Feline Fatale (27 page)

But I knew he’d be back. And there’d be someone ostensibly working in my yard that afternoon. It would actually be an undercover sort sent by Detective Candace Melamed while I checked out—who else? Rutley Harris.

Before that, though, I had pet-sitting to perform, and so did Rachel.

Then, to my surprise, I had a meeting scheduled in my office regarding Pierre, the French bulldog.

Cornelius Eldt, the attorney representing the breeder, Elmira Irving, hadn’t bothered to return my phone call till that morning—and that happened only after my client, Joan Fieldmann, set up the meeting time with Elmira.

Joan arrived at the firm a few minutes before eleven o’clock, the time set for the conclave. I’d checked with Mignon, and fortunately the conference room was available. I talked with Joan first in my office.

She was wearing a nice black dress, and had put on enough makeup to make her look attractive, in contrast to her usual frumpiness. Black-and-white and beautiful Pierre, sitting on her lap, could pass for her accessory.

Joan appeared ready to impress her adversary.

I inquired why she had called Elmira directly, and what she’d said. I’d need to know if they had talked about anything adverse to my client’s interests, so I could explain it away in the meeting.

“Well, you and I talked about a possible solution on the phone yesterday. You know I’m used to making sales calls, addressing questions directly. This disagreement has gone on long enough. I don’t want to go to court over it. The compromise you suggested . . . well, I think I can live with it.”

“Good girl,” I said. The words made Pierre sit up and wiggle his big, pointed ears at me, and I laughed. “Not you, guy. Anyway, let’s see if Elmira will go along.”

Mignon chirped into the phone a few minutes later that the other members of my meeting were there, so I led Joan and Pierre toward the conference room. It took a little while, since the secretaries and paralegals were drawn to the cute French bulldog. They’d gotten used to my bringing Lexie and didn’t always pop out to say hi to her, and they knew not to bother Gigi, the Blue and Gold Macaw owned by Elaine Aames that was frequently present, too.

Pierre took it all in like the adorable gentleman . . . er, gentle dog . . . he was. In a few minutes, the three of us joined the others in the former bar that was now our firm’s main meeting room.

I exchanged handshakes with Cornelius, who was again dressed for the olden days when attorneys always wore suits for meetings, not just court. I’d dressed up some that day, but my nice blouse and slacks still looked more business casual than formal.

Cornelius waved us to our seats around the conference table, though it wasn’t easy to convince his client. Attractive, middle-aged Elmira, despite her own nice suit, knelt on the shiny wooden floor, fussing over Pierre, and Joan observed with a smile and teary eyes.

Soon, though, we were seated around the large oval table, Joan beside me with Pierre again on her lap, and the others facing us.

“So, Kendra,” Cornelius began. “I heard you had a settlement proposition.”

I nodded. “Word travels fast.” I started by saying how difficult it could be for everyone to have to rely on an arbitrator, as required by the contract, to choose one position or the other. I held my hand up to silence Cornelius when he started to speak, figuring what he intended to say. “Yes, I know you believe your client’s contract is ironclad. Plus, we both know that an arbitrator can come up with a solution that might make both parties miserable. So let’s see if we can work things out so we’re the only ones who’re miserable, Cornelius, since our legal fees will stop sooner.”

I then stated succinctly what I believed both parties’ positions to be. “Elmira considers Pierre a perfect representative of MirVilous Kennels. Her contract purports to maintain certain ownership rights, including keeping her on Pierre’s registration and requiring Joan to show him in a manner Elmira approves of. And if she doesn’t approve, she can allegedly take over the showing and, if she chooses, take Pierre back. Is that your basic understanding?”

After quick consultation with his client, Cornelius acknowledged I’d gotten it more or less right.

“Joan’s essential position is that she is complying in all ways with the contract,” I continued, “which has an implied reasonability standard. She loves Pierre, enjoys showing him, and wants to do it herself. She’s taken lessons and believes she is handling him fine for a beginner.” I held up my hand as Elmira opened her mouth to comment. “Elmira does not agree. Right?”

Both women nodded.

“So here’s what we suggest.” I went through the scenario we’d discussed. “Elmira may choose the number of shows she wants for Pierre over the next six months, preferably close to the L.A. area. She will solely handle Pierre at first, but will also work with Joan to train her. If Pierre starts amassing enough points to suggest he could achieve a championship, Elmira will stay in the equation, still showing Pierre and working with Joan. This scenario will continue, and Elmira will mostly show while training Joan, till championship is achieved, if ever. But if, even with Elmira’s handling, championship doesn’t seem in the cards, her showing will stop and Pierre’s registration will revert to Joan alone. In that case, Joan can show him or not, as she pleases.”

“That will be hard to administer,” Cornelius sniffed dubiously.

“We’ll let Elmira stay mostly in charge till she stops showing Pierre and he gets his championship,” I said, “or not. We’ll also hire a mutually acceptable, major handler who’s a member of the Professional Handlers Association”—I’d asked around the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal till I got that name from someone knowledgeable—“at their joint expense to monitor what’s going on and determine when, if ever, Joan can take over some or all of the showing. That handler’s determination will be final and binding.”

I’d been watching Elmira’s face as I proposed all this. She looked pensive, and I wasn’t sure what she thought of it. But when I was done, Cornelius took her to a side of the room, and Joan and I left for a few minutes—allowing Elmira a little more time with Pierre.

We stayed outside, talking a little nervously with Mignon and my senior counsel, Borden, who’d come to join us. As always, he was clad in a Hawaiian aloha shirt—this one green with pink flowers. Both of them were filled with concern and sympathy.

Soon, Cornelius came out to the firm’s entry area. He motioned for us to return, and Joan and I did.

Elmira was standing near the doorway, hugging Pierre. She smiled as we came in and, relieved, I knew their answer.

“As long as we can agree on written terms and a PHA handler to advise them,” Cornelius said, “we have a deal.”

 

I FELT GOOD and jazzed after that session, so I was utterly optimistic when I went home to wait for Rutley Harris.

I realized, of course, that giving him my home address wasn’t necessarily the wisest course of action. On the other hand, if he clearly responded as if he was the killer, he’d be picked up by the yardman who’d be right outside—the undercover cop Detective Melamed had promised to send. Plus, Dante had insisted on dropping everything to be there for this scenario, so I’d never be alone with Rutley.

I hoped. I didn’t like the guy, whether or not he turned out to be guilty.

Dante arrived a few minutes early, calling me from his car to open the security gate so he could drive right in. A couple of guys, dressed in grungy jeans beneath zippered sweatshirts, walked in after him. They introduced themselves and showed me their IDs—undercover cops from the Burbank PD. They asked where I kept my gardening equipment, and they soon were shuffling around the front lawn, acting as if they were raking up dead grass.

A good thing, since soon a red pickup truck pulled up to the closed front gate. After our hello kiss, Dante had spent the time going over our intended setup and chiding me—again—for dreaming up this scenario.

My landline soon rang. “Kendra? It’s Rutley Harris. I’m right outside.”

“I’ll let you in.” I left Lexie inside, not wanting her to be involved if things got ugly. I considered saying the same to Dante, who viewed me with his assessing dark eyes as if he was thinking identical thoughts about me. I smiled at him. “Show time.”

I’d put another of the cat collars with name tag attached into my jeans pocket. I still wondered if I’d need as many as I’d ordered. I’d smeared a smidgen of tomato sauce on this collar for effect. Dante followed me down the stairs from my apartment, and I saw Rutley emerge from his truck.

He was dressed for the cooler January weather, so he wasn’t showing off his extensive muscles. He eyed me up and down as if my clothes didn’t exist, which made me want to go shower immediately.

Dante saw it, too, and stepped protectively beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder. Rutley didn’t seem at all cowed, but regarded tall, well-built Dante, in his business shirt with the top buttons undone, as if he were a teenage runt.

Uh-oh. This session wasn’t intended to be a testosterone skirmish.

I made myself smile and say, “Glad you could come. As I said on the phone, I own this property—well, the bank and I do.” I didn’t want this cockroach to get the idea I had more assets than I did. “The tenants are moving out, so I thought I’d do some remodeling before looking for replacements.”

If Dante hadn’t heard before, he definitely knew my tenant situation now.

Beggar was the only one home, and Rachel and Russ had done as I asked and confined him in the den. He wasn’t happy about the intrusion, but I got him to stop barking by patting his head and handing him a treat.

For the next ten minutes, I walked Rutley around the house and made comments about upgrading the bathrooms and a few other changes I really wasn’t about to undertake.

Dante stayed right with me, offering suggestions, some of which made sense. Others didn’t, but I knew his intent was to remind Rutley of his presence.

I left the two of them talking about possible tile work in an upstairs bath, excusing myself ostensibly to make a quick phone call. Which took me outside. Near Rutley’s truck.

The supposed gardeners stayed in character and nodded at me without approaching, and I nodded in return.

I went back inside, and soon our discussion ended. We walked Rutley outside once more. On the driveway, I said to him, “Thanks for coming. I’m eager to get your estimate for the work. Oh, by the way, have you heard anything more about suspects in Margaret’s murder? You know, Wanda’s a friend of mine, and I’m hoping she’s dropped from suspicion soon.”

“The damned cops keep questioning me now, too.” Rutley’s thick jaw tightened and his eyes grew dark.

“What I’d really love is to get Lady Cuddles, the kitten, to tell me what she saw. You know, she was there when Wanda found Margaret’s body.”

“Yeah. That cat may be cute, but it’s into everything.”

“You didn’t happen to find her collar and name tag while you were working on any of the Brigadoon units, did you?” I asked, attempting to sound all innocence.

“Sure didn’t,” he said. “But I’ve heard something about them disappearing the night Margaret died, and that there’s some thought that the killer took them.”

Interesting. I would have to finish up my little skits soon, before the world figured out not only the significance of the collar, but what I was doing about it.

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “Do you suppose the murderer’s blood is on them or something?”

“Who knows? Anyway, I’ll send you an e-mail with my estimates on that work. Good seeing you, Kendra. And keep me in mind for any construction work you want done, Dante.” He must know who Dante was, with a comment like that, which was also interesting. He hadn’t acted impressed at all during our house walk-through and discussion.

He opened the door of his truck. It was one of those with four doors and a large seating area inside, and a smaller cargo area in back. I looked into it through the back window. “Oh, is that a sample of some tile you’re installing somewhere?” I’d spotted some boxes before. “Could I take a look at it?”

“Sure. I got it for one of the units at Brigadoon.”

He pulled open the back door and moved around some tools and boxes . . . and that was when I gasped. “Is that what I think it is?” I pointed to a short white strap smeared with red that had a bright blue metal tag in the shape of a cat’s head on it.

“What the hell?” Rutley grabbed it in his thick hand and yanked it out. “Where did this come from?”

I looked at him, attempting to gauge his craftiness quotient. What would he say next?

“Damn it all, someone must have planted it there. Like I said, the cops haven’t left me alone. I argued with Margaret, sure. Didn’t like the bitch. She kept telling me my work was too slow, not right, too expensive. Threatened to have me blackballed from the condos. And all because I screwed her once—literally—then wouldn’t again. But I didn’t kill her—and whoever did it must want to make it look like I did.”

He actually sounded sincere. I glanced at Dante, and saw that his expression was rueful. I guessed that he had wanted it to be Rutley, just to get this awful example of the male sex off the streets.

I sighed inside, noting in my peripheral vision that my two “yardmen” were taking all this in, too.

“Well, we’d better turn this over to Detective Melamed,” I told Rutley. “Wish I could do it with some evidence of who actually did kill Margaret. Any ideas?”

“Yeah. I even gave the cops my list. Not only that, but I’d had a key to Margaret’s apartment for the work I was doing there, and I lost it. Another one, too. Thought I had them both with all the others when I was working on a bunch of units at the same time, but they weren’t there. I also told the cops that. Since whoever killed Margaret did it at her place, maybe he found them and let himself in with her key.”

“It could have been someone she knew, someone she let in herself,” I said.