The Fright of the Iguana

by Johnston, Linda O.

  Which made me feel smug as I finally sidled to my office.

  And retrieved phone messages.

  The first of which consisted of a frantic call from Tracy Owens. “Kendra, I’m on my way to meet with your criminal attorney friend Esther Ickes. The cops are apparently zeroing in on me as Nya’s killer. I’m going to be interrogated yet again, and may have to surrender into their custody sometime next week if nothing happens to exonerate me. Please help!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I CALLED TRACY back, of course.

  “It’s Kendra,” I said when she answered.

  “Oh, hi,” she said breathlessly, “but I can’t talk now. I’m on my way to Esther’s to talk strategy. Sorry to leave such a frantic message for you but . . . well, I’m frantic. And with all those cases you’ve solved before . . . you don’t have an answer on this one yet, do you?”

  “No,” I said sadly. “I don’t.”

  “Oh. Well, if you figure it out, please let the police know, will you?” She sounded so suddenly downcast that it became contagious.

  “Of course.” I wished her well, then hung up slowly. My big, happy balloon of that afternoon’s success had burst right in my no longer smiling face.

  I didn’t believe Tracy had killed Nya, but I’d been spending so much time on all the other matters occupying my mind that I hadn’t concentrated much on trying to determine who it was.

  Suddenly, my major triumph of that day, the settlement of the Whiskey-the-weimaraner dispute, segued to minor. It wasn’t a foolproof solution, after all. Things could still go wrong. Matings, even done in multiples, didn’t always take. Puppies, sadly, didn’t always survive. But still . . . Well, if nothing else, I had a whole lot of hope.

  As I cogitated about the solution, I realized that one of the big sticking points between my McGregor clients and cousin Tallulah had been hurt feelings. Maybe they’d mend now.

  Hurt feelings had harmed my young employee Rachel, too—resulting from being accused of stealing stuff from people she’d volunteered to visit. Fortunately, this situation also appeared resolved.

  People in addition to my clients, the Dorgans, celebrated the return of their stolen pets. They’d been hurt by their initial losses but undoubtedly felt a whole lot better by now.

  I’d been resolving a whole lot of the issues that had inserted themselves into my life.

  Except for a couple of big ones.

  I still didn’t know who’d committed the pet-thefts in the first place. And without the culprit being incarcerated, more pet-nappings could always occur in the future.

  And Tracy had reminded me with one heck of a jolt: Neither Ned Noralles nor I had figured out who’d killed Nya, or why. It was more his concern than mine. But if this wasn’t resolved soon, more than Tracy’s feelings would be hurt. Her entire life would suffer.

  I’d never rest easy until these two crimes, related or not, were resolved.

  Hurt feelings . . .

  I didn’t know if I was hurtling with my suspicions down the wrong track, but I nevertheless checked through my notes, then picked up my phone.

  In a short while, I left the office to the continued accolades of Borden, Mignon, and the staff.

  But just then I had an appointment to talk pet-sitting and Nya-killing with her former lover, Jerry Jefferton.

  SURPRISINGLY, LANDSCAPE CONTRACTOR Jerry resided in one of those Southern California courtyard apartments generally constructed in the 1960s, resembling a two-tiered open-face motel with a swimming pool stuck in the center. The doors to all flats lined outdoor walkways, which didn’t do a whole lot for security. Still, this one had been shut in with large gates, and I had to call Jerry from the outside intercom to get buzzed through.

  Considering the attractive floral jungle surrounding the swimming pool, I suspected Jerry had something to do with this complex’s landscaping. I located his apartment, number one, at the right rear of the courtyard. I buzzed the bell when I faced his smooth wooden door. It opened almost immediately.

  Pudgy Jerry, in denim shorts and an open striped shirt, hadn’t lost a whole lot of weight since I’d seen him last, nor had he grown any hair. But he definitely looked different. He’d seemed somewhat sorry before, unable to meet gazes of PSCSC members. I’d been uncertain whether to attribute that to grief.

  Now I knew. He looked utterly lost.

  “Hello, Kendra,” he said. Again, his eyes appeared bloodshot, and I attempted not to gag on the odor of alcohol that erupted from his mouth.

  “May I come in?”

  “Why not?”

  The question was rhetorical, so I didn’t try a reply. I stepped into what would normally have been a living room, assuming one could see the floor. Which I couldn’t. It was strewn with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam—newspapers, foam food containers, plastic cups, dirty clothes. Or at least I assumed the large wads of material had once been worn by Jerry.

  The stench was so awful I nearly hurled, which would only have added another dimension to the debris. Or maybe not. Perhaps Jerry, too, had lost his lunch or other meals beneath the rubble and hadn’t bothered to find and dispose of them.

  Whatever Jerry had imbibed, he apparently had enough sensibility left to see how aghast I was. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Nya lived here with me, and it mattered then that we kept the place presentable. Especially since I own the whole apartment complex. Without her . . . well, who the hell cares?”

  “I see,” I said, feeling awfully sorry for the guy. Nya’s death had only been a couple of weeks ago, not long for this chaos to congregate so dreadfully. Would Jerry have done this to himself by killing the woman who took care of him?

  Talk about hurt . . . This man’s emotions were more strung out than anyone’s I’d ever seen.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s sit outside.” I made sure he had his key, then led him out onto the paved and elongated patio that was the walkway between apartments. We were immediately engulfed by the aroma of a multiplicity of flowers.

  I sat on a small bench facing the swimming pool and motioned for him to do the same. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, now that Nya is gone,” I said, as if we’d been buddies for a while and I genuinely cared about him.

  “I’ve taken over her pet-sitting,” he said. “I’m not in great shape to run my landscaping business, so I’m leaving my assistants in charge. They’re here a lot, since my equipment’s kept in the shed in the alley behind the apartment—where the cops found those planted baseball bats. But the animals—I see why Nya loved her work. They seem to care about her not being there to take care of them.”

  “Pets are really special, aren’t they?” I agreed. “And you haven’t had any problems with pet-napping?” Like, did either Nya or you do such a thing? Not that I could really suspect Nya now, not when so much had happened after her loss.

  “No, but Nya’s clients are all worried about it,” he admitted. “Me, too.”

  I suddenly had an idea that would get together a whole bunch of possible pet-napping suspects . . . and maybe Nyakillers, too.

  More than that, I intended to set a trap.

  “Hey, Jerry. What are you doing on Sunday night?”

  NYA’S BODY HAD finally been released for burial, but her family was in Florida, and she was to be interred there. A memorial would eventually be held for her locally, but her family was holding out until the solution to her murder, or the cops’ giving up. My little meeting would have some similar aspects to a memorial . . . I hoped.

  The beautiful pet boutique that was the usual meeting place for PSCSC was too small for the gathering I’d hastily assembled. Instead, I got my good buddy Darryl to donate the Doggy Indulgence Day Resort for a short while, after Sunday hours.

  I’d rented folding chairs from a party place. Darryl helped me open and arrange them into rows. Lexie cavorted at our busy feet, but otherwise all animals had departed.

  Corina Carey was calling every few hours, looking for an interesting story r
elating to my having located the missing pets—maybe a murder mystery solved—but I’d been putting her off. After all, neither mystery had been solved . . . yet. And I wasn’t about to tell her I was working hard on remedying that.

  My cell phone rang just as I got to Darryl’s, and I’d had good reason to tell Corina I was busy. Again.

  “You think anyone’ll show for this shindig?” Darryl asked dubiously as we finished our makeshift preparations.

  I had to shrug. “Hope so. I’ve got a lot riding on it.” Not that I’d told anyone exactly what I had in mind. Not Darryl, who’d tell me how dumb an idea it was. And would probably call Jeff to tell him to talk me out of it. As if he could.

  And I certainly hadn’t explained any of it to my bodyguard P.I. He’d hog-tie me to my Beamer before letting me do what I intended.

  “I assume this has something to do with your usual skill at solving murders.” My lanky, omniscient chum grinned as I stared, startled, at him. I hadn’t been speaking my surreptitious thoughts aloud . . . had I? “Hey, you’ve kept me informed about what’s going on,” he continued, smugness seeping from his tone. “I know you got the pets back, but not who snatched them. And you mentioned your friend Tracy might not be able to escape the authorities long enough to show up tonight. I figured it out: You’re taking another shot at solving one or both mysteries.”

  “You know me too well, my friend,” I grumbled, opening a chair so sharply that I nearly bopped Lexie with a leg. “Oops. Sorry, girl. I’ll be more careful from now on.” In more ways than one. And I certainly wouldn’t give any greater explanation to Darryl.

  Meantime, my usually cheerful Cavalier shot me an accusatory glance before leaping on my leg to signify her forgiveness. Naturally, I knelt and gave her a hug. “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” I whispered into one of her floppy ears. I’d only admit a shred of doubt to her, since she was always on my side.

  Which was when the PSCSC pet-sitters and some of their clients started to saunter in, many with dogs. I recognized Libby Emerich, the client of Tracy’s whose dear dachshund, Augie, one of the dogs recovered from the rescue organization up north, trotted in at her side. Dentist Marla Gasgill, too, entered with Cramer the cockapoo, also a pet-nap victim. Wanda Villareal, Marla’s usual sitter, dashed in almost immediately and greeted her. So did Wanda’s adorable Blenheim-colored Cavalier, Basil. Lexie lit up as soon as she saw the similar but red and white pup and yanked on her leash to be allowed to visit with him.

  “Soon,” I assured her.

  “I’ll adjourn to my office,” Darryl said. “Call if you need me for anything—which you’d better not.” He made good his escape.

  More sitters arrived, including my dog-walking companion Frieda Shoreman, and super strong senior Lilia Ziegler. Lots of others I didn’t recognize, whom I assumed were clients that some of the sitters had contacted. I did identify Usher, the dog Frieda had been exercising that day in the dog park, though not his owner—a smartly dressed young woman who nevertheless appeared as though she should include exercise on her agenda.

  Then there were Tracy Owens, the beleaguered PSCSC prez herself, along with her significant other, Allen Smith, who shot hellos around the group but didn’t appear exactly excited to be here. Tracy carried Phoebe, her sweet puggle, so close that the poor pup wriggled as if afraid of strangulation.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked Tracy.

  “Okay, I guess.” But defeat dirged from her voice.

  “This is a nice gesture,” Allen said, “but I think Tracy has had enough of all this pet-sitting stuff.”

  “You’re just being overly protective,” Tracy told him, but turned and graced him with a peck on the side of his long chin.

  “Well, she’s certainly had enough of the police,” Allen added, his face pink with acute but cute embarrassment.

  Jerry Jefferton sidled in the door, looking somewhat scared when he saw the size of the group. But he’d cleaned up—himself, at least, if not his apartment—and looked almost human in his charcoal shirt and black slacks.

  A woman I didn’t know came up to me. Short, dark-haired, and happy-faced, she held the leash of a large mixed breed with a stubby muzzle. “Hi, you’re Kendra? Jerry Jefferton pointed you out. I’m Alma Kane. You called me a couple of weeks ago to ask about poor Nya’s pet-sitting for me. This is my dog, Gravel.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. One of the strangers to me that Nya knew, whom I’d called in a fruitless attempt to find out anything to direct me toward the person who’d done her in—people Darryl had referred to Nya for pet-sitting. “Good to meet you. Have a new pet-sitter yet? I know you said you’d miss Nya.”

  “Jerry’s agreed to do it for now, but I’m hoping to meet someone new here tonight, too. And I really want to hear about how to prevent pet-napping. That’s the real reason I came. I don’t know what I’d do if someone stole my Gravel.” She bent and gave the big, friendly mutt a huge hug.

  “Kendra.” I turned at the familiar voice at my left elbow to see that Jeff had arrived. Yes, I’d eventually let him know my Sunday early evening plans—after he’d demanded a rundown of my whereabouts. He’d left me kinda alone all day, but he still insisted on being my bodyguard.

  Which I appreciated, although not necessarily here and now. And I wasn’t too keen on his being right there when I pulled the stunt I intended. Oh, well. He’d find out about it anyway. I’d just have to work around him. Somehow.

  I edged up to the front of the group and glanced around. Jeff stood somewhere behind me, attempting to look surreptitious. At least it appeared that way when I turned to look at him, and he appeared to study some framed photos on the resort wall showing some celebrity clients of Darryl’s along with their pets.

  I didn’t see the Dorgans here, although I’d told my clients who’d been the first whose pets were recovered about this impending meeting. They’d assured me they weren’t holding the theft against me and would call me again soon. They’d also said they were no longer concerned about pet-napping. Not with the extra security they’d secured for their property and darling dog and iguana.

  But they were extremely interested in nabbing the pet-napper. And I’d had an idea that might accomplish just that. One I’d made an important call about earlier.

  “Hi, everyone,” I began. “I appreciate your coming. First thing, I’d like to give an update on the pet-napping situation.”

  Which really didn’t amount to a heck of a lot new to any who’d kept up with the news. But I babbled on brutally, castigating the pet-napper, making it clear how much I reviled whoever it was.

  “Of course I have some ideas about that sleazeball,” I said with viciousness in my voice. “I’ve passed them on to the police and can’t talk about specifics, but you all know I’ve been closely involved with ransoming some of the returned pets, and locating all the others I’ve heard about.”

  “Yay, Kendra,” shouted Marla Gasgill, holding her cockapoo, Cramer, up for the gathered group to see.

  “I’ll second that,” said Libby Emerich, “and so will my little Augie.”

  I gave a small grin of acknowledgment as the whole gang of people applauded me, but felt the redness of embarrassment creep up my cheeks. I wasn’t here for kudos but for knowledge—not that I could let my apparent admirers in on that.

  Instead, I continued to watch faces, especially while saying awful things about the pet-thief, to see if anyone here squirmed.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t see anything to announce who it was I was looking for. And no one stood up and shouted, “It’s me. I stole all the animals, and I’ll never do it again.” Or even that he or she would do it again, given half a chance.

  And so I started on the other subject that had made me want to convene this meeting. “If only Nya Barston were here,” I finally said sadly. “We don’t know for certain why she was killed, but I’m convinced she was hot on the trail of the pet-napper.” I continued on this line for a good ten minutes, still scanning my audienc
e, praising Nya, providing a semblance of a memorial.

  I succeeded somewhat in my purpose—shaking everyone up. Some of them, mostly the members of PSCSC, got all teary.

  But did anyone admit to killing Nya?

  No way.

  With a sigh, I started into the final topic, the one which was why at least the pet-sitting clients had come: tips on stopping one’s pets from being napped.

  Which led to a great discussion, where even more tips were thrown out and shared.

  And then I tossed out my teaser. The main reason I’d instigated this entire session.

  “I’m so sure these tips will work that I’ve put all the things I mentioned into play. And now that I’ve found all the stolen pets, I’m certain no damned pet-napper will dare come after any of my charges.” I talked about some of my current sitting gigs, even describing a few of my more celebrated clients, like the Dorgans, who seemed okay about using my services again. My subtenants, Russ and Rachel Preesinger, since Russ was becoming known in the industry as one great film location locator. A couple of people I’d met when the Preesingers’ predecessors had rented my mansion—people who’d made it big thanks to reality shows. And boasted specifics about a muckety-muck at Hennessy Studios whose pet-sitting I’d just taken on, starting tomorrow evening.

  I rambled so long that my audience grew restless. No matter. I’d imparted the info I’d intended, assuming someone out there was the pet-grabber and possibly worse.

  At the end, I heard some grumbling from behind me. At least Jeff was discreet enough not to shout at me here. That would come later, I felt certain.

  Eventually, I shut up and sat down. A few other PSCSC members stood and spoke briefly on pet care and club business, but it didn’t last long, a good thing since I had some pets to check in on. So did a lot of those associates who were here.

  I stood at the door as the group filed out, accepting thanks graciously.

  Tracy Owens and her guy Allen were among the last to leave. “I figured from what you said that no one has any other real suspects about who killed Nya besides me,” she said dejectedly.