The More the Terrier (9 page)

Maybe. But it was time to move on.

“So . . . do you have any ideas who might have wanted to kill Bethany?” I asked.

“Who else, you mean?” I felt my eyes widen. “I know you still think it could be me, Lauren. But it wasn’t, damn it. And, yes, I do have some other ideas. I told the detective that, too. But—” The anger in her voice suddenly tapered off. “But I’m afraid it’s no use.”

“What do you mean?” I asked gently. Despite all my doubts, I realized that I had started to believe her.

“He pretended to listen to my ideas, and Mr. Caramon encouraged me to make suggestions. But I think the cops have already decided they know who did it, no matter what I say, and they’re just taking their time so they can get whatever evidence they can make up to prove it.”

“They think it’s—”

“Me, Lauren. They seem sure that it was me.”

Chapter 11

On my drive back to HotRescues, I pondered the meager list of additional suspects that Mamie had strained to tell me about. She claimed not to have known Bethany well. Even so, she had met her weeks ago, had had a lot of interaction with her while they discussed the possibility of Mamie’s Beach Pet Rescue joining the Pet Shelters Together network.

But that didn’t mean she knew Bethany personally. Mamie probably didn’t know her well enough to figure out everyone—else—who might have wanted Bethany out of their lives.

That left it up to me . . . somewhat.

I wasn’t an investigator. I’d no reason to believe that the cops were mishandling anything. They were treating Mamie like a suspect . . . which she was. But they hadn’t arrested her. That indicated they weren’t necessarily jumping to conclusions.

Yet I also couldn’t say with any certainty that they were doing anything besides getting all their detective mojo lined up so they could prosecute Mamie with no hitches when they were ready to pull her in.

A little thing like her not being guilty might not stand in their path once they decided to prosecute.

But
was
she guilty?

And why was I putting myself through this?

I knew the answer, of course. I always helped friends. Mamie had once been a friend—a really good one. The fact that I’d won the position at HotRescues, and not her, might have angered her, but I now believed I should have made a greater effort to stay in touch.

I’d unintentionally turned my back on her then when she might have needed my help. I wouldn’t do it again.

Besides, if she had decided to kill anybody, I’d already figured it was more likely to have been me. She apparently still resented that Dante had chosen me to run HotRescues, and I’d been the one to call Animal Services on her.

Not that I felt bad about either. Both had been the right choice.

They also made me feel a little sorrier for Mamie.

I used my hands-free device to call ahead to HotRescues. Brooke, having finished her overnight security duties, had already left. Everything there was fine, Bev, our senior volunteer, assured me. Since it was Sunday, Nina wasn’t around. Most likely she was volunteering today at one of the L.A. city shelters. Pete wasn’t around, either, and the place was largely staffed by our volunteers. I also heard noise in the background as I talked to Bev that suggested . . . A. she was outside, and B. the construction guys were there, next door, working on the new building.

Since everything sounded in order, I pulled over once I got off the freeway and asked Bev to look something up for me. “I need some information to do a home visit on my way to HotRescues,” I told her.

After about five minutes, she called me back with information about one of our recent adoptions—a cat placement in Northridge, not far off my route to HotRescues.

I called the number of the very nice lady who had adopted the calico kitty we’d called QueenJ a few weeks ago. I’d done one follow-up visit nearly immediately, since Q.J. had been sent to her new home at the end of an adoption event in a park, and I was always concerned about how those quick placements would work out—so much so that I almost never permitted them. The people had appeared to be great prospective adopters, but, micromanager that I tend to be, I always did at least one extra visit to assure myself that all was well.

“Carmen?” I said when a woman answered the phone. “I’m Lauren Vancouver, the administrator at HotRescues.”

“Oh, yes, Lauren. Good to hear from you. Queen is doing just fine, if that’s what you’re calling about.”

“It is. Would you mind if I stopped by for another visit?”

“Not at all.” She was home, and I headed my car in her direction.

Her house was a modest one, on a street off Nordhoff. The area was familiar. I’d visited another house just a block or two away last week, to check on a dog placement.

When I reached the front door, I assumed that Carmen Herrera had been watching for me. She opened it, and the sweet calico we’d rehomed here was in her arms.

“She’s still a house cat?” I confirmed as I followed Carmen into her living room.

“Absolutely. I’d be so worried if she roamed around outside.”

This was one of those situations where a person resembled her pet, or vice versa. I couldn’t be sure whether Carmen had selected Queen J based on the fact that her hair was fluffy and multicolored, too, but intentional or not, that was how it was.

I only stayed a few minutes. All looked well. Queen J was still the cat’s name, and she appeared pampered and happy.

All in all, a good rehoming. I’d mark the visit in our online files once I got back to HotRescues. I didn’t think we’d need to come back again, unless we got word that conditions had changed.

“Thanks so much for letting me visit, Carmen,” I said as I walked out the door. “You, too, Queen J.”

“Anytime,” Carmen said. “And thank you, Lauren, and all of HotRescues. It’s so wonderful to have a kitty like Queenie in my life. You know, I’ve told everyone about you, and my neighbors around the corner adopted a new dog from HotRescues just a couple of weeks ago. They’re the ones who told me about you.”

“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate the referral. The more pets we can adopt out to good homes, the happier we all are.”

Just for the heck of it, I drove around the corner and passed the house where that dog we’d recently adopted out now lived. He’d been sweet and shaggy, a reddish Briard mix we’d called Beardsley, and the house had a fenced yard much larger than Carmen’s. He was, in fact, the second dog we had placed with this family, as well as a cat who’d come here first. The humans consisted of a single parent, Margie Tarbet, and her teenage son, Davie. I’d interviewed both of them before the first placement and liked them a lot. Davie, in particular, seemed fascinated by the whole idea of pet rescue.

The cat, Nemo, and the first dog, Moe, had both been adopted more than a year ago and had seemed a good fit, even getting along together. We’d made sure that Beardsley was okay with cats by bringing him into one of our cat areas, and then had Margie bring Moe to HotRescues to confirm that Beardsley and he got along. No problems there, either. I’d spoken with Margie after she brought Beardsley home, and she had assured me that he and the others were all adapting fine to one another. I still wanted to check it out, though—as well as how the human family was relating to them.

I didn’t see either pup or the kitty outside, a good thing. I impulsively parked and went up the front walk of the cottage-like house, then rang the doorbell.

Dogs barked, but no person answered the door. That was fine. I’d no belief that there were any issues here. Beardsley was guarding his new home along with Moe, as he should. Nemo was probably observing the foolish, excited dogs, bored as he washed his paws.

I could only grin as I returned to my car. Even so, I’d do a follow-up visit here soon.

Back at HotRescues, I left a message on Brooke’s cell phone and gave Zoey a hug. My pup had been hanging out in my office, sleeping under my desk. I invited her to come along while I did my next shelter walk-through, and she eagerly agreed.

Bev was still staffing the welcome area. When Zoey and I passed through on our way outside, she was conversing with a young couple. Shamelessly eavesdropping, I learned that the pair was newly moving in together and couldn’t decide on the size of the dog they wanted to adopt.

Bev, a senior citizen, was short and thin, slightly bent over as if she perhaps had osteoporosis. But she was more animated than volunteers a fraction of her age.

“Since you’re renting half a house and have a yard, you don’t have to stick with a toy dog unless you want to. Plus, kids your age will probably love going on long walks or even runs with your new pet. Now, we have several mid-sized dogs I’d like to introduce you to. Unless—” She looked at me. “Care to do the honors, Lauren?” She looked back at the couple. “This is the really nice lady who runs this place, and she knows a lot about all our animals.”

What the heck? Zoey and I took them through the shelter area, listening as they discussed each dog we passed. The guy seemed to like the big, husky-like canines best. The girl was into terriers and small spaniels.

Until . . . “Isn’t he sweet?” the girl said, stopping outside the enclosure housing a mid-sized furry mix whose breeds I couldn’t even guess. The pup had an elongated muzzle, pointy ears, and a wistful expression in deep brown eyes. We called him Big Boy.

The young man also knelt down and reached inside the enclosure. All three smiled and stared at one another, and I believed we had a match.

Assuming, of course, that I approved their application. Which, a short while later, after reviewing it with them and seeing the couple interact with Big Boy in our outdoor visitors area, I did, but they would have to come back later to talk with Dr. Mona before adopting their new pet. Moving in together was a big change in their lives, so I wanted to be sure our staff psychologist thought them a good fit, too.

Brooke returned my call a short while later. Sitting behind my desk once more, I gave her a rundown of what I’d learned from Mamie, which wasn’t a lot.

“So she’s not under arrest but expects it momentarily?”

“That’s what I gather.”

“And you still don’t think she’s guilty?”

“I still don’t know. But in case she’s not . . . could you ask Antonio if the detectives are seriously considering other suspects, or if they’re just putting together their case against Mamie?”

“Will do. If they’ve got others in mind, will you still want to pursue this?”

“I don’t really want to pursue it even if they have fully open minds and don’t think Mamie’s their only candidate.”

“But—”

“But if that’s not the case, I’ll at least want to look at some other possibilities. Just for the sake of fairness.”

And nosiness. And taking charge of anything in which I’m involved, whenever possible. And watching out for friends, even those with whom I was no longer close. But I didn’t say any of that.

“Got it. But, Lauren . . .” Brooke paused, which made me lean forward a little in my desk chair, anticipating she was about to say something profound. “Okay, let me be honest here. From the little I’ve seen about this case, I think your friend Mamie could be guilty.”

“I know it’s possible,” I said with a sigh. “One problem, though, is that I’m concerned no one is trying to find another answer just in case she’s innocent.”

“Except you?”

I nodded. “Except me.”

“Then we’ll stay on it,” Brooke said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

Chapter 12

I slept well that night, at least after I finally dropped off.

I never second-guess myself. Once I make a decision, I stick with it. Even so, I kept asking myself, over and over, if I was just wasting time by trying to help Mamie. What if she really was guilty?

Ah, but what if she was innocent?

At least the animals she’d been hoarding were still doing amazingly well. The one call I’d made after I got home was to Matt. I told him that Mamie had agreed to surrender them, and he sounded as jazzed as I felt. Plus, he’d mentioned their continued improvement. They would soon be out of quarantine. Some might be available for possible adoption as soon as Mamie’s surrender became effective.

The next morning, Zoey and I headed to HotRescues early. When we arrived and I parked, I opened the back door to unhook Zoey from her harness and attach her to a leash. Usually, she trots proudly to the door into the welcome area, as if she runs the place. As my new best friend and companion, in some ways, she does.

Today, though, she sat down and made a small growling sound in her throat, putting her nose in the air for a sniff. Then she dashed off toward the far end of the parking lot.

Fortunately, I had a good grip on her leash. I could have ordered her to stop. Being the excellent dog she is, she would probably have obeyed. Though we hadn’t been together long, I knew enough about her to realize she had something important in mind. Keeping a rat off the property? Maybe, and, if so, that was a worthwhile endeavor. I suspected something even more significant, though.

Zoey pulled me past where the large shelter van was parked, toward the back of the lot, which was shielded from the alley behind HotRescues by a wooden fence. It was more for a semblance of privacy from the commercial buildings on the far side than for security, since the parking lot wasn’t enclosed. Zoey tugged until we went around the fence. I had to slow her down as a vehicle turned into the alley—Pete Engersol’s minivan. Our handyman, who also helped to pick up supplies, had a designated parking space outside the rear storage building, which was part of the enclosed and secure area within HotRescues.

But Pete didn’t pull into his spot. Instead, he stopped behind the storage building and exited his van. The thin senior citizen, in jeans and a blue HotRescues knit shirt, was a lot stronger than he looked, thanks to all the large bags of kibble he maneuvered onto carts for piling inside the building. Or, he was just naturally fit enough to heft the kibble.

“Not again!” he exclaimed as Zoey and I hurried toward him. I turned in the direction he was looking.

Right in the middle of his parking spot was a Doberman. Its leash was tied to the knob of the door into the storage building. The dog sat there, cringing as it looked at us with apparent fear. I wanted to hug him—or her. I couldn’t tell the sex yet.

“Another one?” I all but echoed Pete. Around the dog’s neck was a collar. No ID tag dangled from it, but a note was fastened to it.

“If people want to relinquish their dogs at a shelter, why don’t they have the guts to meet with you first?” Pete muttered.

“I agree.” I knew what the note would say—a sob story about how the owner couldn’t keep this dog anymore. There would be no identification, so we couldn’t check it out.

The thing was, in Los Angeles, private shelters like HotRescues could take in owner relinquishments, but not strays—not unless they’d been through the official system first and Animal Services or another public shelter had ceded them into our care.

Someone apparently knew that. I was afraid that the dogs who had been left here over the last several weeks were strays, and the person who’d found them was trying to circumvent the official system, possibly to ensure their lives would be spared.

But I worried about whether I could keep HotRescues’ license valid and take these animals in.

I told Pete to do the obvious and bring the poor dog inside HotRescues. I didn’t let Zoey perform a nose-to-nose sniff, not until our newcomer was checked by a vet to make sure he carried no communicable disease.

Yes, he was a he; I could tell when he stood up after Pete took his leash. I directed Pete to take our new friend to the quarantine area, in a special place inside the center building. It would be located in the new building next door when the construction was finished, but not yet.

Before they left, I gave the new guy a reassuring hug using just my hands around his face. I’d wash my hands before touching Zoey or any of our inhabitants here, but I couldn’t resist that sad, scared look.

“Does the note tell us his name?” I asked Pete.

“Shazam.”

I wondered whether the name was a clue about Shazam’s origins. If I recalled correctly, that was the magic word used by a comic book character to transform himself into a superhero, or something like that.

But if this Shazam was magical, he probably wouldn’t have wound up abandoned at a shelter, even one as great as HotRescues. At least things would improve for him now. He could count on it.

I called Carlie’s veterinary clinic and set up an appointment to bring Shazam in.

Not only did they have a time slot available in an hour, but Carlie herself would do the honors.

We were back at HotRescues, Shazam and I. He had been given a relatively clean bill of health by Carlie—just needed a good bath to deal with a flea issue and some better, more regular food.

I’d had him checked for a microchip, too, to no avail. Whether he was a relinquishment or stray, we had no way of finding Shazam’s prior human.

The good news was that he appeared to be just a year old and mostly physically fit, and soon should be adoptable. As long as I manipulated the situation right.

I was good at manipulating situations. I knew what to try with this one—since it had suddenly become commonplace.

I was in my office now, with Zoey lying at my feet. I’d left her with Nina, and she’d acted glad to see me on my return—as always when I’d been away from her for a while.

Bev—here today, too—had taken Shazam back into quarantine, where he would remain for a week to ten days as a matter of policy. I’d been a little concerned whether Bev, even more senior a citizen than Pete, would be able to handle the Dobie, but from the moment we had found him here he had been as docile as a smaller dog with a breed reputation for being submissive. Which suggested he had been well trained, wherever he had come from.

Now, it was time for that manipulation. I called Matt. I’d called him before, when the other two dogs had been found in the early morning hours at the HotRescues doorstep. I felt I could ask him for quasi-official advice without putting too much stress on our growing friendship . . . or whatever it was.

The first time this had happened, the pup, a combo of small breeds I hadn’t been able to decipher, had come with no indication of an owner relinquishment. I’d called Matt then, too. He’d asked me to have someone drop off that dog at the nearest Animal Services facility, the West Valley Care Center, and I had—with my standing request to let me take him back if no one adopted him soon. He was a cutie, and I’d heard that he’d found a new forever home quickly. As long as the adoption stuck, that had worked out fine.

The second dog to appear had looked more senior, a black Lab mix with gray hair around his muzzle. He had come with a note that claimed his owner had dropped him off, unable to care for him anymore. Of course I was suspicious. Why not bring him in when HotRescues was open—so I could try to convince the owner otherwise if it was a genuine relinquishment? As enticement, we could provide food and counsel and limited veterinary care. But despite our few cameras outside and our overnight security personnel, the person who’d left Abel—the name on the note—remained a mystery.

When I’d called Matt and explained the situation, he was generous enough—and an animal lover enough—to say it was okay to treat Abel as an owner relinquishment. Not that there was anything wrong with entering a healthy animal into the public system—as long as there was enough room to let them stay till adopted. But an older dog like Abel might be harder to place. Matt got that, and we got Abel. He was still with us, and he was a love.

Now Matt and I discussed Shazam.

“You’re sure he came with a note like the last one?” I didn’t blame Matt for sounding skeptical. If I were him, I might think that the administrator of a private rescue organization might make something like this up, to avoid having to put a stray through the Animal Services system. Would I do such a thing? Not if I thought he might find out. And I’d believed he’d come to trust me over the last few months.

“You doubt my word?” I poured all the ice I could into my tone.

“No. You know I trust you, Lauren. You’re one excellent animal rescuer. But you have to admit it sounds a bit suspicious.”

I warmed a bit. “Thanks, and yes. So . . . ?”

“Let me ponder this—including what to do if it happens again. Tell you what. Why don’t you meet me at the Northeast Valley Animal Care Center? Since it has more room, the hoarded animals were all just moved there, in case we do wind up having to hold on to them for a while as evidence.” In other words, if Mamie didn’t follow through on surrendering them, no matter what she had told me. “I’ll fix it so I can bring you up to date on how well our latest guests are getting along. Even let you visit some.”

I loved the idea! Still . . . “Can I meet some friends there, too? Other private rescuers, I mean. A bunch keep e-mailing me about the hoarding situation, since I let them know about it on a Web site where we communicate, and they always express concern about the rescued animals.” Some had also quizzed me about Bethany’s murder and Mamie’s possible involvement, but I’d been selective about what questions to answer.

“Sure,” he said, “as long as you and I get an opportunity to talk about . . . what’s his name?”

“Shazam.”

“Abracadabra, too,” Matt responded.

It took me a couple of hours to get on my way. I handled a bit of paperwork, and then Zoey and I did our usual walk around HotRescues—including peeking in on Shazam and on Abel, who was in one of our residences for larger dogs toward the rear of the shelter area.

I said hi to our volunteers who were walking some of our dogs—and cleaning their enclosures. I also posted a notice on the Southern California Rescuers Web site. There, I let the administrators of other private shelters who monitored it know that, if they could get away quickly enough, we had an invitation to visit some animals who’d been the subject of the hoarding. I explained that it was too early to pick any up to take back to our shelters, but I was hopeful that the day would come soon.

I doubted many rescuers would see the post, and even fewer would be able to make it on such short notice.

Eventually, I got in my Venza, once again leaving Zoey behind, since she wouldn’t be welcome at a city shelter.

Besides, I planned to stop at Gavin Mamo’s animal training facility later, to meet with him as scheduled during our phone call the previous week.

I called Matt on my hands-free system while on my way. He was already there.

I parked in the lot, which was more crowded than usual. This care center was not open to the public, due to lack of funding, but Animal Services people worked here and took care of animals that were housed in this shelter for reasons such as being evidence in possible animal cruelty prosecutions.

I walked up the path, glancing up at the poles holding pictures of dogs and cats. The building wasn’t open, and I noticed some familiar people on the patio, including friends who also ran private shelters. They hurried over to me.

My notice posted on the Web site had had more reach than I’d anticipated, a potentially good thing. In the event the official shelter didn’t have room for all the rescued animals, the more private facilities interested in taking some in, the more that could be saved.

“Hi,” I said to Kathy Georgio, the first to reach my side.

“This is so great, Lauren!” Kathy was a fiftyish lady who had a pudgy face bisected by a huge smile. I had seen her last at the meeting about hoarders that Bethany had held. Today, she wore jeans that were too tight on her zaftig body, and a T-shirt that seemed an equally bad fit. But her looks weren’t important. How she treated her charges was, and from all I’d gathered, she was one of the better rescuers in the area—besides me, of course.

Another Southern California Rescuers regular was there as well. Ilona Graye, whose rescue organization mostly placed animals with fosterers, had come, too. She was a youthful secretary at a small Valley law firm that specialized in entertainment law, so she occasionally got celebs to take in pets she had saved.

I noticed then that some of the people I’d met at Bethany Urber’s hoarding seminar were there, too—a group of six people, including Cricket and Darya. Interesting, that they were at least lurkers on the Southern California Rescuers Web site. But I’d learned that Bethany had been, too. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think she had encouraged the members of the Pet Shelters Together to follow her lead.