The Fright of the Iguana

by Johnston, Linda O.

  I hoped suddenly that the 405 would be traffic-free so I could leave this lady’s company as swiftly as possible. Client or not, victim of having her pets swiped or not, I had concluded I really didn’t like her much

  But wishing for a traffic-free San Diego Freeway, especially near evening rush hour, was like praying for three feet of snow in greater L.A. It resembled wishing for hell to freeze over, which some people would deem an apt analogy. We were practically at a standstill from the moment the Beamer’s tires touched the freeway’s surface.

  I determined to make the best of the situation and extract any useful info I could. “I’ve no doubt that people as much in the public eye as Edmund and you run into all sorts of kooks, but in this case—well, this was the third pet-napping I’m aware of over the last couple of weeks, and there might be others I haven’t heard of. You might not have been singled out as targets, but the thief knew you had someone watching your pets.”

  “Could be,” Hillary said thoughtfully. “But how would that person know if they didn’t have us under observation?”

  I didn’t want to publicize my concern that PSCSC sitters might be the specific targets, so I said simply, “Could be they’re casing pet-sitters as much as their clients.”

  “Maybe . . .” She drew out the word, and I heard some kind of contemplation in the extension. “Someone targeting pet-sitters? Or at least using that as an excuse? Hmmm . . .”

  “Did that give you an idea who it might be?” I asked with interest. Maybe I was missing something here.

  “Not at all,” she said with irrefutable finality, bursting whatever bubble of hope I’d begun to inflate.

  Still, one more little thing I needed to learn. “Do you happen to know Nya Barston? She’s also a pet-sitter.”

  “No, we’ve never used her. Did someone steal pets on her watch, too?”

  “No, but . . . well, you wouldn’t have heard of it since you were out of the country, but she was killed at the home of a client of one of my counterparts.” I explained the tenuous connection with Tracy Owens and hastened to say I didn’t believe my friend had anything to do with harming Nya.

  “How interesting!” Hillary actually did sound so interested that I darted another glance at her. Her enhanced hazel eyes were so aglow inside the Beamer that I confirmed that the interior lights were off. She explained almost immediately. “I’m a screenwriter, you know, Kendra. That’s how Edmund and I got together in the first place. This whole pet-sitter situation could make a rather exciting idea for a suspense film.”

  Really? I didn’t think so, but what did I know?

  Which was exactly Hillary’s next thought. “You’re not in the business, are you, Kendra? I mean, you’re not thinking of using this yourself? And you’re not doing research by having a friend snatch the pets? Or maybe that friend who was killed—”

  “Now, wait a minute. Are you accusing me?” We were going slowly enough in the parking lot that was this friggin’ freeway that I had time to aim an angry glance at my passenger.

  “I’m not implying anything,” she said equably, “but I’d hate to see us compete over the same idea. Since it concerns my pets, I’ll use it.” She seemed to dare me to deny it. “And I’ll do a damned wonderful job. Get one of the world’s biggest box office draws to star—not mentioning any names now, you understand. Get a major studio so excited that the execs pee their pants. Edmund will produce, of course. It’ll make millions!”

  Can anyone say “inflated ego”? Not that I said anything aloud, other than an admittedly weak, “Sounds wonderful.” But I had to draw her back to the subject. “Wouldn’t it go better with a happy ending? Like, the return of your own pets first?” As well as a solution to poor Nya’s demise.

  “Well, of course.” She sounded as aghast as if I’d suggested she couldn’t add one million plus two million. Or was that one hundred million plus two hundred? “And I’m willing, within reason, to pay the ransom and get dear little Zibble and even that odd-looking Saurus back.” Obviously Zibble was her darling, while the iguana was more her spouse’s sweetheart. And when she said “within reason,” I was certain that her reason was a heck of a lot higher than mine would be. “But one thing we have to do here first, dear.”

  I was afraid to ask what that one thing was. And I was hardly her dear. Even so, I ventured, “What’s that, Hillary?”

  The frozen look she aimed at the side of my face suggested I had erred in the subservience department by failing to call her Mrs. Dorgan, and I realized I’d never before dared to address her by name. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I expected I’d lose extensive pet-sitting fees by insulting her now. She wasn’t likely to hire me again for those sorts of services—unless, perhaps, she needed a pet-sitting expert as a consultant to her film. And if she did, I felt sure she’d find someone other than me to feed her exactly what she wanted to hear.

  I doubted she even knew—or cared—that I was also a lawyer, so the likelihood I was shoving lucrative potential legal fees out the Beamer’s side windows was equally slim.

  “We need publicity.”

  She hadn’t even started on her screenplay and she wanted to publicize it? How bizarre! How . . . Hollywood!

  “Well,” I said extremely slowly, “That may be a good idea, since the film concept sounds really interesting, but . . .”

  “Not the film,” she inserted irritably. “We need it to get the pet-napper to show his hand. Send the next ransom note or whatever. We must get Zibble and Saurus back.”

  This was the first sensible thing this silly showbiz woman had suggested since I’d picked her up. “Great idea! Only . . . well, the idea of publicity might upset the pet-napper even more than the fact the authorities are now involved.” I explained how the ransom note had said to keep the cops out. “Of course, in the other two cases the ransom notes said not to tell anyone.”

  “See,” Hillary crowed triumphantly. “Whoever this insidious person is, he or she wants publicity now. Craves it. Who, in L.A., doesn’t?”

  Me, I considered shouting, but I didn’t. Could Hillary be right? Damned if I knew, but any damage had already been done when I called in the cops. Why not give it a try? “Does your studio have any trusted media contacts?” I asked her.

  “Oxymoron, my dear—trust and media in the same sentence. I have a couple of ideas, of course, but—”

  A thought crossed my crazed mind. “If you don’t know of anyone specific, I have an acquaintance who’s been relatively straight with me in other crime-type situations—Corina Carey.”

  “I’ve seen her on TV. Do you suppose Ms. Carey would like an immediate media interview with Mrs. Edmund Dorgan?”

  “Count on it,” I said and groped behind the seat for my purse. I got a lick from Lexie before I found, and extracted, my cell phone.

  Call me a glutton for media punishment, but since I had gotten Corina’s assistance in a murder matter in the past, her cell number was programmed into my phone.

  I’D BEEN CORRECT, of course. Corina was crazy about the idea of an interview over this odd pet-napping situation—especially since Edmund Dorgan’s prized animals were the nappees. Her show, National NewsShakers, was a tabloid sort, although she also joined legitimate journalism with her freelance articles for the likes of the L.A. Times. My proposing an interview with someone as illustrious as Hillary Dorgan justifiably got Corina jazzed, and she promised me scads of airtime.

  She and her cameraman reached the Dorgan home within minutes of our arrival, almost as if she had been hovering nearby in hopes of the opportunity.

  Leaving us in the landscaped backyard near the empty iguana habitat, Hillary excused herself to change clothes, which gave Corina and me a chance to discuss the situation—not exactly alone, since the camera guy set up his equipment while the formerly discreet or missing security staff suddenly hovered as if we were expected to pilfer the eucalyptus leaves or rose petals. Even Lexie seemed sedate, sitting at my feet as if she were one really well-behaved dog.


  “Anything here about Nya Barston’s murder?” Corina asked. She wore a bright burgundy pantsuit that set off the darkness of her pixie-styled short hair, as well as that attentive cameraman who now appeared to be her constant accessory to any outfit, though she’d filmed her own stories in the past. Her large brown eyes that suggested some trace of Asian ancestry regarded me with interest and near-fondness, since this time I not only hadn’t run her off a story that concerned me, but actually contacted her.

  “Not directly. I don’t think Ms. Dorgan was even aware of it until I asked her.”

  Hillary reappeared shortly thereafter in a silky blue blouse and even more makeup. The interview went amazingly well— maybe because Hillary’s on-camera presence as she answered Corina’s questions was all anyone in Hollywood could wish for. She was low key when needed, dramatic otherwise, and teary-eyed when begging for the return of her family’s beloved pets.

  I stayed out of the way, although I observed with keen interest. And when the interview was over, both interviewer and interviewee sought out my assessment.

  “Looked good to me,” I said.

  “That damned thief has got to see this,” Hillary snapped. “When will the interview air, Corina?”

  “We’ll give it a lot of airtime in the next day or so,” Corina assured the film mogul’s publicity-hound wife. “With any luck, that will mean the news at five—well, it’s too late for that now. How about six and ten tonight, morning, noon, evening, and night tomorrow? Plus, most other stations are copycats. You’ll hear from them, too.”

  “How wonderful!” Hillary sounded as if she might swoon from the excitement. She came swiftly to her senses under Corina’s sharp stare. “The more publicity we get, the more someone is likely to recognize Zibble and Saurus and report any sightings to the authorities. As long as the pet-napper doesn’t panic and harm them . . .”

  “Unlikely,” Corina assured her. “Not since you made it clear that price is no object in getting your beloved pets ransomed and back home.”

  “Almost no object,” Hillary contradicted.

  “Right,” Corina said.

  In any event, the interview was done. But whether it would actually help in the hunt to get the missing pets home again safe and sound . . . well, that I didn’t know.

  And I wasn’t about to wait to find out.

  Chapter Ten

  BUT FIRST, OF course, Lexie and I had to take care of the pets still within our sitting purview. We took a long, leisurely visit at each home, petting and playing and feeding and cleaning up as needed, plus ensuring that all dogs and cats were as safe and secure as I could be sure of.

  On the way from a house in Sherman Oaks to another in Studio City, I decided to contact the PSCSC top-dog-sitter—and possible chief suspect in Nya’s murder.

  “Hi, Tracy,” I said as soon as she answered her cell phone. “I assume that, since you’re on the other end of this call, you’re still free.”

  “But not clear of suspicion,” she said with an audible sigh. “And I saw your client Hillary Dorgan on TV, Kendra. How could you let her do that? The ransom note said not to tell anyone about the pet-napping, and now the whole world knows.” Her voice had grown more hysterical, and I sought for a way to sooth her.

  “My note just said not to call the police,” I reminded her. “And Mrs. Dorgan wanted to go public. She thinks there’s more of a chance someone who’s seen her beloved pets will report them to the authorities.”

  “Maybe.” Tracy sounded a whole lot dubious. She waited for an instant, then wailed, “I don’t know how you dealt with those horrible detectives, but it was only yesterday that I found poor Nya, and they already seem to be taking over my life.”

  “Yeah, they do that,” I said empathetically.

  I turned left onto Moorpark, near the Studio City branch of the L.A. Library, and aimed my Beamer toward Coldwater Canyon. Lexie sat in her seat but stretched enough to stare out the window.

  Impulsively, I asked Tracy, “Are you free for dinner tonight?” Lexie swiveled to stare at me. Yes, my pup knows the word “dinner,” and many synonyms that signified she might be about to eat. “Maybe we can talk more about Nya and the whole pet-napping problem,” I continued without encouraging Lexie’s appetite, “to see if we can figure out any further connections.”

  Further? So far, I’d found zilch, except for the possible relationship with PSCSC. That still left a couple dozen club members, plus multiples of that number consisting of clients, their respective families, and their friends and acquaintances. And anyone else who happened to know about the organization and bear some kind of surreptitious grudge against it or any member.

  With those six degrees of separation, multiplied by infinity, I supposed we could suspect nearly anyone residing in California. The United States. The world.

  At least we could probably eliminate outer space. So far, I’d absolutely no indication of any alien connections.

  “I’m exhausted,” Tracy said. As was I. “I’ve already promised Allen that he could pamper me. He’s been so sweet with all of this going on. If I were him, I’d probably dump me.”

  “Support’s a good thing when you’re a potential murder suspect—not to mention when you’ve had some of your clients stolen.” I thought about how things had been with me. I had just met Jeff around the time my own pet-sitting owner-clients started turning up dead. I hadn’t wanted to believe that my luck in finding men with genuine long-term relationship potential had improved, since I’d already proven to myself that I was a flop in that department.

  Jeff hadn’t been in town a lot, but he’d acted like my long-distance P.I. consultant. Had that been support? Sure. Plus, there’d been my dear friend Darryl.

  But I hadn’t had someone who was really there for me like Allen was for Tracy. Lucky lady—that is, if you could call someone lucky who was either a multiple victim of several miserable criminal situations, or possibly a pet-napper and friend-slayer.

  “I understand,” I said, assuming from Tracy’s response that she simply wanted to curl up in bed with a good, if nerdish, man tonight and hang on for emotional support. “We’ll do it another time.”

  “Oh, no, I’d love to join you for dinner tonight, if you don’t mind Allen coming, too,” she said swiftly. “I just meant I’d want to eat early, and no place too fancy that requires dressing up or staying out too late.”

  We soon agreed to meet at a local Marie Callender’s restaurant. Nothing better than wholesome food followed by sinful sweets to take our minds off the miseries in our lives.

  Maybe.

  FIRST, I TOOK Lexie home. And finally segued into the subservient owner of her dreams by focusing every iota of my attention on her, walking her all alone on our winding Hollywood Hills lane, then feeding her a nice, wholesome doggy dinner.

  Of course, the poor pup had to pay for my obeisance. I left her staring sadly after me in our alarm-secured apartment a little while later when I went to meet Tracy.

  As I started to climb into the Beamer, I saw the front gate open and Rachel’s cute blue car enter the driveway. I hurried up to greet her and saw she had Beggar along.

  “How are our clients?” I immediately asked.

  “They’re all great!” said my youthful and exuberant employee. She wore her usual uniform of jeans, this time with a red T-shirt that read, “Universal City Walk Rocks.” “And, yes, Kendra, before you ask, I did double-check all the security systems. And by the way, Dana Maroni, Stromboli’s owner, is coming back early—tomorrow.”

  I liked Dana, her sweet shepherd mix, Stromboli, and her neighbor, Maribelle Openheim, whom I’d helped recently in a pet-related situation. Maribelle had dated a skirt-chasing friend of mine, Judge Baird Roehmann—Judge Roamin’ Hands. I suddenly wondered if Baird had any new petting—er, pets, in his life, since for a while he had considered adopting Maribelle’s dog, Mephistopheles, but all three had changed their minds.

  “Anyway, Dana called to tell us her schedule an
d make sure everything was okay,” Rachel rambled into my train of thought, “since she got your phone message about pet-nappings, and she’d seen something about Nya Barston’s murder on TV. She sounded relieved to talk to me and I reassured her Stromboli is fine.”

  I’d left Rachel’s number in phone messages to clients where I’d put her in charge of the pets. Made more sense for her to respond about how her responsibilities were faring.

  “Sounds good. Anything else I should know about?”

  “No, but you ought to bring Lexie with Beggar and me when we’re visiting Methuselah Manor. It’s wonderful to see all those old people pep up and play with Beggar. We have such fun, and—”

  “Hold it a sec,” I said, putting one hand up to stop her in her eager tracks. “Methuselah Manor?”

  “It’s really Medicure Manor, but most people there are so old that the staff uses this little nickname . . . it’s from the Bible, and it refers to a guy who lived almost forever.”

  “I know that. Isn’t it a little insulting to the inmates?”

  “No, they love it! They all call it that, too, and tease each other about living as long as that funny biblical sort—hundreds of years.”

  “Right. I get it.”

  “So will you, Kendra? Come along, I mean. It’s so great to see all those old people stop staring at the walls and pet a pup. Throw a ball or Frisbee for fetch. That kind of thing.”

  Was this the same self-centered child who’d first appeared here a few months ago on her dad, Russ’s, doorstep, after running away from her mom, Russ’s ex, in Arizona? Before I’d signed a lease with him directly, Russ was the subtenant of my big house when my former lessees left, and I hadn’t initially approved his having anyone else live with him but Beggar. When I’d first met Rachel, who’d sneaked inside and settled in, I hadn’t exactly been thrilled about her presence. She’d made it clear she wanted Russ, a location scout for a major movie studio, to make her a star. Why else would her dad have moved to Hollywood?