Read The Fright of the Iguana Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
The Fright of the Iguana (26 page)
“Really, Kendra? Would you?” She closed the small gap between us, and I was suddenly enveloped in an enthusiastic hug. My youthful tenant smelled of baby shampoo, and I smiled. She wasn’t
that
young.
that
young.
“No promises,” I told her.
A car pulled up to our front gate, just as Jeff appeared on the steps from my garage-top apartment.
“That’s probably Buzz,” I told Rachel, pointing toward the arriving vehicle. “Let him in. Let’s get this day on the road.”
THE REST OF the week went by both slowly and quickly.
I had to fend off lots of media interest, including my friend Corina Carey. “Why didn’t you contact me immediately?” she screeched over the phone when I inadvertently answered one of her calls.
“What was there to say?” I responded coolly. “No animals were stolen and no one was killed.”
“You were attacked? Did someone come after you with a bat, the way Nya Barston was killed?”
“Well, yeah,” I admitted, and I told her more, mostly off the record. I mean, if getting the word out could keep other pet-sitters from grief, I had to cooperate. But I didn’t see how telling all to Corina could accomplish that. I hadn’t seen whoever it was, so I couldn’t ask her to have her viewers to be on the lookout for the attacker.
Who turned out not to have left any fingerprints, by the way. Big surprise.
Then I had to put up with Jeff’s accompanying me nearly every moment. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. He was with me at all my pet-sitting assignments. I had my own security consultant assist in shutting off systems so I could get inside my clients’ homes, and check every nook and cranny to ensure no mad assailant waited for me with a baseball bat.
On most levels I appreciated it. But I also started to feel smothered and started calling Jeff “Dad.”
Which he clearly hated.
At least I got him to keep his distance when I was at my law office. I’d a feeling that he’d convinced Borden or some of the senior citizen attorneys who were my associates to call him if I dared to go out without an escort. And that I didn’t do.
He showed up at the end of the day to shuttle me to my pet-sitting assignments.
The big protective brute scared me that way. He also managed to make me feel guilty for not leaping into his bed at every smoldering look he managed to fire at me despite my glares.
Well, all right. It wasn’t just guilt I felt. I admit it—my poor bod was turning into one big lustful conflagration. Despite my self-chiding, I couldn’t help feeling all gooey inside at Jeff’s overprotectiveness.
I didn’t even mention Amanda, let alone remind Jeff that his ex had attempted to X him out once with her car.
I kept reminding myself of my upcoming date with Tom Venson this weekend. I really liked that guy.
But was I considering telling him a nice goodbye so I could be with Jeff?
You bet.
SATURDAY FINALLY ARRIVED. Well, heck, I’d only undergone two days of Jeff’s overprotectiveness, but it felt like weeks.
Or maybe it didn’t feel long enough.
In any event, I’d already told him I was heading for Bakersfield to check out the group of animals that just could be our stolen clients.
Did he insist on going?
What do you think?
So first thing Saturday morning, after Jeff accompanied me on my pet-sitting rounds, I sat shotgun in his Escalade, with Lexie and Odin riding ecstatically in the backseat. We drove a goodly distance up the 5 Freeway, past Santa Clarita and Valencia and through mountain passes past Gorman, and eventually veered off onto the Kern County route that would take us to Bakersfield.
The no-kill animal shelter called “Loving Friends” whose website I’d unearthed was just to the south of that city.
The place actually was quite pleasant, if you like to see adorable household animals in cages. The outside was a large white cottage with a big red sign that said LOVING FRIENDS. Leaving Lexie and Odin in the car, under a shady tree with the windows cracked, Jeff and I marched inside.
“Let me do the talking,” I told him.
“Sure thing.”
I tried not to react to his sexy smirk. Or the fit of his tight jeans and his short-sleeved beige shirt that revealed a hint of his biceps. Or the way he ogled
my
tight jeans and snug blue T-shirt.
my
tight jeans and snug blue T-shirt.
I sauntered up to the reception desk, where a young lady who appeared to be a high school-aged volunteer sat and smiled up at us—especially Jeff. Heck, there was no age limit on noticing a really sexy guy.
“Hi. We’re looking for a dog or cat to rescue. Could we see who you have available?”
“Sure,” said the young lady, whose nametag said she was Georgia. “Of course you’ll have to pass our adoption process. But you look like nice people, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Of course, she was still staring at Jeff.
“Great!” I gushed. We both followed her past the cozy entry and into a long, large room lined on both sides with those cages. At least they were clean cages, all with concrete floors.
Some very sad faces stared out at us from them.
Damn, I hated to visit shelters. I wanted to adopt every animal I saw.
Now, though, I was on a mission. I blinked adoringly at Jeff. “Would you mind checking out the cats, honey, while I look at the dogs? Maybe Georgia can introduce you to them.”
“Would you?” he asked the young lady, who suddenly appeared all flustered. She wore shorts and a cropped top, though it was April. Well, Bakersfield was practically desert. And I figured Jeff could view the very young merchandise without doing more than admiring.
“Well, sure. Come this way.” She preceded him through a door in the middle of the dog room.
Which left me alone with all these poor, homeless hounds.
I wandered farther along the path we’d been following—and suddenly saw one of my targets, a wire-haired dachshund.
Only problem was, each cage sported a label that described the occupant. This one had a name on it, the same as on the Internet site.
Of course no pet-napper would give the correct information if he or she determined to dispose of some of the booty this way.
I knelt and held my hand through the bars of the cage. The long brown dog within sniffed it and wriggled amiably.
“Hi,” I said. “Augie?”
The pup began leaping and barking so joyfully that I’d no doubt I’d located one of the missing victims.
But could I spring him? Were the others here?
And was that cute little high school girl an aider or abettor to felony dog-napping?
Chapter Twenty-two
JUST IN CASE, I cased the joint some more, looking for other dogs who’d been absconded with, at least those I knew about and had seen their similar visages online.
A couple of cages down, a sad-eyed golden cockapoo perked up as I stopped outside. “Could you be Cramer?” I inquired.
At the name, the little fellow went wild, leaping and all but turning cartwheels. This had to be Wanda’s missing client.
Two more dogs to go. Pooky and Piranha were mixed breeds, perhaps a bit more iffy to ID, but I’d memorized their pictures. Both had short hair, Pooky’s black and Piranha’s pale brown. Pooky apparently had some pit bull in him, so his muzzle was blunt. Piranha’s was longer and narrower, maybe signaling some shepherd in his background.
I took my time studying inhabitants of other cages. Some seemed too small to be my quarries. Others too large: Great Danes seemed to abound.
Each regarded me hopefully, and I hated to pass them all by. But Lexie and I lived in a small place. I had to stay strong, return home without further friends to live with us. And at least this place had a no-kill policy.
Then, down toward the end, I saw a pit bull-size pup with dark, short hair. Could it be? “Pooky?” I asked.
This was met with an excited bark, although without the ecstatic leaping of the other dogs I’d greeted. I was convinced nonetheless. “Is your buddy Piranha here, too?”
Yet another bark emanated from a cage several away. I headed there, and sure enough discovered a dog who resembled the one in the photo of Piranha I’d studied.
All canines accounted for!
And, glory be, I glanced down the row of cages just in time to see Jeff emerge with Georgia the greeter at his elbow—and a gray kitty in his arms. Amanda the genuine cat? As I dashed closer, I saw that this feline did indeed have a gray coat and a slightly pug face, as did the one we sought.
I smiled at Jeff and nodded. “Every one,” I stated somewhat cryptically, although I knew he got it.
His own sappy grin that he’d apparently donned for Georgia segued into a severe frown. “Are you aware that you’re harboring animals stolen from their owners in L.A.?” he demanded.
The young lady stopped and stared. “Pardon?”
“How did you come into possession of this cat?” Jeff insisted, not pardoning the young lady in the least.
“I . . . I don’t know. I think I’d better call Chuey.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“He’s head of the Loving Friends Animal Shelter organization,” she said. “I just volunteer here, but maybe he can answer your questions.”
I’D NEVER KNOWN anyone named Chuey. I believed the name to be Hispanic, so I had certain expectations about what the guy would look like while Jeff and I sat in the waiting area anticipating his arrival. We’d decided to delay calling in the cops until we’d talked to him, since they’d undoubtedly take over any interrogation and we might not get the info important to us.
Young Georgia had resumed her place at her desk and kept glancing nervously toward us, as if she expected we’d attack her for the keys to release all the animals.
Turned out that Chuey was probably spelled Chewy— maybe as in Chewbacca of
Star Wars
fame. The man was big and as hairy as any of his canine charges—long, reddish locks and a matching unruly beard. Plus, he was certainly chubby, as if he chewed lots of food.
Star Wars
fame. The man was big and as hairy as any of his canine charges—long, reddish locks and a matching unruly beard. Plus, he was certainly chubby, as if he chewed lots of food.
He clumped into the room. His grubby duds were loose, his scowl ferocious. “Can I help you folks?” he demanded in a tone that dared us to tell him why we were really there.
We rose, and I let Jeff do his former-cop-current-P.I. stuff. He reached into his jeans pocket and extracted his license. “We’re here investigating some thefts of pets in Los Angeles,” he responded quite coolly, especially considering the scary demeanor of the guy facing him. Chewy seemed huge in comparison, even though Jeff was one substantial hunky dude.
“Yeah? So?” Chewy folded his big, beefy arms and glared a challenge at Jeff.
Who responded in kind. “You happen to have all those animals in your shelter. Care to explain how they got here?”
“Who says they’re here?”
Since he appeared ready to pound Jeff, I decided intervention to slice the weighty atmosphere was in order. “I do,” I interjected sweetly. “I’m secretary of a pet-sitters’ organization, and the stolen animals were being cared for by some of our members. I have their pictures, if you’d like to see them. Four dogs plus one cat, and every one is in your care. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”
“It’ll be more interesting to hear how they got here,” Jeff said. “You can tell us first, or just the cops. We don’t care.”
Which wasn’t exactly the truth. We cared a lot. At least I did.
Chewy slid a glance back toward Georgia, as if assessing whether to thrash us to a pulp in front of the nice young volunteer. “Hey, George,” he said instead. “Come here.”
She did so slowly, as if still nervous about who was going to do what to whom.
“Did they show you the animals in question?”
She nodded.
“They’re the ones that were hanging around outside the other morning? All of them?”
“I think so,” she said.
“No collars or other ID on any of them?” I asked. “Were they at least leashed so they wouldn’t run away?”
“Tied with rope, at least the dogs were. The cat was taped into a big box.”
“And you didn’t think to call the cops?” I all but shouted. “Check for chips?” At least Augie and Cramer had ID chips implanted beneath their skin. “You’re in the business of handling lost animals. Haven’t you heard of the L.A. pet-nappings?” I stepped closer to the big bruiser of a Chewy, irate at the apparent carelessness of a person who purportedly cared about placing lost souls as pets. Unless it was insidiousness.
“I think I heard something about it.” His response was much too mild, which told me a whole heck of a lot. He’d suspected the origin of the animals that appeared on his doorstep and hadn’t done a damned thing about it.
Why not?
I forbore from taking a physical swing at him, resorting—wisely, I thought—to the mental. “Do you collect fees from anyone based on the number of animals you have here, or place in new homes?” I was nearly nose to nose with him now. Or maybe it was nose to chest. In any event, my swing stopped just short of an accusation, but the implication was still there.
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