The More the Terrier

by Linda O. Johnston

“They released me,” she said softly. “At last. They told me things like I should get counseling because of my . . . something disorder.”

  “Obsessive-compulsive?” I suggested.

  “Or Humpty Dumpty. It made as much sense.”

  “Counseling’s a good idea,” I told her, then added, “You should listen to what they told you. You’ll feel better in the long run.”

  “I’m fine now, you know. That’s why I took a taxi and came right here. A friend called on my cell to tell me about the meeting of shelter operators, and I wanted to hear. I want my shelter back.” She stopped talking, blinked, and looked at me with eyes as hopeful as starved puppies we’d taken in at HotRescues who had smelled newly opened cans of moist food for the first time. “When can I get my shelter back, Lauren?”

  Her red curly hair was plastered damply around her face. Her wrinkles seemed to have multiplied and deepened. She looked so aged and pitiful that I wanted to cry.

  “I don’t think you ever can,” I said sadly and truthfully.

  “It’s all your fault,” she yelled, startling me. “If I’d gotten the job at HotRescues like I should have—” She stopped as quickly as if she’d bitten her tongue—which she may have done figuratively, if not literally. “I’m sorry, Lauren. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just tired. Can I go home now?”

  “Of course,” I said. I’d received confirmation from the cleaning outfit I’d hired that the top-to-bottom overhaul of Mamie’s place had been accomplished as fast as I’d requested.

  I drove Mamie home, silently pondering her tirade. She probably had been serious, lashing out at me because she didn’t want to accept any blame herself. She’d mentioned before that she had wanted to prove she was the best pet rescuer ever. She hadn’t had that mind-set when I’d known her but had only wanted to help as many animals as she logically could.

  Had her change in attitude been the result of my being hired by Dante and not her?

  I refused to let myself feel guilty even about logical things, and that kind of possible cause and effect was irrational. But if I’d insisted that we stay in touch back then, would things have been different now?

  There was no use second-guessing. Dante had made the right decision. I couldn’t fix what Mamie had done. But if I stepped in, tried to help her through this, maybe I’d feel a little better about the situation.

  We stopped for groceries, and then I saw her into her house.

  “This place is . . . different,” she said, wonder in her tone as soon as we entered the front door. “Janice told me it would be cleaned while I was gone.” I couldn’t tell from her tone whether she was glad or sorry that the place no longer reeked like a sewer.

  But as we walked farther inside, Mamie said, “I miss my babies,” so sadly that I knew without looking that she was crying again.

  “I know. But you understand that things will get better for them now, don’t you?” I hoped.

  “Yes,” she whispered, nodding like a child.

  “And do you understand that you’re not allowed to bring in any animals at all, at least for now?”

  She opened her mouth as if ready to protest, but at my unwavering glare she stared back and repeated, “Yes.”

  “Would you like to come home with me tonight?” I asked impulsively when we reached the front door again, knowing I’d probably regret it if she said yes. But she didn’t.

  “No, Lauren. Thank you, but I need to be alone right now.”

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  Hoping that was true, I started home.

  I didn’t expect to sleep well that night, and I just dozed now and then. My mind was racing.

  My landline rang around six in the morning. I grabbed it in anticipation. Of what? I didn’t know, but I’d felt something was coming.

  A call for help from Mamie?

  It was her on the other end. But the help she asked for was not at all what I had anticipated.

  “Lauren? Please, help me! I’m at Better Than Any Pet Rescues. I’m with Bethany . . . and she’s dead!”

  Chapter 7

  Mamie sounded panicked. Not surprising.

  I took a deep breath while I thought about what to do. My mind overflowed with questions—like, are you sure she’s dead? If so, did she die of natural causes . . . or did you kill her?

  I didn’t ask, though. My first inquiry was calm and logical. “Have you called 911?”

  “No! I can’t. I didn’t. I—”

  “That’s okay,” I lied. “I’ll take care of it.” Still holding my landline receiver to my ear, I hurried to pick up my smartphone and made the call, all the while soothing Mamie as best I could while I simultaneously answered the emergency operator’s questions—also as well as I could, when I didn’t honestly know what was going on.

  And then?

  Well, it wasn’t really my business. It shouldn’t have been my concern. Even so, I felt that someone needed to be there for Mamie.

  Her niece? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure how much Mamie’s family would get involved now. I didn’t want to be involved, either.

  But I knew I already was.

  The street was crowded again this time when I looked for a parking space near Better Than Any Pet Rescues. Mamie had confirmed she was in the plantation house, where the shelter’s office was—and which had also been Bethany’s home.

  I was already thinking of Bethany in the past tense. I didn’t know if Mamie was rational enough to determine whether Bethany was alive or not, but my mind had been circling around the possibility of death and had landed on it.

  This time, the parked vehicles were unlikely to belong to any pet rescuers, as many had been last night when I was here. Instead, there were a lot of official vehicles, including an ambulance and several cop cars with rotating lights. Also, there were the inevitable media vans. Word had gotten out. I still wasn’t sure what had happened to Bethany, but the situation had already grown legs and antennae. Maybe that happened with all 911 calls.

  I finally located a spot where my Venza could be shoehorned in. I sat for a moment before opening the door.

  Maybe it was because I’d been a suspect in a murder investigation not long ago, or maybe it was Mamie’s near hysteria, but I felt certain that something bad—not natural causes—had happened to Bethany. If she really was dead, Mamie might have caused it.

  I hadn’t kindled any ill will between them. I had, however, known that Mamie was emotionally unstable, and I’d nevertheless left her home, alone and possibly angry. Not that I’d much choice. If Mamie had gone off the deep end, I’d done nothing to cause it.

  Or to stop it.

  A couple of police officers in LAPD uniforms stood guard at the massive white gate, which was now ajar. The symbolic dog and cat in the tiara at its upper edge had been separated, thanks to the opening, and now stared in different directions.

  Could I get inside to help Mamie? Should I, even if I could? I wasn’t sure.

  Even so, I strode up to the nearest officer. “Sir, I’m the person who contacted 911. Someone inside there, Mamie Spelling, called me. May I go inside and see her?”

  “Wait here, please, ma’am.” The request sounded like a no-nonsense command. He moved away and talked into a radio. I couldn’t hear what he said.

  In a couple of minutes, a woman in a pantsuit exited the gate. After seeing Bethany, her assistant, and others yesterday dressed similarly, I wondered if wearing business clothes was de rigueur for hanging around this place. Me? I’d put on what I usually wore for a day on the job: jeans, a blue HotRescues knit shirt, and athletic shoes. I guessed I didn’t belong here—a good thing.

  “Are you Ms. Vancouver?” the woman asked. I’d given my name to the 911 operator, so I wasn’t surprised this lady—probably a detective—knew it.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She pulled a shield from her pocket. “I’m Detective Greshlam, LAPD,” she said, confirming my speculation.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course. But would it be possible for me to see Mamie Spelling? She’s a . . . an old friend.” I stumbled over that as my thoughts again hashed over my feelings toward Mamie. For now, what I’d said was accurate enough.

  “Maybe later.” Which I translated to be something like, “When all the rescued animals here tell us exactly what they saw.”

  We went onto the porch, where I’d last seen Bethany reign. There weren’t any chairs there now, so we stood off to one side. I saw a lot of people traipsing around the shelter grounds, and heard dogs barking almost mournfully. They’d been relatively quiet yesterday. I’ve always felt that pets have emotional connections with people they care about that far exceed relying on them for food and shelter. If someone is hurt—or worse—they sense it.

  Whatever I might have thought about Bethany and her treatment of people, from what I’d seen here I knew she took good care of the animals she rescued . . . and they undoubtedly appreciated it, especially since most had probably come from sectors of hell.

  “I understand that you were the person who called 911 about this situation,” the detective said. She was a large woman, tall and wide, and there was an incisiveness about her eyes that made it clear she was smart—and out to get the facts. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you just arrived here?”

  As she made notes in a small spiral notebook, I explained what she must already have known, since I’d told the 911 operator. “Someone who was present called me.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Mamie Spelling.”

  Answering the detective’s questions, I gave sketchy details about who Mamie and I were, how we knew Bethany Urber, why I’d been here yesterday, and what had occurred when Mamie showed up.

  “I drove Mamie home afterward,” I said.

  “And you didn’t know she was coming back?”

  “No.”

  A few more questions, and then we seemed to be done.

  My turn to ask what I’d been dying to know. Figuratively, of course. “How is Bethany, Detective?”

  “She is the apparent victim of a homicide, Ms. Vancouver.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “How did she die?”

  “That’s still under investigation.” In other words, the detective wasn’t about to tell me. Someone came running through the gate and up the porch steps.

  Cricket Borley did not resemble the shy but efficient assistant she had when she had smilingly passed out nametags at the meeting the day before. Her face was ashen and tear streaked, her gray shirt only partly tucked into black slacks, and only one of her tennis shoes was tied.

  “What are you doing here, ma’am?” asked Detective Greshlam.

  “I need to see Bethany. Help her. I’m her assistant. I always help her. Please—”

  She must have known how impossible that was, since she sank to her knees on the porch and cried. I had an urge to comfort her, but I didn’t move, since the front door opened and the person I was most eager to see spilled out of it.

  Mamie wasn’t alone, though. Another suit—a detective, too?—followed her. Her face was pale, but she managed a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Lauren, you came. That’s so nice. But I have to leave. These detectives want me to help them figure out what happened to Bethany. I’m going with them to the police station.”

  Chapter 8

  I couldn’t get a minute alone with Mamie, but I did manage to move close enough to ask if she ever watched cop shows on TV.

  She nodded, her expression puzzled and wary.

  “Remember how they tell people they’re questioning that they have the right not to answer, and to have an attorney present? Just to make sure someone’s there to answer your questions, why don’t you call your niece Janice—the lawyer—and have her meet you there?” That was partly for the cop’s benefit, so he’d know Mamie was represented—perhaps. Mamie’s niece had said she wasn’t a criminal lawyer but surely she’d get involved enough to at least refer Mamie to one.

  “Oh, yes, Janice is such a good girl. Pretty, too. It runs in the family.” Mamie touched her red curls.

  “Call her,” I said, not even attempting to comprehend Mamie’s state of mind. Only then did I look up to catch the baleful look in the eye of the detective accompanying Mamie. They soon headed out the front gate. I could only hope that Mamie understood enough not to say anything that would incriminate her—any more than her presence at a murder scene, and anything she’d previously said, had already done so.

  I remained fully cooperative after they were gone, answering a few more questions for Detective Greshlam—not that I knew anything likely to be useful. Plus, I wasn’t about to give any opinions about the relationship between Mamie and Bethany. Quite a few people had been at Bethany’s presentation on hoarders and could draw conclusions they’d likely be thrilled to tell the police. Like Cricket. I watched as she was approached by a guy in a suit, probably another detective, and I’d little doubt that she’d give all the details she could about Mamie’s appearance yesterday at the meeting.

  Could Mamie have killed Bethany? Honestly, I suspected it was possible, but I hated to think it could be true.

  When Detective Greshlam was done questioning me, she and the guy with Cricket walked off together for a few minutes. I used the opportunity to learn what Cricket had been asked.

  “They wanted to know about poor Bethany,” she replied softly. “And about Better Than Any Pet Rescues. Now that Bethany’s gone, I guess I’m in charge.” She started to cry.

  Quietly, I gave her a falsely cheerful pep talk. The one thing accurate about it was that I told Bethany’s former assistant that pet rescuers were all in it together, and that if she needed any help running the facility or taking care of any animals, she should give me a call.

  “But I have everyone in Pet Shelters Together to call on,” she responded in a soggy but nevertheless condescending voice. She must have learned well from Bethany.

  In a few minutes, Detective Greshlam returned and told me I was free to go.

  I hurried out before she could change her mind.

  The media was a lot more forthcoming than the detectives. I’m not sure how they got their information, but I heard on the radio that Bethany had apparently been shot with her own gun.

  I’d left Zoey at home that morning, since I’d come straight to the Westchester area to check on Mamie. Now, I headed there to pick her up. I didn’t want her to be alone that day.

  I didn’t want to be alone, either. Not that it was possible to be alone during time spent at HotRescues—even if no other humans were present. And since this was Saturday, we’d have not only our usual staff, but more volunteers present—high school and college kids who helped out on weekends. A few of them and their parents even acted as foster families. We sometimes believed it to be in an animal’s best interests not to stay in our facility while we tried to find them new homes—often very young kittens and puppies who needed special TLC.

  With luck, we’d also have more possible adopters drop in, as frequently happened on weekends, too.

  I felt relieved, as if I had finally come home, when I pulled into my spot in the HotRescues parking lot. I leashed Zoey and gave her a short walk before we went through the side door into the welcome area.

  Nina stood immediately, and when I released Zoey from her leash, she dashed to my assistant for a pat. Nina had apparently been working on paperwork behind the counter. “What happened, Lauren?”

  I’d called earlier to let her know I’d be late, told her an overview without details.

  I like Nina. She is bright and efficient, and I’m proud of her attitude. We’re both divorcees, but the marriage she had ended had been even worse than mine. She’d been the victim of abuse.

  Right now, Nina’s narrow face looked drawn. She cringed a little, obviously awaiting bad news.

  But all she knew about Mamie was the little I’d described about the p
rior relationship between me and my mentor. No sense for Nina to worry about the situation. One person in this room worrying about something she couldn’t fix—a rare occurrence, one I abhorred—was enough.

  “I don’t have all the facts.” I motioned for her to join me at the table under the window. Zoey followed and lay down by my feet. “Bethany Urber is apparently dead, and Mamie found her. The police took her in for more questioning. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s their main suspect.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll go talk to her soon and try to learn more,” I said. “Assuming they don’t keep her in custody. Meantime, there’s nothing any of us can do. So . . . anything interesting going on around here?”

  Her face brightened. “Actually, yes. Remember the Andersons?”

  “The cat lovers who were here the other day?”

  She nodded. “They’re in the cat rooms with Ricki right now, picking out two of our residents to adopt.” Ricki was one of our youthful volunteers. “As long as you approve of them. They’d love to take them home today, but I told them we don’t usually allow that.”

  “They filled out the paperwork last time they were here, right?”

  “Yes, and I was just going over it with them before you came.”

  We both stood in unison and went behind the leopard-print counter, Zoey in close pursuit. Nina handed me the Andersons’ application, including a signed contract of how they would care for any felines they were permitted to adopt. They owned their home in Santa Clarita, north of Granada Hills. Mr. Anderson—Frank—was a car salesman, and his wife, Jen, had an eBay business buying and selling high-end cookware. Interesting backgrounds. Plus, someone would be home a lot of the time. It sounded like a good adoption environment.

  As Nina and I discussed the application, Ricki walked in with her temporary charges. “Hi, Lauren,” she called. “The Andersons have picked out two kittens in the Flip litter.” That was shorthand for the fact that one of our residents, a small, buff-colored female we’d named Flip for her flippant attitude, had been pregnant when we rescued her. She’d been here long enough to give birth and for her four offspring to reach an age where they were ready for new homes. They’d been fostered for a while, then housed here most recently with the other youngest cats. To prevent spreading unwanted germs, we didn’t allow cats from one area to fraternize with those from another. Plus, we required that people going into the cat areas use a lot of disinfectant on hands and shoes before moving from one to another.