The More the Terrier

by Linda O. Johnston

  So was I. I didn’t get the impression that Raelene was a good potential suspect herself. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop on my way back to HotRescues to indulge in more gossip about Cricket at Happy Saved Animals. Instead, I called Darya Price and asked if I could visit her tomorrow morning at her shelter.

  I had an appointment early that afternoon for Gavin Mamo to come to HotRescues and demonstrate his training abilities on one of our new residents, Flash—a golden Lab that Angie, our vet tech, had wrested from a high-kill shelter in San Bernardino County the day before the exuberant one-year-old was scheduled to be put down. The assessment had been that no one would want to adopt an untrainable dog like him.

  My opinion? Take him in, get someone good to start his training, then find him the right home.

  It had been more than a week since I’d visited Gavin at his Westwood training center and negotiated possible terms of part-time employment with him, but I hadn’t been as diligent as I’d hoped about following up with him—not till Angie called me, somewhat frantic, about her last-minute rescue.

  Now, Gavin would have to prove himself to me in an especially difficult situation, a sort of trial by fire.

  Seemed appropriate with a dog named Flash.

  Before going to see Raelene, I’d left Zoey at HotRescues with Brooke, early that morning. No new drop-offs then, fortunately. That was something else I needed to follow up on—my idea of who’d been our supposed owner-relinquisher. I’d do that in a short while, since I had a thought about how to approach it.

  Now, I parked and entered the welcome area—and was glad to see Nina speaking with a couple who sounded interested in adoption. I waved at her and headed to my office to drop off my purse, but she called after me, “Gavin Mamo’s here. Bev is showing him around.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Nina had shut Zoey inside my office, and my sweet dog greeted me with such enthusiasm that I laughed and knelt and hugged her. “I need for you to stay inside for now, sweetie,” I told her, nuzzling against her soft fur. “I’ll take you on a long walk in a bit, just the two of us. I promise.” She licked my face as I hugged her again, acknowledging that she understood and forgave me for not making our walk immediate.

  I was soon outside in the shelter area, tracking them down. Our outspoken senior volunteer Bev was an excellent choice for giving our new trainer a tour. She’d tell him her opinion on all our residents and their state of discipline and adoptability. Most often, I agreed with her.

  Unsurprisingly, I found them at the enclosure around the back corner where Flash now lived. They were outside the gated area talking to the dog, who leaped around in obvious joy at the attention.

  Not a good sign, I thought. Shouldn’t a skilled trainer encourage better behavior, get him calmed faster?

  Bev apparently thought so. Her face was even more lined than usual as she glared, and she drew herself up notwithstanding her characteristic slouch. “Why’s he still jumping?” she demanded, her scowl leveled on Gavin.

  He looked huge, compared with Bev. I studied him to determine how well he took her criticism, which could be a factor in his longevity here.

  He grinned at her, then me, baring gleaming white teeth that contrasted brightly with his deep skin tone. He wore a bright green, blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt that day, which emphasized his background. “We’re just sizing each other up.” He turned his large body back toward the enclosure. “I’m in charge now,” he said to Flash. I noticed he’d wrapped a leash around his hand, and he loosened it so it dangled. “Okay if I go in?” He looked at me for permission, and I added a few points in his favor.

  “Go for it,” I said.

  He opened the gate and entered the enclosure. Flash leaped up in obvious ecstasy.

  “Sit.” The word Gavin uttered was low and brief. Yeah, sure, I thought—and was amazed to see Flash obey.

  I looked at Gavin’s body language. He towered over the dog even more than he did over most people. His arm was bent, his fist raised, but not, I thought, as a threat.

  “Good dog.” He pulled a treat from his pocket and gave it to Flash. Then he snapped the leash on and led the dog out through the gate.

  Which Flash evidently took to mean he was liberated. He dashed forward, obviously attempting to run.

  Gavin quickly but gently snapped the leash and brought Flash back to his side. “Heel,” he said in the same firm voice he’d initially used on the pup. Flash didn’t appear to know the command, but at least he stopped pulling. And got yet another treat.

  Gavin led Flash to our visitors’ park along the side rear of the shelter. There, I heard a lot of muffled hammering and sawing noises from the property next door—an improvement from the louder sound effects we’d heard a lot of during the last few weeks. I supposed that was because most of the outside work on the new building was complete and the contractors were working on finishing the inside.

  Bev and I stayed at the outer entry to the park, watching as Gavin worked with Flash. The pup seemed amenable to taking orders at first, then got tired of it and tried again to run away. Gavin kept pulling him back, firmly yet gently, and repeating a few basic commands: sit, stay, down, heel. He continued removing small treats from his pocket and rewarding Flash for good behavior.

  Soon, Flash appeared to concede that Gavin was alpha in this small pack. When the two of them started to exit the park, Flash trotted at Gavin’s side, the leash slack enough to demonstrate that he wasn’t been coerced to stay there.

  I smiled at Gavin. He smiled at me.

  “Next?” he said.

  Chapter 28

  I was on the phone a lot at home that evening, which bored Zoey, who slept beside me on the couch. Hey, it was her house, too. I didn’t agree with those who kept their pets off the furniture. Fine for them, but it wasn’t my way.

  I called Mamie first. I had no intention of letting her know I believed I was close to solving Bethany’s murder—and, hence, Mamie’s biggest legal problem. Not till I was certain, I had some evidence to hand over, and the right suspect was in jail. I worried about her, though.

  “I’m fine, Lauren,” she said when I asked, but her tone suggested the opposite. The stress couldn’t be helping her deal with her already fragile psyche.

  “How are you and Mr. Caramon getting along?” I asked in a not-so-subtle way of trying to find out if she was still being hounded by the police.

  “Okay. We’re getting together again on Monday.”

  “Oh. Well, take care, Mamie.”

  “You, too, Lauren.”

  I almost wished I could send some optimism over the phone airwaves.

  My next discussion was with Matt. He’d had a busy week, but tomorrow was Friday, and we’d get together over the weekend. He’d rounded up the members of the SmART team. They would visit HotRescues next Saturday to check out the facilities for the demo I hoped they could do for the fund-raiser that Dante had finally scheduled for that Sunday. They’d even do a practice run.

  After confirming it with Matt, I next spoke with Dante, letting him know that everything was a go from my end.

  “Great, Lauren,” he said. “I’ve had my HotPets PR guys do what they could to get ready without total confirmation. Starting tomorrow, flyers will be available in all local HotPets and on our Web site, and we’ll flood all our online customers. We’ll emphasize what a great job HotRescues does, and should get a good turnout.”

  “How much will we charge for people to get in?”

  He named a reasonable figure. “Some of our take will go toward a generous contribution to SmART, since the team members pay for all their own equipment that isn’t donated, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Some will go toward HotRescues programs—not any offset for the new construction. That’s my nickel. Depending on how much we get, any extra will go to whatever rescue groups we decide on later. With my PR guys’ input, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Watc
h that sarcasm,” Dante said, but I heard amusement in his tone.

  As I hung up, I decided to invite Mamie to our event. She might enjoy the distraction.

  Finally, I called Carlie, let her know that our Sunday fund-raiser was happening . . . and also giving her the contact information I’d gotten from Dante about his PR guys. “If it’s okay with them, you can film all or part of one of your Pet Fitness shows there, if you want.”

  “Count on it! Thanks, Lauren.”

  There was a show about pet rescues in New York on Animal Planet that night. Zoey and I watched it before heading to bed.

  Happy Saved Animals, the no-kill shelter managed by Darya Price, was located off Sepulveda Boulevard in Mar Vista, a part of Los Angeles not far from Venice and Santa Monica.

  After dropping Zoey off at HotRescues that Friday morning, I drove south toward that general area—again. I’d been doing that a lot lately, ever since Mamie’s phone call.

  I’d also been visiting more competing rescue organizations that ran shelters in a compressed amount of time than I had since before I helped to start HotRescues. Then, while putting together my business plan, I’d looked at other setups, asked questions without fully explaining my need to know, and stirred together the good while discarding the difficult and adding a dash of my own creativity. The result had impressed Dante enough, which had thrilled me. Still did.

  Happy Saved Animals had been one of the shelters I’d checked out back then. I wasn’t sure who the director had been at the time, but it wasn’t Darya.

  As I recalled now, the organization had impressed me as being solid, the fund-raising success impressive, and, most important, the emphasis on taking good care of animals had been wonderful.

  I wondered if Darya had kept it all up. Why not? Since it wasn’t broken, she was unlikely to have fixed it.

  I parked in the lot behind the facility and approached the gate. I entered into an attractive courtyard surrounded by buildings. The one on the right had a “Welcome” sign, and that was where I headed.

  I’d called ahead to warn Darya I was coming, but she wasn’t the one to greet me. Instead, a friendly dark-haired woman showed me to a seat in what appeared to be a waiting room. “I’ll give you some paperwork to fill out,” she said, “and then I’ll have someone take you back to see our wonderful animals who are waiting to be adopted.”

  She had a heavy accent, perhaps Middle Eastern, and she might not have fully understood what I’d said when I introduced myself. I gently waved away the clipboard she started to hand me and began to explain again who I was.

  Darya walked in then. “Lauren, welcome.” She laughed lightly as she gestured toward the clipboard her assistant still held. “Lauren would pass all our requirements with flying colors,” Darya told the other lady, “but she’s here for another reason.” She turned back to me with a somewhat quizzical expression. “Which I’m eager to hear about. Come into my office, Lauren.” She waved for me to follow her.

  Unlike a lot of administrators and their staff, Darya didn’t wear a uniform consisting of a T-shirt extolling her shelter. Nor was she the pinnacle of fashion, as Bethany had been. Instead, she had a business-like shirt and pair of slacks on her lean frame, as if impressing possible adopters with her professionalism might help her place her animals into new homes faster. I’d have to ask if it worked. If so, I might change my style.

  Darya’s office was located down a short hall. I glanced in an open door and saw her husband, Lan, sitting behind a desk at a computer, his back toward the door.

  “Does your husband work here, too?” I asked as we continued walking.

  “He helps with a few things, like payroll for employees—not many of them, since we try to recruit volunteers. He’s great at giving fund-raising advice. He’s actually a CPA and works at an accounting firm that manages the books of a lot of doctors’ offices and medical centers.”

  “Handy guy to have around,” I said with a smile, meaning it. Fortunately, Dante had a good accounting firm he dealt with for his HotPets empire who also helped to balance our HotRescues books. That meant I didn’t have much to worry about except for keeping track of donations—mostly from Dante himself—and expenses. An accounting program on our computer system helped a lot with that.

  “He sure is,” Darya agreed. She showed me into the next room. “Here we are.”

  Her office was smaller than mine. Even if I hadn’t had the conversation area, my digs were roomy compared with this. But it was neat, with a desk clear of everything but the inevitable computer, and a three-drawer file cabinet sideways against the back wall.

  Darya pulled out a folding chair and set it up for me, wedging it in front of her desk. I sat down, regretting that I hadn’t asked for my tour first. Someone must have walked through the shelter, since I heard a wave of dog barks, starting with only one or two, then rising to a crescendo. Made me want to see them and hug a few, too.

  Later, I figured.

  “Can I get you some coffee or water?” Darya asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  She pulled a bottle of water from a drawer and took a sip. “I’m delighted you’re here,” she said, “but what did you want to talk about?”

  “I’m sure you can guess, at least somewhat. I’m still butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong, trying to figure out who really killed Bethany.” I smiled, but Darya’s return expression was only half amused.

  “I understand your wanting to clear Mamie,” she said, “but if she’s guilty—and it sure looks that way—you’re just wasting your time.”

  “I don’t think so.” I leaned forward in an attempt to suggest earnestness, but I couldn’t go far in this cramped room. “I have an idea who really did it, but . . . Look, Darya, I’m still trying to sort through the e-mails I received from Pet Shelters Together members, but the gist of most of them is that Bethany wasn’t a very nice person at times. She did anything she could think of to get people to join PST. Nasty stuff. That’s what I’d figured led to her death. Someone fought back. It could have been Mamie, but I’ve come up with a better possibility. That’s why I’m here.”

  I stopped. My intention had been to describe my new theory, that someone had a stronger motive: taking over the whole organization. Handling it differently. Making more money, and whatever else she chose to do—using what she’d learned from her former boss and running with it, after using Bethany’s own gun on her.

  That someone would have been Cricket.

  But I stopped talking as all the color drained from Darya’s face. Her former smile drooped, and her expression became guarded.

  “Interesting theory,” she said.

  Interesting reaction, I thought.

  “If you have another one, I’d love to hear it,” I said, even as my mind backtracked. I’d been talking about someone fighting Bethany’s nasty, coercive actions to get people to join PST. Had that happened to Darya? If so, how?

  “Meantime,” I continued, “it’s surprising how many members of PST shared their reasons for joining with me—and their opinions all seemed to be mixed. They liked the concept. But just being approached by Bethany about joining turned into nightmares for some of them. If they said no, or they’d think about it, Bethany would back off a little, then come back at them with some nastiness that she’d researched and could maybe use against them if they didn’t opt in.” I paused. “She rubbed it in, too—like she did with Mamie that day she talked to us all about hoarding. Did she do that with you, too?”

  “That day? Of course not.” She responded awfully quickly, her tone squeaky.

  Even more interesting. Had whatever upset Darya about this conversation been mentioned that same day by Bethany? What had it been?

  Darya sat back then and laughed. “Okay, you got me. You can add me to that list, but I hate to admit it. Bethany twisted my arm, too. I was reluctant to have Happy Saved Animals join the group, and she knew it. I didn’t like her attitude, for one thing. There was a situation wher
e someone was interested in adopting a nonaggressive pit bull from Better Than Any Pet Rescues one day when I was there. Bethany kept making demands of that lady, telling her exactly how she’d have to train the dog, what to feed it, the works. The poor lady was almost in tears.”

  “Was that Nalla Croler?” I asked. “I know she had an axe to grind with Bethany, so she’s on my suspect list, too.” I had some alternate, hugely growing suspicions right now but didn’t want to give them away.

  “That name sounds familiar. I had a few pretty calm pit bulls here, too, and suggested she might want to check mine out—and I promised not to give her grief about the one she adopted, although she of course would be advised to train and supervise any dog properly. All the other PST members were horrified that I dared to contradict Bethany.” She laughed. “It didn’t really matter anyhow. The lady had fallen in love with the dog right there and decided to adopt despite Bethany’s edicts.”

  “And you decided to join PST anyway?” I said casually.

  “Well, yes. After that, Bethany came to me and told me she knew about . . . Well, something I didn’t want anyone else to know.”

  It had been a big deal to Darya—enough to get her to join the network. I needed to learn what it was, even if she chose not to reveal it. Or had she already?

  “The important thing was that I really liked the concept, and the other people. I decided to join anyway.”

  “And got a lot out of it, I gathered.” A loose end that Brooke had mentioned to me suddenly popped into my mind, and I blurted, “Like that pretty pin?”

  Darya’s pallor seemed to increase and her mouth opened. Nothing came out at first, and then she said, “The pins are pretty, aren’t they?”

  Not exactly an admission of anything. Still . . .