The Fright of the Iguana

by Johnston, Linda O.

  And all this, surprisingly, had been accomplished in less than ten minutes.

  We reached the road designated as the way to the Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve and the Japanese Garden and made a right turn. Several driveways converged there, and the signage didn’t exactly sing out which way to go. I nevertheless followed the lower road to the right, since it appeared to be the one we wanted. There were also signs to cricket fields—the game, I assumed, and not the bugs even though this was a wildlife area. Plus, the place was surrounded by golf courses. A pretty, parklike oasis, right in the middle of the San Fernando Valley? Absolutely. I’d even hiked here and bird-watched now and then, when I’d had a few spare hours.

  But that had been a while back. I had no idea where the picnic area might be. Still, I soon located a likely spot. “There,” I said excitedly, pointing to a place just beyond an empty parking lot. “That looks like picnic benches.”

  And it was. We parked next to a couple of port-a-potties at the edge of the paved parking and exited the Beamer. In front of us, in the dim light of the still-early day, was a small expanse of reddish concrete tables, all numbered and in rows, and unoccupied, as the parking lot had been. Guess it was too early for picnicking, although one reason we’d hurried here—in addition to the instruction to come fast—was the fear that early A.M. joggers and bikers might come upon the missing pets first and abscond with them.

  So far, we’d only seen a few exercise freaks, and they’d run or power walked on tracks inside the fencing along the roadway as we’d approached. None were here—not yet, at least.

  Here and there in the picnic area were flimsy metal grills for people who planned to barbecue. The ground was sandy, though surrounding areas contained lush green lawns. Above were huge firs, interspersed with palms that apparently hadn’t been trimmed in ages, their trunks covered with browned, dipping fronds.

  Beyond was a small kiddy playground, with swings and slides of colorful plastic.

  But we weren’t here to picnic or barbecue or play like kids.

  Where were Zibble and Saurus?

  “Zibble?” I called out. I didn’t imagine Saurus would answer, but a Shar-pei just might.

  I heard a bark from somewhere ahead.

  “There!” Hillary shouted excitedly and pointed past the nearest tables to somewhere around the farthest.

  I ran behind her, ducking through the concrete obstacle course of tables until we reached them.

  Zibble was tied to a table. Saurus was inside a metal dog crate.

  By the time we reached them, Zibble was leaping and whining in a canine frenzy of excitement. Hillary knelt, untied his leash, and held out her arms. Her Shar-pei leaped into them and showered her with slobbery kisses from his huge, sagging lips.

  But Saurus. The iguana wasn’t leaping or even moving, not that I could see.

  This wasn’t the kind of habitat that would allow a reptile to thrive.

  Had he failed to survive?

  Were we too late to save him?

  Only then did I see another car cruising toward us from the opposite direction—a big black Cadillac Escalade.

  Jeff’s.

  Had he nabbed the pet-napper?

  Chapter Thirteen

  AND WHEN THE heck was I going to stop asking questions and do something useful?

  I waved toward Jeff, then ducked down on the ground to check on Saurus. I opened the crate and reached inside, half expecting him to snap at me, as iguanas were wont to do.

  He didn’t move.

  I felt his scaly skin. It was cold—but, then, he was a cold-blooded creature.

  He seemed to be crouching on a bunch of rags. Was that an okay substrate—or surface—for him, even temporarily?

  At least he wasn’t listing sideways or, worse, lying on his side. And his eyes appeared to be open. Even the one on top—his third eye that was supposed to be a light sensor for iguana safety, although it didn’t actually see.

  But I was far from an expert.

  And, thank heavens, I happened to know someone who was.

  “Hold on, Hillary,” I said. If we weren’t on a first name basis by now, tough. I yanked my cell phone from the ubiquitous bag I’d unthinkingly slung over my shoulder and called Jeff. “Hi, don’t bother stopping. The animals are here, but we need to get them to a vet right away. I don’t suppose you saw someone lurking to see who retrieved them, did you?”

  “No, damn it,” he said. He had stopped in the lot anyway and spoke to me as he approached. He slipped his phone closed as he reached us. Which turned out to be a good thing, since Hillary had her hands full with the eager Zibble and was of no assistance at all in lifting Saurus’s makeshift enclosure.

  “Hi,” I said. “Please help.” I gestured toward the cage.

  “Is he alive?” Jeff asked dubiously.

  “Yes, but he sure doesn’t look healthy. Of course, I’m not certain I can tell the difference between a healthy iguana and one who’s not well. That’s why we’re heading to the vet.”

  He grabbed one end of the crate and I latched onto the other. Together, with Hillary and Zibble bringing up the rear, we maneuvered around picnic tables and into the parking lot, where Jeff and I shoved the cage onto the Beamer’s backseat.

  “Can you tell me in ten words or less if you saw anything at all helpful this morning?” I asked. The hunky P.I. looked more exhausted than I had ever seen him. And that included after some wild, wanton, and exhausting nights of wonderful sex . . .

  Don’t go there, Kendra, I shouted silently to myself.

  Especially since I was about to pay a visit to the other man in my life, who just happened to be the best veterinarian I’d ever met.

  “Unfortunately, no. I figured you two would go after the animals, so I cruised around looking for anyone suspicious. A couple of cars parked, and people got out and started jogging. Others drove by, and I jotted down license numbers that I’ll get Althea to run, although I can’t say I noted a genuine suspect.”

  “That’s more than ten words,” Hillary complained from the front seat, where she had planted herself. Zibble was in the back on the far side from Saurus’s cage. They were ready to go. And even in the growing daylight, I couldn’t quite tell the iguana’s condition.

  Time for a visit to the vet. Past time, probably.

  “Thanks for trying, Jeff,” I said, and I hurried into the driver’s seat to head out of the park and toward Tarzana.

  DR. THOMAS VENSON’S veterinary clinic was along Reseda Boulevard. It was a squat gray building, drab for a place where death-defying acts like saving animals’ lives were done.

  The time was nearing seven o’clock, and I’d called Tom on his cell phone. He promised to be present when we arrived, and when I pulled the Beamer into the small parking lot behind the clinic I saw his car, a beige Ford Escape—less ostentatious than Jeff’s Cadillac Escalade, but big enough to transport most of his patients of the nonhuman persuasion.

  I knocked on the back door and it immediately opened, as if Tom had been standing there, waiting. “Hi, Kendra,” he said, but his smile aimed over my shoulder as his brown eyes scanned the parking lot for where I’d left his new patients. He obviously gave a damn, a damned good quality in a vet.

  “They’re in my Beamer with their owner, Hillary,” I told him. “The Shar-pei looks okay and can walk in on his own four paws, but I’m more concerned about the iguana. He’s been out of his nice, safe reptile habitat for a few days, and—”

  I’d started talking to Tom’s back. And a nice back it was, clad in his usual white lab jacket.

  He was of ordinary height for a guy, less than six feet. I’d noticed before how long and lean his legs were in the jeans he wore under his lab jacket. Now, he used them to stride quickly through the parking lot.

  I let Hillary lead Zibble toward the building on his leash, and again took an end of the crate in which Saurus lolled. With Tom’s assistance, I toted it out of the back of the Beamer.

  “Let’s
put it down a second,” he said. When we did, I watched him give Saurus a once-over. Tom was a nice-looking guy, not extraordinary, but I adored his attitude. He cared—about people, as well as his patients. He treated owners like the parents they were, understanding their emotionalism about their pets’ medical problems. “Okay, let’s get him inside.” Tom’s tone suggested concern. So did the way his dark eyebrows knit below the widow’s peak of his equally deep brown hair.

  I again took the front end of the cage and let him bring up the rear, which gave him the better view of the possibly suffering iguana. Hillary held open the clinic’s back door while stopping Zibble from tripping us with his leash. They followed Tom, Saurus, and me inside.

  “Let me get one of my assistants,” Tom said. We lowered the crate, and he hurried down the hall.

  “He looks worried.” Hillary’s immaculately made-up face reflected a matching emotion.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “but Saurus is in good hands.” Or he would be when out of the cage and in the care of Tom and his capable staff.

  Which vet plus two assistants clad in blue lab jackets appeared at the end of the hall and rushed toward us. As if practiced in emergency drills, the aides, one male and one female, lifted the crate and hurried away with it hanging between them, its progress even and steady so as not to further disturb the occupant.

  Tom shot me a short, distracted smile. “I’ll examine him, then come and talk with you as soon as I can.”

  “What about Zibble?” Hillary asked anxiously.

  Tom glanced at the watch on his wrist. “It’s nearly seven. One of the other vets will arrive at any moment, and I’ll leave word at the front that Zibble’s to get the first exam. But judging by his behavior”—that same Shar-pei was tugging at his leash once more, apparently interested in a small storeroom to our side where shelves were lined with prescription pet food—“I’d guess he’s okay. But of course we’ll need to confirm that.”

  “Of course,” Hillary echoed toward Tom’s disappearing rear.

  In seconds, the three of us including Zibble were left alone in the hallway. I’d been here before several times, the first thanks to a dispute between one of my clients and Tom Venson a few months ago. I’d helped them work it out well, fortunately. I’d eventually had more empathy with Tom than with my own client, although I’d of course represented her with utmost lawyerly care.

  “Let’s sit down,” I suggested to Hillary and led Zibble and her into the waiting room. It was small, and I’d never before seen it so empty. That could be because the clinic wasn’t officially open yet. Seats lined three sides, and the fourth contained doors to the outside and into the inner sanctum. Between them was an opening into a room where the reception staff generally sat. The color scheme consisted largely of restful blues, and the aroma was the clinic’s usual antiseptic smell.

  Hillary sat along the wall closest to the door. I joined her, but knelt on the floor next to Zibble. The middle-size, many-pleated pup nuzzled up to me. Actually, his wrinkles and folds were mostly around his face and front, rather than on the rest of his thin body that was covered in light brown short fur. When I petted his head, he gave me a doggy kiss with his dark tongue—strange in shade for most dogs, but characteristic of this breed and a few others.

  “How are you, Zib?” I asked. He wagged the thin tail curled over his back. “Were you treated okay?” He didn’t say otherwise. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, a situation I often found frustrating with my pet clients and even my own Lexie. I wished we had some mutual shared language. Right now, I’d have given a lot to have Zibble provide a detailed description of his pet-napping and the perpetrator.

  An African American lady in a white lab coat that resembled Tom’s entered from the door to the side of the reception desk. “Hi, I’m Dr. Savitt. Dr. Venson gave me a quick rundown on what happened, and I’d like to examine your dog.”

  She looked at me, probably since I still sat on the floor with Zibble. I quickly set the apparent misunderstanding to right. “I love this guy, but he belongs to Ms. Dorgan.”

  I nodded toward Hillary, who remained on a waiting room chair. She rose regally and sent a smile toward the lady vet. “Please make sure Zibble is all right, Doctor.”

  “You can come into the exam room,” she said. She reached for Zibble’s leash, and Hillary handed it over.

  I started to follow, but Hillary shot me a stay-there stare. It was her prerogative as Zibble’s mistress, but her pulling rank that way nevertheless rankled.

  I took a seat. There I was, all alone in the waiting room, fretting about both returned animals.

  “Can I help you?” asked a voice that at first seemed disembodied, till I realized someone at last occupied the reception desk over the half wall at the far side of the room.

  I walked over. I’d seen the young lady here before. Her nametag said she was Edith, which sounded more appropriate for a much older person than this twenty-something clad in a blue lab jacket like the other assistants. Her eyes were hazel and surrounded by long brown lashes that belied the naturalness of her softly pale hair. They regarded me expectantly.

  “I’m a . . . friend of Dr. Venson’s. I helped to bring in some animals who’d been pet-napped to make sure they were okay, and—”

  Oops! Some officer of the court I was. And amateur P.I. and concerned citizen and member of the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal. I’d neglected to notify the authorities that we had these two stolen animals back in our care and custody.

  “Anyhow,” I concluded hurriedly, “please let me know when Dr. Venson and Dr. Savitt know how Zibble and Saurus are doing.”

  Without explaining which animal was who, I turned from her and reached into the big bag I’d tossed over my shoulder by habit as I’d exited the Beamer. Extracting my cell phone, I called Detective Domenic Flagsmith. He answered immediately.

  “Guess what!” I said with complete chipperness. “We have the Dorgan animals back.”

  “Really?” Amazing how much dubiousness can roll through a telephone connection.

  “Yes. Ms. Dorgan paid the ransom, and—”

  “What ransom?” I’d gotten the cop’s attention with that. “Where are you, Ms. Ballantyne?”

  I sighed but provided the info he requested.

  “Don’t leave. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  Which I figured, in cop-speak, meant sometime today.

  Maybe.

  BY THE TIME I got off the phone with Ned Noralles—yes, I called him, too, to treat him to my side of this story—other people and pets had begun storming the waiting room.

  I considered handing out some of my pet-sitter business cards but decided that would be too crass. Besides, I had all the referrals Rachel and I could handle from Darryl and from former and existing contented customers.

  Which just might disappear now that I’d initiated a reputation for having beloved pets napped from under my nose . . .

  “Kendra?” called a voice from the inner clinic doorway. Tom stood there grinning broadly, thank the powers that be. I took the smile to mean that Saurus was sufficiently okay to assume he’d survive this ordeal.

  Even so, I hurried to Tom’s side. “How’s—”

  “Saurus? He was dehydrated and probably hadn’t been in a warm enough environment for the last couple of days, but I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Wonderful! Can I see him? Have you checked Dr. Savitt about Zibble?”

  “Yes, and yes. Zibble will be fine, too. You can see both of them.”

  He accompanied me along the hall first into a small room that appeared to be a surgery area, only some shelves lined the walls. On them were a variety of tanks, perhaps where ill fish and lizards and other nonmammal patients could reside while recuperating. On the first shelf, in a fairly large enclosure beneath a light of bright intensity, sat the beige and green iguana I’d come to know and like.

  He was motionless, but when I looked inside he seemed to give me one of his inscrutable, long-m
outhed smiles. He took a few steps along the glass and started to turn around.

  Smiling all the while.

  “He looks so much better already!” I exclaimed, then settled down. “Assuming I can tell the difference between an ill iguana and a well one.”

  Tom put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. I liked the feeling. I also liked his encouragement when he said, “You’ve got good instincts when it comes to animals, Kendra. I’ve seen that a lot already.”

  “Thanks, Tom.” I looked up at him and saw a kiss coming, judging by the way his deep brown eyes suddenly smoldered.

  Hey, why not? I gave into the urge—and a good thing, too. We’d kissed briefly before, but this one was deep and hot and a hell of a lot of fun.

  And I liked being tight against his body. He was more moderate in height than my most usual squeeze lately, and perhaps not as buff, but he was hard in the right places. All of them.

  Eventually, I pulled back. I was certain my grin up at him was loony and logy.

  “You’re welcome,” he whispered huskily, then added, “Are we still on for tonight?”

  Tonight? I did a mental calculation, no easy feat considering the current muzziness of my mind. Oh, yes, it was finally Saturday. I still had pet-sitting clients to tend, and might even drop in at the law office, but it wasn’t a regular legal workday.

  And Tom and I had planned a date for this evening.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be delighted to go out with you tonight.”

  “Don’t count on it, Kendra,” boomed a voice from the door. I swiveled fast to see Ned Noralles glaring at me. “You might be in jail tonight for obstruction of justice.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHAT WAS WORSE than a homicide detective glaring daggers from a veterinary clinic doorway and making terrible threats?

  Three detectives, all obviously full of ire.