Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
The Fright of the Iguana (20 page)
My employee was crying her pretty, big brown eyes out.
My heart immediately plummeted to beneath the high-heeled fashion sandals I’d donned for my date.
“What’s wrong, Rachel?” I cried, while Lexie tugged on her lead trying to get close to console her—a role already assumed by her own adorable Irish setter. “Did you check on all our clients?” I waited while she stopped sobbing before she could respond, all the while considering what I’d do next to find any missing charges. I couldn’t count on every client being able to pay the kind of ransom the Dorgans did. Even assuming they got a note demanding payment, since so many of the victims had heard nothing after the first notice that their pet was napped.
This couldn’t be happening again. Not to me. Not to any poor pet, especially those being cared for by Critter TLC, LLC.
“It’s so awful, Kendra,” Rachel finally screeched. Beggar stopped sitting quietly on the floor and climbed so his paws clutched his mistress around the middle, as if he insisted on comforting her. It was an adorable gesture, and even Rachel noticed it.
“What is?” I insisted that my cracking voice remain calm.
“It’s those horrible people at Methuselah Manor.”
I instantly quashed the relief that soared through me. No missing pet-care client after all. I hadn’t a thing to do with the senior citizen center where Rachel took Beggar to cheer up the inmates. But whatever had happened there had obviously shaken Rachel to the core. And I cared a lot about the kid.
“Let’s go inside, and you can tell me about it,” I said. She looked so shaky and sorrowful that I was concerned she would somehow hurt herself out here, stumbling in the garage or walking to the house.
“M-my dad’s out of town this weekend, but he’s due back on Monday. If he hears I’m accused of stealing things from those old farts, he’ll hate me.” Rachel’s wail echoed in the garage and instigated an answering bark from Beggar. Rachel knelt and threw her arms around her dog as she cried once more.
“I assume you didn’t steal whatever it was,” I said. Even when Rachel was at her sneaky worst, when she’d first moved into my rented-out main house without informing her traveling father, I’d never had the sense she was a thief. No reason to assume so now, no matter what the accusations leveled against her.
I believed wholeheartedly in the basic precept of innocent until proven guilty. It sure had helped me through my own ugly circumstance of being a criminal suspect.
“Of course not!” Rachel stood and glared indignantly, probably a preferable emotion to depression. “Why would I? The people in charge of the home make sure the residents’ families take home anything of value anyway, like good jewelry. Some of the stuff they say I took is costume, so why bother? And the rest—it’s wristwatches, of all things. No one’s interested in watches anymore, so why steal them?”
I glanced at her empty wrist, then at mine—where, sure enough, I wore a watch. Not an especially valuable one, but it managed to tell time, which was all I needed.
“Some people wear watches, Rachel,” I reminded her, also recalling Tom Venson’s checking his.
“Yeah, like those old people there,” she acknowledged. “But hardly anyone my age does.”
“Really?” That was news to me.
“What are cell phones for?” she asked rhetorically.
Oh, yeah. Why wear watches, where you had to set the time and could be off by minutes or more, when you could look at your phone and get the actual, accurate time disseminated by the cell phone company? Interesting observation—and it managed to make me, at merely thirty-five, feel like a darned dinosaur.
Rachel finally started strolling slowly out of the garage and along the path toward the main house, Beggar trotting sympathetically at her side. Lexie and I joined them.
“So what happens now?” I asked. Like, did they call the cops on you? Will there be a criminal investigation? But I decided to let her tell me what she knew.
“I don’t know,” she said dejectedly. She reached into her small bag and pulled out her key.
I tried not to be obvious as I glanced inside, in case I saw the glint of some costume jewelry or an errant wristwatch that had somehow jumped inside.
She caught me. “Do you think I did it?” she shouted. And then her shoulders slumped again. “If even you don’t believe in me, why would they? Several of the old folks reported stuff missing right after I’d visited them.”
We walked into the entryway. I wanted to stay longer to help her, but knew that Tom would arrive at any minute—according to my old-fashioned wristwatch.
“I believe you,” I told my treasured tenant. If I didn’t trust her, I’d never have hired her to help me pet-sit in homes of clients to whom I owed a duty of due care. “Let’s talk about this more tomorrow, okay? I’m expecting someone here any minute.”
“Jeff?” Rachel asked. “He’s really a hottie.”
I shook my head somewhat sheepishly. “Not this time. I have a date with Tom Venson.”
“The vet? He’s great, too. You’re on a roll, Kendra.” For the first time that evening, she smiled, albeit a bit soggily. “But how will you ever decide between them?”
“Good question,” I said, just as I heard a car roll up to our closed wrought-iron gate.
I turned to see the beige Ford Escape owned by my date.
“Good luck,” Rachel called in a too-sweet tone. “And have fun.”
WE WENT TO a really nice wood-fire barbecue place in Sherman Oaks. One without an outdoor eating area, so it was a good thing that I’d left a peeved Lexie in our apartment.
What, a vet not inviting his date’s pet along for dinner?
I couldn’t help commenting about that as soon as we’d ordered our food. The restaurant decor suggested a TexMex milieu, with serapes and rodeo photos on the walls. Our tablecloth was checkered red and white, and the rolls we’d been served were mini-loaves of homemade bread.
“As much as I love animals,” Tom responded with a smile, “it’s nice now and then to be around people.” He took in the rest of the restaurant with a gesture.
Unlike our dining place, Tom wasn’t at all country barbecue. He had chosen a classy button shirt in deep charcoal with threads that glistened dressily in the light from the flickering candle on our table. His slacks were black, his belt conservative.
The dark duds went well with his even darker hair, and set off his widow’s peak. He had a nice, if ordinary, nose, sincere brown eyes, and a few small wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. Because his hair was so dark, there was a hint of beard beneath his skin even though he’d shaved close enough not to scrape a date’s skin during a kiss.
How did I know that? I’d experienced it again tonight—nothing extremely hot and heavy, but a nice greeting before we’d gotten on our way.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve never asked”—and I’d never been to his home. In fact, his picking me up at mine tonight had been his first glimpse of my own humble abode and surrounding less humble property the bank and I owned—“but do you have any pets? Or do you just get a vicarious thrill out of handling the health of others’ beloved babies?”
There was a whole lot I didn’t know about Dr. Thomas Venson. Like his past history with women. Did he have an ex-wife lurking about somewhere, ready to leap back into his life if he and I developed any kind of relationship?
Boy, would that convince me even more that I could only choose the worst of men to get involved with.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “And I have to be careful not to adopt too many at a time, but when strays somehow appear at the clinic, they seem to wind up staying at my place. I’ve got three dogs and a cat right now, all neutered and healthy, although one of the dogs only has three legs. Fortunately, my house isn’t far from the hospital. You’ll have to visit sometime.”
His eyes caught mine, and I sensed an invitation a lot more heated than simply meeting his animal family. My insides flamed.
Was that what I wanted?
Was I that through with Jeff? I wasn’t about to sample sex with anyone else unless I’d finished with my former lover.
And I knew that Jeff could still press the right buttons to turn me on, even without touching me. Was that enough?
Was that truly all there was between us?
I sighed, grateful for the interruption as our server brought a big bowl of salad that she served onto our plates with a large wooden fork and spoon.
We chatted casually about all sorts of stuff, even through our ribs, corn, and slaw.
Damn, but I liked the guy.
“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me more about the stolen animals,” he finally said, looking somber and concerned.
“Damned pet-napper,” I replied. “At least the two animals pinched on my watch are back home, safe, sound, and healthy, partly thanks to you. But two other dogs were taken around the same time, and three more animals since—that I know about. So far, they all seem to be grabbed while one of my associates from the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal is watching them. I’ve got someone checking to see if there are any others, of course.”
“Your friend the P.I.?” His tone didn’t suggest he had any idea how close my friend the P.I. and I were—or at least had been. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Was it possible I was misreading proffered friendship from this really nice vet for something more personal?
Heck, knowing my own penchant for misunderstandings and selections of wholly inappropriate guys for relationships, what was more likely?
Which kinda hurt—suggesting I really was attracted to Tom Venson on a deeper level.
“Not him,” I said so brightly that I outshone the candle on the table between us. “He has a wonderful researcher in his office, and she’s looking into it for me. You haven’t heard of other pet-nappings, have you?”
“No, but I have asked around about the missing animals I’ve heard about. Plus, I’m going to an educational session with other vets tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll check there, too.”
“Would you? That would be wonderful.” Our eyes met and caught, as if we had been discussing something a whole lot sexier than stolen pets.
Tom smiled. I smiled back. And started simmering inside.
By then, we were through eating. Neither of us wanted any coffee or dessert, so we left the barbecue joint, our hands joined as we strolled to Tom’s SUV.
He drove me home so fast that I could hardly believe it when we reached my place. Or maybe my mind was in such a stupidly sensual fog that I hadn’t taken in the landmarks on the way.
But then, there we were.
“Would you like to come in for a while?” I hardly believed I’d invited him. It sounded like a suggestion of a whole lot more.
Was that what I wanted? Was I ready?
No surprise. He did want to come in.
We shared some wine. And we made out on my comfy sectional beige couch while Lexie nosed first my legs, then Tom’s, causing us both to laugh.
Tom’s hands began wandering afield on my perversely eager body, and that helped me establish an answer to one question I’d asked myself earlier.
No, I wasn’t ready.
“It’s too soon,” I whispered against his neck. He smelled good close up like that—a little tangy, a lot male. And not at all like a man who spent much of his time tending unaromatic pups and kitties.
“I’d better be going, then,” he said. “Can we get together again next weekend?”
“Sure,” I said with a smile.
“I’ll call you.” He dropped down to give Lexie a farewell pat, and then he was gone.
Well, heck.
Seemed like I had two guys firmly ensconced in my life and psyche now.
And I wasn’t at all certain I wanted even one.
Chapter Seventeen
SO DID I go to bed that night thinking about what I was missing, lying there alone save for Lexie. No Tom? No Jeff?
No. What I pondered as I waited for sleep to shut down my conscious mind was what I’d say to Corina Carey the next day. And what else I should be doing in an attempt to resolve all the matters that currently disrupted my life—like the pet-nappings and Nya Barston’s murder.
I decided that the best move to encourage Corina to give this story more airtime was to make it more human interest. That meant getting people to talk about the doggy and kitty disappearances and how they’d affected their lives.
Rubbing it in the faces of the animals’ owners didn’t seem like a good move, but displaying the anguish of other pet-sitters might do the trick.
I made calls first thing the next morning—realizing I might have to delay my eleven o’clock meeting with Corina.
Tracy declined being interviewed on air. She was already too frazzled by all that had occurred to become a public spectacle about it. Besides, she didn’t want the adverse publicity for the club that would result if the PSCSC president shouted out about it.
I pondered that point for a while. Perhaps the same issue would result if Frieda Shoreman, its de facto treasurer who kept the books without accepting the office, was interviewed about the pet-napping on her watch. And Wanda Villareal was considering the vice presidency now that Nya, who’d been the Veep, was gone.
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