Startled, I met his wizened gaze, only to see him wink. I grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll convey your regards to my charges—before I clean up their normal little surprises of the day. Most are housebroken, but then there are those delightful few . . .”
“Have fun, my friend.” He hastily left the cubicle I’d commandeered with a little wave.
I didn’t stay much longer, though I spent a few minutes jawing on gossip with Borden’s gregarious receptionist, Mignon.
I’d found some interesting stuff online, mostly relating to property ownership and such, to add to what I’d already learned on Jon Arlen’s behalf. Some intersected with material I had researched for Marie Seidforth, who owned her home in the association-encumbered development.
Too bad I could offer neither legal advice.
Yet.
I finished my rounds as efficiently as I could, including a stop at my new client Harold Reddingam’s house, where I got only the barest glimpse of his supposedly sociable cats.
I’d headed for Darryl’s, picked up a worn-out Lexie, and aimed the Beamer for home when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and almost swerved. Jeff Hubbard’s number shone up at me. I considered letting the call roll into voice mail.
Better yet, let him roll into a nice, big vat of—
Now, now, I admonished myself. I was bigger than that. As graciously as if I’d felt gifted by his call, I popped open my phone and said, “Well, hello, Jeff.”
“I need you, Kendra,” he said. “Fast. Please, can you come over to my place now.”
MY PRURIENT FANTASIES fled as soon as I got to Jeff ’s.
Fortunately, his dear Amanda was absent.
Unfortunately, what he needed me for was to watch Odin for the next week while he skipped town on an emergency assignment.
“I’d have called someone else if I knew anyone who could do as good a job as you,” he said with a placating grin as I watched him pack. We were in his bedroom, and he wore a tight black T-shirt and jeans. Both of those particulars, under other circumstances, would have resurrected my most libidinous ideas, especially the way the snug stuff hugged him in the right spots as he moved. “When I get back, we’ll spend some time together. Talk over this situation. I want you to understand exactly what’s up between Amanda and me.”
“Then there’s still something between you?” I asked sweetly, seething inside. “Something
up
?” As if it was any of my concern. I stood at the window with arms folded, trying to look cool as I peered into the backyard and watched our canines cavort.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Not like that, but . . . Like I said, she needs me. She’s being stalked.”
“What’s she doing while you’re out of town on this rush assignment?”
“She’s with her parents for now. They live way out near Bakersfield.”
So why couldn’t she have done that before to get out of her stalker’s line of sight, instead of burdening her ex-husband?
“Since her stalker is one of her ex-boyfriends,” he continued, “I referred her to a lawyer I know who can get a temporary restraining order fast, then follow it up by an injunction against the guy contacting her.”
“Is the lawyer anyone
I
know?” Why was I feeling extra irritation over the fact he hadn’t even phoned me for a referral? I knew lots of good lawyers who could handle that kind of case, even though I myself couldn’t for at least the next three weeks and one day . . .
“You might know him.” But the lawyer’s name wasn’t familiar. Not that it really mattered.
“You know, of course, that someone set on stalking is likely to ignore both a TRO and an injunction.”
“Of course. But if so, I can get the cops’ attention to pick the guy up for ignoring them.”
He didn’t say
she
—Amanda—could get the cops’ attention, but
he
could. Damn.
But what difference did it make? We weren’t in a committed relationship, let alone a cohabiting one. And the fact he’d been married in the past? What did it actually matter?
I only knew it did.
“Great idea,” I responded as perkily as a skillful sales-person intent on impressing a recalcitrant customer. “And what if I told you I’d received a threatening phone call?”
Where had that come from? I hadn’t intended to reveal it to Jeff at all, let alone now when he couldn’t do a thing about it.
It wasn’t as if I, like his ex-wife, really wanted his expert opinion. Was it?
In seconds, he stood in front of me. His hands gripped my shoulders. His blue eyes turned into squinting pools of pugnacious male power as he demanded, “Did you?”
“Did I what?” I asked innocently.
He wasn’t buying it. “Come off it, Kendra. Did someone threaten you or not?”
“Well, kinda.” I was much too aware of the clasp of his fingers on my upper arm. Their grip was causing a chain reaction inside my body that suggested that we hadn’t had sex for several days, so how about now . . . No way! “Yes,” I finished, pulling forcefully away. “I was told to stay out of the Chad Chatsworth investigation, but that only made me want even more to figure out what happened. Maybe when you get back, I’ll take my dog-sitting services out in trade.”
I stopped for a second as I saw his expression segue into the lust I’d felt a short while before.
“My expert pet-sitting for your expert investigation services,” I clarified.
“Right,” he said. “Assuming you’re alive when I get back. Kendra, didn’t you learn your lesson before?”
“Sure did,” I said. “Danger’s a good aphrodisiac.” Oops. Judging by his even hotter gaze, I was really playing with fire. “What I mean is that a little danger went a long way. When I was the one being framed, I even caught the perpetrator and cleared myself. And now, I’m just trying to help Charlotte.”
“We’ll talk way before I get back,” Jeff said. “I’ll call you while I’m gone.”
But just then, he only had time to pat Odin and Lexie goodbye and head for the airport.
Except that he took just enough time out to grab me into those strong P.I. arms of his and give me a kiss I wouldn’t forget while he was gone.
I wondered whether he’d said his farewells to his ex-wife the same way.
Chapter Twenty-four
TIME TRAVELED ON. So did I, in the Beamer. Right now, I’d aimed it toward Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale. No Lexie with me at the moment. I didn’t think dogs were encouraged to attend the memorial park. Besides, she would probably get bored.
It was Sunday. Several days had passed while Jeff was away, and Lexie, Odin, and I had enjoyed relatively uneventful housemate status. I’d received no more nasty phone calls, no sense of some white car dogging the Beamer’s tail. I didn’t even do much digging into Chad Chatsworth’s demise.
Not that my mind stayed away from that particular mess. If Charlotte didn’t do it, and neither did Yul, then who? Certainly not those Shakespearean ferrets.
I’d pondered that question a lot as I drove between pet places all weekend. My next opportunity to test my suppositions and suspicions would occur in approximately half an hour.
At Chad’s local memorial service.
Trudi Norman, the girl he’d schemed with and who’d followed him here—now nearest to the top of my suspect list—had planned this little commemoration of Chad’s life, or so Charlotte had told me when she’d informed me of the upcoming event. Then, Trudi was to accompany his body home, where it would be interred.
I recalled that she’d once worked for her father in his nursery business in Nebraska. So had Chad. Would he therefore be planted by . . . ? No, I decided not to go there.
Instead, I turned onto Barham Boulevard, and soon began the curving descent toward Forest Lawn Drive. The Beamer’s windshield wipers, on full throttle, barely kept up with the downpour. Water ran in rapids down the sides of the street. L.A. didn’t do well in the drainage department. Despite the fact there was a rainy season every year—some rainier than others—apparently the Department of Public Works hadn’t figured out how to design a sewer system to keep up with the typical annual flow.
At the bottom of the hill I made a right turn and kept going. Till I hit the traffic jam. It appeared that all of L.A. had decided to come this way today. Because of Chad? Couldn’t be.
Only I had to eat those words when I finally got to pull into the Forest Lawn entry. Somberly dressed attendants under black umbrellas halted all cars. The young man who spoke with me nodded knowingly as I rolled down the window and let the rain in. “Are you here for Mr. Chatsworth’s memorial, ma’am?”
Ma’am?
I’d dressed in black for the occasion, but I didn’t look that old. Did I?
No use telling the polished and professional funeral person that his polite greeting had insulted me. “Yes,” I replied brusquely.
He pointed up the hill—behind a long line of other vehicles. “The Wee Kirk o’ the Heather Church. You may park along the street.”
“Thanks.”
The wee kirk actually looked like an old-fashioned small-town church, with beige stone walls, a steeply sloped slate roof, and a bell tower in front. Lots of people lined up on the walkway, umbrellas open, as they waited to get in. I joined them, recognizing quite a few beneath the mobile canopies—everyone from my neighbors to attendees of Charlotte’s parties.
I finally reached the door, closed my umbrella, and slipped inside. The place was quite pretty, with wooden beams connecting the vaulted ceilings, and lights dangling from rafters and glowing in sconces along the walls. Behind the altar at the far end of the church there was a lovely stained-glass window.
Not a bad spot to commune with one’s Higher Power while celebrating the life of a guy who’d gone calling on his first. Assuming one could find one’s way through the onlookers.
Caught in the stream of people, I felt myself being swept toward the front—not a good place to be if I wanted to watch the mourners and scan for two-faces and crocodile tears. I sidestepped into the closest of the polished wooden pews and looked around.
Spotting someone I thought might be handy to sit with, I braved the wave of people and slipped a few rows back, trying not to dampen any seats with my dripping umbrella.
“Hello, Detective Noralles,” I said. “I’d always heard it was a good idea for the authorities to be present at a crime victim’s funeral, since the guilty party often attends, too.”
“You heard right, Ms. Ballantyne.” His smile was wry, and then his gaze started sweeping again over the people pouring in.
“Call me Kendra. After all we’ve been through together, I’d say we know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis.”
He didn’t miss a beat or stop his scrutiny. “Right. You can call me ‘Detective.’”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Not the most polite thing to do at a memorial. I put a lid on myself fast. “Okay, Detective Ned. I’ve got a question for you.”
His lack of response didn’t deter me.
“I’ve heard that Trudi Norman will be taking Chad’s body home for burial. Is it wise to let her out of your jurisdiction? I mean, I have to assume she’s on your suspect list.”
“Not that it’s your concern, Kendra, but we know where she’s going. And that she’ll be back.”
“Really?” That surprised me. “Why?”
“Because she’s inherited Chad’s interest in his reality TV show development ideas.”
I wasn’t astounded by the concept, but I’d have been flabbergasted if Noralles had been that forthcoming. The voice that spilled the info didn’t belong to the detective. It was Tilla Thomason’s, and the shrill tone shot the same kind of pain through my head that I get from taking a drink of something too cold.
The detective turned to see who’d spoken. His brown eyes looked as chilly as that same kind of uncomfortable drink. “And you are—?” he said to Tilla.
She introduced herself and her husband, Hal, behind her. “I recognize you,” she finished. “You weren’t the police officer who interviewed us, but I know you’re looking into what happened to poor Chad. Right on our street. Terrible.”
Noralles swiveled toward me and asked, “The Thomasons are your neighbors?”
I nodded. My back was to them, and I rolled my eyes, signifying I’d disown them if I could.
“Where did you get your information, Ms. Thomason?” Noralles asked.
“Oh, it’s what everyone’s saying,” she said.
Before he could ask who “everyone” was, Tilla pushed closer to me as she moved down the pew to admit a few more of our neighbors. Just in time, for the organ music that had been playing a quiet dirge suddenly perked up into something louder to capture the congregants’ attention. A minister stepped up to the microphone on the altar. Asian in appearance, he looked about the age Chad had been—late twenties—and he was nearly as good-looking as the guys who came to Charlotte’s parties.
I wondered idly if he was an actor playing the role of a man of the kirk. He introduced himself as Reverend Lee.
The good thing was, he spoke of Chad as if he really had known the guy. Maybe he had, for he said he usually officiated at services at a church in Palms, the area where Chad had lived.
His part in the service was short. After describing what an extraordinary young man Chad had been, how he’d been cut down in the prime of his life and would never realize all his far-reaching goals, the reverend ceded his place on the pulpit to Trudi Norman. She wore a short black dress with long sleeves. Tearfully, she related how honored she’d been to grow up with Chad, how much she’d loved him and wanted to marry him, but had known he had to follow his dreams, and so she had followed
him.
And now she would take him home . . . and return to achieve all those dreams in Chad’s name.
Apparently Tilla’s sources hadn’t been whistling “Hooray for Hollywood.”
After finishing her tribute, Trudi headed back to her seat between Dave Driscoll and Philipe Pellera. I’d assumed her chief comforter would be Dave, but it was Philipe who stood, handed her a handkerchief, and hugged her before she sat down.