Then that single-minded detective wouldn’t be able to ignore that there were a lot more suspects in Chad Chatsworth’s murder than Charlotte, Yul, and five little ferrets.
“What exactly was this wonderful idea Chad had for a reality show, Philipe?” I suddenly blurted, knowing that I was giving away that I had not been part of Chad’s plan. “His best one. The one that you’re all working on now?”
“He didn’t tell you? Well, I will hint without giving it away. But imagine people who are famous, or who have been made famous by circumstance whether they wanted it or not, brought together to compete in a game in which winner takes all.” He grinned at me, then slid into his car and started the engine, not looking at me again.
I stood there and stared as he pulled away. I still didn’t know what Chad’s surefire super idea, culled from his list of possibilities, had been.
But I did know one thing: Philipe Pellera, still involved and paid in advance, might have gained a lot more from not having Chad around.
Did that mean he’d murdered Chad for it?
THE NEXT ODDITY? Well, I was pondering my conversation with Philipe as I drove from the cemetery and headed toward the Valley. I went through Burbank, since it was on the way and I needed a caffeine fix. I aimed for a Starbucks in the Empire Center.
I slowed as I saw a familiar car parked along the side of Victory Boulevard. A sports model, on the expensive side, though not as snazzy as Philipe’s. The one usually parked underneath me as I slept over the garage.
Yul’s.
We weren’t far from Forest Lawn, so it was no huge surprise to see him. Since I’d talked neither to Charlotte nor Yul after the memorial service, though, this seemed an opportune time to compare notes. Had they seen anything—or anyone—there that stirred their suspicions in Chad’s murder? Of course we could chat later, but our suppositions would be fresher now.
I pulled past him and braked the Beamer, aiming it into the nearest parking space. I headed back along the partially dry sidewalk toward Yul.
And saw that he was alone in his car. No Charlotte? I’d figured she’d need Yul’s emotional support after such a sad experience at the memorial. Besides, how was she getting home?
Well, that I could learn later. Right now, I had something else on my mind. I walked slowly in the shadows, near the storefront, as I watched Yul.
No longer clad in coat and tie, he talked animatedly on his cell phone. Not just listening. Not just blurting out a word or two. But actually chattering, or so it seemed. His mouth was moving. The hand not holding the phone was, too. It waved at the end of his long arm along which he’d rolled up the sleeve of his dressy white shirt. His facial expressions also punctuated whatever he prattled about—dirty blond brows alternately arcing and lowering, mouth baring teeth, then frowning.
In other words, Yul looked alive.
Hmmm. I didn’t really know him, of course, but I thought I’d had him pegged. Rather, he had Charlotte pegged, as her gorgeous, silent gigolo.
What had gotten him talking?
And if he talked this much while alone, why didn’t he when people were around?
Maybe I didn’t know him at all.
But I would. I’d figured the none-too-intelligent ferret lover nearly as much of a framee as his lover Charlotte. His apparent change in character didn’t mean he wasn’t.
Yet not long ago Charlotte had been frightened because Noralles had found some potentially incriminating evidence in an anonymously mailed envelope, including a copy of the note that threatened her reality show reject. It also contained descriptions devised by Charlotte about her own new reality show ideas. Charlotte didn’t know how anyone else could have gotten the package’s contents.
Yul could have, of course. What if he had been in cahoots with Chad, behind Charlotte’s back? What if he had shared his ladylove’s latest reality show ideas with the guy she’d rejected—instead of getting that same reject to cough up his ideas for Yul to relay to Charlotte? Chad could have threatened to blackmail him, and—
I laughed a little at myself as I stealthily returned to my car. All this speculation, a shifting of my suspicions back onto Yul, just because this guy I’d concluded was innocent was speaking on a cell phone?
I was probably way off base. And yet, this latest oddity niggled nastily at the most suspicious synapses in my brain.
I’d already planned to spend more time on Borden Yurick’s computers doing research. Googling I could do at home. But now, I intended, on the more sophisticated databases, to look up every iota of dope on everyone I thought could have killed Chad, to root out anything unusual in their backgrounds. The cops had probably already undertaken such a search. My turn, now.
And the first person I’d dig into would be Yul.
BUT NOT TODAY. After the memorial, I had to get busy seeing to my many pet charges. Since it was Sunday, I didn’t have to worry about Widget. Though romping with the rambunctious terrier wasn’t on my agenda, more than half a dozen dogs and cats, including Harold Reddingam’s friendly felines Abra and Cadabra, awaited my attention. So did Pansy, the adorable pig, though Avvie would be home later that night. At least Milt Abadim had gotten home, so I no longer had to check on my pal Py the python.
Eventually, I was ready to head home. Or at least my temporary home-away-from-home. The place I’d been invited romantically to move into permanently.
Until I’d learned of Jeff Hubbard’s perfidy.
I sighed as I headed the Beamer back through the Valley. Maybe I really had overreacted. Ex meant ex, as far as I knew. And if the experience had been unmemorable, maybe Jeff wouldn’t have thought to mention it. Or maybe it had been too horribly memorable for him to talk of.
But either way, why was he helping dear Amanda to deal with her stalker?
Too much cogitation made my mind spin. I’d shelve the subject for now. After all, with Jeff out of town, I didn’t have to consider his offer, or him, except to take good care of Odin and his house.
I’d nearly gotten to Jeff’s when I recalled I had forgotten some files at home, stuff on my Chad Chatsworth investigation. I could get them tomorrow, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t sleep well tonight. Not after my discussion with Philipe, my spying on Yul, my fretting about Jeff, and mostly, my consideration of Chad’s memorial, and the many potential murder suspects there. Maybe sifting through notes that so far led nowhere would be soporific enough to let me doze.
Mentally sending a message to Lexie and Odin that I’d be there soon, I had the Beamer bear right, toward the hills.
At my place, I used the electronic eye to open the gate. There was no sign of any other car—neither Charlotte’s nor Yul’s. Evidently they’d driven separately to Chad’s service. Where were they now? Not my business. But at least this day of mourning Chad hadn’t been Charlotte’s cue to toss another shindig.
I parked in my usual spot beside the garage, then headed for the wooden stairway to my upstairs apartment.
Since I was in a hurry, I started quickly up the stairs. But as I stepped on the third step—or was it the fourth?—my feet slithered out from under me.
I grabbed frantically for the handrail. Got it!
Only as I tautened my hold, the railing was slick and slimy beneath my hand. In no way did my action steady me.
Instead, I tumbled headlong back down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-six
PITCHING BACKWARD, I shoved out my hands, snatching at whatever, wildly attempting to break my fall.
Except there was nothing to grasp but humid and useless November air.
I smashed hard onto the pavement and felt as if I broke something, all right. Not the fall, but a bone. Or two. In my butt. Maybe my arm.
Pain slammed through me. I may have screamed. I wasn’t sure, though I heard something shrill.
I sat there, stunned. Waiting for the agony to ebb enough for me to stand and assess the damage. Only I couldn’t stand just then. Nor did the pain abate, not for a long while.
I half lay, half sat, immobile in the shadows of the late fall evening. The light at the top of the stairs came on as dusk grew to dark.
The hardness of the driveway spread unyielding beneath me. No one came to see what was wrong. Charlotte and Yul apparently were absent. Only a minimal number of lights were on in the house, probably those set on a timer to suggest to the stupidest thieves that someone was home. No neighbor was close enough to mark anything amiss over here, except maybe Phil Ashler. But no windows in his house across the street spied directly at my garage, even had he been home staring out.
My teeth started to chatter, though the throbbing mess that was my body began to stop hurting so badly. A sign of shock? I breathed deeply and forced myself to cease shivering.
I glanced around to see if my purse was within reach, considering whether to call 911. What, and let the world know that klutzy Kendra Ballantyne couldn’t even climb her own stairs without falling flat on her fanny?
Shame suddenly outshone the pain. Instead, I assessed the damage. My butt ached and would doubtless be bruised, but where I’d landed had been padding, not bone. It would be okay.
And the hand that had hit nearly simultaneously, and the arm to which it was attached? I was a little less sure whether they’d suffered damage. When I tried to bend both, they hurt, but not enough to make me scream.
Still, I remained there for a few moments longer before carefully turning to rise to my hands and knees.
Which was when I realized the driveway was dry beneath me.
It had been raining earlier, when I’d been at Chad’s service. The sky had wept in a dreary drizzle later, too. But not for a few hours—I hadn’t had to dry doggy paws when I walked my canine clients.
So how, then, had my steps stayed so wet? My hands, too, now, as well as my dressy dark slacks that I hadn’t bothered to change all day?
The dampness I felt from fingers to feet was slick, even oily.
Oily?
Carefully, I stood and stumbled toward my stairway. Its wood shone, reflecting the sheen of the dim outside lights. I touched it.
No way had this slippery sliminess fallen from the heavens. No, someone had slathered it onto the steps and handrail, to ensure that anyone climbing up would lose traction and tumble down. Just as I’d done. And who else besides me would be expected to scale this stairway this night? Lexie? Maybe, but the texture of doggie paws would cope with the oil without causing a canine catastrophe.
No, this skullduggery was deliberate and not intended to injure a dog.
It had been planned particularly for me.
“NO HOMICIDES HERE tonight, Detective Ned,” I said to the most familiar of the cops who’d shown up after my 911 call. “So why are you here?” I sat in the driver’s seat of the Beamer, the door open. The first cops to arrive had set up floodlights and had begun to conduct a crime scene investigation.
Did greased wood collect fingerprints?
“I recognized the address.” Noralles stared down at me with what looked like sympathy in his dark, usually expressionless eyes. I wondered fleetingly if this African-American flatfoot ever went off duty. Or whether he slept in his inevitable dark suits. He’d probably been wearing the same one earlier, at Chad’s service. “And I gathered this could be an attempted homicide.” He nodded toward where guys from the L.A.P.D.’s Scientific Investigation Division were taking samples of the slime I’d slid on.
Considering that his supposition was most likely true, I shuddered but tried not to let him see it. “Maybe,” I said as carelessly as I could. “Or a nasty practical joke gone bad.”
“Any idea who might have done it? And don’t tell me it’s more ferrets. I might bite, though, if you say it’s some former ferret owners.”
I shook my head. “Not Charlotte or Yul,” I said vehemently, though more convinced about the former than the latter.
Why had Yul acted so different from his typical taciturn character earlier?
“Maybe, but they still could have set up Mr. Chatsworth and let someone else stop their nosy landlady from solving the murder.” He stroked his smooth-shaven chin. “Now if my department made a habit of disposing of meddling citizens, I might be a suspect in that myself.” He lifted a dark brow as he smiled speculatively.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“Not funny, Kendra,” he said, though his voice stayed lighter than the usual grouchy growl. “Even if I didn’t like it, I could understand your butting into our investigation of murders when you were a suspect. But right now, you’re off my radar and I figure you want to stay that way. You’re not a suspect in Chad Chatsworth’s murder, but I can’t say the same for Ms. LaVerne or Mr. Silva. My investigation indicates your relationship with them is as landlord and tenants, but you’re interfering as much as if you were related.” He gazed at me quizzically. “You’re not, are you?”
“No.”
“And you’re still not practicing law, so they’re not your clients, correct?”
“Correct.”
His formerly friendly stare segued into something malevolent. “If you’re doing this because you think you’re smarter than the L.A.P.D. in general, and me in particular, I’d suggest you concentrate on your pet-sitting, Ms. Ballantyne.”
I blinked under Noralles’s sudden switch of mood. “All I want is justice, Ned,” I said, not liking at all how my statement slipped out as a shaky whisper.
“You’ll like it better if you stay alive to see it. Finding out who killed Chad Chatsworth is an official investigation, and we’re still gathering evidence. Someone besides me apparently doesn’t like your nosing around—someone with an interest in shutting you up.” I opened my mouth to offer my opinion, but he waved it shut with his officious hand. “Butt out, Kendra,” he finished, “before things really get too slippery for you.”
NORALLES HAD MORE to say to me before we parted company.