I took a deep breath while I thought about what to do. My mind overflowed with questions—like, are you sure she’s dead? If so, did she die of natural causes . . . or did you kill her?

I didn’t ask, though. My first inquiry was calm and logical. “Have you called 911?”

“No! I can’t. I didn’t. I—”

“That’s okay,” I lied. “I’ll take care of it.” Still holding my landline receiver to my ear, I hurried to pick up my smartphone and made the call, all the while soothing Mamie as best I could while I simultaneously answered the emergency operator’s questions—also as well as I could, when I didn’t honestly know what was going on.

And then?

Well, it wasn’t really my business. It shouldn’t have been my concern. Even so, I felt that someone needed to be there for Mamie.

Her niece? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure how much Mamie’s family would get involved now. I didn’t want to be involved, either.

But I knew I already was.

I was already thinking of Bethany in the past tense. I didn’t know if Mamie was rational enough to determine whether Bethany was alive or not, but my mind had been circling around the possibility of death and had landed on it.

This time, the parked vehicles were unlikely to belong to any pet rescuers, as many had been last night when I was here. Instead, there were a lot of official vehicles, including an ambulance and several cop cars with rotating lights. Also, there were the inevitable media vans. Word had gotten out. I still wasn’t sure what had happened to Bethany, but the situation had already grown legs and antennae. Maybe that happened with all 911 calls.

I finally located a spot where my Venza could be shoehorned in. I sat for a moment before opening the door.

Maybe it was because I’d been a suspect in a murder investigation not long ago, or maybe it was Mamie’s near hysteria, but I felt certain that something bad—not natural causes—had happened to Bethany. If she really was dead, Mamie might have caused it.

I hadn’t kindled any ill will between them. I had, however, known that Mamie was emotionally unstable, and I’d nevertheless left her home, alone and possibly angry. Not that I’d much choice. If Mamie had gone off the deep end, I’d done nothing to cause it.

Or to stop it.

A couple of police officers in LAPD uniforms stood guard at the massive white gate, which was now ajar. The symbolic dog and cat in the tiara at its upper edge had been separated, thanks to the opening, and now stared in different directions.

Could I get inside to help Mamie? Should I, even if I could? I wasn’t sure.

Even so, I strode up to the nearest officer. “Sir, I’m the person who contacted 911. Someone inside there, Mamie Spelling, called me. May I go inside and see her?”

“Wait here, please, ma’am.” The request sounded like a no-nonsense command. He moved away and talked into a radio. I couldn’t hear what he said.

In a couple of minutes, a woman in a pantsuit exited the gate. After seeing Bethany, her assistant, and others yesterday dressed similarly, I wondered if wearing business clothes was de rigueur for hanging around this place. Me? I’d put on what I usually wore for a day on the job: jeans, a blue HotRescues knit shirt, and athletic shoes. I guessed I didn’t belong here—a good thing.

“Are you Ms. Vancouver?” the woman asked. I’d given my name to the 911 operator, so I wasn’t surprised this lady—probably a detective—knew it.

“Yes,” I said.

She pulled a shield from her pocket. “I’m Detective Greshlam, LAPD,” she said, confirming my speculation. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. But would it be possible for me to see Mamie Spelling? She’s a . . . an old friend.” I stumbled over that as my thoughts again hashed over my feelings toward Mamie. For now, what I’d said was accurate enough.

“Maybe later.” Which I translated to be something like, “When all the rescued animals here tell us exactly what they saw.”

We went onto the porch, where I’d last seen Bethany reign. There weren’t any chairs there now, so we stood off to one side. I saw a lot of people traipsing around the shelter grounds, and heard dogs barking almost mournfully. They’d been relatively quiet yesterday. I’ve always felt that pets have emotional connections with people they care about that far exceed relying on them for food and shelter. If someone is hurt—or worse—they sense it.

Whatever I might have thought about Bethany and her treatment of people, from what I’d seen here I knew she took good care of the animals she rescued . . . and they undoubtedly appreciated it, especially since most had probably come from sectors of hell.

“I understand that you were the person who called 911 about this situation,” the detective said. She was a large woman, tall and wide, and there was an incisiveness about her eyes that made it clear she was smart—and out to get the facts. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“But you just arrived here?”

As she made notes in a small spiral notebook, I explained what she must already have known, since I’d told the 911 operator. “Someone who was present called me.”

“And that would be?”

“Mamie Spelling.”

Answering the detective’s questions, I gave sketchy details about who Mamie and I were, how we knew Bethany Urber, why I’d been here yesterday, and what had occurred when Mamie showed up.

“I drove Mamie home afterward,” I said.

“And you didn’t know she was coming back?”

“No.”

A few more questions, and then we seemed to be done.

My turn to ask what I’d been dying to know. Figuratively, of course. “How is Bethany, Detective?”

“She is the apparent victim of a homicide, Ms. Vancouver.”

“Oh.” I paused. “How did she die?”

“That’s still under investigation.” In other words, the detective wasn’t about to tell me. Someone came running through the gate and up the porch steps.

Cricket Borley did not resemble the shy but efficient assistant she had when she had smilingly passed out nametags at the meeting the day before. Her face was ashen and tear streaked, her gray shirt only partly tucked into black slacks, and only one of her tennis shoes was tied.

“What are you doing here, ma’am?” asked Detective Greshlam.

“I need to see Bethany. Help her. I’m her assistant. I always help her. Please—”

She must have known how impossible that was, since she sank to her knees on the porch and cried. I had an urge to comfort her, but I didn’t move, since the front door opened and the person I was most eager to see spilled out of it.

Mamie wasn’t alone, though. Another suit—a detective, too?—followed her. Her face was pale, but she managed a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Lauren, you came. That’s so nice. But I have to leave. These detectives want me to help them figure out what happened to Bethany. I’m going with them to the police station.”