Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Friday’s only two days from now.” That was the day he’d already invited me to tour the facility where they were kept. “But I was in the area and figured I’d jump the gun a little and drop in here today. I didn’t think it would matter . . . Does it?”

  “No problem.” But my adrenaline caused by the unexpected knock was still painting my insides with energy I’d no way to expend, and I tried to slow my breathing.

  Matt’s brown eyes were fixed on mine, appearing to study them. “Are you okay?” He didn’t wait for my answer before entering. He walked into the welcome room and moved till he was behind me. “Nice place,” he said. “I especially like that cat motif.” He nodded toward the leopard-print counter. “Are all those real pictures of adoptions?” He pointed toward the photos on the wall.

  “Every one of them. We’ve more pictures like that upstairs. And a whole lot more we haven’t hung on the walls.” I grinned, feeling my pride in HotRescues drape around me like the embrace of angel wings.

  “My kind of place.” Matt stopped looking from one photo to the next and turned to face me. The warmth in his toast-colored eyes engulfed me even more, and I took a step back.

  “Just wait till you see the rest of it.” I locked the door behind him, then motioned for him to follow. “If you like animals, you’re about to receive a treat.”

  “If you’ve any doubts about my liking animals,” he said drolly, “then I haven’t been doing my job right when you’ve been around.”

  I laughed as I led him outside to the shelter area.

  Of course the dogs all started barking. We reached Honey first, and she leaped at the bars. Did she remember our hugfest of a short while ago? I certainly did.

  Matt reached in and gave her a scratch behind the ears. “How ya doing, Honey?” He wasn’t psychic. The label on the outside of the enclosure gave a précis of the inhabitant’s most crucial information. Even so, I felt a trickle of warmth inside. Matt obviously knew how to approach and speak to a lonesome pup.

  My most recent walk through here had been just a short while ago, but I enjoyed it all over again as I gave Matt a tour, explaining our reason for each item of bedding, toys, and equipment in the enclosures as he gave each pup individual attention. I took him into the center building, showing him the cats, toy dogs, and the few hamsters and rabbits who were our residents at the moment. Some of the friendlier kitties responded to his soft talk to them, and to my surprise and delight a few of the more standoffish ones, too, drew close and let him pat them.

  All the better for their future rehoming.

  I took Matt upstairs in that building, where our rudimentary health office was—the room where our veterinary tech Angie Shayde hung out when on duty. It contained first-aid necessities as well as basic examination equipment. Si Rogan had a small office here, too. Plus, there was a room that feigned being a den, where potential adopters could experience what it felt like to be at home with the pet they were considering.

  Back outside, I showed Matt the rear storage building by opening the door and letting him glance inside. Although it contained our laundry facilities, it certainly wasn’t as interesting as the rest of the place. I also walked him through our park area where adopters could also have a one-on-one with their impending new pets.

  “That’s it,” I told him. “You’ve pretty much seen it all.”

  “Great place!” he said, smiling down at me. His eyes glimmered, and I noticed even more than before that he had a five o’clock shadow. Definitely all male. And sexy.

  Irrelevant to someone like me, with little interest in becoming interested.

  So why, then, when he asked, “How about joining me for dinner?” did I say, “Sure. Why not?”

  “What kind of dog do you have at home?” Matt asked.

  We sat across from one another at a nice Mexican restaurant about a mile from HotRescues, also on Rinaldi Street. I’d ordered a taco and a chile relleno, and Matt worked on an outsized chicken burrito. The lights were dim, and the mariachi musicians were between sets.

  “I don’t have a dog,” I said. “How about you?”

  “I’ve got a black Lab mix. Rex. I wouldn’t have figured you as a cat person . . . at least not only cats. No dog?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “No pets of my own at all right now.” Fortifying myself with a long sip of a margarita, I told him about losing Bosley, the family Boston terrier. “I’ve got an entire shelter of pets. Why would I need one that I’d have to leave at home a lot of the time? Who could get sick without my even knowing about it.”

  “Is that what happened with Bosley?”

  To my annoyance, I felt tears flood my eyes. I stared down at my food as if I needed to memorize it before eating, until I got my emotions back under control.

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “How long ago?”

  “A few months.” I saw his hand dart across the table before I felt it grab mine. I looked up at him. “It still hurts, damn it.”

  “So why not adopt another one?”

  “It still hurts, damn it,” I repeated, and made myself aim a pathetic smile toward him. “Bosley was mostly my kids’ dog anyway. He was ten years old, and we got him before HotRescues was even founded. He was cute and small and seemed overwhelmed when I brought him to HotRescues, so I didn’t do it much. That meant he spent a lot of time by himself. I wouldn’t want to do that to another dog.”

  “Understood. I sometimes bring Rex to work, although I have to leave him with other personnel when we’re called out for a rescue. Maybe if you adopted a dog from HotRescues, he’d be used to the place and you could bring him in more.”

  “I’ve considered that.” I hoped my tone was abrupt enough to convey that I wasn’t an idiot. If I got another dog—which I didn’t want to do, at least not now—it would definitely be a rescue dog, probably one whose life I helped to save.

  “Any favorite breeds?”

  We got into a discussion then about personalities of various kinds of dogs. I happened to love the looks of Border collies. Australian shepherds, too. I also liked the enthusiasm and intelligence of both breeds.

  “So if you happened to rescue an Aussie-Border mix, that’s when you’d consider adopting.” There was no question in Matt’s tone, as if he simply reiterated the conclusion I’d drawn.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not looking for another dog. Not now, and not anytime soon.”

  “I get it.”

  He was willing to change the subject, fortunately. I asked how he had decided to work for Animal Services, and how he’d become a captain overseeing the elite rescue organizations within the agency. “I was a Navy SEAL a while back,” he said. “Great job, but I didn’t want to do it forever. When my enlistment was up, I decided I needed a different kind of challenge. Sort of different, anyway.” He’d gotten out and joined a police force in a small Southern California town, gravitating to the K-9 unit. Eventually, he’d heard of an opening in LA Animal Services. It seemed a good fit, and he’d joined, doing well enough to be promoted to get where he was now.

  He described it all with some modesty. I liked that.

  When he turned the tables and asked how I’d come to run HotRescues, I told him briefly, without much description. “I always loved animals, even as a kid. Becoming a vet tech was perfect, at least for a while. But when I heard that Dante DeFrancisco was about to start his own animal shelter, I applied to become its administrator. Dante and I got along fine, and he hired me.”

  End of story? No, but it was all I told. He didn’t need to know the really personal stuff, about how I’d grieved when my dear husband, Kerry, died. How I’d tried so hard to be a perfect single mother. How I’d thought it was in my own, and my kids’, best interests for me to marry again.

  How I’d hated myself for making such a terrible choice about who.

  And how my divorce had been final just about the time Dante was looking for the HotRescues administrator, and I’d wanted the job enough to practicall
y beg—but I hadn’t had to. I made it clear to Dante how much I loved animals. How well I could run a business. How much I could contribute to the place. And how skilled I was at developing a workable business plan.

  I’d finished eating. So had Matt. The server came over and asked if we wanted anything else.

  Actually, I did. More time with Matt Kingston.

  Which meant it was definitely time to leave.

  I’d driven myself to the restaurant. I had told Matt I needed to stop to pick up coffee and soft drinks for the HotRescues people kitchen, and there was no need for him to waste time shopping with me.

  Even so, when he walked me to my car, he asked if he could follow me. Make sure everything was okay at HotRescues when I got back.

  His concern made me feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside, but I assured him that the security company was much more alert these days.

  The fuzziness apparently mushed my brain, since I didn’t back off when he leaned toward me.

  He clearly wanted to kiss me. My instinct was to turn and open the car door and leap inside.

  My libido won out over my instinct.

  The kiss was a good one, as spicy as the food we’d just eaten. But I knew I shouldn’t read anything into it. We’d had an enjoyable meal together. This was the extent of dessert.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I told him, trying to swallow my breathlessness.

  “You’re welcome. You know, I’d feel a lot better if I accompanied you back to HotRescues.”

  I’d thought we had resolved that. “Very gentlemanly of you, but unnecessary. Thanks again.” And then, not wisely at all, I planted one more brief kiss on his mouth and hurried into my car.

  I didn’t want to overthink that dinner with Matt, or either of those kisses. But I hadn’t been lying to him. I stopped to pick up supplies at the local supermarket on my way home. Choosing the same old coffee and sodas didn’t fill my brain with a plethora of important decisions, so I found myself rehashing all the things I’d directed myself not to angst over.

  I gained no further insights—surprise.

  A while later, I finally pulled into the HotRescues parking lot. I yanked the recyclable grocery bags and my purse from the floor and got out of my car. I glanced around. No sign of the security patrol. But even if they were doing their job right, that didn’t mean they’d be here at every moment.

  I walked up to the entry gate and performed the magic that got me inside without tripping the security system. Inside the welcoming room, I stopped before going to the kitchen. A few dogs were barking outside, in the shelter area. Just a sociable conversation, not the loud warning to each other and any nearby humans of an intruder stalking the area. Or maybe someone had heard me come in and was telling the others, without making a huge fuss about it.

  I should have felt pleased. There was nothing unusual about that kind of exchange.

  Instead, a feeling of disquiet tingled over every inch of my skin. Why? I had no idea. Maybe it was just a continued reaction to my having found Efram’s body a few nights back. Or leftover uneasiness from the conversations I’d had that day with people I considered to be real, live suspects in his murder.

  As I’ve said before, I’m not into woo-woo kinds of experiences. If I felt anxious, there was a reason for it, even if I couldn’t explain it to myself. The dogs’ voices, some sound only my subconscious had heard, who knew? But I wasn’t about to ignore it.

  I dropped the grocery bags on the table and headed for the shelter area.

  It was past dusk, so the low security lights were the only illumination. Hearing me, the dogs started to bark louder. “Hi, guys,” I said, doubting that my voice was audible to them over their own cacophony. “What’s happened here since I’ve been gone? No one else on two legs has been around, right?”

  They didn’t quiet down, nor did they answer in a manner I could interpret.

  But as I began to walk down the path, I realized immediately that something was very wrong.

  Even if a staff member had returned, no one would have adopted out a dog in the amount of time it had taken me to have dinner. No one would have adopted out a dog at all without getting my approval.

  So why was Honey missing from the very first enclosure?

  Chapter 18

  My heart slammed on the brakes before restarting and accelerating beyond its usual cadence. Where was she?

  “Honey?” I yelled, barely hearing myself among the clamor from the dogs who hadn’t disappeared.

  I considered calling 911. But what would I say? I looked around, seeing no evidence of any intrusion, dognapping, or other illegal activity.

  Only a missing pup.

  I dashed down the path, looking for her. How had she gotten out? Had I done it? I’d snuggled Honey in my arms earlier that day. Later, Matt and I had come by and said hello. Had the gate been unlocked then? Had we somehow knocked it loose? Had someone else left it open? No matter how it had happened, I should have noticed. By not doing so, I might have carelessly endangered Honey’s life, potentially as much as if I hadn’t swooped her out of one of the high-kill shelters at the last minute. She’d apparently slipped out of her kennel, and could even have gotten away from HotRescues altogether.

  I was always so careful, obsessively so—or that’s what I’d always thought. But now, I seemed to be losing it. Stress was no excuse.

  But no sense browbeating myself now. I could do it later just as well. At this moment, I would devote all my thoughts, all my actions, to finding her.

  But was I observant enough to do it alone?

  Hey, someone should have been observing. I pulled my BlackBerry from my pocket, my hand quivering. I called the security company. “A dog disappeared?” The dispatcher sounded incredulous. “Just a moment.”

  “Ms. Vancouver!” This was a different male voice. “I’ve been monitoring your facility from the cameras. I didn’t see anything . . . Oh, yes. Is that you on the path, there?”

  “That’s right. Look, I have to find the missing dog. Call me if you see anything helpful in the pictures.” I hung up.

  I considered phoning Nina for help. She was volunteering at a shelter tonight. Should I interrupt her?

  Better yet, Matt. He might not be too far away. It had been less than an hour since we were together at the restaurant.

  Or . . . Heck, I was the head administrator, and I was right here. I had to shrug off all the emotions that were paralyzing me, including the self-blame pouring over me like boiling wax.

  I would look for Honey myself.

  “Honey, come,” I wanted to shout to her. I was used to giving commands around here that were obeyed.

  As if she’d listen to me now.

  “Okay, guys,” I said to the other dogs, keeping my concern leashed inside. Most were finally quieting down. “Did you see where Honey went? Give me a clue.”

  Some had seen Efram die here, sliced by a knife, and none had disclosed who did it. They were just as unlikely to rat on their buddy, Honey, who had escaped her cage as most of them probably longed to do.

  Rounding corners, I continued to walk the paths outside the enclosures, staring into each in case Honey had somehow burrowed her way into someone else’s domain. A couple of the dogs stuck their noses through the chain-link fence enclosing them as if in support of what I was doing.

  I checked the gates and other exits from the shelter area. They all seemed secure. Honey couldn’t have opened them—not herself.

  But if I hadn’t simply been careless, some human could still have entered the way Efram had the other night—he and his killer. The security system had been set then, too, and the security company had supposedly been on duty, although maybe not as diligently as now. The cause was irrelevant at this moment. I’d figure it out later, when Honey was safe.

  Shouldn’t they have noticed Honey’s escape on pictures from the nearest camera? It would have been the same one that Efram had covered, but when I checked I saw nothing obstructing it now. I’d been far
ther down the path before, though, when I’d talked to the guy at EverySecurity, so he’d seen me on a different camera.

  I walked around the entire maze of dog enclosures, still calling Honey’s name. As I proceeded, the dogs I passed urged me on with their loud voices, but I still didn’t find the missing pup.

  I searched through the center building, both upstairs and down. If she was there, she did a superb job of evading me.

  I’d seen no sign of her in the administration building, although I hadn’t exactly looked for her there. But instead of retracing my steps, I decided to go somewhere I hadn’t been that night: the storage building at the rear of the property. If I were a dog who’d escaped my cage, I might sniff the air, determine where my food was kept, and hurry there.

  I unlatched the door and pushed it open—one indication that Honey couldn’t be there. I doubted she could climb in a window, and they were kept closed anyway. But Honey wasn’t a large dog. Perhaps she’d found some other means of entry that a human wouldn’t think of.

  I flipped on the ground-floor lights and peered into the laundry room. “Honey?” I called, not expecting to hear anything . . . but a muffled bark responded.

  “Honey!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

  Another bark. It sounded far away, but I was sure it originated somewhere in this narrow, two-story structure. I crossed the entire first floor, passing ladders, pooper scoopers, and other gear, including equipment sometimes used to modify the sizes of the enclosures. Not to mention the large metal toolbox that the cops had examined and left here. The one filled with the knives we use to slice open food bags—like the one used to slice open Efram.

  No Honey.

  Beyond the hardware area was where we stored the largest bags of food. I didn’t find Honey there, either, but she started barking more forcefully. From upstairs.

  I climbed the stairway as fast as if I used it for exercise, hurtling my way to the second floor.