Hounds Abound (24 page)

It was nearly as red as the furniture on which she sat. Her lips were paler than the rest of her skin, though—and so swollen that it appeared she’d been punched there.

A bandage was attached beneath her chin. The skin around her eyes, too, looked puffy.

“Hello, Clara,” I said. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I’m very glad to meet you.” I’d decided not to mention my visit to her BHark shop unless it came up in our conversation.

“You’re a friend of Al’s?” I had to strain to make out her words. They were slow and indistinct.

Chaz lay down protectively at her feet, and Al joined her on the sofa.

“We’ve met,” I said, glancing at him. He regarded me benignly, his expression giving no clue to his thoughts. Had he mentioned to Clara the fictional friend I’d told him about who’d supposedly also received damaging cosmetic surgery from Dr. Miles Frankovick? “When did you get out of the hospital?” I asked.

“Yesterday. Afternoon.”

I eliminated her from my list of suspects in the Miracle theft and relinquishment immediately. Even if she had worn a mask, like I believed the guilty person had done, Nina would have noticed a speech pattern—or non-pattern—like this. Plus, she would have had to go straight to Carlie’s from the hospital, then to HotRescues—unlikely.

Her husband, though? Just in case, I asked if he had brought her home and if he’d stayed with her.

“Oh, yes,” she acknowledged.

“Of course,” he confirmed, glaring at me for seeming to doubt how devoted a husband he was.

I decided to be somewhat up-front about what I was here for. I glossed over some of it, telling them briefly about the horrible person who’d stolen a sick dog yesterday then left it at my shelter.

“You thought it was me?” Clara sounded horrified as
her eyes widened. I noticed for the first time that they were hazel.

“I thought it was someone who wanted to warn me away from trying to find out who really killed Miles Frankovick.”

Al Traymore was suddenly on his feet, fists clenched. Chaz rose, too, as if ready to attack me if his master did. “That’s enough,” Al said. “I shouldn’t have let you come, but since I did you had better not—”

“My intent wasn’t to upset Clara,” I said quickly, noticing tears in her eyes before she dropped her head to stare at the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked back up at me. “I didn’t kill him,” she said. “Al didn’t, either. He was with me at the hospital the night I heard that S.O.B. was finally disposed of. He deserved it, though. He did this to me, and my doctors now say that, though I’ll heal, I’ll never be completely the same. You can be sure, Lauren, that I’d never try to hurt the animals at either your shelter or even that butcher’s ex-wife’s. I love animals. It’s why I have a shop that caters to them. And why we have our own sweet Chaz. And you can be sure of one other thing, too.”

“What’s that?” I asked gently, sharing a quick look with Al.

“That I hope whoever did kill him never gets caught. Better yet, gets an award for it. Miles Frankovick deserved to die.”

I walked back to the front door with Al Traymore and Chaz.

“Being in law enforcement,” Al said, “I hate to hear her say that, even though we both feel it. Look, Lauren. I have to admit that I jumped at the idea of your coming here when you asked, mostly because I thought my wife needed some distractions from her medical issues—only I should have thought it through. The things you talked about aren’t the kinds of distraction she needs.”

“I understand. And I hope you understand why I felt I had to ask.”

“You’re trying to help your friend who was also disfigured by that S.O.B—maybe trying to prove that whoever she is, she didn’t kill the jerk. Unofficially, I don’t regret the murder of Frankovick any more than Clara does. But if to help a friend you feel like you have to point fingers at everyone else the bastard knew, don’t even think of dragging us into it. Like Clara said, we’re fans of whoever did it. But it wasn’t us.”

I didn’t mention that the person I was trying to clear wasn’t another patient of Frankovick’s, nor that someone else had pointed fingers toward them first—a doctor in Miles’s medical practice. It didn’t matter any longer, at least not to me. I’d be kicking these two to the bottom of my suspect list.

I wasn’t far from Beverly Hills, so I decided to stop there, too, at BHark once again. They knew dogs. They sold high-end accessories.

Would they know how to find one accessorized with parvo that could be used as a weapon?

Clara’s partner, Mercedes, was speaking with a
customer when I walked in. Someone I hadn’t met came up and asked to help me—a slim woman of Asian background in a skirt and blouse. Her nametag announced her name as Lu.

“Thanks,” I said. I’d need to talk to Mercedes, but if Lu had been here for a while she might also be helpful. “I just spoke with Clara Traymore. She’s home now, you know.”

She did know. “But I don’t think she’ll be back here for a while.”

What I’d said, though, made her act even friendlier toward me. Even so, I didn’t really connect with her, since she seemed much more interested in accessorizing purebred dogs and cats from recognized breeders than discussing anything having to do with the Traymores.

When Mercedes was through with the customer, I excused myself to join her. Lu walked off as someone else came through the door.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I spoke with you here at BHark a while ago. I’m an acquaintance of Clara Traymore’s, and I run HotRescues, a pet shelter in the San Fernando Valley. I—”

“I just got a call from Clara,” Mercedes interrupted. “I gather you were one of her first visitors.”

I nodded.

“She called because she was upset. She told me the terrible thing about HotRescues and someone bringing in a dog with parvo. She said you’re trying to find whoever stole it—and that you have some kind of far-fetched idea that it’s connected with whoever killed the butcher doctor who hurt poor Clara.”

Far-fetched? Maybe, but it could be true.

“That’s right,” I said. “At least I’m trying to rule that out. I don’t suppose you have any ideas about the source of the parvo, do you?”

“Well, since both that veterinary clinic and HotRescues are in the Valley I doubt that my putting out feelers to people I know at the city shelters is likely to be helpful, but I’d be glad to try to find out who might have known about parvo-infected dogs. I hated what that doctor did to Clara, but if the real killer isn’t his ex-wife, I’d rather the truth be figured out—so, like Clara said, we can all thank whoever it was. For her sake. Although …”

“Although?” I prompted.

“My assumption was that Clara and Al would be able to sue the pants off that damned Frankovick. Now that he’s gone, it’ll be all the harder. His death actually makes things worse for them if you think about it.”

So with two suspects knocked completely off my list, even if what I suspected was true about Miracle’s relinquishment being linked to Miles’s murder, no one was admitting it or giving me any new leads I could use.

At least not yet.

I had hoped to go to Save’Em next, but a call from Dr. Mona stopped that. There was a couple at HotRescues who’d been there before, back to adopt two cats. I had okayed their application, and now our part-time shrink had also approved them.

The couple was eager. As always, I was pleased that
more animals were going home. But I needed to go back so the adoption could be finalized today.

That meant visiting Bella again at Save’Em would have to wait.

The cat adoption went through as well as if I’d programmed each of the people and animals involved to behave exactly the way I wanted them to.

The husband and wife who were potential adopters had waited for me to get back to HotRescues by spending time in our cat enclosure, getting to know their impending new family members better.

One was a golden tabby with green eyes and attitude. The other was all black except for her two front paws, which were white. She was friendlier and talked a lot more than her cohort. They’d both been in the same cat room for several months so I knew they got along fine.

I met with all four in my office, sitting in the conversation area so we’d be friendly and at ease—despite the litany of commands I was about to issue. I first asked some
questions while the cats prowled along my desk and shelves and around us on the furniture. I’d left Zoey out in the welcome room with Nina so as not to be a distraction.

I gave my usual rundown of adoption information and instructions and warnings as far as making sure that the earnest and clearly thrilled pair facing me on my couch never turned these about-to-be-former residents into outdoor cats. Too much danger there.

I had them sign papers where they vowed to do as I instructed. I wouldn’t necessarily know if they didn’t, but one of the many things they agreed to was my right to visit their home to check on the cats.

They also received information on the microchips embedded in the cats for identification purposes, in case they did get out and lost somehow. The adopters received veterinary records, too. In addition, I gave them some food to start with—from HotPets, of course.

Then they were good to go—once the kitties were placed into their new crates for transportation home. Their new family would be able to use the crates again for vet checkups or any other time they needed to ride in a car.

When the group left, I was smiling and teary-eyed and happy for all of them—my usual reaction when an adoption was finalized.

Nina walked with them to their car, so I was alone in the welcome area when the phone rang. I walked behind the leopard-print counter to the table and answered. “HotRescues, this is Lauren. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Lauren,” said a female voice. “Glad I caught you. This is Corina Carey.”

I almost hung up, but curiosity made me remain on the
line. I sat down on the stiff desk chair. Or was it me who was stiff? In either case, I was more comfortable sitting than standing. No use feeling physically uncomfortable as well as mentally.

“Hi,” I said with no warmth in my voice. I never liked talking to media people. In fact, I hated it.

I didn’t consider Carlie among those vultures, since she had an excellent show with the wonderful purpose of helping animals. Corina Carey, though, was a paparazzo of the most despicable kind. She was a reporter for
National NewsShakers
. I’d met her a while back when she did a story related to the puppy mill rescue that had so affected me.

I hadn’t heard from her for a while and realized I should feel delighted that I hadn’t been interesting enough to attract her attention.

Why now?

“I wanted to get your statement,” she said, almost as if she had read my thoughts. I couldn’t wait to hear what she sought my opinion about. And in case you’re wondering, yes, that was sarcasm. “I heard that someone stole a sick cat from Animal Services at a veterinary clinic yesterday or the day before, then dropped it off at HotRescues. It was rumored to be a warning to you, to keep you from looking any further into the murder of Miles Frankovick. Is this true?”

I felt stunned. Bad enough that the situation with Miracle happened, but for it to have gotten into the crosshairs of the media—and for someone else to have connected it to my actions in trying to help Bella …

“Where did you hear that?” I demanded.

“A confidential source,” she said so quickly that I
figured it was her standard response to the question no matter where her information came from. “Can you tell me if it’s true?”

“No,” I said. “It’s not. We did have an unfortunate situation yesterday where a sick dog—not cat—was brought in. The dog will be fine, and so will all the other animals at HotRescues.” I was positive she was recording all I said and wanted to make sure that nothing reflected badly on my wonderful shelter—nor on Carlie’s veterinary clinic. I didn’t even confirm that the dog had been stolen. “It was an owner relinquishment.” Supposedly. I wasn’t about to tell her that she had reiterated my suspicions. “And as for the rest—it’s not correct either.” At least, I couldn’t prove it if it was. “I admire Bella Frankovick and her new shelter, Save Them All Sanctuary. I heard about what happened to her ex-husband, of course, and—”

“Didn’t you find his body?”

I let my head sink forward while I took a couple of deep breaths. What would be the worst that could happen if I hung up?

She could say publicly that I didn’t cooperate with her, but so what? I could always claim that the connection died.

But would whatever she said reflect badly on HotRescues? What would Dante think?

I suspected he would be amused and would back me. But why take the chance?

“I was one of the people who found him, yes,” I said carefully. That wasn’t a real admission, since it had already appeared in news stories after the police interrogated me. Details weren’t revealed, though—as limited as they were.

“I understand that you’re not a suspect, but that his ex is.
I know you’ve been asking questions to help get her off the hook. Can you give me a comment about that?”

“No,” I said, “I can’t. In case you’re not aware of it, I’m an animal shelter director, not a police officer or private investigator or anything like that. And before you ask, yes, when I had an incident that affected me here at HotRescues, I did help to figure out what had really happened.” I chose not to mention my second murder investigation, where I had helped to clear Mamie. Of course the media had been on that one, too, but I hadn’t been quizzed by Corina Carey then.