Free The Fright of the Iguana by Linda O. Johnston Page A

conference calls scheduled, do I?”
    “Nope,” she chirped. “And I assume that, by a personal day, you mean another murder day, right?”
    “How would you know that?” I demanded with uninhibited irritation.
    “It’s on the news. I saw it on one of the local TV channels’ websites.”
    Corina Carey, or her media vulture counterparts, had obviously been busy.
    “I wasn’t exactly clear what happened,” Mignon continued, “but some pet-sitter was killed on a job, yes?”
    “Pet-sitter, yes,” I responded, “but on the job—no.”
    “Did you know her?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Do the police think they know who did it, Kendra? And if so, do you agree, or are you going to solve another murder?”
    “They may be considering a suspect,” I said. “If it’s who I believe it is, then, no, I don’t agree. But will I solve it—”
    “You are involved, I can tell. How exciting, Kendra! I’ll tell Borden—”
    “No. Please transfer me to him. I’ll do it.” Admittedly, I’d started out this call as a coward. But my initial idea of having Mignon cover for me because of a personal problem I chose not to disclose wouldn’t cut it after all.
    Fortunately, Borden understood, great guy that he was. “You really are a murder magnet, aren’t you, Kendra?” I heard the cheeriness in his tone.
    “Not by choice.” At least not entirely. But these days, homicides hounded me. And not in a pet-sitter sense.
    “Take today off. And as much extra time as you need—as long as you don’t neglect any of your work here, of course.”
    “Of course. Thanks, Borden.”
    I appreciated his understanding, but also recognized its limits. I had to make good use of my law-free time today.
    So where now, I wondered, as I got into my Beamer.
    The thing was, I’d let the killing distract me from my own awful dilemma. Where were the animals who disappeared on my watch? I called Detective Flagsmith, but he hadn’t anything new to report on the missing canine and reptile. “No more ransom notes?” I asked almost hopefully.
    “Nope.”
    I thanked him—for nothing, though I kept that part to my unhappy self—and hung up. My e-mail from the Dorgans had indicated that Hillary would be home tomorrow, so I’d have to face her then.
    With no update other than the fact I’d somehow allowed her friends to be stolen?
    I decided to seek info from someone who was supposed to have some. Not specific to my pet-napping, though. Tracy had told Frieda Shoreman to research all recent pet-nappings around this area.
    And just maybe she’d know something about Nya’s demise, too.
    Did I assume they were somehow related? Not necessarily, but I couldn’t assume they weren’t, either.
    I called Frieda. Turned out she intended to dog-walk in the park on Huston Street in Sherman Oaks—part of my convenient neighborhood in the huge urban environment that was L.A.
    She had heard, of course, of Nya’s demise. “Isn’t it awful?” she asked immediately.
    “Sure is.” And can you pass along any information to lead to her killer? I ached to blurt. Instead, I told her I’d been intending to take Lexie out for exercise and asked if we could join her. She sounded amenable, so I said, “Meet you there in an hour.” That gave me time to get back over the hill, change my clothes, and visit Darryl to pick up the info he’d promised, along with my dog for walking.
     
     
    WE SAT IN Darryl’s messy office, he behind his cluttered desk and I in one of the chairs facing him. Lexie had greeted me effusively, but when she saw I wasn’t ready to immediately spring her from this joint, she’d gone back to lie down on the people-type sofa in one sector of the main room.
    “So what can you tell me about Nya Barston?” I asked my bespectacled friend. “Did you ever refer pet-sitting clients to her?”
    He nodded. As always, he wore a Doggy Indulgence knit shirt, red today rather than the usual green. “I’d heard of her through some of my customers