Meow is for Murder (4 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: Meow is for Murder
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Widget was a highly energetic terrier mix who lived in the northern Valley. I’d walked him midday myself until I got my law license back. For a while, I’d had to tell his owner I couldn’t care for him during the day—until I’d hired Rachel. Then, I’d turned him over to her.
Rachel had attended auditions before. She’d even achieved a teensy role in a play once. I wished her well in her acting ambitions. But if she ever landed a role of substance, or one that required filming out of town . . . well, without Rachel’s services, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.
But I’d think of something. Who was I to pop a pin into Rachel’s big, beautiful balloon of anticipation? Besides, our arrangements with her as my assistant were always based on her availability, allowing her to follow her acting dream.
And if I’d any actual ideas of turning Amanda’s cats over to Rachel, even just for tomorrow, they’d long since slunk away.
“Break a leg, Rachel,” I said with a genuine smile, which felt good after all the false ones I’d flung at Amanda earlier.
“What, not all the bones in my body, like you told me before?”
“I never said all of them. But however many it takes.”
“Thanks, Kendra. You’re the best. And if I land the role—”
“
When
you land it,” I interjected insistently.
“
When
I land it,” she amended, her grinning face glowing, “I promise to find someone to help with Widget and the rest.”
“Of course, but we’ll worry about it then.” Of course, I’d worry about it now.
Fretting was half of my function.
And I was already doing a damned fine job of it.
 
LATER, AT JEFF’S, I’d showered and was just settling Lexie, Odin, and me into bed—the dogs’ on the floor, mine a comfy mattress—when the owner of the house himself made his nightly call.
“Hi, Kendra,” Jeff Hubbard said in his sexy masculine voice. “You in bed yet?”
“Getting there,” I replied, smiling seductively despite how I sat stretching my legs with only his long-distance presence to turn me on. “You?”
“Yeah. Just got under the covers in my hotel room, which immediately made me think of you. It’s chilly here in Chicago, and I forgot my pajamas.”
“You’re nude?” I shivered at the fire that flamed through me at the picture that flashed into my mind. That beautiful hard body of Jeff Hubbard in the flesh.
A situation I’d appreciatively encountered numerous times before. And hoped to in innumerable episodes ahead.
Except—the conflagration inside me suddenly shifted to ice as my mind reeled in an alternate direction. My earlier whereabouts that day with Amanda.
Hearing my own tone change to somewhere between remote and rancid, I said, “I visited with Amanda today. She’s leaving town tomorrow and wanted to hire me to care for her cats.” I waited for Jeff’s reaction.
He stayed silent as I counted the seconds. Five. Six. Seven . . . “I assume you told her no,” he finally said.
“No, I agreed to do it. Otherwise, her cats could starve. She signed my contract. Promised to pay lots more than my standard kitty rate. I just have to check on them, change their litter boxes, make sure they have water and food . . .” Okay, so I babbled a bit. I needed for him to break in and say . . . well, something to make me feel a whole bunch better about the entire uncomfortable situation.
“Where is she going?” he asked.
“Up north, I think.” Although my image of her goal as San Francisco resulted from her offhand mention of a bay during our negotiation. Or some other body of water. The woman was obsessed with seascapes, so maybe it was an ocean. “Since I have her cell phone number, I’ll always be able to reach her,” I said.
“Well, it’s your pet-sitting business.” His flat tone failed to improve my state of mind.
“Sure is,” I continued icily. “Her cats didn’t make a good first impression, but I didn’t want anything bad to happen to them. And if I left Amanda in the lurch, she might think I was still concerned something’s going on between you and her.”
“You know there’s nothing between us. Not now.”
“Poor thing seems really scared about her stalker, Jeff.” Or she put on a perfect act. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she contacts you again soon, since she didn’t feel she could rely on the P.I. you recommended.” Okay, I was fishing. Would he snap up the bait and admit enough sympathy for his ex that I’d know our relationship was doomed? Or had he been serious when he’d chosen me?
“If she does, I’ll give her another referral,” Jeff said. “So what are you wearing?”
That sudden change of subject reminded me of our earlier conversation . . . and how turned on I had been. Which was exactly what Jeff intended, I was sure.
“Guess,” I responded, my voice sinking to a sexy whisper. “But think black lace. If anything at all.” I glanced down at my long gray T-shirt with the boob-level Cavalier picture. What Jeff didn’t know would only entice him further. And might convince him to keep on avoiding Amanda. I hoped.
Only after I’d hung up the phone did the doubts descend again. Okay, I admit I’m the suspicious sort. But I know how miserable my taste in men has been. Could Jeff really resist playing hero if his beautiful ex insisted she still needed a champion?
He seemed to think he could. Yet I couldn’t help wondering whether Jeff Hubbard was a better actor than star-wannabe Rachel.
 
I’D AN AMAZINGLY active agenda the next day—including Amanda’s cats.
So there I was, with all my pet-sitting clients waiting for my visits, thanks to Rachel’s unavailability. That included spending my lunchtime walking Widget, the wild terrier.
Which was why I’d dropped Lexie at Darryl’s doggy daycare resort first thing, so she wouldn’t feel deserted while I devoted attention to others’ pets.
In between, I spent my office hours drafting a complaint for one of Borden Yurick’s senior-citizen clients. That particular age range was his specialty, both in cases and in hiring other attorneys for the firm. I was the sole exception.
I took off a little early that afternoon. All went well with my pet visits, despite their multiplication. I couldn’t help but wonder, with Rachel’s skipping out, good reason or not, whether or not I should start seeking a second assistant. A whole staff of wannabe actors who needed to toil for sustenance between roles? Very L.A. Maybe I’d be better off with people who dedicated all attention to their real employment—working for me.
I intentionally left my evening visit to Amanda’s until last. I wasn’t there yet when I received a call from her on my cell phone. My phone still played the Bon Jovi song “It’s My Life.” I loved the tune, but this time “It’s My Life” almost made me sling the phone across my Beamer, once I saw the caller ID. Now that I’d had time for further reflection, the song suggested to me that I’d compromised too completely by being conned into Amanda’s assignment.
“Hello, Amanda,” I answered neutrally.
“Have you visited Cherise and Carnie yet?”
“Sure. They were fine this morning.”
“I mean now. This afternoon.”
“Not yet,” I said through teeth gritted so hard they could have cracked. “They aren’t my only clients, you know.”
“But I’m paying you good money. What if they’re not eating, like at the vet’s? Kendra, you promised to take good care of them, and I’m holding you to that.”
Hell. As I’d feared, now that I was in Amanda’s employ, she clearly wasn’t about to allow me to forget it. Was that why she’d manipulated me into this—so she could have the pleasure of pushing me around pursuant to our contract?
“I’m treating them just fine, Amanda. I’ll see them soon.” I withheld my wrath with amazing effort.
“And be sure to call me from my house,” she insisted, inspiring an urge in me to cast my phone not only across the Beamer, but to smash it under the wheels. “I want to be sure they’re all right.”
“Fine,” I asserted irritably. Why injure my phone, when it was the caller I wanted to cudgel? Not only that, I’d an urge to leave her cats till midnight—no, 4 A.M.—to provide me with an excuse to call her really late. But the poor felines weren’t responsible for my dislike of their infuriating owner.
Well, heck. After hanging up, I decided to vary my intended route and get that visit out of the way. Fast.
Still sitting in my Beamer, I made a note about my just-completed visit in the log I’d begun when I made my pet-sitting business official as a limited liability company, complete with instructions and contracts for my clients.
Then, I headed inside Amanda’s.
At first, when I disarmed the security system Jeff had installed, opened the door, and stepped into Amanda’s painting-lined corridor, there was no sign of her cats. Great. Other feline clients occasionally played kitty tricks by staging false—but thankfully temporary—disappearances. These two, too?
But then I heard a meow chorus and chased it to the kitchen. There the two leopardlike cats both sat. “Hi, girls. Have you missed me since this morning?” I spoke cheerfully, attempting to read their inscrutable feline faces.
Then Cherise, the larger of the two, ducked beneath the kitchen table and immediately emerged again with an inert mouse carcass dangling from her mouth. She deposited her largesse on the floor.
“For me?” I gushed falsely. “You shouldn’t have. Really.”
I couldn’t help shivering more than just a smidgen. It wasn’t as if I’d had no contact with mice since I’d started pet-sitting. I’d had to feed my client Py, the python, dead and defrosted ones, after all.
And, of course, I knew that cats were naturally predatory and proud of it. I’d even heard that they often showed off by presenting their prey to the people they like most. Maybe such gifts arrived often for Amanda from her feline friends.
That didn’t mean I had to enjoy dealing with deceased rodents.
I completed my more typical pet-sitting tasks. Then, as gracefully as possible with my nose wrinkled and eyes almost closed, I gingerly lifted their gift in shaky hands clad in rubber gloves from beneath Amanda’s sink . . . and tossed the poor rodent, and gloves, into a plastic bag for disposal in the garbage outside. Only then did I start breathing again.
As promised, I called Amanda—using her own kitchen phone instead of my cell. Why expend my own purchased minutes? “Everything here is fine,” I assured her, then told her about how I’d been regaled by a rodent gift.
“Really?” Her voice didn’t effervesce with enthusiasm but sounded on the chill side. “They’ve never done that before.”
My grin was its nastiest. Why not? This unwelcome client couldn’t see it. “Maybe it was special thanks for the care I’ve been giving them in your absence. Cats do that, you know. And we’ve gotten along famously.”
A split second of silence. Then, “You know, I’m sure, that my cats are special. Smart. Most likely, showing you their kill was a warning. The poor dears undoubtedly consider you an interloper.”
Yeah, right. She was reaching.
Even so, I couldn’t completely discount what she said. Not that I’d ever met true attack cats, but these guys did look like little leopards. I wouldn’t turn my back while caring for them.
“Give me a call tomorrow after you’ve seen to them again, Kendra,” Amanda said into my ear. No please. No thank you.
No surprise.
Still, my grin didn’t waver.
Until I got outside and saw my Beamer blocked in the driveway by a white Chevy sedan parked crossways along it on the street. It was a smaller model, but I couldn’t maneuver out around it.
I scanned the street for the owner, ready to ask for the car’s removal politely, at least at first.
I heard a sound off to my side, where some ficus trees stood. Only then did I notice the large man striding toward me. He wore a muscle shirt, tight jeans, and an ugly grimace as he approached.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing in Amanda’s house? Where is she?” He stopped only inches from me and glared down with light brown eyes filled with frenzy and fury.
As his hands reached toward me, I realized who this crazed man had to be.
Amanda Hubbard’s stalker.
Chapter Three
I DUCKED SMOOTHLY to avoid his grasp and darted away, one hand sliding into my large purse. I groped inside until I felt my small cell phone, which I clasped as if it was a lifeline.
Maybe it was.
“Well, hi, Leon,” I chirped amicably to the man as he changed course and continued to approach. “You are Leon Lucero, aren’t you? Amanda has told me so much about you.” Yeah, like you’re a fruitcake who might just like to slice and dice her. Or maybe merely make her your sex slave.
“Yeah, I’m Leon. Who are you?”
How to play this? Well, we were outside on a residential street. Although I failed to see any friendly neighbors, I figured a scream might bring assistance. If I needed it.
For now, I’d be brash. Bold. Let my litigator side take control. Gee, if I could convince Leon never to darken Amanda’s doorstep again, I’d erase her excuse for chasing Jeff.

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