For another, I needed a break. Not much of one—just an hour, after my quick breakfast of toast and coffee. I sat and read the Los Angeles Times online edition on my laptop computer, with Zoey lying at my feet. I put one of the morning news shows on the TV but kept it on mute.

It became even less of a break than I’d hoped for, not that I was surprised. The Times featured an article about the hoarding situation with links to stories on other sites. I read them all as eagerly as if they were a riveting novel I couldn’t put down. But this wasn’t fiction.

I finally had enough. Even so, I hadn’t yet visited the Southern California Rescuers Web site. I intended to add a post on the group link alerting my fellow shelter administrators, rescuers, and fostering organizations about the hoarding situation, in case they hadn’t heard—since I had only informed a few of them. I also wanted to start a list of those who’d step up and take in some of the rescued animals as soon as the city facilities were ready to give them up. That wouldn’t be until the legal issues with Mamie were resolved, since she technically still owned all of them.

When I got onto the site, I wasn’t entirely surprised to see it already overflowing with information about hoarders, this hoarding in particular, and what could be done to attempt to prevent such situations. Of course no participant in Southern California Rescuers would ever do such a thing. Or so everyone said. But Mamie had once been a reputable pet rescuer, too. And knowing what I knew about my profession, I was certain there were others.

I, for one, know how hard it is to realize that so many sweet, loving potential pets are lost in the official system simply because they have to make room for the next bunch that get there. Rescuers who run private facilities, like me, would love to save them all.

I always refer to HotRescues as a no-kill shelter, even though there are varying definitions. We don’t keep suffering animals alive, so we’re not strictly no-kill, but we’ve never euthanized an animal for behavior issues—and certainly not for lack of space.

Mamie obviously would have loved to save every animal, too. The difference was that I, and others like me, have to be strong and responsible and only take on as many as we can adequately care for in our facilities.

Which was one reason I was so delighted that HotRescues was currently in expansion mode.

But staring at this Web site, reading the posts both critical of Mamie and supportive of the rescue, I realized something.

Bethany Urber read this site. I’d never seen her post before, so she must have been lurking. But now she was all over it, bragging as if she had saved those abused dogs and cats all by herself.

She had even scheduled an emergency meeting for all animal rescuers who could attend, to discuss hoarding and what could be done about it. She was holding it at her own facility, the chief location in the Pet Shelters Together network.

Okay. I know I like to be in charge, too. Even to micromanage. I also tend to want to protect my friends.

Mamie had once been a friend.

And I was damned curious now. Who was this Bethany Urber, really? As awful as the first impression she’d made? I’d have bet one of my favorite thick dog towels from HotPets on it.

What was her network of rescue sites actually like?

Could I get her to shut up about Mamie by pointing out some of her shortfalls?

And exactly what would she say at her meeting?

First thing, I called Matt. Fortunately, he was able to confirm that Mamie’s psychological assessment was still progressing well and that she’d probably be released on schedule. He also promised to talk to the people at the West L.A. Care Center again soon to check on the rescued pets—but swore that they’d promised to let him know if any of the animals was in danger of being euthanized.

“What I’ve heard so far is that they were all in surprisingly good shape. Some were malnourished, a few had festering sores because of the poor hygienic conditions, but there were none in danger of needing to be put down . . . although don’t hold me to that. I’ll ask for confirmation again.”

“Thanks, Matt.” I inhaled deeply. I’d been so worried about bad news that I’d been holding my breath.

“So when are we getting together for dinner?” he asked.

“Soon,” I promised, feeling good about seeing him again.

I called Dante to give him that news. Then I posted the information on the Southern California Rescuers site—with the same kind of caution that Matt had given. No guarantees, but it appeared that the animals just might all survive.

Then I said to Zoey, “Time to go, girl.” My beautiful pup rose immediately and started wagging her tail in anticipation. “We’ll go to HotRescues first. This afternoon, I’ll leave you with our friends. I have a meeting to attend.”

I knew immediately where it had come from. It was a play on the name of the company she had owned: Better Than Any Cosmetics.

The name wasn’t the only thing that gave the impression of superiority, though. A lot of people were apparently coming to her meeting, and I’d had to park a block away—no easy feat in this commercial and highly developed part of the Westchester area of Los Angeles. Following the crowd—none of whom I recognized—I stopped and stared at the main gate that led into the shelter. It looked like the entrance to a movie studio, white and ornate with a tiaralike symbol at the top. The only thing that identified it as a pet rescue facility—besides the name—was that the tiara had profiles of a dog and cat, nose to nose, at the top.

Someone at the forefront of our ad hoc group must have pushed an intercom button; within moments, the gate rolled open in two massive sections, revealing grounds that were equally ostentatious. The vast, plantation-style office building—did Bethany live there, too?—sat behind an attractive, well-nurtured garden. Not a bark could be heard.

On the porch stood Bethany. She again wore a business-like suit, although for a moment I pictured her in a Southernbelle gown. “How wonderful to see you all,” she cried. “Please, come in.” She gestured for everyone to follow.

She’d set things up as if this were a convention and we were all attendees. A woman sat behind a table where rows of nametags were laid out. I saw some names I recognized from the Southern California Rescuers Web site. The efficient-looking nametag distributer wore an ID herself: Cricket Borley, Assistant Manager, Better Than Any Pet Rescues. Below her tag, she wore a pretty pin that read PET SHELTERS TOGETHER, with a circular logo decorated with paw prints, similar to the one I’d noticed Bethany wearing but not as ornate. Cricket had short curly hair, a harried smile, and busy hands as she handed out the tags.

“Hi,” I said when I reached the front of the line. “I’m Lauren Vancouver, of—”

“I know who you are, Lauren.” Cricket smiled. “I don’t think we have a nametag for you, though. Was Bethany aware that you were coming?”

“No.” I hadn’t known for very long myself.

Speaking of Bethany, she had been standing in the middle of a crowd of the attendees but broke away to hurry in my direction. Lucky me. I immediately quashed the seething anger that was a residue of what I’d felt toward her yesterday. After all, I was her guest here today.

“Oh, Lauren, it’s so good to have you here!” she exclaimed. “Would you like a tour of our shelter before we begin?”

I didn’t know whether the media was expected for this gathering, but I didn’t doubt it—especially considering how perfect Bethany’s dark suit and gold blouse looked. Her makeup was perfect, too, which I guessed was usual for her. The diamonds on her PST pin seemed to glow like her personality.

“I’d love one.” I was curious about whether the over-the-top theme was also carried out where the animals were housed.

“Cricket, why don’t you take Lauren and any others who’d like to come for a quick tour? Our program will start in . . .” She looked at the gold watch on her slender wrist. “Fifteen minutes. This is Cricket Borley, my assistant, by the way.”

Cricket nodded and smiled almost shyly, as if having her presence acknowledged was a treat.

Bethany looked around, then called out, “Darya, could you help us here?”

A tall, reedy woman, also in a suit, looked up from where she conversed with a group of people. I wondered how she had heard Bethany in the din of conversation, but she excused herself and came our way.

“Lauren, this is Darya Price,” Bethany said, “the head of the Happy Saved Animals organization. She recently signed on as a member of Pet Shelters Together.” Bethany reached over and squeezed Darya’s hand. “Darya, this is Lauren Vancouver, the administrator of HotRescues.” They shared a look, and I felt sure Bethany was attempting to communicate something to her flock’s newest member.

“Welcome, Lauren,” Darya said as Bethany smiled beatifically. I supposed that Darya had gotten her message.

Darya’s pretty oval face was framed by light hair pulled back in a bow, and her long body was so thin that I wondered how she could handle some of the larger dogs that might show up at her facility. Like the others, she wore a PST pin on the collar of her shirt.

“Thanks.” But that was all I had time to say before Cricket swept her followers out the door for our tour.

The shelter was, in fact, as over the top as the entrance. Each rescued dog and cat—maybe thirty canines and twenty felines—had a small yet nearly palatial enclosure, and I wondered how they kept the intricately tiled floors as clean as the matching walls. Bethany must have poured a lot of money into her shelter, but I didn’t find it nearly as efficient as what we had at HotRescues.

I wasn’t about to ask Dante for a major remodel to duplicate this. I did, however, feel as if the place was admirable, which irked me to no end. I didn’t want to like anything about Bethany.

As always, I wanted to play with all the residents, but there was no time. When we got back to the main building, everyone had poured into a conference room that was larger than any I had at HotRescues. A man joined Darya, and since I wound up sitting near her, she introduced me to her husband, Lan—also on the skinny side for a guy, and even taller than she.

I recognized a few of the group now, other rescuers I’d met including Kathy Georgio, who communicated with me on the Southern California Rescuers Web site. She was one of the people I’d first contacted about the hoarding situation, and we greeted each other warmly. The other rescuer I’d contacted, Ilona Graye, wasn’t there.

Chairs had been set in rows, all but a few occupied. Bethany took her place at the front of the room and began to talk.

“We’re here today to discuss something that we all need to watch out for in our own shelters, and in others’—hoarders.” She actually did a good job describing what animal hoarding was, and how shelters that started out perfectly well could end up in disrepair. She had facts and figures, and I found myself listening with interest. Yes, I admit it: The meeting was quite worthwhile in its education about hoarding and how easy it is to let things get out of hand. Not that I ever would, of course.

Bethany put in a plug for Pet Shelters Together when she described what to do about hoarding. “As a group, we can band together to prevent such things, especially among our members. People like that shouldn’t exist and need to be punished once they’re discovered. They deserve to rot for what they do to those poor animals.”

She didn’t always stick to her topic. “It’s particularly important that all of our members do things right, like running our individual organizations ethically. Our donated funds are for caring for the poor animals we’ve rescued, and for no other use. Remember that, everyone. I certainly will.”

That sounded odd—as if she was conveying some kind of message. No one in the audience seemed to react to it, though.

When Bethany returned to the topic of hoarding and began describing the situation with Mamie—not unjustifiably, I suppose—the anger inside me started to spark again. She not only blamed my former mentor, but claimed that she, Bethany, had recognized what a terrible person Mamie was and had tried to get her to see the light by joining Pet Shelters Together.

Bethany’s tirade continued, growing more vituperative by the second. Of course, she didn’t mention that she had done nothing to stop the animal abuse when she’d first observed it.

My muscles tensed, as if I was a feral cat about to spring. I wanted to leap up there and expose her hypocrisy. Why hadn’t she done something to help those poor, suffering creatures as soon as she learned of their plight?

But taking a few deep breaths, I calmed myself. Shrieking about it now would do no good, and she had told this group to immediately turn in hoarders they learned of.

Too bad she hadn’t heeded her own advice.

Escape seemed like my better course of action for now. I glanced at the door.

Which was when I saw who was standing there.

Mamie.

“You bitch!” Mamie screamed. “Liar! It wasn’t like that at all. You never said you’d help like that. You’re the one who deserves to rot . . . in hell!”

I stood and ran to her, grabbing her arm and steering her out of the room.

I’d accomplished my escape. I also agreed with Mamie—even more so after seeing the triumph on Bethany’s face, and the confusion reigning in her audience. Bethany had known full well Mamie was there when she castigated her.

And now Mamie had wilted so much that I practically had to drag her out, down the plantation’s steps and through those huge front gates.

When we were finally out of there, I said, “When did you get out of the hospital? And what are you doing here?”

“They released me,” she said softly. “At last. They told me things like I should get counseling because of my . . . something disorder.”

“Obsessive-compulsive?” I suggested.

“Or Humpty Dumpty. It made as much sense.”

“Counseling’s a good idea,” I told her, then added, “You should listen to what they told you. You’ll feel better in the long run.”

“I’m fine now, you know. That’s why I took a taxi and came right here. A friend called on my cell to tell me about the meeting of shelter operators, and I wanted to hear. I want my shelter back.” She stopped talking, blinked, and looked at me with eyes as hopeful as starved puppies we’d taken in at HotRescues who had smelled newly opened cans of moist food for the first time. “When can I get my shelter back, Lauren?”

Her red curly hair was plastered damply around her face. Her wrinkles seemed to have multiplied and deepened. She looked so aged and pitiful that I wanted to cry.

“I don’t think you ever can,” I said sadly and truthfully.

“It’s all your fault,” she yelled, startling me. “If I’d gotten the job at HotRescues like I should have—” She stopped as quickly as if she’d bitten her tongue—which she may have done figuratively, if not literally. “I’m sorry, Lauren. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just tired. Can I go home now?”

“Of course,” I said. I’d received confirmation from the cleaning outfit I’d hired that the top-to-bottom overhaul of Mamie’s place had been accomplished as fast as I’d requested.

I drove Mamie home, silently pondering her tirade. She probably had been serious, lashing out at me because she didn’t want to accept any blame herself. She’d mentioned before that she had wanted to prove she was the best pet rescuer ever. She hadn’t had that mind-set when I’d known her but had only wanted to help as many animals as she logically could.

Had her change in attitude been the result of my being hired by Dante and not her?

I refused to let myself feel guilty even about logical things, and that kind of possible cause and effect was irrational. But if I’d insisted that we stay in touch back then, would things have been different now?

There was no use second-guessing. Dante had made the right decision. I couldn’t fix what Mamie had done. But if I stepped in, tried to help her through this, maybe I’d feel a little better about the situation.

We stopped for groceries, and then I saw her into her house.

“This place is . . . different,” she said, wonder in her tone as soon as we entered the front door. “Janice told me it would be cleaned while I was gone.” I couldn’t tell from her tone whether she was glad or sorry that the place no longer reeked like a sewer.

But as we walked farther inside, Mamie said, “I miss my babies,” so sadly that I knew without looking that she was crying again.

“I know. But you understand that things will get better for them now, don’t you?” I hoped.

“Yes,” she whispered, nodding like a child.

“And do you understand that you’re not allowed to bring in any animals at all, at least for now?”

She opened her mouth as if ready to protest, but at my unwavering glare she stared back and repeated, “Yes.”

“Would you like to come home with me tonight?” I asked impulsively when we reached the front door again, knowing I’d probably regret it if she said yes. But she didn’t.

“No, Lauren. Thank you, but I need to be alone right now.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

Hoping that was true, I started home.

My landline rang around six in the morning. I grabbed it in anticipation. Of what? I didn’t know, but I’d felt something was coming.

A call for help from Mamie?

It was her on the other end. But the help she asked for was not at all what I had anticipated.

“Lauren? Please, help me! I’m at Better Than Any Pet Rescues. I’m with Bethany . . . and she’s dead!”