The Fright of the Iguana (8 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: The Fright of the Iguana
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And, yes, I’d come to the conclusion already that she hadn’t committed the crime. How? Nothing that would sway a jury’s opinion. I just knew, from the way she acted. And because she was a friend.
Could I be barking up an absolutely wrong tree? Well, woof. Of course I could. But why had Nya been there in the first place?
In any event, I continued, “Could you tell how she had died?”
“Y-yes. Or at least I think so. You know I always bring a baseball bat along with me when I pet-sit.”
Oh, shit. I suddenly saw where this was going. “So a bat like one of yours—”
“Was on the floor beside Nya. And it was covered in b-blood.”
 
 
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER that revelation, Allen Smith reappeared from down the street. His nerdish face was set in an angry scowl. “The cop told me to go away and come back later,” he’d said. “Well, it’s later now.” He planted himself behind Tracy’s chair and squeezed her shoulders.
“I’ve already advised Tracy to hire a criminal attorney,” I told him. She blinked, but appeared so bleary that I was uncertain whether what I was saying sunk in. “I can recommend a good one, if you’d like.”
He liked, so I provided him with info about my good friend Esther Ickes. She was the legal whiz who’d helped me through the bankruptcy fomented by my alleged ethics violation and banishment from my prior law firm, as well as providing the criminal representation I’d needed when I also became a murder suspect.
“I’ll let her know that Tracy might call,” I told them both.
Figuring I was leaving Tracy in supportive hands, I headed back down the street toward my Beamer, after taking one last look toward the bustling crime scene.
I couldn’t help picturing thin, bespectacled Nya Barston lying on the floor, beaten into a bloody pulp with a baseball bat . . .
I shuddered. As soon as I was centered in the Beamer’s driver’s seat, I called Darryl.
Time to hear a friendly voice to help me deal with my own distress about what had happened, and to help propel that God-awful image out of my mind.
I’d left Lexie in Darryl’s inestimable care early that morning. Without having any idea what horror had already occurred, but with the previous day’s meeting on my mind, I’d discussed some of my associates at the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal with Darryl. He’d known a whole bunch of them already.
“Hi, Kendra,” he said. “To what do I owe this call? I just saw you an hour or so ago. If you’re checking on Lexie, she’s having a riot of a romp right now with a dog twice her size—a mixed breed who’s as crazy as she is.”
“Glad she’s having fun,” I said with a smile. It turned into a frown fast. “But what I’m calling about is for you to refresh my recollection. Did you know Nya Barston?”
“
Did
I know? Uh-oh, Kendra, not another one.”
“Yep, it’s murder magnet time yet again,” I confirmed with a chilled sigh.
“Shoot. Well, I’m really swamped right now, but I’ll get whatever info I can together for you. We can talk about it this evening, when you pick up Lexie. Meantime . . . are you okay?”
“More or less. At least I didn’t see the—er, Nya. But Tracy Owens is apparently a suspect, and she’s really a mess.”
“I’ll bet. Well, if you need a hug, I can always make time for that, even on a day as busy as this one.”
“Thanks, Darryl.”
Did I need an immediate hug? It certainly wouldn’t hurt.
But what I needed even more was advice, most likely of the professional type.
And there was one place where I could get both.
With an ambivalent, yet eager, sigh, I signed off with Darryl and called Jeff.
Chapter Six
GOOD NEWS: JEFF gave me carte blanche to call his office and instruct Althea, his computer geek, to research anything or anyone I wanted on her amazing, and not always kosher, diversity of databases.
Better news: I was on his office’s side of the hill, so I could easily head there on my way home and talk to my buddy Althea face-to-face.
And if I also happened to see Jeff’s hunky face while on his turf, well, so much the better.
I headed the Beamer along Wilshire Boulevard toward Westwood, which was, unsurprisingly, west of where I was.
On the way, my cell phone sang its—no,
my
—anthem, “It’s My Life.” I didn’t recognize the number, but it was in the 213 area code, which once covered all of L.A. but was now one of dozens, and its range covered only downtown.
Downtown? And then I knew. I almost didn’t answer. But the caller and I had a history of sorts, and I knew she would keep on phoning till she reached me. She had to be in her office, since my phone would have ID’d her cell right away.
“Hello?” I said, vainly attempting neutrality in my tone. Instead, it sounded as out of sorts as I felt.
“Hi, Kendra. This is Corina Carey.”
“Corina, what a surprise. And exactly how is my favorite nosy reporter today?”
“I’d be doing a hell of a lot better if my favorite lawyer-pet-sitter combo had called me first thing this morning, when you learned about the murder of a fellow dog-watcher.”
I forced a gasp to escape my mouth. “A pet-sitter? Murdered?” Though I sounded somewhat glib, the reminder gave my insides a heck of a jolt—not that I’d forgotten the murder, even for an instant. I stopped at a traffic light and watched the other oblivious drivers glide by. Bet none of them had someone they knew bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat last night.
But this was L.A. Who knew?
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know, Ballantyne. She’s a member of that club you belong to, and I just got through talking to a cop, who informed me off the record that you were at the scene almost immediately.”
“And this was . . . ?” The light changed, so I stepped lightly on the accelerator and continued my way toward Westwood.
“That’s off the record, too.” My lips nearly moved in sync to Corina’s answer. Who had it been? Who could it have been, but that Detective Lunn? Ned Noralles? One of the uniforms?
Who really cared?
“Kendra, I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“I want a statement from you. Better yet, let’s set up an interview. I want to know everything you do.”
“Which right now amounts to little more than zilch, Corina.” Of course the pet-nappings hadn’t made the news, although that could be of as much public interest as the murder. Maybe more.
Did I want that info out in the world? Yes, if it would help other people from having their pets swiped.
But not if it would wind up in my own charges, Zibble and Saurus, being slain because I’d done what I was told not to do, and informed the police.
Although my note hadn’t mentioned the media . . .
I needed to think this through. And I didn’t have to answer immediately. I didn’t know if the murder and the thefts had anything to do with one another. Corina had been of assistance before in my plan for solving a murder, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t mess up this investigation.
These
investigations, if I counted the pet-nappings—which I indubitably did.
“Tell you what, Corina.” I stopped at yet another light. I was in a commercial area, where pedestrians paraded by. Did any of them happen to have had an acquaintance . . .
stop thinking of bludgeoning bats, Kendra
, I ordered myself. Instead, I continued my comment to the reporter impatiently sighing on the other side of the phone. “I may have another interesting story for you, but have to talk to some people first. Don’t call me. I’ll call you—when I know if I’ve anything to say. Have a nice day.”
I hung up before she could sputter—much.
 
 
IN WESTWOOD, I found a parking space and walked a block to the four-story building in which Jeff’s office was on the third. As always, the elevator took its own pokey time getting me there. But soon, I was in the suite that reminded me of a wagon wheel, the hub of which was the usually empty reception area. Around it were the investigators’ offices.
“Hello,” I called after opening the door and strolling in. Interestingly for a place labeled as HUBBARD SECURITY, LLC, on the sign outside, the offices weren’t exactly secure.
Except that, I felt certain, my presence was being recorded on some completely camouflaged camera, hidden perhaps inside the low, white ceiling, in the round, recessed lights, or among the plastic stacking shelves on the reception desk, or—
“Hi, Kendra,” said a male voice from the doorway to one of the offices. My heart zinged, then flopped. Wrong male voice. It belonged to Buzz Dulear, Jeff’s expert in security systems, a tall fellow with a buzz cut that didn’t disguise that his hairline was receding.
“Hi, Buzz. Is Jeff here?”
“Not at the moment. Did he know you were coming?”
Hoping I succeeded at hiding the disappointment that surged through my sorrowful self, I said, “Nope, although I got his okay to talk to Althea, and—”
“Kendra! How wonderful to see you.” That same Althea lunged from the nearest office and leaped close enough to envelope me in a hearty hug.
I gave as good as I got. “Same goes,” I told her, stepped back, and shot her a grin big as the one she aimed at me.
Before I’d met her in person instead of simply over the phone, Jeff had always proudly described his prize computer geek as a grandmother. Which she was. But heck, I hoped that, if I ever walked in a grandma’s shoes, I’d look half as good. She had five grown kids, I didn’t know how many grandkids, and she was only in her midfifties. But she looked almost as good as any pop star—slim and with curves to make any woman envy green, which would match Althea’s sparkling eyes. She dressed youthfully, too, in tight jeans and a brilliant pink cropped top that complemented her sassy midlength blond hair.
On top of all that, she worked closely with the guy who’d made my hormones hum most over the last several months.
Envy? Heck, if I were the jealous type, I might hate the woman in front of me. Instead, I adored her.
And needed her extremely competent assistance.
“Jeff told me you’d be calling,” she said now. “But I’m happy you’re here. Come in and tell me what I can do for you.”
I entered her compact office that overflowed with computer gear. “Guess what,” I started to say as I sat in a small but sturdy chair facing her desk.
“You’re involved in another murder investigation,” she said, swiftly stealing my not-so-loud thunder.
“Jeff told you already.”
“He sure did. And here I’d hoped that this time I’d only be researching things relating to pet-nappings for you. He passed along the list of sitters’ club members that you gave to him.”
“Well, I’m still a murder magnet,” I said with a sigh. “I knew the victim, and the main suspect so far is a friend—the president of that pet-sitters’ society.”
“Okay, tell me what you need on the murder stuff. I don’t have much yet on pet-nappings but Jeff has me working on it, like checking other thefts in neighborhoods where the recent snatching occurred.” She sat behind her desk and poised her hands, short nails polished in shiny red, right over her computer keyboard.
I quickly explained that I wanted everything available on the victim, Nya Barston, and anyone who showed up as being close to her—husband or significant other, if any. Also on my friend, the apparently favored suspect, Tracy Owens. “The murder took place on a block south of Beverly, not far from the Wilshire Country Club.” I gave her the address. “I don’t know the owners’ names, but they own a dog who fortunately wasn’t stolen—Lassie, a Shetland sheepdog mix.”
“I can easily learn whose home it is,” Althea assured me. “Are they out of town?”
“So I gathered from Tracy. She was their pet-sitter and had no idea why Nya was even there.” Althea didn’t need to know that, but bouncing facts off this friendly and intelligent computer expert could only help me determine what other info I might need her to dig for.
“I doubt I’ll find that online,” Althea said, looking at me with a small and irrepressible shrug, “but
no problemo
with the rest of the info. And I assume you need it in—” She looked down at the wide wristwatch on her slender arm. “Three seconds or less.”
“Stress the less,” I told her with a smile.
“I figured. So go away already and let me work.”
“Sure thing. Oh, and when you see Jeff, tell him—”
“Tell him yourself,” said a male voice from the direction of the office doorway. And this time, it wasn’t Buzz Dulear’s nice but not especially sexy tone that buzzed in my ears.
I stood slowly, not wanting to appear too eager. After all, I’d seen him only yesterday. It wasn’t as if we’d had some huge, long absence between us making our hearts grow fonder.
Was my heart growing irritatingly fonder anyhow?
I faced Jeff, glad that, even though I’d dressed in office casual that day, since I hadn’t any law client meetings scheduled, my outfit consisted of nice crisp olive green slacks and an even crisper floral silk blouse. They didn’t exactly hug my bod and shove in his face what he was missing, now that we’d ceased having sex—but the suggestion was surely there.

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