Fine-Feathered Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Praise for the Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mystery series

  Nothing to Fear but Ferrets

  “Linda O. Johnston has a definite talent for infusing humor in just the right places … Pet lovers and amateur sleuth fans will find this series deserving of an award as well as a place on the bestseller lists.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Another clever foray into the life and crime-beset times of Kendra Ballantyne … Be sure to read this pet lover’s dream of a book … You won’t regret it.”

  —Mystery Lovers News

  Sit, Stay, Slay

  “Very funny and exciting … worthy of an award nomination … The romance in this novel adds spice to a very clever crime thriller.”—The Best Reviews

  “A brilliantly entertaining new puppy caper, a doggie-filled who-done-it … Johnston’s novel is a real pedigree!”

  —Dorothy Cannell

  “Pet-sitter sleuth Kendra Ballantyne is up to her snake-draped neck in peril in Linda O. Johnston’s hilarious debut mystery Sit, Stay, Slay. Witty, wry, and highly entertaining.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  Berkley Prime Crime Books by Linda O. Johnston

  SIT, STAY, SLAY

  NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FERRETS

  FINE-FEATHERED DEATH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  FINE-FEATHERED DEATH

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Linda O. Johnston.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67810-3

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To bird lovers everywhere, and especially our thanks to the West Valley Bird Association for letting Linda enjoy a meeting and a macaw. Thanks also to Tiana Carroll, who entertained Linda and let her ask lots of questions at the bird show at the Las Vegas Tropicana.

  And to Fred, through love and adversity, forever. This is mostly from Linda, but Fred has grown on Kendra, too.

  —Kendra Ballantyne / Linda O. Johnston

  Chapter One

  THE SHRIEK SLAMMED into my ears. It radiated through my slouched, nearly sedentary body. My fingertips jerked on the computer keyboard, and the legal brief I’d been writing was suddenly full of gibberish.

  Maybe it was already full of gibberish. Who knew? But the sudden surfeit of extraneous letters made it all the more incomprehensible.

  Like my thoughts. Who’d screamed? Why? Where?

  It was nearly ten o’clock at night. No one else was nuts—er … dedicated—enough to still be around the law offices of Yurick & Associates.

  Or so I’d assumed an instant earlier.

  The scream had sounded like someone inside this building. Someone incensed. Someone in pain. Someone hurt … dying?

  Heck, there’d been too many murders around me lately. The usual person soars through her entire lifetime without encountering even one, but several had orbited my existence in the last few months. No wonder my imagination lent emotions to a sound that was probably in my head.

  But I was a lawyer. What imagination I had was devoted to dreaming up winning legal arguments for clients, not screams in the night.

  I couldn’t ignore the noise.

  As if my shaking body would let me.

  I stood, listening to the now utter silence, except for the rapid thud from my overly excited heart.

  Should I dial 911? I reached for my purse, stashed in a desk drawer, and snatched my cell phone from it. I pushed in the numbers, but wouldn’t hit “Send” till I was sure something was wrong. Maybe someone had programmed some jarring mechanical gadget to turn on at this hour. Or I’d heard squealing tires outside on Ventura Boulevard, unidentified thanks to how intensely I’d been concentrating on my brief. Or—

  I was rationalizing. What I’d heard wasn’t electronic, and it unequivocally emanated from inside. My shivering finger pressed “Send.” I prepared to identify myself, Kendra Ballantyne, attorney-at-law.

  Except no one answered; a recorded message insisted that I hold. How could all 911 operators be busy? What if someone were dying?

  I didn’t know that nobody was dying. Or worse, was dead by now.

  What if someone had actually been attacked here? The assailant could still be around, intending to silence—permanently—whoever’d heard that scream. I hissed in my breath and held it … as I h
ung up, stuffed the phone into a pocket, and slipped carefully from my office, my ears on full alert.

  Not for the first time, I wished I’d brought Lexie along when I headed back to work this evening. My Cavalier King Charles spaniel would have let me know if there was something to bark about.

  At least I was dressed down that day, in a shirt tucked into casual slacks that wouldn’t restrict running should I seek to escape. Better yet, my blessedly quiet walking shoes didn’t make a sound as I slipped through the one-story office building.

  I’d left lights on in the hall, which could be a bad thing if someone lurked in one of the darkened rooms whose doors opened off it. The offices of Yurick & Associates squatted in a structure that had once been a restaurant, and small, private offices had been built along the outer wall, with open cubicles for paralegals and secretaries in the center.

  Outside the door to my comfy corner office, I stood still for an instant and held my breath. Heard nothing. Saw nothing that shouldn’t be in the hall. I started slowly along it, preparing to flee first, ask questions later.

  I stopped when I reached the door three down from mine—a closed door. A rustling sound emanated from inside, like someone shuffling papers.

  The office belonged to the firm’s newest associate—Ezra Cossner, who’d joined us just yesterday. Not that senior citizen Ezra was new to the practice of law. Heck, no. At thirty-five, I was about half the age of most of Borden Yurick’s new brain trust of attorneys.

  Should I call out? What if Ezra was under siege from someone who’d hurt him? Would that person start shooting through the door?

  Obviously I’d seen too many action films and cop-filled TV shows. Still, I edged away, my back along the wall. I pulled out my cell phone, preparing to send my distress call again—and ready to pray that a real person picked up this time.

  More shuffling sounded from beyond the door. But no more screams. A good sign—wasn’t it?

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. Then I called out, “Ezra? Are you in there?”

  No response. No shuffling either.

  “Ezra?” I tried again.

  Still silence.

  I scanned the closest cubicles for anything that might double as a weapon, should I need to protect myself. Sharp pens for stabbing skin? Computer keyboards for bopping heads? How about a stapler, to fasten my frayed nerves back together?

  And now, after calling out, I’d even lost the edge of surprise.

  Heck, Kendra. Are you a woman or a wimp?

  Before I could berate myself with the best answer—both—I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob. Turned it. Shoved the door open.

  And gasped at the immediate shrill string of squawks that accosted me.

  I blinked. I grinned. I hurried inside, and flicked on the light.

  Near Ezra’s empty desk crouched a huge cage. And in it was a beautiful, mostly blue macaw.

  A COUPLE OF minutes later, I was still there, taking a break and talking to the bird. We were, after all, kindred spirits, the only living creatures occupying the Yurick law offices at this ridiculous hour.

  And my relief that nothing was wrong, that no one was mortally wounded, made me giddy.

  “I heard rumors that Ezra owned a macaw,” I remarked during a rare respite from her raucous cries. “No one mentioned that he might bring you here, though.”

  This time, the bird talked back. Her dark-colored tongue appeared between the top and bottom of her sharply curved and perilously pointed black beak. “Gigi, gorgeous girl, gorgeous girl,” she rasped in her rough voice. She repeated it. And repeated it. And repeated it.

  “Glad to meet you, Gigi,” I said over the din, assuming she was asserting her own name. “Can you say anything else? How about Kendra? Can you say ‘Hi, Kendra’?”

  “Gorgeous girl,” she grumped, and I doubted her goal was to compliment me. Instead, she stopped speaking and stared suspiciously through the brass-toned spokes of her cage with one eye, then turned her head to glare at me with the other.

  The dark gleam in those small black eyes was emphasized by the discrete field of small white feathers surrounding each of them. Her chest and belly were plumed in gold. And though I could certainly term her back blue, that was as descriptive as calling a rainbow an attractive arch. The feathers fluffed about the back of her head were lighter than the deep royal blue of her body and the dark navy of her long tail.

  My clothes paled in comparison, which was no wonder, since they were beige and bland. Months ago, my hair had returned to its basic, blah brown when I could no longer afford to have it highlighted blond and beautiful. It now just skimmed my shoulders. My face? Okay after I added makeup, but even so, essentially ordinary.

  Gorgeous girl? Hah!

  I took a seat in an uncomfortable antique chair beside the beautifully hued bird. Ezra apparently liked old stuff, since the desk, outsized for the cramped quarters, was a big, carved monstrosity. Even Gigi’s huge cage appeared antique. Fortunately, it crouched on wheels, since carrying it would doubtless be difficult.

  Beside it stood a large metal doodad that I discerned must be Gigi’s official perch when she wasn’t pent up in her cage. The edges of Ezra’s office were lined with neatly labeled cardboard crates that confirmed he hadn’t fully settled in yet.

  “When did Ezra bring you here?” I asked Gigi. “I was around most of the day, and I’d surely have heard everyone talking about you. Did you come in earlier this evening, when I was out doing my pet-sitting rounds?”

  Her only response was to shift her weight from one of the claws gripping her perch to the other.

  “You know, I work as a pet-sitter on the side these days. I’ve never had a bird like you to tend. If you became my client, would you tell me how to take care of you?”

  She opened her beak, and the sound she made was rude by human standards.

  “I’m really pretty good at pet-sitting,” I protested. But I doubted she’d care if I explained the origin of my alternate career. See, I’d been accused many months ago of serious breaches of attorney ethics—which, believe it or not, isn’t always an oxymoron. Though ultimately I was able to prove I’d been framed, the State Bar had nevertheless decided I had to pass the MPRE—Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam—before my suspension from the practice of law was lifted.

  As a consequence of the initial allegations, my career had been put on hold, along with my income. I’d had to file for bankruptcy, with no means of making ends meet. My good friend Darryl Nestler, owner of the Doggy Indulgence Day Resort, had suggested that I take up pet-sitting so Lexie and I would be able to eat in the interim.

  To my surprise, I’d enjoyed it—enough that I still indulged in pet-sitting, even though I had recently resumed practicing law.

  Fortunately, Borden Yurick, a partner in my former law firm Marden, Sergement & Yurick, had decided around the time I’d gotten in trouble that he’d rather have fun practicing law than hang around the stuffy firm. That had caused his uncomprehending and unforgiving partners to assert he’d had a nervous breakdown.

  After a cathartic globe-circling expedition, Borden opened this office, where he’d promised his newest associates, mostly old-time attorneys, that they’d enjoy what they did for a living. He’d invited me to join them, agreeing I could continue pet-sitting if I wished. I could even take on pet advocacy cases. In fact, I could pretty much practice law as I pleased, as long as I assisted him on cases he chose to handle.

  “It was definitely a good deal for me,” I related aloud to Gigi. She bobbed her blue head twice, as if she’d read my thoughts and agreed.

  I laughed. And then I looked at my watch. “Sorry, my friend, but I need to finish part of a brief I was working on, then head home. My dog Lexie’s waiting for me. So’s her friend Odin, the Akita we watch when his owner’s out of town.”

  That owner would be Jeff Hubbard, a private investigator and security expert who also happened to be my sometime lover—when he wa
sn’t withholding important facts about his background from me.

  “Anyway, I’ll see you around, okay?”

  Gigi regarded me skeptically but said not a word.

  I did hear some words, though, as I exited the open office door. Nothing as sinister as I’d interpreted Gigi’s earlier shriek, but definitely human voices, drawing near from the reception area.

  Raised human voices.

  I wondered if I was wrong about the nonsinister part.

  I soon recognized who was shouting. Unsurprisingly, one was Ezra Cossner. I’d figured he wouldn’t simply leave lovely Gigi by her lonesome all night. He was probably here to take his pretty pet home.

  The other voice was female, and also familiar. It belonged to Elaine Aames, another senior-citizen law associate Borden had hired to have fun practicing law. She didn’t sound as if she was having fun now. Her voice remained too distant for me to make out what she said, but its shrillness suggested fury.

  They came into view in the hall. Ezra, somewhat stoop-shouldered, had a partially shiny pate and wore a light sweater over baggy slacks. Elaine was shorter and slighter, with neat silver hair and a shocking pink blouse beneath a subdued suit.

  Ezra’s shout was angry and audible enough to make my ears ring—and cause Gigi, inside her cage, to flutter her long blue wings and start squawking in response. Disconcerting.

  Disturbing.

  And definitely menacing.

  Over Gigi’s noise, Ezra yelled, “You’ll buy that house over my dead body!”

  Chapter Two

  SURE, THAT THREAT can be a simple figure of speech. Only sometimes it’s not so simple—like when someone sincerely means it.

  Okay, maybe I’m a little sensitive lately, having had so many murders mushrooming around me. But still—