In any event, John was tall, gray-haired, and dignified. He shook my hand firmly and motioned for me to have a seat. His office was small but poshly decorated. It wasn’t within one of the studios, but ornately framed posters on the wall indicated he had been affiliated with a lot of successful movies—as a producer, I gathered—which meant connections and money.
“Good to meet you, Lauren. I know Dante DeFrancisco and his connection to HotRescues.”
Interesting, I thought. If, when I left here, I still considered John a suspect, I’d have to ask Dante his opinion.
“Thanks for seeing me.” I went through the brief litany I’d used in our phone conversation about recently having met Bethany and been impressed with her—and also being a friend of the person who was most likely her murderer. “I just wanted to check with other people she knew for ideas to throw at the police, to make sure they’ve considered all possibilities.”
He laughed. “Very politic, Lauren. But I know you’re here checking me out as a possible suspect. I’d figure that out even if I hadn’t talked with Miguel. Nice guy, but a bit pushy. He’s using this as an excuse to sound me out about a film role one of these days.”
“Really?” I hadn’t thought of that angle, but in some odd way it made sense.
“I’m sure that everyone you’re talking to is assuring you they’re innocent. Add me to the list. And let me be clear on this: In this instance, at least, it’s true. Bethany and I parted on affable terms—profitable terms for her, I might add, but she gave me some really enjoyable years, so it was worth it. I hadn’t seen her for a long time, and I thought of her with affection. There was something in her will that she had mentioned to me long ago, that she left me money to go to her funeral if she died before me, but I’d have been there anyway.”
I left soon after, making notes to stick John’s file within my murder-business plan way down at the bottom.
Innocent? I believed so. But he still remained a possibility.
Bethany’s other ex, Sam Legroote, owned a card shop franchise in Newport Beach, which was down in Orange County. I hated to spend the time to go there, but Nina and Angie were in charge at HotRescues and I knew the animals would do fine without me, even if I didn’t manage to pop in till late that day. Once again, I’d left my poor Zoey at home alone, but she was sweet and resourceful and would be fine.
Sam was about two decades younger than John, and his attitude sucked. “Yeah, I hated the bitch,” he said, his voice low because there were some customers browsing in his store, which was located in a trendy shopping area. He had only a thick fringe of brown hair, and I wondered if Bethany, who’d seemed all about appearances, had dropped him because he was going bald. “She dumped me a few years ago, just before she sold out her cosmetics company. Our settlement didn’t allow for me to share in her proceeds.” He, too, mentioned that Miguel had called. “He said you’re trying to help a friend by pointing fingers at other people who might have wanted to kill her. Yeah, I had a grudge, but if I was going to do her in, I’d have done it way back when I was really mad because she’d screwed me.”
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.
The More the Terrier Page 19
