Beaglemania (27 page)

I’d love for them to suffer additional punishment, too, but didn’t want what I said to sound like they should fear for their lives—especially from me, and especially till I was no longer on the cops’ list of murder suspects.

“So you’re saying that even his employer at the air-conditioning company where he worked was as guilty as him?”

“Did he know about what Efram was doing?”

“He knew about the claims against HotRescues and you, and the settlement, since his volunteering at your shelter resulted in Efram’s having to take some time off work.”

“Is he your client, too?”

A brief silence. Then—“I can’t get into that at the moment.”

In other words, this shyster liked the idea and was probably going to go solicit Efram’s former employer as a client. Interesting. It also gave me someone else to look into for my suspect file in Efram’s murder.

“Well, it really doesn’t matter to me who you represent,” I asserted. “I said nothing untrue. If it turns out I was misquoted, I’ll take that up with the reporter and get a retraction, but nothing you’ve said so far worries me particularly.”

Not exactly true, but I’d learned, throughout my life, to appear to put a positive spin on things—overtly, at least, no matter how miserable I felt inside. And how much I anticipated the worst.

“We’ll see, Ms. Vancouver. And if you haven’t already retained counsel, you might want to consider doing so.”

As he hung up, I wondered whether I should contact Esther Ickes. Although she was my criminal attorney, I’d gathered, from things she had said, that she sometimes took on civil matters like bankruptcies. Claims of defamation? I’d have to ask her.

“What was that all about, Mom?” Tracy’s voice was worried. She had paused with the cookie sheet in her hands, which were tucked inside large, quilted orange oven mitts. The mitts clashed with her cardinal and white Stanford T-shirt with the green logo of a redwood tree in the middle.

“The same nonsense that’s been going on since that creep Efram Kiley died at HotRescues,” I said, shaking my head. “Too much finger-pointing and not enough fact-finding. I suspect I’ve graduated beyond YouTube and am on TV now.”

“What!” she shrieked. “Where?” She quickly put the baking sheet into the oven, turned on the timer, then hurried out the back door before I could figure out what she was up to. In a moment, the sound of the lawnmower died. Apparently, she’d gone to get her brother so they could both confront me. Oh, joy.

I was almost glad that my BlackBerry rang again. A distraction. Maybe a friend calling. But the number on the caller ID wasn’t one I recognized.

“Hello?” I said cautiously, bracing myself for further misery. Good thing I did, since that was certainly what I got.

“This is Patsy Shaheen, Lauren,” said a shrill voice on the other end. Great. Now champion animal abusers had my phone number. I might have to change it. “A friend called about that terrible
National NewsShakers
show and how they talked about Bradley and me and our babies. They said you’ve taken in some supposedly sick dogs. Can we come see them? The Animal Services people have forbid us from visiting any of our darlings.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re still nursing them back to health.”

“Are you with them now?”

“Close enough,” I said. Would she demand that I send her a picture over my phone or something equally bizarre?

“Please, just give them a hug from us and tell them we want them to get all better soon. And if they have to go to some other family, we wish them someone who loves them like we do.”

Bull crap. But all I said to her was, “Of course, Patsy. How nice of you to care.” And then I not-so-gently hung up.

My kids were back in the room watching me. “You okay, Mom?” Kevin asked.

“Just peachy,” I said, then smiled. “Honest. But if you really want to help me feel better, stay with me while I watch that damned
National NewsShakers
show on TV.”

Tracy turned on the oven light to peek in at her cookies. I assumed they must look all right since she joined her brother and me as we went into the living room. I perked my ears up so I’d hear the timer go off, in case she didn’t.

I sat on the middle blue cushion on the sofa and patted the ones on either side of me, turning me into a Vancouver sandwich when my children complied. My leg barely hurt any longer. I used the remote to turn on Kevin’s monstrosity of a large TV and found the channel with
National NewsShakers
. Would the show featuring HotRescues still be on? I clicked the directory.
National NewsShakers
had just started another hour of broadcasting.

And, yes, the same show must either be repeating or another one had begun that focused on my shelter. We started watching.

After only a few minutes, I grasped Kevin and Tracy’s hands. I could see why anyone who knew Efram could be upset.
I
was upset—not because of the accusations against him and them, but because that reporter, Corina Carey, had somehow taken news clips of other people, her filmed discussion with me, and pictures of dogs like those just saved from euthanasia by sheltering them at HotRescues . . . and made it sound, via an overlaid narration, as though I was one sick, angry broad who’d do anything to save animals. Especially ones abused in hellholes like the Shaheens’ puppy mill.

There wasn’t a lot I could object to. Except for the sick part, it was true. But I hadn’t named names when I was interviewed—except for a few of the dogs and cats at HotRescues. I hadn’t directly accused any of the folks that shyster Remseyer had claimed to be representing in my answers to the reporter’s questions. Not that I could exonerate any of them in Efram’s death.

“Whoa, Mom,” Kevin said as we watched and listened, and I grew even more concerned. “That’s some nasty stuff you said about all those people.”

“A bit of misrepresentation here,” I said. “I didn’t say all the things that reporter claimed, or even very many of them, even if I thought them.”

I wasn’t particularly surprised when Detective Stefan Garciana also called me, making sure I’d watched the show. That spurred me to leave a message for my attorney, Esther Ickes, who was in a meeting that afternoon. I told her secretary to have Esther take a look at
National News-Shakers
—and to assure her that I wasn’t quite as imprudent as the show portrayed me.

I’d want to talk to her, also, about whether I should put that reporter Corina Carey on notice that I’d like her to clarify my participation in what she’d used for her show.

But as I sat there pondering what to do, I realized that the sensationalism in this purported news story might actually work to my advantage. It certainly stirred the pot of any complacency that the people I believed could have murdered Efram might have been simmering around themselves.

Of course, I’d thought that the incident with Honey, the food bags, and the knife had resulted from the killer’s anger about my inquiries. I’d have to be even more careful now.

I turned off the TV. Tracy had already gotten her cookies out of the oven. Chocolate chip—my favorite. I was good and only ate one, though. I’d promised to take them out to dinner at their favorite Mexican restaurant.

 

 

At dinner, I’d have preferred directing the conversation to getting a full rundown on how my children were doing at their respective schools. Fortunately, we did get into that some. Both were fine, even Kevin, despite this being his first year.

Mostly, though, we talked about how I was doing, what I was doing, and whether someone as dedicated to pet rescue as me could ever kill a guy—especially one who was as miserable an excuse for a human being as Efram, who’d continuously abused animals.

I assured my kids that I couldn’t. I realized, though, that making that kind of assurance was as false as if I’d told them I couldn’t kill anyone in defense of either of them.

On our way home, I stopped at HotRescues. I looked around and didn’t see the security patrol, but maybe they’d just been by. I turned off the alarm and we all went inside.

Amid chaotic greetings from the rows of dogs, we went upstairs to the infirmary. There, we took Sweety and Missy out of their quarantine enclosures and gave them some hugs and TLC.

Both seemed rather listless, as if energy was a landmark that they hadn’t yet discovered. But they also seemed happy for the attention, so we gave them a lot.

We were in the building where most cats, toy dogs, and small animals resided downstairs, so I took my children to visit them, too. They even got some quality time with a few of the kitties who were willing to accept, with royal dignity, the attention showered on them by mere humans.

When we left, I purposely hurried the kids out. I didn’t want them asking questions about where Efram had died or even demanding to see the place in the storage building where I’d been assailed by the food bags and knife. My daughter and son were full of intelligent curiosity—and I wanted them to direct it elsewhere, far from their mother’s troubles.

Tomorrow was Sunday. I would spend as much of it as I could with them, since they’d both head back to school in the evening.

But my mind was swirling already on all I wanted to do on Monday. And it didn’t involve just ensuring that all the inhabitants of HotRescues—except for our newest ones, who needed time to heal—were healthy and ready for new homes.

I brought the kids to HotRescues for a short while on Sunday, too. Not particularly early, though. They were taking full advantage of the time off what they both claimed were rugged academic schedules.

Having once been a college student, then a grad of veterinary tech school, I realized that half their assertions were probably exaggerated. But it was all part of the learning process—learning to be adults, not just scholars in their chosen fields.

Because it was the weekend, we had an abundance of volunteers present at HotRescues, but Nina had the day off. Our most senior helper, Bev, seemed charmed by the opportunity to take Kevin and Tracy for a walk around the facility, giving them the VIP tour though they’d been here uncountable times before. They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I had the impression they enjoyed seeing the place through the eyes of someone other than their watchful, opinionated, and sometimes obsessive mother.

I did some paperwork—rather, computer work—in the office. Several volunteers had noted a couple of pages of messages from answering the main shelter phone, but I didn’t want to take the time now to return the calls.

While I sat there, though, my BlackBerry rang. The caller ID wasn’t one I’d programmed in, but I recognized it: Corina Carey from
National NewsShakers
.

Never mind that I’d convinced myself that her approach to reporting about the puppy mill rescue and ensuing situation at HotRescues might be useful to me. That didn’t mean I wanted to talk to her again.

But being rude might only make things worse. “Hello,” I said without acknowledging I knew who was calling.

“Hi, Lauren. Have you heard what’s going on? I’d like a statement from you.”

Confused, I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“That dogfighting ring in South LA. The one where they’re making all the arrests as we speak. You haven’t heard about it?”

“No,” I admitted grimly. “But I’ll look into it.”

“Can I get a general statement from you about what you think about dogfights?”

The idea of being quoted again by Corina Carey made me hesitate before responding. I considered just saying “no comment.” But I definitely had an opinion and, on reflection, didn’t mind sharing it with the world. “They’re another act of cruelty,” I told her, selecting my words carefully. “Different from puppy mills like the one in the rescue situation a couple of weeks ago. But as with puppy mills, people guilty of that kind of abuse deserve to be punished. And as you know, HotRescues stands for animal protection.”

I did a rewind through my brain. I thought it came out okay, not pointing fingers at any actual person but expressing my opinion as an animal advocate—while also putting in a plug for HotRescues.

“Thanks,” Corina said, and then she was gone—probably off to add her recording of my statement to whatever her network was broadcasting.

Which I decided I needed to see. I didn’t have a television at HotRescues, but my computer would do. I did a search and found
National NewsShakers
.

The details of the story made my blood roar in my ears.

As Corina had stated, there had been a major raid of a place in South LA that was a dogfight venue. Dogs—mostly pit bulls, judging by the photos—had been taken into custody, as had the people responsible.

Dogfights were major, illegal acts of cruelty—all the more so because the animals bred and trained to battle were usually doomed to be euthanized, since retraining them to become manageable pets was so difficult.