Double Dog Dare (27 page)

I needed new wheels. What kind? I couldn’t afford a new Beamer under my current circumstances, but how could I settle for a lesser automobile?

As I sat in the parking lot and pondered, I started a new list on the notepad I always kept in whatever car I drove. Things to do: Think about a new car. Follow up on the reality show resolution of the Hayhursts’ lawsuit situation.

And what I intended to work on first thing this morning: Put together a party at The Clone Arranger’s—a mixture of people, their pets, and The Clone Arranger staff to see what transpired. . . .

“You’re looking good, Kendra.” Mignon chirped today’s assessment with a big smile as I entered the building.

“I’ll say,” our boss, Borden, echoed as he joined us in the lobby. “Have you resolved the Hayhursts’ problem? I heard from Corbin and Shareen that you had one heck of a possible solution.”

“Nothing’s finalized yet,” I disclaimed, as a decent lawyer should. “But I’m hopeful of the result.”

“Good deal,” Borden applauded. “Everything else okay?”

“Getting there,” I said, perhaps a touch too optimistically. But at least I was working on it.

I waved greetings to some of the office staff as well as attorneys whom I’d come to really care about—Elaine Aames, the senior who often kept Gigi the macaw in her office, and some of the other old-timers.

And then I closed the door to my office.

First, I had to check on the status of a few things. I called Lois Terrone.

“How was your meeting with the Glendale cops yesterday? ” I asked after assuring myself she was none the worse for her near fall in the police department’s front yard. I pulled out pad and pen to take notes, in case I had suggestions about how to refute their allegations.

To my surprise, the interview had turned out to be almost a nonevent. “They leaned on me at first,” Lois said, sounding somewhat scared. “But the things they asked seemed to rehash old ground: Why did I think The Clone Arranger had harmed my dog, and how had they done it? How well had I gotten to know Earl, and Mason, and the others? Did I have any impressions of Debby Payne, or the outside veterinarian, Dr. Venson?”

Interesting. Maybe my internal unwelcome suspicions about Tom were shared by the cops. I’d hoped I was way off base, but maybe, instead, I was hitting an unwanted home run.

Still, why would he have harmed Earl Knox?

Because the guy was hurting some of Tom’s patients present at The Clone Arranger’s premises? Or, even worse for the well-regarded vet, his reputation for stellar pet care?

Or maybe Earl had been hitting on Tom’s local lady, Debby Payne . . . ?

Okay, that could just be my own cattiness—and insecurities—rising to the surface. I continued quizzing Lois, whom I still wanted to believe was absolutely innocent—not necessarily because of her relationship to Jeff, since my own relationship with him was so awful and incomprehensible now. But because she seemed like a nice, unjustly accused lady.

“Anything else?” I asked. “Did they say something that seemed to be edging in sideways, hoping that by asking you seemingly innocuous questions they would put you off guard, then hit you with a zinger?”

“Oh, Kendra, I didn’t think of that.” Lois’s horror resounded through the phone. “But I don’t believe there was anything too bad. And Esther seemed almost pleased afterward and said she thinks they’re looking in other directions. I hope so. It sure feels good to be home right now, with my Ezekiel.” Some muffled baby talk as she apparently spoke with her Akita. “But I don’t know if this’ll last. They ended up by telling me not to leave the area. And by saying there would be at least one more interrogation before they intended to make any arrests. The implication was that I’m still in the running.”

“Well, you’re still a free woman,” I said. “Let’s be grateful for that. Meantime, I’ll conduct some further inquiries. What’s your schedule for the rest of the week?”

I wrote down her responses. And then I called Althea.

“Interesting information,” she told me. “I figured out what you’re driving at. This says a lot about possible monkey business on the part of The Clone Arranger. Not that I’m aware that they’ve tried to duplicate any simians— actually or fraudulently.” She gave me the info that she’d collected after my inquiry.

“This is really helpful,” I told her. “It might lead to some real progress in putting them on the spot, if not out of business.”

“Will it help to find Jeff?” she inquired hopefully.

“I have a feeling that once this is on the table, Jeff will make an appearance that none of them—or us—will forget.”

I hoped I wasn’t overly optimistic in any of this. What Althea had learned, I’d be able to use at least as ammunition. But there could be alternative explanations besides the one I felt almost certain of.

I’d be interested to hear The Clone Arrangers attempt to assert them with straight faces.

Next, I got the other information from Althea that I’d asked her to amass: some phone numbers, easy for someone with her hacker—er, computer—skills.

I thanked her, and started calling some of those numbers.

I’d hoped, after my good luck getting everyone together on a moment’s notice on the Show Biz Beasts matter, that this conclave I intended to call could be scheduled equally easily. And quickly.

No such luck. But I was able to find a date and time toward the end of the week that appeared to suit everyone.

And I convinced them all, I hoped, that the gathering was to be a surprise party, so they shouldn’t let the word get out.

It was, in fact, intended as a surprise party. But the people to be surprised wouldn’t consider it a happy gathering—if I had my facts correct.

Next, I called Jeff at What’s the Scoop, again playing our game that someone eavesdropped on everything. I equivocated yet got across where I intended to be and when. Jeff-Juan grumbled and growled and again insinuated I’d stolen that stupid thumb drive without answering a single query about its alleged contents. He also indicated that I’d better have someone watch my butt, since he was no longer doing it. And I was playing with fire by what I was doing.

Of course, he said, I undoubtedly knew that. And I’d better hope that this whole situation wasn’t turned around to implicate me, the way he believed I should be.

He couldn’t see the way I rolled my eyes, but he could hear how fast I hung up.

I only hoped I could wait as long as it took for that grand gathering to occur without having a conniption or a stroke or something terrible. Because if it went the way I wanted, at least part of the truth would come out. And that information would go a long way, I anticipated, in determining who had murdered Earl Knox—and, peripherally, who had co-connived with Earl in attempting to kill Jeff.

And, Jeff’s ugly and utterly hurtful accusations notwithstanding, it wasn’t me.

Chapter Twenty-two

“WHAT IS THIS really about, Ms. Ballantyne?” demanded Mason Payne, confronting me in a corner of the crowded Clone Arranger entry lounge. We were surrounded largely by former customers and their cloned pets—mostly animals I’d described to Tom Venson that I’d seen on the website, including three dogs and an equal number of cats. I hadn’t tried to get the owners of the cloned ferret and chinchilla to come for the event. These more usual pets should be sufficient to make my very potent point—I hoped.

The noise was amazing. So were the scents, with all these animals about. But mostly it was the sight that made me sigh in anticipation. And at least so far no one had fled the compact room because of how overstuffed it had become.

Even Beryl Leeds had come at my invitation with her two pale Labs, father and cloned son. Now, she sat on one of the lounge’s uncomfortable yellow chairs, appearing utterly irritable.

Also present were a cloned standard poodle and her look-alike younger twin, plus similar sets of Shih Tzus, pit bulls, and Chihuahuas, and Siamese and Persian cats. And yes, they’d brought their human owners.

In addition, the room held several people who’d never previously come to The Clone Arranger. They brought not pets, but pedigrees and photos—plus their own experiences in selling their purebred animals’ offspring. And those purebreds just happened to consist of poodles, Shih Tzus, pit bulls . . . well, you get it. I’d gotten them there on the falsest pretenses of all—maybe. But my intentions were entirely honorable.

“I think you know, Mason,” I responded. Just then, the person I’d met in the parking lot, who’d sold a poodle only months ago to someone who looked exactly like Debby Payne, went dashing over to a pair of poodles in the lounge and exclaimed over the younger. How did I know this particular purchase had been made by Debby? Well, after checking out local breeders, Althea had e-mailed them photos of members of The Clone Arranger staff.

Other dog and cat breeders reacted similarly, reacquainting themselves with babies who were likely ones they’d sold recently as I continued talking to Mason. “Is it possible that The Clone Arranger keeps its costs as reasonable as they are to pet owners because they buy similar purebred animals from reputable breeders who don’t know who the final owners will be?”

“How dare you make such allegations!” That wasn’t Mason but Beryl Leeds, whose scowl obscured how attractive her TV star looks had once been. At the moment, she appeared every inch the arrogant former headliner she was. Maybe it was the red hue of her face that exaggerated how awfully she was aging. “Tell her, Mason. It doesn’t matter that she’s a lawyer. You’ll sue her for defaming your wonderful organization. You can’t let her harm The Clone Arranger—especially not before you’ve finished cloning my adorable Melville.”

“That’s right, Ms. Ballantyne. You can’t just barge in here with all these people under false pretenses, then make claims with no proof.”

Fortunately, that was when some other Clone Arrangers started to enter the lounge. Among them was Melba Slabach, the head so-called scientist of the group. She, if no one else, would pay attention to what I was about to allege. “I think proof will be readily available,” I said. “I’m sure all purebreds of a particular breed share a lot of similar DNA, but it’s not all identical, or every member of a breed would look and act exactly alike. In fact, that’s a whole other aspect of the science you indulge in here—confirming DNA backgrounds for all kinds of animals. So maybe Melba, or better yet some independent lab, should run tests showing whether the so-called clones you’ve delivered to your clients have DNA closer to their purported papas and mamas, or to the animals owned by those breeders who sold similar puppies and kittens to people who appear astoundingly like members of your staff. Some of those sales occurred right around when you delivered supposed clones to your customers for exorbitant, but not outrageous, prices. Right, Melba?”

The tall scientist, whose dark hair was pulled starkly back from her face, grew pasty white, especially in comparison with Beryl’s ruddiness. She made a sound that was absolutely noncommittal, but the infuriated glare she shot at me didn’t amount to a denial, either.

Accompanying her were P.R. person Wally Yance, Mason’s sister, Debby Payne—and Dr. Tom Venson. Yes, I’d called Tom, too, and asked him to attend. Didn’t describe what I was up to, but said he might be interested.

Was Tom’s appearance here with his former girlfriend Debby his way of saying whose side he was on? Or was it for some other, even more nefarious, reason?

Even Earl Knox’s former wife, Edwina Horton, and her husband, Marty, had come. I’d never made it to their store to meet Marty, but I’d invited them in order to have as full a complement of suspects as possible present when I dropped today’s bomb. Unfortunately, Clark Weiss was out of town. Still, he wasn’t my chief suspect.

I only hoped that the explosion resulted in the disclosure of who had actually perpetrated all the nasty stuff around here.

“Kendra, could you tell me what’s really going on?” asked a small, plump woman who tapped my shoulder. She was the breeder of Chihuahuas who’d recently sold a puppy to someone who closely resembled Wally Yance, who, in a sport jacket and plaid pants, had shoehorned himself into the lounge and now stood near us. His normally military bearing had slumped as he obviously attempted not to be spotted by the Chihuahua lady beside me. Too late. “Oh, hi, Wally,” she said. “I thought we were here for a seminar on how to choose the best sire and dam for our litters, genetically speaking.” As I said, I’d fibbed to the breeders to bring them here today. “But I was really surprised to see the puppy you bought from me here, and the person who says she owns her now claims she’s the clone of her own dog. Can you explain this to me?”

“That’s what I’m asking them to do,” I said.

Which was when I noticed, from the corner of my eye, two people enter the room almost simultaneously. One regarded the other with an apparent combination of amusement and suspicion. The other didn’t spare his fellow enterer a single glance.

Oh, but he would.

I glanced at my watch. Yes, it was twenty minutes later than the time I’d asked the initial group, mostly here now, to arrive. And that meant . . .

Sure enough, the next two to squeeze through the door were Lois Terrone and her attorney, my dear friend Esther Ickes. And behind them was a suited guy I didn’t recognize—a Glendale detective, I assumed. For once, I hadn’t had direct contact with the cops who hovered around the friend I attempted to clear, so I left it to Esther to handle them.

This guy would need to meet one of the men who’d slipped in a few seconds earlier: Detective Ned Noralles, of the LAPD. He’d come because I’d aroused his curiosity about what would transpire. He was out of his jurisdiction, possibly not even on duty.

Which was probably best, considering what I was about to do.

And then—oh, yes! There she was, along with her cameraman—my media nemesis and primary contact, Corina Carey. As usual, she wore a brightly colored outfit—a lime green wrap dress—to set off the darkness of her stylishly shaggy hair. Yep, I’d turned this into one huge circus. Which meant I’d better be right.