“How are you hanging in there?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.
“Okay, I guess. It really helps to have Darryl on my side. As you know, he’s one heck of a great guy.”
I did know that, but if I didn’t figure out who actually killed Margaret, and thereby clear Wanda, I had a feeling I’d better find a new doggy day care place to take Lexie.
But that petty aggravation would not begin to compare with the pain I’d feel.
“He sure is,” I agreed, but decided, for my own psyche, to maneuver the subject of our conversation slightly. “So, you’re okay with my helping out at Brigadoon for a few days, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely, especially if you think it’ll help you learn who killed Margaret.”
“It may help. What would help even more is your insight.” For the next few minutes, after our coffee and salads were served, I went over the people I’d met at the condo, and others Wanda thought of who didn’t like pets. I made notes on a legal pad I extracted from my big purse. Listaphile that I am, I’d brought it along for just this purpose.
Wanda was a genuinely nice human being, despite her occasional, understandable, and excusable moodiness lately. Each time she talked about someone and his or her foibles, even those at the complex who weren’t overly fond of animals, she came up with reasons why that person couldn’t be a killer.
In exasperation, I finally blurted, “I don’t want to hear how wonderful everyone is. Tell me who you think could have killed Margaret—assuming it wasn’t you. And if it was you, tell me who I should concentrate on blaming it on.”
Her eyes wide with apparent horror, she stopped eating her salad and stared at me. Then, her voice low and her body hunched, she said, “If you really think I could have done it, Kendra, maybe I’d better ask someone else to help me.”
“Did you do it?” I asked point-blank.
“No, I didn’t murder Margaret,” she practically shouted.
Ignoring the glances from our fellow restaurant patrons, I smiled. “I didn’t think so. Okay, then, who’s your top suspect?”
Her expression softened. “You were just trying to get me mad, weren’t you, so I’d accuse someone?”
“Something like that.”
“Well … if I had to guess, and I really hate to do it, my vote is still for that terrible contractor who did work around our condo complex: Rutley Harris.”
Chapter Nineteen
WISHFUL THINKING, SINCE Rutley wasn’t a Brigadoon resident? Or was Wanda extra perceptive, recognizing that a dispute over poor construction timing and workmanship had somehow escalated enough that Harris turned killer?
Or did she know that Margaret and Harris had slept together?
No matter. He was already high on my suspect list, too.
I accepted the condo keys for her current clients from Wanda, along with a list of who and where they were and what care they required. With luck, I’d be caring for her animal charges only this afternoon so she could keep her mind and time free.
Good luck, that is. Bad luck, and she’d be stuck in the Burbank jail, but I wasn’t about to mention that.
After we split our bill and walked into the parking lot, she stopped beside my Escape and we hugged. “Let me know how everything goes this afternoon,” I told her.
“You, too.”
As I slid into the driver’s seat, I sent her a cheerful wave. But when I put my hands on the steering wheel after starting the engine, I thought about letting my head droop in concern.
Nope. Instead, I turned east out of the parking lot, toward Burbank.
NO PROBLEM GETTING through the condo complex’s main gate. I simply followed someone in, although I again had a security card from Wanda. The fact that I entered so easily indicated that the killer didn’t necessarily need to be a resident to reach Margaret’s apartment.
I parked, then headed for one of the first buildings, the one where the Tradeaus had their huge unit. They weren’t on my list to visit, but one of their near neighbors was.
Only a couple of weeks had passed since I’d last been here helping Wanda with her petsitting. Then, she’d been on a romantic weekend with Darryl. Now, she was awaiting an ugly interrogation by the cops. Not exactly comparable. And my main reason for being there wasn’t confined to animal care this time.
I needed more information to figure out who might have despised Margaret Shiler enough to more than just wish her dead.
I hadn’t even started onto another avenue filled with suspects—like disgruntled fellow employees at her accounting firm. Or a boss who decided to get rid of her in a way more permanent than firing. Her ex-husband might know of something like that, but Paulino hadn’t suggested it. And I knew about the contentiousness here. Even so, I might soon have to branch out to be successful.
I used a key to let myself into the building and mounted the steps to the second floor.
Happily, no one like Margaret—or the Bertinettis—stopped my progress and demanded to know why I was there.
The pets in the unit I headed for were a couple of tabby cats. Both were utterly charming and seemed glad for some human company. This was not a condo I’d visited the last time I’d taken over Wanda’s petsitting duties at Brigadoon. According to her, their owners were out of town for a week, and all seemed well with the felines.
I strolled through this building as if I belonged there. On my next stop, a little bichon frise mix required some loving and a nice long walk, which I gave her with no hesitation and lots of attention. I did run into a middle-aged male resident who said hi and looked puzzled, and I explained without further detail I was there as a backup petsitter. He seemed okay with it.
As he turned to leave, I asked, as an afterthought, “Have you by any chance had any work done on your unit by Harris Commercial Construction? I live near here and need some remodeling, and I’ve heard they’re good.”
He said he’d heard of them but knew little about them. Not enough info to assist me in the least.
Two more dogs and a cat later, I was ready to enter the back building where Wanda lived. James, too, and the Bertinettis. And, formerly, Margaret. The few residents I’d run into didn’t know much about Harris Construction.
The back building was another matter, though. I decided first to stop in to see my buddy Basil, Wanda’s Cavalier King Charles spaniel. I proudly paraded Basil outside, toward the parklike area behind the building—all the while keeping an eye open for the wayward Lady Cuddles, since this was also her territory. Her family, Wanda had warned me, was remaining on a filming location for an extra week, so she was still in charge of the escape artist kitty.
As I went outside, board member John was just entering. I hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his appearance before, mixing him up with the other men running the condo association. He looked like the oldest, with short salt-and-pepper hair and matching goatee that I assumed was designed to hide the wattle beneath his chin. “Hi,” he said, stooping down to pet the pup. “Is this Basil?”
I nodded, and explained that Wanda had some business to attend to that afternoon, and I was helping out with her animal charges—including her own. I had no intention of describing her business. If she wanted to relate her difficulties to other board members, that was up to her.
But there was a topic of conversation I could broach with John: Rutley Harris. I obliquely hinted that I might have some remodeling at my home to hire the guy for.
“Why, sure, Rutley is doing some work for me. Margaret recommended him highly … though I know something went wrong there. I don’t know what. But if you want to talk to him, he’s here now. I’m having him upgrade the bathroom in my master suite.”
Talk to him now? Why not?
Maybe my memory of what a jerk he was had been exaggerated over the few days since I’d seen him.
John showed me along the zigzagging hallways with windows overlooking patios and gardens, past other units with decorations on the doors, to his first-floor unit.
He opened the door and let Basil and me enter. “He should be right through there.” He pointed to a door down an internal hallway, from which emanated hammer blows and low conversation.
I entered. Sure enough, there was Rutley Harris inside a generous-sized master bath, along with a couple of other guys. “Hey, Rutley,” John said, “Kendra wants to check with you about a remodeling job she has.”
“No kidding.”
I winced beneath the suggestive leer on this louse’s face. He wore a sleeveless muscle shirt today, and he did in fact brandish big biceps. But there was nothing sexy about the way he looked me up and down. I shuddered … and considered kicking him where he’d notice I wasn’t interested.
For the moment, I just said, “Looks like you’re pretty busy here. Doing a good job, I’m sure. So … you remodel bathrooms. And I know you’ve done some replastering and painting in the condo halls. Tell me more about what kind of work you did for Margaret Shiler.”
“Like I told you before, Kendra, I remodeled for her, I screwed her, but I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s not what she meant,” John interjected, obviously attempting to keep the peace as Rutley’s two large employees seemed ready to come over to defend his honor. “But … you … er, were with her?”
“Just once. It was a mistake.”
Enough of a mistake that he’d killed her? I kinda hoped so, but didn’t expect Harris to change his tune at this instant and confess—even though he was the one I hoped had done it. And right about now, I regretted even instigating this conversation. Rutley was running it in an entirely different direction from where I’d intended it to go
“Anyway, if you actually want me to do some work where you live, Kendra, give me a call.” He gave me an awfully lewd wink along with his business card, which I handled as gingerly as if it contained contaminants. “I’d be glad to take care of it … and you.”
John was extremely apologetic as he led me from his unit, with Basil, on his leash, prancing happily at my side. “I didn’t know about Margaret and Rutley. And he was out of line talking to you that way, Kendra.”
“I’ll say.” But Harris’s protestations made me move him a notch higher on my suspect list—not easy to do, since he was already at the top.
“Anyway, I’m sorry. But I need to dash off to meet someone now. And I’m sure you have more animals to visit for Wanda, right?”
I assured him I did, and bade him good-bye at the downstairs door.
I took Basil home and fed him his dinner early, then left Wanda a note, hoping that she’d be home soon to see it.
Then I went upstairs to James’s unit and knocked on the door, but he apparently wasn’t home, so I was unable to say hi to him and his guinea pigs.
Okay, time to go see Lady Cuddles. I looked forward to this visit, since I actually enjoyed the elusive kitty.
I only hoped she was at home where she belonged.
Good thing was, she was.
Bad thing was, as soon as I opened the door, she dashed past me down the hallway.
“Lady Cuddles!” I cried, and hurried after her along the zigzagging hall, where it was hard to keep her in view.
I looked with uneasiness as I passed the Bertinetti unit, but fortunately no one came out.
“Please stop,” I called to the kitty, but she continued to ignore me.
And then I turned a corner—and no longer saw her ahead of me. I immediately began to despair.
“Lady Cuddles, where are you?” I cried.
I was in an area that, unfortunately, had become familiar—the one where Margaret Shiler had lived.
Her unit was on the right. I didn’t see crime scene tape on the door any longer. I started to dart by it, hoping I’d spot Lady Cuddles around the next corner.
Only … the door to Margaret’s unit was ajar. Was that where the kitty had disappeared?
I stopped outside, ready to push the door open a little and call out … only I heard some thumping and rustling from inside. Too much of it for a small cat to generate.
Were the police there, looking for further clues to the killing?
I figured I’d better butt out.
But I still needed to find Lady Cuddles.
Carefully, I pushed the door open a little more. I called out, “Hello? Anybody here?”
I half expected some loud voice of authority to shout something like, “This is the police.”
Instead, as I looked inside, I saw a figure sneaking into the other room.
A kinda familiar figure. Someone I’d only recently met, but I’d definitely seen him before.
It was Paulino Shiler, Margaret’s ex.
What the hell was he doing here?
Chapter Twenty
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Nope, that wasn’t me talking, but Paulino.
I’d always understood that a good offense is the best defense, and I assumed that’s what he was up to.
“I’m helping to take care of some of the pets in the complex,” I responded. He blocked my entrance, which I didn’t like at all. “Including Lady Cuddles, the kitten who just slipped in there. Please let me by. I need to go get her.”
And see if I could figure out what Paulino was up to.
I did take a brief look around to ensure that Paulino hadn’t brought his boxer-mix pups along. They might be cute, and well adapted to the dog park where I’d first met him, but they didn’t belong in this apartment that had been the scene of a crime.
Nor did I want them ganging up on Lady Cuddles. Even though I thought the cute kitten could elude two determined dogs.
I found no canines loose in the unit. Nor did I immediately spot Lady Cuddles. What I did see, though, was a bunch of boxes from one of the big office-supply chains—not collapsed ones, but expanded into crate shapes with lids on them.
Should I assume they were filled? If so, with what?
I kinda thought I knew.
“Are you still Margaret’s heir?” I asked her ex-husband, pivoting to face him. He stood behind me, his arms crossed, his face sullen. I’d found him an athletic sort before—at least a runner, with his thin frame and tanned skin. Now, his complexion was red, especially against his shining buck teeth.
“I’m just here after some things that are mine,” he retorted. “Margaret hung on to them for a while after our divorce, but she promised I’d get them back.”
“When she died?” My turn to cross my arms and glare. And wish I’d left the door open wider, only I hadn’t wanted Lady Cuddles to escape again.
Was this guy dangerous when angered? I didn’t exactly want to find out.
“Whenever.” He shrugged. “As if it’s any business of yours.”
“You’re right. Just let me find Lady Cuddles, and I’ll leave you alone.” But I wouldn’t leave the Burbank cops alone. In fact, I thought I’d give Detective Candace Melamed a call as soon as I exited this unit. Just in case no one was allowed to take anything yet from the crime scene.
Like an ex-husband who just might be attempting to steal whatever he could from Margaret’s estate.
Which got me wondering—who actually were her heirs?
“Are your kids coming to help you move this stuff?” I asked, figuring his response would help answer some of my questions. Like, did they have kids? How old? Where did they live?
And was he attempting to steal this stuff from them?
I’d guessed Margaret to be in her early fifties, and maybe Paulino, too, although he was in better shape and appeared younger. That would mean any kids could be adults.
“I gather what you’re asking is if I’m helping my kids, or stealing from them? The answer is the former, if either. I had kids, and so did Margaret, both from prior marriages, but none together. My stuff is my stuff, and if my kids want it after I’m gone, they’re welcome to it. Not hers, though. They were miserable little turds while we were together. No way do I want them to inherit what’s mine.”
“Sounds fair,” I said. As long as the stuff wa
s truly his. Which I definitely doubted.
But would he have killed Margaret for whatever was in those boxes? For them and some other as yet unspecified reason? For a motive I hadn’t yet figured out? Maybe.
I kept him on my list along with Rutley Harris. And others.
We were still standing near the entryway. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to find the cat.”
He still blocked my path, but I managed to slip by him into the living room. I wasn’t exactly certain where Margaret had been murdered, but it had most likely been here—big swatches had been cut from the carpet in the middle of the room, and there wasn’t much furniture there, either. Some or all of it might have been removed as possible evidence.
A few more boxes sat on the floor there. I pretended to slip sideways and “accidentally” knock the top off one.
A stack of books lay inside. Old books. Probably first editions.
The kinds of books I’d been told were the ones Margaret sold for a healthy profit as an Internet sideline.
Paulino claimed they were his? I’d heard that he, too, was an accountant. I pictured him as running around the dog park in off-hours for fun. Not as a reader.
Especially of classics.
But I could visualize him on eBay selling stuff for as healthy a price as people would pay. After Margaret gave him instructions on how she did it.
That was, of course, simply jumping to a conclusion. Could be he had taught her how to establish an adjunct career online. I’d check into it. It could provide a motive for murder—if they argued over possession of some valuable stuff she was selling. Or about who had taught whom what. Or even pirated accounting clients.
Or not. That was jumping to another conclusion. What I needed was facts, if I wanted to get Wanda off the suspect hook.
I was sure Paulino wasn’t about to confess any sins, whether anger with his wife, or murder, or acting as a carrion eater by engulfing his ex’s possessions to the detriment of her actual heirs.
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