Oodles of Poodles (8 page)

I reached into my pocket and pulled out some treats. “Here, sweetheart.” I held out my hand toward her.

She looked suspicious, but her nose must have told her that I really had some food for her. She slowly drew closer.

When she grabbed the treats from me, Carlie, who’d set our coffees down and sneaked toward us, picked her up from behind.

Fortunately, the dog seemed more shy than aggressive.

“See any kind of ID on her?” I asked.

Carlie shook her head. “Nothing.”

We wandered around for quite a while, asking people, including those at the coffee shop, if they recognized the dog, but no one did.

“Let’s go back to HotRescues,” I finally said. “I’ll check her for a microchip.”

“And if she doesn’t have one?”

“Let’s strategize on the way. I’m sure I can get Matt to help me pick her up again from a public shelter if I have to turn her in.”

That was the law here. Private shelters could take in owner relinquishments or could rescue animals from public shelters before they were put down for lack of space. But they couldn’t take in strays.

There were ways to deal with that, though, that could still result in a living, adoptable dog.

“Let’s call her Hope for now,” I said as we settled the stinky pooch in the back of my Venza in one of the crates locked in there for just this kind of situation. I looked into the crate, seeing the scared eyes of the poor dog. “Hope, I have a feeling that your life is about to get a whole lot better.”

Chapter 7

“She’s adorable!” That was Nina, the moment we brought Hope into the HotRescues welcome area. Her huge smile bisected her thin face.

I’d called ahead and Nina had closed Zoey in my office. My dog didn’t need to meet Hope unless and until our new rescuee became an inhabitant at this facility. Less hassle that way, and there was always the remote possibility that Hope was ill—although Carlie had already given her a cursory examination.

Our plan was to go next to The Fittest Pet to ensure that Hope was checked out more thoroughly before we decided what to do with her.

For now, though, I went into my office and grabbed the microchip scanner. Hope cowered a bit as I knelt on the tile
floor and ran the gadget over her while Carlie and Nina watched.

Yes! There was a microchip embedded in her back beneath her curly reddish coat. The small rice-sized gadget should help us find Hope’s owner.

Who might be looking desperately for the poor, missing animal. Or not. I’d reserve judgment whether to feel sorry for the despondent owner who’d tried everything to find his or her pet, or to hate the careless, uncaring person who had let Hope get lost and wasn’t even searching for her.

In my work with animals over the past few years, I’d seen and dealt with both.

At the moment, I looked at the information, grabbed my phone, and called the microchip registry company noted on the readout. The operator who answered quickly found a dog matching Hope’s description with the same ID number and gave me the contact data. Since I’d dealt with this company before and they knew about HotRescues, getting them to provide me with the somewhat confidential information was no problem.

I jotted down the name and phone number. The name sounded familiar: Guy Randell. Same name as a Los Angeles city councilperson. Could it be him?

Carlie and Nina looked over my shoulder toward the pad of paper I held. “Really?” Carlie said.

“It doesn’t seem like that common a name, but it isn’t necessarily who we think it is,” I replied. I hugged Hope, then asked Nina to take her into the small kitchen and give her some dinner. “I’ll bet the poor thing hasn’t eaten for a while.”

“Should I call Margo up here and ask her to give Hope a bath?” Nina asked.

“I’d rather have her health checked before she sees our groomer,” I said.

Nina put a temporary collar on Hope and snapped on a leash. She seemed to know what they were for, since she didn’t balk at accompanying Nina into the other room. I’d already used a leash with a slip-collar from my car to walk Hope briefly in the parking lot. She also appeared to be housebroken.

I wished, not for the first time when I met a new animal, that we had a better way to communicate. I’d love to know Hope’s background from her own perspective.

For now, though, Carlie and I went into the rest room, sanitized our hands, and sprayed a light disinfectant mist over our clothes. Then we entered my office, where Zoey greeted us both effusively.

Sitting at my desk, I used the speakerphone on my landline to call the number I’d been given by the microchip company.

Sure enough, “Councilman Randell’s office,” said the friendly female voice that answered.

Keeping my tone professional, I said, “My name is Lauren Vancouver. I’m the administrator of HotRescues, a private pet rescue facility. I’d like to speak to the councilman about his dog. Is he available?”

“His dog?” the voice repeated as incredulously as if I’d asked to speak to the councilman’s long-deceased great-grandfather. “Just a minute.” Before I could say anything else, I was apparently put on hold since I didn’t hear anything
for at least a minute. Then, “Ms. Vancouver? Sorry to keep you waiting, but I checked. The councilman doesn’t own a dog.”

My turn for silence, but only for a moment. “May I speak with him, please? I got his information after checking out the microchip in a stray dog I found. I’d just like a clarification.” And verification, in case whoever this was didn’t know what she was talking about. I suspected, though, that I’d been put on hold so she could ask around to confirm whether the councilman did or didn’t have a canine pet.

“Just a moment and I’ll check.”

Good thing I wasn’t in a hurry to do something else, since once again I was treated to a lengthy silence. I broke it by saying to Carlie, “This seems a bit strange, doesn’t it? I mean, why would Hope’s microchip give information for someone who didn’t own her?”

Carlie shook her head slowly, her blond hair stroking the shoulder of her T-shirt. “I agree. I’ve never heard of anyone putting someone else’s contact information into the database for a microchip. But—”

“Hello, Ms. Vancouver?” boomed a deep voice over the phone. “This is Councilman Randell. I understand there’s some confusion—about a dog, is it?”

“That’s right.”

As I explained the situation about the dog we now called Hope, I heard the politico’s ongoing “hmmmm,” which grew louder as I told him how I’d gotten his name and this phone number.

“Interesting,” he said. “But truly, Ms. Vancouver, I don’t own a dog of any kind, let alone the one you’ve described.” His tone grew a tiny bit curt, which made me wonder…

As we continued the conversation briefly, I did a Google search on the Internet—and learned that there was some controversy about Councilperson Guy Randell’s position on a few issues regarding Los Angeles Animal Services. If the media got it right, the guy might actually be an animal hater. I’d known there was political opposition to some matters recently proposed to further regulate puppy mills and extend the time animals were held in public shelters but hadn’t paid much attention to who was against them.

“You know,” the councilman said eventually, “I think I’ll have someone look into this odd situation. If they find anything, I’ll have them call you at HotRescues. In any case, as far as I’m concerned the dog is yours to deal with as you wish.”

“All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

I had a feeling that had I been in this man’s council district, I would vote against reelecting him.

“What now?” Carlie looked concerned as I ended the phone connection.

“First, I’ll contact Matt. Then we’ll go to Fittest Pet so you can check Hope out.”

I quickly called Matt and explained the situation. “Even though the councilman is purportedly looking into the situation, Hope seems to be a stray. I’ll need to turn her in to Animal Services once her health has been checked. But I’ll want to put a hold on her, assuming Councilman Randell’s office doesn’t contact me with anything helpful and her real owner doesn’t claim her—which sounds as likely as the councilman inviting me to lunch.”

I was glad for many reasons that I was now friends with Matt. For one thing, he helped to expedite this kind of
situation. For another, he gave a damn about what would happen to the dog.

“You’re sure you got the information right?” he asked.

I had him on speakerphone, and Carlie answered, leaning over my desk toward the receiver. “Why would a microchip service company lie? It’s possible they got their records fouled up, but I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Me neither,” Matt said. “Well, check out the dog’s health, Carlie. If you give me what you got from the microchip company, Lauren, I’ll put that into our system and have someone follow our protocol to confirm the information you’ve got. Let me know if you hear anything new from the councilman’s office, too. It sounds, though, as if you’ve just rescued another unclaimed stray dog, which could be a good thing since she’ll probably wind up at HotRescues.”

“That’s great!” I said, meaning it. But my questions still remained. “I’d still like to know, though, if the councilman was lying.”

“There are ways of checking out whether he had a pet,” Matt reminded me.

“There are,” I agreed. “I think I’ll tell Brooke when she comes to do her security thing at HotRescues tonight to put on her private investigator hat for a little while and find out.”

Carlie had her car here, and I could have just sent Hope with her back to The Fittest Pet Veterinary Hospital. But I’d arranged with Matt to meet him there. He would take Hope to one of the public shelters, then make sure all the requirements were fulfilled to allow me to come get her if the owner didn’t show up—the most likely scenario.

Something was definitely screwy about Hope, at least about where she’d come from. But I’d do my darnedest to make sure that the rest of her life was happy—especially if I could find her a new, loving home soon.

Matt was waiting for us when we reached The Fittest Pet. Carlie and I had driven in a short caravan with Hope in the back of my Venza while I followed her.

The Fittest Pet Veterinary Hospital was in Northridge on Reseda Boulevard, not far from the streets where the filming of scenes for
Sheba’s Story
had occurred yesterday. As I parked in Carlie’s lot, my mind pounced once more onto the possible murder of director Hans Marford.

What had happened to him? Was Carlie really a suspect?

Would I have to help find who killed him to help her?

I hoped not.

“Hi, Lauren,” said a muffled voice outside my car window. I realized then that I’d just been sitting there. Matt was right beside me.

“Hi.” I smiled and got out, waving toward the back of my car. “That’s Hope. I’ll get her out of her crate and put a leash on her.”

Carlie joined us and we all headed into the facility.

The Fittest Pet Veterinary Hospital is in a cute, single-story building of pink stucco. It’s a circle, built around an outer patio where animals could be walked or otherwise given fresh air.

With Carlie along, we didn’t have to wait till a doctor was ready to see our canine patient. Matt, Hope, and I were shown into an examination room.

“Cute pup.” Matt stooped to pet Hope. “I can’t imagine that someone who really owned her would disavow it.”

“There are a lot of strange people in the world,” I responded. “Although someone in the public eye like that…well, we’ll just have to see.”

Carlie, dressed in her official veterinary scrubs, soon joined us, followed by a vet tech who came in to draw blood. We lifted Hope onto the metal examination table in the middle of the room. Her exam took about half an hour. By then, preliminary results of the blood test had been received, too.

“She looks good,” Carlie said. “I know that Matt has to take her to one of the public shelters now, so I’ll have one of my technicians give her a quick bath first.” She popped her head through the back door of the examination room and immediately a twentyish young woman came in and picked up Hope.

We stayed in that room talking for about fifteen minutes till Hope was returned to us—much cleaner and still a bit damp.

“Now, come out front with me and I’ll tell our guys how to handle this on the computer.”

We went out through the exam room’s front door and down the hallway toward the reception area, Carlie leading the way.

I almost bumped into her when she stopped abruptly and gasped.

Detective Lou Maddinger stood in the busy waiting room, surrounded by people maneuvering cat crates and dogs. The chubby, gray-haired detective saw us right away. “Dr. Stellan? I’d like for you to come with me to the Devonshire station. I have some more questions for you.”

I wanted to ask him if they had made a final determination
whether Hans had been murdered, but now wasn’t the time. Besides, I felt certain that I already knew the answer.

I heard Carlie’s soft moan—and knew that, like it or not, I was about to start conducting my fourth unofficial murder investigation.

Chapter 8