The Fright of the Iguana (2 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“Saurus!” I shouted. Of course the cave was shrouded in shadows, but still, shouldn’t there be a sign of occupancy like a larger shape taking up space?
I carefully unlatched the cage door and maneuvered myself so I could reach inside the cave. Saurus had been handled and socialized since Edmund had acquired him, or so the producer had told me. That meant he was unlikely to attack my hand, as some iguanas were reputed to do.
But not only didn’t Saurus bite or slap me with his tail; he didn’t exist inside the empty space where my hand groped fruitlessly.
Frightened, I snatched back my fingers and re-latched the cage door—what, was I worried the lizard would sneak back in?
Where was he? And where was Zibble?
I quickly circled the cage, hoping beyond hope that I had somehow overlooked the three-foot-long iguana. Or that the Shar-pei would prance up with the other pet gently in his jaws.
Only then did I notice the piece of paper pinned to the wooden frame beneath a pane of glass.
“What the—” I began, reaching for the sheet. I stopped short.
On the paper was a computer-generated note, contrived to resemble a clichéd story from the past. The words and letters look pasted unevenly on the page from magazines and newspapers, most in unmatched fonts.
No matter that the aesthetics stank. It was the contents that really unnerved me:
SO WHAT IF pet-napping wasn’t exactly murder?
It took the LAPD almost an hour to arrive. And then, the officers who appeared weren’t my old adversary—er, buddy—Homicide Detective Ned Noralles.
Yes, I’d called the cops—Noralles, at least, since I knew him. I couldn’t twiddle my thumbs until the next ransom note arrived. I’d other avenues, too, of course, and I intended to exhaust them all, ASAP, the better to get my charges home safe, sound, and soon.
I’d requested discretion from Noralles, after explaining the situation briefly, including that I was forbidden from calling in law enforcement. He’d promised to help. But before I began shrieking after answering the Dorgan door, I realized that he hadn’t actually promised to
come
.
come
.
The two cops I’d buzzed through the security gate and now admitted into the house were also detectives, but not any I’d met over the multiple murder investigations I had been involved in over the last many months.
Did I happen to mention that I’m a murder magnet? That’s a whole other story. One I didn’t intend to get into now.
Nor did I want to think of another note I’d received some weeks ago—stuck in my car window while I was investigating a murder. It had threatened Lexie, but all had been resolved without harming a hair on her cute canine head—thank heavens.
I checked their badges before admitting these cops. One, a tall, bony female, was Detective Mabel Madero. The other, an even taller, heavier male, was Detective Domenic Flagsmith.
“Where’s Detective Noralles?” I asked as I ushered them into the vaulted, beamed entryway.
“On another case.” Detective Madero stared at me down a long nose, as if asking how I dared to ask for as august a personage as a homicide detective at something as paltry as a pet-napping. Or maybe I simply read all that into her sneer.
“But I wasn’t supposed to call the police at all,” I said. “Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”
“First, let’s see whether a crime was committed,” said Detective Flagsmith. “Then we’ll see if anyone else needs to know.” His tone was neutral, and so was the look in his silvery blue eyes through his black-rimmed glasses.
“I explained to Ned,” I started to retort, then iced my simmering temper. “Okay. Come with me.” I motioned for them to follow me through the first floor toward the door to the backyard. “First, I’ll show you the note. Hopefully, it’ll convince you to keep your investigation low key—like, conducted so no one besides us knows there even
is
an investigation. The next thing you need to know is that two pets belong in this house. One’s Zibble, the Shar-pei.”
is
an investigation. The next thing you need to know is that two pets belong in this house. One’s Zibble, the Shar-pei.”
“That’s a dog?” muttered Mabel the grouch.
“Yeah,” replied her partner. “Funny-looking things.”
“Adorable,” I contradicted crossly as we walked. “So ugly they’re cute. And cuddly. And Zibble’s much too wonderful for this to happen to him. Or to Saurus, for that matter. He’s the other missing pet—an amazing iguana. The way he watches you, almost smiling with that long reptile mouth, looking full of ancient dinosaur wisdom—”
Well, maybe I was carrying this a bit far. Dinosaur wisdom? Way too whimsical. I’d always heard that the size of dinosaur brains was much too puny for their mighty, massive bodies.
I finished, “Anyway, neither animal deserved to be snatched.”
Flagsmith regarded me with coplike seen-it-all tolerance. “Ms. Ballantyne, isn’t it? You’re the pet-sitter, not the owner?” We’d stopped at the kitchen door, and he eyed me from head to toe. He wasn’t coming on to me, but I knew what he saw: A rather ordinary face, with shoulder-length, neatly styled but dowdy, un-highlighted, brown hair. All okay for a person who parlayed her time into taking care of others’ animals.
But below my neck, I wore a nice beige Jacquard jacket over a white blouse and deeper brown cotton skirt. Lawyerly wear, sure, but sorta overdone for a pet-sitter.
I was now late for my meeting. I’d called my boss and law partner Borden Yurick while waiting for the cops to come, and he was gracious enough to be cosseting my clients.
As I led the detectives through the kitchen, I briefly briefed them on my dual, compatible yet conflicting careers. Not that it really was any of their business.
“That’s right,” I acknowledged. “I’m an attorney, too. But I was here as the pet-sitter, and I really like my animal charges. Just ask Ned Noralles.” I preceded them through the gorgeous garden to Saurus’s empty nest.
I pointed out the ransom note immediately.
“You didn’t stick this here?” asked the utterly irritable female detective.
“Not hardly,” I huffed.
“Did you touch anything?” inquired her much nicer male counterpart.
I described how I’d hunted for Saurus and dug fruitlessly into his cave, in case he had somehow hidden there. “Otherwise, I don’t think so,” I said. “By the way, did Ned Noralles tell you whose home this is?”
“He just gave us the address,” said Detective Madero, still scowling down her nose.
“Does the name Edmund Dorgan ring any bells?”
Eyes widened on both detectives.
“My ears are definitely ringing,” said Detective Flagsmith.
“Let’s call in a crime scene team fast,” added his female associate.
“A small, discreet crime scene team,” I insisted.
Why the heck hadn’t I listened to instructions and kept the cops out of this?
STUCK IN AN area of the house that was out of the way, I decided to phone Ned again. What had he been thinking, calling in these apparently inept detectives? They hadn’t even done their homework and determined whose home this was. Ned could have at least let them in on that—unless that was his supposed concession to discretion.
But before I called him, the good-looking African American detective, who’d considered me a thorn in his suit-clad side over the last few months and too many murder investigations, arrived after all. He caught up with me in the Dorgan living room.
“I thought I made it clear that I wasn’t supposed to bring the cops at all, Ned,” I started out by storming at him. “And you sent those—”
“Hello to you, too, Kendra,” he interrupted in a drippingly droll tone. “I wasn’t sure I could get here this fast, so I followed department protocol. And then I dropped what I was doing so I could make sure things here were handled right.”
“Oh,” I said, the wind whipped right out of my angry sails. “Thanks. I guess.”
“You’re welcome. I know you enjoy being a sidewalk superintendent at murder scenes, but at a pet-napping? Is that exciting enough for you?”
“Too exciting for a sometime pet-sitter like me,” I replied. “Unlike you, I’m not a detective at all, let alone on homicide detail.”
I’d been instructed to sit on one of the lovely antique sofas for my interrogation, then ordered to stay here until dismissed, out of the way of the crime scene investigation.
The ambiance of the Dorgan living room was appropriate to the Tudor-revival style of the house—or so I figured, although I suspected the flamboyant carving on the velvet-upholstered sofas and seats, as well as on the exquisite coffee tables and end tables, suggested some era other than Tudor. But what did I know? And the frames on the original paintings on the walls—primarily English countryside kinds of landscapes, and portraits of proud-looking people—were equally ornate. Probably all priceless. And there I sat as ordered, attempting not to disrupt an iota of anything around me.
Not so with Ned. “Nice place,” he noted unnecessarily, wandering around the room. “I always figured Edmund Dorgan had good taste. His movies sure are prime productions. Lots of action.” He studied some Shar-pei figurines on an étagère along one wall. And then he sat on the red velvet chair facing me, causing his dark suit jacket to gape enough for me to glimpse his shoulder holster. “I know you gave your statement, Kendra, but is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Yes,” I said sharply. “Why didn’t you convey to your compatriots whose home this is? And I don’t think they understand the whole problem. Like the command to keep the cops out. And bad enough that a poor, loving dog’s been stolen, but the poor iguana, Saurus—his health could be in danger.”
At least Ned had the decency to desist his eye roll after an initial round. But he didn’t answer my question—which was essentially rhetorical anyway. Instead, he inserted one of his own. “And why is that?”
I explained that the young reptile needed to reside in an enclosure resembling the one he had here. Like Pythagorus the ball python, a pet-sitting client who’d been a huge help when I’d been accused of a couple of murders, iguanas were cold-blooded and required a suitable habitat that permitted them to partake of heat or coolness as they chose.
“Whoever stole him might not be aware of that,” I finished flatly. “Please make sure the cops assigned to the case know to get him back both fast and quietly. Otherwise, he could die.”
“I’ll do what I can. But you have to realize—”
“These kidnapping victims aren’t people,” I said. “I know. But they mean a lot to the Dorgans. If you don’t find them soon enough to ensure their well-being, I suspect Edmund has some friends in high places who can make things miserable for you.”
For me, too. I’d already taken the forbidden step of asking for official help. And I was clearly first in line to take the heat for this horrible situation.
I had to find those pets, pronto. And that meant—
“So how’s our mutual friend Hubbard?” Ned asked. Who knew I’d share a common train of thought with a homicide cop?
“I’ll know soon,” I said sweetly. “I figured having a great P.I. on the case can’t help but get it solved sooner.”
Jeff Hubbard was a super investigator. He’d been a cop with Ned many years back. They’d not gotten along—so much so that they’d engaged in fisticuffs with one another. That led to Jeff’s resignation, and the onset of one wonderful P.I. career.
He was also my lover. Or had been, until a few weeks ago.
This situation would solve one of my current dilemmas. I needed an excuse to call him and see how things stood between us. Even though our current separation was my choice more than his.
But I hadn’t counted on having to call him in on a case.
“Yeah, like we really need a private guy, let alone Hubbard,” said Ned.
“Can I go now, Detective?”
“I guess so. You notified the owners yet?”
That was another dilemma to deal with. Should I call them in the south of France and scare them with this situation they could do nothing about long distance?
Well, hell, I was a lawyer. I knew it was better to disclose a problem up front. At least that way, whoever was hurt couldn’t add deceit and fraud to any possible lawsuit . . .
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