Chapter 1
I love pet rescuers and all they stand for. That’s
why I became one—so I could do everything in my power to save and
protect animals who are unable to take care of themselves.
But sometimes others who also rescue animals baffle
me.
Like my former mentor, Mamie Spelling.
“I don’t know what to do, Lauren.” The hysteria in
her voice, even over the phone, sounded way over the top. At least
I thought so. I hadn’t spoken with Mamie for years. This could be
her normal tone these days. “Please, tell me what to do.”
I was sitting in my office at HotRescues, the
facility in L.A.’s northern San Fernando Valley that I run. My
recently adopted dog, Zoey, mostly Border collie, probably part
Australian shepherd, and all love, lay at my feet on a fairly new
area rug—a woven oval in shades of brown—to protect her from the
discomfort of the tile floor.
My assistant administrator, Nina Guzman, still
stood at the door watching me. She had popped into my office a
minute ago looking frazzled as she told me about the phone call
that had just come in.
Nina was often frazzled. She’d been that way when
I’d first hired her a couple of years ago—unsurprising, considering
her personal problems then. That didn’t make her any less of a
helpful and energetic assistant.
I was amazed when Nina said the person waiting on
the line was Mamie Spelling. After I’d answered the call, I’d felt
my amazement turn into a whole gamut of emotions: bewilderment, to
hear from Mamie after all this time; irritation, that she’d chosen
me of all the people she must currently know.
And, yes, concern. I still didn’t understand what
was wrong in Mamie’s life, and I was under no obligation to help
her. But she had been there for me when I’d experienced some
difficult times, advising me, helping me find a new direction in my
life, and providing a shoulder to lean on.
So what if more than . . . what was it? Almost
seven years had passed. I wouldn’t turn my back on her—at least,
not immediately. For now, I’d listen to her and see if I could
help.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Mamie?” I
tried to use the most soothing tone I could dredge up. Not easy to
do for someone like me, who’s used to speaking her mind.
“But . . . I’m sorry I called you, Lauren. There
isn’t anything you can do. I just needed to talk to someone who
understands people as well as animals and can deal with them. But
even you can’t stop her. I’d better go.”
“Stop who, Mamie? Please, just tell me what’s going
on.” I leaned my elbows against my desk—a replica antique that I’d
refinished when we first opened HotRescues, not long after I’d
started losing touch with Mamie—and closed my eyes, trying to stay
patient.
“She’s threatened me. She’s wrong, but if she does
what she said . . . I can’t live with what could happen. I really
can’t. So—”
“Wait, Mamie. Please tell me what you’re talking
about. And don’t—You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”
My insides clenched in fear, even though I didn’t really know this
woman anymore. There was such desperation in her voice. Who had
threatened her, and with what? And what did she mean, that she
couldn’t live with it? I had to keep her talking.
Something in my voice must have resonated with my
concern, since Zoey sat up, looking at me questioningly with her
brilliant amber eyes, her head cocked.
“No, nothing foolish. I’m fine. Really. Thanks for
talking to me, Lauren.” I heard a click, and she was gone.
I didn’t believe she was fine. She’d sounded
distraught. Suicidal? How could I know? I still didn’t understand
why she had called me out of the blue. A cry for help, yes . . .
but for what?
“What’s going on, Lauren?”
I’d forgotten that Nina had stayed in the doorway,
watching one end of the HotRescues welcome area while also keeping
an eye on me. I like Nina a lot—even though she’s taller, curvier,
and ten years younger than me. But we’re usually on the same page
when it comes to taking care of animals. Like me, she wore a blue
HotRescues knit shirt over jeans, as all our personnel do.
“It was an old friend. We’d lost touch, but—well,
something’s wrong with her now.”
I had an urge to run it all by Nina—how Mamie had
been so integral to where I’d ended up—but there wasn’t time. Even
though I had too much to do, I had to go check on her. If I didn’t
at least try, and something happened to her...
I stood, and so did Zoey. “Do me a favor,” I said
to Nina. “Look online and find the address for Beach Pet Rescue.
It’s around Venice.” Venice, California, was a part of Los Angeles
between Santa Monica and Marina del Rey. I used to go there all the
time to see Mamie at her shelter, but I seldom visit the area now.
It had been long enough that I’d only guess at the address, and I
didn’t want to falter on my way.
“Sure, Lauren.” She turned her back and hurried to
the welcome area’s staff table. She had a laptop there to work on.
I had a computer beside me on my desk, but Nina was more adept at
techie things than I. Besides, I wanted to talk to someone before I
left.
Fortunately, Dr. Mona Harvey, our part-time
adoption counselor and staff psychologist, was around. Her office
was upstairs in the same building as mine. I hurried up the steps,
passed the conference table in the middle of the second floor, and
knocked on Mona’s half-open door.
“Come in, Lauren.” She was sitting behind her desk,
and I quickly planted myself on her shrink’s couch across the room.
Mona was about Nina’s age—mid-thirties. She smiled behind her
glasses—but only for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
I filled her in on the phone call. “I thought about
calling 911, but I don’t believe there’s any immediate risk. I
thought I’d visit her and check things out. You’re a shrink. What
do you think I should do?”
“You’re not close to her any longer?” Mona’s smile
was replaced by a concerned frown. “Do you know any of her current
friends? Relatives? They may be better able to deal with whatever
is going on.”
“I never really knew anyone close to her, not even
when she was mentoring me. I don’t even know if any of the people
who used to work or volunteer at her shelter are still there, let
alone how to contact them. Unless I just call the shelter . . . but
if she answers, that defeats the purpose.”
“Right. Well . . . From what you said, there’s some
kind of problem, but without talking to her I can’t give you any
guidance, other than to be gentle with her. You can tell me more
later. Going to see her is probably a good thing—at least for your
peace of mind. If you check on her and she’s fine, you won’t have
to think about it anymore.”
“And if she’s not fine? If the threat she mentioned
is real?”
“Then you’ll figure out how to help, Lauren. That’s
what you do.”
I thought about Mamie my entire drive down the 405
Freeway. I’d programmed the address Nina had found for me into my
new GPS—a Mother’s Day gift I’d received last month from my
wonderful kids. Tracy and Kevin, both in college, were taking
summer classes now. I missed them, especially when every direction
that spewed from the electronic mouth of my gadget reminded me of
them. At least I now had Zoey for company at home. I’d left her in
Nina’s care while I went on this mission.
Mamie had been in her late fifties, I’d guessed,
when she had decided that veterinary techs—like I’d been at the
time—needed better direction about how to really care for animals’
welfare. I’d met her because she’d come to the clinic in Woodland
Hills where I worked and asked the vets for occasional free care
for animals she rescued.
I’d considered the vets there to be good doctors
but not necessarily altruistic. Even so, Mamie had convinced them
to donate a specified number of hours each month, as well as
medicines needed to treat the animals she’d bring in. After her
second time there, I’d walked out to her car with her.
We’d started our dialog about pet rescues then, and
she’d convinced me. I had young teenagers at home and a jerk of a
second husband who couldn’t have cared less if those kids were
okay. It therefore hadn’t been easy for me to agree to find the
time to occasionally volunteer at Beach Pet Rescue, but I’d done
it, sometimes bringing Tracy and Kevin along on weekends.
I’d learned a lot, including how miserable people
could be to the pets who loved them. How many animals were
abandoned in an area as large as L.A. The large numbers,
fortunately, of people who gave a damn, who helped out by donating
time and money for pet rescue.
Mostly, I’d learned how important saving abandoned
or abused pets could be to me. Largely thanks to
Mamie.
But things changed between us when I divorced my
miserable husband and interviewed for the job as administrator of
HotRescues, the brand-new shelter that Dante DeFrancisco, the
wealthy CEO of the huge HotPets pet store empire, was starting.
Maybe Mamie, with all her experience, should have gotten the
job—and the wonderful funding by Dante. But I’d put together one
heck of a business plan, if I do say so myself. Dante had
recognized it, and I became the new administrator.
And lost Mamie as a friend.
“Take the next exit to Venice Boulevard,” intoned
my GPS, and I eased my Toyota Venza into the exit lane. I continued
to obey the instructions of the disembodied voice until I reached
the address Nina had found for me. The drive seemed familiar, and I
believed this was the same location where I’d visited Mamie seven
or so years ago.
I parked along the street and looked at the fence
around the property. A sign over the gate confirmed that this was
Beach Pet Rescue. But that fence—I remembered it as gleaming white,
not mottled, graying wood.
Maybe Mamie’s problems had to do with insufficient
donations to keep the place as nice as it once had been.
I got out of my car, grabbed my ubiquitous shoulder
bag, and walked toward the gate. The whole neighborhood appeared to
have gone downhill. I saw no people around, but the area seemed
largely residential. A couple of houses appeared to be abandoned,
and another had a car in the driveway with two flat tires.
From behind the fence, I heard a few barks. Some of
the dogs in the shelter must have heard or scented this stranger’s
arrival. I assumed Mamie allowed visitors and walkins interested in
adopting pets, so I didn’t try to call from my BlackBerry or look
for a bell to ring. I just opened the gate and entered.
And stopped, horrified—not just because of the
repulsive smell that assailed my nose.
I couldn’t believe it.
The person who’d first gotten me interested in pet
rescues. Who’d taught me all I’d initially known about the process,
how to find and nurture animals who required help and love and as
much longevity as possible . . .
Mamie Spelling had turned into a hoarder.