“I didn’t know you were coming to talk to Althea in person about the research you needed,” he said. His intense gaze that raked me up and down suggested that my duds were doing exactly as I’d hoped—inspiring him to look even deeper and use his sexy imagination to figure out what lay beneath.
“I didn’t know I was, either,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t far away, so it was just as easy as calling.”
“Good. You had lunch?”
I blinked and pulled my cell phone from my large purse that I’d by habit slung over my shoulder. Sure enough, it was nearly noon.
“Didn’t even realize it was lunchtime,” I told him. “But I haven’t been to my law office yet, so—”
“Okay, we’ll do it another time. I just got back from a meeting and need to sit down at my computer and make notes. I’ll call you about getting together for dinner sometime soon. Okay, Kendra?”
He didn’t even await my astonished and decisively chilly reply.
“Something wrong between you two?” Althea asked softly from behind me as I stayed staring at the empty doorway.
“There
is
no us two,” I told her from between my teeth. “Remind me to tell you one of these days about the really delightful veterinarian I’m dating. Charming, sexy, sweet, and of course he loves animals.”
“I think you just told me,” Althea said wryly.
“Could be. Well, I’ll give you a call later today and see if you’ve found anything yet to help me figure out why Nya Barston morphed last night from an outspoken pet-sitter person into a sorry, bat-beaten homicide victim, and whodunit. Or anything about the pet-nappings. Thanks, Althea.”
I headed out as fast as my wobbly feet would carry me.
And exactly what was the reason I’d decided to come to Jeff’s Westwood office in person?
Damned if I now knew.
Chapter Seven
OKAY, ACCOMPLISHING ANYTHING lawyerly—at least officially so—seemed a total lost cause that day. No time. No state of mind that would suggest I could concentrate.
Consequently, I made an executive decision. As the managing member of Critter TLC, LLC, I was, after all, an executive of sorts. While walking along the busy commercial streets of Westwood toward my Beamer, I called the representatives of the other side of my multiple personality—er, career—and reached, as anticipated, our dear and dingbatty receptionist Mignon.
“I need to take a personal day,” I told her. “I don’t have any meetings or conference calls scheduled, do I?”
“Nope,” she chirped. “And I assume that, by a personal day, you mean another murder day, right?”
“How would you know that?” I demanded with uninhibited irritation.
“It’s on the news. I saw it on one of the local TV channels’ websites.”
Corina Carey, or her media vulture counterparts, had obviously been busy.
“I wasn’t exactly clear what happened,” Mignon continued, “but some pet-sitter was killed on a job, yes?”
“Pet-sitter, yes,” I responded, “but on the job—no.”
“Did you know her?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do the police think they know who did it, Kendra? And if so, do you agree, or are you going to solve another murder?”
“They may be considering a suspect,” I said. “If it’s who I believe it is, then, no, I don’t agree. But will I solve it—”
“You
are
involved, I can tell. How exciting, Kendra! I’ll tell Borden—”
“No. Please transfer me to him. I’ll do it.” Admittedly, I’d started out this call as a coward. But my initial idea of having Mignon cover for me because of a personal problem I chose not to disclose wouldn’t cut it after all.
Fortunately, Borden understood, great guy that he was. “You really are a murder magnet, aren’t you, Kendra?” I heard the cheeriness in his tone.
“Not by choice.” At least not entirely. But these days, homicides hounded me. And not in a pet-sitter sense.
“Take today off. And as much extra time as you need—as long as you don’t neglect any of your work here, of course.”
“Of course. Thanks, Borden.”
I appreciated his understanding, but also recognized its limits. I had to make good use of my law-free time today.
So where now, I wondered, as I got into my Beamer.
The thing was, I’d let the killing distract me from my own awful dilemma. Where were the animals who disappeared on my watch? I called Detective Flagsmith, but he hadn’t anything new to report on the missing canine and reptile. “No more ransom notes?” I asked almost hopefully.
“Nope.”
I thanked him—for nothing, though I kept that part to my unhappy self—and hung up. My e-mail from the Dorgans had indicated that Hillary would be home tomorrow, so I’d have to face her then.
With no update other than the fact I’d somehow allowed her friends to be stolen?
I decided to seek info from someone who was supposed to have some. Not specific to my pet-napping, though. Tracy had told Frieda Shoreman to research all recent pet-nappings around this area.
And just maybe she’d know something about Nya’s demise, too.
Did I assume they were somehow related? Not necessarily, but I couldn’t assume they weren’t, either.
I called Frieda. Turned out she intended to dog-walk in the park on Huston Street in Sherman Oaks—part of my convenient neighborhood in the huge urban environment that was L.A.
She had heard, of course, of Nya’s demise. “Isn’t it awful?” she asked immediately.
“Sure is.”
And can you pass along any information to lead to her killer?
I ached to blurt. Instead, I told her I’d been intending to take Lexie out for exercise and asked if we could join her. She sounded amenable, so I said, “Meet you there in an hour.” That gave me time to get back over the hill, change my clothes, and visit Darryl to pick up the info he’d promised, along with my dog for walking.
WE SAT IN Darryl’s messy office, he behind his cluttered desk and I in one of the chairs facing him. Lexie had greeted me effusively, but when she saw I wasn’t ready to immediately spring her from this joint, she’d gone back to lie down on the people-type sofa in one sector of the main room.
“So what can you tell me about Nya Barston?” I asked my bespectacled friend. “Did you ever refer pet-sitting clients to her?”
He nodded. As always, he wore a Doggy Indulgence knit shirt, red today rather than the usual green. “I’d heard of her through some of my customers here, before I even met you. I knew she worked over the hill around Hollywood, and her references were good. I only met her in person a couple of times. She seemed a bit abrupt with people, but she obviously loved dogs.”
“My impression, too,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose you know anything about her personal life.”
“I didn’t, but this morning I called a longtime customer who’d used her and commiserated over her loss. That customer knew her better than I ever did and said she had a boyfriend, by the name of . . .” He looked down at one of the dozen piles on his desk, dug through the top few inches, and pulled out a piece of paper. “Jerry Jefferton. I don’t know how close they were, or where he lives, but I figure you or Jeff can find out.”
“Sure will. Can you also give me that customer’s name, and any others you know who’ve used Nya as a pet-sitter?”
“You think one of them killed her?” My dear friend appeared absolutely horrified.
“Right now, I’ve no idea who did it, but talking to her friends and acquaintances might help me figure it out.”
“Make sure it isn’t anyone I know and like,” Darryl demanded grumpily, but he did take a few minutes to check on his deskside computer and compile a short list that he printed out. “Here’s everyone I know about.”
“Thanks, Darryl.” I stood, as did he. “I don’t suppose any of your customers or other friends know anything about the pet-nappings?”
“No, but they’re a big topic of conversation, now that they’ve hit the news along with Nya’s murder.”
They had? I hadn’t heard. Would that be a good thing, letting the world know of this latest rash of nasties, or might it only make things worse?
“Everyone’s worried about leaving their pets home alone,” Darryl continued, “which is good for my business during the day.”
“I’ll bet. Well, if you hear anything helpful—”
“I’ll call you right away.”
LEXIE AND I hurried west from Studio City and emerged from the Beamer at the pup- and people-filled dog park.
We soon met up with Frieda and Usher, the dog she was tending, a large mixed breed that appeared part rottweiler. Even so, Usher seemed a big softy.
Frieda was dressed in flowered leggings with her traditional flowing top, this one bright magenta. Her foot attire fit the occasion: pink athletic shoes, with pink-striped white socks.
We all slowly walked the path, letting the pups sniff the usual dog-park smells, puppy passersby, and one another. I had to look up at Frieda’s graceful height to meet her amber eyes. They were enhanced by an array of makeup, overdone for a dog walk, but she was unquestionably an attractive lady.
I started with a question I figured she could answer, even if her response was negative. “Were you able to find anything about any other pet-nappings in the area?”
She shook her bleached blond locks. “No, though don’t tell Tracy, but I haven’t done much looking.”
I wasn’t thrilled that she hadn’t even attempted her PSCSC project and looked for other local pet-nappings. It should only have required a Googling or review of past newspaper issues or recent TV news. These days, all that stuff is available easily on the Internet. Good thing I’d intended to do some searching anyway and not rely on her findings.
Not that it would necessarily assist in my own pet-absconding situation.
At least I was pleased that Frieda had brought up Tracy, giving me an intro to the other subject I wanted to discuss.
“Poor Tracy,” I started. “You know, she thinks the cops believe she could have killed Nya.” I stole a sideways glance to see if I could tell, by Frieda’s expression, if she happened to share that point of view.
Instead, she looked shocked. “Tracy? Why, she’s so gentle that she even traps rodents at the homes where she pet-sits and drives them way up to remote areas off Mulholland to let them out. She would never hurt a person, not even one she disliked.”
Aha! “Oh, did she dislike Nya?” I asked quite calmly, as if speaking of whether the grayish April weather was about to turn sunny.
“Of course not. Tracy likes everyone. But you heard Nya and her go at each other at the meeting the other night. She could still have been angry that Nya didn’t take her concern seriously, that our club was somehow being targeted for the pet-nappings.”
We were speaking somewhat circularly. “But you haven’t found anything to indicate that the problem is larger than PSCSC, have you?”
“No, but like I said, I haven’t really looked.”
Well, I’d look. And I’d ask Althea to check her even vaster resources for additional info, too.
But I might also be able to get one answer for Althea here. “Anyway, it seems strange that Nya happened to be at the home of one of Tracy’s clients.” Like, could she have been attempting to steal the unfortunate pet of the house? “I know the dog’s name, but I don’t think she ever told me who her clients were. Do you happen to know?”
We’d stopped because Usher was getting down to some serious business—a nice, big poop. Of course Frieda, being a pro at pet-sitting, came equipped with an adequate-size plastic bag. If she’d been unprepared, I could have handed her one of mine.
After she’d stooped to retrieve it, she cast it into a receptacle along the dog-ready trail. I reminded her then of the question still on the table—er, path—as we wandered off again, walking slower this time. That meant more dogs and walkers maneuvered around us, even as we stayed toward the right.
“Who owns Lassie and the house where Nya was found?” Frieda repeated. “The Ravels, or something like that. Tracy mentioned how upset they were when she called to tell them what happened. They were on location in San Francisco and were hurrying home.”
San Francisco? Not a huge plane ride away. If they’d come home, found a stranger in their house without knowing she knew their pet-sitter, might someone have bludgeoned Nya to death without determining her reason for being there? Then, the guilty Ravel could have hopped another flight for SFO, or even driven there. If they played their stories right, no one would even know they’d been back to L.A.
Had I solved it?
No evidence, but sheer speculation. Awfully far-fetched speculation, too. And it didn’t do squat to explain Nya’s presence in the first place. But I’d toss the theory to Althea and have her check on whether anyone named Ravel flew in and out of one of L.A.’s airports yesterday, or rented a car, or bought gas with a credit card.