Free Meow is for Murder by Linda O. Johnston Page B

Carey.”

    Oh, shit. She wasn’t someone I’d ever met—nor had I ever wanted to. But I knew her only too well.

    She was a news reporter on a local network affiliate TV station who seemed to hog air time by taking on the world’s most notorious stories. Plus, she often wrote articles for local papers that were picked up by national news services.

    I chose to stay silent. Hanging up might only result in another call. Or multiple messages if I chose not to answer.

    And maybe on-air insinuations I wouldn’t even be able to sue about, since they’d doubtless fall short of the legal definition of defamation.

    But I did pull the car to the nearest curb. If my wrath rose as it was apt to, I didn’t want to add a car accident to elevated blood pressure.

    “Kendra? We must have a bad connection. Kendra Ballantyne? Can you hear me now?”

    Unfortunately, I could. “Hello, Ms. Carey,” I finally responded frostily.

    “Oh, good. I’m a reporter, largely for the National NewsShakers Show .” As if I didn’t know. “I’ve started a story on police investigations in L.A. and your name came up regarding a homicide that just occurred today. You’ve been mentioned in broadcasts before, plus I looked you up on the Net and . . . well, this isn’t the first murder investigation where you’ve been involved. I gather you’re a lawyer but not in law enforcement. I’d love to come and interview you. Can we set up a time and place?”

    Hoping my voice didn’t shudder as much as my body, I searched my mind for an immediate reason to be unavailable for the next fifty years. Well, hell. I was a litigator. And a former murder suspect myself. I was used to unpleasant surprises, and knew how to handle every situation.

    Almost.

    My experience with the raft of reporters who’d covered my circumstances before had been anything but pleasant. Same went for those who’d sniffed around and spouted stories when I’d looked into murders to help friends.

    “I’m sorry, Ms. Carey, but I’m really not interested.” As if this pushy reporter—a redundancy in expression, of course—was prone to take no for an answer.

    “I understand,” she said much too smoothly. I stared at Lexie, who sat shotgun and regarded me with sympathetic yet curious brown eyes. “But if I don’t get to talk to you, I’ll only have your story from other people, who’ll give me their perspectives, which may not be yours.”

    “If the story you’re talking about concerns the apparent murder that occurred earlier today in Sherman Oaks, then I really don’t have a perspective. Goodbye, Ms. Carey.”

    “Goodbye for now, Kendra,” she responded, and I heard a smile every bit as snide as one of Amanda’s in her voice. “I’ll talk to you soon. Count on it.”

     
    MY CELL PHONE didn’t ring again until we’d reached our garage-sweet-home and I’d settled down after organizing what apparel to take along for the next day and taking time to veg out in our compact living room.

    I had laid my cell on the coffee table near my comfy beige sectional sofa and it both sang and vibrated on the glass surface, startling Lexie and me.

    I peered at it suspiciously, having hated to hear from the last caller. This time, though, I nearly grinned in pleasure.

    Jeff.

    “Hi,” I said perkily after flipping the phone open. I eyed the table where I’d balanced my dinner, knowing that Lexie’s nose would nudge it, followed by her eager tongue, if I didn’t watch it. “Did you see that you missed my call before?” He could have called back earlier. “There’s some stuff I wanted to tell you about, but right now Lexie and I are heading to your place to keep Odin company tonight. How are things?” Like, are you surviving Chicago alone now, without having Amanda there to comfort?

    “What the hell is going on, Kendra?” he demanded, startling me. “How did that jerk Leon wind up dead in Amanda’s house? And with all your experience dealing with such