The Fright of the Iguana (14 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“Of course.” He, too, aimed a hopeful smile at me, which caused me to echo Tracy’s sigh. I didn’t like their reliance on me. But I also knew they couldn’t depend on the overworked and uninclined-to-dig-deeper detectives to clear Tracy if they thought they’d glommed on to a credible suspect.
Which meant I was stuck trying.
A nice young server took our orders, and I used the interruption to change the subject—sort of. I decided not to mention my earlier calls to Nya’s clients. “So how’s business?” I asked Tracy when the server had left.
For the first time, she issued a genuine smile. “Not bad, even with all this going on. I love it. It helps me relieve the stress.”
“But, honey,” Allen said almost sternly despite his smile. “All that pet-sitting. That club. They’re causing your stress in the first place.”
“Could be.” She looked lovingly toward him. “At least I know that, if I have to give it up, I have other options.”
He beamed down at her, looking so loving that I felt a flip-flop of envy. For his devotion only. Allen was so not my type. I wasn’t even sure he was Tracy’s type, but as long as she thought so, that was what counted.
“You sure do, honey,” he said and kissed her gently.
When she came up for air, Tracy was smiling even more.
I hoped there would be a happy ending for her.
OKAY, IF YOU want to know, I did eat a piece of pie. Lemon Cream Cheese. I left some crust, though. And I didn’t weigh myself when I got home. I vowed not to weigh myself for a week, and then only if I walked my pet-sitting charges a lot more vigorously.
Lexie didn’t scold me. She seemed glad to see me, and I soon got ready for bed.
I got two phone calls before I dropped off to sleep that night.
“Hi, Kendra,” said the first caller in his kind, sweet male voice that charmed the animals in his care. His hands did, too—although I hadn’t let them stroke me much . . . not yet, at least.
It was Tom Venson, the veterinarian I’d recently met who practiced in Tarzana, in a clinic on Reseda Boulevard.
“Sorry to call so late, but had an emergency this evening to attend to. Poor dog—a standard poodle—got hit by a car and had two broken legs.”
I drew in my breath, picturing a fluffy poodle lying on the road in a pool of blood, legs flayed in different directions. “Will he be all right?” I whispered.
“With me as his vet? Of course!” But then Tom’s voice grew more gravelly. “It took four hours of surgery, and we almost lost him a couple of times. But right now, things look good. Now, let’s talk about something else. How have you been? Have you found the missing pets?”
I’d of course told Tom about the Zibble- and Saurus-napping. Not that I expected him to run into the missing Shar-pei and iguana in Tarzana, when they’d been snatched in Sherman Oaks, but I figured he could get word out to other veterinary professionals, in case my charges somehow showed up.
“Nothing yet,” I responded with a sigh. “And nothing useful so far to help the police solve Nya Barston’s murder, either.”
“And I’m sure, with your background, that’s a big disappointment, too. Well, I’ll be all ears when we get together on Saturday for dinner. We’re still on, aren’t we?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m really looking forward to it.” And I was. A date with Tom Venson was the diversion I needed to get my mind off all the other things bothering me.
One of whom called almost the second after we hung up.
“Hi, Kendra,” said Jeff Hubbard in a deep, husky voice that sent shivers up my spine and suggested that he was already in bed—sadly, without me. “I just called to tell you that I’ve cleared my schedule and set aside tomorrow afternoon to devote to following up on the local pet-nappings. Care to discuss them with me at dinner?”
I immediately counted calendar days in my head. This was still Thursday—at least for another few minutes. My date with Tom Venson was scheduled for Saturday.
I had Friday night free.
But did I dare spend it facing Jeff, over a glass of wine and whatever else was placed between us?
I’d survived my last meal with him—which had only been the evening before. But I’d been out to dinner almost every night this week. I needed some slow-down-and-eat-home time.
“Why don’t you see if you come up with anything useful first,” I told him in as businesslike a tone as I could belt out.
“Oh, I will,” he promised. “Save the evening for me.”
Chapter Eleven
BEFORE GOING TO bed that night, I pulled a Rachel and reviewed all the animal rescue websites she’d shown me, for which she had subsequently e-mailed me the links. I searched for a found Shar-pei or iguana, a wire-haired dachshund who answered to Augie, and Cramer, the cockapoo stolen on Wanda’s watch.
Nothing.
Oh, there were lots of pets who showed up on those sites, looking scrawny and sad and crying out silently for homes. I held Lexie snuggled on my lap the whole time and still couldn’t keep my eyes from tearing up.
I felt fairly certain when I was through that none was Zibble. I wasn’t so certain about Saurus, since I couldn’t say for sure if I’d recognize him via a tiny photo. I knew, of course, that he was both green and beige, kinda like military camouflage—nothing unusual in that. I’d pet-sat for similar-looking iguanas. And since many web-listed reptiles had names beside their pictures, I assumed they had been dumped at shelters by former owners who’d provided some personal info while disposing of their defenseless iguanas. Which made me angry as well as sad. Why take on a pet, only to kick it out?
Lexie must have sensed my miserable mood, since she rested her chin on my arm and sighed softly. “My sentiments exactly,” I said.
And Augie and Cramer? I hadn’t met them in person, nor did I have their photos. If I was going to continue this sad search, I had to rectify that situation.
Tomorrow.
WHEN I NEXT woke up after a fitfully snoozed night, it was Friday A.M. Once again, I took my good old time visiting my pet-sitting clients with Lexie accompanying me. I almost couldn’t bear to leave any alone, not when I couldn’t come up with a clue as to who stole Saurus and Zibble. I was the last of the three local pet-sitters who’d had clients taken on her watch. What if I was now the target? What if all my charges were in danger?
Paranoia? Precisely. Especially since it wasn’t I, this time, who’d found a dead body at a client’s and been accused of murder. But the disquiet surging through my psyche was a relentless creature.
That meant I couldn’t sit by and wait for someone else to slug me with a development, whether happy or worse.
I called Tracy on my cell phone, while sitting in the Beamer outside my final pet-sitting client of the morning. I’d dressed in a middle-of-the-multicareer-road outfit, light shirt and dark slacks that were a little dressy for pet-sitting and not quite dressy enough for lawyering. But, never fear, I was prepared with a tweed sport jacket in my trunk in case I needed to meet with a law client. I also kept a change of clothes there in case this outfit met its match in a pet with dirty paws or staining slobber.
“I’m in the pet-napping investigation biz this morning,” I said to Tracy when she answered the phone. “Tell me all about Augie—where he lives, who his owners are, whatever you know.”
She explained again that Augie was short for Achtung, and that the pup stolen on her watch was a wire-haired dachshund. “His owner is Libby Emerich. Augie and she live in a really pretty redbrick house in Hancock Park. Their money’s from selling real estate—that’s what Libby does, I mean.”
“When is she due back in town?” I asked.
“She’s already back. She was at a conference in San Clemente with other franchisees of the big-name broker she’s with when Augie was stolen. She returned right away.”
“Good. Tell me how to reach her.” I jotted the info in a spiral binder I’d pulled from my large purse. I’d been using that notebook, similar to my pet-sitting log, to store my info and observations on the pet-stealing and Nya-killing situations until I had time to enter the data on my usual computer lists.
Before I called Libby Emerich, I contacted Wanda Villareal and asked similar questions about the pet-napped pup she had been watching. Cockapoo Cramer’s owner was named Marla Gasgill, and they lived on the southern side of Mulholland between Laurel Canyon and Coldwater—not far from my edge of the pet-sitting universe. I obtained Marla’s contact info, too.
And called both pet-nap victims, since Marla had also hurried home from wherever she’d been. Wanda hadn’t given that tidbit of info, which was unlikely to be important anyway.
Libby was in her office negotiating a multi-megadollar real estate deal. But when it came to finding her beloved Augie, she promised to drop it all the instant I arrived.
Marla was a Sherman Oaks dentist. She, too, would make time to see me if the visit had any chance of getting Cramer home safe, sound, and fast.
I started with Libby, whose office was on Wilshire Boulevard, not far from her Hancock Park abode. It took up the entire first floor of a three-story office building that appeared newly remodeled. Unsurprisingly, there was a lot of money to be made selling Los Angeles residential real estate.
I’d of course called my law office and let them know I’d be late popping in—again. Thank heavens for Borden and his laid-back style of practicing law.
Libby was a tall, slender lady in a designer-look wraparound silky dress that clung to her every slight curve. Her hair was wraparound, too—ash blond, and sleeked into a tall upsweep around her head. The office I was shown into by an eager sales underling was as sleek as its owner, occupied by a bare-bones modern metal desk, a computer in a cabinet all its own, and photos all over the walls of homes that Libby must have helped to sell—all huge and obviously expensive.
Libby was on the phone as I walked in, Lexie leashed beside me. She looked at my pup, then me, and hurriedly hung up. “You must be Kendra,” she said in a modulated yet excited voice. Her makeup was as flawless as any I’d seen in Hollywood, and her face was as lovely as any star’s. It was a face I had seen before, on real estate sales posters on open house signs and bus benches. “Please sit down.” She pointed toward an uncomfortably modern-looking chair with curves and angles like the other furniture, but when I complied and sat, its twists hit me in surprisingly comfy spots. Lexie leaped up onto my lap. “You’re here to help me find Augie.” Not quite to my surprise, this obviously poised lady burst into tears.
We chatted for a good half hour while she ignored her constantly buzzing phone. Augie was apparently the love of her life, who’d stuck by her side through a succession of lackluster lovers. She would do anything to recover her dear dog.
Lexie, ever the empathetic pup, got off my lap and begged to be lifted onto Libby’s. The broker bent down and complied, snuggling my loving dog while we continued to converse.
“I haven’t heard anything after the ransom note, if you can call it that,” Libby said with extreme sadness equally reflected by the red moistness of her gray eyes and the unpoised dip of her head as she rubbed her cheek against Lexie. “It didn’t ask for money or anything, and it didn’t say how else I could get Augie back.” Her formerly flawless makeup would undoubtedly have to be reapplied before she showed any more houses that day. Her complexion wasn’t quite as wrinkle-free as it had formerly appeared, and its pallor also hadn’t been there previously.
At my request, she showed me a photocopy of said ransom note. It resembled the one left at the Dorgans regarding Zibble and Saurus, but as Tracy had told me, this one said to tell no one at all, not just the cops.
“The police have the original,” Libby told me, “although they apparently can’t get fingerprints off it or any other helpful clue, not even what computer generated or printed it.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d pet-nap Augie to harm you?”
“I’ve beat out some other brokers in sales lately,” she said. “And I’ve dumped several men. I’ll give you their information like I did with the police, but I don’t see any of them resorting to stealing Augie, let alone serial pet-napping. That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? Other people have had pets taken as well?”
I agreed this was so but took her proffered info anyway, jotting names into my notebook. I’d pass it along to Althea and Jeff, just in case. None of the names looked familiar. But you never knew when an iota of info might lead to something useful. I also obtained a photocopy of the photocopy of the ransom note.
I thanked the broker, got Lexie back as well as Libby’s promise to let me know if she heard anything from the pet-napper—even if the cops told her to keep it quiet—and likewise promised to let her know if I learned anything potentially useful in getting her adored Augie home.
Next, Lexie and I headed back over the hill to Sherman Oaks. At Dr. Marla Gasgill’s dental office, I wasn’t lucky enough to be shown in first thing. Nor was I permitted, by her aghast staff, to bring Lexie inside—against state health codes or dental hypocritical oaths or some such.
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