Hounds Abound (23 page)

“No indication of anyone being sick,” she assured me, clearly relieved by the change in topic.

I did my morning walk-through with Zoey more slowly than usual anyway, checking once again for signs of parvo. Brooke had been right, though. Everyone looked fine.

By the time I returned to the welcome area, Pete was in
the back area getting food together for our inhabitants and Nina had arrived up front.

That meant I was free to start the adventure I’d planned for that day.

I had phone calls to make first.

I sat at my desk, stacking papers, glancing at the increasingly data-crammed folders on the computer—and planning the order in which I’d make my calls while gathering the numbers.

Plus, I let my mind veer in a lot of related directions.

I am never wishy-washy. But I am realistic.

Even after all I’d gone through discussing the situation with Matt, Brooke, and Antonio, I knew I might be reading a lot of deviousness into the relinquishment of an ill Miracle to HotRescues.

Whoever had stolen her might not have realized she was so ill at the time, then panicked and decided to get rid of her in a manner that could still end with her survival—relinquishing her at a wonderful, caring, no-kill shelter.

It might have been completely unrelated to my looking into Miles Frankovick’s murder. I recognized that. I also realized that it gave me a reason to examine each of the suspects all over again, at least in my own mind.

I called Dante first, though, and brought him current, as I’d planned, on the parvo situation. As we discussed it, I told him my latest musing, that the thief might have believed he was acting in the sick dog’s best interests by bringing her to HotRescues. He wouldn’t have wanted to go back to Carlie’s, in case he was caught.

But why not another vet? And why here? My idea sounded too coincidental, even as I suggested it.

I also mentioned my initial belief that the relinquisher could have left the ill dog intentionally.

“And you think that’s to distract you from helping to clear your friend Bella from suspicion in her ex’s murder?”

My hand tightened on the files I held. If Dante told me to back off, I might have to do it. He’d have a different agenda from Matt, Brooke, and Antonio—and it would involve the best interests of HotRescues even more strongly.

“It seems far-fetched,” I said, “but … yes.”

“Interesting.” The word trailed for a few seconds, so I knew he was considering the ramifications. I pulled myself taut, waiting for orders that I might not like but would have to at least consider obeying. “Well, I know you care about HotRescues. Let’s talk about some additional ground rules for when staff besides you can accept an owner relinquishment. But as far as this stopping you from doing what you think is right? Let’s not go there yet. I’m too interested in hearing who you decide actually killed Miles Frankovick.”

“By the way, did you know him?” I’d recalled that Miles, while still alive, once mentioned knowing Dante, and also knew that I ran HotRescues. I never had figured that out, but Miles had made their relationship sound ominous.

“Why—do you think I killed him?” Dante’s voice was droll, and I knew he wasn’t serious.

“Just looking into all possibilities,” I quipped.

“I figured. Actually, he did contact me once to see if I’d buy Save Them All Sanctuary out from under his ex-wife, make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. He’d done his homework, knew I fund both HotRescues and HotWildlife. I played along for a conversation or two, described both of those shelters in the most glowing of terms—and their administrators, too. Then I very firmly but kindly told him where to go—and to leave Save’Em alone. That was all.”

“Interesting. …” It was yet another aspect of what kind of S.O.B. Miles had been, trying to blindside Bella that way.

“Yes, isn’t it? Anyhow, keep me informed about how your investigation progresses.”

That was that. My boss was a good man, especially for a mega-billionaire. Maybe the fact that his lady friend, Kendra Ballantyne, walked into similar situations by investigating murders captured his fascination. Whatever his reason, I relaxed and let myself breathe again—before I started making the other calls I’d planned.

“Here goes, Zoey.” My dog must have recognized the grimness in my tone. She rose from where she had been lying and put her head on my lap. I patted her distractedly as I reached for the next phone number—Dr. Vic Drammon’s.

He was a vet. He would know about parvo. And maybe he’d heard rumors about someone stealing sick dogs.

I’d check with Carlie later, too, of course, but this gave me an excuse to chat with Drammon about sick animals. Would he have put Miracle down instead of saving her?

I had to wait about five minutes before his staff put me through to him. He’d probably been with a patient.

“Yes, I’ve sometimes treated dogs with parvo for L.A. Animal Services,” he said in response to my general question. “I know you won’t like to hear this, Lauren, but most dogs that catch it are young, and many don’t survive. They become too dehydrated too quickly to be saved. I then have to euthanize for health reasons.” What a surprise. Only, in those circumstances, he was probably right. “I fortunately haven’t seen any cases either through Animal Services or private owners lately. Do you have an outbreak at HotRescues?”

“No, thank heavens,” I responded. Notwithstanding the acts of the guy who’d left Miracle here. “I’ve just heard of some recent cases in the public shelters, though. Have you treated any of their animals lately?” And have any of the dogs been stolen on the way to your clinic? That would be my next question after a positive response.

But I received a negative one. “No, not recently. Are you—Is there an outbreak at Save Them All Sanctuary? Is that why you’re calling?”

“No. I was just wondering, though, if you’d heard anything about sick dogs being stolen.” Negative or not, I decided I wanted to hear his answer. Might he have done it? Anything was possible. But surely if a vet wanted to do
something with a dog with parvo, he’d have access to one without stealing it.

“Stolen from Bella’s?” He sounded horrified. And getting his reaction was another reason for my call.

I didn’t want to mention Carlie. They were at public odds with one another since her TV ads that contradicted his on-air position about special-needs shelters had started airing. He might love to create a diversion from their underlying issues by criticizing her for something else about her clinic.

“No. I’m in close touch with her, and everything there is fine.” Except that we both hated his attitude, but I didn’t need to mention that to him again. “But a friend told me about a situation where a dog with parvo was recently taken. It was found, though, and it will survive. No need to put it down.” I had to rub that in, wished I could smear it right onto his snotty, pet-euthanizing face.

“How nice that it will be all right.” He sounded polite but not convinced. “Was there anything else on your mind?”

“Not really.” I thanked him—for nothing—and said good-bye. This call had been pretty useless. I’d learned nothing either favorable about or against Drammon, and no new info about where the parvo might have originated.

Even so, talking to him had only spurred my resolve to hear the reactions of others involved with Bella when I mentioned the parvo incident—starting with those from whom I expected nothing.

My next call would be to the Frankovicks. I considered phoning one of the brothers, Edson or Brewster, but decided
on Eleanor. She was the one who’d appeared most supportive of Save Them All Sanctuary, and I thought she’d be more up front about responding to my questions.

“Hello, this is Eleanor.” Her tone was both businesslike and friendly. I gathered she didn’t recognize my phone number or otherwise have caller ID. I pictured her in an office at their furniture store, assuming, perhaps, that I was a supplier or prospective customer.

“Hello, Eleanor. This is Lauren Vancouver, Bella Frankovick’s friend.”

“Oh, yes.” The businesslike aspect of her tone remained, but it sounded less amiable. “If you’re calling about the settlement you proposed, we’re having our lawyer draw up papers that will describe the way we’d agree to it. I think it follows what you suggested, although it also provides for what happens if Bella is unable to continue as head administrator … such as if she is arrested.”

Interesting. At least it was mostly positive.

“I’m calling not on Bella’s behalf this time but my own,” I said. “I’m not sure whether I mentioned it but I run a pet shelter, too—HotRescues.”

“The one Dante DeFrancisco’s affiliated with?” That brisk tone had thawed again. I’d already learned she was an animal lover, so that made sense. Even so, would she respond to what I asked?

“That’s right. I’m calling because of an incident that occurred at HotRescues yesterday. I’ve reason to believe it might be related to my attempt to help clear Bella—assuming she is innocent.”

“What’s that?” She sounded interested.

I briefly related the story. “There’s some question about
whether the person who took, then left, the dog was in disguise and if the situation was intended to warn me off. I know you like animals and wouldn’t have done such a thing.” Although I’d listen to her tone for any nuance that might indicate she was covering her behind. “But I’ve been looking into all angles and—well, I really hate to ask this.” Not. “But is there any chance your husband or his brother might have been involved somehow in an attempt to stop me from trying to help your former sister-in-law?” Or to hide that they’d killed their brother, but I didn’t say that.

Nor did I ask how they might have known where to pick up a sick dog. That aspect made my inquiry sound ludicrous even to me—although I really didn’t know them well enough to figure out what they knew about
anything
. But since they apparently viewed the proposed settlement favorably, their trying to distract me from helping Bella made no sense.

Unless one or more of them had killed Miles.

A pause. Then Eleanor seemed to reply through gritted teeth. “If I thought either Brewster or Edson did such a thing or were even capable of it, I’d turn them in myself—maybe after skewering them.” She hesitated. “That sounds wrong. In case you’re wondering after my poor choice of words, I didn’t kill Miles. I know he didn’t like Save’Em, but all he was talking about was withdrawing money, not torturing any animals. And though Brewster and Edson aren’t as interested in saving animals as I am, I don’t see either trying to make pets sick to get back at someone they don’t like.”

“Then they don’t like me?” I felt sure she’d hear the amusement in my tone.

Eleanor laughed, too. “Probably not, since you’re trying to get Bella off the hook and, despite what you say, they think she killed Miles. But you’re barking up the wrong tree on both the murder and the attempt to hurt your shelter, Lauren, if you come after either of them—or me.”

Easy enough for her to say, but I believed her. They all remained near the bottom of my list of suspects.

My next call was to Al Traymore. I’d planned on going through a similar scenario with him, but his initial response caused me to finagle an invitation to his house.

His wife, Clara, was home from the hospital.

I conducted my usual micromanaging by walking through HotRescues before leaving. Twice, this time, although quicker than each tour usually was.

I was still concerned about finding any parvo symptoms in the dogs.

In addition, I felt even more paranoid than usual and had to take special care about looking over our cats, making sure none of them appeared to be ill, either.

When I finally left, I made it clear to Nina that I wanted her to take special care of Zoey, keep her close, watch her every move—and elimination. Just in case.

The Traymores lived in the residential area of Los Angeles just west of the old Farmer’s Market and the much newer, adjoining shopping center called The Grove. It was a good central location from the sheriff’s station where Al Traymore worked and the Beverly Hills boutique owned partly by Clara.

I had to drive around for a while to find a nearby parking meter instead of leaving my car in an area designated only for residents with permits. Then I walked a few blocks to the small but nice-looking brick house that sat among similar ones on the block.

I strolled up onto the porch and rang the bell. A dog barked. Al Traymore, in a sweatsuit and not his sheriff’s uniform, quickly answered, along with a golden retriever mix. “Come in, Lauren,” he grumbled. “But make it quick.” I figured that if I didn’t, he’d start acting deputy-like and kick me out. As it was, I didn’t understand why he’d let me come in the first place.

“Who’s this?” I asked, bending to pat the dog.

“Chaz.” His thick jaw clenched even more than I’d seen it before as he led me down a short hall and into the living room.

The place was dimly lit, with window shades drawn. Oil paintings trooped around the walls, and the scent of incense hovered in the air.

A woman sat on the fluffy red couch that was as antique-looking as the rest of the room’s upholstered seating and gleaming woodwork. Clara wore blue-and-white striped pajamas on what appeared to be a frail body. I didn’t spend much time looking at her outfit, though. Instead, my attention was quickly riveted to her face.