an equivalent of Barklish, the language I’d like to use to communicate with canines—for cats. Kittylish, Meowlish, whatever. It would sure help us figure out what really happened to Margaret, since you found Lady Cuddles in her unit.”

  “Yes,” Wanda replied with a sigh. “The poor kitty seemed curious, and freaked out, too. She must have seen exactly what happened. There were little bloody paw prints in the kitchen, where I found Margaret’s body.”

  “She was stabbed, then?” I realized that I hadn’t even asked before how Margaret had met her demise.

  “Skewered,” Wanda said, and suddenly sounded as if she were gagging. “She had a grill outside on her balcony, and I gathered she liked to make kabobs. The spit …”

  “I get it,” I said, not wanting to hear any more. The picture in my imagination was awful enough. “And Lady Cuddles was right there?”

  “At some point, though when I found her, she was elsewhere in the apartment. Fortunately, she hadn’t gotten out then—for more reasons than one. With all her Houdini-like escapes, I’m glad she has an ID tag on her little collar, but yesterday she wasn’t wearing a collar. I went to the nearest HotPets when I had a chance, and bought her a new collar and name tag.”

  “Of course it was HotPets,” I said with a smile. I wondered, though, what had happened to that cute little kitty ID tag I’d noticed on her.

  “Where else?”

  I’d reached the Valley end of the road and aimed my Escape onto the Ventura Freeway, heading south, according to the sign. Actually, it was east, but that particular freeway was labeled oddly.

  “Gotta run, Kendra,” Wanda said. “My landline just rang. Esther must be at the gate.”

  “Let me know what happens,” I told her.

  “I sure will.”

  My next call was to my now-buddy Detective Ned Noralles of the LAPD. The great-looking African American cop certainly wouldn’t be investigating this homicide case in the separate small city of Burbank, but he’d been involved in a lot of the other murders I’d solved—sometimes irritating the heck out of him. He’d also assisted me in dealing with cops in other jurisdictions, when necessary now and then.

  Best of all, I’d recently helped to clear him and his sister from being possible murder suspects, so we were now sort of friends.

  “Hi, Ned,” I said as he answered immediately. “Guess what.”

  “Another one?” I heard the groan he didn’t stick into his voice.

  “Unfortunately.” I described the situation, then said, “My friend Wanda found the body. I think the Burbank cops suspect her. Could you check into it? If you’d let me know anything you’re permitted to say under police protocol that could help her—or could help me find out who really did it—I’d definitely appreciate it.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d butt out for a change, but I’m not even going to ask this time, Kendra. I know better.”

  “Thanks, Ned.” I hung up.

  I held a one-sided conversation with Lexie as we drove to our first petsitting destination of the day, the northern Valley, where Beauty, the lovely golden retriever, lived. “It may be a better situation than I’m anticipating,” I told my Cavalier, “but if the Burbank cops want Wanda to come in for interrogation, they must genuinely suspect her. I’d better figure out which other people might have had it in for Margaret.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Lexie sat on the Escape’s backseat, cocking her head as she listened. I smiled.

  “I’ll drop you off after my rounds this morning,” I told her. “Then I’ll visit Brigadoon while Wanda’s gone. Maybe James Jerome will be willing to chat with me, right?”

  Lexie’s tongue slipped out of her mouth in an affirmative pant.

  OF COURSE I didn’t hurry while handling my petsitting responsibilities. Animals whose owners are out of town need extra attention and adoration. I spent time with each baby, getting Lexie’s assistance where possible by her playing with my canine charges. I left her locked in my Escape, parked in a safe, observable place in the shade. At least January in L.A. is comfortably cool.

  Back in my car, I jotted everything I did into the journal I keep. I’m also a listaphile. A listaholic. While I sat there in Lexie’s company, I also jotted down a list of questions I wanted to get answered about Margaret Shiler: who she was and why she died.

  When I was finally finished with the morning’s sitting, I drove Lexie home and called James Jerome.

  Fortunately, he was home. Even more fortunately, he was willing to talk to me.

  I headed back to Brigadoon—ignoring the little voice in my brain that kept reminding me that Dante might be a bit peeved. He knew I was leaping into yet another murder investigation without availing myself of any of the ideas he had offered to pay for to keep me safely out of it. I appreciated his concern. Even understood it, after his having been stabbed.

  But despite what I’d told him, I wasn’t about to inform him each time I made a move.

  Sure, I’d rather give up my murder magnet status as soon as possible. As if I could control it!

  James pushed whatever buttons were necessary to get me through the Brigadoon gate, since I no longer had a key card because I wasn’t petsitting on Wanda’s behalf. I went back to the area where I’d first met Margaret, mostly because James’s unit was on the same floor where Margaret and I had argued. Unsurprisingly, his third-floor apartment looked much like the rest I’d seen. The biggest difference was that he had several large cages containing the cutest guinea pigs I’d ever seen. Of course, I hadn’t pet-sat for that particular kind of pig before, only potbellies. And guinea pigs are absolutely more rodentlike. These were fluffy and rotund, and had the most adorable little floppy ears. And twitchy little noses surrounded by whiskers.

  James had half a dozen of them, all in shades of black and brown, and most with white stripes.

  After I’d oohed and aahed over his cavy children—that was an alternate name for guinea pigs, he told me—he got me a glass of diet soda and we sat at his kitchen table to talk.

  Unlike most of the units I’d seen at Brigadoon, which tended to be decorated as if their owners were attempting to outdo each other in decor, James stuck to utilitarian furnishings. His fridge was old, white, and battered. His table and chairs could have been rescued from his childhood. The sofa I’d seen in his living room, where some of his cavy cages were kept, had big sags in its cushions. Maybe James had spent all his funds to acquire the unit and hadn’t had anything left for attractive furniture, or maybe his pets were really his only priority.

  “What would you like me to tell you, Kendra?” he asked. Since we were indoors, he wore a T-shirt instead of the sweatshirt I’d seen him in before; it, too, had representations of guinea pigs in its center. He was a large enough guy that he quite filled the shirt. His droopy brows made him seem almost maudlin, but I doubted he mourned Margaret. “I honestly didn’t know Margaret very well,” he confirmed, “and what I knew about her, I didn’t like. Not”—he held up his pudgy hands—“that I disliked her enough to kill her, you understand.”

  “I figured.” Not that he’d admit it to me if he had. I had to keep him on my list for now as I investigated on Wanda’s behalf, but I hoped it wasn’t him. “But I’d like to help Wanda,” I said, “and I want to hear anything useful you might know about Margaret and her friends. And if you know of any enemies she might have had.”

  “Not really.” He knitted his fuzzy brows nearly together. “Of course there are a lot of us who are pro-pet here and didn’t like Margaret’s attitude. I’ll give you a list of others, but I don’t see any of them hating her enough to hurt her. A few of us have gotten
together to talk about what happened to her, though, and we’ve some suspicions of our own.”

  “Such as … ?”

  “Well, a couple of people mentioned that she had an ex-husband she’d been arguing with. His name’s Paulino—Paulino Shiler.”

  I pulled a notepad from my large purse and jotted that down. No need to act anything but real in front of James. He knew the reason for my inquiries.

  “Any idea why they argued?”

  He shrugged hefty shoulders. “Who wouldn’t, with Margaret? ”

  “Good point. So, do you know anyone else who might have disliked her?”

  “Dislike might be too strong a word, but there’s a guy a lot of people around here hire to remodel their units who’s got a dispute going with her for payment, I think. Name’s Rutley Harris. Margaret started a campaign to keep him from working for anyone else around here. Claimed he didn’t finish on time and did a lousy job.”

  Something like that could provide a motive for murder—especially if this Rutley guy’s lucrative gig of remodels around there was jeopardized. I noted his name as well.

  “Those are all the people I’m aware of now,” James said, “but I’ll continue to ask around, let you know if I hear of anyone else. I like Wanda, and her petsitting around here has won the hearts of those of us who love our animals.”

  “Thanks, James. Before I leave, can I take another peek at your guinea pigs?”

  “Absolutely!” His grin was huge.

  And I was certain that Wanda had a contingent of supporters here who’d help figure out who’d offed Margaret.

  Now, if I could only solve the situation soon …

  I wished that I dared to let Darryl know what I was up to. But there was no guarantee I’d figure it out.

  And our cherished friendship might be jeopardized in any event.

  I got James to accompany me through the Brigadoon hallways before I left. “Seen Lady Cuddles anywhere around here today?” I asked.

  “That cute cat? No. Is she loose again?”

  “I hope not.” We walked past the door to her abode.

  No sign of her.

  Which was a good thing. I felt fairly sure she wouldn’t tell me what she’d seen the night Margaret died, even if I ran into her.

  Too bad. I needed all the help I could get.

  Chapter Eight

  I CALLED DANTE later in the day, just to say hello. Only, he didn’t answer his cell phone. I left a message, feeling a smidgen hopeful about getting together that evening. It was, after all, Saturday night, traditional date night. Not that we were dating traditionally. Even so, I wouldn’t have minded spending some time with him.

  Didn’t happen. He returned my call eventually—nearly eleven that night, when I’d already showered and was preparing for bed, Lexie lolling on the floor at my feet. Too early for Dante to have gotten in from a date with someone else—wasn’t it?

  And why was I acting like a swooning, sorrowful teen with a crush? At least I kept it inside.

  Besides, he was the one in this sorta relationship who kept asserting his feelings for me.

  But did he mean what he said?

  And I was agonizing too much over this as he was talking.

  “So you’ll just meet me there, right, Kendra?”

  Oops. I hadn’t exactly been listening. “Where is it, again?” Like, what were you talking about?

  “The small park at the corner of Moorpark and Laurel Canyon.” At least his tone remained neutral. “Lauren is bringing some of the dogs and cats from HotRescues that she hopes to rehome.”

  Oh, yeah. The pet adoption event I’d promised to attend tomorrow.

  “Sure, I’ll meet you there. What time?”

  This time he sounded a bit peeved. “Nine a.m. is when I’ll arrive, but as I said, I know you’ll be later than that because of your petsitting.”

  “Right. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I paused, then said softly, “Good night, Dante. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his tone again calm and, perhaps, a touch sad. “I’ll be thinking of you, and wishing we were together like last night.”

  Me, too. But I didn’t ask him why we weren’t, why he didn’t even return my call till so late.

  Not that we had any right to keep tabs on each other, of course.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. Lexie lay in bed with me, a privilege I didn’t always give her. But as much as we snuggled, I still missed Dante’s arms and lips and sexy bod. And how he used them all.

  I felt somewhat groggy when I woke in the morning, so I showered again. Wanted to be wide awake to take care of my petsitting charges, of course. They deserved my absolute attention.

  I visited the dogs first, as I often did, since they were most likely to be waiting for someone to take them outside to accomplish their morning duties. That meant visits to Beauty, Stromboli, and a couple more. Too early on a Sunday to check in on Stromboli’s neighbors, my friend Maribelle Openheim and her pup, Meph. Next I took on the kitties, which once more meant Abra and Cadabra, Harold Reddingham’s elusive cats. He was one of my best customers, and had just left town again.

  His Siamese and tabby felines didn’t greet me at the door of his North Hollywood home that day. Sometimes they did, and often they didn’t. But their elusiveness on this Sunday reminded me of Lady Cuddles. Was Wanda’s mind on her petsitting enough to keep track of all her charges, including this escape-artist kitten?

  And what had Lady Cuddles actually seen the day Margaret Shiler was killed? A lot, most likely. She’d had blood on her little paws, according to Wanda. Had the cops checked its DNA? And had it all oozed from Margaret? Some could have come from Wanda’s scratches, which might be why she remained a suspect.

  One more stop before heading to the pet adoption affair. I went to Milt Abadim’s home to check in on amazing Py, the python. All was well there, and I fortunately didn’t owe him a mouse that morning.

  Finally, I was free enough to head toward the Studio City pet adoption event—and meet up with Dante.

  The area was already full of people when I arrived, all of them meandering around the many enclosures containing dogs and cats who needed homes. The canines and felines were separated, and the kitties mostly remained in cages, poor things—although the crates were roomy and attractive enough to have come from HotPets. But the pet rescuers undoubtedly understood the escape artist nature of cats. Their enclosures had to have ceilings so they wouldn’t climb out and flee.

  Not so the dogs, though. They were mostly confined in open-air pens, although in some instances they were leashed and strolled about the environs with happy volunteers who extolled their adoption-ready virtues to all people wandering around.

  I immediately recognized Efram Kiley, the twenty-something muscular man who’d sued HotRescues, its director, Lauren, and even its deep pockets, Dante, a while back. He’d claimed that his dog had been rehomed by the organization without an adequate attempt to find its owner. Thing was, Lauren had believed that the Jack Russell terrier mix had been abused in its prior home—Efram’s. I had, of course, come up with an ADR solution—which most attorneys thought of as alternative dispute resolution, but for me was animal dispute resolution. Efram received an exorbitant settlement, funded by Dante, as long as he also volunteered a lot at HotRescues—thus ensuring that he learned not to be abusive to animals.

  Efram was apparently following through with his commitment. Today, he was shepherding a German shepherd mix among the potential adoption crowd.

  I smiled, happy I’d been able to help. I scanned the rest of the throng, and my gaze landed on a long table where Lauren Vancouver sat, speaking with someone across from her. Behind her stood Dante, surrounded by boxes and apparently putting together the bags of stuff to give away to adopters, courtesy of HotPets. Which meant him.

  I hurried in that direction. The person sitting across the table from Lauren was an older lady who cradled what appeared to be a shih tzu mix in her arms—smal
l, fluffy, but with a slightly longer nose than normal for a purebred of the breed.

  “I’ll take little Harvey, here, to the vet tomorrow to check his health,” the lady was saying. “I’ll bring him back to you if there are any problems.” But the way she hugged the little guy suggested she never wanted to let go, which made me grin sappily.

  “Fine,” Lauren told her. “We have a vet on call, and all our animals are screened and well cared for, but if you find any problems, we’d much rather know about them than not. In fact, we’ll be in touch anyway. We’ll want to follow up on how Harvey and you get along.”

  Which also hummed along my heartstrings.

  But I recognized this reminder for what it was. At these adoption events, there was only a limited ability to check out a possible adopter. Forms were filled out, but people could lie.

  It wasn’t done by all shelters, but Dante had described what he required of HotRescues. Lauren or a staff member would visit to ensure that the home environment described was in fact a reality. And that the new owner cared for the animal at least adequately. Better yet, lovingly.

  I didn’t know Lauren well, despite having represented her in a lawsuit. She was an attractive lady, probably mid-forties. She had green eyes and wore her dark hair clipped short in a becoming bob. The only thing I disliked about her was that she was thinner than me.

  The lady rose from her chair. Dante darted around Lauren to hand her what appeared to be a brand-new leash and a large bag with the HotPets logo on it that brimmed with goodies.

  “Enjoy your new pet,” he said. “Thanks a lot for giving him a home. And take good care of him.” He came around the table and looked little Harvey in his big, brown eyes. “And you, fellow—you take good care of your new mama.”

  The older woman laughed, snapped on the leash, and put her new baby, prancing, onto the grassy ground.

  Dante then looked directly at me. I knew he’d noticed me before. Not that he’d done anything differently, but … well, I guess I was starting to have a sixth sense where he was concerned. I couldn’t read his mind, of course—darn it. Or maybe it was simply wishful thinking on my part that I did feel a connection with the guy.