Feline Fatale (7 page)

When we went inside, Wagner, Dante’s sweet and smart German shepherd, was there to greet us. Lexie and he were good buddies, and they immediately exchanged sniffs and wags.

I smiled and yawned as I watched them, then let Dante lead me upstairs.

To his bedroom.

And, yes, I did have some articles there for my nighttime ablutions. As well as a change of clothes. Which had freaked me out when Dante had first suggested it. But, hey, it made sense since I came here often.

Dante and I were soon ensconced in his delightfully decorated bedroom, with its firm, comfortable bed that had a regal, red plush headboard. The dogs were on special beds, too—from HotPets, of course—at the side of the room.

Sure, I was exhausted. But before Dante crawled under the covers with me, I couldn’t help glimpsing his bare, sexy bod, including the slight scar from his stabbing . . . and, well, I woke up just enough to indulge.

And then I slept like the proverbial log, nestled in Dante’s protective embrace. Somehow, his presence helped to ward off my sadness about Wanda’s situation and Darryl’s reaction—at least long enough to let me doze deeply.

The dogs’ stirring woke us in the morning. I immediately stood, ready—prime pet-sitter that I am—to take them outside.

“Just open the door,” Dante said drowsily. “Alfonse will put them out.”

“Sure.” I guess I wasn’t awake enough to immediately think of that. Then again, I didn’t have a full-time personal assistant staying in my small apartment. “But I’d better get dressed. I’ve got my morning pet-sitting rounds to start on.” And they were many miles away, in the San Fernando Valley.

“Why don’t you just move in here, Kendra?” Dante asked softly.

Though halfway out of bed, I stopped moving. “Can’t,” I said airily, as if my heart hadn’t stopped. “Like I said, I have pet-sitting to do.”

“But if you were—”

“And lawyering. My office is in Encino. This is just too far a commute.” I kept my tone both light and firm. Moving in together was just too much of a commitment—wasn’t it?

Besides, what I was saying was the truth. Even if I decided to go the next step with Dante—a big if—I wasn’t about to give up all that was important to me, like my double career. And this was L.A., land of lots of traffic. I didn’t want to get sucked into an awful commute.

But the next thought that passed through my mind was the fact that my tenants, the Preesingers, were soon moving out. What if Dante took over my house payments as rent . . . and we both moved in there?

Nah. I simply wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t even bring it up, although it kept sloshing through my mind as I showered.

When I returned to the bedroom, the dogs were back. And Dante was on a cell phone.
My
cell phone.

“It’s Darryl,” he said, handing the phone to me. I gathered that it had rung while still buried in my purse. Seemed a bit forward for Dante to have dug for it, but surely our relationship had gotten that far, at least.

“Hi, Darryl,” I said eagerly. Had he reconsidered the way we left off yesterday, decided to call me so we could kiss and make up?

“I thought you’d want to know,” he said in a sad voice. “The cops have called Wanda. They want her to come to the Burbank police station today for further questioning. She’s called the lawyer you recommended.” He paused. “That’s all. ’Bye, Kendra.”

And then he hung up.

“TELL ME,” DANTE said as I closed my phone and carefully stuck it back into my bag.

I attempted to keep my voice calm as I said, “Darryl just thought I should know that Wanda’s being questioned further today about Margaret’s murder.”

“And he blamed you for it again.” It wasn’t a question emanating from Dante’s frowning mouth, but a statement.

“Not overtly. He’s too kind for that. But I’m sure it’s what he was thinking.” Still in a terry bathrobe I’d left there, I headed for Dante’s huge closet, where I’d find stuff to change into for the day. It was across the bedroom, which was a good thing, since I didn’t want him to see me in tears again over this awful turn of events.

I was suddenly in his strong arms. “This is just one situation too many, Kendra,” he said softly. “I know it hurts you to have Darryl acting this way, overtly or not. And I know you’ve promised to help. Let
me
help
you
. Please. I’d like to see you stay out of this, so you don’t get hurt in other ways, too. I’ll get Brody involved. You know he’s good at investigations.”

Brody Avilla was a longtime friend of Dante’s. They’d been in covert government operations together years back, a fact which, unsurprisingly, they’d both hidden. I’d learned about it while investigating—yes, another murder.

“He’s a star now,” I reminded Dante unnecessarily. “Plus he’s busy getting ready for the next season of
Animal Auditions
.” He had replaced its murdered judge last season—and I had been involved with solving that homicide as well.

“I’ll help any way you say,” Dante said. He held my damp face in his big, warm hands, and his magnificent mahogany eyes bore deeply into mine. “I’ll even hire Jeff Hubbard to investigate.”

Which was a huge concession and sacrifice. Since Jeff was my ex-significant other, no love was lost between the two men.

“Just, please, Kendra, don’t get involved with this one.”

“Too late,” I said as lightly as I could, reaching into my robe’s pocket for a tissue which I used to dry my face. “You know I’m involved, Dante. I really appreciate your offer. And I really wish this murder magnet stuff would stop. But it hasn’t yet. And you can help me just by being a shoulder for me to lean on if I need it. Okay?”

“Well—”

I leaned forward and gave him one long, hot kiss on his incredibly sexy lips.

“You win,” he eventually said as our embrace eased a little. “But just be careful, Kendra. And keep me up on everything you’re doing, so I can help, if possible.”

“I will,” I whispered. “And thanks.”

We finished dressing and adjourned to the kitchen to eat the light breakfast that Alfonse had prepared for us. Alfonse, as always, stayed in the background—a fiftyish guy dressed in casual clothes, definitely more a personal assistant than a butler, but always deferential.

The dogs dined at the same time—again, thanks to Alfonse’s ministrations.

“Hey,” Dante said as he slathered raspberry jam on thick wheat toast, “I know how I can tempt you to join me tomorrow.”

“How’s that?” I inquired with interest.

“Lauren Vancouver is helping with a pet adoption event in your area—the Valley—tomorrow afternoon. I promised to be there with some HotPets stuff as prizes. Care to attend?”

I’d met Lauren Vancouver during a legal issue she’d had recently. She ran HotRescues, the pet rescue organization funded by—who else?—Dante.

“That sounds like fun,” I said, taking a sip of deliciously rich coffee. “Count me in.”

 

LEXIE AND I left Dante’s digs soon afterward, hustling to the San Fernando Valley so we could start our pet-sitting schedule for that Saturday. Fortunately, since it wasn’t a weekday, traffic was relatively light.

On the way, along twisty Malibu Canyon Road, I called Wanda. She was due to drop in at the Burbank Police Department that day, but I didn’t know what time. She wouldn’t answer her phone there, but I could leave a message making it clear I cared what happened to her—Darryl’s innuendos notwithstanding. Not that I’d mention them to poor Wanda.

But she did answer. “Oh, Kendra, I’m so nervous. I already like your friend Esther, by the way. She called and got the cops to agree that we didn’t have to come in till this afternoon. She’s visiting my place first so she can see what Brigadoon condos are like, which might help her represent me.”

“I agree.” I wished I could be at that conclave, too. But that could make what was said susceptible to discovery, since I wasn’t actually representing Wanda, and I would jeopardize attorney-client privilege.

“I’ve finished my morning rounds of pet-sitting,” Wanda continued. “That adorable, dratted Lady Cuddles did it again, by the way. I had to chase her down at a balcony on the other side of her family’s building. At least she didn’t scratch me this time.”

“Wish we knew what’s on her mind when she wanders. In fact, I wish there was an equivalent of Barklish, the language I’d like to use to communicate with canines—for cats. Kittylish, Meowlish, whatever. It would sure help us figure out what really happened to Margaret, since you found Lady Cuddles in her unit.”

“Yes,” Wanda replied with a sigh. “The poor kitty seemed curious, and freaked out, too. She must have seen exactly what happened. There were little bloody paw prints in the kitchen, where I found Margaret’s body.”

“She was stabbed, then?” I realized that I hadn’t even asked before how Margaret had met her demise.

“Skewered,” Wanda said, and suddenly sounded as if she were gagging. “She had a grill outside on her balcony, and I gathered she liked to make kabobs. The spit . . .”

“I get it,” I said, not wanting to hear any more. The picture in my imagination was awful enough. “And Lady Cuddles was right there?”

“At some point, though when I found her, she was elsewhere in the apartment. Fortunately, she hadn’t gotten out then—for more reasons than one. With all her Houdini-like escapes, I’m glad she has an ID tag on her little collar, but yesterday she wasn’t wearing a collar. I went to the nearest HotPets when I had a chance, and bought her a new collar and name tag.”

“Of course it was HotPets,” I said with a smile. I wondered, though, what had happened to that cute little kitty ID tag I’d noticed on her.

“Where else?”

I’d reached the Valley end of the road and aimed my Escape onto the Ventura Freeway, heading south, according to the sign. Actually, it was east, but that particular freeway was labeled oddly.

“Gotta run, Kendra,” Wanda said. “My landline just rang. Esther must be at the gate.”

“Let me know what happens,” I told her.

“I sure will.”

My next call was to my now-buddy Detective Ned Noralles of the LAPD. The great-looking African American cop certainly wouldn’t be investigating this homicide case in the separate small city of Burbank, but he’d been involved in a lot of the other murders I’d solved—sometimes irritating the heck out of him. He’d also assisted me in dealing with cops in other jurisdictions, when necessary now and then.

Best of all, I’d recently helped to clear him and his sister from being possible murder suspects, so we were now sort of friends.

“Hi, Ned,” I said as he answered immediately. “Guess what.”

“Another one?” I heard the groan he didn’t stick into his voice.

“Unfortunately.” I described the situation, then said, “My friend Wanda found the body. I think the Burbank cops suspect her. Could you check into it? If you’d let me know anything you’re permitted to say under police protocol that could help her—or could help me find out who really did it—I’d definitely appreciate it.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you’d butt out for a change, but I’m not even going to ask this time, Kendra. I know better.”

“Thanks, Ned.” I hung up.

I held a one-sided conversation with Lexie as we drove to our first pet-sitting destination of the day, the northern Valley, where Beauty, the lovely golden retriever, lived. “It may be a better situation than I’m anticipating,” I told my Cavalier, “but if the Burbank cops want Wanda to come in for interrogation, they must genuinely suspect her. I’d better figure out which other people might have had it in for Margaret.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Lexie sat on the Escape’s backseat, cocking her head as she listened. I smiled.

“I’ll drop you off after my rounds this morning,” I told her. “Then I’ll visit Brigadoon while Wanda’s gone. Maybe James Jerome will be willing to chat with me, right?”

Lexie’s tongue slipped out of her mouth in an affirmative pant.

OF COURSE I didn’t hurry while handling my pet-sitting responsibilities. Animals whose owners are out of town need extra attention and adoration. I spent time with each baby, getting Lexie’s assistance where possible by her playing with my canine charges. I left her locked in my Escape, parked in a safe, observable place in the shade. At least January in L.A. is comfortably cool.

Back in my car, I jotted everything I did into the journal I keep. I’m also a listaphile. A listaholic. While I sat there in Lexie’s company, I also jotted down a list of questions I wanted to get answered about Margaret Shiler: who she was and why she died.

When I was finally finished with the morning’s sitting, I drove Lexie home and called James Jerome.

Fortunately, he was home. Even more fortunately, he was willing to talk to me.

I headed back to Brigadoon—ignoring the little voice in my brain that kept reminding me that Dante might be a bit peeved. He knew I was leaping into yet another murder investigation without availing myself of any of the ideas he had offered to pay for to keep me safely out of it. I appreciated his concern. Even understood it, after his having been stabbed.