The Fright of the Iguana (25 page)
Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“If it’ll make you feel better.” I hoped my shrug appeared indifferent. Which was not the way I felt. Can’t say that I usually went for a me-man-you-woman kind of assertive routine, but right about then I appreciated it. And his insistence did make me feel better, despite my attempt to act cool.
I backed out and idled the Beamer beneath a streetlight until Jeff’s black Escalade pulled up behind. Meantime, I scanned the street but saw no surreptitious movements in the shadows, only a few residual cops knocking on neighbors’ doors.
My attacker had to be long gone, especially with this police presence invading the neighborhood.
On the way toward Darryl’s, I called Tracy. She was understandably shaken. Cops had descended to question her again—after a long afternoon at the police station undergoing an interrogation in Nya’s murder. At least she was now under the wing of Esther Ickes, who’d been my mother hen criminal counsel a while back. Tracy had been out tending those few pets she’d maintained as clients at the time I’d been attacked here.
Could she have been the being who attempted to bean me with a baseball bat? Maybe, but I couldn’t imagine why.
THE TIME NEARED ten P.M. by the time Jeff and Odin joined Lexie and me at our home. I’d already given Darryl a cursory overview of the night’s awful occurrences, then driven Alexander home, all the while eyeing Jeff in my rearview mirror.
When my wrought-iron security gate shut securely behind the Beamer, Jeff had zoomed off as promised, but only after calling me on my cell phone and insisting on staying on the line until my pup and I were safely ensconced in our apartment.
And now he was back.
We sat in my small living room, balancing plates of roasted chicken, potatoes, and coleslaw on our laps while watching the news on TV, and the dogs watched us.
Sure enough, the attack on me had struck a chord with the media. Like Jeff, they undoubtedly monitored police bands, too, and with Nya’s murder along with the serial pet-nappings, this situation was sexy enough to stick my face on the boob tube.
“I hate this,” I said, warily watching pooch eyes observe each forkful of food I raised to my mouth. One unintentional move and I’d have a Cavalier and Akita on my lap licking my plate.
“Then let’s figure out who’s doing it,” Jeff said.
“Yeah, like it’s that easy,” I retorted, letting my amazed gaze land on the hunky guy at the other end of my sectional sofa.
“Easy or not, let’s do it. You tired?”
I wondered if that was an invitation to go to bed . . . with him. But the look on his face wasn’t come hither. More like the dogs’ determination to accomplish something, like eat.
“I’m too wired to sleep,” I said.
“Good. Let’s go through your suspect list—knowing you, you’ve made detailed notes and changed the order several times.”
“You assume right,” I said.
“Good. Once we’ve talked about them, we’ll figure out who’s most likely, and I’ll run with it for the next couple of days.”
“You think we’ll nab a suspect that quickly?”
“Hope so, since I’m going out of town again soon and I’ll need you to stay at my place and watch Odin.”
Chapter Twenty-one
WE DID AS Jeff said. Stayed up till extremely late, sitting in my tiny makeshift office in a corner of my bedroom going over my lists, while Lexie and Odin snored on the floor beside us.
Keeping my mind focused on stuff other than the fact I’d been attacked that night . . . or trying to.
We started with the pet-snatchings. But I hadn’t a cogent clue about nabbing the napper. Who was it? Someone with a grudge against the PSCSC? I’d only been a member for a matter of months. I’d heard that someone was kicked out shortly prior to my tenure, but the same rumor suggested the ousted sitter ultimately thanked the group after using the wake-up call to make over her life. She now supposedly had a wonderful pet-less job in Chicago. No likely motive there.
“Anyone kicked out lately?” Jeff asked after I related that tale.
“Not that I know of,” I responded.
“Well, has a client of any member made a complaint to the club and been ignored?”
“We’d have investigated it, and I’d have heard.”
“Have you considered Nya as a possible pet-napper?”
Jeff’s question struck upon one of my most disconcerting and ongoing ponders. That certainly could explain her appearance at the home where she’d been killed, at a client of Tracy’s, not her own.
“Sure,” I answered, “but that wouldn’t solve the other pet-snatches since Nya’s demise.”
“She had a coconspirator.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If so, that person’s probably her murderer. But why would she steal pets in the first place? And who connived with her, killed her, then continued to snatch animals—and why?”
“All excellent questions,” Jeff said. “Any answers?”
“Nope.” Silently, I still supposed the who could be someone affiliated with the Pet-Sitters Club. But I’d few logical responses as to why any would steal someone else’s clients. Jealousy of others’ successes? Some other, unvoiced dissatisfaction with the organization? To cast suspicions in another direction, as had crossed my mind at Lilia’s, by absconding with one of their own charges?
At Jeff’s urging, I slogged through the membership list alongside him. Nya, of course. And Tracy. And Wanda Villareal, my friend and fellow Cavalier aficionado. Frieda Shoreman. Lilia Ziegler. Others who were members but who weren’t as involved with the running of the club. Then there were non-members who were peripherally involved, such as significant others like Jerry Jefferton and Allen Smith.
But why steal animals?
We got on to my computer and again Googled all these people—repeating exercises Jeff had already engaged in. He even accessed some of his supersecret databases, the ones on which Althea soared in proficiency, and looked up some of the players there. He printed out plenty of background.
But none leaped out as obviously insidious pet-stealers. And I really couldn’t imagine any of those I knew from the club as pet-nappers—let alone people who’d have attacked me.
There remained the possibility that the serial pet-napper had nothing to do with PSCSC and was snatching other animals without the crimes being called out anyplace where Jeff, or the incredible Althea, dug up info.
We then considered murder suspects—much more likely to have perpetrated my assault.
My preference was to remove Tracy from that list altogether but couldn’t yet, so I kept her there in small print. Jerry Jefferton’s I bolded and bracketed near the top. He might have been cleared by the cops, but he’d been Nya’s significant other and they’d argued. I wasn’t sure when Nya would be released for interment, but I’d most definitely make an appearance at her memorial . . . and question Jerry further there, when he’d be emotionally off guard.
Plus, it was always interesting to see who showed up at a funeral. Wasn’t it an axiom of law enforcement that the killer always came to see the result of his/her handiwork?
“Who else knew Nya?” Jeff asked.
“I’m still checking,” I said.
“I will, too.”
And so forth, long into the night.
And did we determine who’d done any of the dastardly deeds we investigated? No way. In fact, I was concertedly confused. But when I insisted on additional checking, trying to correlate the pet-nappings and people-battings while letting my fingers wander far afield, I finally had a hit.
“Jeff!” I shouted excitedly. “Look at this.”
He was still sitting beside me at my small desk, staring at my computer-printed lists anew as if they were finally prepared to point out the killer. Now, he glanced over quizzically.
I pointed to a couple of photos on an animal shelter’s website: Loving Friends. “See that? That dog’s a wire-haired dachshund. It looks a lot like Augie—the dog pet-napped on Tracy’s watch. That one resembles Cramer, the cockapoo Wanda was watching when he was stolen. And that cat looks like Amanda.”
I felt Jeff freeze beside me. “Why would you say that?” A decided chill had entered his tone.
“Not your Amanda. I mean your ex Amanda.” With that look in his eyes, I didn’t dare remind him that said ex had run him over in her car not many weeks ago. Or did I? Maybe later. “This cat resembles the cat named Amanda that was pet-napped from Lilia Ziegler. I saw pictures. She’s silver gray, just like that. See those fuzzy hairs sticking up from those big ears? And the kind of pushed-in face that usually only comes with purebred cats.”
“Oh. Right. So you think this might be the pet-napper’s drop-off point?”
“Could be,” I sang, somewhat triumphantly. “At least I need to go there and find out.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Jeff sounded mollified. “Have you looked at this website before?”
I shook my head in the negative. “I was simply surfing, following threads about shelters I didn’t previously pursue.”
This shelter was up north a reasonably drivable distance, in Bakersfield. Of course tomorrow—no, I realized as I glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer—today was Wednesday, and I had lots of legal appearances and meetings over the next couple of weekdays. I couldn’t easily get away until Saturday.
“I can’t go tomorrow,” I told Jeff with a sigh.
“You want me to do that rather than follow up on whoever attacked you?” His tone seemed ready to ignite with indignation and righteous anger.
“No. This is something I’d better do. But it’ll have to wait until the weekend.”
I’d worry until then about whether the similar, and possibly same, animals to those I was seeking might get adopted without my first assessing if they were the pet-nap victims. But I didn’t dare drop all my law cases and dash up there, despite my boss Borden being an understanding dear.
I printed out photos of the pets, along with captions that contained, if I was right, incorrect names. I bookmarked the web page, too, so I could find it again easily.
“You tired?” Jeff asked when I was done.
“I sure am.”
“Then let’s go to bed.”
I didn’t argue, although I was fully prepared to fight Jeff off if he seemed intent on sex—not fight physically, since I didn’t worry he’d strong-arm me, but I might need to fight off my own urges and congenially convince Jeff I was simply too sleepy tonight to indulge.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to argue at all. We simply gave the dogs a final short romp to relieve themselves, then Jeff and I each performed our ablutions and changed into our nightwear. I chose a sexless nightshirt, so I’d have less likelihood of turning him on.
And then we both climbed into my queen-size bed while the dogs settled down on the floor.
The kiss Jeff gave me got my blood flowing fast and my hormones humming so hard that I gave thought to fighting off my intent to tell him no.
But his hands didn’t rove. They pulled me to him, my sensory-stimulated back to his hard and sexy front, and hugged me tight.
“Good night, Kendra,” Jeff murmured into my ear, giving me goose bumps along with all the other sensations I felt.
“Good night,” I whispered. How had this sinfully sexy guy known just how to get under my skin without even a hint of hitting on me?
As exhausted as I’d become, I still took a long while to let my dreams carry me to unconsciousness.
I PURPOSELY RAN into Rachel the next morning while waiting for Jeff to come downstairs, and I gave her a rundown of what had happened last night. Both Lexie and Odin were with me, and they appeared perfectly content to stop and smell the roses—er, bird of paradise plants—and wait for me to move.
“Buzz Dulear from Jeff’s office is going to be here in ten minutes,” I told her. “He’ll accompany you on your pet-sitting today, to make sure no one comes after you like that person did to me last night.”
“Oh, okay,” said my usually perky young employee. There were dark circles under her normally clear brown eyes. Her waiflike appearance was more an abandoned-orphan look. Her jeans were loose and her white T-shirt baggy. She clenched the loop of Beggar’s leash as her Irish setter traded sniffs with my two canine charges.
“You all right?” I asked.
“I don’t think they’re going to let Beggar and me back into Methuselah Manor,” she wailed. “They’re not saying it’s because they suspect me of stealing the missing stuff, but I’m sure that’s why.”
“That’s lousy,” I said. The kid had been so enthusiastic about her foray into cheering seniors. I felt absolutely awful for her. And I was certain she was innocent of any kind of theft. That idea about how to help her still teased my mind, but I knew I couldn’t indulge it until, hopefully, sometime next week. “Are other people visiting the place with pets?”
“No,” she said miserably. “And some of the guests will really miss Beggar.”
I didn’t want to raise Rachel’s hopes, so I didn’t tell her what I had in mind. But I did say, “Maybe we can fix that. I’ll see what I can do.”
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