Hounds Abound (18 page)

There was one other place I wanted to stop before leaving the Beverly Hills area. Not Miles Frankovick’s former plastic surgery office. I might want more information from the doctors and staff there eventually, but I didn’t have any questions that needed immediate responses—unless one of them was ready to admit to killing Miles. Not likely.

Instead, I headed my car toward the veterinary clinic where Dr. Victor Drammon worked. Yes, he was a vet, and they had to deal with animal life and death all the time. Maybe his opinions were well reasoned, based on his experience. But I nevertheless despised the one-sided, kill-them-all position he had taken.

I was also curious about his relationship with Bella. The way she had acted and spoken about him had made me think she’d anticipated something really special between
them after she rid herself of Miles—the usual way, I mean. By divorce.

Not only had Vic Drammon nixed that, but he had done it in an ugly, public fashion that all but slapped Bella’s lovely face about the way she was caring for special-needs animals.

He had known Miles, too. But just because I couldn’t stand the position Drammon had taken didn’t mean he was a killer. Of people, anyway. To the contrary, Bella had described the way the friendship between Miles and Drammon had evolved once the two couples, who’d once been friends, had both divorced. If what she’d said was true, Drammon was an unlikely murder suspect.

But now that I had taken on looking into who killed Miles Frankovick, I intended to talk to everyone I learned had known him, even a little, no matter how unlikely it was they were his killer. Maybe they’d give me insight into others who were more probable.

I pulled into the nearly full parking lot of the Santa Beverly Animal Hospital off wide and traffic-laden Santa Monica Boulevard. The building looked fairly large, with a white façade and red-tiled roof—standard pseudo-Spanish style that was popular in Southern California. The outside looked a bit dingy, though. It could have used a coat of paint, and I noticed as I drew nearer that the wood trim around the windows was also more gray than white, and it looked pitted.

Apparently the veterinary hospital had been around for a long time and had probably cared for a lot of patients over the years. What was important wasn’t appearances. It was how the animals were treated.

I recognized how unlikely it was that I’d be impressed by anything concerning Dr. Victor Drammon. And my real reason for being here? To assess, in person, the care of patients by this anti–special-needs pets veterinarian.

A guy with a Great Dane on a leash held it tightly as a woman with a Basset hound mix walked out of the front door. Another woman just entering was clutching a large case, which I assumed held a cat.

There I was, without an animal. How would I get to talk to the vet? I’d have to wing it. A challenge, sure, but I was good at making up things that got me the results I wanted.

I followed the others into a waiting area unsurprisingly filled with humans and pets. At the counter, a nearly filled sign-in sheet sat on a clipboard with most of the names crossed off.

I pondered at warp speed. Should I use a false identity or my real one? False. I quickly jotted down the name Lauren Earles—which had been real once, before I divorced Charles the jerk. I checked the box labeled new patient, then wrote in the reason for visit, “Need second opinion from Dr. Drammon about how to handle senior dog.” He was a self-styled expert in that, after all. I knew what his answer would be. Kill the poor, nonexistent creature.

I sat down on a bench with cracked yellow cushions, between the lady with the cat—a ginger kitty that peered out of the crate with a tolerant gaze—and a young man holding a pit bull puppy on his lap. “This is my first time here,” I told the lady. “Is this a good veterinary clinic?”

“I’ve been coming here for years and think the doctors are great,” she said.

Then how old is your cat, and have you taken it to see Dr. Drammon?
But I didn’t voice that aloud.

I looked around. A sign on the wall near the counter listed the vets in the practice. Drammon was at the top, and there were a half-dozen other names below his. I wondered how many had as much seniority as he did in veterinary medicine, and whether any of his colleagues followed his beliefs about getting rid of aging or infirm animals.

In a short while, a young lady in a medical smock called my name. I almost didn’t want to respond to “Earles” because it brought back such terrible memories. But I’d assumed it temporarily, and for good cause. I’d drop it again as fast as a torch lights gasoline the moment I left here.

“Did you bring your dog in?” the tech behind the counter asked.

“Not yet. I wanted to talk to Dr. Drammon first. I saw him on TV and thought he had some good ideas about making sure pets didn’t suffer. I figured I’d discuss my older dog with him before bringing him in … maybe for the last time.” I didn’t have to work hard to bring tears to my eyes at that. I hated the idea of any animal suffering, but I suffered myself when I had to bring one to a vet for its final visit.

I supposed my emotionalism worked, since my pseudonym was called soon after I returned to my seat.

I was shown into an examination room and took a seat on one of its uncomfortable, well-used wooden chairs. A scratched metal table jutted from the wall, and I imagined lifting a dog up there for the doctor to see. There was another door that I assumed led into the medical area. A few pet magazines were in a hanging rack. I didn’t grab one.

The place smelled nauseatingly sweet, or maybe my stomach was just churning like my mind as I thought about what to say.

A knock on the door and its opening happened simultaneously. Dr. Victor Drammon walked in. He looked as I’d seen him on TV and at Miles Frankovick’s memorial service: glasses, salt-and-pepper hair, receding hairline. He didn’t look like a persecutor of animals, but he hadn’t opened his mouth yet, either.

Would he recognize me from the church? I doubted it. We hadn’t met each other, nor had we been in the same vicinity very much.

“Hello, Lauren,” he said, as if he knew me. Uh-oh. Could I be wrong? He held a chart on which I assumed my name and reason for being there had been written. “Tell me about your senior dog.” Good. No indication of recognition, just friendliness.

“I don’t want to kill him. Do you?” I stopped and closed my eyes for a second. Why had I let my emotions get the better of me?

The vet had thick brows that hadn’t yet turned gray. They drew together as he frowned. “I assume this is somehow related to the interview I gave on television. Do you really have a dog you’d like to discuss, or—”

I drew in a breath to help me grab hold of my temper. Berating him wouldn’t help me learn anything. “My name is actually Lauren Vancouver,” I told him. “I’m the administrator of HotRescues. I’m also a friend of Bella Frankovick’s, and I believe in what she is doing with Save Them All Sanctuary. I just wanted to meet you, to see what kind of veterinarian goes public about wanting to kill special-needs
animals. Why would a good vet want to shut down a place that caters to making sure pets survive in a nurturing environment as long as they aren’t suffering? Of course, maybe I made false assumptions. Good vet? What kind of vet are you?”

All right. Maybe I did wind up berating him. I didn’t attempt to soften my glare.

Instead of getting defensive or angry, as I’d expected, the doctor walked around the jutting examination table toward me. I stiffened.

He sat down on the chair beside the one I occupied. He was taller than me, thin beneath his white jacket. He wore a large watch on his left wrist. “I understand why you’re upset on Bella’s behalf, Lauren. I said what I had to. The circumstances … well, I was all for Bella’s founding her new pet sanctuary—at first. But I was afraid that people would start believing they should keep animals alive beyond the times that it made sense to do so. I’d intended to work with Bella to make sure she didn’t allow any of her residents to suffer, but … like I said, circumstances changed.”

“What circumstances?”

“I care—cared—about Bella. She and Miles and my ex-wife and I were really close friends for a while. But our marriages—both couples’—fell apart. I’d liked Bella’s attitude about pets at first, but she started becoming so rabid about it. Pushing it. I had hopes that—Well, a lot changed and we both had to move on. That’s all. But …”

“But what?” I demanded. “Aren’t you going to defend your terrible attitude? I mean, there’s been no indication that Bella would let any animal suffer. To the contrary, if
you’d been the kind of vet she needed, you could have made sure that the sick or injured pets that could be saved were as well cared for as you thought they should be. And that the older ones were living with the best quality of life possible until they really did begin suffering. But you—” Oops. I hadn’t meant to start a tirade like that. “Sorry,” I finished. “Not for what I said, but for getting so riled. You’re going to believe what you want to believe. My opinion won’t change that.” Especially when Bella’s hadn’t.

“You’re right.” His voice sounded sad but resigned. “Maybe … if things had been different, I’d have been able to help Bella.”

I was through here. Except for one thing. “Since you’re dedicated to killing animals when you think they shouldn’t be allowed to live anymore, I don’t suppose you’d admit to killing Miles, would you?”

He rose so suddenly that his clipboard hit the examination table, startling me.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “Of course I wouldn’t admit to that.”

“I didn’t think so,” I said. I usually maintain control and don’t blurt things out without thinking them through. Not this time. But I wasn’t sorry. If I antagonized him more, why not? His reaction didn’t surprise me.

“That’s because I didn’t do it,” he emphasized as I walked out the examination room door.

I thought about calling Bella when I returned to HotRescues. I’d accomplished a couple of interesting visits on her behalf that day.

But I hadn’t learned enough to get either one of us excited.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to stir up anything about her possible love-hate situation with Dr. Vic Drammon.

With Zoey contentedly lying on the rug under my desk, I entered what I could into my computer files. I maneuvered them around to put the Traymores in places of honor on my suspect list, while Vic Drammon stayed near the bottom. But the more I stared at the names and information I’d collected, the less I felt I knew who actually could have killed Miles.

I hate being in that kind of situation. I like to know where I’m going. How I’ll get there.

That was one major reason why, when I received a call from Matt, I smiled and happily cast my files aside, at least for now.

The other reason was that I was glad to hear from him, despite our agreement to disagree about my helping Bella. I really liked the guy.

When he suggested that Zoey and I meet with Rex and him for dinner, of course I agreed.

We planned to meet at a nice steakhouse in Northridge with an outside eating area where we could sit with the dogs. Since our usual restaurants were more casual, I wondered if there was something on Matt’s mind that he wanted to discuss.

An apology?

Or maybe he intended to press his point even more, try to woo me out of attempting to find Miles’s killer.

I’d keep an open mind for now. No sense stoking fury until I knew if it was justified.

Zoey and I arrived first and were shown to a nice table for two with lots of room around it for the dogs. This restaurant would drive them nuts with its wonderful aromas of charcoaled meats, since the grill, though inside, was vented nearby. I didn’t usually give dogs table scraps while I was eating, but in a situation like this a little leniency in policy might be called for.

Matt and Rex arrived soon after we did. I stood to greet them, and the kiss I received from Matt was disarming, as nice and hot as the charcoal embers. Which made me worry, as we all took our places, what was really on his mind.

Did he want to come home with me that night? That might be pleasant … and more. As long as we didn’t start arguing.

We each ordered a cocktail. Mine was fruitier than Matt’s. I wasn’t extremely hungry and decided on a grilled burger. Matt, unsurprisingly, chose a steak.

“This was a great idea,” I told him when our server left with our orders. Matt was dressed in a medium blue button-down shirt that looked good on him. I’d also changed from my HotRescues uniform into a dressy rose knit top over black slacks. This felt like a special occasion, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ve missed you, Lauren.”

“It hasn’t been that long since we saw each other,” I reminded him.

“But things have been strained between us.”

Ah, was he about to apologize?

“I’m sorry about that, but not about the reason. I think you know that I care for you. I understand why you think you have to help Bella, and if there’s anything I can do to help
you
, then just tell me.”

I heard the “but” in his tone and just waited.

“But—” Here it came. I took a sip of my martini. “Like I said, I’m concerned about your safety. One of the things I love about you is your determination.”

That earned a startled glance from me. Love? That had to just be an expression. And he hadn’t really professed to love
me
, just things about me.

“When you start something, you follow through,” he continued. “I understand and respect that. And like you, I really like the premise of Save Them All Sanctuary. But—”

He stopped as the server brought fresh bread and some interesting toppings—cheese and a tomato-based spread. I took some and passed it to him. My mind was in turmoil. I waited to hear the rest of his sentence after this newest “but.”

“Lauren,” Matt finally said. “I’ve been doing some checking. Asking questions. I can’t say that what I found is additional proof that Bella killed her ex, but it does show she doesn’t let anything stand in her way of reaching a goal.”

“Neither do I,” I said dryly. “Does that mean I should be a murder suspect again?”