“We know you didn’t do it,” Allen said staunchly. “And it’s really nice of you, Kendra, to try to find the killer to clear my Tracy.”
“Isn’t it, though?” said Jeff, who’d started standing at my side. “She’s a regular P.I. these days.”
“Oh, never as good as you,” I said sweetly.
“But all that stuff about your pet-sitting clients,” Tracy continued. “Are you really sure that was a good idea?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, for one thing, there’s sometimes some rivalry around here. Someone might try to pinch your customers.”
“No one has stolen any that you’ve passed along temporarily because of your situation, have they?” I felt immediately indignant on her behalf. “I’ll return those I’m helping with anytime.” Especially since I’d been attacked while watching a couple.
“I wasn’t accusing you, Kendra,” Tracy said. “I trust you, which was why I asked you to help in the first place.”
“You want your clients back yet?” I asked.
“Please keep them for now,” Allen said, giving me a glance with his sad eyes that suggested his significant other still needed help, even if she hoped it wasn’t so.
The two of them said their goodbyes and departed, with Phoebe, the puggle, trotting behind.
“I can tell you a hundred reasons why that was a really bad idea,” Jeff said when they were gone. “I think I know what you’re doing, Kendra, even though you attempted a tiny bit of subtlety. But no way will I let you—”
“Oh, hi, Darryl,” I said, looking over his shoulder as my good buddy and owner of this venue strolled up from his office. “Will you help us fold these chairs? I need to have them ready to be picked up first thing tomorrow.”
Darryl looked from Jeff to me and back again. “Uh-oh. Looks like I interrupted something.”
“No problem,” I said with a welcoming smile.
“No, this conversation was definitely finished,” Jeff said, staring a message at me that said you’re not doing anything, and you’re not getting out of my sight.
I simply nodded and started stacking chairs.
Chapter Twenty-seven
LEXIE AND I spent the night with Odin and Jeff.
Okay, I admit it. I was uneasy enough not to want to spend it alone. I knew exactly what I’d done, tempting fate and the pet-napper—and possibly even Nya’s murderer—that way.
I was also damned grateful to Jeff for being my bodyguard even when I behaved so . . . well, stupidly. Maybe.
And speaking of bodyguard . . . hell, I was horny. And even a little scared. And there I was, with one handsome hunk of a guy who wanted me and somehow put up with my shenanigans, even while giving me the scolding I deserved.
So, yes, we had sex. And that’s an understatement. Even though I hadn’t asked Jeff to stay celibate while I made up my mind about how much I wanted him in my life, he certainly made love as if he’d missed it. Missed me.
And I certainly found out that way just how much I’d missed him.
What did that mean for our relationship?
Didn’t I want to keep the really nice vet Tom Venson in my life—or had I cratered that possibility by this one brief evening of animal sex?
As I lay there in bed with Jeff breathing deeply beside me, dogs on the floor snoring, I considered myself Scarlett. O’Hara, that is, not a scarlet and fallen female.
I’d worry about that tomorrow.
I HAD PLENTY more to worry about on that day I anticipated would be fateful.
I started it as I always did—well, kinda, since I hadn’t stayed with Jeff in a while. We shared breakfast, I took Lexie to Darryl’s, and I dashed off for early pet-sitting with Jeff at my side. Then, alone, I went to the office where I engaged in the practice of law, as well as making myriad phone calls to PSCSC members about what they’d thought about my meeting last night.
And to listen to their responses, in case someone let something slip either about themselves or their clients that would make what I had in mind much simpler.
But no one did.
Oh, I had my ideas about what would happen. And by whom. But honestly, I was fully aware that nothing might. Sure, I’d issued a tacit challenge, but if the guilty person really wanted to get at me by stealing one of my clients, he or she could easily do it by following me, not falling for my quasi dare.
Evening eventually rolled around. I’d clued Darryl in that something was going down, and he promised to hang around at Doggy Indulgence longer than usual, even take Lexie home with him if the time grew too late.
Ignoring Jeff’s calls, I finished my typical pet-sitting, visiting the usual animals I’d come to love a lot: Alexander, the pit bull, Harold Reddingham’s arrogant but adorable cats, Abra and Cadabra, and Cicely, the Shih-tzu.
And then I headed to the home of exalted director Fabrizio Fairfax, one of the highest-ups at Hennessy Studios. That house had been the subject of tremendous controversy when it was built three years ago, not because of its size or ostentation, but because Fabrizio had bought several adjoining properties once owned by big stars in the early industry days and razed them, then constructed a small cottage for himself behind big walls.
It was what he had wanted, and he had the contacts and income to achieve it.
And now, his home sat vacant a good part of the year, since he was always off gallivanting the globe, making movies.
Which worked out very well for me.
I called Charley Sherman, my law client whose Santa Barbara resort dispute I’d helped to resolve, to say I was coming. He had worked things out so I could enter easily, including ensuring the security staff had the evening off. As Charley, the Hennessy Studio animal trainer, and I had discussed, I immediately went to work caring for the only animal on the estate: Impressario, the iguana.
Impressario wasn’t a whole lot larger than the somewhat greener Saurus. His habitat consisted of an aquarium that was large and glass and had several areas of different degrees of heat. It was located in one of the even smaller guest cottages on Fabrizio’s property, a vine-covered adobe affair that I reached by walking the meandering paths between the bark chip-strewn grounds.
I went inside. The place was furnished sort of austerely, as if Fabrizio didn’t intend for guests he put up here to stay long: a white couch and matching chair in the living room, both facing an old floor-model television, a double bed with a white comforter in the bedroom, a tiny kitchen with a comparatively large counter on which Impressario’s aquarium rested—and was clearly secured with metal straps and bolts, the better for ensuring it didn’t budge an inch, even if Impressario did. And Impressario had some tricks of his own up his . . . sleeve? Whatever.
“Hi, fellow,” I said, heading for the infinitesimal refrigerator to extract the veggies for his supper. His eyes appeared as astute as Saurus’s, but I knew he was assessing my fingers for an appetizer.
I fed him, sat on the sofa, and started to watch the evening news with the sound turned way down low so I could listen.
To nothing.
I stayed there through the early evening celebrity gossip shows on network TV, half listening, and waiting.
Still nothing.
Well, okay. That wasn’t really a surprise. Time to make it easier. I did as I’d planned and meandered myself into the back den of the big house. And again turned on the TV, this time putting an inane sitcom on in the background, while I instead watched out the window toward the Impressario-containing cottage.
Still nothing.
It got late. My planning had been for naught, at least that night. More likely, I had to be gone altogether for it to take effect. After all, all the other pet-nappings had occurred in empty homes.
I called the cops who’d been on call outside the house, staking out the place, thanked them for their help so far that evening, and requested that they stay on watch, just in case. I called Charley Sherman to thank him again and let him know that his trick animal Impressar
io remained intact and right in place.
“No one tried to snatch him?” Charley sounded disappointed over my cell phone. “I told the security staff to talk up the fact they had a night off. And Impressario’s aquarium was bolted down, so the thief would have had to have put his mitts inside the glass—and my untrainable iguana would have chewed off a finger or five.”
“I don’t imagine Fabrizio Fairfax would have liked the blood all over his guest house,” I said, smiling despite the picture that created in my imagination.
“We’d have cleaned it before he returned. He’s always happy to let people use the place while he’s on the road—preferably filming for some show, of course, but using it for guests or whatever is fine with him.”
“Trapping a pet-napper and possible killer?” This was territory we’d gone over before, or I wouldn’t have attempted to set things up here this evening. Even so, I remained both grateful and incredulous that I’d gotten a vicarious okay from the famous director to use his home for my attempted setup.
“Yep, but I guess it didn’t work out anyway.”
“Not yet,” I acknowledged. “And even though I’m going home, I’ve got Jeff Hubbard—he’s a P.I. and security expert—hanging around here to ensure that Impressario’s okay in my absence, and Mr. Fairfax’s home as well.” Yes, I’d eventually chatted more with Jeff, who’d chastised me but good but still went along.
“Good deal. But you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan.”
Next, still sitting in the quiet den, I called Jeff. “You’re all set to ensure there’s nothing bad happening here tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He sounded curt and irritable. He hadn’t liked my setting myself up like this, even with all the official observers, my own pepper spray easily accessible and ready to spritz a snatcher in the eyes, and a snappish iguana as the pet-napping target.
“Okay. Good. Thanks. I’m going to Darryl’s to get Lexie, then heading home. Call me if anything happens tonight. If not, we’ll do this again tomorrow.”
“You’d better be damned careful, Kendra,” Jeff said.
The moment I hung up, I got another call. “I’ll be fine,” I said as I answered, forgetting to check caller ID. But I knew who it had to be—the same guy who’d just been giving me orders.
Which actually was sweet. Showed he cared.
“Glad to hear it,” said a familiar female voice. “What’s going on, Kendra?”
It was Corina Carey. Damn! With an opening like that, I knew her curiosity would be on overdrive.
“Nothing yet,” I answered evasively. “But keep your phone handy over the next few days. I might break a big story for you.”
“Really? You’re that close? Damn, you’re good, Kendra.”
Yeah, I thought as I picked up my bag and dumped my phone into it.
Or at least I’d believe so if this nutty plan of mine bore fruit.
I headed out of the house to where my Beamer was parked in the driveway, all the while carefully scanning the yard for motion. It was always possible that the pet-napper had slipped inside despite all the cops and Jeff surveilling the place.
But I saw nothing at all untoward.
I unlocked the car and opened the door, hefted my bag onto the floor, and slid beneath the steering wheel.
Which was when I heard something in the backseat, and the cold feel of metal was suddenly pressed against my chin.
Trying not to shriek or shudder, knowing I was a whole lot more vulnerable here than I’d have been if this had been pulled off while I was inside and in control, I glanced into the rearview mirror.
Sure enough, there was the face I felt I’d most likely see as a result of springing my trap.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“HELLO, ALLEN,” I said softly, turning ever so slightly, with that chilly gun barrel hard against my shivering chin. “Fancy meeting you here. Not interested in pet-napping another iguana?” I slowly and carefully set my fingers to rooting around in my big bag, which I’d placed on the floor beside me instead of in its usual place on the passenger seat.
Okay, so my trap hadn’t sprung exactly as I’d planned. But I still had a trick or two up my short T-shirt sleeve . . . or at least in my big, concealing bag.
Too bad it didn’t happen to be my pet-sitting client Py, the python. Nor was it Impressario, the iguana. But it would have to suffice.
Right now, Tracy Owens’s sleazy significant other simply laughed, a deep, vicious sound that set my teeth on edge and my heart thudding. How had I ever thought his looks ordinary? From what I could see from the edge of my eye into the backseat where he perched, he appeared as scary as some shadowy figure in a Stephen King story. His eyes were glazed and staring, his smile so crocodile-like that I nearly felt his jaws snap around my vulnerable flesh.
“I knew it was a trap,” he said as his nasty laughter ended. “You weren’t exactly subtle about it, Kendra.”
“No, I guess I wasn’t. So what now, Allen Smith?”
“Now, I think you’re going to follow that meddling Nya Barston to wherever pet-sitters end up after they’re dead.” That scary laughter again, echoing all over the insides of my Beamer.
Surely my comfy leather seats couldn’t absorb that awful sound. But even so, if I survived this, I’d want to have my poor car detailed with utter diligence, to scrub out every iota of Allen and his laughter that might remain behind.
Which if seemed like a big one just about then.
“I didn’t think you were so stupid, Kendra,” he continued. “I mean, you stuck yourself tonight right into the middle of a dangerous situation, knowing that whoever was stealing pets and killing pet-sitters could come after you. Yeah, I know the cops were around, but that didn’t stop me before, and you knew it. You could have been hurt, or even killed. Why did you do it?”
“To help my friend Tracy,” I said coldly. “Which should have been your responsibility, not mine. I thought she was supposed to be the love of your life.”
The gun jammed even harder against my throat. “That’s exactly what I was doing, bitch. I wanted her out of that stupid pet-sitting business. It took up too much of her time and energy. I make enough money for both of us. I wanted her to marry me, and I’d take care of her forever.”
Which had kinda been the direction my thoughts had been going as I’d assessed him as a possible suspect. Hurt feelings and more—like, a potentially abusive domestic relationship. That’s why I’d narrowed my suspicions down such that I’d all but assumed Allen was the thief . . . and Nya-slayer.
Now, I just needed to keep him talking, which didn’t appear to be difficult at all. Seemed like the guy wanted to spill his guts before spilling mine.
“I also wanted her out of that stupid Pet-Sitters Club of SoCal, even though she helped to form it,” he continued. “It took up too much of her time, so if its members all had pets stolen while they watched them, who the hell would hire them? No one, that’s who. The whole thing would fall apart, and—hey, what the hell are you doing?” he shouted in my ear. Without withdrawing the gun, he leaned his unbuff body over the seat and my own shaky and unprotected self, and grabbed my bag. “You still have pepper spray in there? Well, you’re not going to use it on me again.” He pulled the bag into the back with him. “You’re not so tough, even though I’ve followed all those cases of yours where you solve murders and get all that media attention. Even if you figured out Nya’s murder, you won’t be alive when the person I intend to be blamed for it is caught—and, believe me, it won’t be my Tracy. I don’t know why the cops could be so stupid, trying to pin it on her just because Nya and she had a little argument and Nya happened to be killed at one of her customer’s homes.”
“How did that happen?” I asked in as conversational a tone as I could muster. “Did Nya suspect that a pet-napping would occur there that night and figure she’d be there to stop the thief?”
“Yeah, the interfering bitch. She didn’t know it was me,
of course. She thought I was just there trying to help Tracy with the damn dog in that house . . . at first. But she kept asking questions, like where Tracy was, and did I know the first thing about taking care of dogs, and she said she wasn’t sure I was even good enough for Tracy. I had one of Tracy’s bats with me to use on the dog if it gave me a hard time, so I used it on Nya instead. As soon as I raised it in the air, she knew the truth and screamed out that I was the pet-napper and that she’d tell Tracy . . . which she never had the chance to do.”
That smug, spine-chilling laughter burst through the Beamer again, and I gritted my teeth, which was a good thing, since it kept them from chattering, as scared as I was.
Were the cops still around? Outside the gates and still on duty, sure, but they might have relaxed and dozed off assuming all was okay after our last little recap.
How about Jeff? He was a much better bet. In fact, with luck, he was lurking around outside the Beamer, trying to figure out a way to stop Allen before he could slam a bullet into me.
“What about the pet-nappings?” I inquired conversationally. “What were they all about? And why did you only collect ransom on the Dorgans’ animals?”
“I wanted to discredit that whole damned club of yours,” Allen said with a growl. “Show how inept all its members were. Even cause it to disband. But you were too nosy, Kendra. I figured you’d back off asking all your damned questions once the pets you were caring for were back home. Do you know how hard it was to arrange for that garbage truck to rumble down the alley that night to hide the time when I grabbed the money?”
“I can guess,” I said. “A bit greedy, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t demand ransom for any of the other animals,” he responded as if insulted. “And it wasn’t like I needed that fifty thousand—although I have it put away as a nice nest egg for Tracy and me, after we get married.”
The Fright of the Iguana Page 23
