Beaglemania (14 page)

Fighting my legs’ unsteadiness, I walked nonchalantly through the open gate and along the brick path—to the building where, a few days earlier, I’d observed so many abused puppies and their parents.

Having Matt know my location filled me with relief. Even so, my insides churned, as if I were being sent psychic signals from the dogs who were former prisoners, warning me to stay away and reminding me how miserably they’d been treated.

Well, the Shaheens were not likely to lock me into a tiny wire crate and leave me there. I’d be fine.

Although if they were angry enough, they could stab me as they might have done with Efram.

Where was that relief I’d tried to convince myself about?

Patsy Shaheen waited at the front door. I tucked my disgust for her deep inside. Who knew? I might even be wrong about her and her husband and their roles in what had happened.

That was as likely as each of the puppies found here marching through the gate to speak up on behalf of the humans accused of torturing them. If I was honest with myself, all I actually remained unsure about was the Shaheens’ role in Efram’s death.

“Hello, Lauren,” Patsy said, as if she knew me. Oh, right. We were good buddies now, after having both been involved in the rescue the other day. Of course, we were on opposite sides, but did that matter?

Maybe not to her.

“Hello, Patsy.” I might as well pretend friendship, on the off chance acting nice got me the information I sought.

She was about my height, five foot six, although I preferred my build—not skinny, but not overweight, either. Patsy had a gut that she displayed with her snug jeans and tank top. The sneer beneath her smile might be her normal expression, thanks to a severe overbite. In other words, she was homely.

That might just have been my skewed impression, of course. I couldn’t imagine anyone who tortured dogs being beautiful.

She again looked familiar now, close up—and not just because of all the news coverage of the puppy mill ugliness. But I surely hadn’t met her before all this . . . had I?

“Come in.” She preceded me through the door. I took a deep breath and followed, unsure of what I’d find—including the reception I’d receive from her husband.

The place was much as I expected from the outside—rather Spartan, the look of a not particularly exciting office building.

The door led into a small entry dressed in a tight-weave brown carpet. A glassed-in directory hung on the pale green wall. As far as I could see, there were only two entries—Shaheen Enterprises and Plentiful Puppies, both with room numbers in the one hundred range. Nothing indicated an apartment on the second floor, nor any other businesses.

“Nice building,” I exaggerated. “Do you own it?”

“Yes,” Patsy said. “And before you ask, Bradley and I live in an apartment upstairs. Our sweet dogs were never without supervision. We checked on them often.” She sighed, regarded me with dampness in her eyes, and said, “We miss them.” Her round chin wiggled as if she was about to sob, but then she seemed to compose herself—or maybe she’d been acting with her supposed tearfulness. “Please come with me. I’d rather you also talk with Bradley.”

We followed a narrow hall with recessed lights above and dingy walls beside us broken up only by a few doors. At the last one on the right, Patsy turned the knob, pushed the door open, and motioned for me to precede her inside.

Was I about to be attacked? Shot? Photographed in the compromising position of even being here?

Did I ever mention that I have an overactive imagination? Well, I do—or at least I tend to dream up worst-case scenarios. It helps me survive whatever actually occurs, since little can be worse than what I wind up anticipating.

Except . . . although I’d vaguely considered killing Efram, not doing it yet being a suspect felt a lot worse.

I walked into a room as drab as the hallway. It contained a rectangular table surrounded by a half-dozen chairs. Bradley Shaheen sat in one across the room, nearest the bank of institutional-looking windows, regarding me with his head cocked.

I’d glimpsed him while he and Patsy argued with an Animal Services person on the day of the rescue. Since then, I’d seen both of them on the news.

Bradley was portlier than his wife but nevertheless more attractive, with a rough-and-ready smile that displayed white, even teeth, welcoming eyes beneath straight brows, and a full head of dull brown hair.

Oddly, he, too, looked familiar. But I’d surely have remembered it if I’d ever before come in contact with these despicable people who hurt dogs.

“Hi, Lauren,” he said. “So good of you to come.” As if they’d invited me. “Please sit down.”

My mantra inside had been to keep reminding myself that Matt knew where I was. But I suddenly didn’t feel threatened.

Stupidity on my part, or was my insight true?

Guess I’d find out.

I decided to start with truthfulness. I could always braid in some fibs if that later made sense. Patsy had taken a seat opposite me, beside her husband. “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said.

“What can we help you with?” Bradley asked.

Confessing to murder and eliminating me from the suspect list, I thought. But what I said was, “Let me start by getting something on the table that I’m sure you know anyway. I despise puppy mills. What I saw here the other day made me sick. Those poor animals . . .” I let my sentence taper off while I forced myself to cool down. Becoming too angry and accusatory wouldn’t get me what I needed to know.

Later, though, I might permit myself to vent more, depending.

“We can understand that,” Patsy said. “We can’t talk much about this, you know. That’s what our lawyer said.”

She leaned toward me, and I felt glad the table separated us, especially after her next words, said with all sincerity—obviously feigned. If I’d been closer, I might have done something I’d eventually regret.

“But, really, Lauren—we love dogs. Puppies, especially. We want to share them, and that’s how we got into trouble. All of our dogs received individual attention, I swear it. And we did all we could to keep them from soiling themselves when we couldn’t keep them close. Honest.”

“Exactly,” Bradley confirmed—also falsely. He reached out and held his wife’s hand on the table. How sweet. Togetherness, in the face of adversity . . . consisting of an enraged animal rescuer facing two damnable abusers. “And you talk about abuse . . . Look, like Patsy said, we’re not supposed to discuss any of this. But I figure you, of all people, will understand. That Efram guy. We never should have associated with him. He did nothing but get us into trouble.”

Very convenient, I thought, now that Efram was dead.

At their hands?

“What did he do?” I asked, interested in hearing more about their perspective—true or not. “You know, he volunteered at HotRescues to atone for some possible cruelty to a dog he claimed was his. I’d thought he was making progress.”

“Maybe.” Patsy stood, clasping her hands in front of her extended gut as she paced behind her husband. “He seemed to care about the puppies here. He volunteered for us, too. Well, worked for us, since we paid him a little, when we were forced to help make ends meet by selling little ones now and then to pet stores so they could help them find new homes.”

That sounded so good, like they really weren’t just money-grubbing jerks making a living from selling badly treated puppies. They’d no doubt professed that before, maybe in the same words, to friends and neighbors. And to their lawyer. And probably to media sorts—although they’d apparently limited their interviews. After the initial flurry, I hadn’t seen much of them on TV.

Patsy continued, “Efram helped give the doggies attention, feed them, clean up after them. I had no reason to believe he would ever hurt them.”

“We’ve had arguments with one of our neighbors, Lauren,” Bradley said. “She claimed she didn’t like the noise from here, although the woman has a child daycare facility a few doors down, and you talk about noise . . .”

“She’s the one who called Animal Services about us,” Patsy continued. After claiming they couldn’t talk, they sure were saying a lot. But if they thought they’d win me over to become a character witness they could manipulate—that wouldn’t happen. “We heard about it before they arrived, and were shocked. Upset. We didn’t know what to do.”

“Except to tell the truth,” Bradley went on.

They made a good tag team. I wondered if they’d testify the same way when they were prosecuted for animal abuse. At least I
hoped
they’d be prosecuted for that, at a minimum.

“Efram was here while we were waiting,” Patsy said. “He knew we were concerned and that he’d be accused right along with us of whatever the neighbor claimed we were doing. He said he’d take care of things, and next thing I knew he was yanking some of the puppies from inside their crates, taking them outside. I figured he was going to try to hide them someplace safe till this blew over . . . but when I went out to check, he was throwing some down the storm drain. I screamed and was about to call the cops to get him to stop, but that was when Animal Services arrived and started accusing Bradley and me of all that nasty stuff. But we aren’t guilty, Lauren. Honest. As an animal lover, like you’ve got to be to run a shelter, you have to understand.”

What I had to do was to avoid throwing up, but I didn’t tell them that. “I do understand loving animals,” I said. “And I agree that if Efram tossed those puppies down the storm drain, he deserved to be thrown into jail and put on trial—by the official system. I, for one, felt betrayed for thinking I’d helped him learn to take good care of animals. You, too?”

“Well, sure.” Patsy had grown quieter now, and she sat back down facing me, beside her husband.

“He’d started accusing you, though, not only of abusing those puppies but also throwing them into the drain. Made you mad, didn’t it?” I watched their faces for reactions. Far as I could tell, they both felt unjustly wronged. Sad, and maybe a little scared.

Or they put on a damned good act, which was more probable. All we needed was the crescendoing sobs of violin music in the background, like in movies.

“Yes, Efram made us mad for lots of reasons,” Bradley finally said. “I assume what you’re leading up to is to ask if we killed him. We can ask you the same thing. From what the news says, you were there when his body was found—at HotRescues, your place. So . . . did you kill him, Lauren?”

“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

“Well, we didn’t, either.”

Oh, the look of sincerity on both their faces. It made me want to rub doggy excrement into their false smiles. I kept myself in check. No feces were handy anyway.

We gabbed a little more about animals and Efram and even justice and injustice. So where were those violins?

I left without any certainty about whether the Shaheens had sneaked into HotRescues with Efram and killed him.

They hated him enough to. I was sure about that.

I felt lots of relief as I opened the gate and left the Shaheen property. I also remembered the small sense of relief I’d tried to talk myself into when I got there—that Matt Kingston knew where I was.

But when I checked my watch, I discovered that more than the half hour he’d said it would take for him to arrive had passed. Apparently he hadn’t come after me, like a knight in shining armor, protecting the fair young maiden.

He did wear a uniform—Animal Services. But not armor, shining or otherwise. And I was far from a fair young maiden. Nor was I still naive enough to believe in fairy tales.

Even more, I didn’t really want anyone butting in on whatever I was doing, even to theoretically save me from my own folly.

But I nevertheless felt irked. The guy had seemed to give a damn about the puppies. The adult dogs. Even me. Had he been so mad that he’d decided to let me suffer the potentially grim consequences of my election to confront the puppy mill owners?

Well, the hell with him.

Only—when I got back into my car, I remembered that I had turned my BlackBerry off in case Matt decided to call me at a crucial time in my talk with the Shaheens.

I turned it back on—and found he’d left three messages.

I smiled. And then I listened to them—each containing irritation, worry, a traffic report indicating it was taking him longer to get here than anticipated, and orders to back off.

“
You
back off, Captain Kingston,” I muttered.

Only then did I see a familiar Animal Services car drive up and screech to a halt beside the curb. Matt jumped out.

As he reached my driver’s side window, I cracked it open. “Everything’s fine, Matt,” I told him, waved my fingers at him, then drove off toward HotRescues.

While I was on my way back to HotRescues, Matt unsurprisingly called me again. I answered on my BlueTooth. I didn’t give many details of my conversation with the Shaheens, but I did thank him for showing up. Even if I didn’t like his attempts to issue orders, his apparent concern about me was rather sweet.