As we stood there, the others commiserating with my mess and clearly grateful it wasn’t theirs, a jogger bolted down my street. Only he wasn’t in sweats or any other exercise outfit I’d ever seen. In a suit and tie and polished shoes, he slid on the sidewalk and braked himself to a halt in the midst of my local pity party.
And stared at the Hummer and my house.
He cried out, “Oh, no.”
Lyle stepped toward him, motioning Lexie and me to follow. “Er . . . Ike, have you met Kendra Ballantyne? This is her house. Kendra, this is Ike Janus.” He pointed a long, scraped finger toward the nearby disaster area. “And that,” he said, “is Ike’s Hummer.”
IN MY LIFE as a litigator, I’d come across all kinds of clients and opponents. Cynically, I’d concluded that most people should have been born with more than two index fingers, to give them more digits to point accusingly at others. I mean, I wouldn’t have been shocked if Hummer Ike had dredged up a defensive argument that somehow I was at fault for putting my house in the path of his runaway car.
To my delighted surprise, though, Ike turned out to be an okay guy. Sheepishly, he answered my questions about how the Hummer had flown, with a tale of a forgotten cell phone, a missed message demanding immediate response, and a car idling in neutral on a hill, its parking brake unset.
Ike still hung around my house a couple of hours after its Hummer encounter, directing construction types he’d called in to do a temporary fix to my outer walls—mostly a frame of nailed boards to which heavy plastic had been stapled. Plus, the wrought-iron fence had been propped up. It was all a jerry-rigged fix, but would do for now to keep out early-season rain or opportunistic looters.
Not a designer’s dream, though. My sprawling stone-façade château looked like a guy who’d treated a gash in his arm by hiding it beneath a big ugly bandanna instead of seeking stitches and cosmetic surgery.
“My insurance adjuster will be here tomorrow,” Ike told me as his workmen made motions as if done for the day. “I spoke to a manager, and got his promise.”
Ike Janus didn’t look like the kind of man to choose a Hummer. I’d always figured that people who picked huge, hulking, military-type vehicles were huge, hulking military types. On the other hand, a Hummer might be just the thing for short, bespectacled, suited sorts like Ike to manifest their masculinity. Or maybe Ike was the corporate CEO that his air of authority seemed to suggest. He certainly got things done. Fast.
“Thanks,” I told him, barely noticing my own less-than-authoritative garb of faded green USC T-shirt over ragged denim shorts, floppy thong sandals held tight to my feet by my curled toes. At five-five, I was only a couple of inches shorter than Ike. Dashing from my apartment at the sound of the crash, I hadn’t taken time to tame the frizzies in my hair, which had resumed its natural dark brown shade. I’d halted highlighting it during my prior troubles, which had left me, for a while, without a means of making a living. “What’s the name of your insurance company?”
I got the particulars, including his personal list of phone numbers—home, office, cell, secretary—and promised to call if I hadn’t heard anything from the adjuster by this time tomorrow. Hell, yes, I’d let him know. In my experience, it’d take more than a call from an insured to get the wheels grinding at an insurance company faced with the likelihood of coughing up cash to settle a claim.
On the other hand . . . “In case they ask, where is it that you work?” I was only taking a stab at being subtle in my inquiry.
Ike named a local baking company. Not just a little neighborhood store, but a major firm that distributed brand-name bread and pastries to all the supermarket chains.
“I don’t just work there,” he said. “I own it.” He smiled.
So did I. He
was
the CEO I’d taken him for. And between him and his insurance company, he was bound to have the bread to cover my loss.
And another good thing about Ike: He liked dogs. At least he liked Lexie, who behaved admirably as she sat at my side on her leash. While Ike watched the men at work, he’d bent over often to stroke behind her long black ears. That never failed to set her furry black-and-white tail happily wagging.
A neighbor to esteem, even if he didn’t set his brakes as often as he should.
“Do you have any pets?” I blurted.
“A couple,” he said. “Dogs. Mutts, actually, a lot bigger than Lexie, part sheepdog and part whatever.”
“They sound cute.” I reached into my pocket and . . . Yes, I hadn’t left home without one. My card. The handy little business card I’d devised for my pet-sitting business. I handed him one. “In case you ever need someone to walk them, or to watch them while you’re out of town.”
He tilted his head to stare down the bottom of his bifocals to read the card, then grinned. “You’re a professional pet-sitter?”
“Among other things.” I wasn’t about to tell him my whole life history, even if he wanted to hear about a temporarily defrocked attorney who’d taken up something fun to earn her living while waiting to figure out what was next.
“That’s great. I’ll definitely be in touch. And, Kendra, I really am sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Again.”
We exchanged smiles, and he turned to trudge back up the hill.
A tow truck from the Auto Club had already taken his Hummer. With nothing sensational remaining around here, the battery of barracudas—er, the group of reporters—had disappeared long ago. Most neighbors, too, although Phil Ashler from across the street had returned now and then to check on the patching’s progress.
At that moment, Lexie and I stood there alone.
But not for long. A big black Escalade pulled up to the curb and parked. Lexie leapt to her feet and yapped in pleasure. That SUV was familiar to her. It contained her best friend, an Akita named Odin.
It also contained a friend of mine. A client.
A lover, at least when it suited us both.
I’d called Jeff Hubbard soon after the Hummer hit my house, mostly to talk about the unpleasant occurrence, but also to let him know I’d be late for the dinner we’d planned on grabbing together that evening.
A private investigator and security consultant by profession and a man who thrived on taking charge, Jeff had insisted on dropping over to make sure I was okay, though he couldn’t get here right away.
I didn’t need him here professionally, but I hadn’t dissuaded him from coming.
And now, as he leashed Odin and they exited his SUV, I welcomed the six-foot-tall hunk to my hammered house, which I let him examine before I led dogs and him upstairs to my humble apartment abode.
Jeff liked to help solve problems. Which was fortunate, for I had a substantial one to fling at him.
What the heck was I going to do about those ferrets?
Chapter Three
THAT NIGHT, JEFF and I dined on deep-dish pizza with the works on top. The dogs devoured doggy food spiced with just a soupçon of pizza scraps. I admit it. I’m a soft touch for big, begging doggy eyes.
Over dinner around my cramped round table, we—the humans, not the canines—nibbled for a while on the progress of Jeff ’s current P.I. cases, then gnawed on my Multistate studies and pet-care tribulations. We tried to sink our teeth into my distasteful ferret dilemma, though no savory solution came to either of us.
“Kick ’em out,” he said, taking a swig of Sam Adams from one of my heftiest beer steins. “All of them—tenants and animals.”
“You’re kidding.” I scowled at the now-familiar face full of masculine angles that had character and class—and, when added to the hint of irrepressible golden beard beneath, was the most magnetic male visage I’d ever viewed.
His twinkling blue eyes acknowledged he was teasing. “Yes, but you’d better handle your dilemma sooner rather than later. You could always whisk the ferrets away and say they got stolen in the confusion.”
“No, I won’t lie about it. If I whisk them, I’ll have to tell Charlotte and Yul where they’ve been swept. And I’ve no idea what to do with the illegal little buggers without getting myself in deeper.”
“Send them to ferret heaven?” Jeff suggested.
“Bite your tongue.” I stuck mine out at him, hoping it wasn’t coated in unappetizing pizza glop. “You’re talking to a professional pet-sitter. I’d never do anything so nasty to someone’s beloved babies.”
Taking advantage of my mugging, Jeff leaned forward and tickled my tongue with his. He tasted as spicy as pepperoni, as intoxicating as prime ale . . .
Okay, dinner was over. Time for Jeff and me to adjourn to my compact bedroom with its big-enough bed so we could feast on each other that night. Multiple courses. Delicious leftovers for breakfast, too.
Gourmet’s delight.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, after extracting my commitment to care for Odin when he traveled the next week, Jeff left for work. Me, too.
Leaving Lexie at home, I spent the A.M. walking dogs, feeding cats, and visiting one of my favorite charges to make sure his defrosted mouse of the week suited him: Pythagoras, the ball python. Py had recently done a good deed for me, so I had a soft spot in my heart for the young blue-and-magenta reptile. He seemed well, and his mouse had apparently been devoured. “See ya, Py,” I told his lethargic coiled carcass and headed for the next home.
My first break came at noon, and I headed to Doggy Indulgence Day Resort on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City.
My best friend in the world, Darryl Nestler, owns Doggy Indulgence. He greeted me at the door, hanging on like the expert he was to the squirmy Pekingese in his arms. “Hi, Kendra. You really are okay?”
“Sure.”
He nevertheless eyed me up and down behind his wire-rims. I’d called this morning to assure him I was fine. The Hummer hitting my house had been eclipsed in the early news by some local political lunacy, which suited me fine. Still, I figured someone would hear about it and tell Darryl, so I preempted his concern by phoning him first.
Apparently satisfied that any injuries I’d suffered were internal, invisible, and inconsequential, he said, “Hold on a sec,” which he was having a hard time doing with the increasingly wriggly Peke. He turned and let the furry red ball down on the linoleum floor. “There you go, Bruiser.” He watched for a second as the miniature sumo wrestler bounded toward one of the spa’s special areas for pampered pets, the one filled with human furniture. Bruiser leapt onto a sofa and settled down.
“No Lexie today?” Darryl asked as he turned back toward me.
Darryl’s lean and lanky, and not a lot taller than I am. As usual, he wore one of his dark green Henley-style shirts, with the Doggy Indulgence logo on the pocket. It had strands of red Bruiser hair on it, which I began to pick off.
“I left her home today. Don’t tell her I was here, next time you see her. She’ll be crushed I didn’t bring her.”
Before, when I was a preeminent litigator, I’d left Lexie here a lot on weekdays so she’d never suffer from lack of attention. When my law license was suspended, I could no longer afford Darryl’s lavish rates. He’d offered to let Lexie hang out here anyway, but I’d kept it to a minimum. I hadn’t wanted charity, even from a chum as dear as Darryl.
Now, with Darryl’s help, my pet-sitting gig flourished, and though I wasn’t getting rich, I could afford Doggy Indulgence again. But my schedule often allowed me to take Lexie to jobs, so she didn’t need day care as much. I nevertheless left her here a few times a week, just for the fun of it.
“So bring her next time,” Darryl said. “How’s the studying coming?
“Fine. Have a minute?”
“For you, I have . . .” He looked at the big black watch on his skinny wrist. “Five. Come into my office.”
As usual, I ignored the too-sweet scent of pet odors sublimated by pine cleanser and followed him.
Darryl’s small office had a major picture window that let him keep an eye on his four-footed charges while they were pampered by his pet-specialist employees. He motioned me to the comfortable chair that faced his cluttered desk. I slung the strap of my habitually huge purse over its back.
“What’s up?” He knew me well enough to recognize when I was requesting a simple social visit and when I needed a pal’s candid opinion.
“Ferrets,” I replied, without pussy- or ferret-footing around. “What do you know about them?”
“Cute little critters. Has someone asked you to ferret-sit? You know they’re illegal to keep as pets in California, don’t you?”
“Sure, if you like creatures resembling elongated rodents, no, and yes,” I rushed out in response to all his queries.
“Rodents? That’s an insult to ferret lovers everywhere.” He leaned back on his desk chair and crossed his hands beneath his head, obviously not a member of the offended fan club.
“I didn’t say they
were
rodents, only that they resemble them.”
“Not to me. Think weasel family. Or badgers. Or skunks.”
“It’s their owners whose actions stink,” I retorted. “Or who’re the weasels, sneaking them in like that.”
“Like what? Which weasels are we talking about?”
“The tenant kind.”
Darryl sat up straight, brown eyes wide behind his spectacles. “As in reality show Charlotte and her not-to-be-believed boyfriend?”
“You got it. So what do you know about the law against ferrets?”
“That’s your job,” he reminded me.
“True. And I’ll do research when I have the chance, including how stringently the statutes are enforced. But what I need from you is advice. I mean, I have a clause in my lease with Charlotte that she’s not to keep pets without my written permission, and to get it she’s got to pay me a substantial deposit. She’s violated it.”
“So give her notice and kick her out.”
I scowled at him. “Easy for you to say. But she’s paying premium rent. What if I can’t find another renter as generous?”
“Then let her stay but get more money from her.”