Teacup Tubulence

by Linda O. Johnston

  “I heard about what happened here last night, Lauren,” she told me. “It’s all over the news. I don’t know the people who the media’s saying are the persons of interest in that woman’s death, and—did you know her?”

  “I’d met her.” I nodded toward the row of highly occupied kennels near us. “She accompanied all these guys from the puppy-mill rescue in Missouri.” I paused outside the next kennel door. “So . . . are the media saying that the woman didn’t die of natural causes?” I wasn’t sure enough time had passed for an official decision.

  Angie tilted her head quizzically. “Honestly? I don’t know. But though the reporters I heard said the cause of death is still under investigation, the speculation is that she was poisoned. Toxicology reports are still pending.”

  “I see.” So the media jackals were making premature assumptions—maybe. But I still wanted to know all they were saying. I’d find out by tuning in on the computer in my office soon, but Angie might be able to give some info now. “Who do the media claim are persons of interest if the death is ruled a homicide? Any names?” Did they already know about the Faylers? If so, I wouldn’t be forbidden from talking about it, too.

  “They weren’t specific, though they said it may be some people who work for HotPets and reminded viewers that it’s the company owned by the founder of HotRescues, where the body was found. They promised more information when they get it.”

  Of course they did.

  The nearest little dogs, Ruby, a red Pomeranian, and Topaz, the yellow Yorkie—this time both with appropriate color names—started yapping.

  Angie knelt and put her fingers through the fencing. “These guys are all so cute.”

  “They sure are.”

  A page sounded from the welcome room. “We need a few volunteers to accompany some visitors.” Nina’s voice resonated. I glanced at my watch. Time had passed quickly. It was not only time for her to be there, but also the hour when people could start coming to look at animals for adoption.

  The day had officially begun.

  While I usually greeted each day with excited anticipation of pets we’d be able to place in new homes as well as possible new rescues at the public shelters, today all I could think about was the terrible thing that had occurred here last night—another murder—and how that would affect so many lives, including, perhaps, more little teacup dogs needing to be rescued.

  • • •

  I didn’t have time to dwell on the bad stuff for very long.

  Ironically, as I’d suspected, the extra news about HotRescues had called attention to the fact that we did in fact have some small dogs that needed new homes.

  We were packed that day with visitors who clamored to put in applications for our temporary inhabitants. Some were even interested in larger dogs. And nearly half a dozen of our cats, too, were the subjects of possible rehomings.

  All staff members who were around that day, and those volunteers with any experience in counseling, were recruited to give tours of our shelter to visitors. They each knew the drill. There were certain questions we asked of all comers who expressed an interest in adopting. Animals couldn’t be taken home who’d be left outside all the time. If there were other animals in the house, we’d need to make sure they got along all right with any potential newcomers. Every other person in the household had to meet the dog or cat under consideration before the adoption could go through. We reserved the right to make home visits to see the environment where our animals would go despite our doing so less frequently now than we used to.

  These questions all had to be incorporated into our informal interviews as we introduced people and animals.

  We didn’t necessarily allow adoption by the first person or family to put in an application for a cat or dog. And since these little teacup dogs were in such demand, we often had a choice about which home was likely to work out best.

  We were busy enough that I chose not to personally introduce anyone to HotRescues or our residents. Instead, I wandered and observed and, frequently, interrupted a visit being hosted by one of the people I trusted.

  Bev, one of our most senior and longest-term volunteers, knew enough to shepherd a young pair of newlyweds toward Hale, a terrier mix. I joined them by his kennel near the front of our enclosures, where Hale had been put to spotlight him to visitors.

  “You know what?” Bev said as I joined them. “Even though these nice people came here to see some of our little dogs, Hale didn’t let them go by without saying hello.”

  “He’s like that,” I told the couple. They both looked to be in their early thirties and wore glasses, almost resembling each other with their shirts tucked into their jeans. “He’s really a wonderful dog. Do you happen to own your own home?”

  “Yes,” said the man. “It’s got a nice fenced yard, too.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good. Bev, why don’t you take them into our picnic area and let them get to know Hale better?”

  Even though Bev was short and thin and a little bit stooped, she knew how to handle even the most energetic dogs. Hale was only moderately excitable, and I watched as Bev grabbed the leash from around her neck to secure him. As soon as he was out of his kennel, the young couple both knelt and fussed over him as if he was the sweetest dog in the world. Maybe he was.

  But the great thing was that I thought Hale might be finding a new home at last.

  And he wasn’t the only one.

  Both Pete, our handyman, and Mamie, my former mentor, were inside the cat house with people who’d come to visit dogs but had been waylaid by the sight of our kitties through the window. I also stopped in there and talked to them. I felt optimistic that both of these visits would lead to adoptions.

  Finally, I made it to the small-dog building. The downstairs was filled with people who’d wanted to visit our teacup pups. A number of our volunteers were showing them around, including Ricki, a dedicated African-American animal lover who was studying to become a veterinary technician, and Sally, who was even younger but hung around the shelter after school and on weekends.

  Sally motioned for me to join her at the side of the room, out of earshot of the people she was hosting. She was pretty, of Hispanic background, and wanted to work at HotRescues or another no-kill shelter someday.

  “So many people here,” she said. “The ones I brought in seem like a good fit for one of the little dogs. They appear mostly interested in Diamond.” That was the name we had given to the really cute white shih tzu. “But from what I’m hearing, they’re not the only ones who want him. What should we do?”

  I told her to have those who were genuinely interested in adoption, and who seemed like good dog parents, fill out an application. Then I’d have to go over all the forms we received, preferably with Dr. Mona’s input, and decide who’d win the adoption. “I don’t like doing things like that, but at the moment it’s our reality. Still too much interest with too few dogs.”

  That told me I needed to make a phone call—one I would have looked forward to a lot more if Teresa Kantrim hadn’t died here, whatever the cause.

  For the moment, I edged my way through the crowd, whispering what I’d said to Sally into Ricki’s ear, and that of Gavin Mamo, our trainer, who’d come here to give lessons today but was instead also showing off potential adoptees, and every other HotRescues person here. And then Nina issued a page from the welcome area for someone else to show visitors around.

  Looked like I’d be a friendly hostess today, promoting the adoption of our residents, after all.

  • • •

  Much later, when our visiting hours were finally over, I sat at the table in the welcome area with Nina, who was staying to help me go over the applications. Most were for our little teacup dogs. And nearly all of them looked good.

  I had a feeling that we’d be rehoming at least half of them as a result of today’s visitors.

  “I’ve separated the applications by dog,” Nina told me. “And I also put them in descending order, with th
e one I thought the best fit for each on top. Dr. Mona’s also put notes on each, and she did get to speak with quite a few of the potential adopters.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I’ll look them over now. And it’s fine for you to go home.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing else you’d like me to do?”

  She’d pushed her long hair away from her face, but her bangs still framed it. She appeared a bit frazzled, though not nearly as much as she used to.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll check out the applications, then call the top contenders to come in and talk to me in the next day or two. Thanks for all your help.”

  I’d already thanked everyone else who’d shown visitors around, in a brief group meeting once we’d closed our doors. Some of the volunteers had left. Others were helping Pete clean kennels and feed our residents.

  I knew everything was under control, and Nina grabbed her purse and left a few minutes later.

  I was alone. And wondering about the investigation into Teresa’s death. But I was too busy to worry much about it—although I was reminded each time I passed our quarantine building and still saw police tape over the door.

  I’d watch the news tonight. And even check out sites on my computer, once I had time.

  But I’d recognized something else. A lot of the applications looked good. Really good. As I’d figured, at least half of our little teacups were likely to find homes fast. It wouldn’t take long for the rest, either.

  We would have lots more room soon.

  Which meant I had to make that anticipated phone call now.

  Heading for my office, I checked on Zoey. I’d left the poor girl in there all afternoon, but I didn’t want her involved with the chaos within our shelter. First thing, I took her out to the kennel and let her loose in an area that we encouraged our dogs to use as a bathroom.

  When Zoey was finished, we returned to the office and I checked the time. It was six thirty here, which meant it was eight thirty in Missouri, in the central time zone. I didn’t think it was too late to call Juliet Ansiger.

  But I wasn’t looking forward to speaking with her. She obviously knew Teresa Kantrim, since Teresa had been involved in caring for the teacup dogs whose initial destinies Juliet controlled. Since the death was in the news, Juliet had to be aware of it. But I’d no idea how close they were.

  I would try to keep the conversation businesslike, in the interest of the rescued pups. But for those little dogs’ sakes, I had to see about moving another group out here.

  Which also caused me some worry. If the Faylers were murder suspects, would they be allowed to fly at all?

  Well, one thing at a time. I checked my files for Juliet’s number, and then I called it.

  She answered quickly.

  “Hi, Juliet,” I said. “This is Lauren Vancouver, in California. I wanted to—”

  “Give your condolences? Well, they don’t do much good now, do they? What happened to Teresa? She was really unhappy when she learned we were sending some of our dogs to La-La Land, and it sounds as if she was right.”

  Chapter 12

  I remained silent for a few moments, deciding how to handle this conversation.

  If this woman had been friends with Teresa, I wanted to show sympathy. And, in fact, I did feel bad for anyone who lost another person who’d been close to them. I’d had it happen, too.

  Like my beloved first husband, Kerry Vancouver, who’d died. Too bad I’d replaced him with an utter jerk, Charles Earles, to try to give my kids a father. That had ended in a much-needed divorce.

  But all of that was only a fleeting thought. I had other things to focus on.

  Such as the needs of the rest of the small dogs in Juliet’s area who, through no fault of their own, could be suffering. Or who might even die, as Teresa had, if everything went wrong.

  But if everything went right, they could wind up out here, where, especially after yesterday, I felt certain that I could find them new, good homes. Quickly.

  I therefore swallowed the irritated retort that sprang to my lips, and instead said, “I’m really sorry for your loss, Juliet.” I let a second go by, then added, “Were you aware that I found . . . poor Teresa?” Much to my surprise, or perhaps not, I stumbled over the last couple of words as my throat closed in sorrow. I hadn’t known Teresa well, and what I’d seen and heard from her had suggested we’d never become close friends. But at least part of who she was included being a dog lover. And if her miserable attitude was the result of her being stymied in her own goal of founding a no-kill shelter in an area with need of one . . . well, I couldn’t hate her. The world had suffered a loss by her death, and potentially so had a lot of needy animals.

  “You found her?” Juliet must have heard not only what I’d said, but also how I’d said it, since her own words sounded choked.

  “Yes.” The word came out softly, and I continued, “She’d been here at a party at HotRescues, celebrating the release from quarantine of the dogs she’d accompanied from your area. We had such a celebration . . . and it had definitely been something worth celebrating. But then—”

  “The news said she’d apparently been poisoned. Was there something served at your party that could have caused that?”

  “Of course not.” I didn’t allow myself to snap. “If so, don’t you think there’d have been other people who’d at least have gotten sick?”

  “Possibly.” She waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know who might have done it? I heard on the news that the investigation is ongoing, and that the police have zeroed in on a person or persons of interest—but there’s nothing that I’d say is useful, at least not yet. Are your cops—I mean, I’ve of course heard of the Los Angeles Police Department. They’re sometimes on TV shows and all. But are they actually competent?”

  “Are we back to the La-La Land misnomer?” I leaned forward on my desk, my head in my hand. Zoey saw the movement and came closer, and I swept my midsize dog up one-handedly onto my lap. I wanted to hug her, because I needed a hug. “I’ve got a friend who’s an LAPD detective, and I’ve also had other contact with them. Yes, they’re more than competent.” But like everyone else in the world, they weren’t perfect or immediate. If they were, I’d never have gotten involved in solving murders before.

  Or be considering getting involved with Teresa’s—assuming the determination was that she’d been poisoned. At my celebration. That made it my business.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you. Or, really, them. I’m just so upset . . .”

  “Maybe this will help cheer you a little.” I related to her what kind of day we’d had at HotRescues, with all those people coming because they were interested in adopting. “I got adoption applications in on at least half of the dozen little teacup pups you were kind enough to send along to this area. There’s a lot of buzz over the rest, too, and I’ve no doubt we’ll find them new homes quickly. That’s one of the reasons I called you.”

  “You’d like us to send you more?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “If you haven’t found new homes for the rest of those dogs from that puppy-mill rescue, not just a place to stay for now at a sanctuary, just think of how much better off they could be here. It doesn’t make sense for us to have to turn away people who’re interested in bringing them home when you’ve got more who need a family.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Juliet said slowly.

  I held Zoey even tighter. “Then you’ll make some more available if I can arrange for their transportation?”

  “I think so. We probably won’t have anyone else who can accompany them the way Teresa did, though.”

  I was relieved, but I didn’t express that. “That was my first experience with Airborne Adoptions or any other animal-rescue flight, but it seemed to work out well.” I didn’t want to be too pushy, or at least not so assertive that I would convince her to tell me to get lost. But I did want to close the deal. “Would it be okay with you if I try to get another flight relay set up for, say,
next weekend?”

  At first she didn’t answer, and I hung on to Zoey tightly as if my warm, furry dog could somehow affect her response. Zoey turned her head and licked my face, as if trying to reassure me all was well.

  I hoped it was.

  Juliet finally said, “I have to tell you that I have reservations about this. But I gather that all the dogs are fine, despite what happened to Teresa.”

  “Absolutely. More than fine. They’re going to get new homes, some as early as tomorrow.”

  “Then, yes,” she said. “Let’s go for it.”

  • • •

  I wished it would be as easy as I’d led Juliet to believe. And maybe it still would be.

  I’d need to call Mike Relfer from Airborne Adoptions first to get the ball rolling—or, rather, the planes taxiing.

  But the contacts for the last leg of the journey remained the Faylers. And they were persons of interest in Teresa’s death.

  Would they be permitted to leave town if they’d be back only hours later with a planeload of little dogs?

  It was so late in the day that I hesitated calling them. On the other hand, it was a perfect excuse for checking in and asking what was going on in the investigation, or at least about their connection with it.

  It was too late to try reaching Tom at the HotPets office. I tried the cell phone number Dante had given me.

  It went immediately into voice mail. Did that mean the phone was turned off because the Faylers were under arrest?

  Of course it could be as simple as them not wanting to talk to the paparazzi, who’d undoubtedly be calling them with frantic insistence if they thought the Faylers might be the HotPets employees who were considered possible suspects.

  I decided to try another avenue. I called Dante’s cell phone.

  “Hi, Lauren,” he said immediately. “Everything okay?”

  “Better than okay,” I told him. I related how successful a day we’d had at HotRescues with potential adoptions, including the teacup pups.