The Fright of the Iguana

by Johnston, Linda O.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they’re going to let Beggar and me back into Methuselah Manor,” she wailed. “They’re not saying it’s because they suspect me of stealing the missing stuff, but I’m sure that’s why.”

  “That’s lousy,” I said. The kid had been so enthusiastic about her foray into cheering seniors. I felt absolutely awful for her. And I was certain she was innocent of any kind of theft. That idea about how to help her still teased my mind, but I knew I couldn’t indulge it until, hopefully, sometime next week. “Are other people visiting the place with pets?”

  “No,” she said miserably. “And some of the guests will really miss Beggar.”

  I didn’t want to raise Rachel’s hopes, so I didn’t tell her what I had in mind. But I did say, “Maybe we can fix that. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Really, Kendra? Would you?” She closed the small gap between us, and I was suddenly enveloped in an enthusiastic hug. My youthful tenant smelled of baby shampoo, and I smiled. She wasn’t that young.

  “No promises,” I told her.

  A car pulled up to our front gate, just as Jeff appeared on the steps from my garage-top apartment.

  “That’s probably Buzz,” I told Rachel, pointing toward the arriving vehicle. “Let him in. Let’s get this day on the road.”

  THE REST OF the week went by both slowly and quickly.

  I had to fend off lots of media interest, including my friend Corina Carey. “Why didn’t you contact me immediately?” she screeched over the phone when I inadvertently answered one of her calls.

  “What was there to say?” I responded coolly. “No animals were stolen and no one was killed.”

  “You were attacked? Did someone come after you with a bat, the way Nya Barston was killed?”

  “Well, yeah,” I admitted, and I told her more, mostly off the record. I mean, if getting the word out could keep other pet-sitters from grief, I had to cooperate. But I didn’t see how telling all to Corina could accomplish that. I hadn’t seen whoever it was, so I couldn’t ask her to have her viewers to be on the lookout for the attacker.

  Who turned out not to have left any fingerprints, by the way. Big surprise.

  Then I had to put up with Jeff’s accompanying me nearly every moment. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. He was with me at all my pet-sitting assignments. I had my own security consultant assist in shutting off systems so I could get inside my clients’ homes, and check every nook and cranny to ensure no mad assailant waited for me with a baseball bat.

  On most levels I appreciated it. But I also started to feel smothered and started calling Jeff “Dad.”

  Which he clearly hated.

  At least I got him to keep his distance when I was at my law office. I’d a feeling that he’d convinced Borden or some of the senior citizen attorneys who were my associates to call him if I dared to go out without an escort. And that I didn’t do.

  He showed up at the end of the day to shuttle me to my pet-sitting assignments.

  The big protective brute scared me that way. He also managed to make me feel guilty for not leaping into his bed at every smoldering look he managed to fire at me despite my glares.

  Well, all right. It wasn’t just guilt I felt. I admit it—my poor bod was turning into one big lustful conflagration. Despite my self-chiding, I couldn’t help feeling all gooey inside at Jeff’s overprotectiveness.

  I didn’t even mention Amanda, let alone remind Jeff that his ex had attempted to X him out once with her car.

  I kept reminding myself of my upcoming date with Tom Venson this weekend. I really liked that guy.

  But was I considering telling him a nice goodbye so I could be with Jeff?

  You bet.

  SATURDAY FINALLY ARRIVED. Well, heck, I’d only undergone two days of Jeff’s overprotectiveness, but it felt like weeks.

  Or maybe it didn’t feel long enough.

  In any event, I’d already told him I was heading for Bakersfield to check out the group of animals that just could be our stolen clients.

  Did he insist on going?

  What do you think?

  So first thing Saturday morning, after Jeff accompanied me on my pet-sitting rounds, I sat shotgun in his Escalade, with Lexie and Odin riding ecstatically in the backseat. We drove a goodly distance up the 5 Freeway, past Santa Clarita and Valencia and through mountain passes past Gorman, and eventually veered off onto the Kern County route that would take us to Bakersfield.

  The no-kill animal shelter called “Loving Friends” whose website I’d unearthed was just to the south of that city.

  The place actually was quite pleasant, if you like to see adorable household animals in cages. The outside was a large white cottage with a big red sign that said LOVING FRIENDS. Leaving Lexie and Odin in the car, under a shady tree with the windows cracked, Jeff and I marched inside.

  “Let me do the talking,” I told him.

  “Sure thing.”

  I tried not to react to his sexy smirk. Or the fit of his tight jeans and his short-sleeved beige shirt that revealed a hint of his biceps. Or the way he ogled my tight jeans and snug blue T-shirt.

  I sauntered up to the reception desk, where a young lady who appeared to be a high school-aged volunteer sat and smiled up at us—especially Jeff. Heck, there was no age limit on noticing a really sexy guy.

  “Hi. We’re looking for a dog or cat to rescue. Could we see who you have available?”

  “Sure,” said the young lady, whose nametag said she was Georgia. “Of course you’ll have to pass our adoption process. But you look like nice people, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Of course, she was still staring at Jeff.

  “Great!” I gushed. We both followed her past the cozy entry and into a long, large room lined on both sides with those cages. At least they were clean cages, all with concrete floors.

  Some very sad faces stared out at us from them.

  Damn, I hated to visit shelters. I wanted to adopt every animal I saw.

  Now, though, I was on a mission. I blinked adoringly at Jeff. “Would you mind checking out the cats, honey, while I look at the dogs? Maybe Georgia can introduce you to them.”

  “Would you?” he asked the young lady, who suddenly appeared all flustered. She wore shorts and a cropped top, though it was April. Well, Bakersfield was practically desert. And I figured Jeff could view the very young merchandise without doing more than admiring.

  “Well, sure. Come this way.” She preceded him through a door in the middle of the dog room.

  Which left me alone with all these poor, homeless hounds.

  I wandered farther along the path we’d been following—and suddenly saw one of my targets, a wire-haired dachshund.

  Only problem was, each cage sported a label that described the occupant. This one had a name on it, the same as on the Internet site.

  Of course no pet-napper would give the correct information if he or she determined to dispose of some of the booty this way.

  I knelt and held my hand through the bars of the cage. The long brown dog within sniffed it and wriggled amiably.

  “Hi,” I said. “Augie?”

  The pup began leaping and barking so joyfully that I’d no doubt I’d located one of the missing victims.

  But could I spring him? Were the others here?

  And was that cute little high school girl an aider or abettor to felony dog-napping?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  JUST IN CASE, I cased the joint some more, looking for other dogs who’d been absconded with, at least those I knew about and had seen their similar visages online.

  A couple of cages down, a sad-eyed golden cockapoo perked up as I stopped outside. “Could you be Cramer?” I inquired.

  At the name, the little fellow went wild, leaping and all but turning cartwheels. This had to be Wanda’s missing client.

  Two more dogs to go. Pooky and Piranha were mixed breeds, perhaps a bit more iffy to ID, but
I’d memorized their pictures. Both had short hair, Pooky’s black and Piranha’s pale brown. Pooky apparently had some pit bull in him, so his muzzle was blunt. Piranha’s was longer and narrower, maybe signaling some shepherd in his background.

  I took my time studying inhabitants of other cages. Some seemed too small to be my quarries. Others too large: Great Danes seemed to abound.

  Each regarded me hopefully, and I hated to pass them all by. But Lexie and I lived in a small place. I had to stay strong, return home without further friends to live with us. And at least this place had a no-kill policy.

  Then, down toward the end, I saw a pit bull-size pup with dark, short hair. Could it be? “Pooky?” I asked.

  This was met with an excited bark, although without the ecstatic leaping of the other dogs I’d greeted. I was convinced nonetheless. “Is your buddy Piranha here, too?”

  Yet another bark emanated from a cage several away. I headed there, and sure enough discovered a dog who resembled the one in the photo of Piranha I’d studied.

  All canines accounted for!

  And, glory be, I glanced down the row of cages just in time to see Jeff emerge with Georgia the greeter at his elbow—and a gray kitty in his arms. Amanda the genuine cat? As I dashed closer, I saw that this feline did indeed have a gray coat and a slightly pug face, as did the one we sought.

  I smiled at Jeff and nodded. “Every one,” I stated somewhat cryptically, although I knew he got it.

  His own sappy grin that he’d apparently donned for Georgia segued into a severe frown. “Are you aware that you’re harboring animals stolen from their owners in L.A.?” he demanded.

  The young lady stopped and stared. “Pardon?”

  “How did you come into possession of this cat?” Jeff insisted, not pardoning the young lady in the least.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I think I’d better call Chuey.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “He’s head of the Loving Friends Animal Shelter organization,” she said. “I just volunteer here, but maybe he can answer your questions.”

  I’D NEVER KNOWN anyone named Chuey. I believed the name to be Hispanic, so I had certain expectations about what the guy would look like while Jeff and I sat in the waiting area anticipating his arrival. We’d decided to delay calling in the cops until we’d talked to him, since they’d undoubtedly take over any interrogation and we might not get the info important to us.

  Young Georgia had resumed her place at her desk and kept glancing nervously toward us, as if she expected we’d attack her for the keys to release all the animals.

  Turned out that Chuey was probably spelled Chewy— maybe as in Chewbacca of Star Wars fame. The man was big and as hairy as any of his canine charges—long, reddish locks and a matching unruly beard. Plus, he was certainly chubby, as if he chewed lots of food.

  He clumped into the room. His grubby duds were loose, his scowl ferocious. “Can I help you folks?” he demanded in a tone that dared us to tell him why we were really there.

  We rose, and I let Jeff do his former-cop-current-P.I. stuff. He reached into his jeans pocket and extracted his license. “We’re here investigating some thefts of pets in Los Angeles,” he responded quite coolly, especially considering the scary demeanor of the guy facing him. Chewy seemed huge in comparison, even though Jeff was one substantial hunky dude.

  “Yeah? So?” Chewy folded his big, beefy arms and glared a challenge at Jeff.

  Who responded in kind. “You happen to have all those animals in your shelter. Care to explain how they got here?”

  “Who says they’re here?”

  Since he appeared ready to pound Jeff, I decided intervention to slice the weighty atmosphere was in order. “I do,” I interjected sweetly. “I’m secretary of a pet-sitters’ organization, and the stolen animals were being cared for by some of our members. I have their pictures, if you’d like to see them. Four dogs plus one cat, and every one is in your care. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

  “It’ll be more interesting to hear how they got here,” Jeff said. “You can tell us first, or just the cops. We don’t care.”

  Which wasn’t exactly the truth. We cared a lot. At least I did.

  Chewy slid a glance back toward Georgia, as if assessing whether to thrash us to a pulp in front of the nice young volunteer. “Hey, George,” he said instead. “Come here.”

  She did so slowly, as if still nervous about who was going to do what to whom.

  “Did they show you the animals in question?”

  She nodded.

  “They’re the ones that were hanging around outside the other morning? All of them?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “No collars or other ID on any of them?” I asked. “Were they at least leashed so they wouldn’t run away?”

  “Tied with rope, at least the dogs were. The cat was taped into a big box.”

  “And you didn’t think to call the cops?” I all but shouted. “Check for chips?” At least Augie and Cramer had ID chips implanted beneath their skin. “You’re in the business of handling lost animals. Haven’t you heard of the L.A. pet-nappings?” I stepped closer to the big bruiser of a Chewy, irate at the apparent carelessness of a person who purportedly cared about placing lost souls as pets. Unless it was insidiousness.

  “I think I heard something about it.” His response was much too mild, which told me a whole heck of a lot. He’d suspected the origin of the animals that appeared on his doorstep and hadn’t done a damned thing about it.

  Why not?

  I forbore from taking a physical swing at him, resorting—wisely, I thought—to the mental. “Do you collect fees from anyone based on the number of animals you have here, or place in new homes?” I was nearly nose to nose with him now. Or maybe it was nose to chest. In any event, my swing stopped just short of an accusation, but the implication was still there.

  He’d held on to the poor, lost pets for gain.

  This time it was Jeff’s turn to intervene, shouldering me aside for my own safety. Or so I presumed.

  “This is a charitable institution,” Chewy said, but he seemed uncomfortable.

  “Funded by whom?” I insisted.

  “We have a lot of local donors,” Georgia said, sounding proud. “Some of the area’s wealthiest people give money on behalf of our animals.”

  “Based on how many animals you save?” I pushed.

  “Well . . . yes,” she said.

  “Shut up, George,” Chewy said.

  “Time to call the cops,” I finished.

  NED NORALLES MADE it easy for us by managing some law enforcement magic. Somehow, he got the Bakersfield PD to cooperate with the LAPD, and the LAPD jurisdictions involved with the current situations to cooperate with each other.

  After an initial local investigation that nearly turned Chewy from red to green, it appeared clear his group had previously gotten into hot water before for accepting pets from questionable sources for adoption. This wasn’t likely to be the end of the Loving Friends Animal Shelter’s unloving woes.

  Then an official Bakersfield vehicle had trundled the subject pets down to L.A., where they were taken into custody until their owners could ID them.

  Jeff and I, plus Lexie and Odin, followed in the Escalade, creating a mini-convoy.

  Now, it was Sunday. Jeff and I sat in the North Hollywood station of the LAPD while the owners of the napped pets came by to pick up their babies.

  We were even permitted to watch from the far end of the interrogation table. And listen in. Each had to answer some riddles before their pets could be released to them.

  Well, okay, not riddles. But their inquiries revolved around not only how they’d heard of the pet-sitter they’d used when their animals were napped, but also whether they knew Tracy, Nya, or me . . . and where they’d happened to have been when Nya and I were attacked.

  First premise, of course, was that even if they had no alibis for the night I was attacked
, all had been out of town as pet-sitting customers when Nya was murdered.

  I hadn’t previously met the person who lived in Westwood and owned Piranha and Pooky, but he turned out to be a fiftyish mild-mannered reporter for a chain of local throwaway community newspapers. Could he somehow become a super antihero in off-hours, able to smash unsuspecting women with baseball bats? Perhaps, but why? Not that I’m an expert, but I didn’t see any potential signs of suppressed mental instability. He claimed not to have met Nya before, only Frieda Shoreman, who’d been his chosen sitter. And he certainly didn’t look familiar to me.

  I crossed him off my suspect list even before I put him on.

  Same went for the woman unfortunate enough to name her cat Amanda. She worked for a costumer in the film industry, lived in Laurel Canyon, and evinced no tendencies toward insane temper tantrums or the ability to wield wild baseball bats. Her sitter had been Lilia Ziegler, and she also claimed not to know any other PSCSC players, including me.

  I had previously interviewed Libby Emerich, Augie’s owner. She was the slim fashion-conscious real estate broker who’d all but broken down when discussing her baby’s disappearance. Now, she was all excitement and enthusiasm, fawning over the wiry little dachshund who seemed equally happy to see her. Kill Nya? Attempt to mutilate me? Highly unlikely.

  And then there was Dr. Marla Gasgill, DDS, Cramer’s owner. It was like pulling teeth for the interrogating cops to get much info from her, since she had delayed some dental appointments to dash here for her darling dog. But speak she did, gnashing her teeth that the cops hadn’t caught the cockapoo-napper. Like the others, she claimed not to know any of the other players in the violent acts also being investigated. And I hadn’t any reason to doubt her denial.

  That was everyone who’d had pets stolen while being pet-sat by PSCSC members, except for my clients the Dorgans.