Hounds Abound (17 page)

I parked outside the West Hollywood station on San Vicente and went inside. I asked the uniforms behind the desk for Deputy Traymore, and he soon emerged.

“Ms. Vancouver?”

I nodded, smiled, and held out my hand. The cover Antonio had provided me with, according to Brooke, was that I was interested in moving to an apartment I’d found in West Hollywood and wanted to talk to someone about the crime rate in the area. I didn’t know why this deputy would know what to tell me, or how Antonio had actually finessed this conversation. But what I knew about Brooke’s guy friend and his intelligence suggested that he was smarter than the proverbial fox—a good trait for a detective with a major urban police department.

Not that he was perfect—he had taken the side of his fellow detectives and judged Bella guilty enough to want me to back off looking into the murder. But he was man enough to rise above his prejudices and help me anyway.

I assumed he had looked into what this deputy’s assignment was and found a way to get me in under the pretext of needing the kind of help he gave. But I’d done some online research and discovered why Deputy Traymore had a grudge against Dr. Miles Frankovick. I intended to pursue that today.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Deputy,” I said. He led me to a seating area in the entry and waved for me to sit
down. Not exactly the most private location, but I didn’t intend to shout my questions anyway.

I began by asking generally about the crime rate in West Hollywood—a nice mix of residential and commercial areas.

Deputy Traymore wore the beige uniform of a sheriff’s deputy, with its yellow-trimmed green patch on the shoulder. He had a thick jaw that suggested belligerence, and wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He began spouting statistics from a printout he had brought with him. The number of annual robberies was significantly more here than the national average, and violent crime was a little higher, but most other kinds of crimes were around the same as that average.

I tried to focus on what he was saying so I could respond, but finally blurted, “You know, I’m thinking of getting a face-lift when I settle into my apartment. Do you think that’s safe?”

He stopped talking and stared as if he was trying to bore his way into my skull with his furious silver-gray eyes.

Which only made me feel as if I’d asked the right thing. I was now taking control of this discussion and hoped to get some answers to the real questions I’d come with.

“Are you a damned reporter?” he growled. I could see his thick fists clench and was glad we remained in public.

“No, I’m not. But I’m someone who is very interested in the cosmetic surgery that your wife received and what went wrong.”

“Then you’re an investigator from the offices of the
lawyers representing those damned plastic surgery hacks. Well, you can tell your bosses and their clients that I’m not dropping my lawsuit. I’m going to get every cent they’ve ever made and will make in the next hundred years and make sure they pay it all. I deserve it. Do you know how much it costs to keep my wife in the hospital, thanks to that jerk Frankovick? She’s having reconstructive surgery done. And her state of mind … well, she’s under psychiatric care, too.”

“I can only guess the cost,” I responded calmly. “What hospital is she in? Doesn’t insurance help?” I assumed he had health insurance through his position in county government.

“None of your business which hospital she’s in. I tell you and you’ll probably go bother her.”

I’d hoped to do just that, if possible. Talking to the woman would give me a better sense of her mental condition—and whether she, like her clearly angry husband, made a realistic murder suspect.

To do that, I had to learn where she was. I wasn’t the kind of official investigator Deputy Traymore had assumed I was, but I doubted he would believe any other reason I tried to give him for wanting to see her—even though my mind scrambled for one.

“I’m not an investigator, but a concerned citizen,” I said. “I admit that I’m not interested in plastic surgery for myself. But a friend of mine had a bad experience with that same plastic surgery outfit, so I’m looking into ways she can get back at them.” Not a bad improvisation. But until I saw where this led, I wouldn’t congratulate myself.

“I’ll bet your friend’s experience wasn’t as bad as this.” Traymore’s tone was soft but furious. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

He flipped through several photographs that depicted a woman’s face, which looked a thousand times worse than I’d imagined possible. All the features seemed swollen or puckered and out of alignment. I felt terrible for the woman.

I also could see the motive for either her or her husband to kill the doctor who did it to her.

“Was it this bad?” he insisted when I remained quiet, shoving the photos closer to my eyes.

“Not quite,” I responded softly.

He yanked back the pictures, shoved his wallet into his pocket. “I’d love to mangle that damned Dr. Frankovick the way he did to my wife. Instead, and in answer to your other question, yes, I have insurance. But I have a deductible and some limits on coverage. There are also expenses it doesn’t cover, like pain and suffering … and all the other stuff in the papers my lawyer has filed against that quack and his office.”

“But … are you aware that Dr. Miles Frankovick has passed away?” I used the euphemism about Miles’s murder purposely, to see the deputy’s reaction.

His guffaw seemed to come from way down in his craw. “‘Passed away’? You mean, someone with guts and brains did exactly what I wanted to. What I might have done if I wasn’t an officer of the law. Some people get away with it. I know enough to probably have not gotten caught. But I have too much to lose by getting revenge that way. Like, all the money those damned, maiming scalpel-wielders who’re
still around are going to ultimately pay me. I want a lot more than they’re insured for, and I plan to get it.”

The conversation with the angry Deputy Traymore gave me a lot to think about for the rest of the day after I returned to HotRescues. I’d brought Zoey, of course, and we said hi to everyone here—including our sweet, affection-craving residents. I indulged a bunch of them, slipping into their kennels to give them hugs and attention.

Then we returned to my office. Instead of working, I was musing—not a good thing.

Was Al Traymore crouching behind his profession of being an officer of the law while aiming knives at enemies, or was he truly innocent?

I’d have loved to run my questions by his wife. Maybe I’d still find a way to do that. Find
her
. But the deputy’s angry words had confirmed what I’d learned on the Internet. Clara Traymore was currently a patient at an exclusive hospital in Brentwood. Presumably, she was having more surgery to correct what had gone wrong with her face-lift.

This particular hospital was also known for its psychiatric wing. Detective Traymore had mentioned that she was under psychiatric care.

Had she been driven totally crazy by the sight of her own disfigured face in the mirror?

Where had she been on the night Miles was murdered?

“Come on, girl,” I said to Zoey. I didn’t want to spend the entire afternoon puzzling over the Traymores or even about Bella’s problems. It was a lovely October day, and I
was at my wonderful pet shelter. Weekends tended to bring in a lot of people interested in adopting pets.

Zoey and I would walk around the grounds for a while and be ready to greet them.

The next day was Monday. Not a bad time to go shopping in an exclusive pet boutique in Beverly Hills.

No, that’s not really my style. As much as I love animals, I hate to admit I think they’re cute dressed up, especially in outfits that resemble what their owners are wearing. But I prefer keeping them au naturel.

If I ever changed my mind, perhaps dressing up my charges at HotRescues to attract possible new family members, I’d undoubtedly turn to a HotPets store and get a discount.

But in my research into the Traymores, I had learned that Clara was part-owner of BHark Shop, a high-end pet store on Rodeo Drive. I could browse—and maybe ask a few questions about the absent proprietor.

I arrived around one in the afternoon. I glanced in the front window and saw a lot of really cute accessories for dogs and cats, including jeweled collars and bowls. In most places, I’d have assumed the bling was all false—but this was Beverly Hills. Maybe some were the real thing.

I walked inside, immediately surrounded by displays of luxury pet things on tables and hanging from racks. The store was long, narrow, and well stocked. An aroma like sweet dog biscuits filled the air. Colorful leashes hung alongside collars, and mannequin dogs and cats on counters were adorned with some of the items that were for sale.
I found myself smiling at all this human-alluring ostentation—and even wondering which things Zoey would like best.

I was greeted right away by an elegantly dressed African American woman in a caramel-colored sheath dress. She looked as posh as if she were an associate at a local women’s boutique and emitted a scent I recognized from visiting—but not buying from—high-end human boutiques. “Hi, and welcome to BHark. How can I help you?”

“Oh, I’d just like to look around,” I said. The last thing I usually felt was self-consciousness about what I was wearing, but I now wished I had put on something a little dressier than a short-sleeved cream sweater over beige slacks. At least I wasn’t wearing jeans or any low-cost cologne. Nor did I have on anything with the HotRescues logo, but under the circumstances I hadn’t wanted anyone to associate me with any kind of pet shelter. No one was likely to assume any connection between Miles’s wife and me, but why take any chances?

“Are you interested in items for dogs or cats?” she inquired smoothly. “Or do you have another kind of pet?”

I noticed that she wore a nametag, which read Mercedes. This, then, as I’d learned from my Internet research, was Clara’s partner. I saw one other person behind a counter at the back of the store, a peon, I assumed, who rang up sales.

“I have a dog, and I’d like to get her a new collar and leash set,” I improvised. “But … well, I was referred to this shop by a friend. She says everyone here is great, but she told me I should specifically ask to be helped by Clara Traymore. She’s one of the co-owners, isn’t she?”

Mercedes nodded. She had a narrow, taut-skinned face
that looked all the more elongated as her smile faded. “Yes, she’s my partner, but she’s not here today.”

“Oh, I could come back tomorrow.” I pasted a clueless smile on my face, even as I surmised what was going through her mind. Should she divulge anything at all to this random customer?

“I’m terribly sorry, but Clara is … well, she is unwell, and I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

“Oh, my.” I stepped back carefully to avoid knocking into a table stacked with luxurious doggy sweaters. “My friend will be so upset to hear that. What’s wrong with her?”

“She’ll be fine soon.” Mercedes’s tone sounded as firm as her unwrinkled skin—and I wondered if she, too, had availed herself of Miles’s clinic’s cosmetic surgery, perhaps more successfully.

“Is it something contagious? My friend will want to visit her, if possible.”

“Who is this friend?” Mercedes interjected. “Perhaps I know her, too.”

I pondered how to handle this. “Oh, she didn’t want to mention her name.” I raised my hand to my mouth and giggled a little. It almost hurt to do that. It’s not me, and I don’t like playing roles. I much prefer being candid and direct. Plus, I had backed myself into a corner, which I hated. “Okay,” I said after lowering my hand. “Here’s the truth.” Well, it wouldn’t be exactly the truth, but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m actually a neighbor of the Traymores. A friend. I heard some nasty rumors about Clara being hospitalized after some botched plastic surgery, and Al won’t talk about it. I’d really like to visit her, but I don’t know where she is. Can you help?”

Her narrow shoulders seemed to relax, and she closed her highly made-up eyes. “If you value your friendship with her, I’d suggest you not visit. Please, come here.” Some other customers had entered the store, and Mercedes gestured toward the woman behind the counter to go help them. She preceded me into a side aisle. “I went to see Clara right after she had her surgery and—well, it was terrible. Her lips were so swollen she couldn’t talk. Her skin was nice and firm in some places but under her chin … well, she looked even worse than before. And her eyes looked so wide that I doubted she could close them. She was a wreck, physically and emotionally. I believe … well, I think she’s under a psychiatrist’s care now, as well as another cosmetic surgeon.”

“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Poor thing. But maybe she’s better now. Do you know when she had the surgery in the first place?”

“Around two weeks ago. She hasn’t been back here since.”

Interesting. “I’ll bet you miss her around here.”

“Absolutely. She’s so—well, she’s so take-charge when she’s around. I can’t wait until she’s back.”

“Was she hospitalized immediately after that terrible procedure? I haven’t seen her in our neighborhood.”

“She’s only been in the hospital for about a week now. From what I gathered, she just hid in her house before that.”

Which meant Clara was potentially out and about at the time of Miles Frankovick’s murder.

I didn’t stay much longer. But I did buy a package of
fresh, gourmet dog biscuits. Zoey would have first dibs, but I’d let others at HotRescues taste them, too.

I’d accomplished some of what I’d wanted to here. But instead of being able to eliminate Clara Traymore as a murder suspect, she was now near the top of my list.