“Not me,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “I’m not going to ask … but I’ll listen to your answer.”
Which made me consider wringing a neck or three. But, hey, Dante was definitely newsworthy, so it wasn’t surprising he’d be the subject of gossip around here—and everywhere else. But I preferred privacy.
Not that I’d get it. “Dante’s fine,” I said rather smugly. “I spent some time with him yesterday at a pet adoption event, and we’re getting together for dinner tonight. Any more questions?”
If they wanted to know how he was in bed, they were at least discreet enough not to ask.
“Nope, but I think it’s really cool that you’re seeing him,” Mignon chirped.
“So do I,” I said.
As Borden and Elaine headed into the conference room that was once a bar, I went down the aisle past attorneys’ offices along the outer wall of the single-story building. Cubicles for secretaries and paralegals abutted on the inside. My office was a comfy corner one, and my litigation style of collecting files everywhere made it feel even cozier.
I sat down in my ergonomically correct chair behind my cluttered desk and noted that the light was indeed blinking on my office phone, indicating messages.
There were four. The first was from Corina Carey. Surprise! But I owed the tabloid reporter, since she had given me contact info for Margaret Shiler’s former husband. I called her back immediately.
“Why didn’t you call me on my cell?” I asked.
“I did, earlier today, but you didn’t answer. You might have been doing your petsitting, but it was late enough I figured you could be at your office.”
I wasn’t certain why I’d missed her, but I gave her a rundown now of the little I’d learned from Paulino Shiler.
“So who else are you interviewing now?” she asked.
“Off the record?”
“Of course … for now. But if you give me anything interesting, I’ll want to run with it.”
“Right. Well, a couple of possibilities. I’m going to try to contact a contractor Margaret was arguing with. And tomorrow night’s a newly scheduled meeting of the condo association. I’ve been invited to attend.”
“Now, that could be damned interesting,” Corina said. “Keep me informed.”
I wondered if she’d attempt to show up there. Guess I’d find out tomorrow night.
Two other calls were from clients referred to me by Borden, both with some elder-law issues I was working on. I returned those immediately, too.
And the fourth? It was from the lady I’d met at the pet adoption fair, Joan Fieldmann, who had a bone to pick with her French bulldog Pierre’s breeder.
I reached her right away. “I’m really upset, Kendra,” she said. “I purposely chose a really good-quality purebred pup, one who could compete in dog shows. And he’s so sweet, definitely my baby now.”
“He’s adorable.” I agreed. I’d met him at the pet adoption event.
“The thing is,” she continued, “the breeder had me sign a contract—that’s not unusual. But she kept so much control over my Pierre … I’ve shown Pierre once, at a show where that woman was present. I enjoyed it, want to do more, even though Pierre didn’t do as well as I’d hoped. Well, the breeder—Elmira—didn’t like how I handled him, and now she wants to take over everything. Maybe even take my Pierre back if I don’t let her be the one to show him.”
“Is that allowed by your contract?” I asked.
“So she says. But Pierre’s mine now. I want to be the one to show him. To decide where and when he should compete and, in between, keep him home with me. I don’t want her intruding or having him travel without me.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Bring Pierre and your contract to my office tomorrow. I’ll look over the documentation, and we’ll figure out where to go from there.”
We determined a mutually agreeable time—early afternoon, so as not to conflict with my petsitting or my attending the condo association meeting.
“Thank you so much, Kendra,” she said. “I’ll look forward to your helping me out of this mess.”
“No guarantees,” I told her. But I was hoping for a nice, pleasant, and enjoyable bout of animal dispute resolution—assuming the other side would be reasonable.
And lawyers all know how big an if that can be.
Chapter Twelve
AFTER JOAN’S PHONE call, I drafted a response to a motion in one of the elder-law cases I’d taken on for Borden and his senior buddies. I also looked over some interrogatory answers I’d received in response to questions I’d sent out in another case. I reviewed a couple of additional files, both in anticipation of upcoming court appearances—argument of a motion in one, and the possibility of a trial in the other. Yes, the Yurick law firm kept me busy.
But not so busy that I ignored the other matter making me nuts.
I made one phone call relating to Margaret Shiler’s murder. Fortunately, it turned out to be fruitful.
Which meant I left the office a little earlier than I otherwise would have for my late-day petsitting.
I headed to the area where the person who answered the phone at Harris Commercial Construction said the man in charge, Rutley, would be. Of course I lied a little to get the information. I’d indicated that I was a supplier of construction materials, and Rutley Harris had left me a message to meet him at his current job site with some quotes on costs. Only, dumb little me, I’d lost the address.
Harris was working in Simi Valley, a distance north-west from my Encino office. I’d have to hurry there and back to avoid keeping my animal charges waiting too long.
Turned out he was upgrading another condo complex. Fortunately, enough work was being done there that I had no trouble sneaking through the partially ajar gate in the fence surrounding the place. No trouble, either, locating Harris, since his van had his company’s name painted on the sides. It was parked just outside a building with doors left wide open.
I wasn’t sure which guy he was, though, since the unit being remodeled that day was occupied by half a dozen workers, all dressed equally grungily. Couldn’t tell the company owner from his employees.
So I asked. Rutley Harris turned out to be the shortest of the crew, but his Harris Commercial Construction T-shirt’s contours suggested he was substantially strong. His dark hair was long, his jaw thick, his expression indecent when I’d barely said hello. In fact, I gathered that Harris always attempted to ooze slimy sexiness.
I wondered uneasily if, this once, I should have let Dante know what I was up to this afternoon. No doubt he’d have thought so.
“Hi,” I said to Harris. “Could I speak with you?”
“Sure can, babe.” His leering assessment of me plus his suggestive tone made my skin crawl.
We went out onto the balcony of the condo unit being worked on. It was still noisy, with power saws slicing away at boards propped across wooden saw-horses. But at least I was in less danger of inhaling the sawdust fluttering everywhere. And I was within plain sight of the other workers, in case I wound up in an altercation with Rutley.
I’d considered my approach on my way there. How I might hide what I was really asking, and why. I pondered mentioning a nonexistent remodeling project I was considering at my house. Or questions about who’d designed the changes made at the Brigadoon condos.
Instead, I immediately decided that directness was the best way of eliciting any useful responses.
“My name is Kendra Ballantyne,” I told him. “I’m a lawyer, among other things, and I’m looking into what happened to Margaret Shiler. I understand that you recently remodeled her unit and a few others at the Brigadoon condominiums in Burbank.”
The good-looking face that had suggested steaminess a few seconds before suddenly turned scrunched-up and nasty. “That’s right,” he replied curtly. “Bitch kept complaining about my work. Said I was taking too long to finish remodeling all those condos, especially hers. But if she’d chosen building materials that
were easy to find without having to order them from China or wherever, everything would have gone a lot faster. Plus, she started claiming things were done wrong, insisted I redo them. My specialty is building nice wooden shelving and installing decorative floors, and she even complained about that.”
“Sorry things were so rocky there,” I said sympathetically, wanting to throw him off guard, if possible, before I hinted at any accusations.
“It didn’t help that—Hey, look, I admit I didn’t like the bitch. Especially after she came on to me.”
Aha! Another reason for him to hate her … or vice versa. Either way, an even more impressive motive for murder was now out in the open.
“But if what you’re asking,” he continued, “is whether I hated her enough to kill her, the answer’s no. I’ve run into women like her before.”
Ones lusting after him? Considering the way he looked at any female near him, I figured he assumed he elicited sexual interest, real or imaginary, from nearly every woman he came across. Ugh!
He wasn’t done explaining himself. “I’m used to dealing with ladies who seem to think I’m eager to get into their pants, then get themselves into a snit when I don’t take them on that way. I don’t kill them. Though maybe they’d consider offing themselves if I didn’t show them any interest.”
The egotistical idiot! “Oh, I doubt that,” I said, eyeing him up and down and pasting a disgusted sneer on my face. “Anyway, you disliked Margaret Shiler, she’d come on to you—or so you’d believed in your imagination, at least—you’d rejected her, and you didn’t kill her. Is that it in a nutshell?”
His turn to aim a sneer at me. “Thing was, I didn’t reject her till after we’d had one hell of a night together. She was actually okay in bed. But she wanted more, and I didn’t. Most of her complaints started after I made it clear we were over with that. So, I don’t know how she died, but the cops should consider suicide as a possibility, depending.”
I’d heard the murder weapon was a barbecue skewer, though there had been no official public acknowledgment. But if it was, suicide was surely unlikely.
“Far as I know,” I said, “they’re not seriously considering suicide, but we’ll see. In any event, I’m not ruling you out as a suspect, Mr. Harris, and I’d imagine the cops aren’t either. Have they questioned you yet?”
“No.” He sounded suddenly fearful. “Do you think they will?”
“Count on it.” You egotistical bastard, I added in my mind. I wondered why he’d be so concerned about an official interrogation.
I wasn’t sure he’d killed Margaret, but neither had I ruled him out.
And I was eager to hear what the cops might otherwise have on full-of-himself Rutley Harris.
JUST IN CASE Harris was an overlooked suspect, I called Esther Ickes on my way back toward North Hollywood and my first petsitting rounds of late in the day.
She answered her phone immediately. “Hi, Kendra. Tell me something good to help get my client off.”
Which I did, kinda. “I honestly don’t think Harris did it, though I can’t be certain. But there’s some reason he’s eager to avoid the cops—which means it would make a lot of sense for you to mention him to them. Whatever it is might not have a connection to Burbank, where Margaret was murdered, but cops talk to each other.” I related the gist of my conversation to my criminal attorney friend—including how icky the guy was, in a sexually suggestive way. And his claimed liaison with a later-spurned Margaret.
“Interesting,” Esther said, drawing the word out speculatively. “Thanks, Kendra. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Have you heard about the Brigadoon Condo Association meeting tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Yes. Wanda and I will be there.”
“Great!” I said. “Me, too. James Jerome told me about it and invited me. Should be an interesting session. For Wanda’s sake, I hope the pro-pet contingent turns out in droves. We’ll have to watch them all, see if anyone gives away their happiness that Margaret’s not still around to head the opposition.”
“Although,” Esther said dryly as I slowed for a yellow light, “the anti-pets might also have had a motive to kill her: turn her into their martyr, as long as they make it look like someone pro-pet did her in.”
“Hmmm.” I was now stopped at the red light, watching opposing traffic zoom through the wide intersection. “Good point. We just have to hope that someone there simply stands up and admits killing Margaret for whichever reason fits.”
“In your dreams,” Esther said.
“But not tonight’s,” I told her without elaborating.
My dreams tonight would be filled with Dante, since I intended to spend my time in bed and in his arms.
DANTE’S ARRIVAL WITH Wagner was fairly late in the evening, which was fine with me, considering my need to rest a bit and get my second—third? fourth?—wind after my busy day including petsitting duties.
I was waiting with some wine in my living room, where I’d started watching TV news. I moved the bottle when Dante came in with a pizza, since he also brought Wagner, and the exuberant German shepherd, despite being well trained, could easily knock the bottle off my coffee table with a modest leap or wag of his tail. Lexie could, too, of course, but she’d remained pretty mellow till our company arrived.
“Mmmm.” I peeked into the pizza box. “Extra cheese, mushrooms, and pepperoni—my favorites.”
We sat there and ate and drank, then took the dogs outside for their end-of-evening constitutional.
They even got to romp for a few minutes with Beggar, who was also out in the yard. Rachel was there, too—and we chatted about nothing in particular.
Which was a good thing. I hadn’t told Dante yet about my dilemma involving my tenants’ search for a new home. I needed to decide what I wanted to do before I talked to him about it. I actually was considering, sort of seriously, his offer made some time ago to buy my property and let me lease it back from him. But I wasn’t certain what would happen to our relationship if we added landlord-tenant to our current status as business associates in Animal Auditions, plus avid, caring lovers in our leisure time.
“Good night,” I finally said to Rachel and Beggar, and led Dante, Wagner, and Lexie back up the steps to my abode.
Dante knew me well enough to know I hadn’t sat back on my buns and ignored my latest murder investigation. “Have you learned anything else I should know about Margaret Shiler’s death?” he asked once we were again ensconced with wine and pups on the sofa.
I snuggled up against him and told him the results of my latest inquiries. “I didn’t like that guy Rutley Harris at all,” I said with a quick shudder.
“And you went to see him by yourself, without even telling me, because … ?”
“Because I’m a big girl, and it was the middle of the day, and lots of other people were around. But”—I put our glasses down on the table beside one another, and gave Dante a big kiss—“I appreciate your concern.”
“And I don’t appreciate your taking risks—but I know you’ll do whatever you want anyway. Just be careful.” He returned the kiss, and then it was my turn again, and …
Well, no need to go into any detail about the rest of the night. Suffice it to say that it was delightful.
And when Dante drowsily said, “Good night, Kendra. I love you,” I had to say virtually the same words in return.
Nope, our relationship was absolutely too wonderful to muddy it with my resenting his concern about my physical well-being, whatever the reason. In fact, I was coming to appreciate it—even though I wasn’t ready to tell him everything on my mind, like what I intended to do to find Margaret’s killer.
Or my concern about my living arrangements in the near future.
I might keep Dante apprised about my investigation. With his background, he might offer advice I’d be willing to take. But I wasn’t sure I’d feel the same way if he shoved too many suggestions at me about where I should live.
Wha
tever I determined about the house, I’d let Dante know when I was ready.
Chapter Thirteen
DANTE LEFT EARLY the next day. He needed to take Wagner home, then get to his HotPets corporate headquarters in Beverly Hills for a battery of meetings he had planned.
I’d been to his offices only a couple of times and hadn’t stayed long, but they were every bit as impressive as I’d anticipated this pet products tycoon’s quarters would be. I had a standing invitation to visit but had my own extensive business to conduct that day.
I felt bereft when I saw his Mercedes pull out of my driveway, which was silly. I’d see him again soon. I was getting much too addicted to his presence.
But it wasn’t an addiction I hoped to withdraw from anytime in the near future.
“Time for us to get ready, too, Lexie,” I told my prancing pup, and soon we were off, ready for me to dig in to the day’s petsitting.
When I’d spent lots of time with my animal charges—Lexie along with me whenever possible, and safely ensconced in the car when it wasn’t—it was time to take her once more to Doggy Indulgence. I now felt more comfortable taking my dear dog back there. Even with Kiki and her odd behavior—which seemed to have sort of stopped, despite her evil glares toward me now and then when Darryl wasn’t watching—I knew Lexie loved it there and would be well treated. I didn’t think she’d disappear again. I hadn’t made a big deal of the last time with Darryl, since our friendship was somewhat strained then, but now that it might be on the mend, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him about less-than-stellar treatment by any of his staff.
Darryl was greeting doggy guests and their owners, and I gave him a big hug as I headed out the door. “Will you be at the condo association meeting tomorrow night?” I asked. “Wanda and Esther will be there, and me, too.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He smiled somewhat. “Then maybe I can make suggestions about people who might be worth your looking into to clear Wanda.”
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