Assuming they didn’t keep her, where would she go? Home, no doubt.

She’d be lonely, but as sad as that was, she’d have to deal with it. In fact, I’d tell her outright that she had better not start collecting animals again. She’d be watched—not only officially, but by me, too. I’d suggest that she get some kind of counseling, and would at least pop in on her now and then to be sure all was well.

One thing I could do for her now was to make sure the home she returned to was livable. So, I called a cleaning service I’d used and got their price and availability. Then I called Dante to see if our benefactor would be willing to help in this kind of situation, too.

“It may help keep animals safe if we can make things as nice as possible for Mamie—and trash all the reminders that might make her start collecting again.”

“Interesting image,” he said. “I’m picturing your having to make over her whole house to get rid of any reminders. Maybe everything else in her life, too. But go for it.”

I contacted Matt to find out when the cleaning could start without stepping on any official toes and ruining any evidence that needed to be collected. He promised to get back to me on the timing but believed that tomorrow would work out fine. Plus, he indicated he’d be able to get someone to let the cleaning crew onto the property, since the authorities retained access to it as a crime scene for now. He agreed with my opinion, though, that even though she wasn’t reachable yet, it would be best to get consent from Mamie.

Instead, I contacted her niece, who was thrilled by the idea and granted permission from the family. Did she have the right? As far as I was concerned, she did. Mamie might have another opinion, but by the time she could assert it, her place would be clean.

Finally, I set up the day and time with the cleaning company and agreed to pay for rush service, since I didn’t know when Mamie might be released. I was sure Dante would be okay with that.

Then, at long last, I went to meet my friend. I needed the distraction.

Not to mention the wine.

But this time she chose a location nearer to HotRescues—an Italian restaurant I hadn’t tried before.

“One of my patients recommended it,” she’d told me as she gave me the address.

“Really?”

“Actually, the owner of one of my patients. But I equate them, you know?”

I did know. Pets were family members.

The restaurant looked appealing from the street, with a few tables located on the sidewalk outside. Some were occupied on this warm June evening. I wished I’d brought Zoey, but, not knowing this place’s amenities, I’d left her with the early evening crew at HotRescues.

The place was crowded. Carlie was already there and, bless her, a glass of red wine sat on the table in front of the vacant seat she’d designated as mine.

“Merlot.” She held up the bottle.

“Perfect.” I sat and took a sip, and she did the same from the glass in front of her.

I’d met Carlie six years ago, when she was the first person to adopt a pet from HotRescues just after we opened. She often mentioned her beloved Max, an adorable cocker spaniel mix, on her TV show.

I could have started disliking Carlie because, though she was my age, she was a lot better preserved—and not artificially, unless you counted her highlighted, shoulder-length blond hair. She had lovely violet eyes, and softly chiseled features overlaid with smooth skin.

Not that I looked antique. My dark hair has almost no gray in it—naturally. I keep it cut short, since it stays out of my way as I care for animals, and I don’t have to look glamorous in front of TV cameras the way Carlie does. I’ve kept my weight low, I exercise some—mostly by walking dogs—and I have high cheekbones that would look good if I ever guest-starred on one of Carlie’s Pet Fitness shows . . . which I didn’t intend to do.

We studied the menus briefly, then ordered. I chose a small salad followed by mushroom ravioli. I’d get a doggy box for my predestined leftovers—for me, not Zoey. She’d get her own food, but maybe extra treats, since I’d been away from her so long that day.

When the server walked away, Carlie said, “Okay, tell me about your hoarder.”

I hadn’t said much when I’d phoned for commiseration, but I did mention that the hoarder was the friend who’d gotten me interested in pet rescues in the first place. Now, I briefly related how Mamie had helped me when my life had been so awful—when I’d needed a new career direction and impetus to divorce my second husband, whom I’d mistakenly married to give my kids a new dad after my beloved first husband, Kerry, had died.

“I didn’t think I could make a living at pet rescuing, though it had a lot of appeal. Then I heard Dante DeFrancisco was opening a new animal shelter and funding it, so I put together a business plan and applied, and—”

“And the rest is history. So tell me, did your friend Mamie think she should have been the one to open HotRescues?”

I blinked at Carlie. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. She was nothing if not perceptive—and maybe a little psychic at times. “Yes. She pretended not to care, but she snapped at me a lot when we talked. Then she stopped returning my calls. So we lost touch . . . and sometime after that she became a hoarder.” I fidgeted with my wineglass’s stem before I took a swig of the pungent, fruity drink. “I want to hate her now for what she did to those poor animals. I certainly hate how she treated them. And I’m really angry with her.” I shook my head. “But I don’t hate her.”

“That’s because you’re a kind person.” Carlie poured us both more wine. “You have to be, or you wouldn’t be an animal rescuer.”

“But I have no qualms about hating people I know are animal abusers, like the people who ran that puppy mill I watched being shut down. This is just another form of abuse.”

Carlie nodded. “True, but it’s also a psychological defect. Mamie is probably an obsessive-compulsive person.” I’d heard that from Matt, too. “From the way you described her, she at least started out as an animal lover. Probably still is, in her warped way.”

“I suppose.”

Our meals were served, and I decided to change the subject—at least a little. “Have you ever heard of Pet Shelters Together?”

Carlie laughed. “Have I ever. Its CEO keeps contacting me. She wants me to feature her organization on one of my shows. I’m going to do something on your hoarder—” She raised her hand as I started to object. “We’ll talk about it first, and I’ll be more or less kind. But to do a show on what seems to me to be a Pac-Man kind of association that gobbles up animal shelters in its path . . . Well, let’s just say that Bethany Urber wouldn’t like my take on it, so she ought to just back off.”

“I have the sense she doesn’t back off on much of anything.”

“You’ve met her? Has she tried to drag HotRescues into her web?”

My laugh was both bitter and wry. I explained how Bethany’s apparent threats and attempts at coercion had been the impetus for Mamie’s awkward attempt to seek help. “Bethany knows who I am, but she didn’t overtly attempt to recruit HotRescues. Not yet, at least.”

“Watch out for her. Do you know her background?”

“Just generally,” I said, recalling Mamie’s description. Carlie told me that she’d been the founder of Better Than Any Cosmetics. “Hey, I use their stuff sometimes.”

“Who doesn’t?” Carlie described how the well-known manufacturer had recently been bought out by a huge conglomerate. While she was the owner of the company, Bethany had participated in fund-raisers for animal rescue groups and apparently had gotten hooked on the idea—or at least that was what she had said in a lot of TV interviews that I had fortunately missed. After selling her cosmetics company, she’d decided to devote her life to pet rescues. “She got the idea of combining smaller shelters, using economies of scale to help get better funding and other benefits. It’s gotten mixed reviews.”

“I know. And if she’s the media hound she appears to be, I won’t want to be bad-mouthed in public—any more than I already am.”

Because of the connection with Dante, HotRescues was occasionally mentioned in the news—and therefore I was, too. The recent events at the shelter, including a murder, had also been considered newsworthy. I’d even gotten to know a paparazzi-type reporter for the National NewsShakers tabloid TV show, Corina Carey. I shuddered at the thought.

“I’ll definitely watch myself around Bethany,” I finished, “especially if she tries to go after HotRescues.”

Brooke, a former P.I., was now the security director of HotRescues, having been hired for that position by Dante—after he had also paid her expenses to deal with a life-threatening heart condition. I had first met her when she came to HotRescues to relinquish her beloved dog, Cheyenne. She had lost her job and her home, and had thought her life in danger, too. But she was a lot better now. She had even added herself to the stable of security people she hired to stay at HotRescues overnight.

She also supervised EverySecurity, the company hired by Dante to watch over his entire business empire. They’d done a less-than-stellar job at HotRescues before. Now, under Brooke’s watchful eye, they handled whatever she needed just fine.

“Hey, Lauren, tell me about that hoarder situation,” Brooke said when I walked into the welcome area. Her color was good, her formerly mousy hair in a nice, becoming style, and she had even put on a little weight beneath her black security staff T-shirt and jeans.

“Word gets around.” I petted Zoey and Cheyenne, a golden retriever mix, as I gave Brooke a synopsis.

“Glad you got involved,” she commented when I’d finished. “At least those poor animals have a chance now, thanks to you. I know that woman was your friend, but . . . well, enough said.”

Zoey and I soon left for our home in a gated community in Porter Ranch. In the car, Zoey sat in the backseat, as always, in a special safety harness. Also as always, she seemed to navigate, most often watching over my shoulder between the seats. Now and then, she would put her paw on my shoulder, as if telling me it was time to turn. Did I mention what a smart dog she is? We also did training sessions in public parks and at the HotRescues visitors’ park now and then, teaching each other essentials like shaking hands, dancing, and speaking on command.

As soon as I’d fed Zoey, I headed for the living room, where I sat on my comfy, blue-upholstered sofa. I booted up my laptop and used the remote to turn on the TV. I checked for news reports on Mamie and the hoarding situation.

Both my kids—twenty-year-old Tracy, a junior at Stanford, and eighteen-year-old Kevin, a freshman at Claremont McKenna College—had called me right after the puppy mill rescue I’d attended, because I’d ended up on YouTube. Fortunately, I’d been ignored this time, thank heavens—maybe because I hadn’t gotten to hug any of the poor creatures today. In the last incident, I’d embraced rescued puppies including adorable beagles, which was why my picture had been online. I was so pleased that all those puppies had found new homes via the public shelters and some private ones, too. Most had been adopted quickly, and I’d kept in touch to be sure about the rest. Plus, we had recently placed Missy, the overworked mama beagle we’d taken in, into a wonderful new home.

Now, I called both of my kids and told them about the hoarding situation in case they heard about it, withholding some details. And then I called Matt.

“I’m not sure whether our vets have checked them all yet,” he warned. “But I haven’t heard of any casualties. I’ll make arrangements for you to come to the West Los Angeles Animal Care Center soon and take a peek. They’re still there, although they’ll be moved to the Northeast Valley center, since it has more available space and we have to hang on to them for now. They’re still owned by Mamie, and they’re also evidence.”

The Northeast Valley center was also where the dogs saved at the puppy mill rescue had been taken. “Please get the okay for me to see them as soon as you can.”

There was one more call I needed to make. Fortunately, it wasn’t too late. I pushed the button for my direct line to Dante.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again, Lauren,” he said. “After we talked about getting your friend Mamie’s place cleaned, I got a strange call from a woman named Bethany Urber. She said you’d suggested that she call me—something about getting HotRescues to join a network she started with a lot of pet rescue organization members. Interesting that you didn’t tell me about that.”

“I didn’t tell her to call you, Dante. In fact—”

“In fact, she sounds like some kind of shark. I figured you’d heard of her, might even have met her at that hoarding rescue, as she said. But if you’d have been interested in her network, you’d have let me know. Is she as much of an egocentric twit as she sounds?”

I laughed. “I don’t know her well, but I think you’ve got her pegged.”

“How’s Mamie?” Dante asked. “Are you going to do more for her besides cleaning her home?”

I hesitated. My opinion of Mamie had so many angles that it might as well have been one of those sparkling mirror balls hung above dance floors. But as much as I reviled her actions, I’d already realized that I couldn’t hate her. And the woman obviously needed help.

“I’m not sure,” I told Dante.

His laugh annoyed me, but I didn’t tell him so. “Knowing you, Lauren, I’ll wait to hear the next episode.”