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

here, before I even met you. I knew she worked over the hill around Hollywood, and her references were good. I only met her in person a couple of times. She seemed a bit abrupt with people, but she obviously loved dogs.”
    “My impression, too,” I agreed. “I don’t suppose you know anything about her personal life.”
    “I didn’t, but this morning I called a longtime customer who’d used her and commiserated over her loss. That customer knew her better than I ever did and said she had a boyfriend, by the name of . . .” He looked down at one of the dozen piles on his desk, dug through the top few inches, and pulled out a piece of paper. “Jerry Jefferton. I don’t know how close they were, or where he lives, but I figure you or Jeff can find out.”
    “Sure will. Can you also give me that customer’s name, and any others you know who’ve used Nya as a pet-sitter?”
    “You think one of them killed her?” My dear friend appeared absolutely horrified.
    “Right now, I’ve no idea who did it, but talking to her friends and acquaintances might help me figure it out.”
    “Make sure it isn’t anyone I know and like,” Darryl demanded grumpily, but he did take a few minutes to check on his deskside computer and compile a short list that he printed out. “Here’s everyone I know about.”
    “Thanks, Darryl.” I stood, as did he. “I don’t suppose any of your customers or other friends know anything about the pet-nappings?”
    “No, but they’re a big topic of conversation, now that they’ve hit the news along with Nya’s murder.”
    They had? I hadn’t heard. Would that be a good thing, letting the world know of this latest rash of nasties, or might it only make things worse?
    “Everyone’s worried about leaving their pets home alone,” Darryl continued, “which is good for my business during the day.”
    “I’ll bet. Well, if you hear anything helpful—”
    “I’ll call you right away.”
     
     
    LEXIE AND I hurried west from Studio City and emerged from the Beamer at the pup- and people-filled dog park.
    We soon met up with Frieda and Usher, the dog she was tending, a large mixed breed that appeared part rottweiler. Even so, Usher seemed a big softy.
    Frieda was dressed in flowered leggings with her traditional flowing top, this one bright magenta. Her foot attire fit the occasion: pink athletic shoes, with pink-striped white socks.
    We all slowly walked the path, letting the pups sniff the usual dog-park smells, puppy passersby, and one another. I had to look up at Frieda’s graceful height to meet her amber eyes. They were enhanced by an array of makeup, overdone for a dog walk, but she was unquestionably an attractive lady.
    I started with a question I figured she could answer, even if her response was negative. “Were you able to find anything about any other pet-nappings in the area?”
    She shook her bleached blond locks. “No, though don’t tell Tracy, but I haven’t done much looking.”
    I wasn’t thrilled that she hadn’t even attempted her PSCSC project and looked for other local pet-nappings. It should only have required a Googling or review of past newspaper issues or recent TV news. These days, all that stuff is available easily on the Internet. Good thing I’d intended to do some searching anyway and not rely on her findings.
    Not that it would necessarily assist in my own pet-absconding situation.
    At least I was pleased that Frieda had brought up Tracy, giving me an intro to the other subject I wanted to discuss.
    “Poor Tracy,” I started. “You know, she thinks the cops believe she could have killed Nya.” I stole a sideways glance to see if I could tell, by Frieda’s expression, if she happened to share that point of view.
    Instead, she looked shocked. “Tracy? Why, she’s so gentle that she even traps rodents at the homes where she pet-sits and drives them way up to remote areas off Mulholland to let them out. She would never hurt a person, not even