The More the Terrier (19 page)

Maybe. Or maybe he’d decided to play it cool, and get his revenge when he wouldn’t appear on the top of anyone’s radar.

I chatted with him a little more, even bought a couple of cute cards to send to Tracy and Kevin to convey my love to them, and left.

My notes: This guy’s place in my murder analysis files would stay near the top for now.

Chapter 25

The next day, Wednesday, I intended to accomplish a lot, and not just my official duties at HotRescues. I woke up early, and Zoey and I headed to the shelter after grabbing quick breakfasts.

We arrived even earlier than Pete usually does. I parked and started toward the entrance to the front building . . . just as Zoey started tugging on her leash.

Uh-oh. The last time she’d done that, we’d been the ones to find one of the supposed owner relinquishments, outside camera range. But Brooke had done a lot more to enhance our observation capabilities—or so we’d discussed.

As I let Zoey lead me toward the end of the parking lot, around the corner, and into the alley behind the storage building at the back of HotRescues, I called Brooke.

She answered right away. Her voice was groggy. I’d awakened her, but that was part of our deal with her running security at HotRescues. “What’s wrong, Lauren?” she demanded. “Karen was there on duty last night, not me. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I’m not sure, but we may have . . . Hello.” Zoey had stopped beside a large cardboard box near one of the doors in the fence where we could haul in supplies. She didn’t have to tell me what she smelled. I could hear a cat meowing. “I’ll check with Karen to see if anything was caught on camera,” I told Brooke, “but it sounds like we had a feline dropped off last night. I’ll have to open the box to confirm it, though.”

“I’ll call Karen, and I’ll be there fast,” Brooke said.

I knelt beside Zoey and hugged her, glancing up at the commercial buildings across the alley. I didn’t see any movement. It was probably too early for the office workers to get there. As I looked around for the nearest visible camera at the top of our storage building, a minivan drove up. Pete had arrived. He parked fast and ran over to us. “What’s that, Lauren?”

“I’m about to check.” I still held my car key. After gently maneuvering Zoey to a spot behind me, I used the key to rip open the tape sealing the box, careful not to let the point drive too far inside in case what I suspected was true. Not that I had much doubt. The critter inside was meowing louder now, obviously knowing that something was going on around him—or her.

Unsurprisingly, when I peeled back a flap, I saw a gray, furry cat head. The poor little guy started moving frantically inside the box, and I was afraid he’d jump out and disappear before we could help him. I pushed the flap back and held it.

“Let’s get him inside,” I told Pete, who picked up the box. I used a key to open the nearest gate, and we went through the rear entrance.

“Should we check him out here?” Pete asked over the loud barking of a crew of dogs now on alert.

“There’s an empty enclosure down there.” I pointed to one beyond several filled with indignant, noisy canines. “Let’s see what we’ve got before we decide what to do with him.”

Since we were inside the fenced HotRescues grounds, I released Zoey’s leash as soon as I shut the gate. Not that I was overly concerned that my smart pup would run off. But I always expected those who adopted pets from our shelter to take extra care of their new family members, and I always tried to practice what I preached—especially when failure to do so could endanger an animal.

Zoey dashed toward the front of HotRescues, as if she wanted to take the first look of the morning at our residents. She passed Karen, who had just emerged from the center building. Her blond hair was mussed, and her black security T-shirt was crumpled. She looked bleary-eyed, so I felt sure she’d been sleeping. No problem with that, as long as she’d done her scheduled walk-throughs. I asked, “Did Brooke reach you?”

“Yes. I’ll check the camera footage right away to see if we captured anything interesting, but I wanted to see first if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Please go grab a crate, so we’ll have someplace to hang on to this kitty till we decide what to do with him,” I said, and she hurried back into the center building.

Pete had taken the box inside the enclosure, and I shut the gate. He opened the top. The meows increased by several decibels.

“Let me get you some gloves,” I said to Pete—unnecessarily, as it turned out, since our handyman was, as usual, ready for anything. He yanked a pair out of his back pocket and covered his hands before removing the kitty from the box.

He lifted him and checked underneath, hanging on despite how frenziedly the little cat squirmed and protested. “Well, he is a he, so we’ve been right about that.” Pete stroked him in a manner that assured me that he was confirming there were no broken bones or other obvious problems.

Karen joined me again, this time holding a crate.

“Let’s put him in there for now,” I said, carefully entering the enclosure to join Pete and our new guest. “Angie’s due here pretty soon, and after she checks him over, I’ll have her run Mr. Kitty in for an official veterinary exam.”

Once the cat was crated in a more substantial and comfortable container, I opened the box he’d arrived in.

Unsurprisingly, there was a note inside. This was another drop-off by someone alleging to be an owner relinquishing a pet. The note, printed on computer paper in a large, common font, said, “This is my good friend and pet Lionheart. I am sorry I can’t keep him anymore, but I have heard that HotRescues rocks as a great place to find animals new homes. Please take good care of him.”

I started to shake my head, then froze. And smiled.

Yes, I’d contact Matt yet again, but this time I had an idea—flimsy, maybe, but I just might be able to locate the someone who could explain these supposed relinquishments.

Something else to put on my busy agenda.

Angie arrived on schedule about half an hour later. Our vet tech checked out Lionheart, scanned him for a nonexistent microchip, proclaimed that he appeared healthy, and agreed to take him to The Fittest Pet Veterinary Clinic. “Say hi to Carlie for me, if she’s there,” I said. “Tell her I haven’t forgotten that we’re to grab a lunch together soon.” Assuming my busy veterinarian friend wasn’t heading off early to film her next
Fittest Pet
TV show.

By then, Karen had checked what had been recorded by the cameras in the area where Lionheart had been dumped. Notwithstanding the infrared capabilities that didn’t require any light for the pictures to be taken, the screen showed only some off-camera shadows and motion, and an occasional shot of a person who kept his back to the camera and also wore a jacket hiked up to obscure his face. Apparently whoever had left the cat was once again smart enough to mostly stay out of the way of any potential filming—despite the fact that Brooke had upgraded the system again. Not only were the mechanisms camouflaged, but they panned back and forth.

Smart—yes. Even so, I intended to follow up with the clue that had been left.

Zoey and I took our first walk through the shelter for the day. Nina had arrived by the time we got back to the main building, and I filled her in on what had happened. But not what I had guessed.

It was past nine o’clock by then. Leaving Zoey with Nina, I went to the rear storage building and put some stuff into a paper bag. Then I headed—where? To Northridge, of course.

To the Tarbets’ home. Under normal circumstances, I’d have called first. But I didn’t want to alert my prey to my upcoming visit.

After parking and grabbing the bag from the passenger seat, I walked up to the fence surrounding the small house and carefully unlatched the gate, making sure none of the animals waited there to escape. Seeing no one, neither human nor pet, I approached the cottage’s front door and rang the bell.

The two dogs started barking. I wasn’t sure what Nemo the cat’s reaction to hearing the bell was—observing curiously or deciding to hide. In a minute, I thought I heard someone behind the door, which had a peephole in it.

I smiled and held up the bag. “Hi,” I called. “Sorry to bother you, but I forgot something the other day.” Like asking Davie if he was dumping animals at HotRescues—only, I didn’t suspect that was true four days ago.

The door opened slightly. Margie stood there, holding back the dogs, whose tails were wagging. Her presence was a bit of a disappointment. I’d figured the nurse’s aide would be at work, and I would be able to talk to her son. But maybe this was better. He was a minor. I shouldn’t just face him down without his mother being around.

“Hi,” I repeated. “I meant to bring this bag of supplies from HotPets to you the other day. I was in the area for another home visit, so I thought I’d just drop it off.” In case she’d just want to grab it and close the door in my face, I continued, “Of course now that I’m here, I’d love to visit with Beardsley, Moe, and Nemo again.” I bent and patted the dogs’ heads. “Check on their well-being. I’m such a worrywart, but I do love all the animals we place.”

Yes, I was prattling, but I wanted to put Margie off guard.

“Well, sure, Lauren. Come in.” She backed away. Her round cheeks were pale, and she’d put on no makeup yet. She wore a ragged but frilly bathrobe and apologized for it.

“You look fine. Besides, it’s not like I warned you I was coming.”

She showed me into the living room and offered me a cup of coffee, which I declined. I continued to pet the dogs and asked about the kitty, and Margie offered to go find her for me.

“Soon,” I said. “Is Davie here? I really enjoy talking to him, too.”

But her son had gotten a part-time job for the summer at a kids’ day camp held in a nearby park and had already left.

I was sure poor Margie wanted to throw me out, but she was gracious despite my continuing to talk about nothing. Or at least she probably considered it nothing. But I spoke of animals, and how we got them to HotRescues and how we took care of them.

While I was chattering, I managed to work in some questions, like inquiring whether Davie had his driver’s license. He did. And about any strays that might have shown up lately around this neighborhood—dogs, cats, or both.

Margie professed to be aware of none. Yes, she, too, thought Davie’s love for animals was cute. She fortunately didn’t appear concerned about the reason for my blathering.

But Davie had been the one, when I’d been here last, to say that HotRescues rocked. Not an uncommon expression these days, of course, but to have something similar turn up on the note left with Lionheart had ratcheted up my suspicions.

Nemo poked his gray head into the living room, as if assuring himself that the intruder wasn’t anyone worth checking out more closely. I just laughed.

But I didn’t find the situation very humorous. My questions were only partly answered. Margie didn’t seem to know about it if Davie was the one who’d been taking animals to HotRescues. Nor could I be sure he wasn’t my target.

Margie walked me to the door a little while later. “Thanks for the supplies,” she said.

“You’re welcome. You know, I’d love to talk to Davie about—” I stopped. If she told him I wanted to see him, he’d realize I was on to him, assuming he was our dumper. Inspiration struck. “We’re planning a demonstration by the Small Animal Rescue Team sometime soon at HotRescues. A fund-raiser. I’ll let you know when it is. I’ll bet Davie would enjoy it.”

“Oh, yes,” Margie said. “Thanks, Lauren.”

And once I was in his presence again, I might have a few questions to lob at him.

Chapter 26

I’d received the e-mail I’d expected from Miguel Rohrig late last night and printed it out. He had checked and confirmed that the pet adopter who’d argued with Bethany a lot was Nalla Croler, and he recommended that I add her to my suspect list. He’d sent along her phone number—and her place of work. It was in the area where I’d hoped to go later that day anyway.

I wear my dark hair short, and it had been a few weeks since I’d had it cut. Nalla was a hairstylist. Before I drove away from Northridge, I called the salon where she worked.

I was pleased to learn that she did indeed have an open spot that morning, about forty-five minutes from now. I’d get there in plenty of time, traffic along the western side of L.A. permitting—which was always iffy.

Once again I lucked out. I even got there enough in advance to find a relatively cheap parking spot, at a meter.

The salon was in Westwood. It was likely to charge less than a similar establishment in nearby Beverly Hills, but I figured my haircut, even a no-frills one, wouldn’t be cheap.

I walked into the Hair Today salon on Hilgard Avenue right on time. From behind a desk, a smiling young woman with streaked brown hair asked my name, then showed me through the door behind her into a long room that smelled of fragrant shampoos and the chemicals associated with hair dyes and permanents. The cubicles on both sides were separated by decorative half-walls, resembling those in a high-end commercial office.

Nalla’s was the third cubicle on the right. The chair I was shown to was royal blue and upholstered and appeared very comfortable, which proved to be true.

Nalla looked as if she’d just had her own blond hair styled. She was probably mid-thirties, buxom, and wearing a black apron similar to the ones I’d noticed on other stylists. Her eyes peered from behind small-framed glasses. ���Hello,” she said, and introduced herself.

“Hi. I’m Lauren Vancouver.” I watched her face, but there was no reaction. She apparently didn’t know who I was, nor should she. Good. It would be easier that way to get the information I sought.

I told her how I wanted my hair trimmed. With its caplike style, there wasn’t much way she could ruin it, even if she wanted to. I only wanted it shampooed and cut, no dying or streaking or anything else.

She was friendly, but wasn’t one of those stylists who appeared to believe the world would end if she failed to keep up a running conversation with her customers. That left it up to me to get her talking.

After she finished my shampoo and studied my hair before cutting it, I chatted about the weather and hair in general, then told her what I did for a living. “I’m a pet rescuer,” I said. “I run a private no-kill shelter in Granada Hills. Are you a pet person?”

“Yes, I am.” She smiled. “In fact, I just adopted the sweetest dog—a part pit bull.”

We talked briefly about how she believed the breed is maligned a lot thanks to some of them being bred for dog fights—which was a form of cruelty. And how owners still have to train them to be sure they wouldn’t attack other dogs—and keep them under control. Not always easy.

Then I asked where she’d gotten her pup.

I watched in the mirror as her face clouded over. “At a shelter that I thought would be perfect. The woman who owned it was so well known around here—used to be a star among those of us in the beauty community. She’d started, then sold, her own high-end cosmetics company. Her stuff is really great—I still buy a lot of it. She died recently, though. The bitch.” She met my eyes, then looked abashed. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but the way she acted . . .”

“Toward the animals?”

“No.” Nalla began sectioning my hair and using clips to keep some out of the way. “Toward people. She made me come back three times before I could take Pitsy, and even then she kept giving me a hard time about how to treat my sweet dog. Telling me over and over how to train her and feed her and love her and . . . Did you know her? Her name was Bethany Urber. I know she started this whole network of other pet rescue organizations, Pet Shelters Together. Does your shelter belong to it?” She started trimming, and I became concerned suddenly that her emotionalism might lead to a really horrible haircut.

“No.” I kept my tone even as I watched every snip. “But I’ve heard of her. How did you handle her demands?” Unspoken meaning: Did you start hating her enough to want to quiet her by shooting her?

“I thought about just leaving the first day I visited her place, but I’d fallen in love with Pitsy. There were some other people around. I guess one was her assistant . . . Cricket? She tried to smooth things over. There were a few other women there—I gathered they all ran shelters, too, and were part of that network. One even suggested I might want to visit her shelter, that she had some pit bull mixes there, too. I figured, from the shocked looks the other two gave her, that recommending another place was forbidden around Bethany. If it weren’t for how strongly I already felt about Pitsy, I’d probably have just walked out, maybe even gone to that other person’s shelter.”

“Who was that?” I asked. “Which shelter?”

But she didn’t know.

She did, however, after adopting Pitsy, prevent Bethany from the home visit that was so important to many of the best private shelters. They’d argued about that, too. Also about Bethany’s many phone calls still telling her what to do. Nalla stopped taking Bethany’s calls and would only talk to Cricket.

I couldn’t fault Bethany completely. I acted similarly at times, in the interest of protecting the animals we adopted out. But I probably came across a lot more tactfully—something that didn’t come easily to me, either.

“I did go back there one more time, just to tell her off,” Nalla admitted. “Stupid, maybe, but I was pretty damned mad at her for her attitude. I accused her of abusing the animals under her care, in a way. If she turned off other potential adopters like she’d turned me off, how many of the animals she cared for wouldn’t get the right homes? She was so mad that she threatened to take Pitsy back, which is why I wouldn’t let her come see us. Fortunately, we live on a middle floor in a condo with a great security system, so she couldn’t just barge in. I’ve got a dog walker who takes Pitsy out days I’m not home, and I warned her to watch out for Bethany. And I threatened Bethany right back.” Nalla shrugged. “Even more stupidity? Yes. And the thing was, some guy was hanging around. He heard it all. He must have told the cops about it, because they came to talk to me after Bethany was murdered.”

I assumed the guy was Miguel, and that was why he’d told me to look at Nalla as a possible suspect.

“But,” Nalla said, flourishing her scissors as she gave what appeared to be a final snip to my hair, “I didn’t do it. If someone had to get murdered, I can understand why it was Bethany. But as long as she left Pitsy and me alone, I’d have had no problem letting her live forever. Here, want to take a look?”

She passed me a hand mirror, twirling my chair around so I could check the reflection of the back of my head.

The cut looked good.

The information she had provided gave me additional food for thought.

So when I saw the amount on my bill, I swallowed my gasp and even added a nice tip to my credit card receipt. This killer inquiry was costing me a lot, and it wasn’t the sort of expense that I could get back from HotRescues or Dante, even though he was very generous in bonuses and raises that helped me keep my kids in school. I’d better end my investigation successfully.

I’d add a section on Nalla to my find-Bethany’s-killer computer file.

Eliminate her as a suspect? Not really.

I’d place her toward the end, though, near Miguel and Mamie.

But thanks to her, I now had additional questions to ask a few people who were already in that growing file.

At the same time I’d printed out Miguel’s e-mail about Nalla that morning, I’d also sorted through the correspondence I continued to receive about Bethany. As I’d hoped when I requested that people send me their memories, the members of Pet Shelters Together still dissected and vivisected Bethany and their relationships with her. She’d been a saint, trying to help people help animals. She’d been a thorn in many sides as she had engaged in some less-thanlovable stunts in her crusade to get people to join and do her bidding. I’d need to spend a lot of time figuring it all out, but in the meantime I knew who I next intended to visit.

Sylvia Lodner, a member of the network, had been the first to tell me that my asking for eulogies over the fruit of Bethany’s efforts would most likely dredge up some pretty rotten stuff about her, too.

Sylvia’s shelter, Pet Home Locators, was in Torrance, about twenty miles southeast of Westwood. My GPS got me there in about half an hour, since traffic was cooperative, too.

The shelter was on a side street off Torrance Boulevard. I almost drove by it, since its entry was marked only with an inconspicuous sign. I parked on the street and headed up the driveway.

At its end was a nondescript building that people evidently had to go through to reach the shelter area. The exterior resembled a series of ticket windows, where visitors had to check in and talk to someone before going any farther.

I headed for the first window. “Hi,” I said to the teenage boy behind it who was thumbing through some paperwork. He looked up, apparently startled.

“Hi.” He smiled. “Can I help you choose a new pet today?”

I laughed. “You’ve been trained well. But I’m actually here to see Sylvia Lodner. Please tell her Lauren Vancouver would like to talk to her.”

The boy left, and Sylvia appeared at the window less than a minute later. “What are you doing here, Lauren?” Her voice sounded less than welcoming, and the expression on her face—which had almost always been solemn when I’d been around her—now looked downright suspicious.

Not surprising, the logo on her bright red shirt that contrasted attractively with her light African American skin tone said, “Can we help you choose a new pet today?” Obviously, that was a theme around here. A good one.

“I’d just like to talk to you about what you submitted to me on Bethany,” I said. “I had a few questions.”

“Ones you couldn’t e-mail to me? Never mind. Why don’t I show you around this outstanding facility, since you’re here, and we’ll talk.”

She pointed toward a door off to my right. It opened, and she motioned for me to join her.

She showed me through a small but well-kept facility. Dogs of all sizes leaped around in their enclosures, demanding our attention. There was a separate building at the rear where cats were each kept in their own generoussized crates.

In all, I really liked the place. I told Sylvia so.

“Thanks, Lauren.” We had just left the cat building, and she turned to me and gave me one of her rare smiles. “So what is it that you really want from me?”

I laughed. “I’m still trying to figure Bethany out, before I try putting the information together for the Web site I intend to create in her memory.”

“Bull-puckey, as we say around here, since we’ve got a lot of young volunteers. You’re still butting in, trying to figure out which of us killed her.” We’d reached a small outside sitting and exercise area paved in concrete, and Sylvia pulled lawn chairs up for each of us. “Have a seat, and I’ll tell you all I know, which isn’t much.”

“To clear the air a little,” I said, “you’re right. I am butting in. But I’m only looking for the truth. Mamie Spelling and I have a long history, but if she killed Bethany, so be it. If she didn’t, I’d like to help her. That’s all.”

“That’s enough, isn’t it? Never mind. Here’s my input. First, I didn’t kill Bethany but I can’t say I liked her much. I did like her idea of a network of shelters with combined resources. That’s why I joined. Not because she pulled any of her stupid stunts on me, though she tried.”

“Like what? Your place here is wonderful. She couldn’t have threatened you with going to the authorities, like she did with Mamie.”

Sylvia sat back on her chair and crossed her arms, as if fending off whatever Bethany had done to her. “No, but she did her homework and figured out my vulnerability, too. Pet Home Locators gets a lot of small donations from people who believe we’re hurting for money. That’s what we do when we’re begging—show how much our animals need the help of everyone out there who loves pets. We don’t have the kind of resources I understand you have, with your affiliation with HotPets. But . . . well, I don’t want to get into a lot of detail that you could use against me, too, but suffice it to say that, even though this is a nonprofit corporation, it runs on certain—shall we say—underreported profits from some unrelated products a few members of our board of directors make and sell. Some of the proceeds would be tax-exempt anyway for a nonprofit, but not necessarily all of them. And if you ever mention that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“Did you deny it to Bethany?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good. She knew and tried to hold it over me. But the main reason I wanted to join her network was to wean our organization away from that less-than-ideal situation. I hated what Bethany tried to do to me, but it was her normal course of operation. Any one of us could have hated her enough to kill her, I suppose. But if hating the way she asserted a nasty form of control over anyone was a motive, we all have one. And tight-fisted? Amazing! She kept detailed records about all sorts of piddly things, including how many PST T-shirts were bought, how many pins she gave out to members, everything. When one of the members lost a pin, she almost flipped her lid.”