“Sure is.” And can you pass along any information to lead to her killer? I ached to blurt. Instead, I told her I’d been intending to take Lexie out for exercise and asked if we could join her. She sounded amenable, so I said, “Meet you there in an hour.” That gave me time to get back over the hill, change my clothes, and visit Darryl to pick up the info he’d promised, along with my dog for walking.
WE SAT IN Darryl’s messy office, he behind his cluttered desk and I in one of the chairs facing him. Lexie had greeted me effusively, but when she saw I wasn’t ready to immediately spring her from this joint, she’d gone back to lie down on the people-type sofa in one sector of the main room.
“So what can you tell me about Nya Barston?” I asked my bespectacled friend. “Did you ever refer pet-sitting clients to her?”
He nodded. As always, he wore a Doggy Indulgence knit shirt, red today rather than the usual green. “I’d heard of her through some of my customers here, before I even met you. I knew she worked over the hill around Hollywood, and her references were good. I only met her in person a couple of times. She seemed a bit abrupt with people, but she obviously loved dogs.”
“My impression, too,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose you know anything about her personal life.”
“I didn’t, but this morning I called a longtime customer who’d used her and commiserated over her loss. That customer knew her better than I ever did and said she had a boyfriend, by the name of . . .” He looked down at one of the dozen piles on his desk, dug through the top few inches, and pulled out a piece of paper. “Jerry Jefferton. I don’t know how close they were, or where he lives, but I figure you or Jeff can find out.”
“Sure will. Can you also give me that customer’s name, and any others you know who’ve used Nya as a pet-sitter?”
“You think one of them killed her?” My dear friend appeared absolutely horrified.
“Right now, I’ve no idea who did it, but talking to her friends and acquaintances might help me figure it out.”
“Make sure it isn’t anyone I know and like,” Darryl demanded grumpily, but he did take a few minutes to check on his deskside computer and compile a short list that he printed out. “Here’s everyone I know about.”
“Thanks, Darryl.” I stood, as did he. “I don’t suppose any of your customers or other friends know anything about the pet-nappings?”
“No, but they’re a big topic of conversation, now that they’ve hit the news along with Nya’s murder.”
They had? I hadn’t heard. Would that be a good thing, letting the world know of this latest rash of nasties, or might it only make things worse?
“Everyone’s worried about leaving their pets home alone,” Darryl continued, “which is good for my business during the day.”
“I’ll bet. Well, if you hear anything helpful—”
“I’ll call you right away.”
LEXIE AND I hurried west from Studio City and emerged from the Beamer at the pup- and people-filled dog park.
We soon met up with Frieda and Usher, the dog she was tending, a large mixed breed that appeared part rottweiler. Even so, Usher seemed a big softy.
Frieda was dressed in flowered leggings with her traditional flowing top, this one bright magenta. Her foot attire fit the occasion: pink athletic shoes, with pink-striped white socks.
We all slowly walked the path, letting the pups sniff the usual dog-park smells, puppy passersby, and one another. I had to look up at Frieda’s graceful height to meet her amber eyes. They were enhanced by an array of makeup, overdone for a dog walk, but she was unquestionably an attractive lady.
I started with a question I figured she could answer, even if her response was negative. “Were you able to find anything about any other pet-nappings in the area?”
She shook her bleached blond locks. “No, though don’t tell Tracy, but I haven’t done much looking.”
I wasn’t thrilled that she hadn’t even attempted her PSCSC project and looked for other local pet-nappings. It should only have required a Googling or review of past newspaper issues or recent TV news. These days, all that stuff is available easily on the Internet. Good thing I’d intended to do some searching anyway and not rely on her findings.
Not that it would necessarily assist in my own pet-absconding situation.
At least I was pleased that Frieda had brought up Tracy, giving me an intro to the other subject I wanted to discuss.
“Poor Tracy,” I started. “You know, she thinks the cops believe she could have killed Nya.” I stole a sideways glance to see if I could tell, by Frieda’s expression, if she happened to share that point of view.
Instead, she looked shocked. “Tracy? Why, she’s so gentle that she even traps rodents at the homes where she pet-sits and drives them way up to remote areas off Mulholland to let them out. She would never hurt a person, not even one she disliked.”
Aha! “Oh, did she dislike Nya?” I asked quite calmly, as if speaking of whether the grayish April weather was about to turn sunny.
“Of course not. Tracy likes everyone. But you heard Nya and her go at each other at the meeting the other night. She could still have been angry that Nya didn’t take her concern seriously, that our club was somehow being targeted for the pet-nappings.”
We were speaking somewhat circularly. “But you haven’t found anything to indicate that the problem is larger than PSCSC, have you?”
“No, but like I said, I haven’t really looked.”
Well, I’d look. And I’d ask Althea to check her even vaster resources for additional info, too.
But I might also be able to get one answer for Althea here. “Anyway, it seems strange that Nya happened to be at the home of one of Tracy’s clients.” Like, could she have been attempting to steal the unfortunate pet of the house? “I know the dog’s name, but I don’t think she ever told me who her clients were. Do you happen to know?”
We’d stopped because Usher was getting down to some serious business—a nice, big poop. Of course Frieda, being a pro at pet-sitting, came equipped with an adequate-size plastic bag. If she’d been unprepared, I could have handed her one of mine.
After she’d stooped to retrieve it, she cast it into a receptacle along the dog-ready trail. I reminded her then of the question still on the table—er, path—as we wandered off again, walking slower this time. That meant more dogs and walkers maneuvered around us, even as we stayed toward the right.
“Who owns Lassie and the house where Nya was found?” Frieda repeated. “The Ravels, or something like that. Tracy mentioned how upset they were when she called to tell them what happened. They were on location in San Francisco and were hurrying home.”
San Francisco? Not a huge plane ride away. If they’d come home, found a stranger in their house without knowing she knew their pet-sitter, might someone have bludgeoned Nya to death without determining her reason for being there? Then, the guilty Ravel could have hopped another flight for SFO, or even driven there. If they played their stories right, no one would even know they’d been back to L.A.
Had I solved it?
No evidence, but sheer speculation. Awfully far-fetched speculation, too. And it didn’t do squat to explain Nya’s presence in the first place. But I’d toss the theory to Althea and have her check on whether anyone named Ravel flew in and out of one of L.A.’s airports yesterday, or rented a car, or bought gas with a credit card.
Yes, Althea had sources, even for stuff considered private.
I didn’t voice these creative concepts to Frieda. Instead, I said simply, “Well, it’s unlikely they could have harmed Nya, especially if they weren’t home at the time.” Since we were walking again, I stopped for a second, stooping to pick up Lexie as my excuse. My pup wriggled to get down. She didn’t understand when I used her as a diversion. I hung on and pretended she didn’t squirm. “I don’t suppose,” I said to Frieda, “that you have any idea who killed Nya.” I didn’t get into the whole murder weapon scenario, and how whoever it
was might be purposely framing Tracy.
“Not really,” she responded.
Unreally, then? Did she have a possibility in mind?
Turned out she was just mulling over club members who might have had an axe to grind with Nya: everyone. “If I had to pick the one with the biggest gripe, it would be Lilia Ziegler.”
“Lilia?” I almost laughed out loud. She was the oldest member of the club, and I couldn’t imagine someone as sweet-tempered as she arguing with anyone.
Frieda appeared to resent my incredulity. She stopped strolling, and so did the rest of our entourage. Hands on her enviably skinny hips, she glared. “You asked what I thought. I know that Lilia and Nya were feuding. Lilia apparently took over one of Nya’s clients. I don’t know how or why, but it definitely upset Nya, and she told everyone about how back-stabbing Lilia was—which upset her.”
Enough to kill her rival? But even if I could buy the motive, means was another far-fetched factor. Lilia wasn’t extremely large, and she was on the senior citizen side of adulthood. Could she have wielded a baseball bat in such a lethal manner?
No need to point out that additional doubt to Frieda, who was clearly insulted that I had questioned her conclusion. I said instead, “That’s really interesting. I think I’ll see if Lilia wants to join me for a walk or cup of coffee one day soon. Just so I can get her perspective on what happened. By the way, do you know Nya’s boyfriend, Jerry Jefferton?”
Frieda was still staring, head cocked as if she attempted to figure me out. “I’ve met Jerry but don’t see him as a killer.” She paused. “I’ve heard that you solve murders for a hobby. Are you going to figure this one out, too?”
“Unlikely,” I said, wondering whether I lied.
I sure as heck was going to keep looking into it. After all, I genuinely liked Tracy, and I didn’t think she did it.
And I seemed destined, these days, to assist those who are as unjustly accused of murder as I’d been.
A WHILE LATER, after ending our outing with Frieda, Lexie and I visited some pet-sitting clients to ensure their continued well-being. Hell, I knew I was still spending too much time on Nya’s murder and not enough on my own responsibility of resolving the disappearance of Zibble and Saurus. Consequently, I made some follow-up phone calls as I drove, to the detectives on the Dorgan case and to a neighbor or two who’d been nice enough to exchange contact info.
Anything new? No.
And so we headed home. As I pushed the button inside the Beamer that opened our wrought-iron gate, I saw Rachel in the garage getting into her small blue car, Beggar beside her.
I drove quickly into my designated spot beside that structure, and Lexie and I got out, with my small pup cavorting eagerly on her leash toward her Irish setter friend.
“Off on pet-sitting rounds?” I asked my young employee.
She was dressed in a snug blue T-shirt and snugger beige denim jeans, excellent garb for dog and cat care. “Sure am. And guess what I did this afternoon. What we did, Beggar and I.”
“Looked in on some of our charges, I hope.”
“Besides that.” A twinkle in those big brown eyes of hers suggested that, whatever she’d done, it was fun.
“Did you go to the beach?”
“No way. Something you’d approve of a whole lot more.”
“What’s better than the beach?”
Lexie and Beggar both began tugging on their leashes. I let my pup loose, and Rachel did the same. Both dogs bounded about the driveway.
“A really nice senior citizens’ facility in Studio City. I’d read in one of the local throwaway papers that they were looking for people to bring in their pets, since petting dogs made some of the patients there feel more like home.”
“Wow, Rachel, that’s so nice of you,” I said truthfully and enthusiastically. “That kind of place has to be depressing.”
“Not really. The people were nice, and seemed so happy to pet Beggar . . . I liked it so much I’m planning on doing it more, maybe a couple of times a week. Want to go along sometime?”
“Maybe.” I wanted to equal her gusto but couldn’t quite.
“Come on, Kendra. You’ll love it.”
“Okay, but give me a week or so before you schedule it. I’ve pet-napped clients to find, and a murder to solve, and—” And a love life, or lack thereof, to deal with, not that I’d say that to Rachel. In any event, I needed as many good excuses as I could convey to her if I chose not to participate in this good deed.
“Another murder?” Rachel’s eyes widened even further in apparent awe.
“Yep.” I told her the sketchy details.
“How amazing, Kendra. How do you keep getting involved with such things?”
“Wish I knew, Rachel. Wish I knew.”
I SAID GOODBYE to Rachel and sent her off on her rounds. It was almost time for me to start on mine when my cell phone sang.
I grabbed it from the bottom of my big bag and glanced at the caller ID. And swallowed, unsure how to feel.
It was Jeff.
“Hi, Jeff,” I answered pretty perkily considering my ambivalence.
“Hi, Kendra. Althea found some interesting stuff while doing your research.”
“Really? That’s wonderful. I hope. Is it good stuff?”
“Maybe. I’ve only glanced through it. I have it here at the office, and Althea had to go home early. She printed it all out, so I can’t just e-mail it to you.”
“Oh. Well, could I just pick it up later at your place?”
Bad idea, Kendra. Real bad. Seeing Jeff again on his turf, where you’ve spent many sleepless, sex-filled nights? You barely got away last time. Where’s your sense, kid?
Somewhere behind my horny little heart . . .
“I have a better idea,” Jeff said. “Meet me for dinner.”
Already? He’d just said he would invite me to dinner sometime , whenever that might be, earlier that day. I’d taken that to mean he was backing off, and I wasn’t certain how I felt about it.
I supposed this was sometime. Even so . . .
“Well . . .” I hesitated, searching fruitlessly for some kind of excuse not to go. I had to pet-sit. I had to—
“No dinner, no handing over of the data tonight. Do we have a date?”
What else could I do?
“Sure,” I said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel.
Or did I?
Chapter Eight
I HADN’T REMINDED Jeff that this remained the same day that he’d all but invited me to lunch, then slammed that door in my face. I should still be pissed over that.
I was still pissed over that.
And now I’d allowed him to manipulate me again. Talk about pissed. But what could I do? I wanted the Althea-generated info ASAP. And I apparently couldn’t talk to her about it now, nor could I relay the bits of info I’d gathered from Frieda. I’d have to call her in the morning about the additional research I wanted to request of her.
And Jeff? Would I allow him to extort my nighttime presence in exchange for what was in his possession?
Was that even what he wanted?
We met at a really charming burger joint along Ventura Boulevard with a fenced-in outdoor eating area. Ergo, Lexie and Odin could accompany us. Jeff carried a manila envelope, which I assumed contained the information he had used to lure me here.
A jazz group entertained on the patio that evening, and the greatest contingent of diners was parents whose toddlers danced along. That made conversation difficult during musical sessions, which was copacetic with me.
I went for a zesty sausage sandwich, so I hadn’t much food to pass along to Lexie since I didn’t want her stomach suffering from spiciness. That left it to Jeff to treat both dogs since he ordered a giant burger. And treat them he did, handing over a good third of his dinner to the beggars beside him.
I simply watched. And ate, which kept my mouth busy instead of allowing it to hang open in lust while watching Jeff. Even if I was absolutely uncertain
where our non-relationship was going, I had to admit to myself that he remained one awe-some dude. I observed his lips and tongue as he savored the parts of the burger he saved for himself and imagined them on unmentionable parts of me. I attempted to ignore the twinkle in his sexy blue eyes as he looked me up and down, obviously aware of the effect he was having on me.
And me? Well, I gave as good as I got, even though I remained in my dog-walking garb that I’d changed into to meet Frieda: jeans and yellow PSCSC T-shirt. I looked at him flirtatiously frequently, glancing teasingly from beneath my mascaraed lashes and quickly returning my apparent attention to the delicious sandwich in my hands. And I took similarly sexy bites of that same sandwich as he did with his.
Eventually, the musicians took a rest, and so did my heated teasing. “Okay,” I said, all business at last, “I’m here. We’re together for dinner. Where are Althea’s printouts that you promised if I played your games?” I reached out, expecting him to hand over the envelope that lay on the table near his plate.
“Got ’em in a folder I brought along from the office but left at home when I picked up Odin.”
“Then what’s that?” I demanded, reaching for the otherwise unexplained envelope.
“Something I brought to fool you into thinking I’d complied with our bargain.”
“Come on, Hubbard!” I exclaimed, forming my fingers into fists that I considered hurtling into his hunky, craggy face. “What’s your game now?” As if I didn’t know.
His grin was sexy and somewhat contagious, although I restrained myself from smiling back. “Game? Me? I was just hoping to talk you into bringing Lexie and joining Odin and me at home tonight.”
“Guess again,” I said sourly, even as my insides started softening and swirling. I knew what he was asking, and my rebellious body was telling me how long it had been since we had made love: too long. Plus, I felt a hint of relief that he still wanted me, despite my ongoing ambivalence about him.
“Okay, Kendra, you win.” His voice was a smooth, sexy leonine purr. “I’ll hand it over. But you’re still invited to come home with me.”
The Fright of the Iguana Page 7
