Read Meow is for Murder Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
Meow is for Murder (29 page)
Betty shrugged a thick shoulder beneath the bright green sweatshirt she was wearing. “If I’d been the violent type, I’d have gone after that horrible man even before Coprik came into my life.” She leaned sideways onto that very man’s substantial bulk, and he put an arm protectively about her.
My assumption so far was in favor of their innocence, but we still had our scenario to play out.
Amanda obviously thought it was time, too, since she rose. “I’ve got some refreshments in the kitchen. How about you two helping me carry them? We can talk about my support group idea on the way.”
I did my part while they were gone, depositing cat prey on the floor near where they’d sat.
This time, to my amazement, Carnie and Cherise padded into the living room as I finished positioning their purported prey. They sat down on the floor and simply stared—a good thing, since I’d had concerns they’d start playing with the dead mouse.
“Amanda!” I called, keeping an eye on them.
In mere moments, the threesome returned to the room. I started into my spiel about what Corina Carey had reported on TV and in the papers as being true . . . as Coprik came closer, and the kitties did, too, waving their long leopardlike tails in the air.
“Ugh,” Coprik snorted. “Cats.” He looked away quickly until his eyes lit on another spot on the floor . . . then screamed in a shrill, unmasculine tone, “A mouse!”
And passed out.
Betty rushed to his side, hanging on as best she could to lower him to the floor without him suffering damage, or foisting any on Amanda’s furniture.
“Coprik!” she cried. “Honey, it’s okay.” She looked up at Amanda. “Do you have any smelling salts?”
“I thought that stuff went the way of corsets and feathered hats,” our hostess grumped. “Vinegar, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Betty replied dubiously.
In a moment, Amanda returned with a rag that reeked through the entire room. With it held beneath his broad nose, Coprik started to stir.
“Poor guy,” Betty said sotto voce. “You’d never know it to look at him, but he’s afraid of all sorts of things.”
“Like?” I encouraged.
“Little animals, for one thing. And you wouldn’t believe how sensitive he is when he sees blood.”
They left a little later, once Coprik was awake enough to walk out, leaning on Betty’s shoulder. Meantime, we’d stashed the mouse and shooed the cats.
“What do you think?” Amanda asked when we were alone.
“I don’t think Betty would have killed Leon on her own,” I said.
“And Coprik?”
“You’d have found his body on the floor along with Leon’s, if he’s that sensitive to blood,” I said. “I think we’d better scratch these two off our suspect list, too.”
Three down, and an infinite number to go.
But we arranged to try our little act again tomorrow.
NO SCREWDRIVER BY the Beamer that night, and no new scratches, either. Maybe that was because I’d backed into Amanda’s driveway and ensured my car was under a whole lot of light.
Plus, Ned Noralles had informed me, after the last screwdriver incident, that he was stepping up patrol car pass-bys in Amanda’s neighborhood—to catch her in the act, since he was certain she’d left it there to scare me. No prints on the threatening tool, of course. But I felt reasonably certain Amanda was innocent of this act, too. And I was glad for the cruising cops.
I sighed as I locked the Beamer’s doors. Assuring myself I’d get the scratch fixed soon, I drove off.
Chapter Twenty-five
“YOU’RE WHAT?” JEFF shouted after he’d called his home that night to check on the dogs and me, and I’d explained how his ex-wife and I had spent the day. “How stupid can you get?”
I hissed at him, “It’s under control.” I hoped. “By the time you get home, we’ll have figured out who really offed Leon.”
“Kendra, at least wait till I’m back. I can protect you two if—”
“What a nice thought,” I replied, more with irritation than appreciation. I’d just come in from walking Lexie and Odin, keeping my eyes wide open for any intruders on Jeff’s street. No extra police patrols here, so I was on full alert, notwithstanding Jeff’s asinine suggestion that I was less than intelligent. “We’ll be fine. See you when you get back, Jeff.”
THE NEXT DAY passed like normal—scooting around pet-sitting, followed by a fine day practicing law, and then yet another battery of fun pup and kitty care.
I dropped in at Jeff’s to feed Lexie and Odin and assure myself they were doing well without me. While there, I changed from my dressy attorney-wear into comfy jeans and sweatshirt. Once I’d told the dogs I’d return soon, I aimed my Beamer toward Amanda’s for our next anticipated visit.
This time, Amanda’s quarry—er, houseguest—was Kennedy McCaffrey, the great-looking cardiac patient who hated Leon for stealing artwork ideas from him.
He looked askance as Amanda led him down the hall where some of his pictures—and Leon’s—hung in places of honor.
“That dirty S.O.B.,” Kennedy grumbled. He pointed to one of the paintings. “That’s a nearly exact replica of one of mine—a scene right off Dana Point, I’m sure of it.”
“But it’s Leon’s?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s Leon’s.” Kennedy strolled down the hall staring, then said, “You got anything to drink, Amanda?” I doubted he was talking about tea. He headed straight for the kitchen, which told me he’d been here before.
Ah, a good clue that this suspect belonged on our little list. Had he found a way in before, when I was pet-sitting? Left the refrigerator door open after pouring himself a libation?
Returned days later to kill Leon?
But their heading to the kitchen first rearranged our routine a bit. I scrambled for a reason to head to the living room first. “I need to get my notebook,” I dissembled.
Amanda had gotten Kennedy here on the pretext of discussing other possible Leon-slayers. She’d said she wanted his input.
Long story short? We sat in the kitchen for a while and talked stalkers. And Leon. And Corina Carey’s articles about Amanda and her cats and the accusations against her. And in the meantime, Kennedy kept looking deeply into Amanda’s eyes . . . and below.
Which wasn’t much of a surprise, since she’d worn a skimpy top that revealed her midriff when she turned certain ways—which she did a lot with him around.
I had the impression the guy would have slain dragons for her.
Had that included Leon?
After a while, I attempted to lead them into the living room—but found I didn’t have to. To my surprise, the mouse I’d left on the floor—somewhat reluctantly, since I hadn’t seen Amanda’s cats and feared they’d stalk off with our evening’s prop—did in fact appear in the kitchen, in Carnie’s mouth. The clever, smaller kitty deposited the prey right at Kennedy’s feet.
I wanted to ask Amanda if she’d trained her felines that afternoon, but kept silent on that subject. Instead, I suggested, “Gee, Kennedy, the cats apparently don’t like you. They’re warning you . . . just the way we figure they did with whoever killed Leon. Did you do it?”
He looked absolutely affronted. “I’d never have done such a thing . . . here. I would never have wanted to implicate Amanda.” He turned toward her and smiled moonily.
I didn’t bother going into what we’d discussed with Betty Faust and Coprik yesterday, about how whoever did it could have intended that it happen right here, since Amanda could assert self-defense.
Instead, I said, “Well, I’d better go take care of my dog—and Jeff’s.”
Amanda shot a glare at me for even mentioning her ex. Apparently, Kennedy’s interest in her could be mutual.
I didn’t get to talk to Amanda about Kennedy’s presence on our suspect list until she called while I was at the office the next day.
“He didn’t do it, Kendra,” she insisted.
I wasn’t so sure.
Even so, I cooperated as she set forth her next list of guests for our interrogation and accusation-by-mouse.
THE NEXT OF Amanda’s invitations to be accepted was by Nellie Zahn, the self-made self-defense guru formerly stalked by Leon who’d used that lemon of a situation to make lemonade of her life. Since I’d admired her, I didn’t desire that the muscular yet feminine, self-assured diva act guilty . . . and she didn’t. She arrived at seven o’clock on Wednesday evening in—what else?—a workout suit, one in multiple and becoming shades of blue.
Sitting in Amanda’s living room, Nellie said in response to one of our canned comments, “I don’t need a support group myself to deal with what Leon did to me, but I’d be glad to join to help others. Especially you, Amanda.”
Thus, Nellie had driven the distance from Redondo Beach to show support to Amanda whether or not she’d killed Leon—and she indicated applause, in the event Amanda had been the slayer.
And when the dead mouse magically appeared at the foot of where she’d been sitting?
“What great cats you have!” she gushed. “I’d love to meet them. Maybe next time, they won’t leave me their sweet little threat against people they think are trespassers.”
So, as I’d hoped, Nellie slid way low on my little list.
NEXT TO VISIT Amanda’s was Bentley Barnett, who popped in on Friday night. Amanda had objected strenuously to putting her own brother through our test, but I’d prevailed.
“You want him cleared once and for all, don’t you?” I demanded.
She did, and so she got him to drive all the way up from San Diego.
Of course our little scenario didn’t play well with someone who knew the cats as well as if they were his nieces. Bentley saw through our scheme nearly immediately.
“You’re trying to get the killer to confess by having the cats menace him into it?”
“Or her,” I said in agreement.
“Cool,” he said. “Let me know if it works. Oh, and by the way, as much as I hated that little shit Leon, even if the cats bring me a hundred mice, it still wasn’t me who killed him.”
NO MORE TAKERS for a few more days. Meantime, Rachel gave me the actual date she’d be exiting town for a while: next Tuesday.
I called Tracy Owens, but she said she was swamped. “Try Wanda Villareal. I talked to her the other day and she said she had a couple of clients who’d be coming home this weekend.”
I called, and she sounded delighted to take on my overflow.
Plus we made a dinner date, one where we planned to meet at a restaurant with outdoor dining. That way, we could bring our respective Cavaliers.
“Basil will be so excited,” she said.
“Lexie, too.”
Saturday afternoon finally rolled around, and I again rolled my Beamer to Amanda’s—once more leaving Lexie behind Jeff’s protective security system with her buddy Odin.
Today’s guest was to be Piper Erlinger, another of Leon’s former stalking victims. I had previously tried to interview Piper at the time I’d visited Betty Faust and Nellie Zahn, but she’d not responded to my calls.
But Amanda had reached her, and apparently had convinced her to come, one former stalkee to another.
As had become our habit, we both answered the door, at eleven o’clock Saturday A.M., when Piper was scheduled to arrive.
Only . . . the person who stood there wasn’t a female stalking victim, but a guy, maybe five-ten, mid-forties, moderate length dark hair with a hint of gray starting to appear, and a reserved smile revealing stained teeth in the midst of the merest shadow of a beard. He wore a trendy leather bomber jacket.
Another Coprik, who’d come instead of his lady friend to warn us away? And hadn’t he heard of tooth whitening?
“Hello, Piper,” Amanda said. “Come in.”
“But—” I began.
“Piper Erlinger, meet Kendra Ballantyne. She’s a friend who’s helping me get over this whole Leon thing.”
Which was our canned spiel, designed for anyone who hadn’t been privy to Corina Carey’s news reports and wouldn’t therefore necessarily know my background and association with Amanda’s situation. Only—
“But—” I said again, then blurted, “I thought you were one of Leon’s stalking victims.”
“Come on in, Piper,” Amanda said. “We’ll sit down and talk about this. Okay?”
“Sure.”
I brought up the rear as Amanda led him down the hallway of seascape dreams. Slowly. Piper picked on each individual picture, assessing and critiquing it.
“Nice job,” he said of one. “Obviously not Leon’s. The tone it sets is mellow and lovely, definitely Southern California coastal.” The next? “Childish brushstrokes, and uneven, so they weren’t intended that way. Not horrible overall, but not something I’d want hanging in my hallway. Leon’s?”
Amanda acknowledged it was. “I kind of liked its naïveté,” she admitted. “But if I were to sell it, I know it wouldn’t bring as much as, say, one of Kennedy McCaffrey’s.” She pointed out the next one down, and Piper nodded.
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