The Fright of the Iguana

by Johnston, Linda O.

  Harsh, on my part, to suggest throwing the legal book at this young bitch? Could be.

  But I stuck by it. And smiled as the police escorted Sally out the door as I heard Delia say, “I’m so sorry about everything, Rachel. Could you bring Beggar back one of these days? Everyone was so happy when you and he visited.”

  Lexie and I strolled down the hall, accepting the accolades and thanks of the inhabitants. I didn’t hear Rachel’s response, but felt certain it was positive.

  “SURE, IT WORKED out wonderfully,” I told Darryl later that day at his Doggy Indulgence Day Resort. Lexie was cavorting in one of the canine play areas with some of her fastest friends.

  “I’m really glad for Rachel and you,” my bespectacled best friend said with obvious enthusiasm.

  Equally obvious to me was that something was on his mind. We stood by the desk where pets were checked in and out each day, and the place appeared as wild as usual, with attendants conducting playtime with visiting pups and attempting to keep them from acting all wolfen and gnawing on one another. Darryl, who usually seemed happily distracted by his place’s habitual chaos, seemed awfully sedate.

  “Does this mean that Rachel or you will have more or less time to pet-sit?” he asked, handing me my first clue to what was weighing on him.

  “You have another referral?” I asked, surprised at Darryl’s uncharacteristic subtlety. He usually just blurted out his requests, and I’d take on any pets I had time to handle. Sometimes those I didn’t have time for, too. I owed Darryl a lot, including my part-time pet-sitting avocation, which he’d gotten me into when I was desperate to make a few dollars.

  “Sure do,” he said, sounding as relieved as if I’d told him I’d take it on. “I hinted at it the other day.” Oh, right. He had. Well, I’d find him a pet-sitter, even if it couldn’t be Rachel or me. “I’ve got a customer who can’t come here because she’s in heat.”

  “A purebred?” I inquired, since most owners Darryl dealt with who had mixed breeds had them neutered—or Darryl would hound them until they did.

  “A show dog,” he answered. “This would probably have been her last season before spaying, but her owner wanted to breed her one more time and unfortunately hadn’t arranged an appropriate beau. The owner’s home with her today but wants someone to make frequent visits to coddle her canine baby over the next few crucial weeks. She’s determined to find the right male to mate her bitch with before the next season rolls around, and then she’ll have her spayed.”

  “Good deal,” I said. “I know a lot of people who are convinced that even show dogs should be spayed early and not be permitted to reproduce, what with the overpopulation of potential pets in shelters these days.”

  “No need to preach to this particular choir,” Darryl said, and I knew he wasn’t kidding. “Show dogs may be exceptions, and I’m all for people having pets who need day care, but I hate to hear of so many not ever being placed in loving homes.”

  “Tell me who the dog is and where she lives, and if Rachel or I can’t take care of her, I’ll find your customer a PSCSC member who can.”

  Darryl obliged by telling me exactly which lady dog he was discussing.

  And that’s when I started to really smile. I unexpectedly had the solution to several problems, thanks to this suddenly sunny season.

  OF COURSE I called Jeff, to let him know my latest moves. That was our temporary compromise, at least during daylight and while I kept in close telephone contact with him. And didn’t do anything too nutsy, like going into dark alleys alone. Or visiting all-but-empty homes of pet-sitting clients on my own, unless I called him from the front door and kept talking.

  Then I called Darryl’s client for Critter TLC, LLC’s pet-sitting fun and frolic—not to mention my ulterior motive. Her owner was a workaholic CPA who should have had a letup as late in April as it now was, but she was winding down some of her own customers’ posttax filing calculations and therefore her working hours remained nearly 24/7.

  Her name was Christiane Fineman, and her dog, Hildegard, had been a frequent visitor at Darryl’s for several months. Lexie and I had met them there before. They lived south of Ventura Boulevard at the border between Studio City and Sherman Oaks, on a flat street just behind Ventura Boulevard.

  Clad in shorts and a clingy T-shirt, Christiane stood outside her home in her fenced-in yard when I parked my Beamer at her curb. With a trowel in one hand and a hank of bedraggled green weeds in the other, she appeared to be gardening in the late afternoon sun, which in April wasn’t awfully intense. Her long, limp hair was pulled back into a ponytail behind her head.

  Pretty Hildegard frolicked near her, having a fine time amusing herself with a big beach ball. She’d have made a delightful model for a William Wegman photo—he’s the guy whose weimaraner shots grace books, calendars, and posters in gift shops everywhere.

  “Hi, Kendra,” Christiane called as I arrived at her front gate. “Where’s Lexie?”

  “I left her at Darryl’s so she could play a little more.” Hildegard had hurried toward me, and she now sat nuzzling my hand, endeavoring to entreat a treat, or at least a pat, out of me. I obliged by rubbing her soft, furry head. “How are you, Hildegard?”

  “She’s in season,” Christiane said unnecessarily, “but I’d imagine Darryl told you that.”

  I nodded. “He said you needed a daytime pet-sitter to keep her company some of the time while you’re at work. Unfortunately, that’s when I’m working, too.”

  “That’s right. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “Sure am, but I have an employee who might be able to help. If not, I’ll find you someone. But as I mentioned on the phone, there’s another reason I wanted to see you. Have time to talk?”

  “I’m not doing a darned bit of good going after these weeds,” she said with a snort of disgust. “Come on in, and I’ll get you a cold drink. Or warm—tea or coffee, you tell me. And you can also tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I STAYED FOR merely a half hour, but when I left I could have kissed Christiane. Or at least Hildegard. I’d gotten the response I had hoped for.

  What a win-win-win-win-win-win-win situation I was wangling for! Talk about ADR . . .

  Which I did. Soon as I returned to my law office.

  And much to my absolute delight, I was able to set up an all-hands meeting for the next day.

  When I picked Lexie up at Darryl’s later, I gave my good friend one huge hug and kiss. “You’re the greatest!” I gushed.

  “I take it that things went well with everyone involved?” He held a wriggling Lexie beneath one skinny arm as he stood near his busy checkout desk.

  “Remains to be seen, but I have high hopes. Thanks to you. Again.”

  “Aw, shucks,” he responded, and I laughed with him at his feigned shyness. He knew he rocked. As always.

  Lexie and I headed toward that evening’s pet visits. Which meant I needed to call Jeff so he could sew himself to my side like Peter Pan’s shadow.

  Only, he was busy. So was Buzz Dulear, who was attached at the proverbial hip to Rachel, the only way her dad would allow her to continue calling on pet clients.

  Which, darn it all, made me nervous.

  It also kept me alert at all my stops, which was a good thing. Of course nothing happened that evening to scare me into pulling out my pepper spray. Or even calling Jeff . . .

  Although he did show up at my doorstep later in the evening, dressed in his tight jeans and T-shirt that outlined every appealing bulge. He had his adorable Odin along, and also some Thai takeout. And insisted on spending the night.

  On the sofa.

  Hell, was I turning into a lech, with my libido humming every time the hunky P.I. was around? Sure thing.

  Did I do anything about it?

  Heck no. It was essentially my choice, after all. So I stewed alone in my bed that night. Again.

  And wondered which of all the mistakes I was making—sort of dating two men simultaneously, ho
lding them both at arm’s length and staying celibate, angsting over the entire situation—made me most miserable.

  Which left me utterly exhausted in the A.M. when I woke, knowing I faced a full day.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ALL FOUR OF us ate breakfast out together the next morning, sitting on a patio at a charming restaurant on Tujunga before we went our separate ways.

  Once more, I’d be on the honor system. I’d vowed to inform Jeff of my every move, and he’d looked me straight in the eye with his magnificent baby blues and promised he’d show up now and then when I wasn’t expecting him to ensure I was all right.

  Damn, but that made me feel all oozy inside. Sure, it was pushy. Treating me like a less-than-obedient kid.

  Even so, I felt . . . protected. Cared for.

  Loved.

  But I had too many demands on my life to make rash decisions.

  And so, when Odin and he walked Lexie and me to my Beamer, I engaged in one hell of a sexy kiss with him, then said hoarsely, “I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah, you’d better.” His voice sounded as husky as mine, and it sanded from my mind all thoughts of any other man.

  Heck, was I making a decision despite myself?

  I attempted to erase this disconcerting situation from my mind as I did my pet-sitting duties, since I had to concentrate on my surroundings and assure myself no would-be pet-napper hid in shadowed corners at my clients’ homes.

  At more than one home, I caught sight of a big black Escalade sitting outside, which, once I’d stifled my initial irritation, made me feel even warmer and fuzzier inside than before. Jeff was looking out for me. Again. Still.

  What I really needed to do, though, was to find the pet-napper to ensure it wouldn’t happen again, not to hide from possible problems.

  And since the cops apparently hadn’t solved Nya’s murder, that continued to weigh heavily on my heart.

  But I preferred solving one problem at a time.

  And when I finally arrived at my law office just a little later in the morning, I had a feeling I’d ace another one soon.

  I’D HAVE KEPT my confidence a whole lot better if the others at the session I’d called weren’t glaring so caustically at one another.

  Obviously, the passage of more than a week had done nothing to resolve the resentment between Jasper and Angelica McGregor on the one hand, and Jasper’s cousin Tallulah on the other. As always, when a meeting was to convene in the Yurick law office, I’d set things up for us to face off in the bar-conference room. My clients, Jasper and Angelica, who sat on my side of the elongated table, looked as if they could use a drink, but the building hadn’t been a restaurant for a long time, and no remnants of the old liquor-serving days remained, at least not that I’d ever discovered.

  Jasper had donned a funereal suit for the occasion—black, with a white shirt and print charcoal tie with a knot that seemed to set off his senior citizen wattle. His cadaverous face, too, made him appear more like a funeral director than the long-retired engineer that he was. He sat nearest to me, clutching the leash of Whiskey, the weimaraner, as if to let it loose would mean he’d lose the argument against his cousin.

  On his far side, chunky Angelica seemed paler than ever, which made the red lipstick on her poufy lips appear garish. She glared daggers at her husband’s relation who threatened to take back the treasured canine gift she’d allegedly given them.

  Then there was Tallulah herself, again decked out in gaudy jewelry, as if that made her look royal and therefore unable to be crossed and survive the clash. She appeared composed, although the wideness of her eyes didn’t appear solely because her jewel-encrusted spectacles magnified the orbs beneath.

  “We’re here,” she intoned regally, “although you haven’t given us a good reason why. Unless you’re intending to hand my dear Whiskey back to me today.” She dashed a disdainful look toward Jasper, as if she already knew the response to that.

  “Kendra called the meeting, not us,” Jasper said. He glanced at me quizzically, although there was a hint of hope in his eyes as well.

  I hadn’t explained what my idea was, only that I had one. I still thought it was a damned good one. But much depended on the reasonableness of the disputants, and at the moment I thought reasonability hadn’t found even a tiny toehold in this fury-filled room.

  “Why don’t you tell us what it is?” piped up Tallulah’s attorney. As before, Gordon Yarber remained nondescript, well overpowered by his large and domineering senior citizen client. He’d taken off his suit jacket and sat across from me in shirtsleeves and blue silk tie.

  “Sure,” I said, attemping to insert perkiness and confidence into this dour conclave. “Come here, Whiskey,” I said, standing, and removed the leash from an obviously reluctant Jasper’s hands. The sweet dog appeared somewhat confused, but he came up to me and let me stoop and hug him.

  My back toward the still-existing bar, my side pressed against the now-sitting dog, I said to my captive audience, “The dispute here is about who owns Whiskey.”

  “I do, of course,” interjected the authoritarian Tallulah.

  Which naturally got my clients riled and ready to protest. I held my hand up to halt their angry retorts.

  “That is one possibility,” I admitted. “If my clients lose in court despite the contract, documented by the paperwork you filled out to transfer Whiskey’s registration to them. The other possibility is the one I find more likely, that you’ve conveyed ownership of him to them.”

  “But—” began Tallulah.

  “I object,” shouted Gordon, as if we were in court and a judge could rule on whatever he was objecting to.

  Which I didn’t care about, here and now and in this very different venue.

  “Please let me continue,” I continued as calmly as if I hadn’t suffered any interruption. “Now, the Bible has a solution. I could play Solomon and suggest splitting this baby.” I reached down and stroked Whiskey’s soft scalp. “But we all know how impractical and messy that would be.”

  “The real mother wound up with the baby in the Bible,” Tallulah said majestically. “And that’s me.”

  “Well, technically, that’s not true, but it does lead me to my suggestion for symbolically splitting this particular baby.” All at the table regarded me quizzically. I had their attention. Time to offer my idea. “At the moment, I happen to be pet-sitting another purebred weimaraner, a registered show dog who wins quite a bit.”

  “If your suggestion is that we buy her—” Jasper began.

  I held up my hand. “No, it’s better than that, because you’ll wind up with Whiskey—at least somewhat. This particular bitch, whose name is Hildegard, happens to need pet-sitting because she can’t go to doggy day care for a few weeks. She’s in season. And her owner has been hoping to find the ideal male to mate her with.”

  “Whiskey!” shouted Angelica. “And we’d get a puppy?”

  “That’s my idea,” I said. “The owner’s amenable to breeding with your darling dog, and in exchange to allow you to choose which puppy will be yours. In the meantime, I suggest that you share custody of Whiskey, and when the pups are born, Tallulah gets Whiskey back and Jasper and Angelica get the baby.”

  “What if my client—” Gordon began, but I silenced him with a vicious slice of my hand in the air. I knew what he wanted to say: What if Tallulah wanted the puppy? Sure, that was a possibility, but I figured I’d suggest it this way and push the idea without giving an additional item to disagree about.

  “As long as we get to see Whiskey, too,” Jasper said. “And show him now and then.”

  “I suppose that would be acceptable,” Tallulah said, “provided that, if you travel with my Whiskey, you let me watch the puppy when you’re out of town.”

  “And Whiskey could always play with his son,” Angelica said, obviously buying into the idea as well. “We could get them together. You could bring him to our house, and I could make dinner for all of us, dogs included.” />
  “Do we have a deal?” I inquired.

  “Assuming all goes well with the breeding and results in an acceptable puppy,” Gordon inserted, acting, as he should, like a lawyer.

  “Then I’ll draw up the agreement,” I said.

  And watched as everyone started talking at once. Hand-shakes ended as the shakers pulled one another closer and began to hug.

  I grinned at Gordon. And at myself.

  ADR—Animal Dispute Resolution—ruled once more!

  “YOU DID IT, Kendra!” my boss Borden exclaimed a few minutes later in his habitually high-pitched voice. His excited expression lit his entire elderly face, inserting further creases at the edges of his bifocal-clad eyes.

  “Looks like,” I agreed cheerfully, giving him a huge grin.

  I sat in his antique-adorned office, in one of the artistically carved client chairs facing his desk. I’d removed my lawyerly suit jacket, feeling more comfortable in my long-sleeved silk blouse. Its pastel floral print was much more muted than the large hibiscus adorning his usual Hawaiian shirt.

  “Looks like your ADR—what do you call it? Animal Dispute Resolution?—works well. We’ll need to get the word out some more. Bring in lots of clients that way. Plenty of people have problems concerning their pets, and you can help to resolve them all.”

  I shifted in some discomfort. “Well, I can always try, but you know we can never promise results.”

  “Of course. But I’m proud of you, Kendra. Way to go.”

  “Hey, Kendra, you rock!” yelled Mignon as she entered Borden’s office, followed by a whole slew of the senior attorneys who worked here along with me, including silver-haired Elaine Aames and squat Geraldine Glass, with her reading glasses perched, as always, at the end of her nose.

  At Borden’s urging, I described my settlement conference and its apparent resolution, and was consequently cheered and toasted with raised coffee mugs.