The Fright of the Iguana (31 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“Oh, yes,” I said. One of the strangers to me that Nya knew, whom I’d called in a fruitless attempt to find out anything to direct me toward the person who’d done her in—people Darryl had referred to Nya for pet-sitting. “Good to meet you. Have a new pet-sitter yet? I know you said you’d miss Nya.”
“Jerry’s agreed to do it for now, but I’m hoping to meet someone new here tonight, too. And I really want to hear about how to prevent pet-napping. That’s the real reason I came. I don’t know what I’d do if someone stole my Gravel.” She bent and gave the big, friendly mutt a huge hug.
“Kendra.” I turned at the familiar voice at my left elbow to see that Jeff had arrived. Yes, I’d eventually let him know my Sunday early evening plans—after he’d demanded a rundown of my whereabouts. He’d left me kinda alone all day, but he still insisted on being my bodyguard.
Which I appreciated, although not necessarily here and now. And I wasn’t too keen on his being right there when I pulled the stunt I intended. Oh, well. He’d find out about it anyway. I’d just have to work around him. Somehow.
I edged up to the front of the group and glanced around. Jeff stood somewhere behind me, attempting to look surreptitious. At least it appeared that way when I turned to look at him, and he appeared to study some framed photos on the resort wall showing some celebrity clients of Darryl’s along with their pets.
I didn’t see the Dorgans here, although I’d told my clients who’d been the first whose pets were recovered about this impending meeting. They’d assured me they weren’t holding the theft against me and would call me again soon. They’d also said they were no longer concerned about pet-napping. Not with the extra security they’d secured for their property and darling dog and iguana.
But they were extremely interested in nabbing the pet-napper. And I’d had an idea that might accomplish just that. One I’d made an important call about earlier.
“Hi, everyone,” I began. “I appreciate your coming. First thing, I’d like to give an update on the pet-napping situation.”
Which really didn’t amount to a heck of a lot new to any who’d kept up with the news. But I babbled on brutally, castigating the pet-napper, making it clear how much I reviled whoever it was.
“Of course I have some ideas about that sleazeball,” I said with viciousness in my voice. “I’ve passed them on to the police and can’t talk about specifics, but you all know I’ve been closely involved with ransoming some of the returned pets, and locating all the others I’ve heard about.”
“Yay, Kendra,” shouted Marla Gasgill, holding her cockapoo, Cramer, up for the gathered group to see.
“I’ll second that,” said Libby Emerich, “and so will my little Augie.”
I gave a small grin of acknowledgment as the whole gang of people applauded me, but felt the redness of embarrassment creep up my cheeks. I wasn’t here for kudos but for knowledge—not that I could let my apparent admirers in on that.
Instead, I continued to watch faces, especially while saying awful things about the pet-thief, to see if anyone here squirmed.
Unfortunately, I didn’t see anything to announce who it was I was looking for. And no one stood up and shouted, “It’s me. I stole all the animals, and I’ll never do it again.” Or even that he or she
would
do it again, given half a chance.
would
do it again, given half a chance.
And so I started on the other subject that had made me want to convene this meeting. “If only Nya Barston were here,” I finally said sadly. “We don’t know for certain why she was killed, but I’m convinced she was hot on the trail of the pet-napper.” I continued on this line for a good ten minutes, still scanning my audience, praising Nya, providing a semblance of a memorial.
I succeeded somewhat in my purpose—shaking everyone up. Some of them, mostly the members of PSCSC, got all teary.
But did anyone admit to killing Nya?
No way.
With a sigh, I started into the final topic, the one which was why at least the pet-sitting clients had come: tips on stopping one’s pets from being napped.
Which led to a great discussion, where even more tips were thrown out and shared.
And then I tossed out my teaser. The main reason I’d instigated this entire session.
“I’m so sure these tips will work that I’ve put all the things I mentioned into play. And now that I’ve found all the stolen pets, I’m certain no damned pet-napper will dare come after any of my charges.” I talked about some of my current sitting gigs, even describing a few of my more celebrated clients, like the Dorgans, who seemed okay about using my services again. My subtenants, Russ and Rachel Preesinger, since Russ was becoming known in the industry as one great film location locator. A couple of people I’d met when the Preesingers’ predecessors had rented my mansion—people who’d made it big thanks to reality shows. And boasted specifics about a muckety-muck at Hennessy Studios whose pet-sitting I’d just taken on, starting tomorrow evening.
I rambled so long that my audience grew restless. No matter. I’d imparted the info I’d intended, assuming someone out there was the pet-grabber and possibly worse.
At the end, I heard some grumbling from behind me. At least Jeff was discreet enough not to shout at me here. That would come later, I felt certain.
Eventually, I shut up and sat down. A few other PSCSC members stood and spoke briefly on pet care and club business, but it didn’t last long, a good thing since I had some pets to check in on. So did a lot of those associates who were here.
I stood at the door as the group filed out, accepting thanks graciously.
Tracy Owens and her guy Allen were among the last to leave. “I figured from what you said that no one has any other real suspects about who killed Nya besides me,” she said dejectedly.
“We know you didn’t do it,” Allen said staunchly. “And it’s really nice of you, Kendra, to try to find the killer to clear my Tracy.”
“Isn’t it, though?” said Jeff, who’d started standing at my side. “She’s a regular P.I. these days.”
“Oh, never as good as you,” I said sweetly.
“But all that stuff about your pet-sitting clients,” Tracy continued. “Are you really sure that was a good idea?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, for one thing, there’s sometimes some rivalry around here. Someone might try to pinch your customers.”
“No one has stolen any that you’ve passed along temporarily because of your situation, have they?” I felt immediately indignant on her behalf. “I’ll return those I’m helping with anytime.” Especially since I’d been attacked while watching a couple.
“I wasn’t accusing you, Kendra,” Tracy said. “I trust you, which was why I asked you to help in the first place.”
“You want your clients back yet?” I asked.
“Please keep them for now,” Allen said, giving me a glance with his sad eyes that suggested his significant other still needed help, even if she hoped it wasn’t so.
The two of them said their goodbyes and departed, with Phoebe, the puggle, trotting behind.
“I can tell you a hundred reasons why that was a really bad idea,” Jeff said when they were gone. “I think I know what you’re doing, Kendra, even though you attempted a tiny bit of subtlety. But no way will I let you—”
“Oh, hi, Darryl,” I said, looking over his shoulder as my good buddy and owner of this venue strolled up from his office. “Will you help us fold these chairs? I need to have them ready to be picked up first thing tomorrow.”
Darryl looked from Jeff to me and back again. “Uh-oh. Looks like I interrupted something.”
“No problem,” I said with a welcoming smile.
“No, this conversation was definitely finished,” Jeff said, staring a message at me that said
you’re not doing anything, and you’re not getting out of my sight
.
you’re not doing anything, and you’re not getting out of my sight
.
I simply nodded and started stacking chairs.
Chapter Twenty-seven
LEXIE AND I spent the night with Odin and Jeff.
Okay, I admit it. I was uneasy enough not to want to spend it alone. I knew exactly what I’d done, tempting fate and the pet-napper—and possibly even Nya’s murderer—that way.
I was also damned grateful to Jeff for being my bodyguard even when I behaved so . . . well, stupidly. Maybe.
And speaking of bodyguard . . . hell, I was horny. And even a little scared. And there I was, with one handsome hunk of a guy who wanted me and somehow put up with my shenanigans, even while giving me the scolding I deserved.
So, yes, we had sex. And that’s an understatement. Even though I hadn’t asked Jeff to stay celibate while I made up my mind about how much I wanted him in my life, he certainly made love as if he’d missed it. Missed me.
And I certainly found out that way just how much I’d missed him.
What did that mean for our relationship?
Didn’t I want to keep the really nice vet Tom Venson in my life—or had I cratered that possibility by this one brief evening of animal sex?
As I lay there in bed with Jeff breathing deeply beside me, dogs on the floor snoring, I considered myself Scarlett. O’Hara, that is, not a scarlet and fallen female.
I’d worry about that tomorrow.
I HAD PLENTY more to worry about on that day I anticipated would be fateful.
I started it as I always did—well, kinda, since I hadn’t stayed with Jeff in a while. We shared breakfast, I took Lexie to Darryl’s, and I dashed off for early pet-sitting with Jeff at my side. Then, alone, I went to the office where I engaged in the practice of law, as well as making myriad phone calls to PSCSC members about what they’d thought about my meeting last night.
And to listen to their responses, in case someone let something slip either about themselves or their clients that would make what I had in mind much simpler.
But no one did.
Oh, I had my ideas about what would happen. And by whom. But honestly, I was fully aware that nothing might. Sure, I’d issued a tacit challenge, but if the guilty person really wanted to get at me by stealing one of my clients, he or she could easily do it by following me, not falling for my quasi dare.
Evening eventually rolled around. I’d clued Darryl in that something was going down, and he promised to hang around at Doggy Indulgence longer than usual, even take Lexie home with him if the time grew too late.
Ignoring Jeff’s calls, I finished my typical pet-sitting, visiting the usual animals I’d come to love a lot: Alexander, the pit bull, Harold Reddingham’s arrogant but adorable cats, Abra and Cadabra, and Cicely, the Shih-tzu.
And then I headed to the home of exalted director Fabrizio Fairfax, one of the highest-ups at Hennessy Studios. That house had been the subject of tremendous controversy when it was built three years ago, not because of its size or ostentation, but because Fabrizio had bought several adjoining properties once owned by big stars in the early industry days and razed them, then constructed a small cottage for himself behind big walls.
It was what he had wanted, and he had the contacts and income to achieve it.
And now, his home sat vacant a good part of the year, since he was always off gallivanting the globe, making movies.
Which worked out very well for me.
I called Charley Sherman, my law client whose Santa Barbara resort dispute I’d helped to resolve, to say I was coming. He had worked things out so I could enter easily, including ensuring the security staff had the evening off. As Charley, the Hennessy Studio animal trainer, and I had discussed, I immediately went to work caring for the only animal on the estate: Impressario, the iguana.
Impressario wasn’t a whole lot larger than the somewhat greener Saurus. His habitat consisted of an aquarium that was large and glass and had several areas of different degrees of heat. It was located in one of the even smaller guest cottages on Fabrizio’s property, a vine-covered adobe affair that I reached by walking the meandering paths between the bark chip-strewn grounds.
I went inside. The place was furnished sort of austerely, as if Fabrizio didn’t intend for guests he put up here to stay long: a white couch and matching chair in the living room, both facing an old floor-model television, a double bed with a white comforter in the bedroom, a tiny kitchen with a comparatively large counter on which Impressario’s aquarium rested—and was clearly secured with metal straps and bolts, the better for ensuring it didn’t budge an inch, even if Impressario did. And Impressario had some tricks of his own up his . . . sleeve? Whatever.
“Hi, fellow,” I said, heading for the infinitesimal refrigerator to extract the veggies for his supper. His eyes appeared as astute as Saurus’s, but I knew he was assessing my fingers for an appetizer.
I fed him, sat on the sofa, and started to watch the evening news with the sound turned way down low so I could listen.
To nothing.
I stayed there through the early evening celebrity gossip shows on network TV, half listening, and waiting.
Still nothing.
Well, okay. That wasn’t really a surprise. Time to make it easier. I did as I’d planned and meandered myself into the back den of the big house. And again turned on the TV, this time putting an inane sitcom on in the background, while I instead watched out the window toward the Impressario-containing cottage.
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