Nothing to Fear But Ferrets by Linda O. Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

I’d not only proven my innocence but handed him a real, live, guilty suspect.
    Maybe I would this time, too. Or rather, I’d let him go scrounge on the floor for the ferrets.
    As I showed him and the two other detectives with him down the hall to the area already under scrutiny by the patrol cops, he said, “Care to tell me what you’re doing in this house? Does it belong to another of your endangered pet-sitting customers?”
    “No,” I retorted. “It belongs to me.”
    That shut him up long enough for me to lead him to the discombobulated den.
    “Hey, Detective,” said the female cop from the patrol pair who’d first taken charge of the site. “Looks like the victim might have been chewed to death.”
    “Chewed? By what?”
    “These little critters.” Apparently the cops were cagier than I’d been, for they’d managed to round up the ferrets and deposit them back in their cage. I wasn’t permitted to put a toe into the room, so I peered in from outside the door.
    “What are they?” Noralles asked me.
    “Ferrets,” I responded with a sigh. His dark brown eyes glittered much too cheerfully, so I beat him to the punch-line. “Yes, I know they’re illegal to keep as pets in California. They’re not mine. They’re my tenants’, and I’ve already put them on verbal notice to get rid of them.”
    I’d hoped they’d have time to do it in an orderly manner, find the ferrets a good out-of-state home. I had nothing personal against ferrets, and I’d take a lot of animals over people as friends any day.
    But now . . .
    “You’re the pet expert,” Noralles said. “Care to tell me whether ferrets are outlawed because they’re considered dangerous?”
    “To endangered species,” I said.
    “Not people?”
    “I don’t think so.” No website had suggested “Sredni Vashtar” was a true story, and I didn’t mention it.
    Noralles glanced back into the room, where police took photos and placed little numbers down to show the spots where they’d removed and bagged potential evidence. “Looks like these weasels may have been dangerous, although . . . Is the victim one of your tenants?”
    “No.” I decided to revert to what I’d learned as a litigator: When you answer a question, never volunteer information. It only leads to more questions.
    “Do you know the victim?” His tone was a touch more severe, as if he’d figured what I was up to.
    “Not really.”
    “Then do you know who he is?” exploded Noralles, with no attempt now to keep his cool.
    “Yes.”
    “Ms. Ballantyne,” he said through gritted teeth, “since this is your house, do you know of somewhere in it where we can go to talk? No, let me rephrase that.” He obviously knew that my answer would have been a single-syllable affirmative. “Let’s go somewhere where we can discuss this situation.”
    “All right,” I agreed with resignation.
    I led him into the kitchen, where Lexie greeted me with enthusiasm, though she eyed Noralles suspiciously. Did she remember him from our last ugly encounters? Who knew what went through her sharp canine mind?
    I started to sit on one of Charlotte’s kitchen chairs till Noralles nixed it. “This room needs to be examined for evidence,” he said, “in case you killed him here.”
    I glared, and he had the gall to grin.
    “Let’s go outside,” he said, all serious again.
    In my backyard, enough landscaping hugged the wrought iron surrounding my estate to provide privacy.
    Over the fence around the swimming pool hovered the top floor of the garage—my apartment and home. Since the Hummer had hit the house wall nearest the street, its effects weren’t in evidence here.
    Turning, I’d the ill fortune to find Noralles still behind me. Without asking his okay, I strolled to the fence near the pool and leaned on it.
    I commanded Lexie to lie at my feet, which she did for five seconds before popping up again. I lifted her into my arms, which was good for a few moments of canine