Free Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) by Joni Rodgers Page A

down.
    “Smartie Breedlove?” he said. “She’s your client?”
    “Yes. How do you know her?”
    He groped for an answer. “She’s a writer, isn’t she?”
    “Shep,” Suri said crisply. “Don’t make me be an archeologist.”
    “I interviewed her a while back.” For some undefined reason, Shep didn’t want to say any more than that. “It was a non-issue. The case never made it to filing.”
    “What case?”
    “The Bovet matter.”
    “Indeed.”
    A stone-cold trickle crept down Shep’s back.
    “She didn’t know anything,” he said.
    “About what?”
    “About the Bovet matter.”
    There was a silence. Shep suddenly felt Neville-ish and sweaty, wishing he could close the broken windows on his car.
    “My goodness, Shep. What an elephantine memory you have,” said Suri. “To recognize her home address after all this time.”
    Shep didn’t answer. He waited. Let her play the black key.
    “Also an interesting coincidence that Ms. Breedlove should come to us,” said Suri. “There are so many less expensive firms that could proficiently handle what appears to be a simple annulment to avoid giving up any of her assets.”
    “She has grounds for that?”
    “Tax records show lack of cohabitation. Both parties have maintained individual residences. No consummation. He’s on record objecting to the fact that she documented his impotence in a book. Case closed.”
    There was another brief silence. Suri made a little cricket sound between her teeth.
    “Pop round to Ms. Breedlove’s,” she said. “Make sure the spouse is out and she’s sincere about her intent to file. Tomorrow I’d like to revisit your notes on the Bovet case and refresh our memories on Ms. Breedlove’s involvement. Have those files on my desk first thing, if you would, please.”
    “No problem, boss.”
    \\\ ///
     

9
    P arked across the street from Smartie’s house thirty minutes later, Shep still felt that uncomfortable tickle somewhere between the back of his mind and the root of his shoulder blades.
    The porch light was on, as were the driveway and patio lights, and what appeared to be pole lamps inside the downstairs windows. Shep debated knocking on the door, but before he’d had time to puzzle through the various ways this thing might play out, he saw Smartie and her gargantuan dog jogging up the block.
    “Smartie,” Shep called, and she stopped in the center of the street, feet set apart, arm raised to shoulder level. A small object glinted in her hand.
    “I have pepper spray,” she announced. “And this dog is trained to attack.”
    “It’s me.”
    “Shep.” As she jogged toward him, she muttered something that sounded like, “Yams.”
    Twinkie, whose attack training had apparently lapsed a bit, loped over to the Range Rover, plopped his hammy paws on the window ledge and thrust his head in, leaving a wide swath of drool across the headrest and Shep’s neck.
    “Dog. No! Sit. Down, boy.”
    Still breathing hard and perspiring from the jog, Smartie gave Twinkie a schnuzzle and hauled back on his leather collar, gently scolding.
    “Twinkie, down. Go kennel up, baby. Twinkie, kennel for cookies.”
    Leaving another swath of drool on Shep’s shoulder, Twinkie heaved himself off the car door and gamboled across the street and up the steps, assuming his assigned post on the front porch like a lion outside a library.
    Smartie eyed the Range Rover’s broken windows and scarred rear section.
    “Nice wheels,” she said.
    “Nice hair,” Shep shot back, relieved when she laughed.
    “It’s good to see you again, Shep.”
    “Is it? I left several messages and didn’t hear from you.”
    “Right,” said Smartie, offering no white lies or legless disclaimers.
    “Right. Well. Sorry to bother you so late. Your friendly neighborhood divorce lawyer asked me to come by and make sure your spouse is off the premises.”
    “He is.”
    “Everything okay?”
    “God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the