“Basil?” Rachel inquired.
“Another Cavalier, owned by one of the club members—named for the British actor Basil Rathbone who played Sherlock Holmes in early movies, since Cavaliers come from the U.K. I’ve considered matchmaking and letting Lexie have pups, but if I did that, I’d want to have good homes planned for them first.”
“Really?” Rachel exclaimed in exuberance that outshone even her normal excitement.
“I’m leaning against it at the moment,” I informed her as we headed into the room. “Even though the idea was the only reason Lexie remains unneutered. For now.”
Meetings I’d attended previously had seemed crowded here with only about thirty attendees. This night, my initial assessment suggested that there were at least ten more shoehorned inside. The conversational hum was a loud drone, and leashed dogs of different sizes stood on the floor and sniffed one another. One member often brought a macaw, but no bird was perched on a shoulder that night. Shelves covered with pet food and accoutrements lined the large storeroom’s walls, surrounding the gabbing group.
In the middle of the multitude was the face—and body—I’d first sought: Jeff Hubbard. How could one hunk look so extraordinarily good in an ordinary white shirt and khaki slacks? Who knew? But all the female pet people were already panting over him.
He was speaking with Tracy Owens, whose beige short-haired puggle, Phoebe, was beside her, on a leash. Puggles are designer dogs, a combo of pugs and beagles, and Phoebe was an adorable representative of the new quasi breed.
Tracy was dressed in a short-sleeved T-shirt tucked into a denim skirt. Her significant other, Allen Smith, stood beside her. I’d met Allen at my very first board meeting as the sitters’ half-unwilling secretary. He was a friendly sort but seemed a little shy. He wasn’t much taller than she and I, who shared a height of five-five. Except for his long chin, his face seemed somewhat ordinary. Or maybe it just looked long as he opened his mouth while hanging on her every word.
With them was another of my favorite PSCSC members, Wanda Villareal, a petite person who favored filmy blouses. Today’s gauzy top was brilliant green, trimmed in gold. She hugged Basil to her bust, the Blenheim-colored—red and white—Cavalier whom Lexie, Rachel, and I had been discussing.
Completing the conversational enclave—at least until I interrupted—was Frieda Shoreman. Tall and elegant and bottle-blond, Frieda was a bit older than I. If Rachel remained unlucky at her alternate but eagerly anticipated career, she could become Frieda sometime in the future. Frieda was a Hollywood has-been who never was, or so I’d understood, in undertones from Tracy and Wanda. She’d gotten a few bit parts in films and TV, but her acting career had never taken off. Fortunately, her pet-sitting career had.
Jeff had already spotted me. Our eyes met, and I had the oddest sensation that his gaze was drawing me toward him. Against my will?
What
will?
“Come on,” I said to Rachel, and began wending my way through the crowd, watching Jeff watch me all the while.
Was I making up my mind about him this soon? But I had a date this weekend . . .
“Hi, Kendra, Lexie,” Tracy greeted us. The others echoed the welcome, opening their circle so Rachel and I could join the arc.
“I gather you’ve introduced yourself,” I said to Jeff.
“Sure did,” he said.
Tracy nodded her apparently thrilled acknowledgment. “What a wonderful idea, Kendra,” she said. “Hiring a private investigator to help us out.”
I may have met her significant other before, but she’d never met mine. When he was one.
If
he was one.
“I’m just here tonight to listen,” Jeff said, “although I’ll probably have a lot of questions to ask the group, particularly those who’ve experienced the pet-nappings.”
“I’m sure everyone will cooperate,” Tracy said.
“Amen,” agreed Wanda.
After a few moments of general gabbing—with Jeff and me not looking at one another but nevertheless edging inevitably closer—I said, “Wanda, I’ve heard Tracy’s story. Why don’t you tell us about your pet-napping incident?”
“Better yet, I’ll call the meeting to order,” Tracy said. “Those of us who’ve experienced it will describe what happened.”
In about a minute, she’d directed everyone in the group to grab a folding chair from the rented rack along the wall and take a seat. In about three minutes more, everyone had complied. The former roar settled down into the near silence of anticipation.
Coincidentally—not!—Jeff and I ended up beside one another, still studiously avoiding each other’s gaze. Or at least I was.
Tracy stood facing the group, puggle Phoebe at her side. No need of a podium or microphone in this sizeable but overcrowded storeroom. She started the meeting with a general welcome. “I’m glad to see such a great turnout,” she said.
“You scared us all, Tracy,” hollered club vice president Nya Barston, who had barged her seat into the front row. She was tall and thin and wore glasses, with dark hair shot with gray pulled tight against her head and fastened in back with a small red scrunchy. “Of course everyone’s here. And that means we’re cutting into our schedules of what’s really important—taking care of our pet clients.”
“You
should
be scared,” Tracy replied, stooping to lift Phoebe into her arms. “Our club isn’t very big, but three of us are victims of these pet-nappings. I know you all are busy with your businesses. I certainly am. Or was. I’ve felt compelled to cut down on the number of clients I have to be sure I can take even better care of the ones I keep. Plus, I’ve told the other owners I work for about what happened, and some are so freaked that they’ve stopped hiring me to walk their dogs. And some who’d been traveling even returned right away from out of town.”
I hadn’t told her yet that I expected a Dorgan home at any minute, but I certainly empathized with Tracy’s plaint.
She described what had happened to her first. Her usually chubby face looked even more drawn than when I’d lunched with her yesterday, and tears puddled in her eyes as she talked about the disappearance of the wire-haired dachshund she’d been sitting for. His name was Augie, short for Achtung. I glanced around her audience and noted the aghast and sorrowful stares of the other pet-sitters.
“I just wish I’d been there with one of my bats when that horrible person came for Augie,” Tracy said angrily. She’d described at earlier meetings how she carried a baseball bat to prod off strange dogs who occasionally menaced her charges on walks. Not that she’d ever strike one, she assured us.
I was next. Likewise, I brought Lexie to the front of the throng for moral support. I, too, grew teary as I explained the awful, unanticipated snatching of Zibble and Saurus.
Then it was Wanda’s turn. Like Tracy, she’d had only one pet purloined—a golden-colored cockapoo named Cramer. “It was so horrible.” She started sobbing, and Basil, who’d stayed on the floor at her side, leaped up and pawed at her in insistence on being lifted. She complied, and he immediately started lapping at her tears. Of course, when a person receives Cavalier kisses, it’s impossible not to smile, which Wanda immediately did, even while crying.
I joined her, again inserting myself at the front of the room. So did Tracy. We offered empathy and solace to one another, while the rest of the club members talked in shock and anger among themselves.
“I’m afraid our club is being targeted,” Tracy said, “but I can’t imagine why.”
“Even more important, can anyone guess
who
?” Jeff asked, joining us. “Have any of you received any warnings, no matter how trivial they seemed at first? Or any other kinds of clues? I’ll get the membership list from your club secretary, Kendra, and contact all of you, plus anyone who’s not here, but if you think of anything tonight, let me know. Plus, I’ll pass cards around so you can contact me if anything comes to mind.”
I’d never felt more grateful for Jeff. Er,
to
Jeff.
“Mr. Hubbard?” Lilia Ziegler, the club member who appeared to be the oldest, waved a wizened hand in the air.
“Jeff,” he corrected. “Yes?”
“Do you really think this club is being targeted? I mean, if it is, I’ll quit. Right now.”
Before Jeff could offer an opinion, Nya Barston stood and strode to the front of the room, usurping our place facing the group. “Now, wait a minute, Lilia. And all of you. You know I think the world of our club president.” She pivoted to look at Tracy, but her glare appeared anything but adoring. “But just because she’s undergone a difficult time, that doesn’t mean she should be scaring all of us. Same goes for Kendra and Wanda. There are pet-nappings all the time. Since there are so many, of course some of them would happen while professional pet-sitters are on the job. There’s no reason to think it has anything at all to do with our club.”
“But, Nya,” Tracy protested, drawing to the side of the sniping VP, “it’s surely too much of a coincidence to think it has nothing to do with our club.”
“I—” I began, intending to agree.
Instead, Frieda Shoreman, who’d been in our initial circle before the meeting began, stood and said, “We don’t really know how much of a pet-napping trend there is in L.A. Someone should research it. Not many local pet-sitting organizations like ours exist, but there are national ones with websites. Maybe someone there knows.”
“Great idea,” Tracy said, sounding relieved. “I hereby assign that to you, Frieda. See what you can find and let us know at the next regular meeting, okay?”
“Well . . . okay.” Frieda might have propounded the possibility, but she didn’t sound eager to do the follow-through.
“What if they’re not all reported to the websites?” Nya obviously hadn’t completed her tirade. “You’ll draw erroneous conclusions doing that. Our club is doing just fine.”
“We certainly hope so,” responded Tracy, “but we should still look into this. If someone is targeting us—”
“Don’t be foolish, Tracy,” Nya hissed, only somewhat under her breath. “We’re both founders of this organization. If you can’t lead it, if you want only to scare members away, then step aside and let me take over as president.”
“That has nothing to do with it.” Tracy sounded outraged. “It’s just—”
“It’s just that there is a definite problem,” Jeff interjected smoothly, planting his six-foot bod in the middle so they couldn’t see one other. Both looked up into his face, and he generously divided his gorgeous smile between them. “Whether or not this club is a specific target, the result is the same. Now, here are some security measures I’d suggest.”
He started a short speech about alarm systems and those where outside companies were called if a signal was tripped. “That only helps, of course, if your clients already subscribe. If they don’t, there are still plenty of things you can do to try to avoid any problems.” He discussed enlisting the eyes of prying and helpful neighbors, teaming up to look in on each others’ charges, and more, all excellent ideas.
“Wow,” said Rachel, now beside me since I’d resumed my seat. So, eventually, did both Tracy and Nya. Wanda had left the front of the room as soon as the disagreement erupted. She sat beside Frieda Shoreman, whispering softly but with obvious emotion.
“Which of the many things that went on are you ‘wowing’ about?” I inquired softly.
“Everything. Whoever thought there’d be intrigue and politics in a group this small? Someone should start a TV drama about a pet-sitters’ organization. Or maybe a movie.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the young entertainment industry wannabe. And then Jeff concluded his remarks and Tracy, still president notwithstanding Nya’s bitter interjection, adjourned the meeting.
WHICH LED TO Jeff and me standing beside my Beamer a few minutes later. It was parked along a side street off Santa Monica Boulevard.
Rachel was still inside acquainting herself with the contents of the store to which the meeting room was attached. The shop owner had spoken her usual spiel about products before the group disbanded, and other members, too, had wandered in to shop.
“Thanks so much for coming, Jeff,” I said. “You did a wonderful job.”
“I didn’t get much input from your group tonight,” he said, “but I’ll be following up. You’ll get me the membership list?” I nodded, and he went on, “Does the club have a budget to hire me, or am I doing this as a favor?”
I looked up into his brilliant blue eyes as they sparkled under the streetlight. “How does ‘favor’ sound?”
“I figured. Well, I’ll take it out in trade.”
I expected him to step even closer, take me into his arms. So did Lexie, I guess, since she sat on the street, her leash slack, and looked up at us as though humoring the mushy humans.
Only, he didn’t. Instead, Jeff bent down and met my lips with his in a brush more brotherly than loverly.
“I’ll be in touch, Kendra. Good night.” And then he turned his back and strode down the street, leaving me standing there staring—and as horny as hell.
What, had I figured on fighting him off that night? I wasn’t willing to sleep with him again . . . yet.