The Fright of the Iguana (7 page)

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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

BOOK: The Fright of the Iguana
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“Conniving son of a bitch,” I whispered aloud. I figured I knew his game. He’d back off until I begged.
No way would that happen.
I went inside to retrieve Rachel, then she, Lexie, and I headed home. Fortunately, before I crept into a cold shower, I checked my phone messages.
Tom Venson had called. I’d of course told the really sweet vet whom I’d been dating about my pet-napping trouble, and he knew of the club meeting this evening. “I didn’t want to call your cell phone and disturb you,” his message said, “but phone me any time you get home.”
Which I did. It was a call I enjoyed to the utmost, without all the angst and innuendoes I seemed to get with Jeff. We confirmed our date for that Saturday night.
Then
I took that cold shower.
 
 
I SLEPT SURPRISINGLY well. But my mind was on Jeff and his suggested pet-sitting precautions as I started on my rounds the next morning, Lexie at my side at first. I’d drop her at Darryl’s later.
I visited two of my doggy clients first, and was on the way to the third when my cell phone sang “It’s My Life.”
I checked the caller ID. Tracy Owens. Did she want to rehash last night’s pet-sitters’ emotional get-together?
“Hi, Tracy,” I began, but barely got it out before Tracy broke in.
And
emotional
didn’t begin to describe her over-the-phone demeanor. Hysteria, perhaps?
“Kendra? It’s so horrible! I don’t believe it! And they think, they think—”
“Tracy, please,” I interrupted, attempting to sound calm but feeling my insides swirl. “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”
A pause. I believed I heard a gulp of air for cooling calmness. And then Tracy said, “It’s Nya. I don’t even know what she was doing at one of my client’s.
My
client’s.” Was all this an outgrowth of outrage? I was about to chastise her when she continued, “But she’s there. Dead. And they think I did it.”
Chapter Five
I COULDN’T BELIEVE it.
Correction: Murder magnet that I was,
sure
I could.
I might not have been best buddies with Nya Barston, but she’d absolutely been a vibrant person. An alive person, with opinions of her own. A sitter who probably cared a lot for her pet charges. She’d definitely cared for the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal, enough that she couldn’t believe anyone could be expressly targeting members of such a great group.
Whether or not she was right, she was dead. And Tracy had discovered her that way.
“I . . . I’m so sorry, Tracy,” I said softly into my cell phone. “And I understand what you’re going through.”
“I know you do, Kendra,” she wailed. “Can you help me?”
How could I answer—especially without knowing whether there was good reason for suspicions to be leveled against her? I responded honestly, if obliquely. “I’ll be there soon as I can.”
I hung up and turned the Beamer in a different direction: the address where Tracy had come across poor Nya’s corpse. It was in the area known as the Miracle Mile, which meant I headed south along Highland beyond Hollywood.
And then I made another call. “Guess what, Ned,” I said into the phone in as upbeat a tone as I could manage after finally reaching my favorite LAPD detective.
Favorite? Sure—favorite to fight with. And to prove wrong. At least when he made accusations of murder against my friends and acquaintances—and most especially against me.
“Let’s see,” he said. “You realized you’d only misplaced those animals and you’ve found them again.”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “It’s even more serious than pet-stealing.”
“Don’t tell me you’re interfering in another murder investigation.” His tone was suddenly sharp and snide.
“Okay, I won’t,” I responded miserably. “Tell you, that is. And I’m not exactly interfering . . . at least not yet.”
A muffled groan resounded from the other end of the phone. “I’m sure you will be, Kendra. At least tell me it isn’t in my jurisdiction.”
“Okay, it’s not in your jurisdiction, assuming you’re still in North Hollywood.” I told him the location.
“Thank God,” he intoned into my ear.
“I’ll find out soon who the detective in charge is,” I said. “Can you let me in on whether he or she is as nice as you?” I heard his intake of breath, as if I’d belted him but good by that compliment. Would he buy it? It was meant in sincerity, more or less. I’d come to respect Ned, at least in some ways. Knew how to deal with him, kinda. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called him at all after the Dorgan pet-napping. If I got involved in Tracy’s situation, I’d be starting again from scratch with a new homicide detective. That had happened before, but that time Ned had elected to assist in the investigation. I couldn’t count on him doing that again . . . could I? “And I’d really appreciate anything you can learn and pass along to help me.”
“Help you what?” The guy had an expressive voice, as I’d learned from long experience. Now, he sounded utterly exasperated. “Let me do both you and my counterpart investigating this case a favor. Kendra, stay out of this one.”
“I’d love to,” I said sincerely. I slammed on my brakes as a light turned red. I had passed Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards and was nearing Wilshire, which would lead me into a more residential area. Then a few jogs, and I’d be at the murder scene where Tracy awaited my assistance.
“Then why are you sticking your nose in?” Ned grumbled.
I explained who the victim was, and that I’d been in her company only a night earlier.
“So you’re interested because a fellow pet-sitter is the victim?”
“And because another fellow pet-sitter may be a suspect.” As I filled him in on the little I’d been told by Tracy, the light turned green again and I continued driving.
“And you don’t think that, maybe this time, there’s good reason for someone to suspect your friend? I mean, I know you don’t think much of my abilities as a homicide detective, but I get it right a good ninety percent of the time when you aren’t involved. Maybe whoever’s handling this has an even better batting average.”
I wasn’t to know how prophetic that analogy was until I reached the murder scene. And I knew that many crimes, even homicides, were never solved. Ned’s proclaimed batting average must mean convictions when he had solid evidence against a purported perpetrator. Even so, that was as impressive as he’d intended. Assuming I believed it.
Meantime, I again asked Ned for his assistance if needed, and then hung up, assuming my inquiry was in vain. Cops didn’t leap in to aid nosy citizens.
Especially a cop with attitude who’d probably cheer if this particular nosy citizen happened, this one time, to be wrong.
 
 
OF COURSE I really didn’t know anything yet about this murder. For all I knew, Tracy could have done it. Nya and she hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms last night.
But a bitching session over pet-napping statistics wasn’t exactly a convincing motivation for murder.
A pet-napping was. That thought hit me so suddenly and horribly that I nearly swerved the Beamer. Nya had been awfully vocal in her opinion that PSCSC wasn’t a target, but what if her vociferousness was a cover for her own culpability? What if Tracy had found her in the process of stealing a pet and, in fury, had killed her? That surely would explain Nya’s presence at a client being served by Tracy.
But could I really believe that Nya was the unknown pet-napper? That seemed a stretch. So did the idea that Tracy would kill her, rather than call the cops.
Tracy was still in hysterics when I finally reached her, right outside a white stucco hacienda with red-tiled roof. The house was swathed in yellow tape along with cops and crime scene investigators. Clad in jeans and a green T-shirt, Tracy was puggle-less for the moment, but not Allen-less. I gathered from her guyfriend that she had left her own pooch at home while pet-sitting that day.
I gathered, too, from Allen that he had come the instant his beloved called, to stay at her side and soothe her and attempt to stave off the big, bad detective who’d been harassing her.
“I . . . I can’t believe he thinks I did it,” Tracy moaned, lifting her head from Allen’s chest where she had been sobbing. Her round face was red and blotchy, and I could see a smudge on Allen’s otherwise white shirt—wet from her tears and spotted with makeup that no longer enhanced her eyes.
“That’s really a shame.” I stuck sympathy into my voice, although she was clearly not in custody. At least not yet. “But why? Just because this home belongs to one of your clients?”
And because, just maybe, you did do it?
“No!” Tracy wailed, almost as if she had tuned into my musings.
A suit strode out of the house toward us. The detective in charge? He looked like he’d been at this business for light-years—an older cop with a world-weary frown on an otherwise expressionless face.
Allen glared and moved Tracy so he remained between the suit and her, affirming my assumption that this was the official distressing her. The detective glanced sideways toward a uniformed cop accompanying him, maybe a third his age.
“Mr. Smith, please come with me,” the uniform said. “You have to stay out of the way for now.”
“No way,” Allen said, his voice somewhat squeaky. He might aspire to soar like an eagle protecting Tracy, but he quailed while confronting authority. His long chin even quivered.
“Yes,” the suit contradicted unequivocally. “I need to ask Ms. Owens some more questions.”
I interceded with a brilliant smile. Might as well start from a position of strength. “Hi. I’m Kendra Ballantyne, and I’m an attorney.” I held out my hand.
The man reached for it with apparent repugnance, although he did the polite thing and shook it. “I’m Detective Lunn. Are you representing Ms. Owens?”
“Heavens, no,” I gushed. “I’m a civil litigator. I don’t practice criminal law. But I gather this is a crime scene. Ms. Owens indicated that a friend of hers has been injured.”
“It’s a homicide, Ms. Ballantyne. And if you don’t represent Ms. Owens—”
“Oh, I know enough to make a few basic inquiries. Has she been read her rights?”
“She’s not in custody.”
“She’s also not answering any more questions without counsel of her own, right, Tracy?”
She looked at me blearily with bloodshot eyes, but she was conscious enough about what was going on to agree.
Detective Lunn glared as if I had assaulted him. In a way, I supposed I had. I’d at least assaulted his nice and previously unopposed ability to question an obviously scared and unsophisticated witness—and possible suspect. “Go ahead and hire a lawyer, Ms. Owens. It’s your right.” He turned and trotted back into the house.
Tracy looked around, apparently searching for her support, since she appeared ready to sink to the ground. I wasn’t exactly sure where the uniform had led Allen, so I said, “Come here.” I motioned toward the sidewalk. The street was lined with closely parked cars, so there wasn’t anyplace to easily plant our butts while conversing, but I noticed a couple of lawn chairs in a neighbor’s front yard. Sure, we’d be trespassing, but I doubted we’d be sued for it under the circumstances. Even if we were, I had a close relationship with a really good civil litigator.
I led Tracy there, and she sat down and sighed. “Oh, Kendra, this whole thing is one miserable nightmare.”
“I’m sure.” My tone resounded with empathy. Been there, done that, and had the criminal lawyer’s not-so-cheap receipts to show for it. But at least I’d fingered the true culprit in my case before I could be arrested. “I know it isn’t easy to re-live what you went through, but tell me how you found Nya.”
She shuddered, then started into a description of how this had been her third pet-sitting stop this morning. “What with all the pet-nappings, I was especially careful to check around outside and make sure it didn’t look like the place had been tampered with. Everything looked fine, so I pushed in the code to shut off the security system and used the key to go in. The dog of the house, a really great sheltie mix, bounded right to me. At first, I thought everything was fine. But then Lassie—that’s the dog—started acting funny. Running down the hall and barking. I followed. That’s when I smelled something terrible. I should have called 911 right away, but I had to look . . .”
She stopped speaking, and an expression of horror made her already round features go rounder yet.
“Where was Nya?” I inquired as gently as I could.
“In the k-kitchen,” she wailed. “Soon as I saw her, I knew. That’s when I called 911.”
I swallowed uneasily, but I had to ask, “Can you describe what she looked like?”
“Horrible.” Tracy cried some more before she could continue. “She was on the floor. There was blood, and she was all curled up . . . horrible,” she repeated.
“I know this is hard,” I said, and it was. For both of us, even though it was worse for the percipient witness. But if I was going to help Tracy, I had to know absolutely everything.

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