The Fright of the Iguana (16 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: The Fright of the Iguana
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“Not fifty thousand dollars,” I said acerbically. “You gonna find it?”
“More important, have you heard anything about where the animals might be?”
I’d been holding my cell phone up between Hillary and me so she could hear Jeff, too. She lifted her own phone, which she’d been gripping in her left hand, and looked at it.
“Nothing,” she said sadly.
“I’ll call you as soon as we hear something,” I assured Jeff, and hung up. And waited.
And waited.
My eyelids grew so heavy that they started to feel like the Dumpster’s metal lid. After a while, I didn’t even try to keep them open. I’d stay awake, of course, since I had to. Surely, the thief would contact Hillary, now that he had his money.
Sure . . .
I must have jumped three feet as a ding-dong sound reverberated through the room. Those weighty eyelids of mine suddenly lost their heft and popped open.
Hillary still sat on the sofa where I’d last seen her, her cell phone still in her hand. “It’s vibrating, Kendra,” she gasped groggily. “I think I have a text message.”
Only then did I notice that the lights in the room now included a dim glow from outside the windows. Dawn? Had I actually slept, with everything that was going on?
“There
is
a text message,” Hillary said, staring at her phone. “But damned if I know what it says.”
“Let me try.” I held out my hand and stared at the medley of letters:
“anmls at pcnc area seplvda bsn wildlife rsrv off woodley rt nw cm fst”
 
 
OKAY, SO THE note took a little translating, as many text messages do. My interpretation? “Animals at picnic area Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve off Woodley right now. Come fast.”
The result? Around twenty minutes after I’d understood what it said, I sped my Beamer along Woodley Avenue toward the turnoff for the Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve. Hillary sat beside me as my passenger.
Why not let her chauffeur me some more in her prime Porsche? Because our intent was to retrieve two good-size pets. They would fit in the back of my Beamer. Not so in Hillary’s gorgeous sports car.
Besides, though not a Porsche, my Beamer had power when it chose to. Like now. Fortunately, at this hour, I didn’t see any cops.
I didn’t see Jeff, either, though I’d called him immediately to inform him of what we’d heard. I wasn’t sure where he’d spent the night, but his hazy voice had suggested I’d awakened him, too. He had promised to head there immediately, and since his home was closer than Hillary’s I figured he might have gotten here faster.
“Do you know where the picnic area is?” Hillary asked me for the umpteenth time.
“No,” I responded, still surprisingly patient, “but hopefully we’ll figure that out when we get there.” Or maybe my patience wasn’t so amazing after all. I was a whole lot worried about whether we were off on a wild Shar-pei chase. Or iguana escapade. Sure, the thief had instructed us to wait for a text message, but even now, hours after the ransom was paid, there was no guarantee he or she would come through with the pets.
Or, if Zibble and Saurus happened to be there, that they’d be happy and healthy after several days in someone else’s care. Or lack thereof.
Not too surprising, I was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. My light shirt and dark slacks were a little wrinkled but were fortunately of materials that weathered most wearing well. I’d left my tweed jacket in the Beamer’s trunk. No need to look especially lawyerly to rescue a couple of pets.
Hillary might have objected, though, had I suggested to her that anything less than superb fashion was essential for our outing. Despite my urging that we leave immediately, she had taken a few minutes to don a white deep-dipping knit shirt decorated with rows of pseudojewels over brown slacks that suggested a gold cast in certain light. And of course the pants had a matching jacket, although she had carelessly cast it onto the Beamer’s floor by her feet.
Fashionable,
sí.
Perky Hollywood producer’s wife at this hour, no. She looked as exhausted as I felt, with dark circles under her eyes that she had made a gallant effort to disguise with lots of makeup.
And all this, surprisingly, had been accomplished in less than ten minutes.
We reached the road designated as the way to the Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve and the Japanese Garden and made a right turn. Several driveways converged there, and the signage didn’t exactly sing out which way to go. I nevertheless followed the lower road to the right, since it appeared to be the one we wanted. There were also signs to cricket fields—the game, I assumed, and not the bugs even though this was a wildlife area. Plus, the place was surrounded by golf courses. A pretty, parklike oasis, right in the middle of the San Fernando Valley? Absolutely. I’d even hiked here and bird-watched now and then, when I’d had a few spare hours.
But that had been a while back. I had no idea where the picnic area might be. Still, I soon located a likely spot. “There,” I said excitedly, pointing to a place just beyond an empty parking lot. “That looks like picnic benches.”
And it was. We parked next to a couple of port-a-potties at the edge of the paved parking and exited the Beamer. In front of us, in the dim light of the still-early day, was a small expanse of reddish concrete tables, all numbered and in rows, and unoccupied, as the parking lot had been. Guess it was too early for picnicking, although one reason we’d hurried here—in addition to the instruction to come fast—was the fear that early A.M. joggers and bikers might come upon the missing pets first and abscond with them.
So far, we’d only seen a few exercise freaks, and they’d run or power walked on tracks inside the fencing along the roadway as we’d approached. None were here—not yet, at least.
Here and there in the picnic area were flimsy metal grills for people who planned to barbecue. The ground was sandy, though surrounding areas contained lush green lawns. Above were huge firs, interspersed with palms that apparently hadn’t been trimmed in ages, their trunks covered with browned, dipping fronds.
Beyond was a small kiddy playground, with swings and slides of colorful plastic.
But we weren’t here to picnic or barbecue or play like kids.
Where were Zibble and Saurus?
“Zibble?” I called out. I didn’t imagine Saurus would answer, but a Shar-pei just might.
I heard a bark from somewhere ahead.
“There!” Hillary shouted excitedly and pointed past the nearest tables to somewhere around the farthest.
I ran behind her, ducking through the concrete obstacle course of tables until we reached them.
Zibble was tied to a table. Saurus was inside a metal dog crate.
By the time we reached them, Zibble was leaping and whining in a canine frenzy of excitement. Hillary knelt, untied his leash, and held out her arms. Her Shar-pei leaped into them and showered her with slobbery kisses from his huge, sagging lips.
But Saurus. The iguana wasn’t leaping or even moving, not that I could see.
This wasn’t the kind of habitat that would allow a reptile to thrive.
Had he failed to survive?
Were we too late to save him?
Only then did I see another car cruising toward us from the opposite direction—a big black Cadillac Escalade.
Jeff’s.
Had he nabbed the pet-napper?
Chapter Thirteen
AND WHEN THE heck was I going to stop asking questions and do something useful?
I waved toward Jeff, then ducked down on the ground to check on Saurus. I opened the crate and reached inside, half expecting him to snap at me, as iguanas were wont to do.
He didn’t move.
I felt his scaly skin. It was cold—but, then, he was a cold-blooded creature.
He seemed to be crouching on a bunch of rags. Was that an okay substrate—or surface—for him, even temporarily?
At least he wasn’t listing sideways or, worse, lying on his side. And his eyes appeared to be open. Even the one on top—his third eye that was supposed to be a light sensor for iguana safety, although it didn’t actually see.
But I was far from an expert.
And, thank heavens, I happened to know someone who was.
“Hold on, Hillary,” I said. If we weren’t on a first name basis by now, tough. I yanked my cell phone from the ubiquitous bag I’d unthinkingly slung over my shoulder and called Jeff. “Hi, don’t bother stopping. The animals are here, but we need to get them to a vet right away. I don’t suppose you saw someone lurking to see who retrieved them, did you?”
“No, damn it,” he said. He had stopped in the lot anyway and spoke to me as he approached. He slipped his phone closed as he reached us. Which turned out to be a good thing, since Hillary had her hands full with the eager Zibble and was of no assistance at all in lifting Saurus’s makeshift enclosure.
“Hi,” I said. “Please help.” I gestured toward the cage.
“Is he alive?” Jeff asked dubiously.
“Yes, but he sure doesn’t look healthy. Of course, I’m not certain I can tell the difference between a healthy iguana and one who’s not well. That’s why we’re heading to the vet.”
He grabbed one end of the crate and I latched onto the other. Together, with Hillary and Zibble bringing up the rear, we maneuvered around picnic tables and into the parking lot, where Jeff and I shoved the cage onto the Beamer’s backseat.
“Can you tell me in ten words or less if you saw anything at all helpful this morning?” I asked. The hunky P.I. looked more exhausted than I had ever seen him. And that included after some wild, wanton, and exhausting nights of wonderful sex . . .
Don’t go there, Kendra
, I shouted silently to myself.
Especially since I was about to pay a visit to the other man in my life, who just happened to be the best veterinarian I’d ever met.
“Unfortunately, no. I figured you two would go after the animals, so I cruised around looking for anyone suspicious. A couple of cars parked, and people got out and started jogging. Others drove by, and I jotted down license numbers that I’ll get Althea to run, although I can’t say I noted a genuine suspect.”
“That’s more than ten words,” Hillary complained from the front seat, where she had planted herself. Zibble was in the back on the far side from Saurus’s cage. They were ready to go. And even in the growing daylight, I couldn’t quite tell the iguana’s condition.
Time for a visit to the vet.
Past
time, probably.
“Thanks for trying, Jeff,” I said, and I hurried into the driver’s seat to head out of the park and toward Tarzana.
 
DR. THOMAS VENSON’S veterinary clinic was along Reseda Boulevard. It was a squat gray building, drab for a place where death-defying acts like saving animals’ lives were done.
The time was nearing seven o’clock, and I’d called Tom on his cell phone. He promised to be present when we arrived, and when I pulled the Beamer into the small parking lot behind the clinic I saw his car, a beige Ford Escape—less ostentatious than Jeff’s Cadillac Escalade, but big enough to transport most of his patients of the nonhuman persuasion.
I knocked on the back door and it immediately opened, as if Tom had been standing there, waiting. “Hi, Kendra,” he said, but his smile aimed over my shoulder as his brown eyes scanned the parking lot for where I’d left his new patients. He obviously gave a damn, a damned good quality in a vet.
“They’re in my Beamer with their owner, Hillary,” I told him. “The Shar-pei looks okay and can walk in on his own four paws, but I’m more concerned about the iguana. He’s been out of his nice, safe reptile habitat for a few days, and—”
I’d started talking to Tom’s back. And a nice back it was, clad in his usual white lab jacket.
He was of ordinary height for a guy, less than six feet. I’d noticed before how long and lean his legs were in the jeans he wore under his lab jacket. Now, he used them to stride quickly through the parking lot.
I let Hillary lead Zibble toward the building on his leash, and again took an end of the crate in which Saurus lolled. With Tom’s assistance, I toted it out of the back of the Beamer.
“Let’s put it down a second,” he said. When we did, I watched him give Saurus a once-over. Tom was a nice-looking guy, not extraordinary, but I adored his attitude. He cared—about people, as well as his patients. He treated owners like the parents they were, understanding their emotionalism about their pets’ medical problems. “Okay, let’s get him inside.” Tom’s tone suggested concern. So did the way his dark eyebrows knit below the widow’s peak of his equally deep brown hair.
I again took the front end of the cage and let him bring up the rear, which gave him the better view of the possibly suffering iguana. Hillary held open the clinic’s back door while stopping Zibble from tripping us with his leash. They followed Tom, Saurus, and me inside.
“Let me get one of my assistants,” Tom said. We lowered the crate, and he hurried down the hall.

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