“As much as I love animals,” Tom responded with a smile, “it’s nice now and then to be around people.” He took in the rest of the restaurant with a gesture.
Unlike our dining place, Tom wasn’t at all country barbecue. He had chosen a classy button shirt in deep charcoal with threads that glistened dressily in the light from the flickering candle on our table. His slacks were black, his belt conservative.
The dark duds went well with his even darker hair, and set off his widow’s peak. He had a nice, if ordinary, nose, sincere brown eyes, and a few small wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. Because his hair was so dark, there was a hint of beard beneath his skin even though he’d shaved close enough not to scrape a date’s skin during a kiss.
How did I know that? I’d experienced it again tonight—nothing extremely hot and heavy, but a nice greeting before we’d gotten on our way.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve never asked”—and I’d never been to his home. In fact, his picking me up at mine tonight had been his first glimpse of my own humble abode and surrounding less humble property the bank and I owned—“but do you have any pets? Or do you just get a vicarious thrill out of handling the health of others’ beloved babies?”
There was a whole lot I didn’t know about Dr. Thomas Venson. Like his past history with women. Did he have an ex-wife lurking about somewhere, ready to leap back into his life if he and I developed any kind of relationship?
Boy, would that convince me even more that I could only choose the worst of men to get involved with.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “And I have to be careful not to adopt too many at a time, but when strays somehow appear at the clinic, they seem to wind up staying at my place. I’ve got three dogs and a cat right now, all neutered and healthy, although one of the dogs only has three legs. Fortunately, my house isn’t far from the hospital. You’ll have to visit sometime.”
His eyes caught mine, and I sensed an invitation a lot more heated than simply meeting his animal family. My insides flamed.
Was that what I wanted?
Was I that through with Jeff? I wasn’t about to sample sex with anyone else unless I’d finished with my former lover.
And I knew that Jeff could still press the right buttons to turn me on, even without touching me. Was that enough?
Was that truly all there was between us?
I sighed, grateful for the interruption as our server brought a big bowl of salad that she served onto our plates with a large wooden fork and spoon.
We chatted casually about all sorts of stuff, even through our ribs, corn, and slaw.
Damn, but I liked the guy.
“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me more about the stolen animals,” he finally said, looking somber and concerned.
“Damned pet-napper,” I replied. “At least the two animals pinched on my watch are back home, safe, sound, and healthy, partly thanks to you. But two other dogs were taken around the same time, and three more animals since—that I know about. So far, they all seem to be grabbed while one of my associates from the Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal is watching them. I’ve got someone checking to see if there are any others, of course.”
“Your friend the P.I.?” His tone didn’t suggest he had any idea how close my friend the P.I. and I were—or at least had been. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Was it possible I was misreading proffered friendship from this really nice vet for something more personal?
Heck, knowing my own penchant for misunderstandings and selections of wholly inappropriate guys for relationships, what was more likely?
Which kinda hurt—suggesting I really was attracted to Tom Venson on a deeper level.
“Not him,” I said so brightly that I outshone the candle on the table between us. “He has a wonderful researcher in his office, and she’s looking into it for me. You haven’t heard of other pet-nappings, have you?”
“No, but I have asked around about the missing animals I’ve heard about. Plus, I’m going to an educational session with other vets tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll check there, too.”
“Would you? That would be wonderful.” Our eyes met and caught, as if we had been discussing something a whole lot sexier than stolen pets.
Tom smiled. I smiled back. And started simmering inside.
By then, we were through eating. Neither of us wanted any coffee or dessert, so we left the barbecue joint, our hands joined as we strolled to Tom’s SUV.
He drove me home so fast that I could hardly believe it when we reached my place. Or maybe my mind was in such a stupidly sensual fog that I hadn’t taken in the landmarks on the way.
But then, there we were.
“Would you like to come in for a while?” I hardly believed I’d invited him. It sounded like a suggestion of a whole lot more.
Was that what I wanted? Was I ready?
No surprise. He did want to come in.
We shared some wine. And we made out on my comfy sectional beige couch while Lexie nosed first my legs, then Tom’s, causing us both to laugh.
Tom’s hands began wandering afield on my perversely eager body, and that helped me establish an answer to one question I’d asked myself earlier.
No, I wasn’t ready.
“It’s too soon,” I whispered against his neck. He smelled good close up like that—a little tangy, a lot male. And not at all like a man who spent much of his time tending unaromatic pups and kitties.
“I’d better be going, then,” he said. “Can we get together again next weekend?”
“Sure,” I said with a smile.
“I’ll call you.” He dropped down to give Lexie a farewell pat, and then he was gone.
Well, heck.
Seemed like I had two guys firmly ensconced in my life and psyche now.
And I wasn’t at all certain I wanted even one.
Chapter Seventeen
SO DID I go to bed that night thinking about what I was missing, lying there alone save for Lexie. No Tom? No Jeff?
No. What I pondered as I waited for sleep to shut down my conscious mind was what I’d say to Corina Carey the next day. And what else I should be doing in an attempt to resolve all the matters that currently disrupted my life—like the pet-nappings and Nya Barston’s murder.
I decided that the best move to encourage Corina to give this story more airtime was to make it more human interest. That meant getting people to talk about the doggy and kitty disappearances and how they’d affected their lives.
Rubbing it in the faces of the animals’ owners didn’t seem like a good move, but displaying the anguish of other pet-sitters might do the trick.
I made calls first thing the next morning—realizing I might have to delay my eleven o’clock meeting with Corina.
Tracy declined being interviewed on air. She was already too frazzled by all that had occurred to become a public spectacle about it. Besides, she didn’t want the adverse publicity for the club that would result if the PSCSC president shouted out about it.
I pondered that point for a while. Perhaps the same issue would result if Frieda Shoreman, its de facto treasurer who kept the books without accepting the office, was interviewed about the pet-napping on her watch. And Wanda Villareal was considering the vice presidency now that Nya, who’d been the Veep, was gone.
That left Lilia Ziegler, who’d also had an animal napped while she sat for it. She wasn’t an elected or acting officer, and surely someone as scrappy as she would make a good on-air interview subject.
I decided I’d talk to her first, just to be sure. Fortunately, she had some time that morning after her own pet-sitting rounds and invited me to her home.
I called Corina and said I’d need to reschedule, but I was hoping to have someone really great for her to talk with on her National NewsShakers show. Sure, Hillary Dorgan would be a hard act to follow, but I had just the right character in mind.
I hoped.
LILIA LIVED IN the hills overlooking the Cahuenga Pass. It wa
s an area considered part of Hollywood, as was my farther west neighborhood, though neither quite sat on the side of the hill where people expected Hollywood to be.
More surprising was that Lilia’s two-car garage sat flush with the street, but her white adobe cottage was way up the mountainside, reachable only by several long flights of steps.
Good thing, since this was Sunday, that I was dressed for pet-sitting, in a yellow T-shirt, khaki slacks, and athletic shoes. Heaven help me if I’d been wearing the heels I stuck my feet into for lawyering! I was winded when I got to the top. How did Lilia, who had to be in her seventies, handle this climb?
I asked her, huffing and puffing when she answered her double wooden door.
Her smile dug parenthetical divots on the sides of her mouth, adding to her already plentiful wrinkles. “I’ve owned this place since before you were born, Kendra. I’m used to it, and I’m not about to move. Were you assuming I was ready for some old folks’ home?”
I considered poor Rachel’s quandary with the senior citizens she tried to amuse, who’d apparently accused her of thievery. Could I imagine Lilia, in her slim jeans and red plaid ruffled shirt, sitting and twiddling her thumbs while a young woman attempted to entertain her by letting her hug an Irish setter?
No way.
This woman was still employed as a pet-sitter. If anything, she’d be the one to attempt to coax smiles out of the other old folks by bringing a big dog along.
“Not hardly,” I told her. “But I may be, after this climb.”
She laughed and led me inside, straight into a small living room with a fireplace along one wall and rows of filled bookshelves along the other.
“Have a seat.” She pointed to a fluffy white corduroy-covered couch. It faced a small coffee table nearby, and a wide-screen TV on a stand near the opposite wall. “I’ll give you the grand tour of the place once you’ve caught your breath.”
A sweetish smell hung in the air, and I suspected Lilia used either incense or a plug-in air freshener. As I sat there, a large gray cat entered the room, flicked its tail disdainfully, and observed me as if determining whether I was worthy enough to be here.
“That’s Fortuna,” Lilia said. “I named her that because we’re good luck for one another. I rescued her from a shelter, and she rescues me from talking to myself.”
“Cute,” I said. “And I gather that you pet-sit cats a lot, too.” The pet stolen on her watch was the cat from Laurel Canyon named Amanda.
“Dogs, cats, birds, whatever.” She waved one of her thin, wrinkly hands in the air as she was wont to do. “Now, tell me what you wanted to talk about. Something about a TV interview? Why would anyone want to talk to me?”
I explained that Corina Carey was the reporter who’d adored having Hillary Dorgan talk about her missing pets a few days back. “I want to keep the momentum going, keep on the public’s mind that other animals are being stolen so they’ll let the authorities know if they see anything strange.”
“But why me?” she repeated. “I’m not married to anyone famous, and I’m certainly nobody myself.”
I grinned at her. “Of all the folks in PSCSC, I think you have the most guts, Lilia. And presence. Put you in front of a camera talking about how awful you feel about the missing cat, and the audience at home will weep right along with you.”
“You want me to cry?” Her small blue eyes widened in apparent astonishment, standing out in their sea of facial wrinkles.
“Only if you feel like it. But you certainly can get all emotional, can’t you?”
“Sure can.” She suddenly appeared small and sad and utterly helpless, with sagging shoulders and droopy head. “What do you think?” she asked. She looked up enough to meet my gaze. “I really do feel awful about losing Amanda like that, you know.”
“I figured.” Strange, hearing the name Amanda again. The cattiness fit. But I hated the idea that any pet could be stolen from her own home, even if I wasn’t wild about her unknown sort of namesake.
“Well, go ahead, if you want, Kendra. Tell that Corina person I’ll talk to her and give her a good story. Now, come on and I’ll show you around.”
She provided cheerful commentary as she pointed out pictures of herself in her younger days, with a couple of men who were husbands she had outlived. “Great guys, both of them,” she said with a grin. “I think I wore them both out in bed.” I must have looked as startled as I felt, for she cackled, then said, “I didn’t think I’d embarrass someone your age, Kendra. Especially since rumor has it that you have two guys on the hook at the same time.”
“Rumor’s only partly right,” I said irritably, then exclaimed about how nice her compact kitchen was, mostly to change the subject.
She took me out on the back patio and showed me the swimming pool. Behind was a small outbuilding—a place she could conceal missing pets if she’d napped one of her own charges to throw off any suspicion that she was the general thief.
Why had that crossed my mind? I’d no real reason to assume she was the napper, any more than I thought she’d killed Nya. Besides, she led me there and pushed open the door, obviously not attempting to hide anything.
A full set of gym equipment sat on the low-carpeted floor inside. “Love this stuff,” Lilia said. “I still work out every day. That’s one reason I don’t have problems with the steps.”
Hmmm. I’d shrugged off Frieda Shoreman’s suggestion of Lilia as a murder suspect, since Nya was slugged with a baseball bat. I had figured that someone as senior as Lilia couldn’t have bashed someone so much younger to smithereens that way.
But now . . . “You’re amazing,” I said admiringly. “I don’t have the stamina to work out every day. That’s one reason I’m delighted to pet-sit, since I at least do a lot of walking.”
“Well, I’d suggest you get in the habit of doing more now, young lady, so it won’t be a chore when you reach my age.”
How to turn the topic to the additional questions that shot into my mind? “You ought to give a talk to that effect to PSCSC members,” I said. “They’d all be interested. I’ve gotten sort of close to Tracy and Wanda, but less so with the others. I find Frieda’s trying to take charge annoying sometimes. How about you? Do you have any special friends there? Any members you could do without?” Like Nya, but I kept that silently to myself.
But Lilia got the underlying message. “I like some better than others, sure, Kendra. And I didn’t especially care for Nya. She kept suggesting I’m too old to pet-sit. And when one of her clients got tired of her not taking good care of their cats, she was furious when they hired me next time they went away. I defended myself, and we argued a lot over it. And before you ask—though I suspect you’re too polite to say it outright—yes, I probably had enough strength in these skinny arms to do her in with a baseball bat.” She raised those arms, whatever strength they might have hidden beneath the long sleeves of her plaid shirt. “But I didn’t do it, and I’ll even say so on television if the question arises in my interview.”
I HAD SOME hesitation about calling Corina but felt somewhat committed. Especially since I was convinced that keeping the pet-nappings public might help stop them—and get the still-missing animals back to their grieving owners . . . and pet-sitters. And I didn’t genuinely believe that Lilia was guilty of anything.
And so, call her I did. She immediately galvanized into action, and showed up at Lilia’s soon thereafter.
Yes, I stayed for the interview. Even made a few astute observations on camera. Helped by locating Lilia’s cat, Fortuna, and bringing the irritated kitty in to be part of the filming. I thought it went fine. And Lilia seemed the epitome of innocence.
When it was over, I thanked Lilia, Corina, and the cameraman, then headed for my law office. There, I did some digging into the file I needed to review for my meeting tomorrow and locked up the building. I visited my pet clients all over again and spent time taking care of each. Not to mention ensuring they still seemed secure.
I fin
ally headed home, feeling a little lonesome since I’d left Lexie there. I hadn’t wanted her adorable face broadcast over Corina’s air, not with a pet-napper on the loose. Maybe so far the victims were all pet-sitting clients, certainly distressful enough, but who was to say that the thief wouldn’t start picking on the sitters’ pets themselves?
As soon as I pulled my Beamer through the front gate, I saw Russ Preesinger barreling down the path from the main house. Rachel’s dad and my main tenant had been out of town, so I hadn’t seen him lately. Since he was a Hollywood location scout, his being home was more unusual than his being on the road.
“Hi, Russ,” I called after I’d parked at my spot in the shadow of the garage and exited my car.
“Have you heard what’s going on with Rachel?” No greeting, simply an explosion. Russ was a fine-looking male specimen, of moderate height and a build that wouldn’t quit. His hair was reddish, which gave credence to the old cliché that people picked pets who looked like them. He did, after all, own Beggar. The Irish setter had followed him from the house and seemed excited at the exercise of hustling down the walk.
Viewing Russ’s scowl, I considered some hustling of my own . . . away from here. “You mean those claims at the senior citizen home? Yes, she told me—”
“Those miserable old so-and-sos had better watch who they’re accusing. Otherwise—well, you’re a lawyer. I’ll hire you to sue the whole lot for defamation.”
I was absolutely a litigator, but I avoided cases I felt sure were losers. Was this one of them?
I didn’t believe Rachel would steal from anyone, let alone the senior citizens she’d been so excited to entertain with visits with her hound. But truth was always a defense to a defamation suit, and it was one Methuselah Manor and its inmates were bound to assert. Would a jury accept truth from the mouth of a cute but sassy kid—or assume a whole group of elders instead spouted all veracity?
The Fright of the Iguana Page 15
