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 was 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.
What I needed even more, at this moment, was to locate Lady Cuddles.
No sign of her at the moment.
“Lady Cuddles,” I called, standing in the middle of Margaret’s messed-up living room. “Where are you?”
I heard something from elsewhere in the unit, a small cry that could have been a kitty. I headed in that direction.
Paulino was right behind me, which made me even more uneasy. I genuinely began to dislike the guy. Didn’t trust him.
Wanted to leave.
But not without the elusive kitty who’d brought me here.
A doorway led into a short hall, and I heard the noise again. I wound up in the kitchen. There, on the counter, stood Lady Cuddles. She sat down when she saw me, and I saw her sort of smile. Or at least that was the expression I assumed she’d intended. Like, Gotcha again!
She stayed right there, and I picked her up, noticing yet again the rather bland ID tag on her new collar. I was delighted, though, that Wanda had replaced what was missing.
What if I hadn’t been able to find her? What kind of pet-sitter would I be if I lost a charge, no matter how elusive?
What kind of friend would I be to Wanda if, as I took over for her during her several hours of need, I screwed up?
As it was, I still could only hope I’d solve Margaret’s murder and free Wanda from suspicion.
“Okay, young lady,” I said to the purring kitten in my arms. “Time for you to go home.”
“Yeah,” said Paulino. “Time for both of you to get the hell out of here.”
As if he owned the place. Or the stuff he was most likely attempting to steal from there.
Not if I could help it.
“By the way,” I found myself saying, “Do you know of anyone at Margaret’s accounting office who might have wanted to kill her?”
“No! For some damned reason, they seemed to like her. Now leave!”
“Thanks for letting me in,” I responded on the way out the front door. Okay, so I was overly polite, considering his rudeness. But I wasn’t about to tell him I was going to call the cops on him.
Lady Cuddles stirred in my arms as we got into the hallway, as if she intended to leap down.
Not if I could help it.
I snuggled her closer, my fingers locking beneath her collar. Touching that ID tag.
As I walked down the zigzag hallway toward the unit Lady Cuddles would call home, if she could speak, my mind started puzzling over something.
Not that it was necessarily significant.
But it was a question I had to ask Wanda.
I WAITED TILL I’d let myself into the unit owned by the Gustins, Lady Cuddles’s owners.
Okay, around the angles in the halls, I wouldn’t be able to see if Paulino Shiler was hauling boxes out of his ex-wife’s place. By the time anything happened, he and the crates could be long gone.
Even so, after ensuring that the door was closed behind me, and checking out the unit’s windows to be sure none was ajar, I sat down in the kitchen, not far from the fragrant box of kitty litter, and used my cell phone to call Detective Melamed of the Burbank PD.
Lady Cuddles sat down on the floor beside me, nonchalantly washing her little kitty paws with her long tongue, as if she’d been the picture of feline innocence all day. Not! But she was so cute, it was hard to stay annoyed with her.
I didn’t know if Wanda was still at the Burbank police station under interrogation. Or whether this little piece of info I intended to impart could have any bearing on the murder case.
But I figured the detective needed to know.
I hoped she’d do something to stop that darned Paulino. Not that I’d any info about Margaret’s kids, her presumed heirs. And I certainly hadn’t adored Margaret. Still, her kids didn’t necessarily deserve to be robbed by their former stepdad. The fact that he liked dogs better than his deceased ex might work a little in his favor, but taking valuables from her apartment erased any benefit he might otherwise have achieved in my mind.
I checked my recent phone call history since I hadn’t programmed in the number of the Burbank authorities. I called, and asked for Detective Candace Melamed.
She didn’t take long to get on the phone. “So, Ms. Ballantyne, I’ve spoken with your friend Detective Noralles of the LAPD. Are you calling—again—to try to solve this case for me?”
“Not at all,” I said. At least not now. Okay, I shouldn’t ask, but I did anyway. “Is Wanda still there?”
“Do you mean, did I arrest her? Not yet.” She practically sang the last couple of words, obviously proud of herself.
And probably intentionally goading me.
“Glad to hear it. I genuinely don’t think she’s guilty, although I know you care about that as much as you care about what I intend to eat for dinner. But that’s not why I called.”
“Okay, tell me fast. I’ve got things to do.”
I told her about my excursion into Margaret’s no longer taped apartment, thanks to Lady Cuddles, and what—who—I’d found there.
“He’s removing articles from that condo?” she practically shouted into the phone.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Thanks for calling and telling me, Ms. Ballantyne. It doesn’t make him guilty of the murder, even if what you’ve alleged is completely true. But if it is, I’ll be glad to arrest the SOB—er, burglary suspect—and take a harder look at him for the murder, too.” She paused. “You know, Detective Noralles thinks a lot of you.”
“He’s a good guy,” I responded.
“Look . . . We don’t need any official help in this matter. We’ve narrowed our suspicions down to a few suspects, and the matter is still under investigation. I won’t tell you anything about our work. But if you happen to learn anything else useful . . . well, I won’t mind at all if you share it with me. Unofficially, of course.”
Startled, I thanked her and hung up.
I didn’t believe that a detective on an active murder case, one I hadn’t actually worked with before, was encouraging me to do my own investigation.
But it had sure sounded that way.
Now, all I had to do was solve the murder.
Chapter Twenty-one
I HAD SOME more pet-sitting stuff to do before picking up Lexie at Doggy Indulgence. I stopped to take excellent care of some pet charges in North Hollywood and other areas nearby, and eventually it was time to head for nearby Studio City.
I entered the door of the doggy day care facility, and as always ensured it closed snugly behind me. Lots of barks and cavorting canines greeted me inside. A few animals attempted to sleep in the area filled with people furniture, but a lot more seemed to be engaged in an intense game of chase-the-balls.
I smiled as I watched, but my happy look faded as I failed to immediately see Lexie.
Not again.
I did see Kiki. She was at the vanguard of caretakers playing with the pups. She tossed balls of various shapes and sizes, encouraging dogs to dash after them and bring them back.
I doubted that Darryl was here. He’d most likely been in Burbank with Wanda, and probably remained in her company, attempting to cheer her after whatever hell she’d been put through during her interrogation.
That meant I wouldn’t have him to intervene in case my impending conversation with Kiki went awry.
Well, so what? I wanted to know where Lexie was. I considered asking Lila, the attendant who’d been so sympathetic last time, but she was busy playing with pups.
The simplest possibility was that Lexie was once again in Darryl’s office, as she had been the last time she had apparently disappeared. That was the direction I headed.
I knocked first. Unsurprisingly not hearing Darryl’s directive to enter, I nevertheless opened the door—unlocked again.
Sure enough, Lexie was on the floor nearby. She stood on her hind legs, greeting me eagerly, as if in thanks, then hurried toward where her comrades were playing.
So why had she been excluded from the games?
I turned, ready to go to the middle of the floor to get Kiki’s attention, but didn’t have to. She was right behind me.
“Why was Lexie in here again?” I demanded with no preamble.
“She deserved a time-out. She was playing too rough with the other dogs.” Kiki’s supposedly pretty film star wannabe face was stiff, her eyes glaring, as she responded icily.
“And do you give some of the bigger dogs, like the Labs or Dobie mixes, time-outs, too?” I demanded. “They’re more likely to hurt the other dogs if they get too physically assertive.”
“I do what works best for the dogs around here,” she said defensively. “I always do.”
“Even if it’s not something your boss approves of?” I knew Darryl would be peeved when I told him about this latest mistreatment of my pup. Fortunately, isolation for a short while might be hard for Lexie to deal with, but it wasn’t permanently harmful. Even so, I continued, “You need to be careful about what you do and who you hurt, Kiki. I’m not just talking about your taking whatever you have against me out on Lexie. And I’ll bet she’s not the only one you go after in response to a slight by someone else. I know you’re upset about Darryl’s being so close to Wanda now. And what you’ve done to retaliate for that, well—”
“What do you know about that?” she asked immediately. Her already pale face had drained of all color, and her widened blue eyes were those of the proverbial scared doe captured in an auto’s headlights.
I’d only been guessing that she had done something. Now I was extremely curious about what it was. “More than you think I do,” I lied.
“I know you solve murders.” Her voice, usually projected as if she was onstage, was suddenly soft and raspy. “But I know I didn’t—I mean, you don’t actually have a clue about me . . . do you?”
By now, the word “curiosity” had become one huge understatement for describing my state of mind. What the heck was Kiki talking about? A “clue” about her crazy infatuation with Darryl? Or a “clue” about her involvement in the case? Or none of the above?
My thoughts scrambled for a solution. The only murder I was looking into was Margaret Shiler’s. Wanda, whom Kiki obviously disliked, was apparently the cops’ favorite suspect.
Had Kiki killed the woman and framed Wanda?
Hell, that was a stretch even for my overactive imagination.
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” I said, persisting in my prevarication. “But why don’t you just admit it to me?”
“You’re lying!” she finally accused. “You don’t know anything, do you? You bitch!”
Before I could attempt to convince her otherwise—despite the truth in what she said—she turned her back and joined the doggy ball game once more.
I watched her for a while, also keeping an eye on Lexie and her excited participation in what was going on.
Kiki once again cheered canines right and left, tossing and rolling balls and laughing along with the other attendants as they all encouraged the game.
But every once in a while, Kiki cast a furtive glance in my direction, as if she were attempting to read my mind and learn if whatever she didn’t want me to know had actually shown up there.
I wished it had.
And somehow, I would ensure it eventually did.
I FINISHED THE remainder of my day’s pet-sitting with Lexie’s company. She was used to my uneven commands of sometimes staying in the car with the windows cracked. I was always careful, of course, but at least, at this time of year, I didn’t have to worry about her dehydrating or turning into roast rack of Cavalier.