Nothing to Fear But Ferrets

Table of Contents

 

 

Praise for
Sit, Stay, Slay

“A brilliantly entertaining new puppy caper, a doggie-filled who-done-it . . . Johnston’s novel is a real pedigree!”

—Dorothy Cannell

 
“Pet-sitter sleuth Kendra Ballantyne is up to her snake-draped neck in peril in Linda O. Johnston’s hilarious debut mystery,
Sit, Stay, Slay
. Witty, wry, and highly entertaining.” —Carolyn Hart

 
And for the novels of
Linda O. Johnston

“Exciting romantic suspense with a strong emphasis on . . . intrigue. Linda O. Johnston provides a first-rate action-filled tale [for] fans of romance and suspense thrillers.”

—
Midwest Book Reviews

 
“Imaginative and clever, this book is a true page turner.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

 
“Colorful characters . . . This book will add spice to a boring day.”—
Rendezvous

 
“Readers [will] be immediately caught up in the action . . . [and] relish this delightful tale.”—
Romantic Times

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 
NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FERRETS

 
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2005

 
Copyright © 2005 by Linda O. Johnston.

 
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without
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eISBN : 978-0-425-20373-6

 
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

To pet-sitters and pet lawyers and lawyers who love pets.

 
To ferrets, whether maligned or justly illicit in California.

 
To Cavaliers and Cavalier lovers, most especially Joan and Harold Letterly, who were Lexie’s first humans.

 
And to Fred, who learned a lot of years ago that, to love Linda, he had to learn to live with, and love, her many Cavaliers.

 
—
Kendra Ballantyne/Linda O. Johnston

Chapter One

LIFTING HER FUZZY face, Lexie gave a ferocious growl.

Ferocious, at least, for a Cavalier King Charles spaniel who’d wakened from a sound sleep while curled into a compact ball on my shorts-clad lap.

“What, girl?” I murmured, paying a lot more attention to the study guide before me on the tiny kitchen table than the complaining canine now standing on my bent legs.

After all, the Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam, which I’d take in about a week, was all that stood between me and my ability to resume practicing law.

Not that I should have had to take the ethics exam. My law license had been suspended owing to accusations of unprofessional conduct, but I’d recently been able to prove, beyond a hell of a lot more than mere reasonable doubt, that I’d been framed for that and more, including murder.

Maybe you heard of my triumph. I’m Kendra Ballantyne, attorney at law, and the blasted media trumpeted the story of how I’d discovered who’d set me up almost as loudly as they’d blared my fall from glory in the first place. But that hadn’t boosted me beyond the hurdle of the Multistate.

I blinked as Lexie leapt from my lap, faced my apartment door, and growled again—hackles on her furry black-and-white back raised ominously.

This time, I paid attention.

I closed the outline and stood barefoot on the tile floor, my own hackles playing hopscotch along my spine.

Still, I heard nothing. At least nothing out of the ordinary: the refrigerator motor, traffic in the distance, a few cawing crows outside. It was one of those regretfully rare evenings when my renter, Charlotte LaVerne, and her boy-toy Yul, who occupy the main house on my property, weren’t throwing a party. Both were showbiz wannabes, and Charlotte was actually a persona of sorts, an alumna of one of those absurdly popular reality television shows. My tenants’ ingenuity at creating excuses for celebrations far exceeded all talents that I’d discerned in other areas. When they were home, noise was the norm around here, though seven P.M. wasn’t exactly their prime time for partying.

Even so, I continued to listen . . . nothing.

I Knelt to stroke the soft back of my pointing pup, who put down her lifted paw and looked up at me like I was nuts not to be as nervous as she was. Her red brows curved in consternation I still couldn’t decipher. She was a tricolor Cavalier—mostly black and white but trimmed in chestnut here and there, like those persuasively puzzled brows.

“What is it, Lexie?” I asked softly.

She ran toward the door. I stood and followed, by habit grabbing her leash from its hook on the side of the nearest cabinet. I bent to snap it on her, fast. If there was trouble outside, I didn’t want her bounding down the steps headlong into it. In fact, in anticipation, I scooped Lexie into my arms.

I stood for a moment on the platform at the top of the stairs outside my apartment, surveying the situation. I didn’t see diddly out of place. My beloved BMW sat in its parking place beside the garage below. Then there was my sprawling château beyond my blue, inviting swimming pool in which I was no longer invited to swim. Its availability was attached to my home, which I’d leased out to stave off having to sell it during my prior misfortunes.

Inside the tall wrought-iron fence was lush landscaping: a gloriously green lawn, some eucalyptus, a lemon tree, and—

Crash!

Lexie, in my arms, struggled so hard I nearly dropped her at the noise and my own panic. What the heck was that? It sounded as if someone had set off something a lot more frightening than a firecracker, really close by.

Like at the other side of my adored house.

The air still reverberated with the noise.

Still holding the squirming Lexie, I sped down the steps, along the driveway to its end, and stopped.

There it was, the source of the noise. It was a lot worse than misfired fireworks.

A big vehicle had plowed right through my wrought-iron fence and into the side wall of my house, about where the living room was. Or maybe the den. Or right between.

“Oh, no!” I cried aloud, hurrying forward. Was anyone hurt?

But when I peered inside the huge intruder—a Hummer—I saw it was empty. That was the good thing. Sort of.

Had it been occupied, perhaps this accident wouldn’t have occurred.

Lexie must have recognized the sound of the unbraked vehicle hurtling downhill as something bad. She’d tried to warn me. If she’d spoken English, she would have. But try as I might, I was a failure at understanding barklish.

One day, I meant to try one of those gadgets from Japan that was intended to translate a dog’s every comment. It would even help with my interim profession, and possibly permanent sideline, pet-sitting.

But for now, I had a Hummer in my house to contend with.

It wasn’t the first time someone’s brakes had failed on my two-lane, twisting street. But it was the first time my house had fallen victim. There was no indication the vehicle had been stolen and smashed like my own car was a few months ago. And now that I knew I hadn’t a corpse to contend with—I’d seen too many lately—nor even an injured body to hustle to the nearest hospital, I let myself get mad.

“Damn it!” I exclaimed, still hugging the wiggly Lexie. I’d no idea whose Hummer this happened to be. Well, the cops could figure it out, and this was definitely a reportable incident. And I’d need a copy of the cops’ report to hand to my insurance company when I made a claim.

Was I insured for runaway Hummers battering my fence and my house? More important, was the outsized auto insured? I certainly hoped so.

But I’d dealt with insurance companies in my capacity as litigator. All too often, clients’ claims were stymied by small print in policies provided to them at hefty prices. Too many insurers were pleased to take people’s money, but choked on the concept of making good on policies’ promises. Most likely, I’d be in for a fight against one company or another.

“Kendra? Are you okay?” a female voice shouted from some distance.

I turned to see my next-door neighbor Tilla Thomason hurrying toward me—as much as hefty Tilla could hurry up the winding street from her home down the hill from mine. I gauged her to be about fifty, and she’d apparently added an extra pound for every year of her life.

“I’m fine,” I yelled back. “Can’t say the same for my house, though.” I hadn’t grabbed my cell phone, so I needed to go inside to call the cops. An extra five minutes wouldn’t matter much, though. I waited, still squeezing Lexie, till Tilla reached us.

By the time she did, a few other neighbors were gathering, shaking their heads and offering unhelpful advice.