“I think I’m having a pleasant afternoon with my family,” I responded between clenched teeth. “At least I was.”

I was sitting in my kitchen at the oval wood table, watching my daughter bake cookies. I’d taught her well. We’d bought the premade dough from the supermarket, and Tracy was slicing it on a cutting board on top of the tile counter and putting it on a cookie sheet before sticking it into the oven.

My daughter resembled me, as Kevin looked like his dad. She was moderate height and slender, and wore her dark brown hair shoulder length. Like me, her eyes were green.

Kevin was outside mowing the lawn, wonderful young man that he was. The groan of the lawnmower harmonized with my unwelcome phone conversation.

“Have you seen National NewsShakers today?” Remseyer continued.

“No, but I assume, since you brought it up, that HotRescues is mentioned. A reporter came to visit us, and I spoke with her since I wanted to tell the world about all the charming animals we have there, waiting for new homes.”

“Well, she talked primarily about the two allegedly from the puppy mill. She defamed my client, Efram Kiley, which is especially heinous since he isn’t around now to defend himself. She also implied that his friends and family were as unsavory as she claimed he was. I’m calling on behalf of Efram’s estate.”

What? Efram had an estate? He’d left some money?

I’d assumed he had spent everything Dante had paid in compensation for his supposed rehabilitation.

Or maybe his “estate” was a euphemism for a claim Remseyer might make against someone for the defamation he was asserting. He all but confirmed the latter.

“You must understand, Ms. Vancouver, how upset Efram’s stepmother Mandy Ledinger and his girlfriend Shellie Benudo are. They both called me, aghast after seeing that untrue news report, and retained me to make claims against the news station and HotRescues and their respective personnel. I would suggest that you make certain that the newspeople retract any actionable statements.”

“Actionable like what?” I noticed Tracy staring at me with concern and shook my head with a barely tolerant smile, as if what I was hearing was too stupid to worry about.

“You should watch the broadcast and see how they’ve quoted you. I won’t attempt to restate anything, but you are cited as having alleged animal torture by Efram and everyone he ever knew, such as my clients. And me.”

Ah. That had to be the crux of it. The lawyer was worried about his own reputation, at least among clients who might care whether animals were abused.

“I suspect I was misquoted,” I said, “although frankly I loathe anyone who even tolerates animal cruelty. Do you tolerate it, Mr. Remseyer?”

“Heavens, no. But I suspect even those two dogs you brought to your shelter allegedly because they were too ill to make it in a public facility aren’t as bad off as you made them out to be. I could have a veterinarian I sometimes retain as a consultant take a look at them.”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you with them now? Are you at HotRescues?”

“Like I said, I’m home with my kids now.” But was he asking because he wanted to know if my charges were alone and defenseless, so he could sic the vet in his back pocket on them? Maybe make claims that we were abusing animals?

I might be stretching things, but I certainly had no reason to trust this lawyer.

I continued quickly, “I’ll be back there very shortly, though. Joining my staff. And I’ll be there late enough to ensure that our new residents do well on their first night at HotRescues. So will other people. You can be sure, Mr. Remseyer, that I’ll watch National NewsShakers. If the reporter says I’ve claimed that Efram abused the poor creatures in the puppy mill, that’s true. I’d also stand by any claims that, if his friends and family”—and lawyer—“knew about it and did nothing, they were nearly as guilty as him and deserve a fate like his. Being arrested, I mean.”

I’d love for them to suffer additional punishment, too, but didn’t want what I said to sound like they should fear for their lives—especially from me, and especially till I was no longer on the cops’ list of murder suspects.

“So you’re saying that even his employer at the air-conditioning company where he worked was as guilty as him?”

“Did he know about what Efram was doing?”

“He knew about the claims against HotRescues and you, and the settlement, since his volunteering at your shelter resulted in Efram’s having to take some time off work.”

“Is he your client, too?”

A brief silence. Then—“I can’t get into that at the moment.”

In other words, this shyster liked the idea and was probably going to go solicit Efram’s former employer as a client. Interesting. It also gave me someone else to look into for my suspect file in Efram’s murder.

“Well, it really doesn’t matter to me who you represent,” I asserted. “I said nothing untrue. If it turns out I was misquoted, I’ll take that up with the reporter and get a retraction, but nothing you’ve said so far worries me particularly.”

Not exactly true, but I’d learned, throughout my life, to appear to put a positive spin on things—overtly, at least, no matter how miserable I felt inside. And how much I anticipated the worst.

“We’ll see, Ms. Vancouver. And if you haven’t already retained counsel, you might want to consider doing so.”

As he hung up, I wondered whether I should contact Esther Ickes. Although she was my criminal attorney, I’d gathered, from things she had said, that she sometimes took on civil matters like bankruptcies. Claims of defamation? I’d have to ask her.

“What was that all about, Mom?” Tracy’s voice was worried. She had paused with the cookie sheet in her hands, which were tucked inside large, quilted orange oven mitts. The mitts clashed with her cardinal and white Stanford T-shirt with the green logo of a redwood tree in the middle.

“The same nonsense that’s been going on since that creep Efram Kiley died at HotRescues,” I said, shaking my head. “Too much finger-pointing and not enough fact-finding. I suspect I’ve graduated beyond YouTube and am on TV now.”

“What!” she shrieked. “Where?” She quickly put the baking sheet into the oven, turned on the timer, then hurried out the back door before I could figure out what she was up to. In a moment, the sound of the lawnmower died. Apparently, she’d gone to get her brother so they could both confront me. Oh, joy.

I was almost glad that my BlackBerry rang again. A distraction. Maybe a friend calling. But the number on the caller ID wasn’t one I recognized.

“Hello?” I said cautiously, bracing myself for further misery. Good thing I did, since that was certainly what I got.

“This is Patsy Shaheen, Lauren,” said a shrill voice on the other end. Great. Now champion animal abusers had my phone number. I might have to change it. “A friend called about that terrible National NewsShakers show and how they talked about Bradley and me and our babies. They said you’ve taken in some supposedly sick dogs. Can we come see them? The Animal Services people have forbid us from visiting any of our darlings.”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re still nursing them back to health.”

“Are you with them now?”

“Close enough,” I said. Would she demand that I send her a picture over my phone or something equally bizarre?

“Please, just give them a hug from us and tell them we want them to get all better soon. And if they have to go to some other family, we wish them someone who loves them like we do.”

Bull crap. But all I said to her was, “Of course, Patsy. How nice of you to care.” And then I not-so-gently hung up.

My kids were back in the room watching me. “You okay, Mom?” Kevin asked.

“Just peachy,” I said, then smiled. “Honest. But if you really want to help me feel better, stay with me while I watch that damned National NewsShakers show on TV.”

Tracy turned on the oven light to peek in at her cookies. I assumed they must look all right since she joined her brother and me as we went into the living room. I perked my ears up so I’d hear the timer go off, in case she didn’t.

I sat on the middle blue cushion on the sofa and patted the ones on either side of me, turning me into a Vancouver sandwich when my children complied. My leg barely hurt any longer. I used the remote to turn on Kevin’s monstrosity of a large TV and found the channel with National NewsShakers. Would the show featuring HotRescues still be on? I clicked the directory. National NewsShakers had just started another hour of broadcasting.

And, yes, the same show must either be repeating or another one had begun that focused on my shelter. We started watching.

After only a few minutes, I grasped Kevin and Tracy’s hands. I could see why anyone who knew Efram could be upset. I was upset—not because of the accusations against him and them, but because that reporter, Corina Carey, had somehow taken news clips of other people, her filmed discussion with me, and pictures of dogs like those just saved from euthanasia by sheltering them at HotRescues . . . and made it sound, via an overlaid narration, as though I was one sick, angry broad who’d do anything to save animals. Especially ones abused in hellholes like the Shaheens’ puppy mill.

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.

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.