Beaglemania

by Linda O. Johnston

  But what could I do about it now? I supposed I’d have to sleep on it. There wasn’t a lot I could accomplish that night.

  Shuffling in discouragement like a hurt child who’d been sent to her room, I returned to my office.

  The only thing I could think of to slather a temporary balm over my mood was to check out the reports on our adoption fair—or add one if no one else had so far.

  I went to the Southern California Rescuers Web site I sometimes visited where pet rescue administrators keep in touch. Since I’d seen no one I recognized from other shelters at the park that day, and no one had introduced themselves to me as being in the same capacity, I assumed none of the members had been at our event. There were no “attagirls” on the site, so that still seemed a reasonable assumption.

  I went to the blog area and posted a lengthy, upbeat description of how things had gone. I’d read similar posts by others who also let the world know about the good and bad things that occurred, and I tended to keep what they said in mind to try to avoid making any similar mistakes.

  I noticed that one of the members from Palm Springs had posted a cautionary tale about something that had happened in her area. Not at her shelter, at least. But a local resident known for his fostering of pets in need, and helping to teach people how to take care of animals of all kinds, had been hospitalized because of a traumatic situation.

  He had been beaten, and his own, longtime dog had been petnapped.

  Sad, I thought.

  The guy had known enough to get his friend microchipped, but so far no one had turned him in or otherwise located him.

  The situation captured my attention, at least for this moment. I wondered if there was anything that I, or HotRescues, could do to help. I sent a personal e-mail to the shelter administrator who’d posted the blog, then shut down my computer.

  It was finally time to go home. I did, however, take one more walk through HotRescues before I left, again tempting fate, and the killer, all but calling out, demanding a confrontation. It didn’t happen.

  Just before locking up for the night, I called the dispatcher at EverySecurity—hopefully for nearly the last time—and let him know I was leaving for the night. Time for them to earn their big bucks while they could. Especially if they wanted to try to redeem themselves.

  Still nothing. Nothing at home, either.

  Nothing to give me a shred of optimism that I could keep myself from being arrested in Efram’s death.

  I did manage to sleep that night, to my surprise. At least I did after rehashing the high and low points of the day in my mind as I lay in bed.

  I woke up early and soon headed for HotRescues, grabbing a cup of coffee on the way.

  Nina wasn’t there yet, but volunteer Ricki was, sitting in the welcome room behind our big cat lookalike counter, reading a book on animal health. Not surprising. Her veterinary tech school would start soon.

  “Good morning, Lauren.” She gave me a huge, welcoming smile. “When’s our next adoption fair? This one was so cool!”

  I laughed. “Soon, I hope. Who’s here?”

  So far, she said, only Pete was around, starting to give our residents their breakfasts. “We also got a couple of phone messages. Some people who were at the park yesterday and walked away are now regretting it. A few will be here later today to consider adopting the animals they met.”

  “Excellent!” I went into my office, put down my coffee, and pushed the button to start my computer’s morning routine. One item was to add a file for scheduling home visits to our newly adopted former residents. Then I did my first walk-through of the day.

  Pete Engersol was right there, feeding little Honey in the first enclosure. “Good morning, Lauren. Honey just asked when we’re doing our next adoption thing. She’s getting eager for a new home.” Pete had been the only HotRescues employee to stay here yesterday, making sure that those babies we hadn’t brought along for possible adoption remained okay despite their loneliness.

  “I know she is, Pete.” I joined them inside the gate and gave Honey a big hug. “And you deserve it, sweetheart.” I told Pete about the people who’d seemed interested in her but never came back. “I’m not about to call them. If they’re not eager, they don’t deserve Honey. I’m wondering, though, if the people who called this morning might be a different couple than those who spent a lot of time with our Honey at the park yesterday.”

  Pete and I went out to the path together, and he took me aside. “You shouldn’t say that in front of her. You’ll disappoint her if nothing happens.”

  He wasn’t joking. And I got it. Who knew how much animals really understood?

  “You’re right,” I whispered. “You know, I’m going to make a special effort to get Honey the right forever home even more quickly than just waiting for someone to find her.”

  “Good girl!” Pete said.

  I watched as he hustled along the path, past the place where I’d found Efram’s body, and into the rear shed, where Honey had been used as vulnerable bait to get me inside . . .

  Pete loved animals. He’d hated what Efram stood for. He had the wherewithal to get inside HotRescues at any time, to do anything he wanted here. Like bring in a vicious dog and let him loose.

  Since I hadn’t outed the killer yesterday at the event, maybe that person hadn’t been present.

  Maybe he had been here—no matter how much I hated the idea that it could be this wonderful, kind, animal-loving man.

  My mind was churning when I got back to the welcome room. Pete? I definitely hated to think so. I even let my muddied thoughts consider whether Ricki could have done it all.

  Dumb. Ineffectual. But I realized I was just trying to protect myself. I knew I’d hear from the detective again sometime that day. Maybe go talk with him.

  Maybe be taken into custody. It had been weeks since Efram’s death. The police undoubtedly wanted to arrest someone so they’d look better.

  That someone could be me.

  I hadn’t achieved what I’d intended: the ability to hand over another suspect, complete with evidence to turn their official scrutiny away from me.

  Surely it was the Shaheens. It should be them. Incarcerating them forever for killing the horrendous man whose animal cruelty they had fostered was absolute poetic justice.

  But I’d found nothing to prove it. And they’d said nothing yesterday to change that. Neither had any of Efram’s other acquaintances who were there.

  The lawyer, then. I’d do something—I wasn’t sure what—to confront him gently again, get his confession . . . ? Unlikely.

  Sighing, I checked my e-mail. Not much of interest, except that I’d gotten a response from the Palm Springs shelter owner about that poor animal lover who’d had his beloved dog stolen.

  I gasped aloud and nearly knocked over my chair as I stood abruptly. The description of the missing dog was so familiar . . .

  It sounded exactly like Perry.

  Not only that, but some of the other information she conveyed astounded me.

  I pulled my chair back where it belonged and sat down, my breath fast and my mind as confused as if I’d drunk a whole bottle of vodka. Fast. Without anything at all to sweeten or dilute it.

  I closed my eyes, thinking everything through. Something was pinching at my consciousness. Turning bedlam and angst into utter clarity. Could it be?

  It certainly seemed logical. And illogical. All at the same time.

  But I now believed I knew who’d generated all the chaotic events at HotRescues—including Efram’s murder.

  Chapter 30

  I considered long and hard about what to do. I believed I now knew the killer’s identity, but even if I told Detective Garciana every bit of my complicated reasoning, I had no proof. Nothing that even a TV detective could get a major “aha” out of to ramp up to the climax of the show.

  I was no detective. But I remained a suspect. What could I do to change that—especially now, when I was in such jeopardy and knew who had put me
there?

  An idea came to me gradually. Probably foolhardy, yes, but it also involved making sure I had backup there when the truth came out.

  I had every intention of making sure the truth did come out—no matter what the risk to myself.

  And to my backup? Well, I’d explain it all in advance, so no one would be in danger without being fully aware of it. We’d all be cautious.

  I made some phone calls and waited in my office.

  If I was right, it would all be over soon. If I was wrong . . . well, it might still be over soon, along with, possibly, my life.

  But just mine, I hoped. At least I wouldn’t be endangering any of the animals here at HotRescues. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be doing this.

  I took one more walk through the shelter area while I waited, hugging dogs and cats and making sure they knew I cared, no matter what happened.

  When I got to Perry’s enclosure, I looked at him closely. He looked back, without growling. I went inside, knelt and hugged him. “I think you know a lot more than you’re saying, boy,” I told him. “Am I doing the right thing?”

  The first to arrive was Si. He was waiting for me in the welcome area when I returned after my shelter visit.

  I ran toward him, let him hug me. It might appear that I was wimping out, or, worse, leading him on, but at that moment I wasn’t about to turn away from a semblance of comfort.

  Holding me tightly, he whispered into my hair, “I’m so glad you called me, Lauren. And that this will all be over soon. Tonight. But are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Shouldn’t you have called the cops first?”

  I pulled back, still holding his hand, and led him to the visitors’ table. He’d donned a long-sleeved blue shirt tucked into jeans, as well as a grave expression that made his normally youthful forty-something face look its age.

  As we sat, I explained to him a bare-bones version of the rationale that had tap-danced through my mind and ended with a shaky bow. No applause. Not yet.

  “If my suspicions were physical evidence,” I told him, “that’s exactly what I’d have done. But right now I just want to talk, to see if I can get a confession, especially in front of a credible witness like you.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “I’ll do all I can to get him to talk.”

  I heard a noise at the outside door and peered out the adjoining window. Ed Bransom was there, wearing a security company uniform and an officious frown that he aimed at me. “I’m on duty myself tonight,” he told me as I let him in. His light brown hair was poufed up in front, as if he’d combed it just for this impending fateful occasion. Whether or not HotRescues continued to use EverySecurity in the future could well depend on what happened this night, and he undoubtedly knew it.

  “Fine,” I told him. “Let’s go talk.” I excused us from Si’s presence and took Ed out into the shelter area. I felt like the director of a movie, discussing the upcoming scene and the cast members’ roles in it and ready to shout, “Places, everyone.”

  Only, this scene would be especially fateful for one of the actors . . . or so I hoped.

  I told Ed to stay here, just outside the reception area, and to listen to what went on inside. He was in charge of making sure that everyone—human or not—remained safe.

  “Is your backup outside?” I asked. He nodded. “And you’re prepared for any emergency?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I gave him a couple more instructions, then went back inside. I returned just in time to let Matt in. He studied my face for a moment with eyes even warmer than their usual toast color, then approached Si with his hand out for a shake.

  It resembled something like, “Gentlemen, shake hands and come out fighting.”

  Ed Bransom had certainly taken his place in all this, too, even without a handshake.

  I was ready.

  I told Matt and Si that our security guy was making his rounds, so we could talk in privacy. I motioned for them both to sit at the table. I remained standing, my back against the leopard-print counter, as if the cat it resembled would lend me courage.

  A good thing, since I’d already told enough lies to fill a shelter that night in the name of getting to the truth, and there would be a lot more to come.

  “Thanks for coming,” I told them both. “I want to tell you what I just learned yesterday and what I think it means. Some of it’s speculation, but I think I now know what’s been going on around here. I trust you both and wanted your opinion before I go to the authorities with it.”

  I watched the expressions on both faces—and got the impression they would each be great high-stakes poker players. Not a hint of what they were thinking altered either’s demeanor.

  “Here’s the scoop I learned from a fellow pet shelter administrator: a guy in the Palm Springs area was beaten up a couple of weeks ago and his dog was kidnapped. The dog isn’t famous, but people in the area knew him and some of his personality quirks. Others in pet-related jobs could have heard about him, too. Right, Matt?”

  “What are you talking about, Lauren?” Matt sounded as irritated as if I’d accused him of something.

  Which I had.

  “Okay, let’s assume you don’t know what I’m referring to.” I hoped my smile seemed as neutral as I intended. “You’ve met the pit bull mix who attacked me here, right? We’re calling him Perry now and Si has taken him in, although we’re boarding him temporarily. Si’s hoping to find him a new, wonderful forever home. The thing is, he has an old, wonderful forever home. I should have had him checked for a microchip first thing, but I worried that he’d attack again. Once he took Perry away from here, Si brought him to our vet clinic to determine the condition of his health, which was, fortunately, good. They found his chip—but the information tied to its serial number belonged to a person who’d died years ago in another state. But I’m sure he’s the missing dog.”

  “He’s the dog who was stolen in Palm Springs?” Si asked. “Wow! How do you know that?”

  “Because that dog—whose name is actually Bubba, by the way—is an educational film star of sorts. He’s a poster child—er, dog—for having a split personality under some circumstances. When he was a pup, he got sick and was given the drug Prednisone. Instead of getting the usual sedative effect, he had a rare, opposite reaction that made him highly aggressive—so much so that he’s almost unique. His owner keeps Bubba off the stuff most of the time. But the extent of his reaction is so unusual that Bubba is used in films sometimes to demonstrate how vicious dogs can be if mistreated or trained to fight or whatever. The drug isn’t administered often, and always under a vet’s auspices. And most of the time, as long as he’s not under the medication, Bubba is nice and mellow.” I looked straight into Matt’s face. “Those training films have been made available to Animal Services groups all over Southern California.”

  “And you’re accusing me of finding out about this Bubba, stealing him, and bringing him here?” Matt was standing now. “Why would I do that?”

  I stood, too. So did Si. He and I faced Matt over the table. “I’ll tell you my thought process. And I warn you, it’s so complicated that it makes my brain turn flip-flops. But as you knew, there were three situations that occurred here at HotRescues, and they’ve all got to be related. You agree, right?”

  I looked from one to the other. Both nodded. The look on Matt’s face was speculative. Si’s expression was even more curious.

  “The person who killed Efram was angry about the puppy mill situation and that Efram had been released from jail,” I began. “That person followed Efram and saw him come here that night. Or, possibly, he hid his anger, pretended to be chummy and on Efram’s side, and accompanied Efram here, where Efram could have shown him how to get by the security system. In any event, once they came in our gate, I believe they got into a nasty altercation. My assumption is that Efram grabbed one of the knives we use to open bags of food and started to attack, but that person used it on him instead. Or maybe the killer grabbed the knife in t
he first place. Either way, end of story—of Efram, anyway.”

  “Interesting.” Matt’s expression had turned as cold as the face of a glacier. That was interesting. “Go on.”

  “Sure. So, I was accused, since I was physically present, and I certainly wasn’t quiet about disliking Efram. The person who killed him might even have wanted to frame me in the first place to keep him from becoming a suspect. I believe he was also angry with me for something, like accusing him of doing a shoddy job with his own responsibilities.”

  I hoped that Ed Bransom was listening . . .

  “Or maybe he had another motive for wanting me to take the rap. But the cops didn’t arrest me, so he took the next step, making it appear even more like I tried to lay the blame on someone else—the reason for the setup with Honey in our storage shed. I claimed it wasn’t me but the killer who did it. Poor little me. I was even stabbed. The cops didn’t buy it. They still liked me for Efram’s murder but needed more evidence. Plus, something was done each time to foul up the security cameras, at least temporarily, so there was no proof that another person was even around here during either situation.” Some of that was guesswork on my part. I’d asked EverySecurity and gotten excuses. I’d asked Detective Garciana and gotten evasions. In any event, no one was depending on the security cameras for answers.

  “This is pretty damned twisted,” Matt growled.

  “So’s the killer. But even the Honey situation didn’t get me arrested. One final scenario was devised: stealing Bubba, giving him Prednisone, letting him attack me. Once again, everyone was supposed to believe I had set it up myself to throw suspicions elsewhere. I know dogs and their personalities. I could have found a vicious dog somewhere—like after the dogfighting scheme that occurred right around the same time—and brought him here to attack me, or at least appear to. Although that was my first thought about you, Matt, since you had access to those rescued dogs. In any event, our security company couldn’t even tell whether the person who brought the nasty dog here was male or female—wearing my hoodie, or one like mine. But no one around here, except whoever brought the dog to HotRescues, knew the vicious pit bull mix was actually fairly mild-mannered Bubba. That was the killer’s mistake: assuming no one would ever learn about that. But you knew about Bubba in the first place, didn’t you, Matt?”