Authors: Linda O. Johnston
Never Say Sty (9 page)
“In a minute,” I said sweetly. “I need to say goodbye first.” I maneuvered adroitly away and headed toward the stage, where Ned and Nita Noralles were coming toward me with their pigs. Shareen Hayhurst had stopped sticking scent packets into the boxes and stood at the side of the stage with her husband. Most pig people were directing their pets toward the rear exit.
“I’m leaving now,” I told Ned and Nita. “Will you be okay?”
“Sure,” Ned said. “One thing, though.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We’ve talked it over,” Nita said. “If we’re both thrown in jail, would you pet-sit Porker and Sty Guy for us? We had nothing to do with that miserable Sebastian’s death, but the damned—er, those nice coworkers of Ned’s haven’t quite bought that.”
“You’re not serious! There are plenty of people who yelled at Sebastian.” But when I looked at Nita’s face, I saw fear there. Realistic or not, the cops were apparently treating them as potential suspects. Or at least the Noralleses assumed so. And who would know better than Ned? “I’ll make sure these adorable guys are well cared for if for some reason neither of you can do it, but that won’t happen.”
When I glanced into Ned’s eyes for confirmation, his expression was definitely desolate. Yep, he apparently assumed they were genuine suspects. And I empathized.
Impulsively, I hugged them—both Noralles siblings, and each of their adorable potbellies. The pigs both moved their noses in my direction, as if scenting a friend as well as something amiss.
“Take good care of yourselves,” I told them, then headed back toward where Dante and Detective Wherlon still stood chatting. As if they were friends.
And why not? If Dante had convinced the cop that he had an ironclad alibi—me—why wouldn’t they get along just great?
“All set?” he asked as I reached them.
I nodded curtly.
“I was just assuring Detective Wherlon that neither you nor I had any motive to kill Sebastian Czykovski, even if neither of us has any easy way to prove we were home alone last night.”
I stared at him. Obviously he’d just been pulling my chain earlier. He’d never told Wherlon we were each other’s alibi.
“Judging by the excellent ratings for our first televised shows,” Dante continued, “our audience enjoyed Sebastian’s nastiness. I’d venture to say it wasn’t anyone concerned with getting the show produced who killed him.”
“Unless they had a motive other than high ratings,” Wherlon said dryly. “And let’s wait and see the ratings for your next shows, now that people’s interest might be increased because of the judge’s murder.”
I didn’t respond. Detective Wherlon could be correct. Morbid curiosity was a major attraction for some people’s prurient interests.
And I wasn’t thrilled that I might be enhancing it by my possible commitment to dine that night with Dante and a tabloid-type reporter.
Chapter Seven
I CONVINCED MYSELF I could get my mind off the Sebastian Czykovski killing if I threw myself into my law work that afternoon. I therefore called Tomas and Treena Jeong.
They were a recent referral from Geraldine Glass, another Yurick firm partner. Like our founder and most of our other attorneys, Geraldine was a senior citizen. Her practice did not include pet law, so she had asked me to work with the Jeongs.
The Jeongs had a Brittany spaniel with acute separation anxiety. At the moment, they were out of town and had a friend’s college-age daughter house-sitting. But the young lady had things to do besides sit at home with Princess at all hours, and I’d gotten a frantic message from the Jeongs. Some neighbors had called Tomas on his cell phone to complain that Princess was once again crying her heart out or at least the wife had.
The same neighbors, a childless couple, had previously called some fortunately overworked and underinterested authorities who’d declined to enforce a countywide ordinance against inordinate barking. Then, they threatened to sue for damages for diminishment of property value and emotional distress. They’d told Tomas that they’d have their lawyer file the complaint soon unless Princess shut up, pronto.
The Jeongs adored their Princess. Hated that she was so distressed when they were away from home that she shrieked, not barked—even when they were in town. Also hated the idea that they might have to pay a whole lot of money if there was a lawsuit. They’d already tried a few avenues of canine training and psychology, but so far nothing had helped. Could I do something legally to attempt to appease their neighbors, at least till they got home from their two-week trip?
Sounded partly like a pet-sitting problem . . . maybe. But hopefully, since I both lawyered and pet-sat, I could help.
In any event, I needed to see the situation for myself. I headed my rental car in the direction of where the Jeongs lived—west of L.A. along the 101 Freeway, near Thousand Oaks. I located their address and parked on the street. It was a nice, relatively new development, and the house was large and modern. Its windows were arched, its roof, of brown tiles, over a beige, multilevel structure with a jutting entrance.
When I rolled down my car window, I heard what the neighbors complained about. A shrill, sad cry like an animal in pain emanated from the Jeong home. I exited my vehicle and strode toward the sound. The yard had a nice, green lawn in front, a short driveway at the side, a two-car garage, and a tall gray fence at the rear. The cries came from the backyard.
“Princess?” I called, but the cries continued. I raised my voice. “Princess!” She must have heard me then, since she quieted momentarily. I half expected her to bolt toward the front of the fence, since surely she was loose in the yard, judging by the volume of her wails. But I didn’t see her.
I called the house’s phone number but got no response. I also saw no sign that the house-sitter was home. I tried her cell but got voice mail. No assistance there—at least not now. But I’d at least seen the lay of the land.
And heard the pitiful wail of the poor, lonesome pup. I wished I could get into the yard and give her a huge hug.
The crying started again, and a neighbor’s door opened. A woman, maybe mid-forties, clad in jeans and a loose gray T-shirt, glared as if I was the source of the sound. “Isn’t that awful? Those people have no regard for anyone. That dog is so pitiful. It should be taken away from them.”
This had to be one of the complaining neighbors—presumably the wife. I couldn’t talk to her, thanks to legal ethics, since I believed she was represented by counsel. But I absolutely disagreed with all she said. The Jeongs cared a lot about Princess. That’s why I was there. So, I simply shrugged and gave a half-friendly smile. “You’ll be fine, Princess,” I called. “I promise.” Which amazingly caused the crying to stop. And earned the neighbor’s quizzical look along with her irritated glare.
I remained where I was a few more minutes, but Princess kept her sorrow to herself. The neighbor disappeared back into her house. All was calm, at least for now.
Maybe Princess’s plight could be eased by hiring someone to stand outside and call her name. Or finding a house-sitter who’d be utterly housebound, since apparently Princess cried every time no one was home.
Impractical? Probably. But at a minimum, I could let my mind churn on these and other ideas for animal dispute resolution in this sad case. And right now, I could head home to reclaim my own little Lexie from her day at play.
AS I CHUGGED toward the freeway, I noticed an auto mall I hadn’t visited before. I really had an urge to dump this darned rental car back where it belonged. But I hadn’t yet settled on what car to buy for my own.
Not another Beamer. I doubted I could afford one, unless it had a lot of miles on it already, which wouldn’t bode well for longevity. My preference was buying new and hanging on to a vehicle forever. Or until it got wrecked, whichever came first.
I hoped to find a car that wasn’t a gas guzzler, maybe even a hybrid. Something roomy, since I often transported animals hither and thither in my pet-sitting career. Something not too expensive to start with. Probably something that didn’t exist.
I stopped to look at a few cars. Some kinds I’d seen before and hoped I’d change my mind about. That didn’t happen. Foreign cars were far more popular these days than domestic ones, which often meant more expense, especially for additional amenities.
Then I saw a U.S.-made one that definitely captured my attention. Not that it was gorgeous or gaudy, but it was attractive. And practical. An SUV in which I could get a whole bunch of awesome options, including a super navigation system. What made it stand out most was that it was a hybrid. Its gas mileage could be great. Its name? Escape. And although I’m the kind of person who always faces up to reality, I really liked the idea of being able to sneak into my vehicle and . . . escape.
Of course I had to look it over closely. Price it with the stuff inside and out that I wanted. Ouch.
It could be majorly worse, I informed myself, as I fought off the assertive salesperson rubbing her hands in glee at finding someone excited about one of her autos. I told her I had to think about it. Long and hard.
Which I did on my drive back east toward Studio City . . . and reality. My law practice was a lot less lucrative than when I’d bought my Beamer way back when, as a new law associate at a major L.A. firm. My pet-sitting sideline was definitely a help, but it wasn’t exactly a pathway toward financial wealth.
If I bought a car like that, I’d be making substantial payments for ages. Was it worth it? Could be. But I’d need to consider it for a while before leaping in and incurring the additional debt.
SINCE IT WAS only midafternoon, I had time to head to my law office before my late-day pickup of Lexie and performing our pet-sitting. I was nearing my freeway exit when my cell phone sang. I glanced at the caller ID. Since I generally program in phone numbers for my clients—legal and of the pet-sitting persuasion—I immediately knew it was the Jeongs, checking up on my visit to their Princess.
“Hi,” I said. “Tomas?”
“No, it’s Treena. What did you find out?”
I explained how mournful Princess had sounded, how I’d wanted to soothe her, and how I’d also met one of their nasty neighbors. “I didn’t like the neighbor’s reaction, but I can sort of understand it. We need to figure out a way to keep Princess occupied when she’s alone, or another solution to her separation anxiety.”
“Yes!” Treena sounded jazzed. “What would you suggest?”
I’d been hoping she’d toss out some ideas of her own, but no such luck. Instead, she expected that her hired pet expert would act as a canine psychologist as well as an attorney and pet-sitter. And hadn’t she already taken that route unsuccessfully?
“Maybe if you fixed it so she didn’t get in the yard, she wouldn’t sound so loud,” I said.
“But she’s trained to use the doggy door. We tried keeping her inside for a while, but that did awful things to her housebreaking skills. And she still cried loud enough that the neighbors complained.” Treena paused, as if waiting for me to come up with an idea that was a whole lot better.
“Well . . . let me do a little research,” I said. “You can do some, too. And Tomas. Maybe, among us all, we’ll figure out a way to help poor Princess.”
“Sure.” Treena sounded dejected and defeated. “We’ll figure it out.”
“What about your neighbors? Any chance of enlisting them to visit Princess and keep her company instead of complaining about her? Or are they animal haters?”
“I don’t think they hate all animals,” Treena said. “They used to have a dog, but he got old and they lost him. They haven’t gotten another one, so maybe they’re still in mourning. But I haven’t asked them to help because I’m afraid, with their attitude, they’d do something awful to keep Princess quiet.”
“I’ll try to come up with something,” I assured her—although I wasn’t sure what might work.
Almost immediately after she hung up, my phone rang again. Had she come up with a brilliant idea in an instant?
No, this time the screen identified Althea Alton, my friend and former computer consultant when I’d been up close and personal with her boss, P.I. and security expert Jeff Hubbard.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “How are you, Althea?”
“I’ve finally found some stuff on Dante DeFrancisco,” she responded with no polite preamble. “Interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Come here tomorrow around noon, and I’ll spill it all.” Althea could hack computers like a pro—which she was. A lovely, young-looking grandma, she’d also perfected the art of manipulation. Or so I felt certain at this moment.
“I assume Jeff will be there,” I replied dryly. Since we’d last seen each other, he’d called and left me multi messages. I’d responded only to the first, to ask him to quit calling. But Althea had apologized on his behalf and clearly aspired to play arbitrator. Get us back together.
Not going to happen.
But I had to humor her to get the info she’d unearthed.
“Of course he will,” Althea said cheerfully. “Wasn’t that the deal? I find data you’re after, and you humor me and say hi to Jeff. If nothing comes of it, at least I’ll have tried.”
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