emotionalism over her Pom and against her vet. That meant a possible ADR situation, resulting in some kind of settlement that would satisfy her.
Did I like her case? Not really. But I also despised the idea that her vet could have harmed her pet out of revenge against her.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Give me the particulars.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, we discussed names, dates, and details. Then I said, “I’m going to call Dr. . . .” I looked down at my notes. “Dr. Thomas Venson. I’ll ask if he has an attorney, and if so request a meeting.”
“You mean I have to see that horrible man again?”
“You’d have to face him in court anyway,” I reminded her.
“Well, all right.” But she seemed utterly disconcerted.
The vet did indeed have an attorney, not that the receptionist revealed who. Even so, she promised to set up a meeting for the next afternoon and suggested a time that her boss wouldn’t be busy with a patient.
What with my planned visit at Amanda’s medical office in the morning and a meeting with a new pet-sitters’ society in the evening, tomorrow would be a thoroughly intense day.
Was this day done with surprises? No way! My phone rang just after Mae and Sugar had skedaddled.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a voice from my not-too-distant past. “This is Baird.”
Judge Baird Roehmann was a jurist with roamin’ hands whom I’d known well in my days as a litigator with the Marden law firm. He’d gotten a temporary restraining order against me when he’d believed I was stalking him a few months earlier.
Ergo, hearing from him was one huge surprise.
“Are you busy for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I have an issue I’d really like to run by you.”
As always, when I’d not needed something from him, my gut reaction kicked into negative mode. “I’m sorry, Baird. It’s great to hear from you, but—”
“Please, Kendra? I’m really sorry about how things were left with us before, and I’d really like to talk to you.”
Would wonders never cease in this amazing day? First, Amanda’s agreement to leave Jeff forever—at least if I helped her.
Now this. There was a humbleness to Baird’s tone that I’d never before imagined even existed inside him.
If nothing else, it stoked my curiosity.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Baird, but if you can meet me at seven-thirty in the Valley . . .” Past my prime pet-sitting time.
“Done. Tell me where and I’ll be there.”
Chapter Nine
DESPITE AN INCLINATION to dash through my pet-sitting duties that evening, I couldn’t help it. I knocked on Stromboli’s neighbor’s door.
As my shepherd-mix charge had cavorted in his own backyard, that poor wiry pup had slunk as close as his lead would allow, wagging his tail and entreating my attention. I, of course, heaved a treat over the fence as my sympathies soared. Sure, the canine could be a skilled con-dog, but I’d always seen him leashed outside without an iota of human notice—either for the dog or for my interference.
So as soon as Stromboli was through inhaling his dinner and had a final frenetic foray into his yard, I said my good nights to him and hied my irate self next door.
The house was quaint and cottagelike, but looked as if no one had mowed the front lawn or trimmed the rose-bushes for eons. To my amazement, I got an answer to the doorbell—and not just the dog’s “someone’s intruding on my turf” barkfest. A middle-aged woman pulled open the door. “Yes?” she asked with a somewhat fearful frown. Her loose blue jeans and Universal Studios sweatshirt didn’t say much more about her than her suspicious brown eyes, but her short, well-styled hair, complete with pale highlights, suggested she gave some consideration to her appearance.
I held out my hand. “Hi,” I said in a tone assumed for its friendliness, to throw her off guard. “I’m Kendra Ballantyne. I’m a pet-sitter, and I’m taking care of Stromboli next door,
Did I like her case? Not really. But I also despised the idea that her vet could have harmed her pet out of revenge against her.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Give me the particulars.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, we discussed names, dates, and details. Then I said, “I’m going to call Dr. . . .” I looked down at my notes. “Dr. Thomas Venson. I’ll ask if he has an attorney, and if so request a meeting.”
“You mean I have to see that horrible man again?”
“You’d have to face him in court anyway,” I reminded her.
“Well, all right.” But she seemed utterly disconcerted.
The vet did indeed have an attorney, not that the receptionist revealed who. Even so, she promised to set up a meeting for the next afternoon and suggested a time that her boss wouldn’t be busy with a patient.
What with my planned visit at Amanda’s medical office in the morning and a meeting with a new pet-sitters’ society in the evening, tomorrow would be a thoroughly intense day.
Was this day done with surprises? No way! My phone rang just after Mae and Sugar had skedaddled.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a voice from my not-too-distant past. “This is Baird.”
Judge Baird Roehmann was a jurist with roamin’ hands whom I’d known well in my days as a litigator with the Marden law firm. He’d gotten a temporary restraining order against me when he’d believed I was stalking him a few months earlier.
Ergo, hearing from him was one huge surprise.
“Are you busy for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I have an issue I’d really like to run by you.”
As always, when I’d not needed something from him, my gut reaction kicked into negative mode. “I’m sorry, Baird. It’s great to hear from you, but—”
“Please, Kendra? I’m really sorry about how things were left with us before, and I’d really like to talk to you.”
Would wonders never cease in this amazing day? First, Amanda’s agreement to leave Jeff forever—at least if I helped her.
Now this. There was a humbleness to Baird’s tone that I’d never before imagined even existed inside him.
If nothing else, it stoked my curiosity.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Baird, but if you can meet me at seven-thirty in the Valley . . .” Past my prime pet-sitting time.
“Done. Tell me where and I’ll be there.”
Chapter Nine
DESPITE AN INCLINATION to dash through my pet-sitting duties that evening, I couldn’t help it. I knocked on Stromboli’s neighbor’s door.
As my shepherd-mix charge had cavorted in his own backyard, that poor wiry pup had slunk as close as his lead would allow, wagging his tail and entreating my attention. I, of course, heaved a treat over the fence as my sympathies soared. Sure, the canine could be a skilled con-dog, but I’d always seen him leashed outside without an iota of human notice—either for the dog or for my interference.
So as soon as Stromboli was through inhaling his dinner and had a final frenetic foray into his yard, I said my good nights to him and hied my irate self next door.
The house was quaint and cottagelike, but looked as if no one had mowed the front lawn or trimmed the rose-bushes for eons. To my amazement, I got an answer to the doorbell—and not just the dog’s “someone’s intruding on my turf” barkfest. A middle-aged woman pulled open the door. “Yes?” she asked with a somewhat fearful frown. Her loose blue jeans and Universal Studios sweatshirt didn’t say much more about her than her suspicious brown eyes, but her short, well-styled hair, complete with pale highlights, suggested she gave some consideration to her appearance.
I held out my hand. “Hi,” I said in a tone assumed for its friendliness, to throw her off guard. “I’m Kendra Ballantyne. I’m a pet-sitter, and I’m taking care of Stromboli next door,
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