But a suspect in the pet-nappings, too? This was new to me. “Hi, Jerry, I’m Kendra.” I didn’t attempt to offer my hand for a shake since it was occupied with calming a wriggling Lexie, who wanted down. Not a great idea in this crowd. She’d get stepped on by a person or nipped at by another pup.
“Hi, Kendra. I’ve heard about you.” Jerry raised his gaze to look at me with bloodshot brown eyes, and I suspected that whatever he’d heard about me wasn’t flattering. “You solve murders. Do you know who killed my Nya?” His shoulders seemed to square, as if he anticipated the blow of my accusing him.
Well, I hoped it hadn’t been Tracy who’d done it, but I didn’t have reason—yet, at least—to suspect Jerry. “Not so far,” I said. “And right now, I’m so preoccupied with these pet-nappings that whatever my reputation for getting involved with murders, I may not be too helpful in solving Nya’s.”
“Oh,” he said softly, as if I had dealt him another blow. “I’d really like for justice to be done.”
Which suggested strongly that he hadn’t slain his lover.
Unless, of course he was lying to deflect suspicion from himself. But if not him, then Tracy . . . ?
Well, I hadn’t leaped deeply enough into determining a list of alternate suspects to know who else might have had cause to off Nya. I’d need to do that. Soon.
But first . . .
Tracy had taken her place at the front of the crowd—with the two cops standing cross-armed behind her. “Can I have everyone’s attention?” she pleaded rather than announced.
“People, listen up,” yelled Frieda Shoreman. Standing beside the clearly exhausted Tracy, Frieda appeared tall and slim and stylishly clad, as usual. “This special meeting of the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal is hereby called to order.”
Her shout somehow got everyone’s attention. Or maybe the group was simply waiting for someone to take charge. In any event, voices stilled, and people took their seats.
Me, too, with Lexie on my lap. Jerry Jefferton became my next-chair neighbor.
This meeting seemed similar to the one several days back, except that I was called up to the front first to describe my good news—getting Zibble and Saurus back.
I grinned as the group cheered when I finished. But I turned to the others who’d suffered similar pet-nappings. “Tracy, Wanda, did the people whose pets you were sitting for receive any additional ransom notes, like the Dorgans did?”
“No,” Tracy said sadly, and Wanda seconded it. “And there’s still no sign of where Augie or Cramer are now.”
Which put a big damper on my eager excitement over the recovered Dorgan pets.
“And now, Frieda, Lilia,” Tracy said, “would you please tell us about your pet-nappings?”
The descriptions were similar to what had happened previously—only Frieda’s loss was late yesterday afternoon, and Lilia’s not long after. Two dogs disappeared from one house, and a cat from another.
Before Hillary Dorgan paid the ransom for her pets.
But the notes were similar, with orders not to tell the cops, and so were the stories, though both sitters, alerted by what went on before, had increased their security.
To no avail.
Copycat pet-nappings—especially now that a cat had been napped, too? Or was it the same person?
I’d little doubt that our local club was targeted, although other pet-sitters could be experiencing similar nastiness. I’d ask Althea to amend and increase her online search.
In any event, if it was a single napper, he or she must already have had these three new pets in possession when the Dorgan ransom was swooped up. Where were they when Saurus and Zibble were dropped at Sepulveda Basin? How about the other, still-missing pets?
Did Nya’s murder have anything to do with this difficult situation, or was it simply coincidental?
Hard for someone like me to buy—since I was a huge skeptic about coincidences.
Detective Flagsmith also got a turn to speak. He passed out cards and told anyone with any information to be sure to call Detective Madero or him. He asserted that the LAPD was extremely concerned about this rash of crimes and intended to stop it and haul in the perpetrator.
Sure. All they needed was to figure out the right identity. And I, for one, would do all I could to ensure that happened. With or without the cops’ involvement.
The meeting ended soon afterward. I maneuvered my way up to the front of the room to see Tracy.
“This is getting way out of hand,” I told her.
“Can’t you do something, Kendra?” she pleaded in apparent panic. “You’ve solved mysteries before. Why not catch the person who’s doing this? And whoever killed Nya, too, while you’re at it. This is just all too much.” Tears had started running down her roundish face, and she popped a hand over her mouth as a sob spilled out.
Nothing there I hadn’t told myself lately. A whole lot too often.
Allen, one arm still holding Phoebe, put the other around Tracy and pulled her closer. He looked up at me, shaking his head. “I’ve told her over and over that she doesn’t need to do this anymore. She could quit this club, pet-sitting, too. Tell her, Kendra, please. Things would be so much easier for her.”
After stuff I’d gone through in my own past, I was an unlikely convert to quitting. Even when things had been hardest, I’d somehow held on. I’d stopped practicing law for a while because I had to, not because I’d chosen to flee from the profession where I’d first been hurt. And then even pet-sitting had added additional pressures, like finding people-clients’ dead bodies at homes where I was caring for hounds.
Had I been right? Well, I had been vindicated, and now I couldn’t be happier that I’d held on. But advise someone else to do the same?
“Hang in there, Tracy,” I said softly, watching over her slumped shoulder as the detectives worked the dispersing crowd, asking questions and seeming full of answers they didn’t yet have. I almost felt sorry for them—but I felt sorrier for the friend in front of me. “Make whatever decision seems right to you, but don’t continue to do everything unless you want to.”
“See,” said Allen, sounding a slight bit triumphant for someone who’d barely ever uttered an opinion before, at least in front of me. I nevertheless admired, even envied, the way he seemed to protect and care for Tracy.
“I’ll think about it, Kendra,” Tracy promised on a sniffle, as if I’d advised her to chuck it all.
If she wanted to take it that way, so be it.
“One thing I wanted to ask you,” I said. “You, too, Lilia and Frieda.” They hovered nearby comparing notes on the latest pet-nappings. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but hopefully it won’t hurt. I have an acquaintance who’s a kind of investigative reporter. At least she’s nosy, and she puts things in front of the public.”
“She’s that Corina Carey, the one who interviewed Hillary Dorgan, right?” Frieda said. “Did that help get her pets back?”
“It obviously didn’t hurt,” I responded. “I think that the more people who hear about these pet-nappings, the more likely it is there’ll be tips phoned to the cops, if any pet victims are seen. I’ll try to get her to report on these latest pet-nappings, too. Okay with you?”
“Sure,” Frieda said, and Lilia agreed.
“I’m not sure,” Tracy said.
“It’ll give your club a bad name,” Allen said, supporting her.
“It already has a bad name,” I said.
I didn’t ask the detectives their opinion as I said what I was sure would be a temporary farewell.
But I vowed inside to call Corina Carey on my way home.
FIRST, THOUGH, I extracted the latest version of my list dealing with the pet-nappings and added the three new ones: the two dogs, stolen from the Westwood area, named Pooky and Piranha—a dog? Why such a nasty, fishy name?
Then there was the cat from Laurel Canyon who was named Amanda. As I’ve said often, I don’t believe in coincidences, and this certainly wasn’t one, either
. But Amanda was the name of Jeff’s catty ex-wife, and she kept cats of her own.
Okay, so there was no reason for me to think the missing cat’s owner had ever met the Amanda who’d intruded into my life. But how appropriate of this person to have appropriated Amanda Hubbard’s first name.
About then, Lexie began barking and lunging around the Beamer. She’d spotted some non-PSCSC people walking a big black dog who looked equally ready to take on my pup.
“Time to go.” I put down my list and turned the key in the ignition. We started toward home.
But I managed, when we stopped for a red light, to place a call to Corina Carey. I used her office number, since I figured I’d just leave her a teaser of a message for Monday. Meantime, I’d gather some more of the facts I wanted to foist on her to get her started on her next story about the pet-nappings.
I, however, was the one who was surprised, when she answered. “It’s Saturday afternoon,” I said after we’d both said hello. “Why are you in the office working?”
“Why did you call me here if you didn’t expect to talk to me?” she countered.
I didn’t want to explain my somewhat illogical reasoning. Instead, I said, “I’ve got something hot for you.”
“You’ve solved the Nya Barston murder?” Excitement screamed through her otherwise calm voice.
“Other than that, what’s the best story update you can think of from me?” I countered.
“The Dorgans have their animals back.”
“Bingo! I can’t give details since it’s an ongoing investigation, but I’d love for you to give the serial pet-napping situation more airtime.”
“There’ve been more?”
“There’ve been more,” I confirmed.
“Hot damn,” she said. “Let’s talk about it. Do you suppose Hillary Dorgan would agree to be interviewed again?”
“I doubt it, now that her animals are back safe and sound.”
“Darn. I mean that she won’t talk, not that her animals are okay.”
“I hoped that was what you intended,” I said dryly.
Still being Corina, she didn’t sound chastised in the least.
“Let’s meet tomorrow, Kendra, okay? Eleven in the morning? Tell me where, and I’ll be there.”
Chapter Sixteen
NOTWITHSTANDING RACHEL’S EXTRA rounds that afternoon, Lexie and I commenced our evening pet-sitting a couple of hours early because of my upcoming date with Tom Venson. Besides, after the meeting about additional animal snatchings, I needed to assure myself that all my current charges were still where they belonged.
Which, thank heavens, they were. An especially good thing, since over the course of the time I’d been a pet-sitter, I’d gotten to know most of this crew well. I’d hate to have any more animals snatched on my watch, but I knew I’d feel especially awful if something happened to Abra or Cadabra, Harold Reddingham’s Siamese and tabby cats, or Alexander, a particularly friendly pit bull.
Plus, I’d heard from a longtime client Cal Orlando. He owned Lester, the Basset hound, whom I’d helped to clear of an accusation a while back of biting a neighbor without cause. Turned out the neighbor had instigated it himself, which I pointedly proved. Cal was heading out of town and wanted me to stop by for his key so I could care for Lester.
Which I did—while also, in an abundance of client caution, informing Cal of the rash of pet-nappings.
“I trust you, Kendra,” Cal said.
So of course I took on Lester’s care once more before Lexie and I dashed home so I could dress for my date.
Worrying about being tardy was why I didn’t call Rachel. I thought about her, sure, but figured I could contact her while waiting for Tom to pick me up.
If anything went wrong during her rounds, I knew she’d call me.
Which was one reason I felt so shaken and startled when I took Lexie outside for a short walk after her dinner and found Rachel standing in the open-doored garage, Beggar’s leash clutched in her hand, her pup pacing nervously beside her.
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.
The Fright of the Iguana Page 14