The More the Terrier
Read The More the Terrier Online
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
Table of Contents
Praise for
Beaglemania
“Gutsy Lauren Vancouver easily wins over the hearts of animals in need—as well as readers . . . [Vancouver is] an ardent advocate for homeless pets.”
—Rebecca M. Hale,
New York Times
bestselling
author of
How to Moon a Cat
“Animal lovers will delight in a new series filled with rescued dogs and cats needing loving homes. Lauren Vancouver is a determined heroine who will solve the intriguing mystery at her private shelter.”
—Leann Sweeney
Praise for Linda O. Johnston’s Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mysteries
“Humorous, cleverly constructed.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“A brilliantly entertaining new puppy caper, a doggie-filled whodunit . . . Johnston’s novel is a real pedigree!”
—Dorothy Cannell
“A fabulous series.”
—
The Best Reviews
“Animal lovers will adore this series for the mystery as well as the animals.”
—
CA Reviews
“An incredible writer who creates believable, intelligent characters . . . [A] fun-filled, suspenseful story line that contains intrigue, mystery, murder, lots and lots of animals, and humor.”
—
Fresh Fiction
“Fast and fun.”
—
New Mystery Reader Magazine
“The author has done a great job of making the reader care about the animals. Plus their personalities really shine through.”
—
Mystery Lovers Corner
“Johnston’s ability to blend pet love, mystery, and romance into one well-wrapped package makes this a summer treat for mystery and pet lovers alike.”
—
Front Street Reviews
“Exciting . . . Johnston is a creative storyteller who not only writes a fascinating mystery but also creates a deep character study.”
—
Books ‘n’ Bytes
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Linda O. Johnston
Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mysteries
SIT, STAY, SLAY
NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FERRETS
FINE-FEATHERED DEATH
MEOW IS FOR MURDER
THE FRIGHT OF THE IGUANA
DOUBLE DOG DARE
NEVER SAY STY
HOWL DEADLY
FELINE FATALE
Pet Rescue Mysteries
BEAGLEMANIA
THE MORE THE TERRIER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE MORE THE TERRIER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Linda O. Johnston.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54485-3
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Acknowledgments
Once again, I have had a wonderful time researching aspects of
The More the Terrier
and future Pet Rescue books.
Many of the same people who helped me when I wrote
Beaglemania
advised me again, and I thank them once more.
I want to particularly thank the members of the Small Animal Rescue Team (SmART) of Los Angeles Animal Services, and especially their team leader, Armando Navarette (“Nav”), who has invited me numerous times to observe training sessions and who has answered a lot of questions. I’d also like to thank Annette Ramirez, a member of both SmART and the Animal Cruelty Task Force, for her observations about how hoarders are handled within the Los Angeles system. I could single out the remaining members of SmART, too—since all have been friendly and helpful and patient with me when I’ve tagged along and asked questions. Thank you all.
I do want to point out, though, that although I have featured SmART in parts of
The More the Terrier
, I have used poetic license, as always. I made some stuff up, as well as the fictional team leader. All inaccuracies and exaggerations, again, are mine.
I’ve learned even more about pet rescues and the wonderful people who run shelters and other organizations. Thanks especially to the wonderful people at Pet Orphans of Southern California for teaching me even more about volunteering, and about how best to prepare pets for finding their forever homes.
This book is especially dedicated to my two adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Lexie and Mystie, and I thank the veterinarians who’ve worked with us to alleviate their different (and frustrating) health issues.
And no one who reads my books will be surprised that I once again dedicate this one to my dear husband, Fred.
Chapter 1
I love pet rescuers and all they stand for. That’s why I became one—so I could do everything in my power to save and protect animals who are unable to take care of themselves.
But sometimes others who also rescue animals baffle me.
Like my former mentor, Mamie Spelling.
“I don’t know what to do, Lauren.” The hysteria in her voice, even over the phone, sounded way over the top. At least I thought so. I hadn’t spoken with Mamie for years. This could be her normal tone these days. “Please, tell me what to do.”
I was sitting in my office at HotRescues, the facility in L.A.’s northern San Fernando Valley that I run. My recently adopted dog, Zoey, mostly Border collie, probably part Australian shepherd, and all love, lay at my feet on a fairly new area rug—a woven oval in shades of brown—to protect her from the discomfort of the tile floor.
My assistant administrator, Nina Guzman, still stood at the door watching me. She had popped into my office a minute ago looking frazzled as she told me about the phone call that had just come in.
Nina was often frazzled. She’d been that way when I’d first hired her a couple of years ago—unsurprising, considering her personal problems then. That didn’t make her any less of a helpful and energetic assistant.
I was amazed when Nina said the person waiting on the line was Mamie Spelling. After I’d answered the call, I’d felt my amazement turn into a whole gamut of emotions: bewilderment, to hear from Mamie after all this time; irritation, that she’d chosen me of all the people she must currently know.
And, yes, concern. I still didn’t understand what was wrong in Mamie’s life, and I was under no obligation to help her. But she had been there for me when I’d experienced some difficult times, advising me, helping me find a new direction in my life, and providing a shoulder to lean on.
So what if more than . . . what was it? Almost seven years had passed. I wouldn’t turn my back on her—at least, not immediately. For now, I’d listen to her and see if I could help.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Mamie?” I tried to use the most soothing tone I could dredge up. Not easy to do for someone like me, who’s used to speaking her mind.
“But . . . I’m sorry I called you, Lauren. There isn’t anything you can do. I just needed to talk to someone who understands people as well as animals and can deal with them. But even you can’t stop her. I’d better go.”
“Stop who, Mamie? Please, just tell me what’s going on.” I leaned my elbows against my desk—a replica antique that I’d refinished when we first opened HotRescues, not long after I’d started losing touch with Mamie—and closed my eyes, trying to stay patient.
“She’s threatened me. She’s wrong, but if she does what she said . . . I can’t live with what could happen. I really can’t. So—”
“Wait, Mamie. Please tell me what you’re talking about. And don’t—You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?” My insides clenched in fear, even though I didn’t really know this woman anymore. There was such desperation in her voice. Who had threatened her, and with what? And what did she mean, that she couldn’t live with it? I had to keep her talking.
Something in my voice must have resonated with my concern, since Zoey sat up, looking at me questioningly with her brilliant amber eyes, her head cocked.
“No, nothing foolish. I’m fine. Really. Thanks for talking to me, Lauren.” I heard a click, and she was gone.
I didn’t believe she was fine. She’d sounded distraught. Suicidal? How could I know? I still didn’t understand why she had called me out of the blue. A cry for help, yes . . . but for what?
“What’s going on, Lauren?”
I’d forgotten that Nina had stayed in the doorway, watching one end of the HotRescues welcome area while also keeping an eye on me. I like Nina a lot—even though she’s taller, curvier, and ten years younger than me. But we’re usually on the same page when it comes to taking care of animals. Like me, she wore a blue HotRescues knit shirt over jeans, as all our personnel do.
“It was an old friend. We’d lost touch, but—well, something’s wrong with her now.”
I had an urge to run it all by Nina—how Mamie had been so integral to where I’d ended up—but there wasn’t time. Even though I had too much to do, I had to go check on her. If I didn’t at least try, and something happened to her...
I stood, and so did Zoey. “Do me a favor,” I said to Nina. “Look online and find the address for Beach Pet Rescue. It’s around Venice.” Venice, California, was a part of Los Angeles between Santa Monica and Marina del Rey. I used to go there all the time to see Mamie at her shelter, but I seldom visit the area now. It had been long enough that I’d only guess at the address, and I didn’t want to falter on my way.
“Sure, Lauren.” She turned her back and hurried to the welcome area’s staff table. She had a laptop there to work on. I had a computer beside me on my desk, but Nina was more adept at techie things than I. Besides, I wanted to talk to someone before I left.
Fortunately, Dr. Mona Harvey, our part-time adoption counselor and staff psychologist, was around. Her office was upstairs in the same building as mine. I hurried up the steps, passed the conference table in the middle of the second floor, and knocked on Mona’s half-open door.
“Come in, Lauren.” She was sitting behind her desk, and I quickly planted myself on her shrink’s couch across the room. Mona was about Nina’s age—mid-thirties. She smiled behind her glasses—but only for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
I filled her in on the phone call. “I thought about calling 911, but I don’t believe there’s any immediate risk. I thought I’d visit her and check things out. You’re a shrink. What do you think I should do?”
“You’re not close to her any longer?” Mona’s smile was replaced by a concerned frown. “Do you know any of her current friends? Relatives? They may be better able to deal with whatever is going on.”
“I never really knew anyone close to her, not even when she was mentoring me. I don’t even know if any of the people who used to work or volunteer at her shelter are still there, let alone how to contact them. Unless I just call the shelter . . . but if she answers, that defeats the purpose.”
“Right. Well . . . From what you said, there’s some kind of problem, but without talking to her I can’t give you any guidance, other than to be gentle with her. You can tell me more later. Going to see her is probably a good thing—at least for your peace of mind. If you check on her and she’s fine, you won’t have to think about it anymore.”
“And if she’s not fine? If the threat she mentioned is real?”
“Then you’ll figure out how to help, Lauren. That’s what you do.”
I thought about Mamie my entire drive down the 405 Freeway. I’d programmed the address Nina had found for me into my new GPS—a Mother’s Day gift I’d received last month from my wonderful kids. Tracy and Kevin, both in college, were taking summer classes now. I missed them, especially when every direction that spewed from the electronic mouth of my gadget reminded me of them. At least I now had Zoey for company at home. I’d left her in Nina’s care while I went on this mission.
Mamie had been in her late fifties, I’d guessed, when she had decided that veterinary techs—like I’d been at the time—needed better direction about how to really care for animals’ welfare. I’d met her because she’d come to the clinic in Woodland Hills where I worked and asked the vets for occasional free care for animals she rescued.
I’d considered the vets there to be good doctors but not necessarily altruistic. Even so, Mamie had convinced them to donate a specified number of hours each month, as well as medicines needed to treat the animals she’d bring in. After her second time there, I’d walked out to her car with her.
We’d started our dialog about pet rescues then, and she’d convinced me. I had young teenagers at home and a jerk of a second husband who couldn’t have cared less if those kids were okay. It therefore hadn’t been easy for me to agree to find the time to occasionally volunteer at Beach Pet Rescue, but I’d done it, sometimes bringing Tracy and Kevin along on weekends.
I’d learned a lot, including how miserable people could be to the pets who loved them. How many animals were abandoned in an area as large as L.A. The large numbers, fortunately, of people who gave a damn, who helped out by donating time and money for pet rescue.
Mostly, I’d learned how important saving abandoned or abused pets could be to
me
. Largely thanks to Mamie.
But things changed between us when I divorced my miserable husband and interviewed for the job as administrator of HotRescues, the brand-new shelter that Dante DeFrancisco, the wealthy CEO of the huge HotPets pet store empire, was starting. Maybe Mamie, with all her experience, should have gotten the job—and the wonderful funding by Dante. But I’d put together one heck of a business plan, if I do say so myself. Dante had recognized it, and I became the new administrator.
And lost Mamie as a friend.
“Take the next exit to Venice Boulevard,” intoned my GPS, and I eased my Toyota Venza into the exit lane. I continued to obey the instructions of the disembodied voice until I reached the address Nina had found for me. The drive seemed familiar, and I believed this was the same location where I’d visited Mamie seven or so years ago.
I parked along the street and looked at the fence around the property. A sign over the gate confirmed that this was Beach Pet Rescue. But that fence—I remembered it as gleaming white, not mottled, graying wood.
Maybe Mamie’s problems had to do with insufficient donations to keep the place as nice as it once had been.
I got out of my car, grabbed my ubiquitous shoulder bag, and walked toward the gate. The whole neighborhood appeared to have gone downhill. I saw no people around, but the area seemed largely residential. A couple of houses appeared to be abandoned, and another had a car in the driveway with two flat tires.
From behind the fence, I heard a few barks. Some of the dogs in the shelter must have heard or scented this stranger’s arrival. I assumed Mamie allowed visitors and walkins interested in adopting pets, so I didn’t try to call from my BlackBerry or look for a bell to ring. I just opened the gate and entered.
And stopped, horrified—not just because of the repulsive smell that assailed my nose.
I couldn’t believe it.
The person who’d first gotten me interested in pet rescues. Who’d taught me all I’d initially known about the process, how to find and nurture animals who required help and love and as much longevity as possible . . .
Mamie Spelling had turned into a hoarder.