I reached my car, opened the door, and looked his way.
Malone gave a slight nod, and I slid in and started my car.
I drove quickly to the next house call which was a couple with a young Bichon Frisé. Bichon Frisé means “curly lap dog,” and Alf was that and so much more. The dogs are small and sturdy, and their dark inquisitive eyes are guaranteed to tug at your heartstrings.
Judi and Michael, the couple who owned Alf, had been referred to me by Dr. Daniel Darling, a good friend and our local veterinarian. Alf had developed such a severe limp they could no longer take him for walks. Dr. Daniel, after a full battery of tests, had ruled out any possible injury or physical cause for the limp. He recommended they have me take a look at Alf and get my thoughts.
This was just a get-to-know-you visit. As you might have already figured out, much of my work with problem pets is really working with pet parents. To truly assess the situation, I’ve got to understand the day-to-day workings of the household and the people dynamics as well as the pet ones.
The little dog was friendly but would sometimes whine as if hurt. Often, the couple said, it happened if Alf were touched unexpectedly. His limp was pronounced, but he was still playful and chased down toys or treats. I enjoyed the time with the couple and with Alf and had some ideas but held back on sharing them. I wanted to do a little research first on post-traumatic stress in animals. I promised to drop back by in a week.
Relieved the couple hadn’t questioned me about seeing me on the news or the murder investigation, I stopped by the office and in the quiet transcribed a few of my notes. I’d intended to only do some preliminary research on the topic of PTSD in animals, but when I finally glanced at the clock, I realized I’d been at it almost an hour. It was surprising, both on the human side and the animal side, how little we understood about the effect of traumatic events on the psyche. Puppy mill dogs often show varying degrees of post-traumatic stress disorder due to the abhorrent conditions they’ve endured. I knew Judi and Mark would never buy from a puppy mill, but they’d gotten Alf from a friend, so the transfer of ownership was unclear.
If I was right, it would take patience and dedication to rehabilitate Alf, and so I wanted to be sure before I offered an opinion.
I stopped outside my office door to make sure I had my car keys. Psychic Suzanne stepped into the lobby from her office at the same time. It looked like she was calling it a day as well.
“Have a good evening,” I called to her.
“Beware of strangers,” she replied as she walked out.
I closed my door with an irritated snap. The woman had a knack for throwing out unsettling but generic warnings.
Starting my car, I tuned the radio to a favorite classical station and was pleased when the strains of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik began. I put the car in gear. A little night music was exactly what I needed as I slowly drove home to my pets and what I hoped was a quiet evening.
What a day.
I could not believe all the equipment that had been in the hidden room had just disappeared. It begged the question: who else knew about the room? Heidi hadn’t, and she was close to Cash. So, who else could have come into a locked house and carted away all those electronic things between the time I’d left and Malone and I had come back?
I wondered if Malone had had any luck with the crime-scene team. I hadn’t heard from him. Not that I’m saying the man has to check in with me, but he had to know I was curious.
It wasn’t late, but the evening seemed darker than usual, overcast and quiet. A sliver of moonlight reached out from behind the clouds but didn’t make much of a dent in the darkness. I pulled into my drive, hit the garage-door opener button, pulled in, and hit the closer. As the door slid down I noticed a man across the street. I glanced around for the dark SUV I’d been seeing. Nothing in sight.
Grabbing my things, I got out of the car and went in. Once inside I dropped my bag and kicked off my shoes. I felt a little spooked and wished I’d gotten a better look, but I wasn’t going back outside. My next-door neighbor April Mae was traveling with her painting cats. (Long story but the cats really do paint, and people buy their paintings.) Freda, my neighbor on the other side was gone on an Alaskan cruise. I reminded myself I needed to get over to her house and check on her plants.
I walked through the house and greeted the animals, but the prickle of uneasiness I’d felt didn’t leave me. I don’t spook easily, but I guess having found a dead guy, a secret room, and a mysterious intruder, all in two days’ time, kind of had me on edge.
I fished my cell phone out of my bag and kept it handy just in case.
Just in case of what, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t immediately turn on any lights but peered out the living-room window which faced the front of the house. I couldn’t see anyone anymore.
Wait. Was that someone moving in the shadows near the neighbor’s Manzanita tree? I stared hard at the darkness.
No, it was just a branch.
I flipped on the kitchen light and laid my cell phone on the counter. Opening the refrigerator, I perused my options for dinner. I definitely needed to do a Whole Foods run. I should have stopped by before coming home, but my mind had been on other things. Murder will do that.
I pulled eggs, spinach, mushrooms, and goat cheese from the fridge. Okay, an omelet it was. I promised myself I’d do serious shopping tomorrow. Tonight I was simply too beat to deal with going back out for groceries.
My kitchen was small but efficient. I reach in a lower cabinet for a pan and set it on the stove. As I started to turn on the burner, my doorbell rang. I set the pan aside and went to answer the door.
I know what you’re thinking. And no, I didn’t just fling open the door without looking. I’m not like one of those too-dumb-to-live heroines in the low-budget horror movies, oblivious to the danger and inviting in the axe murderer.
I’d picked up my cell phone, 911 at the ready, and looked out the front window again. I couldn’t see anything.
I walked to my entryway and leaned against the door. “Who is it?”
“Your favorite reporter,” came the reply in that distinctive broadcast voice. “Callum MacAvoy.”
Well for cryin’ in a bucket! I understood persistence was important in his field, but Callum MacAvoy was headed right to number one on my never-want-to-see-you-again list.
I yanked open the door. “How did you get my address?”
“I’m an investigative reporter; you’re on damn near every civic committee in town; it wasn’t difficult.” He rolled his eyes. “Listen, I just have a few questions for you.” His dark chinos and the white shirt with a Channel 5 News logo on the pocket made it seem like he was here in an official capacity.
I peered behind him. I didn’t see a cameraperson with him.
“You know what, Mr. MacAvoy?”
“My friends call me ‘Mac,’” he corrected. “Can I come in?”
“We’re not friends and no, you can’t come in.” I braced my foot against the door ready to slam it shut if need be. “I appreciate that you’re a reporter and it’s your job to report, but I’ve got nothing for you.”
“But you and the homicide detective were doing something at the Internet tycoons’ house.”
“Not really.” Yes we were, but I sure wasn’t going to share what that was, and I couldn’t bring myself to outright lie.
“What kind of cat is that?” From his vantage point he had a view of my entryway.
Toria had come to see what the excitement was and meowed in greeting. She was such a calm and serene cat. I could only hope some of her sweetness rubbed off on Thelma and Louise.
“It’s a Scottish Fold tabby.” Toria leaned against my ankles rubbing her head on my shoes.
“How long have you had her?” I knew what he was doing. He was trying to keep me talking, lulling me into being chatty, hoping I’d reveal something. No deal.
“Not long.” I stepped outside so there wasn’t any danger of Toria slipping out.
I knew he’d deliberately left an opening, but I was not going to share that she was Graham Cash’s cat.
“I’ve never seen a cat that fat. Are all tabby cats that big?”
“Tabby isn’t a breed. It describes the markings.” I was deliberately short with him.
“Then what’s a—what did you call it—Scottish Fold?” he asked.
“All Scottish Fold cats today can trace their heritage back to Susie, a white mouser with unusual folded ears, who lived in Scotland’s Tayside region. A man who got one of Susie’s kittens, Snooks, started the whole lineage, and soon breeders became involved and discovered the folded ears was a dominant trait.”
“Dominant trait? What does that mean?” He tipped his head like Dogbert does when he’s trying to understand a point I’m making.
“It means if one parent has the gene for straight ears and the other parent folded ears, their offspring would have folded ears.” I stopped. Dang it, he had got me talking. “Were you planning to do a special feature on cat breeds?”
“Nope.” He smiled a big on-camera smile. “Still interested in talking to you about the murder.”
“Still got nothing to tell you.”
“Are you a person of interest?” He didn’t have a microphone, but if he had, it would have been jammed in my face at this point.
“No, I am not.”
“Do you know if they have a person of interest?”
“I don’t,” I sighed, “and Mr. MacAvoy, if I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”
He was undeterred. “I know from the scuttlebutt that you were the one to find the murder victim. What can you tell me about the crime scene?”
“I thought you were the noon reporter. I’m sure I saw you do the report on the Laguna Women’s Club Craft Bazaar.” Maybe if I insulted him he’d go away.
MacAvoy rolled his eyes. “For now, but when something opens up on the news team I’ll be moving to prime time.”
“Uh, huh.” He hoped.
“What’s the deal with you and your cousin?”
“Long story and not a very interesting one.” I turned to go back inside. “And none of your business,” I added over my shoulder.
“I just wondered. You know, since she’s not engaged anymore.”
“What?” Without thinking, I turned and grabbed the front of his shirt. “What did you say?”
“I said she’s not engaged anymore to that creepy guy, Grey Donovan. I told her something wasn’t right with him.”
“You told her what?” It seemed now I was the one asking the questions. I let go of his shirtfront.
“Yeah, all that stuff with the Dachshund races and criminals. He knew a lot more than he was letting on.”
Mel’s fiancé, Grey Donovan, was not creepy by any stretch of the imagination. He was a prince of a guy, and yes, I knew he had secrets. I didn’t pry, but I knew he was more than just a successful art dealer. I figured some sort of undercover work, but whatever it was, he had chosen not to share, and I respected that. He and Melinda had been off and on before, so I hoped this was just a tiff that would blow over. Betty hadn’t said anything, so maybe Mr. Not-Ready-for-Prime-Time had his facts wrong.
“Again, none of your business.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up a hand. “Don’t get all huffy with me.”
“I’ve had a long day, Mr. MacAvoy. And I’m hungry. We’re done.”
“Fine. If you think of anything here’s my card.” He held out a business card, but I didn’t reach for it, and he finally dropped his hand.
“I understand the victim had some problems with the next-door neighbor.”
“Who told you that?” I’d thought it was Cash not Jake. Did he know something I didn’t or was he simply baiting me?
“Let’s see. I think the first to tell me was Heidi Sussman, Graham Cash’s girlfriend. Though I’m not sure they were exclusive.”
Heidi had mentioned the problem between Cash and the neighbor related to Toria, but nothing about Jake. Though I guess she’d been in a hurry to get back to work, and there hadn’t been any reason to share anything further with me. I had to think when Malone had interviewed her she’d have told him.
“Wait, what did you say?”
“I said, Jake, the dead guy had some issues with the next-door neighbor.”
“No, the part about they weren’t exclusive.”
“Some of the people I’ve talked to said Heidi Sussman had made a play for Jake before she hooked up with his business partner.”
“Some people?”
“You know, friends. I’ve talked to some of their local friends in the course of my investigative reporting.”
“You mean snooping?” I knew an accusatory tone had slipped into my voice, but I couldn’t help it. Like I said before, reporters and I have a history. Especially those who report on other people’s trouble.
“Come on, Caro. Cut me some slack.” He rubbed a hand over his face and dropped his on-air voice. “I’m just trying to do my job here.”
I supposed he was right. The guy was just seeking information about Jake’s murder and the investigation surrounding it. I knew I was hyper-sensitive about reporters because during the course of my rather messy divorce, I’d become the target of some sensationalized reporting of every lurid detail. It was bad enough to watch your marriage and your career crash and burn, but it made it even worse if you couldn’t go anywhere without whispers and side-looks because everyone knew all the intimate details.
“According to these friends I talked to, Jake and Cash had a party at the house with a pretty big crowd in attendance and this neighbor claimed his fence was damaged. There was a big shouting match between him and Jake.” MacAvoy watched my face, waiting for my reaction.
Mr. TV’s tactics were obvious. I hadn’t responded to flattery, or to the lure of camera time, but he’d found my currency. I wanted information he had, and he was trying to figure out what I was willing to trade.
“I really don’t have anything for you, Mr. MacAvoy.” I rested my hand on the doorknob. “I’d suggest you talk to Detective Malone.”
“Thank you for your time.” He held out the card again, and this time I took it. “And good luck with the weird-looking cat.” He waved as he walked away, and I opened the door and went back inside.
What on earth? I dropped my cell phone on the counter and went back to my omelet.
Melinda and Grey no longer engaged?
Heidi playing both Jake and Cash?
Jake in a heated exchange with the odd neighbor?
It seemed strange Heidi hadn’t mentioned the fight between Jake and the neighbor, but depending on when it happened maybe she wasn’t aware of it. Heidi making a play for Jake and then landing on Cash wasn’t too surprising and whether fair-play rules were violated depended on when she changed her mind. As far as my cousin, Mel, I was shocked Betty hadn’t mentioned Mel and Grey’s breakup if it really were true.
Or it could be Mr. TV just enjoyed stirring the pot.
Chapter Seven
THE SMELL OF disinfectant, and of dogs, cats, and other furry friends, was comfortingly normal. It was my day to volunteer at the Laguna Beach Animal Rescue League shelter. I routinely helped out at the ARL a few hours once a week, working with any problem animals in order to catch issues that might keep them from being adopted. If there were no problem pets, I exercised dogs, played with kittens, or cleaned cages. It was the best therapy in the world.
Don Furry was a good guy and a regular volunteer at the Animal Rescue. He was sorting through supplies in the storage area when I arrived. A little past middle-aged, Don worked circles around others half his age. He was a stalwart rescue supporter, and I frankly didn’t know what the shelter would do without him.
“Good morning, Don.”
“Hello, Caro.” He stopped sorting and turned to look at me. “How are you?”
It wasn’t just the cursory how-are-you greeting; I could tell from the way his eyes searched my face, it was real concern.
Without a doubt, he’d also seen the news report.
“I am doing okay,” I answered.
“The television account said you found the young man who drowned.” He squatted down to stack bags of donated litter on a lower shelf.
“That’s right.” I stepped into the storage room and handed him another bag from the pile on the floor. “Jake was one of the partners in the computer company that has space in our office.”
“That had to be rough.” Don glanced up.
“It was,” I answered. “And Cash, the other partner, is missing.”
“I didn’t catch that part on the news.” He finished with the cat litter shelf and stood. “Though come of think of it, when they showed the clip, you were holding a small animal carrier.”
“I have Toria, Graham Cash’s Scottish Fold cat,” I explained.
“Those are cute cats.” He stood and dusted off his hands on his jeans. “Glad you were able to take her because we are full up.”
That was unfortunately not unusual at our shelter and many others. Too few people, too little funding, and too many animals. Don moved on to the paper goods and began unbundling a shrink-wrapped pallet of paper towels.
“What do you have for me, Don?” I stowed my things and pulled my still slightly damp red curls into a hair band I’d brought along. Jeans and a well-worn PUPS (Protecting Unwanted Pets) T-shirt were standard attire for my volunteer days, and there was no point in trying to tame my hair. It would be a lost cause with the workout a few hours at the shelter presented.
“Not much. We got a couple of pups who were dumped out in the canyon. Little guys were pretty traumatized, but they seem to be adjusting. Dr. Daniel has looked them over, and there are no injuries. They were mostly just dirty and hungry.”
“Idiots.” Nothing got me wound up faster than people who thought it was okay to just discard animals. “They could have brought them to us.”
“Lucky for them we’re going through a dry spell.” He bounced a ball into the storage bin. “The gully they were in fills with water when it rains hard.”
“I’ll take a peek at them and then help Chelley with the cages.”
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