Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Have you gotten a place ready for them?” I asked Pete.

  Pete, as our all-around go-to guy, was the first one I checked with when we had an out-of-the-ordinary situation to deal with. He’d vowed to make sure our usual temporary hospital quarters inside the center building were in good shape to take on these newcomers.

  “Absolutely.”

  He bent down and opened the Boston’s crate, lifting her out and slipping a collar around her neck, then attaching a leash. He hugged her. “Hi, little lady. Welcome.”

  Kevin got the beagle out and put on another similar leash that Pete had brought. We both followed Pete along the path to the center building. The two dogs apparently weren’t used to tethers and balked at first but soon appeared to decide it was easier to go along with us than to feel more pressure around their necks—not much, of course. Kevin and Pete were careful not to choke them.

  Inside, Angie Shayde, our veterinary technician, waited along with Si Rogan. It was too soon for Si to have much contact with these rescuees. Making sure they were pampered with all the care they needed to restore their health was the number-one priority. Retraining would wait for the future.

  “Let me see those babies,” Angie said. One under each arm, she took them both into the infirmary set up on the second floor. I followed and motioned for Kevin to join us. Pete and Si came along as well.

  We watched as Angie did her magic, examining them. I handed her some paperwork that Carlie had given me, with her diagnosis and prognosis and suggestions for care. Angie read them over. “Great!” she said. “Pete, we’re going to put them on a special diet for a while. Can you run to the HotPets store and pick up the things on the list I’ll give you?”

  “Sure will.”

  Of course there was a HotPets not far away. That was one of the criteria for picking this location for HotRescues—near one of Dante’s official retail outlets. This way, the food supplies could be dropped off by delivery vans going to the HotPets in Chatsworth, about a mile from here.

  These two would be in quarantine for at least a week to ten days, as we did with all our rescue animals. That minimized the possibility of their passing diseases to other residents. Even a veterinary exam didn’t always discover all problems. Of course the humans who’d visit them would always use antibacterial hand cleanser before and after touching them. We all did that before and after touching cats, too, since they seemed more prone to catching things from one another than dogs did.

  Right now, knowing the dogs were in excellent hands, I motioned to Kevin, and we walked downstairs. I needed to go to my office and start the official files on these two rescue animals.

  It would help, though, if they had names.

  I said so out loud as we exited onto the walkway and started toward the main building, with the dogs whose enclosures we passed barking their greetings all over again.

  At the last kennel, I looked in at Honey and stopped for a pat—as did Kevin. Were those people who seemed to fall so hard for her yesterday coming back to adopt her? I hoped so, for her sake. But I’d miss her.

  “How about Missy and Sweety for the dogs’ names?” said Si. I hadn’t realized he had followed us from the infirmary area. “For now, at least.”

  “Not bad,” I said. “For our use, anyway.” Had he been the one who’d named Honey? I couldn’t recall for sure, but it fit.

  We’d reached the main building, and I shooed Kevin through the gate, making sure that none of our inhabitants were loose and ready to sneak through. Then Si held it for me. I assumed he was staying in the shelter area, but he joined us on the other side, obviously cautious to ensure no one followed us out.

  We went into the welcome room. My intent was to make a few notes to start the new rescue file on each of them, then turn it over to Nina. She was there greeting visitors. So was Ricki.

  Matt Kingston was one of those visitors.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

  “I wanted to make sure you got those two dogs you picked up here okay, see how they’re being treated, that kind of thing.” I suspected that the real “kind of thing” was to check on me, see how I was handling these two new residents whose former ill-treatment had been such anathema to me. I’d certainly cried about them yesterday—all over Matt.

  Not especially the image I’d wanted to portray of the calm, collected, and organized shelter administrator who’d seen it all and would do anything to prevent it from happening again.

  “They’re doing as well as can be expected,” I told him. “Our veterinary tech is getting them acclimated to the area where they’ll stay for now.”

  “Sounds good. Will you show me?”

  Whatever his intentions, he wasn’t going to give up until he had seen those two dogs.

  “Why not? Kevin, why don’t you tell Nina all the information she asks to start up our files on . . . Missy and Sweety.” I glanced my thanks at Si, who nodded. “By the way, Matt,” I said. “This is my son, Kevin.” That ought to do it for any semblance of attraction Matt might think he felt for me. A mother of a teenage kid? Not exactly a hottie.

  They shook hands, and then I took Matt back to visit with the dogs. Si stayed behind to talk to Mona, who’d just come in.

  When Matt and I returned, there was a visitor in the reception area—someone who looked vaguely familiar. I realized who she was when I saw that there was a guy outside the window who held a large video camera.

  She was a reporter for some tabloid show on TV.

  I’d been fairly lucky so far, all things considered. I was a murder suspect. I’d also been the victim of a nasty crime that resulted in being stabbed—never mind that I was suspected of doing that myself. Unfortunately, it had all made the news, but I’d managed to stay pretty much off camera after the first wave of YouTube.

  I didn’t always discourage the media. The more publicity HotRescues had, the more visitors and, hopefully, the more adoptions we’d experience.

  But I didn’t think that was why this reporter was here.

  “Hi,” she said. “My name is Corina Carey. I’m here to ask you a few questions, Lauren. I’m with National News-Shakers.”

  “How nice to meet you, Ms. Carey,” I lied, noticing that Matt had disappeared. Obviously he didn’t want to meet her, either. “Would you like a tour of our facilities? We have some really wonderful animals who need homes, pets your viewers will fall in love with.” I projected so much gushiness that she could have scraped whipped cream from my body.

  “That would be fine,” she said. “Also, if you could point out the dogs you just brought from the city shelter, the ones who were part of that puppy mill rescue the other day, that would be wonderful.”

  How had she heard so fast that they were here? No matter. Maybe giving Sweety and Missy some on-air coverage would help their futures—once they were given veterinary clearance for adoption.

  Despite the way showing her around felt like anticipating nonstop torture, I managed to give Corina Carey a brief but—at least I felt—heart-wrenching tour of HotRescues. Including an introduction to our two newest inhabitants. All caught on camera by the guy with her.

  She left soon after. I returned to the welcome area, where Kevin was working on the main computer. I guessed he was filling out the initial data himself.

  Matt had reappeared and was looking over Kevin’s shoulder, making suggestions.

  Si, Mona, Pete, and Angie all followed me from the shelter area. Did everyone around here hope to be featured in whatever kind of media event Ms. Carey was going to derive from her visit?

  “Okay, gang,” I said. “I’m going home to spend some time with Kevin. Tracy should be there by now, too. Call me if anything comes up, and I’ll be back for a while this afternoon.”

  “Can I see you for a minute before you go?” Matt said.

  I hesitated. Was he going to bawl me out for going along with that reporter? Was he okay with how our newcomers were being handled?

  The look on his
face seemed more interested than angry, so I said, “Sure. Come into my office for a minute.”

  He did. Once we were alone there, with the door shut, I was astounded when he took me into his arms. So surprised that I didn’t resist when he kissed me. Talk about surprise—I really enjoyed it. Even kissed him back.

  “What’s that for?” I demanded breathlessly, my voice low.

  “For rescuing those dogs. And for running such a good private shelter. And—”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Just because I felt like it.” He smiled, opened the door, and left.

  Chapter 24

  I got a call on my cell phone that afternoon from James Remseyer, Efram’s former lawyer. “What do you think you’re doing, Ms. Vancouver?” he demanded.

  “I think I’m having a pleasant afternoon with my family,” I responded between clenched teeth. “At least I was.”

  I was sitting in my kitchen at the oval wood table, watching my daughter bake cookies. I’d taught her well. We’d bought the premade dough from the supermarket, and Tracy was slicing it on a cutting board on top of the tile counter and putting it on a cookie sheet before sticking it into the oven.

  My daughter resembled me, as Kevin looked like his dad. She was moderate height and slender, and wore her dark brown hair shoulder length. Like me, her eyes were green.

  Kevin was outside mowing the lawn, wonderful young man that he was. The groan of the lawnmower harmonized with my unwelcome phone conversation.

  “Have you seen National NewsShakers today?” Remseyer continued.

  “No, but I assume, since you brought it up, that HotRescues is mentioned. A reporter came to visit us, and I spoke with her since I wanted to tell the world about all the charming animals we have there, waiting for new homes.”

  “Well, she talked primarily about the two allegedly from the puppy mill. She defamed my client, Efram Kiley, which is especially heinous since he isn’t around now to defend himself. She also implied that his friends and family were as unsavory as she claimed he was. I’m calling on behalf of Efram’s estate.”

  What? Efram had an estate? He’d left some money?

  I’d assumed he had spent everything Dante had paid in compensation for his supposed rehabilitation.

  Or maybe his “estate” was a euphemism for a claim Remseyer might make against someone for the defamation he was asserting. He all but confirmed the latter.

  “You must understand, Ms. Vancouver, how upset Efram’s stepmother Mandy Ledinger and his girlfriend Shellie Benudo are. They both called me, aghast after seeing that untrue news report, and retained me to make claims against the news station and HotRescues and their respective personnel. I would suggest that you make certain that the newspeople retract any actionable statements.”

  “Actionable like what?” I noticed Tracy staring at me with concern and shook my head with a barely tolerant smile, as if what I was hearing was too stupid to worry about.

  “You should watch the broadcast and see how they’ve quoted you. I won’t attempt to restate anything, but you are cited as having alleged animal torture by Efram and everyone he ever knew, such as my clients. And me.”

  Ah. That had to be the crux of it. The lawyer was worried about his own reputation, at least among clients who might care whether animals were abused.

  “I suspect I was misquoted,” I said, “although frankly I loathe anyone who even tolerates animal cruelty. Do you tolerate it, Mr. Remseyer?”

  “Heavens, no. But I suspect even those two dogs you brought to your shelter allegedly because they were too ill to make it in a public facility aren’t as bad off as you made them out to be. I could have a veterinarian I sometimes retain as a consultant take a look at them.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you with them now? Are you at HotRescues?”

  “Like I said, I’m home with my kids now.” But was he asking because he wanted to know if my charges were alone and defenseless, so he could sic the vet in his back pocket on them? Maybe make claims that we were abusing animals?

  I might be stretching things, but I certainly had no reason to trust this lawyer.

  I continued quickly, “I’ll be back there very shortly, though. Joining my staff. And I’ll be there late enough to ensure that our new residents do well on their first night at HotRescues. So will other people. You can be sure, Mr. Remseyer, that I’ll watch National NewsShakers. If the reporter says I’ve claimed that Efram abused the poor creatures in the puppy mill, that’s true. I’d also stand by any claims that, if his friends and family”—and lawyer—“knew about it and did nothing, they were nearly as guilty as him and deserve a fate like his. Being arrested, I mean.”

  I’d love for them to suffer additional punishment, too, but didn’t want what I said to sound like they should fear for their lives—especially from me, and especially till I was no longer on the cops’ list of murder suspects.

  “So you’re saying that even his employer at the air-conditioning company where he worked was as guilty as him?”

  “Did he know about what Efram was doing?”

  “He knew about the claims against HotRescues and you, and the settlement, since his volunteering at your shelter resulted in Efram’s having to take some time off work.”

  “Is he your client, too?”

  A brief silence. Then—“I can’t get into that at the moment.”

  In other words, this shyster liked the idea and was probably going to go solicit Efram’s former employer as a client. Interesting. It also gave me someone else to look into for my suspect file in Efram’s murder.

  “Well, it really doesn’t matter to me who you represent,” I asserted. “I said nothing untrue. If it turns out I was misquoted, I’ll take that up with the reporter and get a retraction, but nothing you’ve said so far worries me particularly.”

  Not exactly true, but I’d learned, throughout my life, to appear to put a positive spin on things—overtly, at least, no matter how miserable I felt inside. And how much I anticipated the worst.

  “We’ll see, Ms. Vancouver. And if you haven’t already retained counsel, you might want to consider doing so.”

  As he hung up, I wondered whether I should contact Esther Ickes. Although she was my criminal attorney, I’d gathered, from things she had said, that she sometimes took on civil matters like bankruptcies. Claims of defamation? I’d have to ask her.

  “What was that all about, Mom?” Tracy’s voice was worried. She had paused with the cookie sheet in her hands, which were tucked inside large, quilted orange oven mitts. The mitts clashed with her cardinal and white Stanford T-shirt with the green logo of a redwood tree in the middle.

  “The same nonsense that’s been going on since that creep Efram Kiley died at HotRescues,” I said, shaking my head. “Too much finger-pointing and not enough fact-finding. I suspect I’ve graduated beyond YouTube and am on TV now.”

  “What!” she shrieked. “Where?” She quickly put the baking sheet into the oven, turned on the timer, then hurried out the back door before I could figure out what she was up to. In a moment, the sound of the lawnmower died. Apparently, she’d gone to get her brother so they could both confront me. Oh, joy.

  I was almost glad that my BlackBerry rang again. A distraction. Maybe a friend calling. But the number on the caller ID wasn’t one I recognized.

  “Hello?” I said cautiously, bracing myself for further misery. Good thing I did, since that was certainly what I got.

  “This is Patsy Shaheen, Lauren,” said a shrill voice on the other end. Great. Now champion animal abusers had my phone number. I might have to change it. “A friend called about that terrible National NewsShakers show and how they talked about Bradley and me and our babies. They said you’ve taken in some supposedly sick dogs. Can we come see them? The Animal Services people have forbid us from visiting any of our darlings.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We’re still nursing them back to health.”

  “Are you with
them now?”

  “Close enough,” I said. Would she demand that I send her a picture over my phone or something equally bizarre?

  “Please, just give them a hug from us and tell them we want them to get all better soon. And if they have to go to some other family, we wish them someone who loves them like we do.”

  Bull crap. But all I said to her was, “Of course, Patsy. How nice of you to care.” And then I not-so-gently hung up.

  My kids were back in the room watching me. “You okay, Mom?” Kevin asked.

  “Just peachy,” I said, then smiled. “Honest. But if you really want to help me feel better, stay with me while I watch that damned National NewsShakers show on TV.”

  Tracy turned on the oven light to peek in at her cookies. I assumed they must look all right since she joined her brother and me as we went into the living room. I perked my ears up so I’d hear the timer go off, in case she didn’t.

  I sat on the middle blue cushion on the sofa and patted the ones on either side of me, turning me into a Vancouver sandwich when my children complied. My leg barely hurt any longer. I used the remote to turn on Kevin’s monstrosity of a large TV and found the channel with National NewsShakers. Would the show featuring HotRescues still be on? I clicked the directory. National NewsShakers had just started another hour of broadcasting.

  And, yes, the same show must either be repeating or another one had begun that focused on my shelter. We started watching.

  After only a few minutes, I grasped Kevin and Tracy’s hands. I could see why anyone who knew Efram could be upset. I was upset—not because of the accusations against him and them, but because that reporter, Corina Carey, had somehow taken news clips of other people, her filmed discussion with me, and pictures of dogs like those just saved from euthanasia by sheltering them at HotRescues . . . and made it sound, via an overlaid narration, as though I was one sick, angry broad who’d do anything to save animals. Especially ones abused in hellholes like the Shaheens’ puppy mill.