The Fright of the Iguana (11 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
And if you catch a certain theme here in my thoughts . . . well, so did I.
I needed to purge my mind of anything that could make me compromise my current vow of chastity when it came to Jeff. At least until I knew if we still had anything going. If I wanted to have anything going with him. If I wanted my not-quite-yet relationship with Tom Venson, whom I’d be seeing on Saturday, to replace whatever I’d had with Jeff.
I didn’t want to try to digest, along with my spicy sandwich, the printed pages I’d pulled from the envelope. Not with Jeff there staring at me as if he wanted to eat
me
.
me
.
And not when I wasn’t sure whether I wanted him to . . .
Which was when the energetic jazz orchestra started playing their next set.
“I’m finished here,” I called across the table to Jeff. “I’m taking the rest of my sandwich home. You ready to leave?”
He nodded. We packed up our luscious leftovers and strolled out of the patio area onto the Encino sidewalk.
Twilight had finally arrived. The air was cool and calm, and even holding a substantial amount of takeout with the hard-won envelope and Lexie’s leash, I felt I’d eaten too much.
“Care to stroll the Boulevard?” I asked Jeff, who similarly manipulated his bag and Odin’s lead.
“It’s a long walk home,” he said, still sounding hopeful.
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I suggested strolling right here.”
He aimed an assessing look at me, and I pretended to stare in the window of a nearby carpeting store. “Kendra,” he finally said, “we really need to talk.”
“Could be,” I said, feeling as nervous as if he had pressed my back up against an unyielding wall. “But not tonight. I’m too tired.”
And so we went our separate ways.
Mistake? Certain parts on and in my body sure thought so.
My mind? Well, it, too, didn’t exactly give me peace about this decision. But even so, Lexie and I headed home, her to act her adorable, loving self, and me to brood.
AND BROOD I did. All night.
Alone
all night, except for my slightly snoring pup, tucked together into the full-size bed in the pint-size bedroom-and-office in our garage-top apartment. Lexie lay on top of the russet, rose, and gold print comforter, and I lay beneath it, surrounded by the coordinating sheets. Wide awake.
Alone
all night, except for my slightly snoring pup, tucked together into the full-size bed in the pint-size bedroom-and-office in our garage-top apartment. Lexie lay on top of the russet, rose, and gold print comforter, and I lay beneath it, surrounded by the coordinating sheets. Wide awake.
I felt sexually deprived, but could only blame myself and my stab at morals, until I knew what the heck I had, or didn’t have, with Jeff.
Listening to far-off freeway noises, I also thought a lot about the pet-napping situation. Considered who else I could coerce into giving me more info. Ned Noralles?
I called him, but still no conclusions about where poor Zibble and Saurus had been taken. No admission, to me, at least, of any viable suspects.
I wondered if Tracy had shot to the top of that list, too, by virtue of her suspect status in Nya’s murder.
I wondered even more whether there wasn’t something additional I could do to find the missing animals. Especially since their co-owner, my client Hillary Dorgan, would be back home tomorrow from her formerly exciting European trip.
No more neighbors had called me. Most had wisely kept their contact info to themselves, but nearly all had been kind enough to accept my business cards when I’d made a frantic foray to interview any witnesses. Those cards not immediately filed in trash receptacles were now in the hands of people who would undoubtedly rather hand-carry their pets’ excretions than to hire me as a pet-sitter. Or lawyer, for that matter. But maybe some would still contact me if they recalled something potentially helpful in solving the pet-napping.
Right now, I’d absolutely no clue about where Zibble and Saurus might be. Jeff’s search was somewhat helpful in allowing me to continue to conclude that my pet-sitters’ organization was the thief’s special target, but I didn’t know motive or, worse, ID of the deplorable perpetrator. Althea’s research into the pet-nappings’ neighborhoods thus far yielded no useful results.
I sighed, inhaling somewhat the soft smell of the detergent in which I had last washed the sheets.
Pet-nappings. A murder. Jeff.
What was I going to do about any one of the above, let alone all three?
CALL ME A masochist, a glutton for punishment, or a pet-sitter who wished more than anything that the theft of her charges hadn’t happened—or, failing that, of at least convincing my human clients how much I cared. Whatever kind of fool I was, I’d e-mailed the Dorgans and offered to pick up Hillary at the airport. And cursed myself unequivocally when she accepted.
How could I face her?
How could I not?
I still wasn’t about to hurry through my morning’s pet-sitting rounds, since I was now undeniably paranoid about the well-being of my current charges.
I brought Lexie along to save the few minutes it would take to drop her at Darryl’s. Plus, I enjoyed her company. But I wasn’t about to leave her locked in my Beamer when I popped in to walk, feed, and play with the pets I cared for, so Lexie accompanied me on these enjoyable chores. I felt sure she liked them as much as I did—except at homes where the dominant dogs protected their turfs by growling and strutting their alpha canine stuff. There, I carried Lexie where necessary. That’s one of many magnificent things about Cavaliers. They’re armfuls, but are enjoyably portable.
We next headed for my law office, where Lexie also pranced inside. She was fussed over by Mignon as she greeted us, by Borden when he saw us in the kitchen pouring water and coffee for my pup and me, respectively, and by the day’s contingent of present- and accounted-for elder-law attorneys and support staff.
Guess I should simply have said, “by everybody.” Of course, I kept her out of the way of Gigi, the macaw.
In my office, the door closed for peace and quiet and accomplishing something, I finally finished setting up next Monday’s settlement meeting between clients Jasper and Angelica McGregor, and their relative Tallulah and her attorney. We needed to discuss the formerly dying Tallulah’s claim that, since she had survived, she wanted Whiskey the weimaraner returned. It was Thursday now. The litigants would have the weekend to mull over their respective positions and ponder a compromise to avoid allowing strangers to resolve this for them in court. Maybe.
With Lexie sometimes on the floor beneath my feet, but more often sitting on my lap, I performed masterful legal research for other clients for the rest of that morning, and even better and convincing brief creation for their cases.
And in the afternoon? Charley and Connie Sherman, some senior citizen clients of Borden’s whom I’d been helping, came in to sign settlement documents.
I had Mignon show them to the conference room, so I could leave Lexie in my office. “Hi, Kendra.” Charley held out his beefy hand for me to shake. “Are we all set?” Charley was a Pillsbury Doughboy sort of man, and he often dressed in puffy, faded jeans and red plaid shirts. His hicklike looks were deceptive. He was actually a well-regarded animal trainer for Hennessy Studios, although now he was semi-retired.
“I’ve got the settlement papers right here for you to sign,” I told them.
“That’s wonderful,” Connie said with a smile. She was showing her age—early seventies—with a well-wrinkled face and slightly stooped shoulders, but her mind was absolutely intact. She’d retired as head actuary for a huge insurance outfit, but I gathered she kept active by managing the family investments.
Their legal issue? Connie and Charley had stayed in a Santa Barbara establishment that had been advertised as a luxury resort. Instead, it made mere dumpiness look posh.
They’d sued, and they weren’t alone. I’d discussed turning the matter into a class action with other attorneys, but we’d all decided it was in our clients’ best interests not to drive the overzealous owners into bankruptcy. Their fraud had resulted more from enthusiasm for their new, but not yet refurbished resort than from intentional fraud . . . maybe. In any event, we all resorted to alternate dispute resolution consisting of a binding arbitration. The results meant refunding to our clients cents on the dollar, plus the satisfaction of knowing no one else would be snookered the same way again.
“Now, read the agreement carefully,” I said. “I think it documents everything we discussed, but let me know if you have any questions.”
They read it. They inquired about a couple of boilerplate points. And then they signed.
Charley sat his large form back in his chair. “So how’ve you been, Kendra?”
“I’d be better if a couple of my pet-sitting clients hadn’t been stolen,” I admitted. With his animal-involved career, I felt certain Charley would appreciate my anguish.
Which he did. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
I told them about Zibble, the Shar-pei, and Saurus, the iguana, including the ransom note.
“I’m so sorry, Kendra,” Connie said. “Anything we can do?”
“Not unless you’re aware of other pet-nappings so I can identify a trend and the thief.” I looked at Charley. “None of your animals has disappeared, have they?”
“Nope. But I’ve careful attendants at my ranch up north where I keep most of them. My only iguana—Impressario—well, no one would ever consider stealing him. Reaching into his habitat is dangerous to a person’s health. I know how to work with him, but he loves to bite. Hard.”
“Not Saurus,” I said sadly. “Maybe if he bit, he’d still be home safe and sound.”
“Well, you keep Charley in mind,” Connie said as she rose.
“Sure,” Charley concurred. “I work with all kinds of critters all the time. If I can do anything to help you catch the person who’s pinched your clients, be sure to let me know.”
“I’d love to visit your facility sometime, at least,” I said sincerely, and Charley was gracious enough to agree.
When the Shermans had scooted out the door, I made notes about the meeting. And then? Well, I’m a confirmed listophile. Listoholic? Whichever, I’d already realized I had an awful lot of data rattling around in my confused brain, as well as the info Althea gathered. My handwritten notes were losing their usefulness.
With Lexie lying beneath my desk, I inputted everything onto a file in my office computer that I had established about the PSCSC pet-nappings, combining it with the nearly non-existent data concerning other pets in the area who’d disappeared under suspicious circumstances. I arranged it all in lists, then attempted to make sense out of any connections.
So far, all I had was speculation, and that didn’t even lead me to pursue further directions . . . yet.
I added in Nya’s murder, although I had no means of connecting this particular dot to any other on my preliminary pages. At least this might get my subconscious humming and hand me any inkling of association.
When I finished, I looked it over, along with the brief I’d drafted earlier that day. By then, it was well into the afternoon, and I had to head to the airport after Hillary Dorgan.
With her husband’s wealth and connections, she could have had a stretch limo pick her up, along with her extensive luggage, without a second’s thought. Instead, she got the nine-year-old Beamer, Lexie, and me. At least I’d had the scratch imposed onto the Beamer by a screwdriver during my last murder investigation repaired, so it now looked pretty spiffy once more.
As Hillary and I planned via e-mail, I hung out at the nearby cell phone parking lot, waiting for her call. And when she had her bags brought out by a skycap and was awaiting her ride, she did just that.
I picked her up a few minutes later, opening the door and hanging on to Lexie while the skycap loaded the luggage in my trunk. The tip was up to me.
I slid back into the driver’s seat after depositing Lexie in the back and directing her, “Stay.” Then, I turned to Hillary, who was belted into my passenger’s seat.
She was an attractive woman in her late forties, with short, light hair and a perfect, unwrinkled beige travel suit to complement her perfect, unwrinkled face. She wasn’t smiling.
“Mrs. Dorgan . . . Hillary . . . I want you to know how sorry I am about the situation with Zibble and Saurus. The police are working on it, of course, but I’m also—”
The airport policeman motioned me to move. It was illegal to stop at the curb longer than it took to load a passenger.
“Sorry.” I stopped talking so I could safely pull out into traffic.
I realized that my passenger hadn’t yet said one word to me except hello. Was she about to fire me? Too late for that.
To scream and holler and call me every name imaginable for being an unreliable pet-sitter? I doubted she could think of anything I hadn’t already called myself.
I was wrong.
Chapter Nine
“POOR KENDRA,” HILLARY intoned, her words perfectly pitched yet too nasal to suggest she was a trained actor. “You were a patsy.” She pulled open the mirror in my Beamer’s passenger-side visor and carefully checked her makeup. Her scent was strong and pungent and undoubtedly expensive—and, fortunately, light.
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