Feline Fatale (17 page)

I hoped that something in writing on the Internet, in his e-mail, would somehow speak to my mind as it concentrated on something other than driving.

I mentioned Ivan Tradeau and asked Brody to check him out.

Then Brody said, “Will you be in Malibu tonight? I’m meeting Dante to talk over where we are with
Animal Auditions
. I’ve discussed the start of next season with our animal folks and my co-judges, plus our hosts, Rachel Preesinger and Rick Longley. Since you’re a producer, too, we’ll need your input.”

“Oh,” I said slowly. “Well, I’m pretty busy, Brody, so I don’t think—” A beep sounded on my phone. “I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll check for your e-mail. Thanks.” I was stopped at another light, so it was easy enough to push buttons to end my call with him and answer the next.

“Kendra, it’s Dante.” The ID was unnecessary. His number was captured on my cell. More important, I knew that deep, resonant voice well.

“Hi,” I said, attempting to keep the chill and hurt engendered by my previous conversation out of my voice.

“I just realized that I’ve been assuming that you’re coming to my place tonight—only I’ve been so swamped I’m not sure I invited you. Can you make it? Brody’ll be there for a while to talk over some
Animal Auditions
stuff, so I’ll have Alfonse bring in pizza again, or something.” He paused. “Damn! I know it’s getting late and you have your pet-sitting to finish and I’m a jerk for not talking to you before. If you don’t want to come, it’s okay. I’ll come up to see you over the weekend. If that’s all right with you.”

The megabillionaire Dante DeFrancisco, powerful pet store mogul, sounded so contrite that I had to laugh. “I’ll be there,” I said, “as long as you have pepperoni and mushrooms on a nice, cheesy pizza.”

“Consider it done.”

THE PIZZA WAS good. The company was better.

I knew I’d need to get to bed early so I could head back over the hill to the Valley for my first pet-sitting rounds tomorrow, but Lexie wouldn’t mind a romp at dawn on the grounds of Dante’s delightful Malibu estate in the mountains, overlooking the ocean. She’d especially enjoy it in the company of her friend Wagner.

And I’d be there with Dante. After a night I could only anticipate eagerly just then.

But first things first. That consisted of pizza—delicious and decadent, with the toppings I’d asked for. We all sat in his lovely living room, Dante and I on his beige-on-beige sofa that rested on an exquisite Oriental rug on the floor. Brody faced us from the chair of contrasting rust color, across the stone-topped table.

Dante’s delightful, casually clad personal assistant Alfonse hovered nearby, ensuring that we didn’t lack for anything—including refreshers to our mugs of beer.

Our first topic of conversation:
Animal Auditions
. A new season was nearly set to begin. Last season we’d had two sessions, one featuring dogs and the other potbellied pigs. Both had done extraordinarily well in the ratings, which got us a lot more sponsors besides Dante’s HotPets—although, in keeping with his initial orders, no other pet-supply stores could advertise on the show. That didn’t preclude producers of pet foods and other compatible merchandise, and advertisers were clamoring to pay for commercials on
Animal Auditions
. A success? You bet!

The meeting that night was about how to put the scenario already chosen into effect. We’d decided on dogs again, since they were everyone’s trainable favorites. The scenario involved having owners teach their pups of all sizes to be service animals. We all felt that would both attract viewers and, equally important, call attention to the need for more doggy helpers and encourage others to engage in similar acts for real.

When we’d finished talking over
Animal Auditions
, our initial topic segued into the other subject on our minds: Margaret Shiler’s murder, and my investigation into it.

Dante was still awfully concerned that I was too involved, and therefore putting myself in danger. “But you’ve done this so much before, Kendra, that I know I can’t talk you out of it this time, either. So, best I can do is to offer my help.”

“And mine,” Brody added. “Did you see my e-mail?” Brody was one nice guy, never mind the secret past he had shared with Dante that I now knew about. Even better, he was great looking—definitely fit the role of movie and TV star with his sculptured facial features and gorgeous grin.

“Not yet,” I admitted, though I’d been eager to see its results. “I didn’t have much time at home before coming here, so I didn’t look at my computer.”

“Well, I already told you everything that could be important, except, of course, for the new guy you wanted me to research. And he turned out to be quite interesting. Ivan Tradeau is a stunt coordinator.”

I already knew he was involved with the film industry, so I wasn’t impressed.

“I hadn’t run into him or his company, so I didn’t know that,” Brody continued, although I didn’t need the reminder that he’d spent some time as a film hero himself. “And one more thing: my suspicions regarding the murder weapon in Margaret Shiler’s case.”

“The barbecue spit?”

Brody nodded. “Margaret did have a propane-fueled barbecue out on her balcony, so it came from there. But guess who was recently a stunt coordinator in a film where a spit was used as a murder weapon.”

No guess needed. “Ivan Tradeau, I assume,” I said.

He nodded. “That doesn’t mean he’s guilty, of course, but his hat’s in the ring for being Margaret’s killer, too.”

“His wife’s on the Brigadoon Condo Association board, isn’t she?” Dante asked me.

“She sure is,” I said. “She’s a pet-lover, like Wanda, so she and her husband could have had just as much motive for the murder. He left town that day, and his wife said he was gone before Margaret was murdered—though I wasn’t sure whether to believe her.” I’d let Esther know this new bit of info regarding the barbecue spit, but it was getting a bit late to call her. It would wait until tomorrow.

Especially since Brody was about to leave.

Before he did, though . . . “By the way, Brody,” I said, “have you done any background searches on Margaret Shiler herself? Her ex-husband told me she was an accountant, but not where she worked or much else about her.”

“Yep, she was an accountant,” Brody said. “With a major firm.” He named one of the biggies. I was impressed, but wondered how someone with her miserable disposition had gotten along with clients. Maybe she just sat in a back room crunching numbers.

“She also had a successful sideline selling things on eBay and other online sites,” Brody continued. “Looked as if used books were her specialty.”

But neither vocation immediately led to additional suspicions about who’d offed her.

Lexie and I did stay at Dante’s that night. Wagner and Lexie slept in their luxurious quarters, in special plush HotPets beds in the corner of the bedroom.

But Dante and I didn’t do much sleeping.

 

EARLY THE NEXT a.m. Lexie and I entered our Escape and headed back toward the San Fernando Valley for my first pet-sit visits of the day. We drove on narrow, twisty Malibu Canyon Road, heading north. It was still nearly dark out. Since the month was January, daylight hours were fairly short. Streetlights and my headlights did a fine job of lighting our way.

“I’ll bet I’m more tired than you, girl,” I said to Lexie over my shoulder, since I’d blocked her in the backseat, as usual, for her safety. “I heard your deep breathing last night.” Nearly snoring, actually, but I loved Lexie enough not to care. Wagner had slept more silently.

Dante’s deep breathing wasn’t snoring, but I’d listened to its rhythm, too, after our delicious lovemaking. He fell asleep much faster than me. I lay awake rehashing the delightful evening . . . and also wondering what might be next. He seemed to care deeply for me. Had even said he loved me, and I’d said it back.

I did love him. But where were we going with it? I was happy with the status quo, but felt sure Dante wanted more. If he asked, pushed for it, what would I say?

Hell if I knew.

Fortunately, as I was frazzling myself with these thoughts, my cell phone rang, and I answered.

“Kendra? It’s Esther.”

“Exactly the person I intended to call first thing,” I told her, “but I thought this was too early.”

“It would have been, except for the call I just got from Wanda.”

I immediately shifted in my seat, slowing a bit so I could pay attention as the road wound right over a tall hillside. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“The Burbank police want her back for further questioning this afternoon. I’ll try to get it delayed until Monday. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to help me set them on some different suspect by then, will you?”

“Nothing definite,” I said, “but that’s why I was going to call you.” I told her what Brody had learned about Ivan Tradeau. “It’s still flimsy, but I hope to find out more.”

“Flimsy is right, but at least it’s something.”

I promised I’d keep looking for something more meaty, then said good-bye and hung up.

And realized that I was hopping into this situation almost as if I was a licensed private investigator. But I couldn’t use Jeff Hubbard’s company as an alleged employer anymore.

Maybe I’d have to call him after all.

Or not. I was doing this not as a vocation, but to help a friend. No one had hired me, nor was anyone paying me. Besides, I was a lawyer. I could say I was assisting Wanda’s actual counsel in this matter. I was sure Esther would vouch for me.

Which made me feel lots better. I didn’t want my law license on the line for something unethical again—especially when, this time, there could be merit to the complaint.

There were other times I’d investigated murders, too, of course, but Jeff had been more ensconced in my life then—at least until the most recent cases. Oh, well.

I reached the Valley side of the hill and got onto the 101 Freeway heading south—east, rather. My phone rang again.

“Kendra, it’s Darryl.” He sounded frantic, and I knew why.

“I just heard from Esther,” I told him. “I know that the police want to question Wanda some more.”

“Can you help her?”

“I’m working on it.”

He didn’t press, a good thing. But he did hand the phone over to Wanda, which told me they’d spent the night together. I was glad for both of them. The mutual support had to be at least somewhat helpful for their respective states of mind.

“I’m about to start on my pet-sitting for the day, Kendra,” Wanda told me. “Esther said she’d try to get my interview with the Burbank cops delayed till next week, but if I’m stuck—whenever I’m stuck—could you please help with my pet-sitting?”

“I sure will,” I told her. “Don’t you worry about it.”

When we hung up, I called my assistant, Rachel, who was also already on the road for her early assignments. I gave her a heads-up about possibly needing to take on additional pets to sit, depending on what happened with Wanda.

“Of course,” she said, young sweetheart that she was.

I’d nearly reached the freeway exit for my first visit of the day and used that as my excuse to myself not to question Rachel about the house hunting she and her dad were doing. I didn’t want to hear about it, at that moment, if they’d happened to have found the ideal situation and intended to move from my lovely main house immediately.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Thanks.”

As I hung up, I decided I’d talk to Wanda a little later about my taking on some of her existing pet-sitting, to ease some of the pressures on her.

And to make it easier for me to do my own snooping. The jobs I wanted were those caring for animals at the Brigadoon condos.

I needed to spend more time there, eliciting information from all possible suspects—even though my not-so-subtle loaded questions could irritate some of those on my list, like the Bertinettis.

Too bad.

 

I MET WANDA at noon for lunch at a family restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, after dropping Lexie off with an assistant I like at Doggy Indulgence. Her latest brouhaha with the Burbank police was now scheduled for three that afternoon. No extension today. She looked awful. I mean, she was still the attractive, petite person I knew, and as always she wore a flowing, gauzy blouse, this one a pale peach that only served to emphasize how wan she was. There were circles under her big brown eyes, and a resigned droop in her expression.

We slid into a booth across from one another, and she immediately ordered coffee. Me, too. I wasn’t exactly running on a full night’s sleep, but I wouldn’t have traded last night for anything.

“How are you hanging in there?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.

“Okay, I guess. It really helps to have Darryl on my side. As you know, he’s one heck of a great guy.”

I did know that, but if I didn’t figure out who actually killed Margaret, and thereby clear Wanda, I had a feeling I’d better find a new doggy day care place to take Lexie.

But that petty aggravation would not begin to compare with the pain I’d feel.

“He sure is,” I agreed, but decided, for my own psyche, to maneuver the subject of our conversation slightly. “So, you’re okay with my helping out at Brigadoon for a few days, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely, especially if you think it’ll help you learn who killed Margaret.”

“It may help. What would help even more is your insight.” For the next few minutes, after our coffee and salads were served, I went over the people I’d met at the condo, and others Wanda thought of who didn’t like pets. I made notes on a legal pad I extracted from my big purse. Listaphile that I am, I’d brought it along for just this purpose.

Wanda was a genuinely nice human being, despite her occasional, understandable, and excusable moodiness lately. Each time she talked about someone and his or her foibles, even those at the complex who weren’t overly fond of animals, she came up with reasons why that person couldn’t be a killer.