I’d never been there before. And I wanted never to go there again—after I’d exited the front building and followed, beside Darryl, the path of painted paws along the driveway toward the long metal warehouse containing the dog kennels. As members of the public wanting access to a building behind the main shelter, we had to walk the woeful gauntlet of captive canines. Some seemed blasé behind their chain-link barriers, lying on the concrete floor with hardly a roll of their sleepy eyes as we passed. Others sat at attention, wagging and woofing as if begging, “You’d love me if you got to know me. Get me out of here!”
There were even a couple of litters of little puppies. The impound forms fastened to the fronts of their enclosure stated they were unweaned, and their mothers, incarcerated along with them, were noted as lactating.
“They’re so cute,” I whispered to Darryl.
I noticed that my skinny, soft-hearted buddy was striding with his eyes full front, as if he wore a set of blinders. “Yeah,” he said, his voice as sorrowful as I felt.
Not that I had any sense of mistreatment here. Each enclosure even had an opening to its own area outdoors. But all those poor, lonely pups, praying for a good home . . .
Think of Lexie,
I reminded myself.
And the size of our apartment. And—
Somehow Darryl and I made it to the end and through the doors, into a smaller area with desks and stacked cages on the concrete floor, and a few rooms opening out of it. One was the cat corral, in which kitties of all persuasions were layered in crates laid side by side and piled several high. It smelled riper than the doggy haven, but that could be because the room was smaller and didn’t have the access—and commensurate ventilation—to the outside world that the canine area did.
“Can I help you?” asked a pleasant-faced man wearing one of the charcoal-and-blue-striped shirts of the shelter’s staff.
We’d already checked in at the front area to explain our errand, and the attendant we’d spoken with had phoned someone back here. “We’re here to see the ferrets,” I told him.
“Oh, yes. Come this way.” He led us out the back door and up some stairs into the next building.
What I saw surprised me—and that was even before I found the ferrets.
“Yul!” I exclaimed to the hulking hunk who stood at one side of the room, gazing into one of the stacked cages.
He turned to look at me. “Hi, Kendra,” he said.
He wasn’t alone. As we approached, I noticed the animal control officer who stood by his side—golden-skinned, Polynesian-featured, a badge on his khaki shirt. His name tag read KAALANA. The guy who’d walked us over here said something to him, then left. Our custody was now Kaalana’s charge.
I introduced Darryl to Yul, then asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,” he said in his basic brief-speeched style.
“He’s here nearly every day at this time,” Officer Kaalana confirmed. “And your reason for being here?”
“Visiting, too,” I said. I didn’t want to explain that I was Yul’s landlady, which might imply, by my presence and interest, that I’d bought into his keeping illegal pets. “I was worried about the ferrets. Being by themselves, I mean. Whether they were lonesome.” And how they were being treated, though I didn’t say that. “I didn’t realize Yul came to see them, too.”
I faced their cage. Cages, actually. They were housed in two matching crates with solid plastic sides and metal grate fronts. The long, furry ferrets seemed to have adequate room, though they didn’t look as comfortable as they had at home.
Two of those impound forms I’d seen on the dog enclosures were on the fronts of each double-occupancy cage. They had ID numbers, the kind of creatures they were—ferrets—and even their names, probably supplied to the shelter by Yul: Hamlet. Macbeth. Juliet. Regan. Ophelia.
I had no prior idea that their monikers were Shakespearean. Was Yul fond of the Elizabethan bard? Maybe his sensibilities ran deeper than his appearance suggested.
The kind of impound was noted on each form: OTC. Over the counter? And then there were the stamped signs on each. USE CAUTION. Because these ferrets had tasted human flesh? PERSONAL PROPERTY. They all belonged to Yul.
And most telling of all: EVIDENCE.
Which was better than stamping them as MURDER SUSPECTS.
“It looks as if they’re being well treated,” I ventured, watching Yul’s reaction.
His dark eyes grew even darker. “Yeah. I guess.”
“If there’s anything you think needs to be done differently, feel free to tell the staff,” Officer Kaalana said smoothly. “They’re not too used to taking care of ferrets. When we get custody of any, we usually call a ferret rescue organization immediately, but this situation is different. They’re evidence.”
“How long can you keep them here like this?” Darryl asked. He stood close to one of the cages, and the two occupants had their long little snouts pushed up to the bars as if they recognized an animal lover when they saw one.
“Till we’re told otherwise by the court,” the officer said.
“But the coroner’s report said the crime they’re accused of was committed by a human,” I blurted. “Aren’t they ready to be released yet?”
“Not as far as I’m aware.”
“Why not?” Yul interjected. He turned angrily toward the officer, who stared coolly back at him.
“I won’t be the one to make the decision,” Kaalana said. “Personally, I like the little critters.” He gave a wide grin toward the cages, but quickly turned back toward Yul. “But like I’ve told you before, Mr. Silva, they were impounded at a crime scene. If the court says we have to turn them over for humane euthanizing”—that ridiculously oxy-moronic term again—“then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Not if I can help it,” stormed Yul.
“Which is why you’re always accompanied while you’re here.” Kaalana turned toward Darryl and me. “The shelter has had people try to steal back their dogs who’ve been picked up for attacking neighbors. That’s not something we’re inclined to allow, especially when an animal could be dangerous.”
“But they’re not.” Yul’s tone had turned pleading, and he looked at Darryl and me.
This wasn’t the time to get into my own investigation into who did what to Chad. All I could say to Yul was, “I agree. And we’ll do all we can to clear them, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” But Yul had turned glum again, and his back was toward us as he bent to talk to his little weaselly buds.
Like the dogs we’d passed before, the ferrets seemed to beg for release, for they began issuing shrill little sounds, though less frantic than I’d heard in my home after the Hummer hit.
I wished I could help them. I wished I could help the slumping Yul.
Officer Kaalana walked Darryl and me to the door of the building. “I feel for the guy,” he told us. “The ferrets, too.” He shrugged his khaki-clad shoulders. “But what can you do?”
His question was rhetorical, so I didn’t respond. “Thanks,” I told him as we left, though I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for.
This time, I took Darryl’s hand as we strode through the dog-filled shelter, needing his moral support.
“That was rough,” he growled after we’d both climbed into his van.
“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “And now I’m even more confused.”
“Why?” he asked, his brown eyes especially somber behind his wire-rims.
“I’d hoped to clear Charlotte by finding out who really did kill Chad. I’d nearly talked myself out of suspecting Yul, but half hoped I’d learn something here to prove he did it after all. I’d already doubted he’d try to frame the ferrets except as a last resort. And now that I know he cares about them enough to visit them in their incarceration every day, I’m positive he’d do nothing to point the police toward them.”
“So?” Darryl said.
“So now I’m totally convinced it wasn’t Yul, and I sure don’t think it was Charlotte. Who the hell killed Chad?”
Chapter Twenty-three
I DIDN’T SAY much to Darryl on the ride back to his place. Didn’t have to. Driving his large Doggy Indulgence van with one hand on the wheel and gesturing with the other, he talked enough for both of us. That signified that my good friend Darryl had inverted into a demonstrably good mood.
What I didn’t know was why. Not after that enervating visit. I, for one, felt exhausted.
“Have you talked more with Marie Seidforth?” Darryl asked.
Marie . . . ? Oh, the boxer lady boxed in by her community association’s rules. “No,” I said guiltily. “But I will. Her question’s essentially a legal one. If I had my license back—”
“You helped Fran Korwald with an issue that could have been decided in the courts instead,” Darryl reminded me unnecessarily.
“Right,” I agreed. “And I’ll try to help Marie, too.”
“And Jon Arlen? Have you fixed his treasure hunt problem?”
“No, though I’m really intrigued and have been doing research whenever I can.” I understood why the guy didn’t want his snotty neighbor to benefit from his finding the cache of antique Spanish booty—even though it was on her property. The easy answer was to go all Solomon and split the baby, but Jon had indicated that he doubted the bitch next door would bite at that solution. She’d want it all.
So did he.
Something—or someone—had to change. And then there were all the extra complications that could occur . . .
“I’m hoping he can hold out till I get my license back,” I said. “Assuming that’s only another three weeks away.”
“It will be. Meantime, anything you can do to help him?”
“I’m working on it.” I’d even made one of my inevitable lists, throwing in research ideas relating to everything from real property issues to old Spanish land grants and off-shore salvages of treasure troves from sunken ships. So far I’d done more listing than researching, but I now had extra time in the evenings to dive into it, at least when I wasn’t stepping over to Charlotte’s for her latest soiree.
I wasn’t, after all, keeping company with Jeff Formerly-Married-and-Murky-About-It Hubbard.
I glanced around to see if I recognized any nearby vehicles, as Darryl nosed his van into the Doggy Indulgence parking lot. The movement threw me off balance, even though I was wearing a seat belt, and my elbow hit the door.
“Ouch!” I cried.
“You okay?” Darryl said as he turned off the engine.
“I will be when the pain stops,” I told him through gritted teeth. I looked up from where I’d been ogling my dented funny bone . . . in time to see a white car that had looked as if it was ready to follow the van into the lot speed up and hurtle down Ventura Boulevard.
“Hmmm,” I grumbled.
“ ‘Hmmm’ what?” responded Darryl.
“Did you see that car?”
“What car?”
“Obviously not. Then you don’t know if it was following us as you drove back here?”
“No,” Darryl said, “I don’t.” But he knew better than anyone how my mind maneuvered around matters real or imagined. “Look, Kendra, you’re justifiably nervous after that phone call. Not to mention that you ignored it and went to the animal shelter to see Yul and his ferrets.”
“Just the ferrets,” I reminded Darryl. “I didn’t expect Yul to be there.”
“The point is, after being warned not to nose further into the Chatsworth murder, you still went somewhere related to it and dug in.” He turned to me. “Whether we were followed or not, maybe you’d better butt out this time, Kendra, and let the police handle it. You’re not even really involved now, like you were when you were a murder suspect.”
“I know.” I sighed as I unfastened my seat belt. “But I hate to think of anyone else going through what I did.”
“Yeah, but this time you could be putting yourself in danger.”
“I don’t know for sure if we were followed,” I allowed as I opened the van door, then turned back to Darryl. He unhitched his seat belt. “It could have been my imagination. But just because I may be paranoid—”
“Doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you,” he finished with a smile that wasn’t at all humorous, then shoved open his van door.
DESPITE LEXIE’S BEING in the midst of a great game of doggy tag, she seemed glad to see me. Even so, I decided to let her stay there and play while I headed to Borden Yurick’s new digs to knock around with his computer and indulge in legal research on Jon Arden’s behalf. And while I was at it, I’d look into community association law for Marie Seidforth.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a voice from the doorway of the empty office I’d usurped. I’d been at it for over an hour, and my eyes were crossing from lack of a break, so I was happy for the interruption.
It was Borden. “How’s the legal business?” I asked.
“Growing,” he growled. And a growl from the generally good-natured Borden was as surprising as a smile on a hungry grizzly.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked. I’d swiveled in my desk chair—rather,
his
desk chair—to watch his slight frame, again clad in a Hawaiian shirt and light pants, slide inside the cubicle and lean against the desk.
“But I left that miserable Marden place so I could have fun practicing law. Taking my clients with me was only fair, but I didn’t think I’d have to work so hard keeping them happy.” He ran a hand through his unkempt silvery hair as if the answer to his problems could be swept through his fingers. His bifocaled gaze alighted on me. “When do you get your law license back?”
Unease skulked through me. I liked Borden. A lot. But if he was about to offer me a job, I was about to refuse it. Whatever would come next in my life, I didn’t want to segue straight into a law practice like my prior job.
“It’s still weeks away,” I said in a voice that emphasized my actual regret about that fact.
“Well, we can talk later,” he said.
“Right. Well, for now, I have to run. I have dogs waiting for walks and dinners.”
“Of course. How enjoyable that sounds, Kendra.” He sighed. “Take me with you.”