“Yes,” I agreed. “He wouldn’t want to make it look as if—”
“His pets gnawed someone into oblivion,” Jeff finished. “At least not if there was another way to protect Charlotte and him.”
“Right. And then there’s the fact it looks too obviously like him, if it’s not Charlotte. Yul’s intelligence is somewhat suspect, but I don’t see even him committing murder where they live and trying to frame the ferrets to get the heat off them. And then worrying about his own behind enough to send a package to the police sure to sic them on his sugar mommy . . . it doesn’t make sense.”
Jeff nodded. “Yeah, but I’d suspect him over Charlotte any day.” Once again, he and I were on the same wavelength. Which felt wonderful. Especially when he applauded my investigation efforts so far, interjecting a few ideas of his own and promising to check into them. And I knew he’d do it. I trusted the guy, his professional skills, and his judgment.
“I wonder,” he said as we rinsed dishes and stacked them in his dishwasher, dogs prancing around as if hoping crumbs would miraculously appear on the floor. “I know Ned Noralles. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s coming down so hard on Charlotte because he suspects them both. Either she’ll crack, or Yul, guilty or not, will confess to save her. What do you think?”
I pondered for only a second before I said, “Maybe. But what if I’m right, and it’s neither of them?”
“You know Noralles, too. He’s a smart guy, but he takes the easy way whenever possible—whether or not it’s the real solution.”
“Then I’ll keep on helping Charlotte. You, too?”
He grinned as he closed the dishwasher door. “If you insist, boss.”
We didn’t solve the murder that night. Nor did I tell him everything about Jon Arlen’s treasure dilemma, though I related enough to tantalize him. “You’re not representing the guy,” Jeff said. “There’s no attorney-client privilege. Tell me more.”
“Only if you let me look in your client files. You’re not an attorney, after all.” And I was salivating about the possibility of sneaking a peek at the Philipe Pellera file.
“No, but I have my own brand of ethics,” Jeff said with a smile and a shrug. “You stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours. Professionally, I mean.”
“And nonprofessionally?”
He leaned down and locked lips with me till the dogs barked at us to break it up.
Though it was November and the days were growing shorter, we leashed up Lexie and Odin and let them lead us for their last outing of the evening, staying on the sidewalks of Jeff ’s flat neighborhood beneath the streetlights. Another advantage of moving in here, for in the hills around my house, cars too often zoomed around curves, streetlights were scarce, and sidewalks were utterly absent. And as a landlady who loved her leased-out house, I’d have to visit often to check on its upkeep anyway.
Heck, I was really thinking about this, wasn’t I?
And later that night, after Jeff and I had engaged in erotic exercise in his bedroom, I lay awake for a long while, listening to lots of heavy breathing from the two canines, and a sexy, bare-skinned P.I. I didn’t count sheep but reviewed, in my mind, a long list of pros and cons. Yes or no? Yes or . . .
I finally let my dreams take on the decision.
WHEN I AWOKE in the morning, I reached for Jeff. Or he reached for me. I wasn’t sure which, but the outcome was the same: another energetic session of steamy sex.
Which caused me to dash off for my pet-sitting rounds with a cup of coffee in my hands and no breakfast in my stomach. I’d grab something from a fast-food drive-through when I spotted one on my way. I left Lexie with Jeff, since Odin and she were having a blast bounding around his backyard together.
I found myself singing to my canine, feline, and even reptilian charges. Good thing none could hold their ears. But hey, they had to be happy that I was in one heck of a good mood. I was especially friendly—and a particularly soft touch when it came to adding a little something extra to their breakfasts.
Would moving in with Jeff make my moods so munificent all the time? I’d bet the pets I tended hoped to find out.
This wasn’t a Widget day, since it was a weekend. The active terrier pup had his owner at home to terrorize. That gave me a gap in the center of the day.
I found myself aiming the Beamer down the San Diego Freeway toward Palms. And then cruising the street where Chad had lived. Why? Hell if I knew. But I was pretty frustrated that I couldn’t just haul out some helpful facts and hand them to Noralles to get Charlotte off the hook. Maybe Yul, too.
So there I was, creeping along Chad’s street around noon on a Sunday, and I was just in time to see Trudi Norman exiting the apartment building where Chad had lived. She was followed by Chad’s former apartment mate, chief geek Dave Driscoll.
As I said, it was noonish. But was it my imagination, or were these two just greeting the day? Trudi, at least, was fully dressed, in a T-shirt and denim skirt. She turned to face Driscoll, who’d forgotten his shirt. His jeans were on, though they hung low over his hips. And though I parked in the nearest spot, which was a building away, I could tell the guy’s build, though definitely on the skinny side, wasn’t completely devoid of masculine muscle. How could I tell? Well, it helped that Trudi turned to him, ran fingers over his bare chest, then reached up to pull his head down for a big kiss.
Was this a case of two sad souls banding together in their grief over a mutual friend? Or had one of them decided that selfsame friend had been in the way of what was now, at least, becoming a beautiful relationship?
Perhaps there’d even been cause for both of them to divest themselves of the inconvenience of Chad.
Hmmm. They’d both been at Charlotte’s suspects party last night, so I wasn’t the only one who wondered at the possibilities of their being participants in Chad’s demise.
I’d not had them in my radar when I’d dived into research yesterday at Borden’s.
Next time, that’s exactly where they’d be.
WITH TRAFFIC TERRIBLE on the 405 for no apparent reason, I took the long way around to spend less time getting back. As I headed up the Hollywood Freeway over the Cahuenga Pass toward the Valley, I glanced toward the north and the area known as Lake Hollywood.
The home of Jon Arlen’s buried treasure.
Could I find a way to help the guy keep it? My legal research yesterday hadn’t yielded a lot of hope, so good thing I wasn’t about to regale him with lawyerly advice now. And even if I passed the ethics exam, I wouldn’t want to pass along the unhelpful material I’d unearthed about digging up such stuff.
Surely there was—
My cell phone rang. It was Jeff.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I told him. I also let slip the interesting scene I’d witnessed at Chad Chatsworth’s building.
“You want me to do a little extra digging into those two?” he asked me.
“Would you? Oh, Jeff, I’d really appreciate it.”
“You’ll pay for it, of course.”
“How?”
“Think about it.”
“Oh, I will,” I said, then hung up. A big grin was pasted on my face, with no one there to enjoy it but me. I’d get home to the guy as early as I could, even as I imagined coming home to him all the time—at least when he wasn’t on his trips out of town.
My phone rang again. I answered without peering at the caller ID. “You can’t have found anything interesting on them this fast,” I said. “Or are you just trying to make me uncomfortable as I drive?”
“Pardon?” shrilled an unfamiliar female voice. I stole a glance at my phone’s display. Nope, not Jeff ’s number.
“Sorry,” I said. “This is Kendra Ballantyne. To whom am I speaking?” I once again laid on my formal lawyer persona, even though I hadn’t practiced law for months.
“Ms. Ballantyne, my name is Marie Seidforth. Fran Korwald suggested that I call you. I have a problem . . .” Her voice trailed off, followed by a sound that could only have been a sob.
“Hello, Ms. Seidforth?” I finally said. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she finally wailed. “Please, help me.”
Chapter Nineteen
IGNORING THE FACT I still couldn’t give legal advice, the timing couldn’t have been better.
I mean, unlike on the San Diego Freeway, the drive north to Valencia on a Sunday afternoon was virtually traffic-free. Plus, I was between morning and afternoon pet visits, so I had time to head there. In only half an hour, I pulled up to the guardhouse of the gated community where Marie Seidforth lived. I gave the guard my name and Marie’s, and waited while he called to inquire whether I was an invited guest.
Soon the gate’s arm lifted and I was signaled inside. “Two streets down and to the left,” the guard instructed. “Poppy Place, number ten.”
Good thing the houses were numbered, since there seemed to be only two or three housing plans in this development, all in earth tones with red tiled roofs. The streets were spotless, the yards small and landscaped, a pretty place if one was into cookie-cutter living.
I parked in front of number 10 and headed up its short walk. At a movement in my vision’s periphery, I turned to see someone staring out the front window of the house next door.
I’d recalled what Fran Korwald and Jon Arlen had told me about their friend Marie. This gated community was governed by a homeowners’ association, and one member was giving Marie grief about the number of boxers she owned.
When I rang the doorbell, I was bombarded by barks from inside. Though the noise was muted by the house’s walls, the sound still carried. If I lived next door and was a dog-hater, I might complain, too. Then again, I couldn’t imagine myself ever despising dogs.
The woman who answered held one dog’s collar and did a dance to keep the others behind the open portal. “Come in, Kendra,” she said in a long-suffering tone that suggested this display of canine chaos was not uncommon.
I squeezed in and closed the door behind me, only then letting myself be rushed by a crush of tan and brindle boxer bodies. Fortunately, they all seemed friendly, wanting to sniff and lick me rather than nip off a limb or two.
“Let’s go in here,” Marie said. She was a slight woman, perhaps too small to be keeping these moderate-sized dogs. Her yellow shirt was man-tailored and tucked into brown slacks. She waved me into what looked like a living room, with a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table, surrounded by a variety of fluffy corduroy pillows that must have been doggy beds. The aroma suggested that accidents sometimes occurred and were cleaned up with citrus-smelling stuff.
I sat on an upholstered chair, only to have a boxer leap onto my lap. I was used to that with Lexie, but Cavaliers generally weigh less than twenty pounds. Boxers are a lot bigger—sixty pounds at least, I figured.
“Down, Manny,” Marie commanded. “I like to name them after California beach communities,” she said to me.
“Manny as in Manhattan Beach?” I asked.
“That’s right.” She leaned back on the sofa, waited until three blunt-muzzled boxers draped themselves over her, then sighed. She was blunt-muzzled, too, with jowls that sagged not unlike her dogs’. “I’m not sure what Fran told you, but in any event it’s gotten worse. There’s going to be a homeowners’ association meeting in a few weeks, and I’ll to be told either to get rid of my babies or to move. I can’t afford to move. So . . .” Tears erupted from her eyes. “But how can I get rid of my dogs? They’re my family.”
“Is there a rule against having pets in the covenants, conditions, and restrictions recorded against the property in this community?” I asked gently.
“No, but there’s a limit on the number of dogs in any one house,” she replied.
“How many?”
“Two.”
Seven surrounded us in this room. “Is this all of them?” I asked.
“No.” She sighed again. “Vennie had a litter of five puppies a few weeks ago. They’re all in the kitchen.”
“Vennie for Venice?” I asked, as if that was relevant to the issue.
“Ventura.”
“And are you going to place the puppies in other homes?”
“Most, but I wanted to keep one.”
“I see.” My turn for a sigh. “Marie, did Fran tell you that, though I’m a lawyer, I can’t give legal advice right now?”
“Sure.” As with Jon Arlen, she admitted that Fran had told her about my problems. She’d also read some about them in the news. “You were cleared of doing anything wrong, right?”
“Right.” As I’d done often lately, I explained I still needed a passing score on the ethics exam I’d taken two days before. “It’ll be weeks before I hear if I’ll be reinstated. And you probably don’t have weeks.”
“No,” she said sadly, sniffling. The sound must have galvanized her boxers to action, since those surrounding her stirred, and the brindle one on her lap stretched up enough to lick her cheek. “Thank you, Seal,” she said.
Seal Beach, I ticked off in my mind.
“Fran also told me that you helped her in a way that didn’t require a law license. You came up with a brilliant scheme that helped her outwit that awful ex of hers.”
“I don’t know how brilliant it was,” I murmured modestly, “but it did the trick.”
“I’ll say. And now I need something like that to get my miserable next-door neighbor off my case. She’s stirring up the entire association. She’s made it clear she wants to be elected president next year, so she needs an issue to get attention. I’m just unlucky enough to be it.”
“What does she complain about?” I asked. Barking, I figured. The yard looked clean, at least from the front, so I didn’t bet on doggie piles as being the subject of her protests.
“Well, they are a little noisy sometimes when they’re in the yard, being watchdogs. But that’s true of all dogs. Best I can tell, she just is a stickler for following all rules exactly, even if there’s no harm done by violating them.”
“Does she have any pets?”