Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  There wasn’t a lot I could object to. Except for the sick part, it was true. But I hadn’t named names when I was interviewed—except for a few of the dogs and cats at HotRescues. I hadn’t directly accused any of the folks that shyster Remseyer had claimed to be representing in my answers to the reporter’s questions. Not that I could exonerate any of them in Efram’s death.

  “Whoa, Mom,” Kevin said as we watched and listened, and I grew even more concerned. “That’s some nasty stuff you said about all those people.”

  “A bit of misrepresentation here,” I said. “I didn’t say all the things that reporter claimed, or even very many of them, even if I thought them.”

  I wasn’t particularly surprised when Detective Stefan Garciana also called me, making sure I’d watched the show. That spurred me to leave a message for my attorney, Esther Ickes, who was in a meeting that afternoon. I told her secretary to have Esther take a look at National News-Shakers —and to assure her that I wasn’t quite as imprudent as the show portrayed me.

  I’d want to talk to her, also, about whether I should put that reporter Corina Carey on notice that I’d like her to clarify my participation in what she’d used for her show.

  But as I sat there pondering what to do, I realized that the sensationalism in this purported news story might actually work to my advantage. It certainly stirred the pot of any complacency that the people I believed could have murdered Efram might have been simmering around themselves.

  Of course, I’d thought that the incident with Honey, the food bags, and the knife had resulted from the killer’s anger about my inquiries. I’d have to be even more careful now.

  I turned off the TV. Tracy had already gotten her cookies out of the oven. Chocolate chip—my favorite. I was good and only ate one, though. I’d promised to take them out to dinner at their favorite Mexican restaurant.

  At dinner, I’d have preferred directing the conversation to getting a full rundown on how my children were doing at their respective schools. Fortunately, we did get into that some. Both were fine, even Kevin, despite this being his first year.

  Mostly, though, we talked about how I was doing, what I was doing, and whether someone as dedicated to pet rescue as me could ever kill a guy—especially one who was as miserable an excuse for a human being as Efram, who’d continuously abused animals.

  I assured my kids that I couldn’t. I realized, though, that making that kind of assurance was as false as if I’d told them I couldn’t kill anyone in defense of either of them.

  On our way home, I stopped at HotRescues. I looked around and didn’t see the security patrol, but maybe they’d just been by. I turned off the alarm and we all went inside.

  Amid chaotic greetings from the rows of dogs, we went upstairs to the infirmary. There, we took Sweety and Missy out of their quarantine enclosures and gave them some hugs and TLC.

  Both seemed rather listless, as if energy was a landmark that they hadn’t yet discovered. But they also seemed happy for the attention, so we gave them a lot.

  We were in the building where most cats, toy dogs, and small animals resided downstairs, so I took my children to visit them, too. They even got some quality time with a few of the kitties who were willing to accept, with royal dignity, the attention showered on them by mere humans.

  When we left, I purposely hurried the kids out. I didn’t want them asking questions about where Efram had died or even demanding to see the place in the storage building where I’d been assailed by the food bags and knife. My daughter and son were full of intelligent curiosity—and I wanted them to direct it elsewhere, far from their mother’s troubles.

  Tomorrow was Sunday. I would spend as much of it as I could with them, since they’d both head back to school in the evening.

  But my mind was swirling already on all I wanted to do on Monday. And it didn’t involve just ensuring that all the inhabitants of HotRescues—except for our newest ones, who needed time to heal—were healthy and ready for new homes.

  Chapter 25

  I brought the kids to HotRescues for a short while on Sunday, too. Not particularly early, though. They were taking full advantage of the time off what they both claimed were rugged academic schedules.

  Having once been a college student, then a grad of veterinary tech school, I realized that half their assertions were probably exaggerated. But it was all part of the learning process—learning to be adults, not just scholars in their chosen fields.

  Because it was the weekend, we had an abundance of volunteers present at HotRescues, but Nina had the day off. Our most senior helper, Bev, seemed charmed by the opportunity to take Kevin and Tracy for a walk around the facility, giving them the VIP tour though they’d been here uncountable times before. They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I had the impression they enjoyed seeing the place through the eyes of someone other than their watchful, opinionated, and sometimes obsessive mother.

  I did some paperwork—rather, computer work—in the office. Several volunteers had noted a couple of pages of messages from answering the main shelter phone, but I didn’t want to take the time now to return the calls.

  While I sat there, though, my BlackBerry rang. The caller ID wasn’t one I’d programmed in, but I recognized it: Corina Carey from National NewsShakers.

  Never mind that I’d convinced myself that her approach to reporting about the puppy mill rescue and ensuing situation at HotRescues might be useful to me. That didn’t mean I wanted to talk to her again.

  But being rude might only make things worse. “Hello,” I said without acknowledging I knew who was calling.

  “Hi, Lauren. Have you heard what’s going on? I’d like a statement from you.”

  Confused, I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

  “That dogfighting ring in South LA. The one where they’re making all the arrests as we speak. You haven’t heard about it?”

  “No,” I admitted grimly. “But I’ll look into it.”

  “Can I get a general statement from you about what you think about dogfights?”

  The idea of being quoted again by Corina Carey made me hesitate before responding. I considered just saying “no comment.” But I definitely had an opinion and, on reflection, didn’t mind sharing it with the world. “They’re another act of cruelty,” I told her, selecting my words carefully. “Different from puppy mills like the one in the rescue situation a couple of weeks ago. But as with puppy mills, people guilty of that kind of abuse deserve to be punished. And as you know, HotRescues stands for animal protection.”

  I did a rewind through my brain. I thought it came out okay, not pointing fingers at any actual person but expressing my opinion as an animal advocate—while also putting in a plug for HotRescues.

  “Thanks,” Corina said, and then she was gone—probably off to add her recording of my statement to whatever her network was broadcasting.

  Which I decided I needed to see. I didn’t have a television at HotRescues, but my computer would do. I did a search and found National NewsShakers.

  The details of the story made my blood roar in my ears.

  As Corina had stated, there had been a major raid of a place in South LA that was a dogfight venue. Dogs—mostly pit bulls, judging by the photos—had been taken into custody, as had the people responsible.

  Dogfights were major, illegal acts of cruelty—all the more so because the animals bred and trained to battle were usually doomed to be euthanized, since retraining them to become manageable pets was so difficult.

  Yet not impossible. There had been the case of an athlete a few years ago who’d been sent to jail and an animal sanctuary, Best Friends, had taken in the dogs. Many had been rehabilitated, thank heavens. But what would happen to the dogs here in LA who’d been caught today?

  Impulsively, I called Matt. The Animal Cruelty Task Force was probably involved, but not necessarily the teams reporting to him, including SmART and D.A.R.T. Even so, he might know.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m aware of i
t,” he responded to my question. “I’m on my way there now.”

  “And the dogs? What will happen to them?” I cringed as I waited for his answer.

  “As far as I know, they’ll be taken to the South Los Angeles Care Center for evaluation. Then we’ll see.”

  Which meant that, if they were too damaged, too vicious for rehabilitation, that would be the end of them.

  As a private rehoming facility, HotRescues was not equipped to help in that kind of situation. The official shelters would not have the staff or mandate to do anything different.

  I could only hope that another private group could step in to help.

  Fortunately, the kids returned to the main office, which immediately cheered me—as long as I directed my thoughts toward them and not what I’d just heard.

  They were joined by Bev and also by Angie, who’d come to check on our newest residents, and Si, who’d additionally dropped in. We had an upbeat conversation about how Missy and Sweety were acclimating to their non-puppy mill existence here, and how they seemed to be growing stronger already.

  “They’re not completely out of the woods yet,” Angie cautioned, “but I’m really optimistic.”

  “I’m looking forward to the day they’re ready to get out of quarantine and start some training so HotRescues can find them new homes,” Si added.

  I wanted to hug them all. But I didn’t get the opportunity to. My cell phone rang.

  I excused myself and answered it. This time, the caller ID was clear. “Hi, Matt.”

  “I’m here now,” he said. “Awful situation, but fortunately the dogs seem to be in good condition. Some are pretty young and I have the sense they haven’t been subjected to much of the training yet. The older ones . . . well, we’ll just have to see.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Maybe a dozen total.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I said softly. And then I looked up. I wasn’t about to explain the conversation. Fortunately, no one asked. I stood. “It’s time for me to drag Tracy and Kevin away from here. Or for them to drag me away. Same difference.”

  We headed for home.

  The rest of my day was bittersweet. I had my kids with me until evening, when both left to return to their schools.

  But before they did, we went through some old pictures, and the nostalgia nearly made me cry.

  They’d grown up so fast. They were adults now, worried about their old mom and her new public persona.

  As well as her private nonlife.

  “What you’re still doing at HotRescues is really cool, Mom,” Tracy said as we sat at the retro glass-topped table in the dining room, passing around old-fashioned photo albums. “But are you becoming . . . I mean, getting on YouTube and in the news about animal rescues and things that happen to you because of them . . . well, I’m worried about you. That’s why I came home.”

  “Yeah,” Kevin agreed. He’d always let his big sister be his mouthpiece whenever they were on the same page. That happened now and then, although not often.

  “I’m fine,” I reassured them. “The whole situation about Efram Kiley’s death will blow over, and once the person who harmed him is caught and put on trial I’ll feel a lot better.”

  “But he was killed at HotRescues. And you were hurt there afterward. Can’t you go get a job at some other, safer place?” Tracy had stopped pretending to concentrate on the photos and was staring at me, her green eyes overflowing with tears.

  That was the crux of why both of them had come home. I knew that, and I loved them all the more for their worry about me.

  It reminded me of all the worry I’d lavished on them forever, especially since their father died.

  “I like it where I am,” I told them. “I don’t intend to make any changes in my life. HotRescues is part of who I am now. And I’ll be fine there. I promise.” I spoke in a tone that they hopefully recognized from their childhoods. Mom was issuing an edict, and there would be no contradiction.

  I only hoped I was making a promise I could keep.

  Apparently they decided to buy into what I said. Or at least they realized that any argument would be futile. Silence reigned at the table where we’d celebrated holidays and family events for years.

  Then Kevin pulled one of the albums toward him again and started thumbing through it. I watched him, glad not to meet either one’s eyes. He stopped and pointed at a picture. “There the three of us are with Bosley. He was a great little dog.”

  I smiled and pulled the album over. Sweety, the rescued Boston terrier now at HotRescues, resembled him. “He sure was,” I agreed.

  “Have you considered adopting a dog yourself, Mom?” Kevin asked. “I didn’t try to figure out which one there now might be a good match, but I’ll bet—”

  “I’m fine with things as they are, at least for now.” This sounded like an ongoing litany, nearly a repetition of what I’d said before. In this, though, I was a little less certain.

  Did I want to adopt a dog?

  It wouldn’t be good for the dog.

  But—

  “How about taking on a bigger dog?” Tracy sounded excited. “A watchdog. A guard dog. You could take care of each other.”

  I smiled. “Maybe someday,” I said, again a repetition of something they’d heard many times before, which always meant no. But in this case, it was a definite maybe.

  The next morning, I awoke alone in my bedroom. My house.

  My kids had left, and somehow I’d managed to sleep.

  But the silence, and the knowledge that they were gone once more, squeezed my heart as if I wadded it in my hands to still its motion for a while.

  They were young adults now. They would visit when they wanted to and could manage it. That was how it should be.

  I had a life, too. I showered and dressed quickly, then headed for HotRescues.

  Nina was already there, in the reception room. “You’ve done it again, you star, you.”

  Leaning over the leopard-print counter, I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Your statement about dogfighting has been played a lot on National NewsShakers,” she said. The expression on her face wasn’t particularly thrilled. I wondered why.

  I asked her.

  “No big deal,” she said. “I’m just a bit concerned about the kind of publicity HotRescues is getting lately, what with the puppy mill and Efram and the attack on you—and now this. Is it in the best interests of our animals?” I must have looked affronted, since she raised her hand and said, “I’m just asking.”

  “Like I told my kids, more or less, ‘this too shall pass.’ Most of it isn’t negative publicity for HotRescues, and our being in the news tells people we’re here and have animals waiting for adoption. The bad stuff will fade away with time—hopefully sooner rather than later.”

  “Right,” Nina agreed, although enthusiasm seemed distinctly lacking in her tone.

  She was right, though. So were the kids. The sooner things calmed down and returned to normal, the better.

  I wouldn’t give any more quotes to Corina Carey or any other media sort, even to publicize HotRescues.

  And I’d be working harder on my files of information to figure out who killed Efram.

  I did my first walk-through of the day, stopping to say hi to each of the dogs and pet a bunch of them when they stopped barking. Then, into the center building to visit the animals there, including Sweety and Missy.

  Finally, I secluded myself in my office—in time to take a call from Carlie. “Okay, news lady,” she said. “If you’re going to get yourself on TV, make it my show from now on, not that tabloid stuff.”

  “Got it.”

  I became so occupied with some potential adoptions—yay!—that the only thing I got around to doing regarding Efram’s death was to follow up on a new lead suggested indirectly by attorney James Remseyer. I called Efram’s former employer, the air-conditioning repair company.

  His immediate supervisor was named Ped
ro Suarez. I donned a pseudonym to talk to him. He had a thick Hispanic accent but I had no problem conversing with him. My story: my air-conditioning was acting up, and I needed a repairman. I claimed that the last time, the guy who’d been sent was named Efram, and he’d done such a great job. Could they send him again?

  Not talking to Suarez in person, I gleaned no body language or facial expression. But he sounded sad, as if he genuinely mourned his employee, when he told me that Efram was gone.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “What happened to him?”

  “Long story,” he said. “But he was murdered.”

  “How awful. What happened? Who killed him?” Like, did you do it?

  “It had something to do with volunteer work he was doing on his own time.” Sounded as if the guy was discreet.

  “Then it had nothing to do with his air-conditioning repair work?” Like, once more, did you do it? “He did a good job at my place, but . . . well, you know, I thought I saw him looking into some of my jewelry. Could one of your customers . . . I mean . . .”

  I allowed my voice to drop off, waiting for him to respond. He didn’t immediately jump in to defend his subordinate. He also issued no criticisms of his own.

  “Did anyone complain about him?” I prompted. “Did you think he did a good job?”

  “I’m sorry, but I must get back to work. If you would like, I can send someone else to look at your air-conditioning unit. What did you say your name was?”

  “Thank you,” I said without answering, and hung up.

  And added a page devoted to Pedro Suarez to my file of murder suspects. Where would he fit, in the order of most likely killer to least? Probably somewhere lower than the middle.

  I decided to work late that night. I’d been spending too much time on my obscure suspect file, and I needed to work on some bookkeeping issues.

  Nina popped her head in to say goodbye. So did Bev and a few of the others. I was distracted but managed, I hoped, to be cordial.